Kings of Fate A Prequel Novella

by A. E. Rayne

  Jael waited, listening to the frantic gallop of her heart, feeling her body pulse in time, sensing Aleksander stop behind her. More and more Andalans were congregating in the gloomy square, quiet and curious, eyes fixed on Jael. Everyone knew what Tig meant to her. Ranuf had given that bad-tempered stallion to his daughter when she was a girl. Her first proper horse. They had been inseparable ever since.

  Some whispered that Jael loved that horse more than anyone.

  They would have been right.

  Jael glared at Lothar who appeared to be shrinking into his cloak; the thick rolls of fat around his neck almost swallowing his globulous face. ‘And what problem is that?’ She turned to eye Gudrum, her voice iron-edged.

  Lothar coughed, aware of what a public spectacle this was suddenly becoming. In the smoky darkness of the hall, with a cup of his best wine in an unsteady hand and the plump, delicious Myra squirming in his lap, Gudrum’s proposal had sounded too perfect to resist.

  Lothar had imagined the pleasure he would take in such a moment; the warm glow of delight he would feel watching his niece squirm. But now, in the bleak light of morning, with bile swilling around his mouth, and the silent judgment of the gathered Andalans all too obvious to see, he realised that he was walking the finest of lines. Clearing his throat, Lothar turned to the crowd, sweeping his arms around. ‘Gudrum lost a son! You all know that! He is entitled to a blood price! Ranuf owed him that, but he refused! Gudrum, in his wisdom, left Andala, knowing that to stay would only cause problems. And now he has returned. Not for revenge! But to claim that which is owed to him! What you owe him!’ Lothar insisted, rounding on his niece. ‘What you must pay!’

  ‘And you think a horse can replace a son?’ Jael tried to sound amused, her voice carrying across the square. ‘He would rather have a horse than gold? Than revenge? Than my life?’ She spun around, aware of the crowd, wanting their support. There were titters of amusement, smiles and nods. ‘Tig is a skilled horse, I know, but even he couldn’t hold a sword in battle!’

  Laughter now; red-nosed, white-breathed Andalans laughing along with their former princess. The one who should have been their queen.

  Lothar could feel their warmth towards Jael, and his face flushed with irritation. ‘Gudrum is welcome to choose another price!’ he decided, rethinking how much value there was in substituting a horse for the death of his niece. He would much rather get rid of the latter, and he’d never even noticed the former. ‘Perhaps this should be settled with swords? It would seem only fair. And we all know how eager my niece is to use her sword!’

  Sensing that everything was about to unravel, Osbert hurried forward, wanting to dissuade his father from making a catastrophic mistake. Giving away Jael’s horse was a stupid idea that would endear him to no one. Offering her up to be killed was an even more foolhardy decision that he didn’t want his father to make.

  But Gudrum was quicker.

  He was a man of occasion. He knew the power of a crowd; how easily the roar of displeasure could undo a weak leader’s resolve. And Lothar had always been a weak, greedy man, which is why Ranuf had banished him from Brekka years ago. ‘I have no desire to shed more blood! And I will not displease the gods by killing a Furyck! But my son is dead! All these years I have been without him, yet I have not sought revenge! And I seek none now! I only want a fair price for the loss of my boy!’ His voice sounded full of pain, but Jael was close enough to see Gudrum’s conniving eyes. She saw the hint of a smile teasing the corners of his bearded lips. And she could feel the pleasure he was taking from watching her squirm.

  Tig threw back his head, wanting to go to Jael, and Gudrum yanked harshly on his reins.

  Jael instinctively reached for her sword. She could hear the murmurs, sense the nods of acceptance that Gudrum was making not only a fair point but an honourable one. ‘That may be so, but since my horse didn’t kill your son, it doesn’t seem like a fair price to me. Why punish him for something I did? Or is it that all your years in Iskavall have turned you soft, Gudrum Killi? There have been no songs sung about you, no stories told in the King’s Hall that I remember. Warunda was here only last month, yet your name didn’t pass his lips once. Is that because the boy on Iskavall’s throne has no need for an old man who’s lost his edge? If you ever had one in the first place!’ Jael stepped forward, snarling. She could sense Gudrum trying to wheedle out of the trap she needed to force him into, and the one Lothar seemed happy to help her set.

  She had to fight Gudrum. She had to kill him.

