by M. A. Grant
The discovery of rustic stone walls is a boon. We follow the line and soon enough we catch the whiff of wood smoke and cooking fires. Keiran and I make our way up a gentle hill, following the scents. The village has to be on the other side.
Turns out, the village is there. But any hope we had for a peaceful arrival vanishes at the scene unfolding. Keiran grabs me by the shoulder and drags me down behind the wall. We give it a moment, then, together, crane our heads up over the edge of the wall to spy. We’re too far away to hear anything, but we don’t need to.
The horsemen having a standoff against a crowd of armed villagers are too distracted to notice us. They point at the village and move to enter through the gate. A tall woman brandishes a sword; she’s backed by a large group of villagers, all armed with weapons and farming tools. They mimic her when she steps forward to the riders and lifts her sword. Faced with a bristling wall, the horsemen give up. They wave their arms and shout, but don’t retaliate. Instead, they ride away.
The villagers linger, checking the road as if they expect the riders to come back. Keiran and I duck back behind the wall and exchange wary looks.
“Should we?” I ask.
“We don’t have much choice,” he points out. “We need horses.”
“A bath sounds nice.” I think a moment longer. “Food too.”
He snorts, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he takes a breath and stands. With his dark cloak, imposing height, and broad shoulders, there’s no way of hiding again. He fiddles with his cloak so a fold of fabric covers up Aage’s brooch before offering me a hand. “Shall we?”
Once I’m upright, we clamber over the wall and begin a slow trudge down the rest of the hill toward the village. The woman who led the defense stands by the gate. Her hand rests on the pommel of her sword, but she smiles as she watches us. She doesn’t speak when we hit the road, but instead waves for us to follow her. The other villagers still on watch don’t seem bothered by our presence, although a few cast curious glances as we pass. Once we’re safely inside the gate, the woman turns back to us.
“I’m Hedda,” she says, still resting her hand on her sword. “You must be the poor bastards they’re looking for.”
Villagers wait around us, watching Hedda. I can’t sense any threat of violence, but their attention is still unnerving.
“Why poor bastards?” I ask.
Hedda laughs. “Dykstra’s men rarely wander into our lands. They never do so en masse, or demand we turn over a pair of traitors. Whoever they’re looking for must be important, and it’s a little too convenient that you appear right after they’ve ridden away.”
“Traitors?” Keiran asks, his brow furrowed.
“There was an attempted coup at the assembly.” Hedda shrugs. “Thegn Aage must have put it down swiftly for the rebels to flee like this. News reached Dykstra’s lands before ours. It’s not uncommon for them to come deliver messages, though I’m not sure why they assume rebels would find safety here. I’m sure we’ll hear all about it from Huscarl Olofsdotter soon enough.”
“Oh, shit,” I mumble.
Keiran digs an elbow into my ribs and scowls, but it’s too late. Hedda caught my comment. She starts to draw her sword. I put a hand on Keiran’s chest and try to step in front of him as I draw a seax, and then, in the midst of our split-second reactions, Keiran sighs and flips the fold of his cloak aside. Aage’s brooch catches the sunlight and Hedda freezes. She stares at the brooch, steps back, and reassesses us with wide eyes.
Keiran doesn’t try to move past me, but he does hold out a hand to show we’re not threats. “We are not the traitors,” he tells her quietly. He glances at me and adds, “Show her, seidhr.”
As my thegn commands. I drop my arm and draw up my glamour. The weight of my helm returns. For a moment, I bury myself in my sorrow at the loss of this title. I’ve missed its solemnity, its purpose. Hedda gasps—perhaps from Keiran’s use of my former title, or from my glamour—and the surrounding villagers begin murmuring and drawing closer.
“You—” she starts, pointing at me, but turns her attention to Keiran before she finished her thought. “The seidhr never travels without his poet.”
