Queens of the Sea

by Kim Wilkins

  ‘It will be so,’ Willow said aloud.

  Hakon spun her to face him. ‘Who do you speak to in the corners, wife?’ he asked. His eye was fearful.

  ‘You know I speak to Maava,’ she said dismissively. ‘Can you not see Him? He is right there.’

  Hakon’s single-eyed gaze followed her finger. ‘I see nothing,’ he said.

  ‘You do not believe deeply enough,’ she replied.

  Arna looked between them, hot fear evident on her face.

  ‘You may go,’ Willow said. ‘You have done well and will be rewarded with the blessings of Maava, which is the only reward our souls strive for.’

  Arna bowed and backed out. Hakon closed the door and pressed his back against it.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What did your god say?’

  ‘Our god,’ Willow corrected him. ‘We will stay. We are not afraid of their giants.’

  Thirty-five

  Ash knew it had to be Frida.

  Sighere wanted to take the job of course, but only Frida was small enough. Ash had only just learned the trick of shifting the air and light around her to fool human eyes. It was difficult to do it for herself; to include another person – and that person’s armour – would take all her concentration and will. Ash argued with Bluebell that she could do the mission alone, but Bluebell would not have it.

  ‘You will be busy. You need somebody strong and armed with steel by your side.’

  So it was Frida.

  The two of them set out on swift horses in the deep twilight before dawn. Clouds had cleared, stars shone. They arrived at one of the passes outside Blicstowe when the sky was pinking but the shadows were still murky. They continued on foot a little way, in the wooded tangle along the road and between the fields, not speaking, staying close. Only when Ash saw the beginning of the earthworks up to Blicstowe did she turn and encircle Frida in her arms and reach her mind around them.

  The giants had said it was like stirring the air, up and down from crown to toes and back again, in a continual movement, that holding the rhythm was the most important skill. With both of them standing still, the rhythm was not so hard to find. But once they started moving – steps in time with each other as they had practised – it grew more difficult. If the rhythm became disrupted, if Ash dropped her concentration, she and Frida would suddenly be visible. In the half-gloom, perhaps they would not be easily spied from the watchtower, but Ash did not want to take any chances.

  They started up the hill, then into the first flanking ditch. Here Ash sat them down, checked carefully around her, then let the spell down. A few deep breaths, a nod to Frida, and they were up again, scrambling up the ditch towards the next one. They repeated this over all four flanking ditches then began to trudge towards the northern watchtower, at the main gate. Bluebell had said it would provide the best view back over the town. Unfortunately, it was also the best view out over the approach to town. Ash’s muscles contracted as she pulled Frida hard against her, keeping the rhythm of the spell moving up and down over them.

  Finally they were on the lip of the hill. The tower guard would only see them if he looked directly down, so Ash dropped the spell, took a quick, shallow breath, and settled into the familiar magic she knew. With her mind, she reached for the big stones in the tower. Felt them begin to rumble, and knew the tower guard would feel it too. One of the stones shot half out of its mortar at knee height, and Ash stepped up on it. Then another, two feet further up. It had to be quick now. She could not perform this magic and hold them in invisibility. The stones shoved themselves under her feet as if they were sentient.

  The bells began to ring.

  Loud, clanging, discordant. An arrow whizzed past her ear.

  ‘Keep going!’ she called to Frida. Pressed against the tower, balanced on one foot on a stone step only three inches wide, Ash turned her face up to see the archer pointing his bow directly at her.

  She did not even need to think for the wind to slam him against the post of his gatehouse. An arrow came from the other tower now, but she was climbing into the gatehouse and ducking low beneath the wooden barrier. Frida had drawn a bow and was shooting back, and the guard opposite took an arrow in the throat. She dropped her bow and ran her spear through the heart of the guard on the floor at their feet, then heaved his body up and over the edge.

  The bells at the other towers were ringing now.

  ‘Do what you must,’ Frida said. ‘I will keep you safe.’

  Ash nodded, then turned her gaze on Blicstowe.

