by A. E. Rayne
‘Do you like puppies?’ Lotta wondered quickly. ‘Dogs?’
Raf didn’t know. She shrugged. ‘I come from the forest. We didn’t have dogs. Not like this.’
‘Oh.’
Magnus hoped the dreamer didn’t mean either Lotta or the puppy any harm.
He stepped back, watching.
‘I like this dog,’ Raf said as the puppy licked her some more, tail wagging excitedly. ‘It’s wonderful!’
Lotta agreed. ‘You can play with us if you like?’ she suggested, turning around to look at Magnus, who narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. ‘He’s a lot of fun.’
Raf looked confused. ‘Play?’
‘Chasing games. Puddle likes to chase us, and then he likes us to chase him, and then he gets very tired and likes to cuddle.’
The puppy squirmed in Raf’s arms, wanting to go to Lotta, and Lotta reached out for him, her hands touching Raf’s, seeing the most shocking image. ‘I...’
Raf looked just as surprised. ‘You’re a dreamer?’
Lotta quickly shook her head. ‘No. No!’ She lowered her eyes, moving back to her brother. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Raf whispered, not wanting them to leave. She glanced down the corridor, but they were entirely alone. ‘We can play with the puppy. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’
Lotta was certain that she couldn’t trust the dreamer. But, remembering what she’d seen of Raf with Sigurd Vilander, she nodded. ‘Alright.’
Tarl’s thoughts jabbed him like knives as he rode. They had slowed their pace considerably, having been forced to abandon more horses with broken and injured legs. The snow hid many dangers, and he was so distracted that he was barely thinking of himself, let alone his horse or his men.
Ulrick could tell.
His fears for Bergit and Lotta were just as distracting, but he knew that they’d have no chance of rescuing anyone if they didn’t keep their wits about them. He glanced over his shoulder occasionally, worrying that they didn’t have enough men after the losses in the snowy ravine.
How had they ended up there? Fenced in on both sides?
Not by accident, he was certain.
Ulrick shook his head, worrying that the gods had turned away from the man Mirella insisted was destined to be the next king. Though didn’t every lord imagine that one day his destiny would lead him to Stornas and the throne?
He tried to stop his mind from wandering, focusing on his horse’s nodding head as its hooves pounded the snow, dark trees rushing past them.
‘Think of the feast!’ Tarl called beside him. ‘When we rip this bastard out of Orvala, think of the feast we’ll have! His head beside me!’
Ulrick didn’t care about feasts and trophies. He thought of the house Bergit wanted to buy, and Lotta and her puppy.
There was nothing he wouldn’t do to see them both safe.
Gudrum couldn’t remember feeling so happy.
Born the son of a servant, he’d risen to become a king’s warrior in Brekka. Then, leaving for Alekka, he’d scraped together a new, better existence for himself in The Murk. He’d grown his crew of loyal men into a tribe of fearless warriors, making powerful alliances. And with Raf and her goddess’ help, they had conquered the biggest city in the North.
Now he could be a real lord.
The Lord of the Murk was a title he’d made for himself, though he’d never had a hall, just a wild, frozen forest, teeming with dangerous beasts.
But now?
Gudrum smiled as he walked through the market, face numb with cold, a powdery mist making it almost impossible to see, though he could smell fish and smoke, and he could hear the sounds of a city coming back to life. After the shock of their arrival, he’d sent his men out to encourage the Orvalans back to work, and though there was little enthusiasm for it, especially now that the sea was frozen, Gudrum wanted Orvala running smoothly.
It was the first step.
And the second...
‘My lord!’ Ilmar called, slipping as he tried to catch him. ‘My lord!’
Gudrum turned around with a grin. ‘You need some skates!’ he laughed. ‘Might make it easier to get around.’
It was true, Ilmar thought. Rain had fallen overnight, and the streets were lethal. ‘The scouts have returned. Reinar Vilander’s army is near.’
Gudrum’s eyes lit up. ‘How near?’
‘They think they’ll be here tonight,’ Ilmar panted. ‘Should be outside the gates tonight.’
‘Well, then,’ Gudrum exhaled. ‘We’d better hurry our preparations along!’
