Rake My Lust (Dragons of Blood and Bone #3)

2. Kinslayer

2

KINSLAYER

I ’m dressed in black buckled fighting leathers and tall shitkicker boots from the Old Palace, my long Swedish blonde hair done half-back in braids now, as I wait for a summons to the Magnussen Jarl’s court. As I sling my polar bear pelt around my shoulders to keep warm in the chill, I feel grateful Captain Olander Mortensen was true to his word and brought me all my things from the dragon-cairn.

After a brief inspection, none were deemed to be helpful in breaking me out of my cell, so I got to keep it all. My ancestor’s silver ring is back on my finger; I feel vastly more like me to have it back, and to be dressed in Blood Dragon warrior’s garb, even if it is borrowed.

I had a cell phone from the Old Palace, which I was going to use to call my uncle, King Huttr Erdhelm, to brief him on everything that’s happening. It’s dead now, though, with a massive crack running through it, thanks to all the magical craziness in the dragon-cairn. I toss it aside on the cot, a useless hunk of junk.

As I stand in my cell, ready to face the Jarl.

My King’s Blood Seal is in an inner breast pocket of my leathers. The first one he gave me was lost in the fires that destroyed Jurggadden, but a second one was delivered posthaste to the Old Palace a few days ago.

That little piece of vellum gives Bjorn, Strom, and me full access through any lands to continue our hunt for the Black Dragon and a group of enemy Bone Mages we believe are wielding it.

I feel that slim piece of gilded vellum—penned and signed by my King in his own blood—bolster me now, like a living fire at my heart. Though Bjorn, Strom, and I are all high-ranking members of King Huttr’s Kingsguard, we’re also prisoners, and I don’t know where we stand in Magnussen country.

I chew on my worry now, though I know my Second Drake, Strom, is likely to be let go by Jarl Oggi Magnussen. Not only is Strom a high-level officer in King Huttr’s Kingsguard, he’s also Jarl-Heir to the powerful neighboring Eriksson Clan to the east—someone the Magnussens don’t want to tussle with.

I’m also likely to be escorted to the border, since I’m the King’s niece and our Lineage’s Hog Skjaldm?r, High Shieldmaiden, which is sort of like a princess. Not only am I second in line for the Blood Dragon throne if my uncle dies, I have permission from him to investigate anything related to the Black Dragon, his signed Blood Seal in my pocket.

The Blood Seal also mentions Bjorn, and this is what I’m gambling on now as I wait to face Bjorn’s father. Because the King’s Blood Seal is Bjorn’s only chance at freedom.

In a situation where his father might just kill him.

I don’t know if that would be in an hour, a day, or a year; but I know that powerful clan Jarls like Oggi Magnussen are not above making brutal examples of their own children, if an example needs to be made.

Bjorn’s broken not just one, but two major clan laws by returning to his homeland as an Outcast, then desecrating a dragon burial-cairn that is not only a sacred site, but a place of deep superstition for the Magnussens.

I know now that those superstitions were warranted. Something evil lived in that place which was once called Seerselen, now known as Unhaemmerten— the Cursed Place.

Some ancient evil related to the Black Dragon—an utterly malevolent energy—had woken four massive dragon-wights out of stone tombs to assail us. It nearly killed Bjorn, Strom, and me, except that a powerful fluke in our magic saved us when we had sex in that altar, thinking it was our last moment alive.

That evil energy got out when our magic blasted a hole in the top of the underground cathedral, all the way to the sky. With those four wights, that evil escaped—gone now.

I don’t know where.

At last, the Jarl’s summons comes. I straighten as a Magnussen Guardsman arrives to get me, not Captain Olander but someone else on my detail. He double-checks the magical silver manacles at my wrists to make sure I’m secure, and then I’m escorted out of my cell with him in front and another guardsman walking behind.

I don’t have Captain Olander with me now, but I get the sense these two guards are dragons he trusts, as we wind down a long corkscrewing staircase from the tower cell.

True to the captain’s word, no one has frisked me or tried to take my Blood Seal from me. Not only that, but I find I’m grateful for my escort now, as we traverse countless stairwells and long halls, then head up and down even more stairs, leaving me turned around by the sheer warren of this ancient place.

