Chapter 5
Five
“Let’s get out of here,” Viljan hissed as he reached me.
“Viljan—”
My guard furiously shook his head. “I won’t hear it.”
“You’re to stay until the king allows you to leave,” someone interjected.
Both Viljan and I stumbled back against the greasy wool of the tent when one of the most terrifying men I’d ever seen pointed a spear at Viljan’s throat, the single warning he’d offer.
His red hair fell tangled down his back, as if he’d only just stepped off a fast-sailing ship, and a jagged scar ran down his pale face.
Where his left eye should have been, a tattoo of a rune I’d never seen before was inked.
At our expressions he licked his lips, then took a leg of boar from the table beside me and ripped off a large piece of meat before throwing the bone back with the other food. “You don’t want to cause more trouble than you already have, Sweengard.”
“What’s that supposed—”
“Enough, Viljan,” I ordered through my teeth.
“Listen to your heir.” The warrior used his hand to wipe off the meat juices. “Now. The king is about to speak.”
Viljan’s breaths came ragged and sharp, his chest heaving so violently he might as well have just escaped battle, but he did remain silent, and the warrior wiggled his fingers before stalking off in the same direction the other bastard had.
I fought to manage my own breathing as fear and anger and desperation tangled within me.
Because those warriors were right. I was a target.
The heirs rose as one when the king waved for them. Not a single head turned in my direction. They could easily shun me. That’s what Ottoh had shown me. To them, I wasn’t kin; I was a stranger who had played safely in Oenskan while they were being forged in the iron with my brother.
I was no one. I was alone.
“Heirs and initiates,” the king called. “Join me.”
I kept my eyes on my boots as I walked over to the four other legacies standing beneath the dais, and even as Ivren gave me a quick curl of his lips and a nod of recognition, the ice that crept along my bones didn’t thaw.
Karls—initiates—surrounded us in a half circle, and the air, which had been thick with anticipation, grew feverish, the tension winding tight as a mooring rope around us.
It felt as if they were breathing down our necks when the king raised a hand, silencing the worrying whispers I’d tried not to listen to.
“Five heirs for five isles,” the king called in his deep, powerful voice as the clatter of cups and the hushed chatter died.
“Five shall enter the halls of the gods, five shall lead the sections at the Hird, and five shall rule our people until the next generation of Vikings is ready to claim the mantle. Five heirs for the five runes that power our people.” His cloak swept over the trampled grass as the king nodded to Ivren.
“Son of tyga, offering us the gift of persuasion and influence that allows us to become the world’s trademasters. ”
Ivren’s hand pressed against his heart, where his mother’s rune was carved.
The king placed his hand on Rakkel’s shoulder. “Daughter of gomnd, allowing us to conceal our fleet and evade our enemies.”
Rakkel inclined her head.
“Son of ratt.” The king placed a hand on Ottoh’s shoulder. “Making sure our strikes are always precise and our axes and blades find their targets.”
Power flickered in the air for a moment, and the king smirked when Ottoh threw his cup, making it land perfectly atop the arm of the king’s fur-covered throne, ready for one of the servants to refill it with ale.
I shared a look with Viljan. He went as still as I did—like we were two ghosts in a crowd of beating hearts.
Panic scorched my throat when the king’s gaze shifted to Adrion. “Son of skydd, protecting us from those who wish us ill by making our shields and our defensive lines impenetrable and our weapons impossible to anticipate.”
Everything moved slower as the king turned to me. “Daughter of styrk, making us the most powerful people in this realm so that we never have to be leashed.”
His hand found my bare shoulder, and my skin went cold. But King Gustief only met my eyes for a moment before stepping back.
“We live by the gods’ blessings and die by their command.
To earn your runes is to prove you are worthy of the blood you spill.
There is no room for the weak; there is only the honor of the strong.
” The king clapped his hands together. “By the end of this summer, five heirs will be standing by my side, claiming their isles’ thrones.
” He turned to the initiates behind us. “These five heirs will also command the five sections of the Hird—of the academy. Karls, your training has already begun. For those who survive the next months, you will be selected for one of these sections depending on your affinity for one of our five runes.”