Raf couldn’t catch her breath as she ran around the table, trying to catch Puddle. He would stop just as she was about to grab him before turning and running the other way, skating across the floorboards, slipping and sliding, never letting himself be caught. She laughed, eventually stopping, hands on her hips. ‘I... give... up!’
Lotta hadn’t been able to catch the puppy either, and Magnus had disappeared into the kitchen to find his mother, who was looking for something to feed them.
Lotta sat down by the brazier in the corner, smiling. She liked the odd dreamer. She was a woman, Lotta could tell, but she acted like a child, and they’d had a lot of fun together in a way most grown-ups didn’t. And thinking of grown-ups led Lotta’s mind back to Ulrick, which left her frowning.
‘What is it?’ Raf panted, flopping down into a chair. The puppy raced up to her, and she scooped him up triumphantly. ‘Ha! I have you now, you furry terror!’ And she squealed as Puddle licked her lips.
Lotta smiled at her. ‘I just worry for my friend, Ulrick. He was with Tarl Brava. I feel sad about him.’
‘You do?’ Raf saw the image of Tarl lying dead in the snow, his men leaning over him, and she absentmindedly wondered if one of them was this Ulrick. Then she blinked, seeing that Tarl wasn’t dead at all. He was opening his eyes, moving around. She handed the puppy to Lotta, thinking of Gudrum. ‘I don’t have any friends.’ And frowning, she realised that that was likely true.
‘Gudrum seems to like you.’
Raf shrugged. ‘I think men want dreamers because dreamers help them become rich lords and kings. But if I wasn’t a dreamer?’ Raf shook her head. ‘I doubt he’d have kept me around for long. There’s nothing else I’m good at. Though I can heal wounds.’ She looked up, her eyes brighter now, thinking of Sigurd.
Lotta blinked away the images she’d seen of Raf with Sigurd Vilander, feeling uncomfortable. Though Sigurd was her mother’s friend, and if Raf could help rescue him... ‘Did you help the lord’s prisoner?’ Lotta wondered coyly, sensing Raf squirm. ‘Did you heal him? He has a big bandage on his arm.’
‘He does. I did.’ Raf started picking her dirty fingernails, aware of the noise in the hall as the servants bustled around in a nervous frenzy, dressing tables for the wedding feast. She couldn’t believe that Gudrum was holding a wedding feast. And so quickly? He’d never even hinted that he wanted a wife, though perhaps every man did? Certainly every lord wanted sons.
But the hurry?
Raf didn’t understand it at all, and once again, her mind wandered to Tarl Brava, who was definitely not dead.
And if she told Gudrum...
‘Will the lord kill him?’ Lotta whispered. ‘Sigurd Vilander? Will he cut off his head and put it on the table?’
‘What?’ Raf sat up in surprise. ‘Why would you ask that?’
Lotta shrugged. ‘Isn’t that what evil lords do?’
‘Evil?’ Raf squirmed, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. ‘All lords are the same, neither good nor bad,’ she insisted. ‘Gudrum’s no different. They’re men. They want power. They want to be rich and have beautiful wives. That doesn’t make them evil. All lords are the same.’ Lotta just stared at her until Raf looked back down at her fingernails. ‘All lords are the same,’ she muttered, seeing the image of Sigurd Vilander’s naked chest, his intense blue eyes.
His hand as he held it to her face.
Gent
ly stroking her cheek.
Reinar worried about Sigurd as he walked.
As a child, he’d believed Gerda’s grumblings that his brother was cursed by the gods.
Tossed out by his parents. Left to die in the forest.
He was not wanted, not loved, not worthy of the gods’ luck.
He was surely cursed.
That was what Gerda had shouted at her husband and snarled at her sons.
He trudged on behind Benn, who had gone quiet now, his hooded head constantly moving as they drew ever closer to Orvala, looking for signs of trouble before it came for them.
Reinar knew how it felt to be cursed.
As though the gods’ ire had been turned on you.
But Sigurd wasn’t cursed, he thought with a wry smile.
Sigurd was the son of a god.
Sigurd stared down at the iron shackles, wishing his hands were smaller, his bones more pliable. He wanted some respite from their heavy weight, from the constant pinching of his skin. Though he couldn’t get them off his wrists, no matter how hard he tried.