Keiran tilts his head in agreement. Hedda abandons her sword and points to Keiran’s cloak. “That crest—It can’t be—”
“We need food and shelter,” Keiran says. “We don’t have anything we can trade you in exchange for such charity but a story.” I know and love the stubborn jut of his chin, the way his voice rumbles and rises so anyone nearby can hear him. “Though the ending is yet unknown.”
The villagers shift around us, looking to each other before deferring to Hedda. She finally releases her grip on the sword and wipes her palm against her dress. “Follow me.”
She takes us to the village’s hall, where we’re shown to a private room and offered some clean clothes to wear while our current garments are washed and hung by the fire to dry. One of the older women is even kind enough to heat us buckets of water so we can scrub the dust of the road away. We emerge to find the whole village—minus the watch—gathered in the hall. Bowls of stew are pushed into our hands, mugs of light ale are plunked down in front of us, and Hedda gives us long enough to eat before asking, “What happened at the assembly?”
Keiran tells them. He holds nothing back; there’s no reason to hide who I am now that Goodfellow will happily share the truth of my position to gain the people’s trust. There are cries of disbelief when Keiran exposes Goodfellow, followed by cries of sorrow when he describes how Aage and Breoca fell. By the time he relates the deaths of Thorburn and Olofsdotter, the crowd has descended into grim horror that can’t be lifted, even when he relates the clan heads pledging their allegiance to him in the forest. There’s no comfort in this tale; there’s nothing but the promise of war and violence.
“Goodfellow marched on the Summer Court,” Keiran finishes, “but a group of his followers are tracking us and the rest of Aage’s supporters. The men who were just here, Dykstra’s riders, have joined with your huscarl’s murderer.”
“We should have killed them,” Hedda says. The crowd murmurs their agreement. Her voice is rough from unshed tears, but her expression is resolute. “What do you need?”
“Time,” I say. It’s the first I’ve spoken and Keiran’s surprised by my interjection. I clear my throat, set down my mug, and add, “And horses, if you can spare them. We’re gathering forces across the Northern Realms in preparation for Goodfellow’s assault. Messengers who survived the assembly are riding across the Wylds to warn everyone and to ask fighters to join us for the battle ahead. The army will rally in Voll’s lands for inspection before the next move is decided. But we can’t do any of that if Goodfellow’s followers find us. Keiran is the rightful inheritor of the Iron Crown and Goodfellow knows it. He intends to murder Keiran before anyone outside his group of supporters hears the truth.”
“I don’t...” Keiran frowns and trails off. Watching his search for words is almost painful. The man can tell stories about me and the Hunt all day without hesitation, but the moment he has to discuss himself, those words vanish. I will spend the rest of my life spreading his legend if we survive this. He finally gives a shake of his head and says loudly, “You don’t know me. You have no reason to place your faith in me. I am no great ring-giver. I am not your thegn. He lies dead in the once-sacred hall of Krigsmöte. But whether you choose to flee from Goodfellow’s army, or fight at my side, I will offer my life in your service.”
A young man, barely past adolescence, is the first to rise and come forward. Keiran lifts his face to meet the man’s frown, but doesn’t do or say anything to sway the situation to his favor. The man nods at whatever he sees and drops to a knee. “I know your stories and have heard of your battles with the Hunt. I know you, and you alone, wear the brooch of my thegn. I pledge my service to you and beg you to let me ride out tonight to spread this tale to our
people.”
Keiran swallows hard. “What’s your name?”
“Toke.”
He reaches out to settle a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder and his voice is low and warm when he says, “You honor me with your pledge. Safe travels.”
Toke rises and strides from the hall with his head held high. His courage opens the floodgates. The villagers come forward to pledge to Keiran. Some promise to come fight for him, others follow in Toke’s steps to ride out and warn neighboring towns, while others still promise to prepare the town for its evacuation. As the pledges go on, I move until I’m standing at Keiran’s back. He leans against me and lets me press my hand against his shoulder blade, offering silent encouragement. At long last, it’s over.