  He couldn’t take Tig.

  Gudrum’s eyes sparked with anger, and as he jerked forward, Lothar stepped back. He had spent a lot of time watching Gudrum fight over the years, and he knew that Jael was quite wrong in her assumptions. Gudrum Killi’s skill with a sword had not diminished at all.

  Gudrum twisted Tig’s reins around a filthy hand, losing patience with the foul-tempered, skittery horse and his spitting owner. ‘Perhaps I am not the man I was,’ he growled, jaw clenched. ‘After you killed Ronal, I was lost. My wife died of a broken heart, her only child murdered. So yes, without my family, what did I have left?’ He shook his head, eyes up on the crowd again, seeking their favour. ‘I have no desire to kill you, Jael. I don’t wish to spill any blood to avenge my son. That won’t bring him back. I’m leaving Osterland. Heading for Alekka and a new life. I want nothing else from you or your family.’ He looked at Lothar, eyes suddenly misty. ‘I only ask for this horse. To settle matters.’

  Murmurs of sympathy grew.

  ‘No!’ Jael knew that she had lost the crowd, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She felt no sympathy for Gudrum. His son had been a shit. A terrorising shit who had made her life miserable for years. Unhappy with continually being bested by her in the training ring, he had stalked her, waiting until she was alone. Wanting to humiliate her, to hurt her. Finding new ways to do just that, until he finally killed her beloved dog, right in front of her, his friends holding her back, making her watch. ‘No!’

  ‘It’s a fair payment, Jael.’ Osbert pushed himself in between Jael and Gudrum, much to his father’s annoyance. Much to Tig’s annoyance too, who shook his head, flinging a dark gob of snot at Osbert’s eye.

  The crowd laughed, and Lothar closed his eyes in embarrassment.

  Jael didn’t notice as she slipped a hand beneath her cloak, drawing out her sword. ‘You will not take my horse!’

  ‘Jael!’

  Jael held her ground, eyes fixed on Gudrum, but Aleksander swung around to see the tiny figure of Edela Saeveld scurrying into the melee; a small old woman wrapped in a dark-red cloak, white hair blowing around a determined face. Squeezing her way in between Lothar, Gudrum, Osbert and Jael, and trying not to be stomped on by an increasingly irate Tig, Edela looked up at her granddaughter, placing a cold hand on her arm. ‘It will do no good to start a fight over a horse,’ she grumbled, trying to get Jael to focus on her. ‘A horse? When poor Gudrum here lost his only son?’

  Aleksander’s mouth quickly fell open, mimicking Jael’s; Lothar’s and Osbert’s too.

  Jael’s sword tip dipped slightly, her anger dampened by confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘A price must be paid!’ Edela insisted loudly, blue eyes sharp as she studied the equally confused crowd. ‘And I’m afraid, Jael, despite how much you love your horse, you must pay it.’

  Jael wondered if she was having a nightmare. Surely, she was dreaming?

  Her shoulders slumped as she stepped back, away from her grandmother, away from Aleksander, sheathing her sword.

  She was suddenly so cold.

  All eyes were on her as she took one last look at Tig and spun around, pushing her way through the crowd, heading for the harbour gates.

  Needing to be alone.

  3

  Eadmund Skalleson winced as he struggled into a sitting position, trying to focus on the enormous man who loomed over him like a red-headed standing stone. ‘What?’

  ‘You missed training,’ Thorg
ils grumbled, scuffing the old floorboards with his muddy boots. His cloak dripped, and so did his nose. He wiped it on the back of a hand, sniffing as he glared down at his best friend with a pair of usually cheerful blue eyes. ‘Again.’

  Eadmund could hear rain on the roof, the wind screaming around the walls of... wherever he was. He couldn’t remember. It was...

  Shaking his head, he tried to clear his muddled thoughts, but he only ended up making his head throb more painfully. ‘Training?’ His throat was so dry that he could barely form words. He looked around for something to drink, but the ale jug lay on the floor beside his bed, empty, just like his head was.

  Eadmund remembered now. His cottage. He was in his cottage.

  The perfect place to escape his father’s fussing. And usually that of his friends too. When he disappeared into the cottage, they knew to leave him alone.

  Though, not today, it seemed.

  ‘Sounds like a storm out there.’ Thunder boomed overhead, and Eadmund bit his tongue in surprise.

