by A. E. Rayne
Meena gulped, gasping in discomfort, wanting to yank her hand away from him to tap her head. But she was too scared to say or do anything except crawl back into bed next to the still snoring Jaeger.
Satisfied, Egil shuffled back to his end of the chamber, determined to keep one eye on the door all night.
Thorgils sat beside his mother’s bed on a stool that was too small for him, listening to her chest rattle as her breathing gradually slowed to almost nothing. He wondered if she knew what was happening to her? Whether she could hear him anymore? Feel him next to her?
Whether she’d even care?
It was as though the gods had told him that it was time to say goodbye to one family so that he could start another.
Or were they just teasing him? Taunting him? Because Ivaar was coming and Ivaar was going to try and take back his wife and children.
Thorgils stood, groaning at the stiffness in his legs and back. He felt old. Bram was snoring loudly in one corner of the room, and the fire was burning down to embers, so Thorgils walked over to the wood pile and grabbed another log. Not many left. He would have to go and get some more soon.
But not yet. He didn’t want to leave Odda alone.
The flames sparked in protest, disappearing under the heavy log, but Thorgils knew they would emerge soon, so he turned back to his mother and held her limp hand in his. He blinked in the firelight which was gradually getting brighter now. Odda’s mouth still hung open.
But he couldn’t see her chest moving anymore.
25
Hanna had been up since dawn, packing her few belongings into an old leather satchel. She had her mother’s comb, more of the symbol stones, a handful of the gold coins her father had given her, and hopefully, enough food to see her to Hest. She had borrowed an almost-new dress from a friend, and that friend had kindly braided her hair, lending her two brooches and a necklace made of delicate glass beads.
She wanted to present herself as though she was a respectable lady; someone who would fit into Hest, not stand out or be judged as she was in Tuura, where everyone had assumed that she was someone she was not. Hanna supposed that she had never given them reason not to think that she was a woman who gave her body to men in return for coins. But the only ones to befriend her had been those sort of women: big-hearted, less inclined to judge. They had taken her in, and her life amongst them had shielded her from any suspicion. When Marcus visited her, no one suspected that his motives weren’t simply carnal.
The pretence was uncomfortable, but it had protected them until now, when her father was as unsafe as he had ever been and she was about to sail into more danger than she could have imagined.
But, she smiled as she closed the door to her tiny cottage, she was eager to begin.
Ivaar woke with a familiar pain in the side of his head, cringing as he looked around for water. For anything to drink. His throat was so dry.
He blinked repeatedly, trying to pry open his eyes, relieved to hear no rain, no wind whistling around the hall. Yawning, he struggled to his feet, rubbing his face as he peered at the tangle of sleepy, ale-soaked bodies that lay sprawled around the fire. Toe to ear and elbow to nose they had squeezed themselves into Frits’ meagre hall.
It was a freezing bitch of an island, and no one had wanted to sleep outside, yet, by the look of how many bodies he could count, most had.
Ivaar yawned again, then frowned at the sight of Falla Hallstein as she appeared from behind the bedchamber curtain, Borg Arnesson at her side, his tattooed arm curled over her shoulder, gripping her exposed breast.
Ivaar stilled, cocking his head to one side, feeling as though everything was about to fall apart. ‘My lady,’ he nodded to Falla. ‘And where is your husband this morning?’
Falla laughed, smiling sleepily. ‘That old bastard?’ She inclined her head towards the floor.
Ivaar looked down, swallowing at the sight of Frits, who lay between two snoring Kalfans, his throat slit, his glazed eyes frozen in shock; dried blood colouring his tunic a deep, dark red. Ivaar licked his salty lips, not wanting to appear as stunned as he was. He glanced up at Borg and Falla. ‘I see. Well, it appears that no one has a problem with that,’ he said slowly, running his eyes over the men who were busy farting and groaning as they fumbled about, unconcerned that their lord was no more.
‘Why should they? They have a new lord, with more ships, more men. More ambition,’ Borg snarled. ‘Besides, the old man was ready to die. Anyone could see that. And his wife was ready for a new husband. So, we all win, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well, as you say, we all win, especially when we get to Oss and dig up the gold.’
