by A. E. Rayne
Lotta was growing impatient, wanting to leave the bedchamber to find Puddle, though Mirella remained in a trance, her hand firmly wrapped around her granddaughter’s.
Mirella could feel the warmth of that little hand grounding her as she stood on a great bridge, spanning a fomenting river, eyes on Alari, who strode towards her like the victor.
‘You keep thinking you’re something you are most clearly not, Mirella Vettel,’ Alari laughed, her voice light and playful, at odds with the vicious look in her only eye. ‘Do you think being a dreamer is special? That you are special? Able to weave the threads of fate in your mortal hands. You?’ Now Alari stopped, dark cloak sweeping around her narrow frame. ‘Do you really think you have that much power, Mirella?’
Mirella blinked slowly, untroubled by the goddess’ taunting. ‘What do you want, Alari? To choose your own king? To hold that power for yourself? It matters that much to you? More than your pledge to Eutresia? More than your desire to kill Thenor and unite Alekka? Your needs matter more than all we had planned together?’
‘Ha! We? Where is this we you speak of? I haven’t seen it in years! Not since you betrayed Jesper and slipped into the shadows. You talk of my needs, but what about yours? I sent you to Jesper. I gave you to him as a gift! You were meant to help him reclaim the throne! You! You were! But you betrayed both him and me! You bitch!’ Alari was spitting fire now, hands clenched into claws. She wanted to tear the dreamer in half, but relaxing her arms, she brought them down to her sides, dropping her shoulders, seeking control. ‘I wish you and Eskvir luck, Mirella. No doubt he’ll come to help you in your perilous hour of need. He’ll have to, won’t he? For what use are you to him now that I’ve trapped you here?’
Mirella blinked, back in her chamber, Lotta squeezing her hand.
Bergit was panting in the doorway, Puddle growling in her arms. ‘The men have returned! That little Sverri and his men! They are back! You must come!’
Gudrum took off a head as he strode through Orvala’s gates, and the joy of the man’s death lit up his gruesome face.
He couldn’t stop smiling, bloody sword in hand, the stench of death wafting towards him like a fragrant welcome. And he thought of Raf, who had the ear of the Goddess of Magic herself.
Little Raf, so innocent and childlike, but so very bad.
He took off the next man’s arm, enjoying his pained roar. And spinning, sword in both hands now, he unleashed her at the man’s face, not finishing him off but leaving him to fall to the ground, writhing helplessly next to his arm as his men fled and his enemies came to claim his city.
Gudrum laughed as he turned down the main street, eyes on the trails of smoke rising from snow-covered roofs.
Orvala.
He listened to the sweet song of blades as his men swarmed the city, enjoying the cries of the frightened, who begged and pleaded for their lives, his good mood blossoming like a summer’s field. He’d been trekking through the North for years – the frozen, dark, inhospitable North – but once Orvala was his, it was only a matter of time before he would see the sun again.
And dropping his sword down to his side, Gudrum started running.
‘My lord?’ Alvear leaned over Tarl, trying to see what had happened.’ The Lord of Orvala lay on his back in the snow, eyes closed, face a bloody mask.
‘Is he breathing?’ Offa panted beside his brother. ‘Check!’
Alvear leaned an ear towards Tarl’s lips, placing a hand on his chest.
Ulrick joined them. The rain was pelting them mercilessly, and he could barely see. The sky was dark, the moon absent, watery blood pooling in his eyes. ‘What happened?’ Bending down, he tried to see Tarl’s face.
Eventually, Alvear sighed in relief. ‘He’s alive!’
Ulrick dropped his head, rain running down his neck, soaking him through. Ice cold rain. He shook all over, straightening up. ‘Where’s the boy? Uukko?’ And spinning around, he nearly knocked the steward over. ‘You need to stay with your lord until he wakes. We have to...’ The urgent screams of the injured and the dying were growing more demanding. They had prisoners too. Men were crying out from one end of the ravine to the other, and Ulrick couldn’t think.
Tarl sat up suddenly with a bellowing roar, knocking Alvear in the face. ‘Aarrghh!’
Offa and Ulrick turned back to their lord, mouths dropping open in surprise.
