The Burning Sea (The Furyck Saga: Book Two)

by A. E. Rayne

  ‘Well, Varna says we will be victorious.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bayla scoffed. ‘Varna always says that. She wants to please your father. But have we ever been truly victorious? Have we taken their land and destroyed their army? No, not in my memory!’ she insisted. ‘We kill their men, burn their halls, but they never fall. They rise and rise again. Continue to keep us out. Continue to deny us what we need if Hest is to grow. More land. Fertile land. Not like this cumbersome rock we perch upon!’ She shook her head, and a loose, golden strand came undone from her softly bound bun. ‘And yet, your father still keeps going without any real purpose. He really is the most useless king Hest has ever had. His will be a legacy of abject failure.’

  Jaeger frowned, glancing quickly around, but the only people he could see were the blacksmith, the armourer, and their helpers; red-faced and furiously rushing to finish the new weapons and armour they would take to Skorro.

  ‘Oh, do not worry about his thick ears hearing my words. I know for certain that your father is down at the piers with Haegen and Karsten.’

  ‘But still...’

  ‘But still, nothing,’ she glowered. ‘I have been married to that man for 37 years. I remember when he was powerful and ruthless, handsome even... once,’ she sighed, her memory taunting her with the youthful images of a young couple in love. ‘But now? Now I have grown bored of looking at that crumbling face of his. Tired of listening to his voice hiss through his teeth because he’s too old and lazy to even open his mouth to speak. That sound! Like an odorous fart leaving a dead body! I would rather throw myself from the Tower than listen to another word hissed through that man’s teeth!’ Bayla’s own teeth were bared as she contemplated her husband with distaste. Haaron. Her king. She squeezed her heavily lined lips together.

  ‘Perhaps you are the one who needs more sleep, Mother?’ Jaeger suggested, bemused. Their shared contempt for Haaron was something they had always bonded over, but Bayla had grown overconfident in her position. A queen was never truly safe. Not one with a tongue as poisonous as Bayla Dragos. Not when there were scores of younger, prettier, and more amenable women waiting to take her place.

  Bayla smiled. ‘Well, I would say that the opposite is true. There is just so much to do when you’re not sleeping, I find. So much more fun to be had.’

  Jaeger stopped and turned to his mother. ‘You underestimate Father if you think he won’t care about what you do with other men. He will not wish to be made a fool of, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Why should either of us care what he thinks? When he cares so little for either one of us,’ she said dismissively, brushing away a pollinating bee. ‘You do realise that he is sending you to Skorro because Varna thinks there will be trouble there? He hasn’t told you that, has he?’ She stopped, suddenly anxious. ‘Perhaps he’s hoping that you and Berard won’t come back?’

  Jaeger looked up at the pale stone walls of the castle that Valder Dragos had started construction on centuries before. Each king that followed him had demanded it be grander, more imposing than the last. It had existed in a permanent state of incompletion, and even now, Jaeger could see the half-finished towers his father had ordered built, protruding from the roof.

  Jaeger sighed, certain that Haaron’s time would come to an end soon. He was an old man now, and the gods had surely had their fill of him. He had ultimately proven himself weak and a disappointment to all the ambitious kings who had come before him. But the one who would follow him? He would command an army so powerful that they would claim every kingdom in Osterland for Hest.

  But first, he had to find a way to unlock the secrets of that damned book.

  ‘Where’s Fyn?’ Jael called as Thorgils ambled across the stones towards them, his eyes barely open, straining against the unusually bright morning sun.

  ‘Who?’ he mumbled, shielding his face with one hand.

  Jael shook her head and turned to Aleksander. ‘He is such a giant turd.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Thorgils grinned as he stopped next to them. ‘Everything about me is giant. Everything!’ He winked at Aleksander.

  Jael rolled her eyes and wandered off, not bothering to wait for either man as she headed towards Eadmund who was busy running the archers through training drills. ‘Did your mother kill Fyn in the night and cook him up for breakfast?’ she called over her shoulder.

  ‘Ha! Very possibly. He was like a day old loaf of bread this morning, lying there snoring,’ Thorgils laughed as he followed after her. ‘So, I left him to the wrath of Odda. I expect we’ll soon see him charging down the hill with a flea in his ear!’

