Blood of the Raven: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (The Lords of Alekka Book 3)

by A. E. Rayne

  Alys frowned. ‘Distract us from what?’

  Two men had been left to guard a bound Sigurd, who felt vulnerable without a weapon. He didn’t like the look of either man, both of whom stunk of ale. Their sour breath blew towards him as he tried to blink rain out of his eyes. Rain, and now, snow. He shook with cold, seeing Tulia smiling in that chair by the fire, sipping her wine. And feeling guilty and confused, he blinked the image of her away, wanting to stay alert. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, hoping that Gudrum had the men and the plan to overcome his enemy, for at least with Gudrum, he was almost safe.

  ‘Shut up,’ the younger of the two men spat, annoyed at being forced to watch the Southerner. He shoved Sigurd’s injured arm, smiling when he yelped. ‘You want to go out there? Be my guest!’

  Sigurd didn’t know where there was, and even if he did, the darkness and the storm made it impossible to see much of anything.

  He tried to ignore the pain in his arm.

  Wondering where Raf was.

  Tarl found his way to Ulrick, whose nose had been broken by a shield, breathing becoming a challenge now. They were fighting back to back in the stormy darkness, praying for dawn.

  ‘You hold here!’ Tarl yelled over a clap of thunder. He rubbed a bloody hand over his face, trying to clear his vision, but there was nothing to see, and laughing suddenly, he sought higher ground. Mirella’s voice had been a constant companion since he’d met her, and he was worried by her silence, desperate for some insight. Though without it, he would just have to find his own. So, slipping through the trees, he brought his sword up high, chopping into a charging warrior, who stopped as though he’d run into a wall, and hanging there, suspended on Tarl’s blade for a moment, he felt his legs give way.

  Tugging his blade out of the man’s throat, Tarl kicked him down to the ground, running past him, boots slipping in the snow as he headed through the trees, up the side of the ravine.

  Gudrum looked down from the hill, smiling. It was a small hill, more of a gentle rise, snow-topped, giving a clear view of his enemy. And smiling, he turned to Raf, who stood beside him, swamped by her big fur cloak, billowing in the storm.

  She felt happy.

  Part of her felt happy.

  The other part felt the need to be with Sigurd Vilander, who she was worried about. If things didn’t go well, he would be in danger, for Tarl Brava was not a man fond of keeping prisoners. Not all of them, at least.

  She clasped her hands together, trying to steady her nerves.

  ‘Is it as you hoped? As you saw?’ Gudrum asked, tilting her tiny chin. He kissed her, unable to stop smiling.

  ‘It is. They are yours.’

  ‘Good, then you go, back into the trees. Stay out of the way. Make sure they have a close eye on our prisoner.’

  Raf nodded, and though she smiled as he kissed her, she felt afraid.

  37

  Alys was inclined to agree with Lotta. ‘It’s a trick!’ she called to Mirella, who was carving a symbol into the locked door to the corridor.

  Tricks were Alari’s speciality, Mirella knew, and the goddess had certainly managed to slip into her bedchamber and destroy her bowl. But despite any fears that Alys might be right, she didn’t stop until the symbol was complete.

  Alys tapped her foot, impatient, waiting.

  ‘But what can we do?’ Arnon demanded, grabbing his wife’s arm. ‘Can’t you hear that noise? The wolves? How is it a trick?’

  Mirella spun around, sharp eyes on Lotta, irritated that she was unable to see anything herself. ‘What trick is it, child?’

  ‘A magical trick,’ Lotta said, taking the puppy from Bergit and holding him out to her grandmother. ‘Look at Puddle. He’s so cute and cuddly. Don’t you want to pat him?’ Turning around to her mother, she placed the puppy in her hands, and running past her father, she hid behind him.

  Mirella frowned, as did Arnon, who tried to grab Lotta, but in the next moment, she’d jumped out at Mirella, hands scratching like claws. ‘Raahhh!’

  Alys understood perfectly, and she handed the whimpering puppy to her clever daughter. ‘Mirella, you have to keep the children safe.’ That was the worst thing to say, but she was either going to have Arnon’s help or Mirella’s, and if Lotta was right, what was coming for them wasn’t magical at all. ‘Come on!’ Alys turned to Arnon, whose boots remained fixed to the floorboards.