‘Ahhh, about that,’ Borg said carefully, kneading Falla’s ample breast with his filthy palm. ‘I’ve sent Toki back to Alekka, to Tingor. It makes no sense to attack your brother without enough men. My cousins will come. They have nine ships between them. At least three hundred men. I’m sure you agree that we need as many men as possible to make a success of our endeavour.’ His eyes didn’t leave Ivaar’s. They were sharp, glinting threateningly in the light from the hall doors, open now as men stumbled outside to piss.
Ivaar was sure that he didn’t agree, but he appeared to have no choice, outnumbered now as he was.
Gerod was not impressed as he rounded on Marcus. It was early, and he had dragged the elderman from his bed, demanding answers that, so far, were not forthcoming.
Marcus’ empty belly growled endlessly, though he had no real appetite.
It only served to irritate Gerod further. ‘Jael Furyck has that book!’ he hissed through bared teeth. His black hair fringed his face, making his skin appear ghostly white. His clear, blue eyes were bright with anger. ‘They saw it! They all saw it! In Tuura! In Hest!’
Marcus did not step back as Gerod challenged him, jutting his pointy chin towards his face. Marcus was taller. Bigger. Stronger. But nowhere near as powerful now. Yet, despite how determined Gerod was to intimidate him, Marcus saw no point in allowing him to have his way.
And he had no intention of saying anything that would lead The Following to the book.
‘Then why can’t they see where it is now?’ Marcus asked calmly. ‘If Jael Furyck still has it, why can’t they see where it is?’
Gerod glared at the elderman, then snapped his head around, pacing up and down the dark chamber; past the blackened fireplace, around Marcus’ chair. ‘Perhaps she knows spells? How to hide the book?’
Marcus snorted. ‘I’m sure the dreamers will tell you that that is not true. As far as I’m aware, she has only just acknowledged that she is a dreamer. I hardly think she knows what to do about that yet, especially with her grandmother so ill.’
‘Then the girl, the blind girl, she’s a dreamer!’ Gerod snarled.
Marcus shook his head. ‘Perhaps the dreamers are not telling you everything you need to know,’ he said carefully. ‘Eydis Skalleson? First of all, she is blind. She cannot read a book. And even if she could, she does not know Tuuran. She does not know spells. She does not even know her own dreams yet.’ He tried to look disappointed. ‘I thought you would have been told all of that.’
Gerod blinked at the insult. He was sure it was an insult. ‘Well, someone has that other book. Someone knows where it is. And if they don’t? Well, perhaps it doesn’t even matter. We will kill her anyway!’
Marcus swallowed, trying to keep his face neutral. Gerod had always been so desperate for power, but even though he had now taken it, Marcus could sense his hesitation. ‘And you’re ready for that, are you? Ready to have the Islanders at the gates? The Brekkans? All of them? You’re ready to begin your war? Now?’
Gerod’s eyes shone feverishly. ‘Her husband would not come to avenge her,’ he scoffed. ‘Not when he has Evaine Gallas in his bed!’
Marcus shook his head slowly. ‘I do wonder who you have been speaking with to suggest such a thing.’
‘He is bound to Evaine. Soul bound now!’ Gerod insisted. ‘That cannot be undo
ne.’
‘So I hear,’ Marcus sighed, as if bored. ‘But Jael Furyck is still the Queen of Oss, and he is loyal to her, despite any feelings he may think he has for the Gallas girl. As is her brother. And his Brekkan army. And they will come, so you had better be ready to defend this fort if you intend to kill her now.’
Hanna swallowed nervously as she approached the merchant ship gently butting the very end of the pier. It looked the least impressive of the four ships in Tuura’s small harbour, but she had a feeling that it was the one to try. She had asked around in the tavern and been told that they would be heading south soon. She only hoped that the helmsman could be trusted to get her to Hest. And quickly. She had coins in her purse, and they jingled in time to the nervous beat of her heart.
