Chapter 8

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Volsung threw his glass goblet with a shout of rage. It shattered against the rough stone floor, small streams of dark red wine slowly trickling through the cracks in the rock.

The thanes and other advisors gathered in the Great Room flinched, but I did not react to his display of anger. I was too numb for it to trouble me now, merely keeping my place towards the back of the room. I tried to keep as still as possible; although my wounds from the fight with the troll had been treated and bandaged, my ribs still ached fiercely whenever I moved.

"Ergi, the lot of you!" Father roared, and the thanes blanched even further. To accuse a man of being an ergi, the most spineless and treacherous of cowards, was not an insult used lightly; those convicted of such a crime were outlawed, or even put to death. The thanes wisely kept their mouths shut. "How could you allow a troll to kidnap your lord's daughter and heir?"

That was the only explanation I had been able to bring myself to give father, that Ingrid had been kidnapped by the troll. This fit of rage that Ingrid's disappearance had put him in was terrifying but predictable. The truth... I had no idea what reaction the truth would receive. I still hadn't fully accepted it myself.

Ingrid was gone. Gone with a troll, gods knew why. I kept picturing her face in my mind, the brutal reflection of shock and disappointment in her eyes. Disappointment in me. The image would not go away, no matter how sick to my stomach it made me feel.

Memories of the troll haunted me as well. Now that my mind was not clouded with fear and anger, I had the faculty to think logically. And logic told me, as hard as I tried not to see it, that the troll and I did indeed bear an uncanny resemblance. The same large eyes, the same blocky features, even the same unnatural strength. It was like a slap to the face, a confirmation of all of the rumors and gossip that followed me. I almost wanted to laugh at the thought. Breca had been right. How had I fooled myself into believing I was anything but part-troll?

Father, having finished raging at his subjects, returned to the issue at hand.

"What is the word from Heorot?" He barked.

A man stepped nervously forward. "Our last courier was sent to Heorot some weeks ago now. He has yet to return."

Such an occurrence ordinarily wouldn't have warranted any concern. Seas were rough, and bandits and beasts frequented the roads; messengers were often lost traveling between kingdoms. But this time, something much worse had clearly befallen the Geatish courier. I could hardly spare a thought to pity the poor man, but images of the soldiers' bodies in the woods still flashed before my eyes. I shivered involuntarily.

Taking great deep breaths, father sunk back into his throne, covering his face with a hand. All of the anger seemed to drain out of him at once.

"Put all sentries on high alert, and assemble a guard around the castle. I want those woods being patrolled day and night."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Gregor replied swiftly. The old man seemed to be the only one who had remained composed and steady through this entire mess. He exuded a calming presence on the otherwise tense room, his very aura serving to keep things civil. I'd always envied him that, the ability to have complete control of his own emotions, to be a source of stability for others to grasp onto. I'd never be able to master my impulses half as well.

The other men were shuffling nervously, heads lowered in shame, but Gregor didn't hesitate to get to the crux of the matter. "But my lord," He said, "I fear that with such defenses we will have few men to spare to go after Lady Ingrid."

Father clenched his fists, and for a moment I thought he would fly into a rage again. Instead he merely sat up straighter in his chair and fixed Gregor with a level gaze. "A large search party would serve no purpose," He said through clenched teeth. "Trolls are treacherous beasts; this time, I will not go charging into their midst blindly." He moved his gaze over to the ship master, Bjorn, a stocky man with streaks of gray beginning to run through his yellow beard. "Ready a ship and crew. I want them sailing to Heorot by morning."

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