Page 118 of Storm of Fury
Bryn pushed to her feet unsteadily, wiping her suddenly sweating palms on her trousers. What did this mean? She’d thought the gods had turned their backs on her long ago.
Wind swept through the stables, blowing the doors open. It swirled among strands of loose straw, and Bryn could have sworn she heard the sound of dozens of voices singing. The words sounded like a chorus of Valkyrie rousing to battle.
“What is that noise?” Kari whispered, rocking slightly.
My past coming to haunt me again….
But she sheathed the sword as she saw Leah enter, her face lightening when she saw her wayward daughter.
“I think it’s coming from the gods,” Bryn said solemnly. “They felt me mark my blessing on your forehead, and now they’re watching over us. Both of us.”
Kari caught a glimpse of her mother, and then ducked into one of the stalls. “I can still hear it,” she called.
Leah paused to lean on one of the stalls, as Kari went in search of the music. “I see you have made another convert.”
Bryn dusted off her hands again. It was clear the other woman was not among those who welcomed her with open arms. And while Bryn had faced a thousand battles in her time, she felt awkward now, when she had no shield but her tongue and her wits. “She’s very clever.”
Leah sighed. “She is. And now I’m going to be finding those runes carved into every door jamb in my house, and written on every piece of paper or fabric she can get her hands on.”
“It will bring Freyja’s protection upon your house.”
Leah shot her a startled look. “You worship the old gods?”
She hadn’t missed the cross hanging around Leah’s throat. “Yes.”
“I don’t know what my husband will think of having old runes carved into the house, but I will thank them for their protection.” Leah shrugged, then reached down to haul Tormund’s packs over her shoulder. “I will help you. Kari, don’t you go too far.”
“Thank you.” Bryn grabbed her own bags, and followed the other woman toward the barn doors, though she could have carried all four bags easily.
Tormund had seemingly given up on saddling the horses. He snatched a pair of children up under each arm, and then went looking for another, roaring like adrekithe whole time. Packs of children lurked, waiting desperately to be snatched up even as they screamed and bolted. It was such foolishness, and yet Bryn couldn’t help smiling.
This was his home.
She could see it in the relaxation that rode his shoulders and the flash of his smile. A somewhat breathless feeling took her as she watched him “trip” into the grass and fall prey to a pack of giggling children who tickled him unmercifully.
She would miss him when she was gone.
Desperately.
Urgently.
And though she was surrounded by dozens of people, she didn’t think she had ever felt as lonely as she watched him from a distance, knowing he would be gone soon. Not even when she had woken in the mortal realm after being cast from Valhalla.
“He’s wonderful with the children,” Leah said, startling her back into the present, and Bryn felt her gaze like a hawk’s. “But then he is wonderful with all of us.”
She looked away. “He is lucky to have all of you.”
“We are lucky to have him,” Leah corrected. She paused. “Has he told you of his brother and father?”
Brother and father?Bryn’s head whipped to the side. “No. He’s only ever spoken of his mother. I didn’t…. I thought his father was….”
A nameless mercenary.
“Ah.” Leah sat the packs by their horses, stroking the roan’s rump. “It’s complicated. His mother had born one son to her husband, and everyone in the district thought it a gift from God, for her husband was almost thrice her age. Old Sigurd praised that boy every day of his life, and Tomas took after him in almost every way. They were both short, miserly men who never granted poor Ruth a single ounce of their attention or love.
“And then, when Tomas was almost sixteen, Ruth birthed a second child. An enormous, squalling infant with such dark hair that we all joke that he was born with a beard. There were whispers then, for Sigurd could barely leave the house without a cane, let alone….” Leah shrugged. “And of course, that was the summer there were several mercenaries rooming at the inn. But for all his faults, Sigurd gave the boy his name—Tormund Sigurdsson—and though he never gave Tormund an ounce of the attention he paid Tomas, it mattered little, for he died barely two years later.”
Bryn couldn’t look away.