Hedda, who pledged her sword, gestures back toward our room. “You need rest. We’ll keep a watch for Dykstra’s men, but I doubt they’ll return so soon. When you wake, the horses will be ready. We’ll make sure you have other supplies as well.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. Keiran murmurs his thanks as well, which she’s quick to wave off.
“You are our thegn,” she declares. “You stood unflinching before a serpent who cheated to steal the crown. You fought beside our huscarl and the warriors who went with her to honor Aage. You honor their sacrifice by pledging your life to us. This is the least we can do.”
He nods and lets me guide him from the hall back to our room. I close the door behind us and lean against it. He walks to the center of the room and stares blankly at the small fire in the hearth. He doesn’t reach for his belt, the only piece of clothing he refused to part with, which is one less problem to deal with. His utter lack of movement is concerning though.
I try to keep my voice light when I call, “Keir?”
His hand flexes against his leg, but there’s no other sign he heard me.
I’m not sure where he’s lost inside his head, but I won’t leave him to face those thoughts alone. I cross the room to him and press myself against his back, slipping my arms around his waist and burying my face against his spine. He’s too stiff, rigid like he is before a battle. All I can do is squeeze him gently in a show of support.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whisper against his skin.
A full-body shudder wracks him, deeply enough I have to readjust my grip, but he still doesn’t speak.
“So proud,” I repeat. “You were honest and kind and even though we couldn’t be bearers of good news, you still managed to give them hope.”
“They pledged themselves to me, Lugh. They’re willing to die for me.” It’s a fearful, broken statement, one so shrouded in horrified wonder, I don’t know what to say.
He won’t budge. He plants himself in this spot like a sun-stricken troll, a statue of the heaviest stone. Rather than fight him, I go around so we’re facing each other. My heart aches. Tears spill over his lashes and snake their way down his cheeks into his beard. He held himself together in the hall, but now he’s breaking apart.
“Oh, Keir,” I murmur.
He only cries harder, so I reach up and clasp his face in my hands, using my thumbs to wipe away what I can. He turns to press his face into my palm and I let him sob against my skin. He cries until my arm’s gone numb from how long I’ve kept it raised in this one position. He cries until my back aches and a chill creeps in because the fire’s started to die down. He cries until there’s nothing left, and then he stays, just breathing through the pain. After a long, long time, he sucks a ragged inhalation. His red-rimmed gaze finds mine and holds.
“Lugh,” he rasps, “they’re going to die for me.”
The reality of war looms before us like a yawning grave.
“Yes,” I whisper back, stepping in so close our chests bump together, “they will.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” he asks.
My smile’s a hideous thing, stretching painfully at my mouth. “Of course it does. But what bothers me more is you thinking you’re not worth such devotion. You deserve the world, Keir. You always have.”
He closes his eyes and a few last tears leak free. I only catch his mumbled, “Can we go to bed?” because I’m standing so close.
He relaxes from my chaste, fleeting kiss. “Yes. I want to hold you. Nothing else, I promise. I need to fall asleep with you in my arms.”
That’s all the coaxing he needs. He lets me undress him, draw back the blankets, and cover him up before I strip off my clothes and crawl into my side of the bed. He hums when I curl against his back. I drape an arm over his waist and snuggle into the warm expanse of skin only broken by the occasional shift of his shoulder blades.
“Is this okay?” I ask him.
He gives a drowsy nod. “It’s everything I need,” he whispers before we both fall into deep sleep.
* * *
We leave the village before dawn. I deliver the shade’s message to his sister and Keiran garners Hedda’s promise to have her people follow soon after us. Then, we ride.
Each town we stop in leads to a pledging ceremony. Keiran’s train of supporters grows, and by the time we arrive in Voll’s lands, a small army follows at our backs, less than a day’s ride behind us.