‘Are you Ulf?’ Hanna called out hoarsely. Clearing her throat, she tried again. ‘Ulf?’ she asked. ‘Kirta sent me. She said that you were leaving today. That I could possibly find passage to Hest?’
The helmsman turned to squint down at her. He was a roughly hewn man of numerous sea journeys, with a threadbare cloak that gave Hanna hope that he wouldn’t mind her coins at all.
‘Hest?’ he grumbled. ‘Looking to find yourself a rich husband?’
‘I might be,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘But I have more than enough coins to get me there if that’s what you’re worried about. More waiting here if you return me quickly.’ She reached into her purse and pulled out a gold coin. ‘If, of course, gold is what you’re after?’
The glint in the helmsman’s sharp eyes was encouraging. He looked like a starving dog who’d just been thrown a tasty bone. Hanna stood up straighter and walked towards his ship with more confidence now, eager to be gone.
Bayla rapped on Haaron’s door until he opened it, grumbling to himself, wondering where his servants had disappeared to.
Why was the King of Hest answering his own door?
He looked at his wife, wanting to feel pleased that she was here, but the scowl on her face was so darkly familiar that he sighed in anticipation of the storm he was about to be battered by.
‘What were you thinking?’ Bayla spat as she strode past him. She had obviously taken the time to work her temper into a frothing, steaming frenzy while she was bathed and dressed. Her hair had been intricately braided, her face highlighted with soft shades of pink. Jewels dripped from her ears, her wrists, her neck.
Bayla had certainly made an effort to come and tell him just how much she hated him.
‘I was thinking of the best thing for Hest,’ Haaron insisted, hungry and distracted. ‘Our sons do nothing. They have learned nothing coddled here like babies. I have failed them all! The best preparation they can have to be king here, whoever it ends up being, is to learn how to lead. How to rule. How to succeed. They cannot, and have not, done that here, hiding behind your skirts and my sword!’
Bayla was surprised by how sensible an argument that was. But still. ‘All of them?’ she asked. ‘Why all of them?’ She shook her head, working herself back up into a frenzy. ‘I hardly think that Berard will end up being king here and Jaeger is your fourth son! Why send them away as well?’
Haaron raised an eyebrow, knowing that Bayla, his sharp-tongued, angry wife, was a smarter person than that. ‘Now, now, let’s not play games, my dear. We both know that your place in line does not determine where your ambitions lie. And our youngest son is obviously our most ambitious. Or are you choosing to only look at him with one eye now?’
Bayla sucked on her bottom lip, glaring at her husband.
‘How does it hurt any of them to become lords? To be in charge of their own domain? To rule their own people? How am I doing anything wrong by suggesting such a thing? They are men! Grown men!’
‘You are sending them away from their home! From all they know!’
Haaron laughed. ‘They are not little boys, Bayla! They have wives! They have children! They have fought in battles. They are men, Dragos men, but they are not good enough to succeed me. They do not know enough. I must leave Hest in experienced hands. Not the soft, weak hands of an entitled brat who thinks that all he has to do is sit on the dragon throne and snap his fingers to keep this kingdom in Dragos hands for all eternity.’
Bayla frowned as he stepped forward, reaching out for her.
‘Fine. Send three of them away then,’ she said coolly, shaking him off. ‘Surely, three is enough? Send three away, but leave me one son. That is all I ask.’
Haaron rolled his eyes. ‘One son? I don’t suppose I need to guess who that would be.’
Bayla looked at him and smiled.
Jael laughed at the look on her cousins’ faces as they glanced at each other. They didn’t know where to put themselves, never having fought a woman before. Especially one who was their cousin and a queen.
Fyn knew how they felt, remembering the first time he’d faced up to Jael. He couldn’t even hold onto a sword back then. How quickly she had turned him around.
Jael swung her practice sword from side to side, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She was desperate for a release from the tension of the past few days. And if it wasn’t going to be her hesitant cousins... she looked around the ring. It was a small, pathetic training ring with railings in need of repair. Not big enough to have much fun, but anything was better than waiting inside Branwyn’s house for something bad to happen.