  She bent her will to encompass all the elementals around her. Earth and wood, fire and water, bone and hide. An inventory of textures and feelings, searching among it for kindling and fire oil … there, the first fire. Not yet lit. She was ahead of them. Whipping the oilskin off with the wind, she crunched the moisture out of the air with her mind and speared it inside the kindling until it poured out of the wood, filling the huge bronze pan. Now it would be unlightable. She went searching for the next one.

  Footsteps. Running. Closer and closer.

  ‘Here we go,’ Frida said, moving to the top of the stairs.

  Ash closed her eyes, shut out everything but the feel of the elements. She found another fire; again it was unlit, but she would not give them a chance to light it.

  Beside her, very close, the sound of combat. Weapons ringing, armour clanging. A body falling backwards down the stairs. An axe thumping into a wooden shield. An arrow neared, but by now the elementals were alive and doing her bidding. Before she even thought it, the air bent around the arrow, carrying it harmlessly out the other side of the gatehouse.

  Now she had her rhythm. Find and flood the fires. All over Blicstowe. Every fireplace in every home went cold, every woodpile at every back door leaked water, every jar of fire oil on a shelf unmixed itself into unlightable parts.

  ‘Ash!’

  Ash opened her eyes, whirled around in time to see Frida driven back into the gatehouse by two raiders. Ash slammed one away with the wind, but the other already had Frida on her back. She could not stop the descent of the spear as it travelled directly into Frida’s ribs.

  Ash cracked the wood above them, and the ceiling beam of the gatehouse crashed into the raider’s face, knocking him back down the stairs and taking two other raiders with him. She crouched next to Frida. Blood pulsed out of her, onto the wooden boards.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Frida managed.

  Ash scrambled for the right thing to say. ‘I finished,’ she said. ‘Because of you. You saved Blicstowe.’

  Frida looked as though she wanted to smile but it came out as a grimace. ‘I didn’t want to die yet.’

  Ash could feel Frida’s spirit tugging against its bonds. ‘Fear not the hall of your ancestors,’ Ash told her, but then whatever was left of Frida was gone.

  No time for sorrow. Ash stood and pulled the air around her; so much easier as one person. The sky was growing light, the sun only minutes from breaking the horizon. She edged down the stairs, towards a group of raiders who were running at the gatehouse. They shouted at each other in confusion. The bells still rang, in the distance.

  Ash crept past them, horror hot in her throat. Surely they would see her. So many of them. She could see them and sidestep them, but they were not aware that she passed them.

  Then one of them stopped, looking curiously down at the ground. Ash paused, looked back.

  Saw her bloody footprints on the pale grey flagstones.

  She kicked off her shoes and began to run, and did not look back.

  Bluebell had not wanted Ash to unlatch the gates, which would be closely guarded. Willow knew that the most likely way they would be breached was by somebody who knew the secrets of the city’s fortifications; presumably that was how she had made her own way in. No, the giants could breach the gates. War was violent and walls and gates fell by force. But, as Ash knew too well, Bluebell’s concern was for the civilians trapped in the city while that violence played out.

  Ash made her
way through the familiar streets of Blicstowe to the sacred oak that grew in the Children’s Garden, a green space her father had conserved when his daughters were born. It was a favourite place for mothers to take their children, a welcome respite from the narrow spaces and layered noises of the city. But the familiar shape of the oak was no longer there, and Ash let the invisibility spell go and paused at the edge of the garden to try to make sense of what she saw.

  The sacred oak had been cut down. Its wood had been sawn into planks, and it seemed as though a chapel was being built with those planks. The familiar trimartyr symbol of the triangle had been carved all over its stone foundations. Anger boiled in her guts.

  Their plan, already so tenuous, seemed doomed to fail now. Nonetheless, she reached into her apron and withdrew the chunk of rock that Rowan had given her the night before. Renward had chiselled it from a dolmen in the forest; the strange swirling pattern that had worn down through centuries was still visible on it. The grass was cold under Ash’s feet as she crossed the garden to the stump of the sacred oak. She touched the remains of the tree and a great sadness passed over her. This is what trimartyrs did; it wasn’t enough to believe in Maava, they had to destroy all other beliefs. Ash gently laid the rock upon it.