  ‘And probably ready to move straight into my house!’ Jael turned and smiled at him.

  ‘Who could blame him? With Biddy’s cooking and all those extras beds? Perhaps when your visitors leave, I shall join him? Keep you and Eadmund company!’ He nodded at Aleksander who was busy trying not to be annoyed that Jael had found herself so many new friends.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, what are those?’ Aleksander wondered, bemused by the wooden house-like structures that ran down the length of each ship.

  ‘That’s our plan to keep the arrows at bay,’ Jael informed him, nodding at Eadmund, who gave her a tight smile back. He had left before she had woken, without speaking to anyone.

  ‘What?’ Aleksander laughed. ‘You’re going to hide in your little houses until they run out of arrows?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Jael smiled, shaking her head. ‘Just watch before you scoff.’

  So, Aleksander did.

  Every house had four hinged flaps in its slanted roof; two on each side. Eadmund called ‘nock!’, ‘draw!’, then ‘open!’, and the flaps were shunted open by men holding long poles. The flaps hit wooden bracers that ran along the roof and stood up vertically as eight archers popped up, four in each hole, arrows nocked into their bowstrings. On Eadmund’s quickly followed shout of ‘aim!’, they narrowed on their target: a row of hide-wrapped shields set far out on the headland. Eadmund yelled, ‘release!’ and the arrows whistled through the air, then ‘down!’ and they ducked into the houses, the pole-men quickly pulling the flaps shut after them as the arrows slammed into the shields.

  But Eadmund didn’t stop there. His next call of ‘nock’ came after barely a breath, and he went through the entire drill again, and again, in quick succession.

  ‘Can you fit everyone in there?’ Aleksander mused. ‘A whole crew?’

  ‘Well, it’s a squeeze, especially around the mast, but yes, they can all fit in,’ Jael said confidently. ‘Hopefully, there will be enough room for the catapults in the space between the house and the bow. Beorn seems to think so.’

  Aleksander was impressed. ‘It’s a good idea. With the height they’ll have from the Tower, it will be raining arrows as you get closer. It won’t matter how many ships you bring with that advantage.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jael agreed. ‘It’s not perfect, and their arrows will penetrate the houses eventually, but it should lessen the impact. And if I know Haaron, he’ll be planning to have half our crews pinned to the decks before he attacks.’

  ‘He’ll be in for a surprise then, won’t he?’ Aleksander smiled.

  ‘Yes, but perhaps we’ll need to build some sort of shelter to help those working the catapults too?’ Thorgils frowned. ‘We won’t be able to launch any jars otherwise.’

  ‘Well, everyone’s going to have to grab a hammer then, aren’t they? With all this extra building, we’re going to be cutting it very fine,’ Jael muttered. ‘I should go and talk to Beorn. We’re in danger of overloading the ships. And we have to keep the jars from exploding before they’re launched, especially if they use fire-tipped arrows. We don’t want to be the ones sinking to the bottom of the Adrano!’

  ‘Ahhh, so much to do when you’re in charge, isn’t there, Jael?’ Thorgils grinned. ‘You’d better hop along then, leave the rest of us mortals to our training.’

  Aleksander turned to Jael. ‘You’re in charge? Of what?’

/>   Jael shrugged as she looked around for Beorn. ‘The fleet.’

  ‘Really? All of it?’ Aleksander was surprised. ‘You certainly seem to have earned Eirik’s trust. To put you in charge of his entire fleet?’

  ‘Well, you needn’t look so surprised!’ Jael sniffed. ‘I’m perfectly capable of leading a few ships.’

  Aleksander didn’t doubt it, but he smiled at her moodiness. He had missed her. Desperately. It was as if no time had passed at all and they had slipped back into an easy friendship. But there had been so much more to their relationship than that.

  Once.

  He hurried after Jael as she strode off towards Beorn, feeling the aching loss of her heart, which had once belonged solely to him.

  Fyn stopped to let a mother and her gaggle of bawling children pass. The red-faced woman gave him a frazzled nod of thanks and hurried away. He smiled to himself, feeling sorry for her, then turned towards the gates and came face to face with his father.

