by Sarah Fine
Sander leans down. “Edvin’s going to rely on brute strength. Always has. Thyra should be all right if she—”
“Shh.” I can’t listen to his detached, pompous observations right now. This is no ordinary fight.
Thyra looks so thin and fragile as Edvin lumbers toward her, but as she adopts her fighting stance, the cold inside me dissipates. Her face is solemn and smooth as he lets out a war cry and swings his ax in a sideways strike, like one might chop at a tree. Thyra throws herself to the dirt and rolls before jumping up again, her movements lithe and graceful. She never takes her eyes from his face. Edvin breathes hard, and his bushy gray-brown beard swishes with a burst of warm breeze. He strikes at her again, clearly aiming for her side—a height impossible to jump over and hard to duck under, too quick to run from. But instead of doing any of those things, Thyra spins inside his guard in an instant and leaves a slash across his ribs before dodging away. Like she’s dancing, graceful and controlled. Edvin staggers, his mouth half open as he touches his fingers to his side. He laughs when they come away bloody. “Lars would be so proud! He used to boast about you when he was nose-deep in his goblet.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted to see this,” she says, still in her stance, ready for his next attack.
“End it, Edvin,” shouts a grizzled old warrior, wrinkled lips curling over missing teeth. “Stop playing with the child.”
Edvin charges again, this time holding the ax closer and guarding his body as he swings. I grit my teeth. Thyra could throw the dagger, but if the strike isn’t true, she’ll be weaponless. Instead, she ducks under one swipe and blocks another, but the power of it sends her stumbling. Edvin presses, slamming his ax down in a blow that will cleave her spine, but she leaps to the side and the blade thunks hard into the muddy ground, buried deep.
Thyra’s moving before Edvin can pull his weapon from the earth. Aksel screams a warning to his father, but it is no good. Her dagger slices into Edvin’s throat just above his collar, and red drops fly as she pulls it loose and ducks behind him, transferring her dagger to her other hand. She strikes him again from the other side, a quick, mercilessly deep stab. And then she stands with her back to him, a sign of pure confidence—or contempt—and stares steadily at the shriveled old warrior who called for her quick death, while Edvin’s blood slides along her blade, dripping onto the toe of her boot.
Edvin sinks to his knees, his eyes wide and stunned. Thyra turns around and stands behind him as his hands fall from his ax handle, leaving it sticking up from the ground. He’s making the most terrible noises, animal grunts and cries, as he claws at his wounds, perhaps trying to find the air as he drowns. Thyra meets the eyes of Edvin’s andener, a woman the age Thyra’s mother would have been, had she lived.
“I offer mercy,” she says to the woman, who bows her head as Aksel stands frozen beside her, white with shock. Finally, as Edvin lets out another pained cough, his mate nods, an abrupt jerk of her head.
Thyra grabs a fistful of Edvin’s hair, wrenches his head back, and cuts his throat. He falls onto his stomach as his partner shrieks her grief, falling into her son’s arms. Thyra kneels next to the fallen warrior and murmurs something in his ear, then rises and addresses the crowd. “I’ll be in the council shelter if anyone else would like to challenge me.”
A strange silence has fallen over us. Usually, at the end of a fight, there’s celebration and drink. Blood and victory. But this . . . there’s a tang of fear in the air. I’ve never seen a battle for the chieftain chair—Lars was already chieftain when I was brought to this camp, and no one ever dared challenge him, including his ambitious younger brother. But still, I’d imagine someone would be cheering, wouldn’t they?
I shove my way along the edge of the fight circle, but no one puts up any resistance. Everyone seems subdued as Preben and Bertel, Edvin’s dearest comrades, trudge into the circle to carry Edvin’s body away. As I pass, Aksel stares at me with a new, frigid blankness in his eyes. I manage to catch up with Thyra just before she enters the council shelter. Her head is bowed as she absently wipes her blade on her breeches and sheathes the weapon at her hip.
“Thyra!”
She turns as I run up to her. “Where have you been?”
“Who cares? Are you all right?”
For a moment, her cheek twitches and her eyes grow shiny, but then she sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “Edvin had fought at my father’s side since before I was born.”
“But he challenged you. You had no choice.”
“We only have two hundred warriors left. We need every sword arm we have. Even the old ones.”
“Not if those arms are raised in defiance against you.”
She lets out a sharp laugh and shakes her head. “You always make killing sound so easy.”
“And you make it unnecessarily difficult.”
“Maybe it should be, sometimes.” She turns to walk away, but I grab her arm.
“I’ll make your kill mark for you.”
She rips her arm from my grasp. “I don’t want it,” she snaps. Her blue eyes meet mine. “I have to go meet with the senior warriors about distribution and storage of our supplies for the winter, and then I must meet with the andeners to make the final plan for the farewell ceremony. They need any measure of peace I can offer.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“It would bore you. We need you on watch anyway.”
She’s pushing me away again, and it makes me desperate. “You were brilliant, Thyra,” I offer. “Lars really would have been proud. Everyone will think twice before challenging you again. You proved that you will kill without hesitation.”
She grimaces, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing, though I don’t know why it’s wrong. “That was the point,” she says quietly.
“What did you say to him, as he died?”
She looks down at the spatter of Edvin’s blood on her boot. “I told him I’d take care of his family.”
Carefully, I reach out and touch her arm, focusing on keeping my skin cool. Normal. “You are a noble chieftain. You just united the tribe by earning their respect.”
“I might have united them, but I’m not sure I won them. Those are two different things, and I need both to keep us whole.”