He wanted a window too. To see what was happening.
His brother was coming, and Sigurd felt a growing fear for him, knowing how hot-tempered Reinar could be. Would he listen to reason? To Bjarni or Bolli or whoever was with him? Would he stop and think before he blew into Orvala like a winter storm?
Sigurd kept trying to think of ways to help him, hoping to keep his mind well away from Raf. After what Ilmar had said?
He swallowed, feelings of guilt turning to fear for the dreamer. Though he couldn’t help her or keep her safe any more than he could Reinar.
He dropped his head to his bound hands, feeling the weight of his worries dragging him down to the bottom of the ocean. The cold water washed over him, and he felt the weariness of one who had surrendered to death. To Hartu, Goddess of the Sea.
And then he heard the cry of a raven, and blinking, Sigurd lifted his head, wondering if he’d imagined it.
Raf’s hair needed a wash, Mirella thought with a sneer. It was black but dull, as though she’d been rolling in dirt. And by the look of her, she had.
She was a filthy, rough-looking creature, but a very powerful dreamer.
One who had attracted the interest of Alari herself.
Raf sat on the opposite side of the table, wobbling the chair. She’d barely sat in a chair before, and the stiffness of the seat and the straightness of the back made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t move freely, and it unsettled her. She wanted to stand, but Mirella appeared impatient already, and so she stayed where she was, rubbing her running nose.
‘I have a cloth. A napkin,’ Mirella offered, glancing around.
‘For what?’ Raf wondered, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her blue tunic.
Mirella shook her head. ‘Nevermind.’ She poured wine into an ivory cup, handing it to Raf, who sniffed it with some trepidation.
‘Are you trying to kill me?’
Mirella laughed, looking surprised. ‘Kill you? Why would I want to do that?’
‘To become Gudrum’s only dreamer, of course,’ Raf said sweetly, staring into Mirella’s green eyes. ‘Perhaps you don’t like to share?’
‘And do you? Do you like to share?’
Raf frowned. She couldn’t read Mirella’s thoughts, but the dreamer could obviously read hers. ‘I don’t. No.’
‘Yet your lord has his eyes on a new woman now. Perhaps a new dreamer too? And then what use will he have for you?’
Terror raced through Raf’s body. ‘Gudrum cares for me. He’ll keep me. We’re family!’
Her desperation was pitiful, though Mirella kept smiling.
‘Besides, why would he want you to dream for him? I’m the one favoured by Alari. I’m her dreamer! With me by his side, he’ll conquer Alekka. Your lord was defeated. What sort of dreamer does that make you?’ Raf drank the wine quickly, spluttering in surprise at its bitterness. It wasn’t nice at all.
Mirella laughed. ‘You think Alari will care about you? Or your lord? We are dreamers, girl. And dreamers are always desired, yet easily dispensable. No, your lord has his eyes further afield now, and so does your precious Alari. What use do either of them have for an inexperienced child?’
Raf wanted to leave, not understanding why she was here. Mirella had said she wanted to help her, but all she was doing was insulting her.
‘I am trying to help you, Raf,’ Mirella insisted, attempting to mask her distaste for the girl. ‘You may have been sought out by Alari, chosen by her, but that goddess is only interested in revenge upon me. She doesn’t care for you. It’s all a game for her. She won’t protect you like I can.’
‘Protect me?’
‘From Gudrum. If he were to find out what you’ve been up to with Sigurd Vilander, he won’t take it well. I’ve seen that.’ And leaning forward, Mirella narrowed her eyes. ‘But help me, and I can keep you safe.’
Raf swallowed, blinking rapidly. She didn’t want to confess anything to this woman, not even her fear of what Gudrum would do.
‘You are confused, I know. Gudrum has taken advantage of you, made you dependent on him, as though he cared for you. As though you were his family. But he won’t hesitate to cast you out or kill you if he thinks you’ve been disloyal.’ Mirella poured more wine into Raf’s cup, listening to the rain getting heavier outside, seeing images of it running down Tarl’s angry face. He was growing closer, and her urgency to get the girl on side intensified. ‘I have this book,’ she smiled, pushing a red leather-bound book across the table towards the young dreamer. ‘I can show you ways to keep yourself safe. If you want me to?’