  Whose men appeared to have no interest in anything she was saying.

  ‘We need help!’ Alys yelled. ‘We need to find where the garrison’s gone!’

  Mirella turned around. ‘Who is here?’ she demanded, gripping Lotta’s arm, her mind suddenly filled with images of warriors and blades and rain running down mail, and Tarl’s blood-covered face most shocking of all.

  ‘There’s not many of them!’ Tarl shouted as Offa made his way up to the top of the ravine to join his lord, Ulrick on his other side. ‘Where are the rest of them?’

  ‘Not many?’ Offa panted, cheek hanging open. ‘There’s more than enough, I’d say.’

  ‘And where’s Gudrum?’ Tarl demanded. ‘Where is he? Hiding?’

  ‘Lords don’t hide,’ Ulrick said, just as out of breath, his niggling feeling strengthening with each passing moment. ‘He’s not here!’

  ‘What?’ Tarl sheathed his sword, grabbing Ulrick by the cloak, almost yanking him off his feet, which was some effort, Ulrick being an imposing man. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because lords lead, and I’ve heard nothing to say that this Gudrum is a coward. Lords lead, so where is he? Not here that I can see. Not that I can hear. Gudrum’s not shouting and gloating. No one is.’

  Tarl spun around, peering down the other side of the ravine into a valley of dark shapes – likely boulders and bushes – but no men were moving down there. None that he could see, at least. ‘Whatever this is, whoever is there, I don’t give a fuck. Kill them all! All but one. Let that man tell us what’s happening. The rest we’ll leave to the forest! A sacrifice to Thenor! That fucking prick!’ And leaving the two men behind, Tarl skidded down the snowy hill, boots skidding, hitting roots and jumping, impatient to take more lives than any of them.

  Ulrick followed after him, thoughts of Bergit tightening his chest.

  Wondering what was happening in Orvala.

  ‘You should be back with the children. Safe. In the hall,’ Arnon grumbled, though he felt unable to control his wife anymore. Something had shifted between them, and Alys no longer seemed afraid of him. ‘Alys!’ She wasn’t listening as she strode through the kitchen door, down the steps and out into the rain. ‘Alys, come back! If it’s not wolves, what do you think you can do? Why do you have a sword?’

  His men followed with some reluctance, just as curious. Surprised too.

  They’d seen the way Arnon de Sant had treated his wife on the ship, as though she was some helpless animal. He’d been the predator, and she his prey. Yet now, here he was, chasing after her, his hold over her seemingly gone.

  ‘We have to find out what’s happening!’ Alys called, disappearing around the corner. ‘We need to find where the garrison’s gone!’ She had walked around Orvala, seen the warriors and the guards dressed in black cloaks, standing on street corners, commanding the wall and towers. They’d been everywhere.

  Yet where were they now?

  She heard laughter, but not wanting to be distracted by meddlesome dreamers or goddesses, Alys kept going, turning again, heading down the main street. Every door was shut. Flames flickered in braziers and swinging lanterns, illuminating little. Rain swept in, the wind twirling Alys’ cloak, lifting it away from her legs until they ached with cold.

  There were no giant wolves. No men.

  No one at all.

  ‘That’s what you get for believing a child!’ Arnon scoffed, panting as he caught up to her.

  ‘You think she’s wrong?’ Alys challenged, brushing wet hair out of her eyes. ‘Where are your torvargs, then? Where?’

  Arnon muttered under h
is breath as he hurried along beside her, the rest of the crew keeping up behind them. ‘How do you know she’s even a dreamer?’

  Alys spun around, coming to a complete stop. ‘Magnus de Sant!’ she growled, eyes darting past Arnon to the clutch of sodden men. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Magnus looked bashful as he poked his head around Ebben. ‘I wanted to help,’ he insisted, pushing back his shoulders as he stepped forward. ‘I can help!’

  Arnon snorted, and no one else looked enthused about the boy’s company as he made his way up to his mother, who sighed.

  ‘Well, stay by me, then. Please.’