A vast castle, thousands of years old if it’s a day, I at last realize we’re inside the Magnussen Clan court palace, rather than some other outlying stronghold in their territory.

The hulking behemoth is a fortress rather than a thing of comfort, like the palaces in our more southern climes. No tapestries adorn the cold, white stone walls, and there are no rugs on the floor. Sconces are filled with torches rather than lamps, burning from a resin that pops and gutters in the chill high north wind .

That wind sneaks through the stones just about everywhere; the fortress is drafty, bone-chill, and devoid of frivolity. I feel a lifeless hardness in it all as I’m escorted through.

As I now understand far more of Bjorn’s childhood than I ever expected to.

We meet few dragons along the way, mostly servants who bow as we pass or guardsmen who nod to us, rather than members of the palace elite. I’m left with a feeling of barrenness as we march on; at last, I see ornate carvings on the walls as we reach some of the palace’s larger, more central halls.

These gables soar higher, the halls not so drafty and the torches interspersed with braziers where better-dressed palace staff take a moment to warm themselves before scurrying about their duties. I feel we’re close to the Jarl’s hall now as we turn a corner, and I finally see a gathering of Blood Dragons in a myriad of buckled leathers, congregating in the hall.

Tall, fierce, and massively muscled, the men and women are of enormous stature and imposing visage. They pull back slightly in deference as I’m escorted into the hall with my guard detail. A few nod, recognizing me as their Hog Skjaldm?r.

Others give me a cold stare, that I desecrated one of their holiest—and most feared—heritage sites in their lands.

Jarl Oggi Magnussen waits for us, his Jarl’s hall packed with higher-ups of the Magnussen Clan court. They’ve gathered around his low dais at the far end of the space; as solid and no-frills as the rest of the fortress, the Jarl’s hall is decorated only with ornately carved Blood Dragons in scenes of battle, as we file in through the strong central columns and are led towards him.

I say we , because Bjorn and Strom are being led in at the same time as me from two doors at the sides of the hall. It’s as if the Jarl had us incarcerated in the three furthest towers of the palace, so we were as far as he could get us from one another, in case our bonded power resonated again, like it did at Unhaemmerten .

And blasted Bjorn’s father a new one.

Dressed in their battle-leathers from the Old Palace, I see Bjorn and Strom have not been hurt, as our guards lead us all in. We’re allowed to come together now at the foot of the Jarl’s low dais. Bjorn, Strom, and I all breathe a sigh of relief as we’re briefly allowed to touch each other and make sure everyone’s okay.

The Jarl clears his throat now, and the entire hall comes to silence. It’s not a big audience chamber; Bjorn’s clan is not large, thanks to their hard life in the snow-capped mountains. I feel the energy of these Magnussen dragons around us roar as they wonder what’s to become of our trio.

One, a king’s potential heir; one, a neighboring Jarl-Heir.

And one who was their own Jarl-Heir—and might have been their Jarl, once.

Bjorn bristles as he comes before his father’s modest three-step dais, and his father bristles right back. Jarl Magnussen sits on no throne of station, just a tall-backed armchair of solid white silberskrae wood with snarling dragons for the arms and stout legs, two dragons battling as its back.

It’s clear Magnussens do not favor niceties; so much about Bjorn’s curt manner and almost brutal matter-of-factness makes sense now as I wait for the Jarl to speak.

Though as a member of the royal family, I could begin these proceedings, since I outrank him in every way.

“Hog Skjaldm?r Rikyava Andersen. Jarl-Heir Strom Eriksson. Be welcome.”

The Jarl’s rough basso voice sounds like he’s been bellowing apart mountains or marshaling armies for centuries as he speaks. A towering man of broad stature, he pushes up from his chair now to give me and Strom each a nod.

Wearing black battle-leathers with a white ice-bear pelt around his shoulders, his golden mane is short and his beard is trimmed. Unlike Bjorn’s long, impressive mane, the Jarl’s hair is cropped in a brush-cut, militaristic style, shaved on both sides with snarling dragons.

His towering, massively built frame stands head and shoulders above anyone else here, however, even a good six inches taller than Bjorn. His eyes aren’t gold and lavender like Bjorn’s, but a combination of gold and black, making his pupils seem penetrating as he stares us down.

