In the Shadow of the Gods by Rachel Dunne Page B

Aardanel, but Kerrus had always told him that insults were no more than drops of water. Water could never harm a flame. Violence is weakness, he had said, and the best way to fight is with compassion. Let your grace be your shield, and your generosity your sword.
    Well. Parro Kerrus had been good all his life, and what had it gotten him? A sword through the chest. A cold and lonely death. Scal had tried to be good, too, to prove he was more than a barbarian Northman. To make Kerrus proud. To make some kind of good life for himself. And it had gotten him strung up between two Northmen. Hanging-down head staring right at one fur-covered arse. All the people he had ever cared about dead and gone.
    â€œHow goes, ijka ?”
    Scal twisted his burning neck to the side, where Iveran paced along, grinning. The white furs on his left shoulder were faintly pink, but the chieftain showed no lingering pain. Scal turned his head away. The choice of which arse to look at was an easy one.
    â€œNo hard feelings, eh?”
    It was not easy to manage, but Scal filled his mouth and spat to the side. The slime hit Iveran’s hip. Slid slowly until it froze. One of the Northmen growled, but Iveran lifted a hand. He was smiling still, but his eyes were as cold as the air.
    â€œYou will thank me one day, ijka, ” he said, and jogged away to the head of the twisting column.
    Never .
    They made camp in the light of the sinking sun. Scal’s two bearers untied him long enough to lash him to a tree. Arms stretched back, wrapped around the trunk, twisted so the pain in his shoulders was a constant, aching throb. They kept his ankles tied together, too, as though he could rip the tree from the ground and run off. Not too likely. He was a distance from the main camp, where they gathered around a big cook fire and traded stories and songs. Just as it had always been with Athasar’s patrol. He was even farther from the camp than the supply sledges and the bushy, half-wild dogs that pulled them. The message was clear enough.
    Not far enough away, though. He could hear everything they said, clear as light. He listened to the Northmen brag of how many they had killed that day. How many exiles and wardens they had taken down. Stories of their last moments, their begging. Laughter. Scal felt that hot fury start to rise again. One of them brought over a battered wooden bowl of some kind of steaming stew, held it to Scal’s lips. The boy took a mouthful of the thick broth and spat it back in the Northman’s face. The big man started bellowing, hands clawing at his face as the hot stew dripped. The stew cooled quickly in the night air. The man’s hands went instead for Scal. One curling through his hair, holding his head still. The other forming a fist. It fell once, twice, before the others could drag him away. He took a fistful of Scal’s hair with him, leaving the boy with a bleeding scalp and mouth. Iveran stood before him, arms crossed over his thick chest, frowning.
    â€œHe does not belong, Iveran,” the man with a handful of Scal’s hair shouted. “His blood is cold. Leave him for the snows.”
    Iveran ignored him, crouching down next to Scal. Holding the boy’s eyes. “Too much time with the southerners messes your head,” he said, tapping a thick forefinger hard between Scal’s eyes. “Makes you think backward. You got your head wrong, ijka . We are your people. You are where you belong.”
    â€œYou killed my people,” Scal said, the words thick around a mouthful of blood.
    Iveran’s fist thumped into Scal’s forehead, the back of his head bouncing off the tree trunk. Colors danced in front of his eyes. “Wrong, ijka .”
    Bloody spit dribbled down Scal’s chin, and Iveran’s face wove in and out of focus. Scal forced the words to come out clear. “I will never be one of you.”
    â€œThat is what you want, eh?” Iveran held something in