  ‘I think it’s time that you and I had a talk, don’t you?’

  Fyn felt the air rush from his lungs. He was taller and stronger than he had been a year ago. His arms and chest had filled out over the winter. A sword hung at his side now; a sword he knew how to use. But at that moment, under the scrutiny of his father’s cold, grey eyes, he felt all the confidence he had worked so hard to build, disintegrate. He didn’t know what to say. He was a boy again.

  Morac frowned, instantly irritated by the drooping, floppy-haired boy, who he had been thrilled to see the back of. He had changed, there was no doubting that, but everything about his stance, his look... everything reminded Morac that Fyn wasn’t his. And never would be.

  ‘A talk about what?’ Fyn croaked, trying to meet his father’s eyes with some courage.

  ‘Well, your mother is... unhappy that you left,’ Morac muttered as he motioned towards a table. Ketil already had a long line waiting for the charred meat that he and his sister served from their fire pit every day. But Morac had no appetite for food. He didn’t even have an appetite for this conversation, but he did want to appease Runa. Despite everything, he loved her, and he wanted her to be on his side. He needed to put his family back together, and for that to happen, he had to make peace with her son.

  Fyn sat down reluctantly, fingering the cold, iron pommel of his sword. He tried to remind himself how different he was from the boy who didn’t even know how to hold onto a weapon; tried to remember that he was about to go to battle, trusted to stand by Jael’s side, worthy of the two swords she had given him now. ‘I had no choice but to leave,’ he muttered. ‘After what you did.’

  Anger twitched at the corners of Morac’s unforgiving eyes. ‘What I did?’ he said slowly, taking a deep breath. ‘I did what I believed was the right thing.’ He laid his hands on the table, staring at them rather than Fyn. ‘I believed what I saw. What was happening.’

  Fyn shook his head, both cross at his father’s excuse, and uncomfortable with a return to the moment when Morac had discovered Tarak raping him and then convinced Eirik to banish him. For a year. But it was about so much more than that. It was a lifetime of feeling like a useless nothing around a man who had barely glanced at him since he’d been born. Who had never shown him a look of approval, nor affection. Who had never invested any time in training him how to be a man. Who had simply dismissed him and ignored him, and, in the end, been disgusted by him.

  He swallowed, tasting the bile in his mouth. ‘You didn’t even speak to me to find out what had happened... what he had been doing to me since I was a boy.’

  Morac’s eyebrows rose at that. He ignored a twinge of guilt and looked up. ‘I did what I thought was the right thing. But it appears that I made a... mistake. So, I am here to suggest that we bury it in the past, for your mother’s sake.’ He braved those skittish blue eyes, which were not his eyes at all. ‘Her happiness matters to both of us, I’m sure.’

  Fyn felt a spark of anger, furious that his mother had to put up with that miserable man again, when she had been so happy with just the two of them in the house. She had never looked so relaxed and carefree. ‘If her happiness mattered to you, why did you send her son away? Why did you leave her for so long?’ He stood up, pushing his shoulders back as he nervously readjusted his sword. He was shaking as he glared down at his father. ‘Her happiness matters to me. And as long as I have breath in my body, I will do everything I can to protect her from you. You will never hurt her, or me, again!’

  And with one last look filled with as much fury as Fyn could muster, he stormed off, trying to control his shaking knees, his palm sweaty on his sword.

  He didn’t look back.

  After spending most of the morning making decisions about how to adapt the ships with Beorn, Jael and Aleksander had hurried back to the house, both too distracted by thoughts of Edela to put their minds to much else. There had been no change, though, and Biddy had shooed them out after a while, insisting that Edela would hardly have a chance to recover if they sat on the bed, peering at her with their miserable faces for the rest of the day.

  ‘That salve reeks! I’m surprised Edela hasn’t woken up and insisted on a wash!’ Aleksander smiled, hoping to encourage Jael to do the same.

  ‘Mmmm,’ Jael murmured distractedly, noticing Fyn and Thorgils training in the drizzle. The morning’s clear weather had been quickly gobbled up by gloom and rain. ‘Entorp’s salve helped my arm heal quickly, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ Aleksander asked, worried, wanting to reach out and touch her. How odd it was, he realised, that he couldn’t anymore.