The Jarl wears no silver in his beard or rings upon his fingers. He has no adornment whatsoever, other than the dragons shaved into his hair.

One strange, curling white tattoo delves down the left side of his neck, disappearing under his leathers.

Though Jarl Magnussen has welcomed us, he hasn’t said shit to his son. I wonder if Bjorn and his father have spoken at all yet, after Bjorn was captured and his father nearly bit his head off. Rage simmers inside Bjorn, bright like scalding lava. It’s the only thing I feel from him through the dampening of the silver manacles still around our wrists.

As he faces his father, saying not a word.

“Jarl Magnussen.” I begin these negotiations now, because technically, I’m the highest-ranking person here, even though I have had little presence in my Lineage for the past twenty years. “You welcome Jarl-Heir Eriksson and myself to your hall like nobles, but treat us like criminals.” I gesture to the manacles. “Or am I wrong about the manner in which you have kept us these few days, and the magic-binding cuffs we now wear?”

“My treatment of you was fair these past days.” Ice is in the Jarl’s voice now, not backing down from my opening chastisement. “You were discovered desecrating an ancient burial site in Magnussen lands; any person of lesser stature than yourself would be dead by now, Hog Skjaldm?r, by our clan laws. Not only that, but you were found there with an Outcast of the Magnussen Clan. Another crime, to permit one such as this Outcast to re-enter the skies he is forbidden to fly, and the land he is forbidden to walk. A crime punishable by death, as per our laws.”

I know Bjorn, Strom, and I are up shit creek as the Jarl speaks. My only hope now is to present the King’s Blood Seal to Jarl Magnussen publicly, like Captain Olander suggested, and see if we can turn his ear to us.

My hopes are dashed, though, as I hear Bjorn’s low growl. The fury and hatred in it vibrates me to my bones.

As he stares his father down with eyes gone all-gold from his dragon.

“I’m standing right here ,” Bjorn says as that growl devours his voice, evidence of a pre-shift into his dragon that he’s holding back so, so hard right now, rather than just go ballistic. The manacles probably also prevent that shift. I glance at him and see him shaking with the need to rip talons and wings through his flesh and fight it out with his father.

For some ancient reason I know nothing about, since Bjorn’s never told me.

“Outcasts will not speak in this hall unless they are spoken to,” the Jarl snaps without mercy now. He stares Bjorn down with a matching golden fire in his eyes, though the Jarl’s is gold-black rather than pure gold, like Bjorn’s.

“Bullshit. You cannot deny me in my own hall, Father. I am your son. And this clan’s rightful Jarl—whether you like it or not.” Bjorn is heating to the max now, as his power tries to simmer all around him in a vivid gold halo, though not much can manifest with his manacles on.

As pure fury boils off my First Bloodmate towards his father, I inhale at Bjorn’s words. Because Bjorn’s just insinuated that he is this clan’s rightful Jarl instead of his father.

A shocking detail that makes Strom’s and my eyebrows lift as we watch.

The two drakes snarl now in proximity. I see true hatred spark in their eyes for whatever bad blood lies between them. It’s something Bjorn never talks about; even with me, in our relationship long ago, the subject of his father was taboo.

Sparking his rage in the worst kind of way.

I see Bjorn fight to control that rage now, as father and son come face-to-face. As Bjorn takes deep breaths, working hard to contain the roaring heat of his battle-ready drake, a massive cascade of Bloodwind whirls all around him. It’s shackled by his manacles, and he can’t shift with it; the Bloodwind still sweeps the hall, powerful, as dragons stare in a watchful silence all around.

Jarl Oggi does better, not displaying his power, though I feel the energy of his drake rise all around me like I’ve just been plunged in a thousand scalding baths. As Strom steps behind Bjorn now, touching his shoulder to restrain him from making this audience any worse by provoking a fight with his father, I take Bjorn’s hand.

I am squeezing tight, digging my fingernails into his flesh. The pain brings Bjorn back, as I feel him recede from his sudden Bloodrage.

Berserk with how much he hates his father.

And with how much his father hates him right back.

“You are an ungrateful whelp and will never be Jarl of this hall or this clan.” Jarl Oggi does not have nice words for Bjorn, as they see each other again for the first time in I don’t know how many years.

