The High Seat of Asgard: Eschaton Cycle (Gods of the Ragnarok Era Book 4) by Matt Larkin

Author:Matt Larkin [Larkin, Matt]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Incandescent Phoenix Books
Published: 2017-07-02T00:00:00+00:00

Fitela met him some distance away, close to dawn, in a grove of elms. Sigmund lay on his stomach, head on his arms, letting the air cool the agony of the wounds on his back. The berserk bitch had so rent him she must have almost struck his spine. Had that happened …

Had that happened he would never avenge himself against Wolfsblood.

Fitela dropped Sigmund’s clothes—they fell with a wet plop—before him, then collapsed in a heap himself. “Still think you want to fight twelve of those bitches all at once?”

“Eleven now.” He didn’t look at the young man, though. Meeting his gaze seemed painful under the circumstances.

Fitela snorted. “We cannot face eleven nor even five of those women at once, much less in any kind of fair fight as you seem to insist on giving them. She damn nigh took your head off because you refused to kill a woman while her trousers were around her ankles.”

Sigmund groaned. “You who grew up in the halls of Wolfsblood might never understand—”

“No! It is you who does not understand! Born a prince, son of the greatest king in Hunaland. Oh yes, you thought you could claim the whole fucking World, that it was your due. And here, you look down on me for speaking practicality … for speaking reason. Your honor is not your strength, uncle. It is merely a remnant of your spoiled arrogance, from still thinking yourself a prince.” Fitela huffed. “You have spent more years as a vagrant, a bandit, than you ever did as a prince.”

Sigmund pushed himself up, ignoring the fresh lances of pain it sent through his back. “How dare you, boy! You think to challenge me?”

“I try to help you! All I have ever done, from the day I was born, was prepare to return our house to prominence.”

“Our house? You are as much of the vile line of Wolfsblood as you are a Volsung, a lineage made plain by your refusal to guard your tongue or your actions.”

“I am not …”

“Not?” Sigmund folded his arms over his chest. “Not what?”

Fitela sighed and waved it away. “Not your enemy, nor do I embrace Wolfsblood’s house, as you well know. We have tried your way, uncle. Now I bid you heed mine. Let us find an alternative.”

Sigmund frowned. Much as he wanted to dispute it, the wounds on his back did lend credence to the boy’s argument. He had worked so many long years to avenge his family. If he died before succeeding, it all meant naught. And if he gave Wolfsblood more time to gather his strength—for now the king had to know someone plotted against him, what with one of his women missing—the undertaking would become that much more difficult.

So, let them see what Fitela could come up with.

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