Page 63 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

The great house echoed much as it had throughout his life, emptied of the love of a mother or a father. Ragnar circled the great hall, spying the paintings that had hung there through much of his adolescence, at the family portraits and the battles extolling Sweden’s victories on sea and land. He’d sat studying the painting of the Battle of Wallhof and saw himself in it, charging out of this hulk of cold stone and into glory for his country and for his family. But his father had always belittled him for those dreams.

The butler returned. “Sir, follow me.”

How many of the staff would he keep? He’d lose all of them if he could. Couldn’t have them becoming suspicious that he was more than a mortal man. He grimaced at the confines he would have to place on himself once more, watching what he said, what he did. Heroes should not be so constrained. He made a promise not to be so. It was being in this house, trapped within its walls full of rules and expectations that sought to bind him. He would not let it. It was just a house.

The butler led him into the drawing room, announced him, and left. But instead of his father, Ragnar was met by his brother, Peder, who stopped his pacing to watch him with trepidation and fear. He didn’t move in for a brotherly hug, and Ragnar kept his distance.

Peder had changed little from the gruff, tall, thin man he’d been when Ragnar left to join the military all those years ago. Five years had passed since he’d seen him, having kept well away from the affairs of Jönköping so he could make his own fortune because he’d been given none to work with.

“Where’s Father?”

Peder cleared his throat and straightened to his full height. “We thought you were dead.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot. Where is he?”

“He passed away. Around Christmastime.”

His throat constricted. Almost a year. Knowing the bastard was dead carried none of the sweetness of being able to suck that shriveled soul out of his reptilian body. He’d missed his chance. He cracked his neck as rage bubbled up inside him. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Would you have cared? We haven’t heard from you in over a year.”

“I was his son,” he said through barely parted teeth. “Of course I would have cared.” He would have been there to ensure his departure.

“I am surprised to hear that considering how little thought you gave him over the years. Foolishly we expected some word from you after your dismissal, but you stayed away. Father thought your shame must have been too great. I think he was relieved.”

He narrowed his eyes and stalked towards Peder. “It’s because of him I was expelled from the military.”

“You led those five hundred men to their slaughter, not Father. The fault is entirely yours.”

“What would you know of battle?” He brushed aside Peder’s judgement, but he couldn’t dispel the pricking at the back of his neck. “You sat in this castle far from strife and grew fat on his blind generosity, while I was out there earning glory for his name.”

Peder scoffed and closed the gap between them to poke his bony, accusing finger into Ragnar’s chest. “Soiling his name, you mean. You ran away to follow your little fantasies, and I stayed here, working for him and my family. I may be first born, but I built my position and proved to him that I was worthy of continuing his line. What are you but a failure?”

Ragnar popped his knuckles. The symbol blazed in the front of his mind like a flaming sword, and he would rip Peder’s soul from him only after he’d tortured the bastard to within an inch of his sanity. He readied his hand to find the naked flesh of his throat. Everything would soon be as it should be with him ruling as head of the family for an eternity.

The door opened and in ran a little girl of no more than four years of age, calling out excitedly for her father. His wife, Kristina, followed behind. She blenched at recognizing him.

Peder scooped up the little girl into his arms, while Kristina hurried to her husband’s side, never once taking her eyes off Ragnar. She sensed the danger they were in even if Peder’s arrogance blinded him to it.

“You remember my brother, Ragnar?” Peder’s happiness shone on his face as he looked upon his child, forgetting about Ragnar as if he was a servant.

“Of course,” she said softly, her hand on her daughter, Peder’s body partially shielding her. “You look well, brother.”

He sneered.

“It’s good to have you home. I know Peder has often wondered how you fared.”

“Not enough to come searching.”

“You’re wrong,” Peder said. “I did enquire after father died, foolishly thinking you should know of his death despite his feelings about you, but you had vanished. I had heard rumors you had become an outlaw, which didn’t surprise me, but I could not track you down.” He sighed. “Brother, I really did try to find you, but I figured if you were still alive, then you did not want to be found. And it seems you have done all right for yourself, if the fine clothes you are wearing are anything to go by.”

He looked down at the fine jacket, at the costume he’d draped over his body in the hope he could finally take his rightful place in this family. If he could bring them glory, then maybe they could love him. But the clothes were a lie.

The only truth was that he didn’t belong in that house. And not because he would never receive the love that he craved, but because it was all spoken for.

When he looked at his brother and his little family, he recognized those shared looks of affection and gentle touches. He had never had that.

Not until Absolon.

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