‘Anyone else?’ she called to the men who leaned over the railings, staring at her. The Osslanders made no move to enter the ring. The Tuurans who weren’t scowling at her looked on curiously.
But no one volunteered.
Jael didn’t move but her eyes sought out Fyn. ‘Well, looks like it’s just you and me, Fyn Gallas!’
Fyn gulped as he stepped forward, recognising that glint in her eyes; wishing that Thorgils was here to take his place.
‘I’ll fight you, Queen of Oss,’ said a deep voice, rising over the murmuring crowd.
Jael turned to watch one of the temple guards duck through the railings. She recognised him. He was the one who had threatened her for the book in Branwyn’s house. He looked like a commander. Tall, emotionless, broad-chested. Strong. Arrogant.
Flexing one fist, he strode towards her, his other hand wrapped firmly around his practice sword, his eyes on her.
Ready.
Jael smiled.
They were all gathered in the hall for breakfast, waiting patiently as the slaves brought around their bowls.
Bayla looked as though she was going to cry, Haaron thought to himself. Was she finally softening in her old age? He shook his head and lifted a spoonful of cloudberries into his mouth. ‘And why is it that I’ve heard everyone’s grumbles but yours?’ he wondered, turning to Karsten who was ripping off a corner of warm bread to dip into his porridge.
Karsten shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t see what’s wrong with becoming a lord. Leaving here? It’s no hardship that I can see, although...’ he glanced down the table, to where Nicolene and Irenna had their heads together. ‘If you ask my wife, I’m tearing her away from civilisation itself,’ he snorted. ‘I don’t imagine she’s going to enjoy Kroll.’
Haaron almost felt sorry for Karsten as he thought of Nicolene stranded in the barren countryside, so far from anything resembling castle life. Haegen was surely going to have a better time with Irenna, who seemed far more inclined to be practical and accommodating. ‘Well, there’s always Vesta. No doubt your mother is already making plans for your return. She will miss the children, I imagine. Even her own.’
Karsten nodded. ‘I expect so, but she’ll have Jaeger now, won’t she?’
Haaron sucked in a sharp breath, almost inhaling a berry. ‘Your mother can be very persuasive when she wants to be.’
‘That she can. Although, perhaps she has persuaded you to keep the wrong son? It might have been wiser to send Jaeger as far away as possible,’ Karsten whispered, his eyes on Nicolene. She seemed oblivious to the fact that he was there, watching as she stared at his brother. ‘I’m not
sure that Jaeger is such good company anymore.’
Haaron grunted. ‘Yes, he has become more unpredictable. Less aware of his place in this family.’
Karsten inclined his head towards Haaron. ‘Best you watch your back, Father. From what I hear, your new dreamer spends a lot of time in his chamber. As does my wife.’
Haaron blinked, surprised on both counts.
Aleksander was relieved. They finally had horses. Three of them. Clear-eyed, glossy-coated, well cared for horses. They had even managed to buy some apples, smoked pork, and a wedge of hard cheese from the greedy farmer they had come across, who was eager to part with anything for a handful of their silver coins, much to his wife’s annoyance. Greedy, but not particularly savvy, Aleksander thought to himself as he listened to how many more coins still jangled in his pouch.
But now they could ride, although, just as they departed the farm, the rain came down again and they couldn’t see anything ahead but threatening storm clouds promising a very miserable journey to Tuura.
But hopefully, no ravens.
Jael felt a sudden lack of confidence as she shuffled her legs apart, balancing herself. It wasn’t helped by the way the guard was glaring at her: as though he wanted to break her. Not just beat her, or humiliate her, but actually break her into tiny pieces.
Her limbs felt stiff and heavy, covered in bird holes, stinking of the stomach-churning salve, and she couldn’t remember the last time that she’d broken a sweat in a training ring. Jael shook her head as she walked up to meet her opponent, smiling as she thought of the advice she would have given Thorgils if his mind was as scattered as hers.