Chapter 14
Agood beating, that’s what these furs need. Clouds of dust fly through the air as I whack at a sheepskin with all my might. Sweat beads at my temples. My wrists thrum from the impact, a pleasant sting traveling up my elbow. I am Thor, beating a Jotnar with my mighty hammer. Flee, cowards!
Here I am, performing a domestic task, alone, yet I laugh.
It’s strange how, even if enslaved, I feel at home.
It’s embarrassing. My plans of escape have already been washed away.
The road, my people, our next destination—that had been my home.
I was a free woman. Free to swim in the river.
Free to ride a borrowed horse. Free to marry whoever I pleased.
I had honor. Can I really be content being a man’s property?
I suppress a sneeze, not wanting to inhale the dust cloud hovering around me. Every menial task I perform, every conversation with fellow thralls, every meal I eat—I am part of something grander. If anything, I’m more honest. I don’t lie. Or I lie less, at least.
Take this, troll! I smash my stick into the unsuspecting pelt with all my strength. A nasty troll? Why, it must be Ari! So you like peeking up my skirts, do you? You like coming up with silly poems to humiliate me? Bend over, if you please.
I grab the stick with two hands, pulling it up behind my neck before crashing it into Ari’s imaginary ass.
He would probably like it, the bastard. I giggle at my madness—but the action makes me inhale heaps of dust. Running away from the cloud of debris, I seek cover behind the nearest house.
A tremendous sneeze escapes me, then another, my voice echoing over the valley.
An old one-eyed man laughs across the walkway.
“You have strong lungs!” he shouts, his scar pulling as he smiles.
“You should hear me when I’m angry!” I shout back with a wave.
We grin at each other as I turn back to punishing the rotten apple of my eye—Ari the Skald. But something catches my attention. On the corner of the house, right under the roof. A carving in the wood. The hairs on my neck rise like a startled cat’s.
It’s probably a proclamation of love, or perhaps a depiction of genitalia. Male genitalia, probably—knowing men’s obsession with their own members.
But no, it isn’t. It’s some very specific runes. Thurisaz. Again. I can’t believe my eyes as I read the hastily inscribed mess. It’s done without skill, but I can tell what is written. The wood has recently been cut into. The carving seems untouched by rain, sun, wind—untouched by time.
Awaken, Giant.
My fists clench. Giants, Jotnar, the monsters beyond the veil. Trolls. Enemies of the Aesir. In the stories, some are titanic beasts of violence, others are elegant and attractive humanoids. Many Aesir have Jotnar ancestry, but have managed to raise their status, ascending to Asgard.
Under normal circumstances, it could be some young fool trying to impress his friends with scary words.
Together with the jarl’s hammer, it’s just too big a coincidence.
It’s a curse, again. The hammer was gifted long ago, but this, this has been carved recently.
A week at most. Who lives in this house?
A slippery tendril spreads from my stomach to my chest. I have to tell them. They need to know. Someone is cursing the farm. What if they blame me? Ridiculous—I can’t even reach that high. I need to share it with someone.
The jarl is busy, today like any other day. Rushing to his hall will only get me turned away. Punished, even. The jarl opens his doors in the evening. That will be the time to approach.
Who is placing a curse of thorns on this place? They must truly have an issue with the folk here. Hate them. Hate us. My own thought surprises me. Us? These people have taken away my rights, my lawful protections. Yet I expect protection from a law I don’t respect?
I walk to the man whom I had impressed with my sneeze.
“Do you know who lives here?” I ask without introduction—our exchange had been enough.
“In this house? I’d feel bad telling you.”
“Why?”
“Seeing you on those pelts, you have a mean swing. I’m afraid of what you might do to him.”
A wicked grin tugs at my lips, but I suppress it fast.
“Please tell me.” I round my eyes, lifting my eyebrows slightly. The innocent face no man can resist.
“Why, it’s your best friend—our poetic champion. Ari the Skald.”