Raf stared at the book, her feelings battling each other. She felt Gudrum’s arms and Sigurd’s lips, unable to decide what to do. Then reaching out, she touched the book, feeling a jolt up her arm, and she nodded, gripped by a sense of purpose. ‘Yes, I do.’
45
The rain grew heavy as Alys stopped before Orvala’s giant wall, shoulders curling forward.
She felt trapped, imprisoned.
Though Orvala was not Ottby. Not Slussfall.
Not an impenetrable fortress ringed in stone.
Still, it had a new wooden wall, so obviously, Tarl Brava had been concerned enough of the danger posed by his enemies to have thought about protecting himself.
Though his wall had not saved him, as his enemy’s banners now flew from his ramparts.
And where was Tarl Brava?
‘Looking to escape?’ came a gravelly voice, and Alys spun around to Gudrum, who lifted his eyes to the busy ramparts where his men were preparing for their visitors in the rain.
The rain didn’t appear to bother him as he smiled at her, wet through, looking as cheerful as ever.
‘Just wondering why the wall is new. It’s such an old place.’
Gudrum nodded. ‘An old place with arrogant men in charge. Arrogant lords who believed that no one would dare attack them, from what I hear. Though not Tarl Brava. He was smart enough to put up a wall, just not smart enough to find himself a better dreamer! Ha! Although, Mirella being your mother, you may not want to hear that.’
Alys wasn’t sure how to approach Gudrum, though she wasn’t sure about her mother either. ‘Tarl Brava put all his trust in Mirella. She’s a knowledgeable woman, so it came as a surprise that she didn’t see what was coming. To her as well.’
Gudrum laughed. ‘I’m sure it did! Though it’s fate, you know. The gods have it all planned out.’ He touched Alys’ elbow, encouraging her away from the wall. ‘I always knew that, so when I found Raf?’ He saw a couple of his men fighting in the street, barely bothered, knowing that Ilmar was prowling around, keeping an eye on things. ‘When I found my dreamer, I knew the Alekkan gods favoured me more than my own ever did.’
‘Where do you come from?’ Alys asked.
‘Brekka. Born and raised in Andala,’ Gudrum snarled, spitting on the icy street. ‘Though I left years ago. It was nowhere I wanted to be.’
‘Orvala...’ Gudrum laughed at a dog running away with a side of pork in its mouth, a young woman screeching, running after it. ‘Orvala is the next step. One step closer to everything I want.’
Alys didn’t ask what he wanted, for she doubted he would tell her.
‘Do you know healing?’ Gudrum wondered suddenly. ‘I saw you helping my men earlier. My prisoner, Sigurd Vilander, I need someone to check his wound. His brother is coming, perhaps tonight, and I need to make sure his arm is healing. My dreamer is useful, but I... want to make sure.’
Alys nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I can take a look, if you show me where he is. There are some supplies in the hall.’
Gudrum was pleased, preferring to keep Raf away from Sigurd now. ‘Good, I’ll take you. He’s chained up, so you needn’t worry. He won’t hurt you.’ He looked Alys over, his eyes on her long blonde hair tucked into her black cloak. ‘And your husband? Where is he?’
Alys shrugged. ‘No idea.’
As the afternoon darkened, Reinar stopped his men in the forest, just outside Orvala, debating whether to head straight into the city.
‘You won’t be safe in there,’ Benn insisted, wiping rain from his eyes as he peered into the distance. ‘You walk in there, Gudrum will cut off your head and keep your gold. Your brother too.’
Reinar looked worried, seeing the long wall in the distance; tiny shapes of men moving along the ramparts. ‘And you’ve been in there?’
‘Orvala?’ Benn’s eyes lit up. ‘All the time! Our farm’s not far from it, as you can see. My father was loyal to Lord Tarl’s father. To Lord Tarl himself. We came to the market regularly, selling cattle, trading. Until my mother...’ He blinked, his grief still raw.
Reinar glanced at Berger, who nibbled a toothpick beside him, barely noticing the icy rain drenching them all. ‘We need to think things through.’