  Pieces of sacred things. Surely this wouldn’t work. If it didn’t, only Ash would be here to keep the citizens safe during the siege. She hadn’t even been able to keep Frida safe.

  Ash withdrew into the shadows of a yew tree and waited for the sun to break the horizon. It was strange to be here in Blicstowe, after all that had befallen it. The quiet was eerie. Usually at dawn traders and collectors and herders would be moving around town, with carts and buckets and chickens and goats. But the town had been emptied of its ordinariness. Fear clung to the alleys and eaves.

  The clouds began to light yellow from underneath. Somewhere, the sun was breaking the horizon. Ash watched her makeshift crossing and hoped so hard her chest hurt.

  Then the breeze seemed to shift and Rowan appeared. Behind her, as though stepping out of a fold in the air, came more of the Ærfolc. Little and lithe, bristling with bows and full quivers. Ash counted them with her eyes. At twelve, no more came.

  ‘So few?’ Ash said to Rowan.

  Rowan looked behind her. ‘The crossing was too weak; I could barely prise it open.’ She returned her attention to Ash. ‘Where are your shoes?’

  Ash thought about Frida and felt a pang of guilt for the petty irritation she had often felt for the woman. ‘I lost them.’

  Rowan sensed Ash’s sadness and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come with us,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’

  Rowan and her archers were light on their feet, barely making a noise as they moved around the city. Rowan indicated with a flick of her wrist where they should deploy themselves. On the roofs of chapels and homes, on thatched peaks and on flat wooden storehouses. With less than half the number she had hoped to bring through, Rowan had to spread them thin, and they surely all knew by now they might not make it out of the besieged city alive.

  Their mission was simple. Once the fighting began at the gates – the army was several hours behind them – they were to pick off any raiders sent to assassinate civilians. Originally they’d had another plan – take civilians to the makeshift crossing and send them through to safety – but Bluebell would know by now, surrounded by the remaining eighteen archers, that the crossing hadn’t worked properly and everyone was trapped in Blicstowe.

  Rowan and her band were a damage-mitigating force. While she knew this was noble and right, she itched to be near the action, fighting alongside the giants. Leading her own army with Heath.

  At last only she and Ash were left unassigned. Rowan faced her aunt in the shadowy overhangs of a building. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘The same as you. Stay and help.’

  Rowan considered Ash. She reminded her of Rose, but younger, slighter. Yet Ash had immense power in her blood. Rowan could sense it dimly. Even though Ash was kind and gentle, it made Rowan feel a little afraid.

  ‘Where will you go?’ Ash continued.

  ‘Close to the battlefront,’ Rowan answered diffidently, aware that she would probably receive a lecture about keeping safe.

  ‘As your aunt, I feel I should counsel you against it.’ Ash laughed.

  ‘You won’t be able to talk me out of it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, Rowan. I also have a thirst to be close to the battle. Between the two of us …’

  ‘We could bend the course of victory,’ Rowan replied, grasping Ash’s hand.

  ‘We need height and a view of the gates,’ Ash said.

  Rowan tried to remember the city from above, as she’d seen it in her brief vision looking for Snowy. ‘I think I know somewhere.’

  Straining her hearing for approaching footsteps, Rowan led Ash as close to the town square as she dared to creep.

  Skalmir woke to bells. Not the tuneful kind that had rung out over Blicstowe the day he had been married. The urgent clanging of alarm.

  His heart leapt. After weeks of fear and uncertainty, they were coming to liberate Blicstowe.

  Bluebell was coming.

  Thrymm, who had taken to sleeping on top of his legs, pinning him to the narrow mattress, stirred and sat up with her ears pricked. As an old war dog, she knew what such bells meant. All around the dim infirmary, men were sitting up and looking towards Thorkel. The old healer, who had already been awake, dressed and tending to his patients, said something in his own language. It did nothing to settle anyone, but they stayed in their sickbeds nonetheless.

  Skalmir remained prone, determined to pretend he could not hear the bells. His mind whirred. Should he run? Up until now, he’d imagined his disappearance would create too much suspicion; that throwing himself on the mercy of some unknown citizen of Blicstowe would bring too many people into danger. But now, now they were on the verge of being liberated …

  Frustration crushed down on him. He was still weak, his bones not knitted. The affairs of the world played out beyond the walls of the infirmary and he was excluded from it.

