In the Shadow of the Gods by Rachel Dunne Page A

now. “There you are, Ruuli. What are you—”
    Scal stood. The arrow in one fist, Brennon’s knife in the other. He faced a big, gaping Northman, twice Scal’s size,wrapped in blood-spattered furs. A big sword hung down by his side, dripping with blood. Lero’s blood, and Athasar’s, and Eddin’s, Brennon’s, Kerrus’s.
    â€œYou are not Ruuli,” the Northman said, eyes narrowing. Scal shook his head, silent. The man drew in a deep breath and bellowed, “To me!”
    They came running. Nearly twoscore Northmen. Dressed in furs. Covered in blood. Bristling with weapons. A dozen arrows were aimed at Scal’s heart. Swords and axes and maces were hefted ready to bash and cut. They had already killed a few hundred today. One more life would be as nothing to them. Scal did not know if his own life was worth much at all anymore.
    A man stepped through the battle-ready crowd. Small for a Northman—little bigger than Scal, half grown as he was. A thick yellow beard framed his face, beads and bones braided into it so he rattled with every step. The crew wore a motley of colors. Brown bear and black wolf and gray fox. But this man wore only white. Thick snowbear pelts, wrapped with bleached leather, spotted with dirt and blood. A snowbear head snarled from atop his own head, a hood whose muzzle was brown with old blood. An enormous cloak of purest white. Scal had never seen the man before, but he knew. Iveran Snowwalker. Iveran-of-the-ice. Iveran the Coldhearted. Chief of the Valastaa Clan. Scourge of Aardanel.
    â€œWell,” he said gruffly. “Eddin had a Northman.” Iveran paced slowly toward Scal, placing his feet carefully around the bodies. He carried a short spear in his left hand and a curved sword in his right, both held at the ready. “You speak, ijka ?”
    Scal stared flatly. Fingers flexing around the shaft of the arrow, the hilt of the little knife.
    â€œBoy is an idiot,” one of the Northmen muttered.
    Iveran waved his sword for silence. “Idiot or no, he is one of ours. I will not have his blood spilled. Ijka .” He shuffled closer, eyes fixed on Scal’s face. The unfamiliar word sounded like both comfort and command. “Why not put down that knife, eh? We will have a talk. Your blood is come to claim you.”
    My blood? Scal wondered dimly. North-born. Northman devil. Yellow-haired and blue-eyed, just like Iveran and the others arrayed behind him. He shared their blood. Numbly, he shook his head. “I am not one of you.” His mouth formed the hard sounds of the Northern tongue without any thought, as if he had been speaking it all his life. The very act betrayed the words, and he could feel his cheeks start to burn with shame.
    Iveran grinned. An eerie echo of the snowbear’s snarl. “Of course you are, ijka . Too much time with the southerners, is all. We have fixed that problem.”
    The shame vanished, swallowed up by a rage that boiled through him. There was a snap as the arrow’s shaft splintered inside his fist, head and fletching falling to the ground; the knife burned in his hand, a screaming demand. Iveran’s grinning face swam up before him. There was shouting. Hands grabbing at his heated skin. Unbelievably, laughter.
    The fury drained away slowly. He lay belly down on the ground, his arms twisted up behind his back. A great weight across his legs. A boot pressing one side of his face into the snow. He caught a glimpse of Iveran, the little knife buried in his shoulder. He was laughing as he pulled the knife out, its tip red with blood. He said, smiling, “Not one of us? You lie to me, ijka .”
    They trussed him up like a pig. Lashing his wrists and ankles around a thick branch that took two of them to hoist. Scal’s rage was gone, leaving only a festering shame behind. Even that did not burn so badly as his muscles after the first few hours.
    He had put up with much abuse in