flight on the wings of the blood eagle
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Summary
The jarls have come from across the vast northern world — from Garðaríki, Dyflin, Normandy, Jórvík. Gold glinting at their wrists, old blood crusted in their long beards; each warrior is carved from ice, war, and iron. They come not for tribute, nor for feasting, but for judgment.
Summoned by the death of a nightmare and the crowning of a child still wet behind the ears. Atop the high seat — carved of wolfbone, blackwood, and the scorched antler of a moose that once gored three berserkers — sits the last living son of Ivar the Boneless.
Pétur.
The piglet, a runt if that.
(Or, even as a Viking, Maverick is a troublesome little shit with all the self-worth of a tankard of mead).
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- Part 1 of flight on the wings of the blood eagle