  Jael stopped at the railings of the Pit, nodding to Thorgils, who battered Fyn on the side of the head with his wooden sword. She smiled, then turned to Aleksander. ‘A mountainous beast broke it,’ she grinned, flexing her right arm. It ached constantly and was stiffer than her left, but she had been pleased with its progress and was relieved that she’d been able to train normally for the past few weeks.

  Aleksander raised an eyebrow, wanting to ask more but Jael’s eyes weren’t inviting any further questions.

  ‘Have you come to join in? Or do you just want to stand there and admire the quality on display?’ Thorgils grinned as he came sauntering over to the rails, leaving Fyn to pick himself up out of the mud.

  ‘What? You mean, Fyn?’ Jael smiled tartly.

  Thorgils ignored her entirely. ‘How about you then, Aleksander?’ he wondered. ‘Jael is always telling us how good her old training partner was. How we will never compare to the great Aleksander Lehr!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Isn’t that right, Fyn?’

  Fyn was digging mud out of his ear as he approached, looking a little nervous in the presence of the stern stranger. He smiled shyly at Aleksander through his hair but didn’t say a word.

  ‘Well, it’s true that not many could beat Jael in Brekka,’ Aleksander admitted.

  ‘Not many?’ Jael snorted.

  ‘Well, Gant could. Your father could.’

  ‘When I was a child, maybe!’

  Aleksander sucked in his cheeks. ‘Perhaps...’

  ‘But you beat her, didn’t you?’ Thorgils prodded. ‘Plenty of times?’

  Jael shot Aleksander a look that he happily ignored. ‘Not plenty of times,’ she insisted.

  Aleksander peered at her. ‘Have you been away from Brekka so long that your memories have already faded?’

  ‘A handful of times is not plenty of times. Once or twice is not plenty!’

  ‘Once or twice?’ Aleksander’s eyes widened. ‘What was in the salve that old man made you?’

  ‘Well, seems to me that you should resolve this difference of opinion,’ Thorgils suggested eagerly. ‘Don’t you think? Fyn and I need a little rest. We can watch and learn how the Brekkans do it.’

  Jael looked less keen. ‘Ahhh, I imagine Aleksander would not enjoy being made a fool of here, in front of all these hairy Osslanders.’ She swept her arm around the large, railed enclosure which was almost full o
f training matches.

  Aleksander shrugged. ‘No, I have no problem with that. But perhaps your arm is too weak to fight against me? Maybe it’s better if you just train with the Osslanders who will give you an easier time?’

  Thorgils licked his lips and grinned gleefully at Fyn. This was going to be fun. He knew Jael well enough now to know that she would not back away from that. He handed Aleksander his sword and ducked through the railings.

  ‘Oh, and who have you been training with? Axl?’ Jael retorted, taking the sword Fyn handed her as he came out to join them. She didn’t even look down at it as she eyed Aleksander. There was no smile on her face.

  ‘I have, actually,’ Aleksander said coolly. ‘And he’s getting much better because of it.’

  Jael noticed the joy on Thorgils’ face. She frowned. As much as she had missed fighting Aleksander, it was not necessarily the wisest thing to do. Half her mind was on Edela, and the rest was tangled up with thoughts of Eadmund. She was muddled, distracted, and irritable, but knew that there was nothing like fighting to release some tension. ‘Well then, perhaps I can teach you a few things to pass on to him?’ Jael raised an eyebrow, shrugging off her cloak as Thorgils whooped beside her. ‘This is the Pit,’ she smiled, slipping through the railings. ‘Come and see how we fight here on Oss.’

  Eadmund hadn’t wanted to go back to the house to eat. Aleksander and Jael had quickly become inseparable, and while he couldn’t blame her for wanting to show him around and discuss the upcoming battle, he was too out of sorts to want to witness any more of their obvious affection for one another.

  He’d slept badly, terrorised by dreams of Melaena, his first wife, and the reminder of how she had betrayed him with his brother. He felt such a fool for not seeing her true feelings, and it coloured everything he felt now when he looked at Jael. He was overcome with fear, hiding it behind a wall of simmering anger.