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

5: The Sleeping Giant

Djur came down from the mountain like an avalanche, roaring his fury with the tumbling of ice and snow:

'Nuvvog!' he cried. 'Spinner of Lies! Trickster of Gods! Father of Dragons! Come, come — face me with claw and fire, if you dare!'

The Trickster only smiled. 'I do, Wild One — but on the grounds of my own choosing.'

Only as he heard his words did the Wild Father discover a great pit below him, burning with deep flames, and fell into it...

- Tales of the Inscribed, by Alfjin the Scribe

Bjorn watched Aelthena roll away in the chariot, her sun-blonde hair standing out amid the snow-spattered Iron Road. Every day, she seemed to grow more confident in herself, more her own woman, and that was saying something. She had always known her mind, always seemed able to divine the right path forward. Growing up, he had often turned to his older sister for guidance and had rarely been led astray.

I'd kill a thousand, she'd said.

Her words made him think of the heroes of old. None of them had struggled with committing violence. Thoros Wolfjaw, champion to the King of Ice, never hesitated in slaying Coppereye at his challenge. Yofam Dragontooth did not pause at stabbing the invading wyvern with its own incisor. Bjorn's own father, seeing the Mantle hanging from weak shoulders, slew the old jarl and all his supporters without shedding a tear.

All around him stood strong men, true men. Only he, Bjorn Borson, blanched at the necessity of death.

Death with the wind.

He shivered and looked over the city again, wishing he could forget the morning's omen.

Under a quilt of snow, Oakharrow was a city asleep. Yet even in its slumber, it seemed a giant to him — a vibrant, hale colossus, waiting to be awoken. Soon, fires would be rekindled, heating the hearths of lowborn and highborn alike. Men and women would emerge to move about their tasks of herding and hawking and brewing. Perhaps the city reeked of all that human activity, of its waste and bodies. But in the fresh snow, everything was settled and clean. The winter covered all equally and carried away the filth when it melted. For a short while, at least.

Down the road, he watched a boy in Balturg red form a ball from snow and throw it at a small girl in Thurdjur aqua. Killing an armed man in fair combat is one thing, he thought as the girl threw a frozen missile back, her small face twisted in fury and delight. But beheading a defenseless man?

It would be justice, according the Inscribed Beliefs. Skarl Thundson was responsible for the deaths of dozens of Harrowfolk and the destruction of much property as well. The Vurgs he incited had mostly raided outlying farms thus far, setting fire to fields and homes and slaughtering the inhabitants. But they would bring their blades and torches to Oakharrow itself if they were not stopped. Then people would die not by the dozens, but by the hundreds. Perhaps even the thousands.

But Aelthena had said something else: Do what you think is right. He had studied the laws divined from the Inscribed Beliefs for the past four years. He knew their caveats, their intricacies, their flaws. The Harrow Law might seem straightforward in word, but in application, it rarely proved to be. And no matter how much he read, no matter how much knowledge he gained, he had not found a passage that answered how a lawspeaker might, in liminal cases, divine the right course from the wrong one.

But though he believed few things with certainty, he knew one thing: a coward made for a poor executioner.

Unable to sit still any longer, he slid off the statue of Djur. One thing promised to relieve his restlessness — a ride in the hills. He could return by noon; the sun had plenty of sky left to rise. He would be back before they even thought to look for him.