  Thrymm jumped off him and started to follow Thorkel around, whining softly. The restless bells rang on. Skalmir rose and dressed and began his morning ritual of helping with the night pots, serving the oats. He strained to hear the sounds of the gates being breached, but heard only distant shouting. Ten minutes passed, twenty, and Skalmir began to wish he really was deaf so he would not have to hear those awful alarms ringing.

  Then they stopped, and the silence that followed swelled against his ears.

  All around, the men in the infirmary visibly relaxed, even laughed with each other nervously. Then the door flew open, letting in weak daylight. Skalmir had never seen the man who stood there before, but knew him instantly as King Hakon. His grisly face was famous. In his large fists, he held several spears.

  Thorkel hurried over to him, and they began to speak in urgent voices. Skalmir focussed carefully on his tasks, wishing he could understand.

  One by one, Thorkel took Hakon around the infirmary to some of the soldiers who were closest to recovery. Hakon barked at them and handed them spears. He was recruiting. He thought that Bluebell’s army was on the way. He needed as many bodies in the melee as he could find.

  Finally, Hakon dragged Thorkel over to where Skalmir stood. A conversation ensued. Skalmir played deaf, but he could easily hear the suspicion in Hakon’s voice. Thorkel spoke quickly, explaining. Hakon glared at Skalmir with his single hostile eye, then left with the five barely healed soldiers behind him.

  Skalmir returned his attention to the porridge pot. Thorkel caught him by the elbow.

  Skalmir gave him a questioning glance and Thorkel pulled him gently into the very corner of the room. Thrymm followed curiously.

  ‘You will have to go,’ Thorkel said, in a heavy accent, but in Skalmir’s tongue.

  Skalmir shook his head, still trying to pretend deafness, but Thorkel tightened his grip on Skalmir’s elbo
w.

  ‘I know you are not deaf. I have long suspected you are a Thyrslander, though your appearance tells me you were not always one.’

  Heart thundering, Skalmir confessed. ‘I was found on a doorstep in Netelchester when I was a babe,’ he said. ‘I do not know my heritage.’

  ‘With that height and that brow … your people must be from the central north of Is-hjarta. It is where my wife was from.’ He managed a pained smile. ‘You look very much like my son Helgi, who died before his nineteenth birthday.’

  Despite the fear and the pressure of time, Skalmir smiled too. He had heard Thorkel say the word ‘Helgi’ many times, but had thought it an Is-hjartan word, and not a name. ‘Is that why you have been so kind to me?’

  ‘A man does not become a healer to be unkind,’ Thorkel said.

  ‘You ought not have risked yourself.’

  ‘It is done now, and you must take your dog and go. Hakon suspects that –’

  The door opened again, and Thorkel leapt back. Hakon had returned, and this time at his side he had a small woman in a severe trimartyr scarf. Skalmir recognised her as Arna, daughter of the smith from the high street, a woman famed for knowing everyone else’s business. He knew immediately what would happen.

  Hakon spoke to her. ‘Is this a Thyrslander?’ he asked.

  She nodded, and Hakon strode towards Snowy. ‘No weakling without ears would be allowed to serve us! Did you think me a fool?’ he shouted, then rounded on Thorkel. ‘Why did you believe for a moment he was one of us? Are you out of your senses?’

  Before Thorkel had a chance to answer, Arna appeared at his elbow. ‘There’s more, my lord Hakon.’

  Skalmir willed her not to say it. His eyes flicked to Thorkel, who had moved away and crouched next to Thrymm, arms protectively around her.

  ‘This is not any Thyrslander,’ Arna said, a sly smile on her face. ‘This is Skalmir Hunter.’

  ‘And who is Skalmir Hunter?’

  ‘Bluebell’s husband.’

  Hakon turned, his eye fixed on Skalmir’s face. The dim light, the hot horror in Skalmir’s blood, made his face seem more monstrous. ‘You will come with me,’ Hakon said slowly, straining over intense emotion.