Tarl tried to get up, though the pain in his head overpowered him, and he stuck out an arm, trying to steady himself, everything going black as he fell back to the ground.
Offa dropped to his knees. ‘You’ve been knocked out. Stay still now, my lord.’
Tarl pushed him off, not wanting to stay still at all. He heard the screaming men, and he felt the sting of Gudrum’s betrayal. And grabbing hold of Offa, he pulled himself to his feet, dropping his head as his ears started buzzing.
Uukko hovered nearby, a cloth in his hand, though it was drenched now and useless, and Tarl ignored him, turning to Ulrick. He was too angry to feel anything but rage – rage that boiled like water and burned like fire – and he clenched his jaw until he felt that his teeth would crack with the sheer force of his fury. ‘Tell me the truth!’ he roared, glaring at the man, who stood half a head shorter than him. ‘Tell me!’
Ulrick was confused. ‘Tell you what?’
‘Mirella! What has she done? Tricked me? Sent you to trick me? To lead me away from Orvala? Have Gudrum’s men ambush me? Betray me?’ The thought of it made him want to wring Ulrick’s neck. And then his hands were around Ulrick’s throat, and he was squeezing.
Ulrick wanted to defend himself, but there was little chance now, and he gagged, resisting the urge to headbutt his raging lord. Though his raging lord certainly appeared to be trying to kill him. So, lashing out with a leg, he took Tarl in the balls.
Grunting, Tarl stumbled, releasing his hands, almost falling over.
‘Stop!’ Ulrick rasped, broken nose throbbing, sucking in a breath. ‘I know nothing! Nothing about Mirella! I hadn’t seen her in years. She left...’ He sucked in another cold breath. ‘She left when Jesper Vettel died. I never saw her after that!’
‘But where is she?’ Tarl demanded. ‘Why did she let this happen? That we would walk into a trap? That she wouldn’t warn me? Come to me?’ The pain was sharp, taking his breath away.
He felt like a fool.
Ulrick watched him warily, looking for signs that Tarl had calmed down, and eventually, he touched his aching throat, realising that the lord was no longer coming for him again. ‘Blame me later. Blame Mirella later, but realise that Orvala’s in danger now. Your wife, your hall, your men! You’ve been betrayed, and that’s only for one reason, my lord!’ Ulrick was angry, worried about Bergit and Lotta, wanting to get them all back on the right path quickly.
Tarl nodded. ‘We have to go.’
‘We do.’
‘Fuck!’ Tarl bellowed, heading for his horse. ‘Alvear! Offa! Clean up this mess. Uukko, get my horse ready! Ulrick, you’re with me!’ He thought of Solveigh, who was carrying his child, wishing he hadn’t left Sverri in charge.
He’d become too cocky.
They all had.
38
Tarl’s wife – his fourth now - was a beauty. The most eye-catching one so far, Sverri thought, with only a hint of envy, for there was no more irritating creature in all of Orvala. He hurried to the hall, wondering if he should just open the doors and let Gudrum’s men take her. It might keep them busy long enough for him to mount a proper defense.
Shaking his head, he tried to focus. ‘Shield wall across the doors!’ he yelled. ‘Across the steps too! Go!’ And stopping on the steps, he listened to the sound of boots crunching snow, stomping down on ice. Swallowing, he hurried into the hall, seeing Mirella striding towards him, her granddaughter panicking beside her.
‘Where is my daughter?’ Mirella demanded to know. ‘My grandson? Did you see them?’
‘She freed us. Her and her son. Another boy too.’
/>
‘You’ve sent men to the wall, then? The towers?’
Sverri nodded, feeling as though he’d been asleep for a year. He held his head, shaking it, wanting to wake up. ‘Though what good that will do us, I don’t know. The gates are open. Men are running loose. Enemies everywhere! And those drums?’ He spun around, eyeing Arnon and his men, now mingling with some of his own, all of them looking stunned and unsure. ‘Get outside! Onto the steps! We need to mount our defense there! What are you doing standing around in here? Can I get you some ale? Comb your moustache?’ And snarling, Sverri raised his voice. ‘Get outside!’ His frown deepening, he peered around. ‘Where’s the lady?’