“And you are a murderer and usurper.” Bjorn is livid, snarling back at his father. “ May the blood of all the Ancestors stain your hands and draw nightmares to you. ”

I’m shocked to hear the word murderer come out of Bjorn; it makes me wonder who in seven hells Oggi’s killed. But the ancient Blood Dragon curse Bjorn has spoken to his father is bad news.

Dragons inhale throughout the hall, astonished that he would use it.

“You know my reasons for what I did,” Jarl Oggi says back as he stares his son down from his low dais. His face austere, his eyes flash a deeper gold with the power of his drake, though still not pure gold like Bjorn’s. “Astrid was an abomination, and could not be suffered to live within our family line. The Magnussen Clan tolerates no weaklings, Bjorn; your youngest sister was no different. She knew what was in store for her. Only your mother could not bear it; she was wrong to step in to defend her youngest child when the Ancestors came calling, and you were wrong to take Friksvila’s side. Ancestors rest her soul. I stand by my punishment for you. And the outcome.”

Shock cascades through me to learn Bjorn once had a sister who apparently didn’t live up to the family standards. From the conversation, I understand his father offed her.

Suddenly, the vision I once saw from Bjorn, of a small girl nearly beheaded by a massive dragon-talon ripping across her throat makes so much sense. That was Bjorn’s youngest sister, and the dragon killing her was Jarl Oggi Magnussen, her own father.

It’s beyond horrible; as I seethe with rage towards Bjorn’s father now, echoing Bjorn’s deep hate, I feel Strom set a hand to my shoulder, as well.

As he holds us both back now, pouring a calming energy through us all.

Bjorn and his father stare each other down in a tense standoff. They are a moment from shifting up into their drakes and battling out their ancient hatred—if Bjorn even can shift in his manacles—when I feel Maryse’s voice in my mind, coming to me from deep within the Void of Ancestors.

Not now, child. This is for father and son to work out. Jarl Magnussen is not your fight. Not today.

My old mentor’s voice in my head makes my rage snap out. Though I’m still not sure if the voice I’m hearing is Maryse or someone else contacting me from the Void, I blink as a brisk energy flows through me now, casting out my rage.

I shake my head quickly and am clear-headed again. I see Jarl Oggi’s gaze snap to me as if he heard Maryse in my mind, though his irises continue to blaze. As his gaze snaps to Strom next, he finally settles. Drawing his energy back, he stares his son down now like he’ll never have anything more to say.

Then turns his back—walking away.

The Jarl has left the hall. Bjorn is beyond wrathful, as his father so suddenly and thoroughly dismisses him, and us, along with our audience. Strom’s got an arm wrapped around Bjorn’s chest now as my First Drake snarls, then roars out his powerful anger to the hall. It shakes the fortress’ foundations, despite his manacles. I step in front of him, making him look me in the eye as I touch his face and put a hand on his heart.

Making him stay here with us, rather than go Berserk into his rage.

“Stay with me, Bjorn,” I say to him now as the entire Magnussen court watches us, minus their Jarl. I put the bright, blood-hot power of my drakaina in my hand now as I touch him, whatever can reach him with our manacles on. “I need you with me right now. I need my mate to stay and fight who we’ve come here to fight—the Black Dragon of the Usurper. Not rage away at ancient wrongs and atrocities his father committed, though they were terrible. Can you do that for me? For us? All of us? Right now?”

Drawing several deep breaths, Bjorn looks at me. Though the gold in his eyes is blistering, his pupils already gone vertically slitted with the power of his drake, he finally sees me before him, and feels Strom at his back.

I feel it as he recognizes the terrible predicament he’s put us in. He begins a deep calming breath that he probably learned in all his anger management therapy classes these past few years, as he’s worked to calm his shit.

As Bjorn feels me, hears me, and becomes aware of Strom and I pouring as much grounding energy into him as we can via our dragons, he at last calms. I feel it as his dragon is put away; as those massive talons of pure hate slide back into his aura and then into his skin, I know he’s willing to play ball, for now.

But Bjorn’s dragon still roars inside him that his father dismissed us like that. I don’t blame him, as we all watch where the asshole went.

Bjorn’s father, a hard-hearted kinslayer at best.

A cold-blooded murderer at worst.