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

7: Death With the Wind

"There is a fell wind this night."

- Rumored to be the parting words of Torvald Geirson, the Last King of Baegard

Bjorn picked his way across the precarious footing of the Dawnshadow, panting as he led Clap by the reins. The way before him was nothing but rough, black rock. He wondered if it had long ago been charred by a great fire, never to recover.

Fire.

He thought again of that plume of smoke and, despite his weariness, urgency propelled him forward faster still.

Coward. It was hardly the first time the thought plagued him during the laborious hike. Perhaps it made a certain sense to gain a high view of the situation so he could best determine what to do next. But he could not banish the feeling that it was not prudence that kept him from returning to the city, as any honorable highborn man would, but spinelessness.

But even if he was a coward, he could still be useful. If it was a fire, he would see the extent of the damage. If, on the other hand, it was an attack by Ha-Sypt, he could report on the location and movements of their armies.

Despite himself, his imagination invented a far greater terror. That wind, that smoke — he had never seen such a thing done by the hands of men. No, it must be a god returned, with a wrath and breath that could turn the world to ashes. Nuvvog the Trickster, the enemy whose bright eye watched jealously from the daytime sky, had finally come to wreak vengeance of the people of Djur, his eternal enemy.

Death with the wind.

Bjorn reached the cliff's edge, and breathing heavily, he looked over Oakharrow. At the sight that greeted him, his hand went limp, almost releasing Clap's reins. The stones seemed to sag under his feet, nearly pitching him forward. Only by collapsing to his knees did he prevent the long, deadly fall.

But not even his imminent peril could draw his eyes away from the hellish sight before him.

Stone smoldered and smoked. The castle that had once stood tall above the City of Iron was quickly being reduced to a pile of rubble. Long ago, the last King of Baegard had walked its halls. For hundreds of winters after, it had been the seat of the jarl's power. It had been the only home he had ever known.

The Harrowhall burned.

For a time, Bjorn could only watch the flames consume the citadel. His family — had they been caught in the fire? Had anyone escaped? His mind went numb at the thought. Mother. Father. Annar, Yof, Aelthena. Had any of them survived?

Yet, instead of running to them, he stood there, watching the smoke billow in the air, rising in a column that split into two streams before fading into the sunshine. Like a dragon's tongue licking at the sky.

Coward.

He stabbed the barb into himself, again and again, like a yeoman might prod a woolith. Still, he could not move. Fear rooted itself deeper in him with each passing moment.

I might be the Heir now. Gray bloody gods, I might be the jarl.

His knees buckled, almost sending him sprawling to the stone. His breath came quick and shallow. The jarl. Only during his daydreams, among the dusty tomes in the Harrowhall's archives, did he even think it was possible. Now, it might be his, and it was the last thing he wanted. The Mantle, the jarlheim — all of it might be his to guard.

Or let be destroyed.

I may be a coward, but I have to be strong. Strong for the people of Oakharrow. Strong for his murdered family.

"Clap, boy," he called out in a broken voice. "To me."

Though every step felt impossible to take, though it felt the very stones themselves must cease to exist beneath his feet, still, he moved forward. With hopes iron-heavy, Bjorn took hold of his horse's reins and led him down to the waiting city.

* * *

Aelthena led Asborn up the narrow halls of Vigil Keep to its highest terraces.

Servants, slaves, and guards fluttered around them. She could sense their despair in their movements and expressions, their uncomprehending terror. Most seemed cut adrift, boats swept before a sudden flood.

Aelthena had no time for any of them. As she passed, more than one received the sharp end of her tongue.

Finally, they filed up a cramped stairwell and onto the battlements of the castle. A huge pillar of smoke rose high into the blue sky. Though lightheaded, Aelthena rushed to look through an embrasure in the wall's saw-toothed top. She followed the gray haze down to its source. Yet even seeing it, she stared for many long moments before comprehension settled in.

The Harrowhall. Her home laid in a pile of charred rubble, the coals of its stones still red from the hellish fires that had destroyed it.

Numbness lasted only a moment before her mind leaped into action. "Send a servant to each of the gates. Ensure no one leaves the city. Make doubly sure that the Warden knows of this command; we can afford no lapses now. Send your guards to the Harrowhall to search for survivors and any assailants, and keep those found under careful watch. I'll need to speak with them."

She glanced over and saw Asborn staring at the wreckage, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. He seemed to have not heard her.

"My father was in there," he said softly. His voice was not sad or mournful, but merely stunned.

"Yes. As were my brothers and my mother." She put a hand on his shoulder and shook him, rougher than she intended, but there was no time for gentleness. "You're the thane now, Asborn. And if Bjorn was caught in the fire with the others, I may be the jarl's heir. Which means that, as far as we know, we're the jarlheim's leaders."

Asborn looked at her, blinking as slowly as a tortoise. "I'm the thane," he repeated.

"Yes. Which is why I need you to order your guards and servants to do as I said." With an effort, she smoothed the sharp edges of her tone. "Please, Asborn. We cannot delay."

"No. No, we cannot." Coming back to himself, he turned toward the stairs, then hesitated and looked back. "Will we be alright, Aelthena?"

Alright?

"No, we won't be alright. But we'll survive. And at the moment, that's what matters."

Asborn lingered a second longer, then nodded. His expression remained drawn as he turned and sprinted down the stairs.

Aelthena looked back at her ruined home. A strange mixture of feelings swirled through her. The jarl. Her father was surely still alive; she had sent him out of Vigil Keep only moments before. But with his mind claimed by sprites, he was unfit to rule. Her mother was likely dead, and her brothers as well.

I may be the ruler of Oakharrow.

A chill traveled up her spine at the thought. But she had no time to think it through. No time for the feelings that realization evoked in her.

Blinking away sudden stars in her vision, she focused on what she had to do next. Contain the chaos. Find the ones responsible. Protect your people.

She forced herself into motion and headed down the stairs. Though her chest weighed heavily, she found her footsteps light and quick. For the first time, her manacles had been unlocked. She walked free, able to forge her own path.

And so she would.