We find the large encampment of the Northern army waiting on the shores of the sea to make the final crossing into Mother’s lands. The crowds there send up rousing cheers when we arrive, greeting Keiran with reverence and pride. The survivors of the Assembly have spread his message across the Wylds and the fighters who joined their cause are devoted to securing Keiran’s rule and the continuation of the traditions that have defined their culture for so long. Goodfellow was a fool to think all the Sluagh would accept his rule when he broke their long-established rules to seize it.
The Hunt and pair of Sluagh decoys arrive a day after we do, tired, but safe. They led Goodfellow’s forces through the most dangerous regions of the Wylds before their pursuers gave up, allowing them to travel North freely. Keiran and I are both grateful to be back with our family, and our own horses, as we try to navigate our changed circumstances.
Each day, more and more troops arrive, as well as refugee villagers who chose to flee with their warriors rather than face Goodfellow’s oncoming army alone. There are daily meetings to discuss the war preparations and to meet with displaced people. Keiran requests the guidance and counsel of the huscarls, which earns him even more support, especially when they tell and retell the story of his fight with Goodfellow at the assembly.
He hates hearing those stories. I think it’s why he tries to distract the Sluagh by reciting old legends and quests at the nightly, community-wide gatherings. His efforts at humility only make the people love him more, something I understand intimately. When I hear his voice lifting over the sounds of open campfires and watch the crowd as they react to his recitations, I wonder if my love for him will cause my chest to split open and expose my heart to the world. It wouldn’t be a hardship if it did happen. I’ve no shame about the depth of my devotion.
Keiran’s admired, loved even, and most see him as the burgeoning thegn leading his people into the Winter Court’s lands to face down Queen Mab. Excited whispers already drift around him when he walks past fires and training areas. The huscarls have shared how he’ll face my mother and demand equality in exchange for the Sluagh’s support against Goodfellow. That’s always been the plan, one Keiran staunchly upholds in public. He shoulders his people’s expectations like he was born to carry the weight; he never falters, he never breaks, he never shows any sign of doubt. But no one else gets to see him at night in the privacy of our tent.
They don’t realize how little he’s eating. They never notice how he seems afraid of his berserkir belt now, but can’t stand being parted from it. They don’t hear him whispering his fears about facing my mother into the darkness, purging himself of those gnawing worries before he can close his eyes to doze for a few hours. Those moments are ours.
Never is that clearer than this morning, when I stand close to him as we stare out at the waves and listen to the camp behind us being torn down and packed up. I’m the only one who can look at him in this faint light and see the tension in the line of his mouth or the set of his shoulders. I’m the only one who can step closer, until we’re pressed against each other, and lend him the strength and tranquility to breathe until some of those fears abate.
He’s been nervous since we woke. The last group of fighters making up the bulk of our Northern army arrived last night. We’re hundreds strong, already rivaling the Winter Court’s army, and Kermode’s and Thorburn’s forces have yet to meet us in the heart of Mother’s lands. It’s not the overwhelming odds I promised Roark and Mother, nor the routing force we agreed so long ago that we needed to defeat the Summer Court, but it’s the only army we might coax to fight with us against this new threat. None of us expected Goodfellow’s coup. His actions have changed everything, and I need to get home to warn Mother of the enemy she’s about to face. My desire to destroy Goodfellow seems enough to placate the draugr, who hasn’t woken on our ride north. There’s a chance it recognizes my efforts to avenge it, though I fear its peace is due more to the promise of the war’s coming destruction.
Destruction Keiran can’t stop worrying about, since he asks, “Do you think they’re ready?”
“Those coming with us are.”
“I’m worried about the rest,” Keiran admits. “Not our warriors.”
“It’s not a long journey to Járnhelm,” I remind him. “The villagers are well supplied. Besides, the likelihood of Goodfellow traveling so far out of his way to attack a defensive settlement is slim. You know that. It’s why Voll is sending them there.”