  ‘And?’ Thorgils wasn’t moving. ‘How are you ever going to make a change if you don’t even try? Torstan’s out in the Pit, waiting. And what have you been doing? Lying there, dreaming of ale? There’s not even a woman in your bed! What are you lying there for, you useless arse?’

  Eadmund coughed, easing his legs over the side of the creaking bed. He was almost thirty-years-old, but his body felt like that of an old man. Every limb hung heavily about him. He barely had the strength to lift an eyelid. ‘What are you yelling at me for? There’s a storm! Go to the hall! Find a bench. I’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Not so fast, my troublesome friend,’ Thorgils said, searching for Eadmund’s cloak. ‘The hall’s off-limits for drinking this morning. Eirik doesn’t want his guests molested by the likes of you or me this early in the day.’

  ‘Guests?’ Eadmund frowned. It hurt. He felt a familiar ache in his stomach, and he sighed, equally full of regret and the desire for more ale. He took the cloak Thorgils had retrieved from the floor, noticing how filthy it was, how in need of repair. And with winter threatening to arrive early, he was going to have to do something about it soon. ‘What guests?’

  Memories flitted back of a time when he had been more than an embarrassment to his father; someone Eirik needed to hide away, out of sight.

  ‘What do you mean, what guests?’ Thorgils was incredulous. ‘How much did you drink last night? Ake Bluefinn! His lords. Their wives and children. His men! A whole shipload of the buggars from Alekka! All here to make an alliance. You know that. It’s all Eirik’s been talking about for weeks.’ He blinked, checking to see that Eadmund wasn’t teasing him. ‘Didn’t you wonder who all those people were in the hall last night?’

  Eadmund tried to piece together the images of the night before, but his shoulders slumped at the effort, and he remained sitting on the bed in a defeated heap.

  He looked ill, Thorgils thought, even in the dim light of the old cottage. Pasty and bloated. Getting fatter by the day. It was often hard to find a glimmer of the handsome warrior who’d once had the ladies of Oss arm-wrestling to see who would be his wife. Thorgils grinned, the familiar twinkle firmly back in his eye now. ‘The Lord of Blixo has a very pretty daughter,’ he said with a wink. ‘Don’t think Eirik was expecting that. He’s had his head together with Hector Berras all morning.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Dropping his head to his hands, Eadmund let out a low groan. ‘Why doesn’t he leave well enough alone? How many times do I have to tell him? I don’t want a wife! I don’t need a wife!’

  ‘Maybe. But you do need someone to give you a bath, so if you don’t want a wife, get yourself a nursemaid! Someone to wash your face and wipe your arse, seeing as how you don’t appear able to do either by yourself!’ Thorgils’ red curls shook as he snorted, enjoying the filthy look he got in return. ‘Come on, let’s get to the Pit before Torstan swims away. It’ll keep Eirik off your back to see you doing something more with that arm than pouring ale.’ He dragged Eadmund to his feet. His bare feet, he realised, looking around for any sign of a boot as Eadmund staggered before him.

  ‘Anything to keep me out of the hall,’ Eadmund grumbled. ‘I don’t want to bump into this girl, whoever she is.’

  Thorgils grinned, throwing a boot for Eadmund to catch. ‘You can hide, but on this island, there’s nowhere to run, you know that. Not from a twitchy king with a throne to protect! And besides, I’ve a feeling you wouldn’t want to run anywhere if you took a proper look at her. Though, if you’re not interested, perhaps I’ll have a word and see if our king will do a little matchmaking for me!’

  Eadmund ignored Thorgils, dropping his head as he tugged on his boot. It was still wet, and he felt cold, suddenly aware that his cottage was full of holes. That there was no fire. Nothing to eat.

  And now his father wanted to play matchmaker.

  Again.

  He looked up with a sigh, but not in time to avoid the next boot which Thorgils had lobbed at his head.

  Edela could feel her granddaughter steaming with anger as she took a seat beside her on a log of driftwood that lay across the windswept sand. ‘You will not endear yourself to anyone by killing that man.’

  Jael’s eyes were fixed on the waves, white-capped and rolling with fury, just as she was. She was too angry to even turn towards her grandmother.

  Too angry to speak.

  ‘Your temper...’ Edela tried. The wind was a howl, and a roar and her voice disappeared into it.