  Arnon wanted to argue that it was no time to be babysitting, but the rain was thundering down now, and he pressed his lips together, stomping after his wife. There were only intermittent hints of moonlight, but he could see the silhouette of Orvala’s wall, and there didn’t appear to be anyone walking the ramparts. Maybe those men were just being smart? Sheltering from the storm? ‘We have to get back to the hall!’ he insisted. ‘No one’s here. No one can help us!’

  ‘But where are all the warriors? The garrison?’ Alys wheeled around, panic rising. She couldn’t hear anything now. Just the rain. ‘They’re here somewhere! They must be!’

  ‘We have to go!’ And not waiting for arguments, Arnon seized her hand.

  She yanked it out of his grip, stepping back, sword at his chest. ‘Go back to the hall if you want, but I’m going to find the men. I’m going to find them!’ She blinked, seeing a vision – finally a flash of hope – and sheathing her sword, she turned back around, grabbing Magnus’ hand, heading for the ship sheds.

  Arnon watched her go, feeling torn.

  He loved her.

  She was his.

  But squeezing his left hand into a fist, he turned away, urging his men back to the hall.

  Ebben stayed behind, letting them leave, and without a word, he followed after Alys and Magnus.

  Mirella left Bergit in charge of the hall, warning her to keep a close eye on Solveigh while she took Lotta up to her chamber. And now they sat at the table in front of the neglected hearth, Lotta sitting perfectly still, holding Mirella’s hand. She was afraid to even swallow, not wanting to break her grandmother out of the trance.

  It had to be a trance, Lotta decided, for Mirella appeared to be sleeping.

  Though she hoped she wasn’t sleeping.

  She thought of her puppy, worrying that Bergit was hurting him. Bergit hated puppies as much as she hated children, Lotta was sure. And thinking about children quickly had her worrying about her silly brother, who shouldn’t have run off like that.

  Sensing Mirella twitch, Lotta swallowed, trying to clear her mind, remembering how Mother Arnesson had been irritated by her busy thoughts.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to think of Mother Arnesson. Instead, she saw Ulrick lifting her onto his horse. She saw him tucking his long beard into his cloak, slipping his hood down over his head as he stuck a boot in the stirrup and dragged himself up into the saddle.

  He had saved her from that evil dreamer who’d had nothing but bad intentions.

  Ulrick had saved her more than once.

  Lotta closed her eyes tighter, feeling Mirella squeezing her hand now. And wanting to do something to help, she kept hold of Ulrick’s face, hoping to find him in the darkness.

  Sigurd was pleased to see Raf return.

  Ignoring the two guards, she sat down beside him, wet black hair stuck to her face. Sigurd’s hands were bound, but he wanted to reach up and peel it away from her beautiful eyes.

  He liked looking into her eyes.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he wondered, listening to her teeth chatter.

  Raf shrugged, moving closer, wishing the guards would go away. ‘Lords playing games.’

  ‘Games? What sort of games?’

  Raf giggled. ‘Everything’s a game. The gods play it, and we help them, don’t we? What choice do we have?’

  ‘You mean dreamers?’

  ‘Dreamers and warriors. We want to be rich and powerful, admired and beloved, so we play with the gods.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘Though sometimes, they play with us.’

  ‘Where are we? Raf, please. What’s happening?’

  Hearing Sigurd’s raised voice, the older guard turned back to them with a scowl.

  Raf didn’t want his concern, and flicking a hand in the man’s direction, she shooed him away. ‘You need to be watching out! Do you think our enemy is only before us?’ She shook her head, feeling worried. ‘Soon, they’ll be all around us!’

  Both guards straightened up then, their attention moving away from the dreamer and the prisoner.

  Sigurd edged closer. ‘Tell me. Please. Where are we?’

  Raf lifted her lips to his ear. ‘Orvala.’

  And sitting back in surprise, Sigurd saw the clearest vision of Alys’ face.

  The ship sheds were locked, men trapped inside. Alys could hear them now, rattling the doors, trying to escape.

  She turned around, pleased to see the useful boy, Ebben, behind her. ‘We have to open the doors!’ she called. And remembering the way Tulia had broken into the shed where Torvig was raping Stina, she stepped back. ‘Try and kick them open!’

