The warrior’s smile was grim as he jerked the old man to his feet and pulled him through the broken door of the hut and into the cold light of the morning. The shouts and screams of the villagers echoed loudly and Torunn tried to ignore it as she stalked through the hut. The old man had been packing his valuables into the wooden chest that lay on the floor. She looked down into the box and frowned at the man’s treasures. A cloak pin, a ring, a silver torc… nothing of any value.
But then her eye caught the glimmer of gold. She tipped the box over with her foot and spilled the contents out onto the dirt floor.
The sound of footsteps made her turn, and her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. She breathed a small sigh of relief as Halle’s face appeared in the doorway. “Torunn, we have the council.”
She nodded and then crouched down, snatched up the golden object and shoved it into a pocket of her tunic.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly and glanced at her friend. “You’re bleeding.”
Halle looked down at his bloodied tunic and shrugged. “It’s nothing. A farmer with a knife.”
“You used to be a farmer with a knife.”
Halle laughed. “Not anymore.”
“You should not have come.”
“How could I stay away?”
Torunn shook her head and pushed him toward the other warriors as they walked into the marketplace.
Her warriors grinned and jostled each other. They were bloodied, but they had lost none of their number. Laxa’s council members, five old men with wide eyes and mud-stained tunics watched her cautiously. A small group of women and children had been gathered to take as prisoners. They would become part of Skaro in one way or another. Insurance against another attack. It was a ploy that her father had used in the past to guarantee obedience… over time such things had not been necessary, but perhaps it was time to bring the old ways back into practice.
“Counselors,” Torunn said loudly. “You have been harboring a rebel. A rebel who led an attack on Skaro. An attack on Skaro, is an attack on the Jarl and his peace, whether he is present or not.”
“We have no such man among us,” one of the old men protested.
“Then where is he?” Torunn asked. “I recognize three of the men who attacked us among your dead, another lies in the street in Skaro, cut down while he attempted to burn the Jarl’s throne.” She pointed to the warriors who stood nearby. “And another is in the care of my men.”
The man in question writhed in the grip of one of the warriors. He grimaced as he was forced onto his knees in the frozen mud.
“Where is Bersi Athulfsson?”
The old man shook his head. “I don’t know that name.”
There was muttering amongst the warriors and Torunn pulled her knife from its sheath at her hip.
She stepped forward and pressed the tip of the knife against the old man’s chest. “I will only ask you once more,” she said softly. A bright spot of blood appeared on the man’s tunic and he flinched backward, only to be caught and held in place by Halle. His smile was cold when Torunn glanced up at him, and she was suddenly grateful that he’d come.
“Where is Bersi Athulfsson.”
The man shook his head and Torunn sighed heavily. She had not come to Laxa to kill stubborn old men, but if that as necessary—
“Wait!” A woman’s shout pierced the quiet and Torunn straightened. The woman was tall and willowy, with raven dark hair and a desperate expression on her pale face. She glanced down at the old man who cowered in the mud. They had the same eyes. His daughter, no doubt.
“What?”
“He is here,” she choked out.
The old man turned his head to glare at the woman, but she ignored him. “He was wounded in the attack, he is—” she pointed a shaking hand toward one of the huts.
“Shall I fetch him for you?” Halle asked.
He was so eager to prove himself.
“Get him,” Torunn replied. “But be careful. He is no old man.”
Halle grinned. He pulled the old man to his feet and pushed him roughly toward the others. The old man stumbled and the woman who had saved his life rushed forward to catch him. He pushed her hands away and stood silently next to the other members of the council. Torunn narrowed her eyes and watched Halle as he strode through the silent village to the house that the woman had indicated.
She nodded to another warrior. “Go and help him.”
The man unsheathed his sword and ran to catch up and Torunn folded her arms over her chest.
“Jarl Reinnsson does not let rebellion go unpunished,” she said loudly. “These men. These strangers to our ways. They do not belong here, and I trust that they do not represent the true feelings of Laxa’s people.”
She was making bold assumptions, but she wanted to watch them squirm just a little.
The old men of the council were silent and Torunn began to pace through the mud. It was taking too long. She heard a shout, and then a muffled crash from the hut that Halle had entered with so much bravado. Panic clutched her stomach and she resisted the urge to run headlong toward the noise.
She looked at the councilmen, and noted their nervous expressions. She strode toward the prisoner who had been taken during their attack. She recognized him from the night before. He had been the one to pull Bersi away from her before they had slipped away into the night. She grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back.
“Where did Bersi come from?” she demanded.
The man grimaced and then chuckled. “What does it matter?”
“It matters,” she snarled. If she knew where this rebellion had begun, it could be stamped out.
The man shook his head as best he could and Torunn tightened her grip and pulled his head back harder, exposing his throat. She could cut it with a quick movement and drop him into the mud without a second thought, but she needed information.
“Where.”
“Dalir,” the man choked out.
Torunn made a face and released her hold. “Liar,” she said and slid her knife back into the sheath at her hip. Killing him would be a waste.
A shout from the huts beyond the marketplace made her turn, and she felt a stab of relief to see Halle pull a large man through the doorway of the hut that the dark-haired woman had indicated. She nodded to the woman, but she wouldn’t meet Torunn’s gaze.
Bersi Athulfsson was taller than she realized. He towered over Halle, but his gait was unsteady and he dragged his left leg painfully. She smiled briefly at the realization that her strike had done some damage. That was her doing. He deserved that wound.
He leaned heavily on Halle, who staggered under his weight. He was off-balance, but refused to accept the help of the warrior who followed behind them.
“Did he give you any trouble,” she asked as they entered the marketplace.
“Caught him trying to escape out a window,” Halle said with a snarl. He pushed the big man away from himself and the rebel staggered forward. His wounded leg buckled and he fell heavily into the mud.
“Get him up,” Torunn said briskly.
Halle grimaced and bent down to yank the rebel to his knees. Bersi let out a roar of pain and Halle laughed as he pulled on the man’s leather tunic. “He’s heavy,” he grunted.