Chapter 13
Sunnavík, íseldur
Jonas’s head thunked back against the wall of his prison cell. He stared listlessly at the silken web strung in the corner. A fly had landed in the center and now struggled against its sticky binds. As Jonas watched the spider looming ever closer, his numbness shifted to empathy.
Jonas had been in the bowels of Askaborg Castle for six nights now.
Six nights since the queen had ordered him sent to the enigmatic Volund—a man he’d yet to meet.
Six nights in this cold, dank cell, with nothing but gruel and foul-tasting water to sustain him.
Men had once filled the surrounding cells, but one by one they’d been taken. None had ever returned.
The spider darted forward to sink fangs into the fly, and Jonas forced his gaze away.
He could handle the cold and the hunger.
What he could not bear was the insufferable boredom.
Alone in this cell, he was powerless against the memories of better days.
Bitterly, he wondered if his imprisonment was some trick of the gods.
A thing to restore balance. After all, Silla had been thrown in the Klaernar’s prisons because of Jonas.
Pain seared down his leg, and he muttered a foul curse.
The pains in his limb had grown sharper during his time in this cell.
He’d woken screaming the night before, every muscle in his body taut.
Now he braced against the agony, forcing his thoughts to fields of golden wheat; smoke twisting up from a longhouse; an oak tree looming in the distance.
Do you ever think that our past is not our future?
Ilías’s words rang in his ears, pain slicing down his leg with fresh vigor.
A guttural sound slipped between Jonas’s teeth as he weathered the torment of both his leg and his sorrow.
He’d lost his brother and the Bloodaxe Crew, he’d lost three toes and the full use of his leg, and now Jonas had lost his freedom.
Gradually, the pain slipped away, leaving Jonas panting and wrung out. The sudden groan of iron hinges had his instincts quickly sharpening. Footsteps sounded from far down the hall—Jonas counted three pairs of them, accompanied by the jangle of manacles.
“Please,” whimpered a man, young from the sound of it, “please, it’s not what you think—”
“I’m sure,” drawled a man, “the bread only fell into your satchel, aye, lad?”
The trio came into view—a pair of guards hauling a man of slight build. Blond hair hung lank over his forehead, a patchy, barely visible beard along his jaw. As Jonas took in the purpling bruise on the man’s cheekbone, his eyes narrowed.
“N-no,” pleaded the prisoner, “I paid for it—”
“A thief and a liar.” The guard hauled open the door to the neighboring cell and, after removing the prisoner’s manacles, shoved him inside. “You can rot in here for a few days, and then you’ll pay your penance.”
“P-penance?”
But the guards ignored him, moving to Jonas’s cell. His heartbeat kicked up as Jonas glared at the men through the iron bars.
“Hands,” ordered the larger of the guards.
Jonas had seen this next part play out enough times to know that refusal only resulted in a thorough beating.
Resigned to his fate, he pushed to his feet and shuffled to the bars, where he slid his hands through a horizontal slot.
Manacles were slapped on his wrists, and Jonas retreated, allowing the guards to unlock his door.
He sent a last fleeting look at the young man in the neighboring cell.
His heart gave a sudden lurch as those brown eyes turned familiar.
For a moment, it was Ilías beneath that lank blond hair, with a hint of a beard on his jaw.
The guards yanked Jonas forward, and he stumbled to catch up.
Heart beating like a war drum, he glanced back at the man in the cell.
Not Ilías.
Jonas exhaled, giving himself a mental shake.
He kept a halting pace with the guards, trying not to think of all the prisoners taken and never returned.
It was several long minutes before the hard-packed earth sloped upward.
Muffled shouts reached his ears, followed by a screech that rattled the walls.
Jonas’s instincts sharpened further as he tried to parse what was happening.
The floor leveled out as they entered a landing.
There stood a pair of stern-eyed warriors, armed with spears.
Jonas could tell from one glance that these were the kind of warriors he’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid.
They watched him with pure malice, and an excitement that he did not like.
The taller of the two, an enormous black-bearded warrior with a wicked scar on his cheek, elbowed his neighbor and chuckled.
The guards released him from his manacles. As though on cue, an inhuman scream burst through the open doorway, setting the hairs on Jonas’s arms on end.
“I give pretty boy five minutes in the pits,” said the black-bearded warrior.
The pits. The name landed right in Jonas’s gut. The pits were located deep within Askaborg Castle, renowned as the place where King Ivar had committed the worst of his atrocities against his enemies. And the ear-piercing snarl that came through the doorway told Jonas it wasn’t kittens awaiting him.
He waited for fear to spike through him—waited for nausea. But there was only the blasted tingling of his leg, paired with a numb sort of resignation. And in that moment, Jonas realized he’d already lost everything he cared for in this world. There was nothing else left.
“Rules?” Jonas asked in a bored drawl.
A hand gave him a rough shove toward the doorway. “Kill,” snarled the guard, “or be killed.”
“Is that all?” Jonas rolled his neck and shook out his shoulders. And without a glance back, he ambled into the pits of Askaborg.
The arena was larger than he’d thought. A huge packed-earth floor stretched fifty paces across and wide, countless rows of stone benches surrounding it.
Three V-shaped pillars were raised on a platform in the center of the pits, and Jonas knew this was where the Urkans held their executions.
Indeed, people were secured to the pillars, struggling against their binds.
