Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) by Jerry Autieri

Author:Jerry Autieri
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw
Published: 2017-03-20T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Yngvar stared at the guard who gripped his arm. All around the brightly lit hall, helmeted guards laughed. They leveled their spears at Yngvar and his crew, and anyone who might have considered resistance blanched before the gleaming blades. Erik sat unmoving on his chair, hand once more supporting his head in boredom. His fierce eyes fixed on nothing, as if he had forgotten everyone assembled before him.

"Bjorn Arensson is no one's slave!"

Bjorn spun on the guard closest to him, too near for spears to be of any use. For all his rage and wildness, Bjorn was the best fighter of all three of them. King Erik's men had been overconfident in carrying their weapons into the hall. Bjorn tore away the guard's sax, which hung at his side without any peace straps to restrain it, and flicked off the sheath.

Yngvar leapt for his cousin, but pulled up short in the grip of his captor. Thorfast also tried to grab Bjorn, but was likewise already restrained.

The blade flashed, and Bjorn cut up with terrible if inaccurate force. He shaved a line of blood along the guard's arm, causing him to flail back with a scream.

Laughter turned to shouts of anger, and a cluster of spears converged on Bjorn. The rest of the crew either fell flat or danced away to avoid being skewered. But Bjorn was howling his rage, reversing his grip on the short sword to deliver a mortal strike even as a dozen spears would pierce his body in reply.

"Stop this!"

King Erik's voice was thunder in the hall. Everyone flinched, both Yngvar and his captor as well. Even Bjorn paused in his red-faced rage. But when he saw the spears ranged against him, he snarled.

"Get fucked, you whoresons!" He pulled back to strike the injured guard.

King Erik exploded through the throng, so fast and powerful that men bowled aside of his charge. Bjorn had only an instant to look up before the mighty king had driven his ring-crusted fist into Bjorn's jaw. As he doubled over with a grunt, Erik brought his knee up into Bjorn's ribs. Yngvar watched his cousin stagger and fall. King Erik stamped on Bjorn's sword hand, pinning it to the ground.

The room became as cold and silent as an ice cave at the top of the world. Erik had defeated Bjorn even without a weapon of his own. Bjorn, now winded and pinned, panted like a red-faced dog. Yngvar's stomach knotted imagining Bjorn's demise.

Thorfast struggled to get before the king. "My lord, he--"

King Erik kicked Thorfast aside like an aged hen that had wandered into his path. The king retrieved the short sword from Bjorn's grip, never raising his pinning foot.

Rather than plunge the blade into Bjorn's throat as Yngvar expected, the king released him. A dozen spear points drove within a hair's breadth of Bjorn's face, and he remained still beneath them. King Erik rounded on the wounded man, holding up the blade.

"Cut with your own sword in my hall? You dishonor yourself and disgrace me.

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