The crush in Ostos’s market square was unimaginable. The fragrance of fruit mingled with the scent of freshly planed boards from the scaffold and the unforgettable smell of newly spilled blood, sharp and vicious in a warrior’s nostrils.
Though morning had barely begun, the heat was already unbearable. The white sun had baked the paving stones and brought sweat to the skin of the townspeople gathered to witness the execution of the accursed pirates.
With a perfumed cloth covering his face, the blue-eyed northerner forced his way almost to the barrier—close enough to make out the condemned man’s face.
A konung stood upon the platform, prince of the northern lands. Even now, upon his knees, he retained a warrior’s majesty and his fearlessness before death.
The copper karnays blared. The doira drums began to beat. The murmur of the crowd died away. Even the donkeys and mules in their pens beside the stalls fell silent.
“Your last words, wretch,” roared Yusuf Bey, ruler of the city. He wore a green satin robe girded with an expensive belt of golden plates, and a broad saber hung at his side.
The konung merely spat with relish and favored the bey with a contemptuous stare.
Several warriors hauled upon ropes, bending the northern chieftain nearly double. Yusuf Bey planted one foot upon him, forcing the konung’s head against the massive stump that served as the block.
The yataghan whistled through air and flesh.
The fair-haired head struck the basket with a dull thud.
The berserker only clenched his teeth at the death of his konung. It was time to leave. He had seen everything that brought him to the market, and there was no reason to remain. Besides, stooping and hunching to conceal his towering height and powerful build had become unbearable beneath the fury and helplessness boiling in his soul.
Shoving aside hapless peasants who celebrated the northern pirate chief’s death, the Norseman hurried from the square, silently swearing vengeance for his leader.
He swore by the Lord of Flame and in the name of the Faceless One worshiped in these lands, as hot as the furnaces of Hell.
A single tear vanished into the northerner’s shaggy fair beard.
“They will pay. They will pay for everything,” the warrior whispered like a prayer.
But the moment he passed the butcher’s rows, his gaze caught a painfully familiar silhouette.
It is her.
The thought flashed through his mind. The berserker called the girl’s name, and she turned.
“Alive…” the eastern beauty whispered, almost soundlessly. Tears glistened in her eyes—whether of joy or sorrow, he could not tell.