  But Jael heard her.

  ‘My temper?’ She spun around, glaring at that sweet old face, unable to remove the venom from her voice. ‘You want to talk about my temper? You think I killed Gudrum’s son because I’ve got a quick temper? That he did nothing to deserve it?’

  ‘I think Lothar sits on the Brekkan throne, not Axl,’ Edela panted, still out of breath after hurrying to catch Jael. ‘Not you.’ She glanced around, but the cove was deserted, apart from the shipbuilders working on Lothar’s new vessels, but they were far away, well out of earshot. It felt like more rain was coming. Always rain lately, which, Edela supposed, was good for her overgrown garden. ‘And Lothar will decide what happens next, and only Lothar.’

  ‘He’s giving Tig to that bastard!’ Jael dropped her head to her hands, scratching her braids, wanting to pull them loose. Trying not to scream. ‘Tig! My horse! My horse!’ She felt sick at the thought of handing him over to Gudrum Killi.

  ‘He is. And you know it wasn’t Lothar’s idea. That ridiculous lump is not clever,’ Edela snorted. ‘Is he? Not clever enough to hurt you this much.’ She shivered, tucking her cloak under her legs.

  Jael softened her scowl, eyes full of pain. ‘No, it was Gudrum’s idea. His son knew how to hurt me, and he did, killing Asta like that. Everyone knew how I felt about that dog. Gudrum’s playing the same game now.’ She pushed her boots into the cold sand, annoyed by how vulnerable she felt.

  ‘He is, but you can’t let him win, Jael,’ Edela said, her hand like ice as it gripped her granddaughter’s. ‘And he will. If you reveal your pain, they will both win. If you do something foolish, they will both win. It’s what they want, can’t you see?’

  Jael could, but it made little difference. Her breathing slowed, though, her shoulders curling forward. ‘But I can’t let him take Tig, Grandmother. I won’t.’

  ‘You must,’ Edela insisted. ‘If he doesn’t, there will be a terrible price to pay. I’ve seen it in my dreams, Jael. You must let Gudrum take Tig.’

  The waves crashed onto the shore in an angry rhythm, and Jael felt her body crashing with them, not wanting to imagine what Gudrum planned to do to her horse once he got him away from Andala.

  After escaping a sudden downpour, which had quickly turned into a full-blown storm, Eirik had ushered his guests into the hall. Their turn around the square, browsing the market, had been brief. It wasn’t a very big fort, and with the longstanding tensions between the islands and Alekka, traders did not rush across the Akuliina
Sea; not if they wanted to stay on the right side of their king, whoever he happened to be. So Oss’ market was usually a meagre affair, with few traders arriving to set up their stalls – mostly furs and skins, sometimes soapstone and iron – and Eirik knew that if he wanted to change things, he needed to secure this alliance.

  He was determined to let nothing get in the way, though the thought of Hector Berras’ lovely daughter had suddenly become an unexpected distraction. He frowned, remembering what Eydis had said about trouble. And anything to do with Eadmund would inevitably end in trouble. But if he didn’t find his son a wife soon, what would become of him?

  And what would become of his kingdom?

  Oss’ hall was loud, full of energy and chatter as the Alekkans became more comfortable in the company of their hosts. Eydis could hear the voices humming around her as she perched on her little wooden chair beside her father’s throne. The happy noises merged into the roar of wind and rain outside. She could feel bursts of icy cold air as the doors opened and closed, more Osslanders hurrying inside to escape the rapidly worsening weather. Thunder was getting closer, shaking the walls now, and Eydis sunk back into her chair, enjoying the wildness of the storm.

  She could hear her father fussing around his guests, apologising for the leaks in the roof, offering them spiced wine, breaded scallops; suggesting they sit closer to the fire. He sounded nervous, she thought, likely wondering what state Eadmund would be in when he arrived.

  Knowing that soon he would come, as he always did, looking for ale.

  ‘Hello, Eydis.’

  Eydis flinched, recognising that voice.

  Evaine Gallas. Morac’s sixteen-year-old daughter.

  Strikingly beautiful, with long white-blonde hair that tousled in waves down towards a narrow waist. Small and lithe and big-eyed, she looked around the hall, not seeing any sign of Eadmund. ‘Your brother is missing again, I see. I hope he’s somewhere dry.’