The Throne of Ice & Ash (The Runewar Saga #1) (PREVIEW)

3: The Sword or the Noose

If the blood of kings, heroes, or their loyal huskarls runs in his veins, let the sword do his neck a final honor. If his blood is a common red, the noose will suffice.

- The Harrow Law; On Justice

"Well? Do we hang him or cut off his head?"

The question brought Bjorn's attention away from the ornate arrases lining the Hall of Tapestries to his second oldest brother. Yof had his arms crossed over his broad chest and wore his War Drang's furs as if he would set out on a patrol that very moment to do his duty of watching for Oakharrow's enemies. Like their mother, his braided hair and beard were laced with orange, a sign of his passionate nature. Though quick to anger, Yof was quicker to forgive, and quickest of all to laugh. Even now, with his heavy words, Yof waited with an eyebrow cocked, as if expecting the query to be greeted with mirth.

Bjorn, knowing no answer would be expected from him, glanced at the others present. Annar, their eldest brother, paced in front of the Oakstone, the chair of the jarl. Eirik Bloodaxe was the last in attendance. He had fought next to Bjorn's father to wrest the Winter Mantle from a man they had considered too weak to rule — Yaethun's father, as luck would have it. Eirik's reward was to become the thane and the head of the Balturg clan, making him the second most powerful man in Oakharrow. His hair was as red as his weapon was named, and though he was flame-bent like Yof, he was more inclined toward rage than japes.

"Those aren't the only ways to kill a man," the thane rumbled.

Yof snorted. "You would think a noose too painless."

Thane Eirik smiled grimly. It was all too easy for Bjorn to imagine blood running between those yellowed teeth. "Only for my enemies."

"I haven't said he would die."

At Annar's words, Bjorn turned with the others toward his eldest brother. The Heir paused his pacing to cast his hard gaze over them.

"Skarl Thundson is only the first serpent from the nest," Annar continued. "Hang him or behead him. Either way, it will not temper the Vurg rebellion."

Skarl Thundson. Bjorn's knees nearly went weak at the mere mention of his name. Widely known as "the Savage," he was said to possess the blood of a jotun, the legendary giants of the frozen Witterland to the far north. That, at least, was merely rumor; he had seen the insurgent in the cells under the Harrowhall, and though the man did indeed look ferocious, bigger men than he crowded the cells. But his face was a web of scars, telling of the number of fights he had survived and won, and his eyes were bright and cruel. The man held himself with a certainty that even Bjorn had found himself morbidly fascinated by. It was no wonder men followed him.

And though Bjorn had imagined beheading him that very morning, it was no wonder he still feared him.

"Send a clear message, and it will." Thane Eirik slapped a palm against the pommel of the axe that was always hanging from his hip. "Quarter and burn him — ashes don't lead coups."

"Burn him?" Yof asked incredulously. "He's not a witch who's cast a curse!"

Annar shook his head. "Brutality will gain us no love from the Vurgs."

The Heir looked up at one of the grand banners next to the Oakstone; the tapestry of Nuvvog, Bjorn noted. On it, the God of the Sun and Deceit was shown in his usual dragon form, broad scarlet wings stretching over either side, and a barbed tail menacing along the tasseled hem. Though his face was a reptile's, with long white teeth and sharp-pointed ears like mountain peaks, the weaver had caught that look of mischief for which Nuvvog was known: a curling of the grinning mouth, a widening of the wild eyes. As his brother stared into the god's gaze, Bjorn wondered what he sought there. The Trickster promised nothing but lies — all the stories said so. Though not every tale is true, he mused. And not every legend is false. If he had learned one thing in his many hours spent in the chilled archives, it was a scholar's mixture of scrutiny and tolerance.