Chapter 10 #2
Beside her, Aevar shifted, his hands inching toward his weapons. Staegar caught the motion and sneered, the contempt in him dark and palpable. Without a word, he snapped a command in Nordric, and a group of slaves rushed forward, burdened with chests and supplies.
As Staegar’s men passed, a younger warrior with Staegar’s same lean build and cruel mouth locked eyes with Eadlyn. A long scar cut across his nose, twisting his expression into something savage. His slow, leering smirk made her skin crawl.
She turned her face away, though her heart thudded.
When Staegar and his men disappeared into the growing sprawl of tents, the group seemed to breathe again.
Halbjorn gave a low chuckle, though it carried no real amusement. “Well, that could have gone worse.”
Runar remained focused on the distant camp. “We’ll see. I doubt we’ve heard the last from him.”
Laughter rolled through the longhouse, echoing off the timber beams overhead.
The fire crackled in the hearth, orange light dancing across flushed faces and casting long, restless shadows against the walls.
The air was thick with roasting meat and the warm bite of ale that wrapped the night in a heady haze.
Aevar dunked his drinking horn into a brimming barrel, the cool ale sloshing over the sides as he pulled it free.
Around him, voices clashed and tangled with boasts, bawdy songs, and drunken stories, the hall already alive with the spirit of the Gathering though the official meetings did not start until tomorrow.
As he turned back toward the heart of the hall, he found Eadlyn.
She sat near the fire, her face aglow with the flickering light.
Gorum’s wife had taken to her, even with the language barrier, and Halbjorn’s daughters seemed fascinated by her.
Eadlyn smiled with that quiet, composed grace he was coming to admire.
Even in a foreign hall, surrounded by strangers speaking a tongue she did not understand, she held her own.
Heida stood nearby, always lingering at the edges but never far from Eadlyn.
She caught Aevar’s glance and gave a barely perceptible nod.
That small exchange steadied him. He appreciated that Heida had taken it upon herself to watch over Eadlyn during the Gathering.
With Staegar prowling around—and worse, his good-for-nothing nephew and heir, Sig, slithering in his shadow—Aevar needed eyes on her at all times.
He drifted back to where Kian and a group of other young warriors were drinking just in time to catch the tail end of a raucous story about a skirmish against Kalgoran raiders.
Heida’s brothers from the north were the loudest, their hands weaving wild shapes in the air.
One of them mimicked a fleeing raider tripping over his own spear, and the group roared with laughter.
The lightheartedness made it easy to believe all was well. But the atmosphere soured the moment Sig appeared and swaggered into the group like he owned it. His reddened nose said he was well into his drink, and his voice already grated on the frayed edges of Aevar’s patience like a dull blade.
“Sounds harrowing,” Sig slurred, “but let me tell you about a real battle.”
The circle cooled like a doused fire. Aevar shared a glance with Kian.
The group passed around their own silent exchanges, both of annoyance and disbelief as Sig launched into some outlandish tale.
He rambled on, drunk and desperate for attention.
When he realized none would be given freely, he switched tactics.
Elbowing Aevar hard enough to spill ale down his hand, he barked out, “That’s quite a bride you snared. ”
Aevar wiped his fingers on his tunic, forcing his face to remain neutral. He refused to be baited. Not when this was supposed to be a night of celebration.
Sig, clearly unsatisfied with the lack of response, swept his gaze over the hall until it landed on Eadlyn. “Who knew an Essian could look like that? A shame about the alliance. Might’ve been worth marching on Kenwich myself if I’d known the spoils.”
He jabbered on, his words turning filthier and fouler.
Aevar locked his jaw as heat climbed the back of his neck, and he tried to focus on his ale instead of the tightness building in his chest. A few warriors turned away, and others stared at their cups, unwilling to be drawn into the brewing storm.
Aevar didn’t really hear the rest until Sig asked, “How does she compare to Thora?”
For a moment, the red rage blinded him. By some miracle of the gods, he kept himself from smashing his drinking horn right into Sig’s face. The temptation to knock his teeth in remained a deafening roar as all eyes settled on him.
“Sig, if you don’t stop wagging that tongue of yours, I swear I’ll cut it out and gag you with it. Now get out of my hall and crawl back to your uncle before I lose my restraint.”
Sig straightened, faking injury, but his eyes glittered with nasty satisfaction. He licked spilled ale from his beard like a mutt. “Is that any way to treat a guest? What would your mother say?”
Aevar took one lethal step forward, settling his hand on the hilt of his knife. “She’ll be the one holding you down.”
From behind him, Kian’s voice snapped through the tension, cold as ice. “And she won’t be alone.”
Sig looked between them, weighing his odds.
He drained the last of his ale in a single messy gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sized Aevar up one final time before turning toward the door.
The hall’s energy didn’t resume until the night swallowed him.
Aevar stayed rooted for a moment longer, breathing deep, forcing himself back under control.
Kian gave him a sidelong glance. “There’ll be blood between you two before the week is done.”
Aevar didn’t respond right away. He’d let his attention wander back to Eadlyn, who still sat with the other women. Still smiling peacefully, unaware of the wolves circling.
Kian was probably right.