The doors slammed shut behind him, enclosing Jonas in the pits. He glanced to his right, eyeing the two hundred or so men filling the benches. It was more of the same—more brutish warriors watching him with chilling hunger.
“Are you here for a show?” drawled Jonas, spreading his arms and turning in a circle.
Clearly the men did not care for that, some sneering, others spitting on the ground.
Pain jolted through Jonas’s frostbitten leg, and he turned away to disguise his wince.
Gritting his teeth, he examined the arena floor.
Where was his opponent? What weapons would he wield?
But there was only the dais and the pillars—
A snarl from that direction recaptured his attention. Jonas was alert for any signs of danger as he moved bracingly toward them. Three figures thrashed about upon the pillars, but before he could get a better look, the thwack of an axe preceded a shout.
“Attack!”
Their binds apparently cut free, the figures burst from the pillars, sending the warriors in the stands to their feet, shouting and stomping.
The transition from silence to chaos was disorienting, and for a moment, Jonas could only stare.
Or perhaps he was stunned by the humanoid creatures loping toward him on misshapen limbs.
Bile rose in his throat as they neared, and he took in the grayish-blue hue of their flesh; their clawlike fingers; the strange marks carved into their foreheads.
But their eyes chilled him most of all—they glowed a malevolent red.
What were these creatures? What had happened to them?
But there was no time to try to understand the strangeness of these beings, because they were upon him.
Jonas threw his shoulder into the belly of a lunging creature, and the putrid scent of mold and rotten things swarmed his senses. Immediately, he was back on the Road of Bones, facing down the forest walker with the same awful scent—and the same red eyes.
The warriors in the stands bellowed as a second beastly human threw itself at Jonas. He rolled beneath it, kicking a foot out to trip the third. His eyes watered with their overwhelming stench, but Jonas pushed through it, falling into his battle mindset—a place where only instinct existed.
Jonas drove his fist into a jaw and felt the bones crunch.
But his opponent did not react to the pain, instead pivoting to lunge once more.
Jonas blinked as he took in the beast’s misaligned jaw, the teeth he’d punched out.
It was no question—he’d just broken its jaw.
The pain ought to be excruciating, yet this unnatural creature had not even flinched.
Jonas let his muscles guide him as he fought the three frenzied monsters, all the while searching for a weapon.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted the braziers flanking the doorway he’d entered just minutes before.
Each had three curved iron legs wrapped around a central bowl.
If he could dislodge one from the ground, perhaps it would serve as a weapon.
Driving his fist into one opponent’s temple, he rolled beneath a launching figure, using momentum to propel him back onto his feet.
And then Jonas sprinted at the brazier. He was there within a few measured heartbeats, hope flaring in his chest as he pulled it from a slot in the ground with ease.
But his opponents were hot on his heels, snarling and snapping their teeth as they charged.
Jonas swung the brazier like a cumbersome sword, sending clumps of burning tinder flying through the air.
He smiled as they landed—raw hemp fibers soaked in whale oil made excellent tinder, be it in a brazier or on the torn clothing of the beasts.
The creatures screamed as their clothing and hair caught alight, but Jonas’s smile faltered as they staggered toward him.
The brazier’s bowl connected with the skull of one unnatural foe, sending it toppling to the ground.
As the bowl fell free, Jonas was left clutching the tripod stand and facing down two more flaming creatures.
The air was a disgusting blend of charred flesh and rot, but Jonas did not let it slow him.
He swung the heavy stand with all his might.
It connected with a creature’s head with a sickening crack, snapping it to the side.
Jonas whirled with the brazier, letting its momentum carry him into the second foe’s head.
He became an instrument of death, cracking iron against the bones of his enemies.
Black blood sprayed across the arena, the beasts finally showing signs of injury as they stumbled to the ground.
At least a dozen times, he’d landed blows that would kill any other foe. But each time he felled them, the wretched beasts got back up.
“Not on my watch,” Jonas snarled, anger and righteousness coursing through him.
He hefted the brazier overhead and brought it down on the felled creatures.
Again and again, he brought it down, skulls crunching and black blood spattering the earth all around them.
The fires had burned out, leaving blackened, charred flesh.
Where ugly faces had once been was now only battered pulp.
Yet still they moved, though feebly at best, and Jonas shook his head in disbelief.
“Why!” He brought the brazier stand down on a beast’s skull.
“Won’t!” He did it again.
“You!” Again.
“Die!”
The creature’s skull cracked, and as Jonas hefted the tripod overhead once more, a voice boomed through the pits.
“Victor!”
Chest heaving, Jonas glanced around. The warriors in the stands had grown quiet, watching him with unexpected admiration. His lip curled, but he dropped the tripod and staggered away from the beastly creatures that would not die.
A warrior sitting front and center climbed from the stands and entered the arena. His hair was an equal mixture of black and gray, and his beard reached mid-chest. But there was something in the way this warrior carried himself that told Jonas he was a dangerous man.
“Well met, Jonas!” said the man in a gritty voice. “I am Volund.”
So this was the elusive Volund to whom the queen had sent him. Jonas’s eyes narrowed as the man approached, but Volund only smiled grimly. A necklace clinked from around his neck, and Jonas’s stomach turned as he identified the strung objects as teeth.
Volund clapped Jonas on the shoulder, then faced the warriors in the stands. “Let us send a warm welcome to our newest brother-in-arms!” The warriors shouted, banging weapons against the floor. Volund turned back to Jonas and extended a hand.
“Welcome to the Corpse Bringers.”