Meet Bastor, the second new point-of-view character in The Crown of Fire & Fury (Chapter 2)

The Crown of Fire & Fury is just around the corner! Here’s another taste of it in the second chapter, which introduces a new point-of-view—though a familiar face. That’s right—it’s Bastor, or Alabastor Ragnarson, a merciless, yet somehow lovable, rogue, and also the Heir to Ragnarsglade.

Read Bastor’s introductory chapter below. I hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER 2: STRANGE COMPANY

The babe conceived out of wedlock must be acknowledged, for it is the father's responsibility to care for his seed. Such a child shall be brought under roof and heel, and made into an oath-sworn daughter or son.

- The Inscribed Beliefs; Verse the Second, Line the Twenty-first

Bastor wiped the sweat from his brow and shifted the satchels digging into his shoulder. Over the many days he'd been walking, the bags had pulled his muscles every which way, like bread kneaded by a baker. Truth be told, he felt he had about as much strength as dough now.

But long ago, his father had instilled the lesson in him to never show weakness. Around his father, after all, that had been liable to end in a beating.

He glanced over his unoccupied shoulder and accounted for his companions. We're a ragged bunch, he thought as he surveyed the small party. Even by my low standards.

Walking ten paces behind him came the old Jarl of Oakharrow, Lord Bor Kjellson, and his attendant, Uljana. Every step that the sprite-touched man walked on his own was a miracle to Bastor's mind. The past several days had seen many fits and starts in their journey westward, most of them dictated by the jarl's shifting moods. Once a renowned warrior and leader, he often devolved into fits and tantrums. Bastor felt shamed merely witnessing them.

And the gods know I feel little shame these days.

How Uljana tolerated it, much less this sojourn, Bastor could not say. Other Baegardians would see in her only a mule's stubbornness, for they saw thralls as less than human, if not quite beasts. But Bastor knew better. 

Put any highborn in her hole-ridden shoes, he thought, and they'd be as broken as the jarl by midnight.

He had flashed the Sypten woman smiles when he could spare them, and he tried to speak with her when they stopped at night during the initial days of travel. But she had learned to be suspicious during her years of enthrallment. In him, she saw another highborn man trying to take advantage of a slave woman, no matter how old and worn she had become. Though he understood, Bastor could not shake his regret, like a pebble hidden in his boot. Still, he had abandoned his attempts to engage her after the third night.

Behind the jarl and thrall came the last two members of their party. The courting doves, Bastor thought wryly as his eyes flickered over their distant forms, nearly lost among the trees. Though they never acknowledged it, something lay between Lady Aelthena and her guardian, Frey. He had seen them sneak off that night some days ago, and they had not come back the same.

But beyond his usual teasing, Bastor kept quiet about the occasion, nor did he inquire into what had happened among the dark pines. The jarl's heir — if she could still be called that — was prickly at the best of times, and even more when it came to her affections. Even after roughing it in the wilderness between Oakharrow and Petyrsholm, with her silver-threaded dress fraying at the hem and her fur cloak spattered with mud, she remained unbowed. Her jaw was set, her verdant eyes bright, her steps unfaltering.

She's either mad or hardier than she looks. Despite himself, his admiration for her had sprouted and grown.

Frey noticed Bastor's gaze and gave him a hard look. Bastor answered with a droll grin before facing forward. The guardian was a different story. Though Bastor had sometimes walked beside him, Frey had not spoken a willing word. The man saw him as a smuggler and ne'er-do-well, and would not budge in that opinion. 

To be fair, he's not far wrong. 

Yet, for all the young warrior's resistance, Bastor saw a kindred spirit in him. Frey, he felt, would do whatever was necessary to make things right. From what Bastor had heard, he had already abandoned his aging parents to the Jotun back in Oakharrow out of duty to Aelthena. 

Duty, and his other interests in the jarl's daughter.