Roars erupted, low rumbles in the back of the initiates’ throats. Feet started a rhythmic melody against the ground, and Ottoh and Adrion cupped their hands around their mouths and gave deep hoots that were echoed by some in the crowd behind us.
The king downed a goblet of wine that was thrust into his hands, and a drop of dark liquid ran down his chin as he continued.
“Some of you will also be selected for the heirs’ iron-bound.
Each heir will choose a second, a third, and a fourth to join their inner circle.
To be chosen is the ultimate honor of a Viking.
And for those of you who become seconds… ”
Magic soared through the tent, and the heirs laughed as their runes responded to it. I tried to mimic Rakkel’s playful grin best I could as the karls who’d been stripped of their runes when they left for the academy—to ensure their loyalty would lie with their new chief—cheered.
“You will share the ultimate bond with your heir. Do not take this lightly, for this bond is for life—until either of you walks through Valhalla’s gates,” the king bellowed.
The clapping and whistles hammered against my ears, and the ground shook when Vikings stomped and jumped in response to our king. I shifted my weight from my heels to my toes, trying to summon any excitement or anticipation like what was radiating from the heirs beside me.
“As of now, all formalities and rules of rank are erased. The first few weeks are for the heirs to decide who they will choose as their iron-bound—so karls, it’s time to show them why they should tap you.
” King Gustief lifted another cup, wine sloshing over the sides, toward the crowd.
“What say you? Shall we begin with demonstrating your skills in battle to make that choice easier for them?”
The war cries were deafening. The karls pushed in around us until the king’s warriors lifted their spears and axes, forcing them back a step so they didn’t crush us in their excitement.
“Move! Backward!” the warriors ordered. “Make space!”
Five chairs were brought in and placed in a row beneath the dais, and as the king returned to his throne, two of his men guided us to the seats. I took the one farthest to the left as the karls left a circular spot before us, allowing Viljan to creep closer, standing only a few feet to the side.
The king’s second strolled into the empty space. “The rules are simple. No weapons. Fight until either one of you yields or the gods claim you.” An itching stillness fell over the tent as the second walked up to the first row of men and women. “Who will be the first to step forward?”
The suffocating quiet continued, spreading through my limbs until they twitched.
“No one dares to step forward?” the king called. “Do we have a generation of cowards?”
“I’ll go.” A silver-haired man walked into the ring. “Who will fight me?”
Another man, his stature also towering somewhere around six foot one, stepped forward. “I’ll take you, Oscri.”
“Will you now?” There was a murderous lilt in Oscri’s tone. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“Go on. We didn’t ask for a speech.” The king waved with a greasy hand, his face glistening from the feast he’d laid waste to. “Get started!”
The two men began circling each other. A low thrumming wove through the room as the karls hummed one of the songs of high mountains and wide seas that we sang to ready ourselves for battle.
Fire flickered across the two men as the one called Oscri lunged, using the edge of his wrist to jab upward, striking the other’s nose. Instantly, blood splattered across the darkened grass.
The crowd screamed when Oscri’s opponent did, and their shouts grew wilder as the injured karl used his fingers and with a loud snap pulled his broken nose into place.
“Is that all you got?” he roared, his voice thick and teeth red from blood.
“No.” Oscri laughed, and the sound filled me with foreboding.
I shook my head when a servant offered me wine and meat, but the other heirs indulged. Adrion leaned back in his chair, sucking his fingers—he’d devoured an entire lamb shank—and Ivren and Rakkel whispered to each other as they sipped on their ale.
More cries echoed around the tent, and the king himself clapped as Oscri stormed forward again, landing a jab to the other man’s gut that had him double over. As Oscri went to kick his legs out from under him, though, the man flew backward, landing a punch to Oscri’s face that split open his brow.
More blood pooled on the floor as the men interlocked their arms, each using the other to land strike after strike wherever they could reach. The slightly shorter man got hold of Oscri’s hair and dragged him close to jab his fingers into his eyes, fighting to pull them from their sockets.
I looked to Viljan. His face was blanched, but not because he was watching the fight. He was staring right at me, and for the first time in my life there was terror in my guard’s eyes. I spun forward again, my feet tapping against the ground, making my knees bounce.