The blood-eagle, it was now called.
The first blood feud, Elvar thought.
The images went on and on, telling the tale of the gods at war: Berser the bear, Orna the eagle, Hundur the hound, Rotta the rat, many, many more; and Snaka, father, maker, coiling about them all, glowing venom dripping from his fangs as he entered the blood-fray and consumed his children.
“I thought all of the oath stones had been destroyed,” Sighvat said.
“We are on the arse-end of the world,” Agnar said. “This one has survived.” He was still staring up at the huge slab, eyes following the glowing lines as they traced the images.
“So, that is where your bloodline comes from,” Agnar said to Berak in his chains. He pointed to an image of a giant bear, jaws wide, spittle spraying.
Berak said nothing, just glowered at the image.
“They are the fathers and mothers of all us Tainted,” Kráka said. “Snaka loved his creations, when he was not feasting on them, and so did his children.” She stared at the serpent-coils that spiralled across the granite.
“Why did they fight?” Sighvat muttered. “What started this war, led to the near-destruction of all?”
“Jealousy and murder,” Uspa said. “Blood feud. Lik-Rifa the dragon thought her sister was plotting her death, and Rotta the rat fuelled her paranoia. She murdered Orna and Ulfrir’s daughter, created the vaesen in secret, would have used them to destroy Orna and all those who supported her. But Orna found out and lured Lik-Rifa into the caverns and chambers deep within the roots of Oskutree, the great Ash Tree, and with her siblings bound Lik-Rifa there. That is what caused the war.”
“Lik-Rifa is a faery tale,” Elvar said into the silence.
“How can you say that?” Sighvat spluttered. “Just look at it. Look at her.”
“They are stories carved in stone,” Elvar said. “Some of it I believe, but only where there is proof that I can see and touch. The Tainted are real, yes, those who have a remnant of a god’s blood in their veins. I see Hundur the hound’s blood in you…” She pointed at the Hundur-thrall. “Berser the bear in you…” She pointed to Berak. “And Snaka in you both.” A wave of her hand at Kráka and Uspa. “I heard your serpent-song, and saw it turn the Sjávarorm away, so there is my proof. And many other Tainted I have seen on my travels with the Battle-Grim – in far off Iskidan we have seen the blood of the Bull in human form, of the Hawk and the Horse. But never, in all my life, have I seen a dragon-born, or heard tell of one from the lips of someone I trust. Think on it: have any of you seen or heard of a dragon-born Tainted?” She looked around the glade, at Battle-Grim and Tainted alike. Saw warriors shaking their heads, muttering that they had not. “You see,” Elvar said, “they do not exist. They cannot. Lik-Rifa is a faery tale, made up to entertain, and to scare children into behaving.”
A silence stretched, all thinking on Elvar’s words.
Uspa hawked and spat, which made Elvar frown.
“If I have learned anything from my travels,” Agnar said, “it is that there is much in this world that I do not know or understand. Just because I have not seen a thing does not mean it is not out there. And I hope that the dragon-born do exist, because I think they would fetch a good price and line all our chests with gold!” A cheer rippled through the Battle-Grim. Agnar shrugged and smiled, looking at Uspa. “At the very least it is a good tale, and a worthy reminder of why we must hate the gods, and hunt down their offspring. Their greed, their jealousy, their blood feud near destroyed the world, and that is why they can never be allowed to hold power in this world again, even in the form of their Tainted children.” His smile withered and he spat on the ground, then looked back up at the glowing oath stone.
“At least we have something to light our meal, and can sleep knowing that nothing will be able to sneak up on us in the dark.”
Elvar woke with a gasp, eyes snapping open. Or she tried to gasp. A pressure about her throat, constricting. The ground beneath her shifting. Only one of her eyes opened, a faint glow in the air from the oath stone, but her other eye was dark, as if the eyelid was sealed with congealed blood. Her wrists and ankles were held, and something was slithering across her body. She tried to move, struggled, felt movement: something wet and slimy constricting, squeezing.
“Grend,” she managed to wheeze, turned her head a fraction and saw Grend lying close by; for a moment struggled to understand what she was seeing. Something was covering him, pale and translucent, oozing across his body like whale blubber melted in a pot.