Bastor focused his attention ahead. His companions remained alive and well. The travel had not been easy, especially as they had often walked next to the road rather than on it. But through an unforeseen blessing of the Inscribed, it had remained uneventful. 

All good fortune ended, however, and theirs was no exception. For through the canopy, Bastor caught his first glimpse of Petyrsholm.

He had only visited the city once. Bastor had been seven, and his father had hauled him out to make the rounds among his fellow jarls, courting them for future favors and ambitions. The city had struck him as older and grander than his home jarlheim of Ragnarsglade, and he had stared around in wide-eyed wonder — at least until his father put an end to it. You're not a straw-headed plowman, Lord Ragnar had said. You're my son. Act like it.

Bastor's lips twisted in a smile. How I look forward to our reunion, dear father.

A discordant sound scattered his bitter musings. Bastor halted, listening. Beyond the rustle of the wind through the pine needles, he heard a distant rumble. 

Hooves, pounding up the road. 

He squinted beyond the trees to the wide dirt path. He could see no one yet. But they would arrive soon.

Bastor turned back to his companions and motioned, gesturing toward the road. Uljana seemed to understand at once, but she ignored Bastor to smile at Lord Bor and gently direct him behind a large oak. The jarl shrugged off her touch, muttering protests and wandering off — toward the road. Bastor watched with a resigned smile as the old man went to alert the very people from whom they sought to hide. With a sigh, he took his axe in hand and wondered if the feeling in his gut was dread or anticipation. 

Both, probably.

Frey seemed to have heard the horses as well, for he laid a hand on Aelthena's shoulder. Predictably, the heir did not listen. Shaking him off just as her father had his thrall, she shifted the bag hanging from her shoulder and strode off to intercept the jarl. Bastor closed in on their other side. He knew better than to try to stop Lord Bor from doing anything; he had seen his violent side more than once during the trek. But if there was to be blood, he meant to be there.

You could flee, whispered a part of him. Leave them. What good can it do to stay? Save yourself.

But for all his flaws, Bastor was not gutless. And Aelthena, by benefit of her position, mind, and resolve, could accomplish a great deal. Even when she had threatened to expose him and his father, he could not turn away from her potential. His father may have coerced him into undermining Baegard, but at his core, Bastor never wanted to betray his homeland. 

He would stand by it now.

The noble warrior, he taunted himself. Who would have believed it of me?

The jarl neared the road, undeterred by his daughter's attempts to dissuade him. Bastor came swiftly behind. He lowered his burdens to rest behind a tree and tightened his hands on the axe's shaft. He could see the riders now. The jarl would show himself before they could pass. His breath came quick. The blood pounded in his head, in his muscles, hard and ready for sharp use again. An eager grin pulled back his lips to bare his teeth.

Lord Bor emerged and roared, "HALT! Who goes there?"

The horsemen pulled up — a dozen of them, by Bastor's quick count. He considered himself a hard man, as such things were reckoned, but he was not so mad as to believe he could sway such odds in his favor. Still, he did not put away his weapon. If they were foes, he would be ready.

The voice that called forth was high-pitched with surprise. "Lord Bor?"

Aelthena, who had been watching from behind a tree, suddenly burst forth. "Asborn?"

Asborn. As the situation became clear, a sigh escaped Bastor, and a feeling almost like disappointment swept through him as he hooked his axe onto his belt. He watched as first Frey, then Uljana, revealed themselves to Thane Asborn and the men with whom he traveled. The guardian spared one last look back at Bastor, his thoughts hidden behind a wariness, then moved out of sight.

Bastor turned away from the party and went off by himself, the satchels left behind. She'll be cared for now, he told himself. And you have your own path to walk.

To accomplish what must be done to unite Baegard would require many things that Aelthena, and even Frey, would not dare to do. That was the path Bastor must walk. No matter how little he wanted to. 

He made for the nearing walls of Petyrsholm, already anticipating the horn of mead awaiting him.