Mirella didn’t know. ‘Bergit, go and find Solveigh.’ There were enough things to worry about without that foolish woman disappearing again.
‘What about Mama and Magnus?’ Lotta wailed as Bergit hurried away. ‘Where are they?’
Mirella inhaled sharply. ‘Arnon, go and find your wife.’
Arnon hesitated, looking at Sverri.
‘She’s not my wife, man! You go and get her! I have to protect the hall.’ And thinking of doing just that, Sverri turned back to Mirella, wondering what help she could provide.
‘Down here!’ Alys cried, slipping as she turned into an alley. She tugged Magnus after her, hearing footsteps getting closer. Limbs trembling, she squeezed her right hand around the hilt of the sword.
Her father’s sword.
It felt surprisingly light in her hand, though Jesper had left it for Mirella.
Perhaps he’d had it specially made for her?
And hearing a growl from her grandfather, telling her to wake up, Alys froze, seeing two paths ahead.
A crossroad.
‘Which way?’ Magnus panted beside her, twisting around to check behind them. He squeezed his mother’s hand with his right, holding his eating knife in his left.
Rain swept down the alley, blown by a mournful wind. They could hear the screams of Sverri’s men in the distance, fighting to hold back their attackers.
They had to get to the hall.
‘Alys!’ came the bellowing voice in the distance.
‘That’s Arnon!’ And turning right, Alys hurried Magnus down the alley, hoping it led back to the hall.
Gudrum wanted to get to the hall.
He wanted a nice hot fire and a cosy chair, with a pretty servant bringing him a cup of ale. Or wine. He hadn’t tasted wine in months. And after weeks of camping out in forests, he was looking forward to a proper roof over his head, and a bed where he could make some noise with Raf.
Grinning now, he raised his sword. ‘To the hall!’ he shouted, urging his men on. ‘Cut them down quickly! I want some fucking ale!’
That roused a lot of interest, and the voices around him grew louder.
He heard his drummers in the distance, beating out a furious march.
Gudrum liked war drums. They were tribal. Powerful. They stirred the blood, making the desire to kill more of a need, as though they were wild beasts, not men at all. The sound of that pulsing rhythm was hypnotic, helping them enter their rawest, most basic state.
Tarl’s men had been released from somewhere, the garrison finally emerging to defend the frozen city. But they were too late, Gudrum knew, sensing that those men knew it too. He could hear panic stripping his enemies’ voices of any strength, and as the snow swept in on a brutal wind, tearing through his charging warriors, Gudrum turned, voice booming. ‘Archers! Pick them off! Ilmar! I’ll meet you in the hall!’
Sverri could hear the trouble they were in as he stood on the hall steps, running his eyes up and down the street.
Waiting.
Arnon de Sant stood before him with his handful of men, calling for his wife, not having the balls to go out and find her himself. Poor woman, Sverri thought, imagining what Gudrum’s men would do to her when they found her. He could hear the odd shriek as cottage doors were torn off hinges, men barrelling inside, killing husbands, raping wives.
It was always the way.
But not the Lady of Orvala.
Sverri turned back to check on the hall. Tarl had always been good to him, lifting him up when most saw him as worthless; a plaything to tease and kick around.
He couldn’t let him down.
‘Brace yourselves!’ he shouted, raising his voice over the howl of the storm. ‘We protect the hall! We protect the lady! The dreamer! Tarl’s women! We stop them here! They will not get through!’
Arnon turned around, watching the shields lock into place behind him, the hall guards in black cloaks making their stand. He doubted they stood much of a chance, but listening to the roaring enemy getting closer, he knew that he’d rather be in the hall than standing exposed on the steps. But first, he had to try and find Alys. ‘Come on!’ he yelled to Borr, realising that he had little choice now. ‘We have to head back to the docks!’
None of Arnon’s men looked keen to follow him, but they had a growing fear that they were going to die either way. Better that Thenor saw them trying to do something worthy of his attention. So, firming up their grips on swords and axes, they headed down the steps after him.
