Chapter 55
There he is. No longer just a bastard crow. No more just a mangy skald. He’s a thieving Jotnar. A scheming troll bastard crow.
My steps hasten as I approach my house. He waves with a careful smile, but I respond with the sourest face I can muster before slamming the door behind me. I lean against it, waiting several seconds. Will he come knocking?
I’m not sure what I would prefer, but I plan on telling him to fuck off if he knocks.
After everything, I regret going to his house after the duel.
Folk probably think I went to reward him with my…
body, or whatever other sick fantasies they harbor.
I wanted to help him—heal my champion. He managed just fine without me.
At least that’s one good thing to come out of it. Learning the truth. It’s important to know who I can trust, and a lying giant pretending to be a poet is not the prime candidate.
Jotnar.
I play with the word in my head the way a girl fiddles a loose tooth with her tongue. Teasing the ache.
I strike my flint with the fire steel several times, until the smallest of sparks catches on the shredded birch and bark kindling. It grows, replacing the dark blue tint that fills my house with an orange glow.
Jotnar. The enemy. Usurpers of thrones. Giants who will steal women and rape them before roasting their flesh over the fire.
To think I slept in the same tent as a monster. Shared a blanket with him. What a deceiver. He had me fooled. Had me thinking he was good, kind.
But I know what I felt. That cold, against my hand—it’s not the same as winter’s snowy grip, it’s not like the winds that whip the cliffs above. This is different.
It’s not even the same as the hammer. The hammer’s magic is chiseled in the first stone, trapped in the first ice.
The energy Ari carries is older, from the depths. It’s the stone that has been chiseled. It’s the ice that entraps.
Laying a few thin pieces of birch over the sputtering fire, I warm my hands. Thoughts of cursed ice have chilled me to my bones.
Thor’s enemy, that’s what Ari is. Thor would crush him with Mjolnir without a second thought. And yet, something gnaws at me. Odin is Jotnar himself. His mother’s lineage. Jotnar can be allied to Aesir. Could Ari be one of those? Could he be one of the good ones?
Then why is he plotting against the jarl? Planning to steal some fancy ring for some distant ruler… probably a queen! A fancy, velvet-covered, fair-skinned lady. Stealing to satisfy her greed. He probably satisfies her in all types of ways. A thieving Jotnar pig. A born pervert.
I’m shivering, and it’s not even a cold night. I wrap a sheepskin around myself, holding my hands to the fire. Maybe it’s Ari’s curse. Maybe the freezing flash has poisoned me with his foul energies.
Ari’s face enters my mind, uninvited. His warm smile. The shine in his eyes. The weight in his voice when he said ‘I would do it again.’ Sometimes he looks at me in wonder, like I’m some mystery he yearns to unravel. A question he must know the answer to.
What does it matter? The man is a living monster.
He will steal from the jarl. People may forgive me for inciting Ari to duel Njord, but if I get caught up in his plans, I cannot imagine any other outcome than my death.
Sacrificed to the very gods who have offered me power.
Perhaps they will welcome me into their halls.
The sweet scent of birch hits my nostrils. I always loved that smell. It makes me think of my childhood, when everything was simple. When the only worry was which tree to climb next, which bird to chase off. The odd bucket of water to carry to camp.
I stand, shaking to rid myself of this unrelenting chill. A cup of warm nettle tea will help. It will calm me so I can sleep.
The free folk fear me. If only they knew about Ari. That beautiful man has some dark secrets stashed under his hearth. If I want to live, I better stay away. Better stay back.
No way I’m getting caught up in his plans.
Caught up in his lies.