Page 77 of Blood of Ancients

Eirik snorted, disgusted. “Are you proud of that, shifter? Wounding a woman—”

“Gertrude Lanfen is an initiate of Vikingrune Academy. She doesn’t need you white-knighting for her, Drengr.If she didn’t want the smoke, she should have never stepped foot into the furnace.”

Eirik spat, “You fucking mongrel.”

Sven played up his villainy. “If she can’t dodge a baton thrown at her, I worry for the time she has to dodge a spear thrust at her.”

At that, Eirik’s eyes widened. “You’d threaten herfurther, Torfen? You’re despicable. No wonder your kinsfolk betrayed you.”

The lighthearted viciousness left Sven’s body in an instant, replaced with tension and flexed muscles.

I stood from the table, standing behind him.

Out the corner of his mouth, Sven said, “You want to make yourself useful, bear? Then stop psychoanalyzing me and fight with me.”

I didn’t want to fight. It went against everything I had just been saying—that violence would only beget more of it, and it would drag Sven further down into the abyss of revenge and animosity.

Luckily for him, I didn’t much like Eirik Halldan, either. Just like my original family, his group had abandoned me and pushed me aside after I accidentally killed Anders Rennarfen during our initiate year.

I knew these four intimately. I also knew how well they fought, and that Sven didn’t stand a chance four against one.

He needed a bear to help even the odds a bit.

“Gladly,” I grunted.

Sven pulled a sword from behind him, yelling out, “So, you fight your little brother’s battles for him now? How quaint. Are you going to stand there and crow all day, Eirik, or are you going to do something?”

As one, Eirik and his three comrades drew their weapons.

I cracked my knuckles, stepping up beside Sven Torfen, our standoff complete. There were at least four wide tables separating us. This was not a grand place for a duel, yet the duelers rarely set the parameters in real-life brawls.

My eyes scanned left to right, planning my strategy and anticipating their moves. In the calm moments before the storm of battle, Eirik and his ilk were doing the same.

“Stand down, you fucking children,” called a new voice.

The air left Eirik’s body, deflating him, as he spun around on a soft gasp.

“Drengr, I’m disappointed in you.”

My brow furrowed. Glancing at Sven, both of us confused, we recognized the voice.

Kelvar the Whisperer pushed through the barricade of Eirik, Tyrus, Gryphon, and Ayla, black cloak swishing near the floor.

To my utter surprise, Arne Gornhodr followed him.

Does the Whisperer have a new initiate?

“What’s going on, Whisperer?” Sven demanded. “I have a right to defend my—”

“Tell it to someone who gives a shit,” Kelvar interjected, his face a mask of gaunt fury. With his half-lidded eyes, he looked utterly indifferent. “Your familial usurpation will have to wait.”

With that, Kelvar pointed at Sven, and then at me. “You two are coming with me.”

I opened my mouth to question the Hersir’s authority, but knew it wasn’t in my best interest.

After Kelvar gave a quick up-and-down look of disappointment to Eirik—as if wondering how the promising Drengr had fallen so far, relegating himself to backroom brawls—he spun on his heels and left the mess hall, taking all the vitriol and air with him.

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