The moon momentarily shone above their heads, and Alys could see that she’d led Magnus down a dead-end. Heart stuttering in panic, she spun him around, wanting to hear Arnon’s voice again. Or her grandfather’s. ‘It must have been the other way!’ The cottage beside them was being ransacked. They could hear screams, wood shattering as furniture was thrown around. Alys saw a glimpse of terror in Magnus’ eyes, and squeezing his hand tightly, she started moving again, knowing that they were running out of time to get to safety.
She shook her head, realising that there was no safety.
But in the hall with Mirella and Lotta, she had a chance of protecting Magnus.
Out here...
‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ came the deep voice of a bulky man with a shining head. He’d heard the shrieking women and his whooping friends, and he’d come to have his own fun, but catching a glimpse of golden hair flashing down the alley, he’d stopped, turning into it.
Blocking it with his powerful body.
He ran a hand over his tattooed head, grinning.
Alys pushed Magnus behind her, shivering uncontrollably. ‘Stay behind me,’ she ordered. ‘If something happens, find another way back to the hall. Promise me.’
Magnus swapped his knife into his right hand, his mind blank as he desperately tried to remember anything Jonas had shown him. Anything Vik had told him.
Anything at all!
Magnus didn’t answer his mother, and the man was coming at her quickly, laughter deep and guttural.
Alys remembered being thrown onto the bed by Hakon. Being thrown onto the bed by Arnon. She’d endured years of being thrown about as though her body belonged to someone else. Not her. Just there to be used by anyone for anything they desired.
But it was her body, and now she was going to use it to protect her son.
Teeth gritted, Alys screamed. ‘You will not touch me! I won’t let you touch me!’ Tears unhelpfully blurred her eyes, and she thought fleetingly of Arnon, who was out there calling for her. Then she remembered Torvig Aleksen.
She had killed him.
‘Stay back, Magnus!’ she roared, turning to the side, sword held in two hands now.
‘Oh, you want to play?’ the man purred, eyes flickering with amusement. ‘We can play, my lovely. I don’t mind that. A pretty thing like you? All to myself?’ He licked his lips, firming his grip on his own sword.
And Alys charged.
Lotta panicked, wanting to know about her mother and Magnus.
‘Stay still!’ her grandmother growled, eyes closed beside her. ‘You don’t help any of us with all that wriggling. Let me try and see.’ They sat at the high table as there was no time to head up to the bedchambers. No time for privacy. Sverri wouldn’t be able to hold the steps for long. Gudrum’s men had more numbers than Tarl’s garrison could contai
n.
It wasn’t about keeping them out. They couldn’t keep them out.
It was about finding a path in the darkness.
Eskvir was quiet. Hartu and Vasa also.
Mirella couldn’t find anyone to help with Alari, though now that Alari had turned on her, she didn’t know who she could trust.
She needed to know if Tarl still lived, for if he did, she could try and hold on long enough for his return. And for that, she needed everyone to be still, especially her fidgeting granddaughter, who was wailing about her mother. Grabbing her hand, Mirella squeezed it tightly. ‘Stop now, and help me.’
‘How?’ Lotta wondered, sniffing loudly. She heard Bergit trying to calm a crying Solveigh beside her as she turned her eyes up to Mirella. ‘What should I do?’
Mirella bent down, and taking both of Lotta’s hands in hers, she stared into her eyes, closing her mouth. ‘I can’t get through whatever spells Alari has wrapped around us. Around the lord. He is hidden from me, but I need to find him. If Tarl Brava is alive, he can help us. He can return and save us.’
Lotta blinked in surprise, amazed that she could hear her grandmother’s voice so clearly, and yet her lips weren’t even moving.
She swallowed, trying to concentrate, knowing it was the only way to save her mother and Magnus.
Lotta didn’t like Tarl Brava. Any lord who kept the heads of his enemies on the table where he ate was not a nice person, but he liked her grandmother, so they would be safer if he was in the hall.
She nodded, closing her eyes, squeezing Mirella’s hand.
Mirella quickly closed her own eyes, trying to bring Tarl’s face to her mind.
Imagining his anger. His surprise and horror.
Seeking it. Spurred on by it.
She needed him to still be alive.
Alys thought of Lotta in the hall and Magnus behind her, and she knew that she had to live. To save her children, she had to live.