  ‘Won’t work,’ Ebben insisted, hearing a roar in the distance. He froze, turning to listen, hoping it was just the storm intensifying. ‘They’re chained on the outside,’ he said, holding up the lock.

  Alys wanted to scream, seeing that he was right. There were at least ten sheds bleeding into the distance, and she quickly drew her attention back to Ebben. She could hear the noises in the distance too, and feeling the urgency of the situation, she leaned towards the shed, yelling at the men trapped inside. ‘Kick the doors open! Hurry! You must hurry!’ She doubted they needed to be told that, but it might help.

  Ebben hung his axe on his belt, drawing out his eating knife. He started picking at the first lock with the tip of the blade while Alys ran to the next shed, grabbing the lock in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut. Shocked to see a glowing symbol appear in the darkness, she opened her eyes, pulling her own knife from its scabbard, slicing across her palm. And teeth still chattering with cold, she dipped her finger into the beading blood, drawing the symbol on the lock.

  ‘Help! Help!’ cried panicked voices from inside.

  Those men could hear the trouble brewing as Ebben popped open the first lock, yanking off the chains, throwing open the doors.

  Tarl Brava’s men poured out onto the docks, stumbling into each other in a rush.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sverri shouted, rubbing his eyes, staring up at the boy. He felt like he’d woken from a deep sleep, unable to remember how he’d ended up in the shed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re trying to save you,’ Ebben panted. ‘Something’s happening!’ Though he still didn’t know what.

  Sverri felt disoriented, but his attention was quickly drawn to a warning rumble of war drums in the distance. The rain pummeled him, thunder grumbling overhead, but he could definitely hear drums. ‘Where’s everyone gone?’ he yelled. ‘Anton! Ivar!’ And gathering his men together, he noticed Mirella’s daughter, who had her eyes closed, gripping a lock in her hands. Sverri frowned, wondering what she was doing, but in the next moment, the lock sprang open, and Alys hurried to throw off the chains, opening the shed door. More of Sverri’s men rushed onto the docks, heads reeling, quickly aware of the drums themselves. Sverri grabbed one of them. ‘Help them! Get these sheds open! Hurry!’

  Alys ran to the next shed, searching for its lock. Ebben rushed past her, skidding on the ice, grabbed by Magnus, who steadied him, wanting to do something to help.

  Sverri called his men together. ‘It’s got to be Gudrum! Gudrum!’ he screamed, waking up his shell-shocked warriors as well as himself. ‘Head for the wall! Up to the ramparts!’ He turned back to Alys, hearing a screech of wood across ice, his fears escalating. ‘Where’s Mirella?’

  ‘In the hall. You must send m
en there. Please!’ She saw images of Lotta, feeling an urgent need to hurry back to her. ‘Please!’ And turning back to the shed, Alys raced to draw another symbol.

  The raven flew above him, and Sigurd dropped his head, not wanting to be seen.

  He didn’t believe what Raf had told him about Thenor.

  He didn’t want it to be Thenor.

  It was Tulia.

  Tulia was keeping watch over him, and yet, here he was, sitting beside a girl who was barely a woman, wanting to kiss her.

  Raf had her back against a tree, eyes closed, listening to Gudrum calling his men together as they ran into the city, through the unguarded gates, suddenly worried that she’d done the wrong thing.

  Reaching out, Sigurd grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘Tell me, Raf. What’s happening? What have you done?’

  Between them, Alys, Ebben, and Magnus had opened all of the sheds, freeing the Orvala garrison to head for the wall, hoping they could mount a defense. Though hearing the gates being pushed open and the roar of warriors, louder than the storm now, Alys could tell that they were likely too late.

  ‘We have to get back to the hall!’ Ebben urged, turning around. He thought she was following him as he started running, heading for the main street, but Alys’ attention was on the sky, watching the raven sweeping across the moon, realising how far from safety they were.

  She blinked, seeing that Ebben had disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘Tarl Brava’s men will try to stop them, Magnus. They’ll work to hold them back. We can slip down here.’ And grabbing Magnus’ hand, Alys pulled him between two of the ship sheds, remembering how she’d found Ragnahild in a maze of alleys.

  Hoping to find a quicker way back to the hall.