Curse Of Blood: Gods & Monsters

Chapter XXXVIII - Roth

Ragnar glanced meaningfully to Ívarr, but he said no more and continued what he ostensibly thought of as a fruitless search. At length the valley they had descended into grew darker, benighted with despair as much as with twilight.

"We must make camp, Roth." Ragnar wrapped a length of cloth about his gaping palm, a wound he'd earned while search for his missing nephew.

"Ay," said Roth, "do that, but I cannot stop yet." He was not wearied like his kin; and he had no need of sunlight to facilitate his purpose.

Ragnar's face hardened. "I grant you one more day, Roth, but if we do not find his body on the morrow, we sail."

"Do not forget whose ship we sail." Roth's face was the corrosive ice to his uncle's granite expression.

Ragnar nodded curtly and headed towards the drakkar. It seemed his uncle needed reminding of to whom it was he spoke. Roth was no longer the boy in need of advisement, but a man — and decidedly more than that — on the verge of chieftaincy who would invite council if and when he sought it.

But he did not begrudge his uncle his doubt, nor the manner in which he evinced his cold grief. Death was inevitable; the three Norns had long ago ordained when and how each mortal thread might be severed. The clans did not fear death, for it was out of their hands. But Roth knew that his brother lived, as surely as he knew the full moon would rise in only a matter of hours. 

❅

"It's as cold as a troll's tit tonight," Søren mumbled as he fed the flames with yet more logs. He had taken to glancing over his shoulder ever and anon, into the darkness that had shrouded the ranges, as though looking for any bergfolk that might be creeping up on him. Little did he know that the worst of what could bedevil them was right in front of him.

No one else spoke as Roth joined the small party, his jaw clenched in both frustration and pain. His muscles had already begun to seize and his heart was racing so much so that he could no longer concentrate on the search. He doffed his heavy cloak and laid it over his cousin's shoulders as Søren scooted closer to the fire.

"Are you not cold?" his grandfather asked, dubiously.

"Nay," he answered, perspiration beading at his brow.

"You look ill! Come sit by the fire, my boy." Ívarr motioned him closer and he obliged, but when his cloak found its way once more onto his shoulders he threw it back at Søren.

"Leave it on the ground if you will not have it," he growled testily. The fever in his blood was becoming unbearable and his temper was fell as a result. With a half-hearted, muttered apology he rose and left his kin to prowl towards the waterfront.

Once he had splashed a handful of cold water onto his face, he cast a furtive look towards the others. Assuring himself that he was not observed, he reached for the pouch he had tied to his belt before he'd given Søren the cloak.

"I pray Odin this works," he whispered, placing the preserved leaf carefully onto his tongue.

He made to chew it, but the bitter taste of it was such that he quickly chased the poison down with ale from his horn, the rank flavor of it souring even the alcohol. For a few precious moments nothing happened, other than a faint, numb tingling of the lips and tongue, then all at once his mouth and throat began to burn, distracting him from the furious throbbing of his demented heart.

"Thor's blood! Truly, you look horrid," said Ragnar as Roth approached them sluggishly, swatting distractedly at the thousands of spiders that were crawling under his skin.