“You deserve the chair.”
“I must earn the chair every day. And I plan to. It’s the only way to grow their faith in me—and in themselves.” She sniffles and wipes her nose on her collar. “But I need you at my side next time,” she says, her voice breaking. “I had to send Sander to find you. Don’t disappear again.”
I grin, eager to raise her spirits. “Because I cheer louder than the rest?”
Her small, reluctant smile is the best reward. “Because of the way you look at me.”
“I think perhaps I understand that.” Because the way she’s looking at me right now makes me feel like I could fly. “I’ll come find you after I finish my watch.”
“Good. We’ll have supper together.” She sounds so weary, and I vow to guard her sleep tonight, if she’ll let me. I won’t be slumbering anyway. I have to stay alert to hold down the curse. Now all my thoughts of killing myself are evaporating. Thyra needs me. I have to find a way to control this, and to keep it secret, so I can support her while she establishes her leadership. The last thing I want to do is shame or distract her, especially as her smile gains a delicious warmth that I feel in my bones.
“Chieftain Thyra,” cries a guard as he sprints up the path. “Armed riders approaching!”
Thyra pivots quickly, her movements sharp. “How many?” she barks as other warriors jog over and gather around, looking to her for instructions.
“Dozens.”
“Hostile?”
The guard puts his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “They’re flying a yellow and white flag.”
“That’s Vasterut,” she says in a flat voice as the men and women around us begin to murmur among themselves, even as the clatter of hooves reaches us from the edge of camp.
“To me!” Thyra yells, and draws her blade again.
I pull a knife from my boot, the one I was planning to use on myself not long ago. We stand shoulder to shoulder as the riders draw near, and a cold wind blows as Sander pushes into position next to me. “Chilly, isn’t it?” he asks, giving me a pointed look.
I press my lips together and stomp that evil cold down as the first rider comes into view, cantering up the road with his followers just behind him. His golden hair shines with flecks of red in the sunlight, and though he’s still yards away, I know his eyes are green, green, green.
“Jaspar,” whispers Thyra.
Unease churns in my gut as he reins in his horse and halts perhaps ten yards from our assembled warriors. “Greetings, Cousin Thyra,” he calls.
“It’s Chieftain Thyra,” I yell.
Jaspar’s eyes flash as his gaze shifts to me. The corner of his mouth curls, and my cheeks burn with memories. “Ah. So Lars’s daughter has claimed the chair.” He inclines his head, a gesture of respect that somehow seems to drip with defiance. “Like she always wanted, and like we always knew she would.”
Thyra’s gripping her dagger so tightly that her hand is shaking. “Why are you here?”
“We heard of your misfortune at the hands of the witch queen of the Kupari.”
“And did you come to finish the job?”
“Quite the contrary. I’ve come under orders from my father. We will escort you and your tribe to Vasterut immediately, Chieftain Thyra.” He looks out over our force, a few hundred lesser warriors and the three of us who survived the storm, and then glances behind him as at least forty mounted warriors crowd in formation at his back. All of them have thick broadswords belted to their waists and shields strapped to their backs, and I recognize many as strong fighters, young and thick with muscle. Though we outnumber them five to one, if it came to a battle against those mounted warriors, we would be slaughtered, and the thousands of andeners and children we protect would be at their mercy.
“Vasterut is not an option,” Thyra shouts. “We have just lost four thousand warriors, and we are in final preparation to bid their souls farewell. But not only that—we are settled along this shore all the way up to Ulvi Point, if you recall, and with this many widows and orphans, the priority is to—”
“Chieftain Nisse is prepared to provide for all of you in Vasterut.” Jaspar’s smile is warm, but there’s no mistaking the danger. “He is eager to see our tribes united once more.” He leans forward, his gaze hard on Thyra. “And he will be particularly delighted to welcome you within his walls.”
CHAPTER SIX
There will be no ceremony of farewell. Jaspar insists we leave at new daylight, taking no chance that the snow will catch us out on our journey. We have no choice but to obey, and Thyra realizes it quickly as she sizes up the force Jaspar has brought. None of us argue, because most of us realize the same thing, and the others wanted this outcome from the moment our shattered hull washed ashore.
Thyra looks pale and troubled, but she keeps her chin up as she orders the warriors to ready their own households for the journey, and then to assist the widowed andeners in their preparations. It’s an unbelievable amount of work, but Jaspar orders his warriors to help.
One look into Thyra’s eyes tells me she’s caught in another storm, the kind that’s tearing her apart inside. “What can I do?” I ask.
“Find out their true intentions,” she murmurs as her gaze follows Jaspar, who is already speaking with Preben and Bertel, who have not yet had the opportunity to wash Edvin’s blood from their hands. His smile flashes as he shows them his sword, a gorgeous blade that is probably of Vasterutian make, with a set of long blood grooves down its center.
“Why me? Wouldn’t Sander be a better choice?” He’s already headed over to admire the weapon, and Jaspar’s clapping him on the back. I remember the first time they faced each other in the fight circle, two lanky eleven-year-olds determined to prove themselves. An hour later they staggered out, bloodied best friends.
“Sander would probably have gone with Nisse’s rebels if he hadn’t already paired with my sister, and if she hadn’t been with child.” Hilma died from the fever only a month later, and I can tell Thyra wonders if he regrets his decision to stay.
She touches my arm. “But I know I can trust you.” Her blue gaze loses its warmth. “And you hold charms for Jaspar that Sander does not.”
My mouth goes dry as Jaspar glances toward us and looks away just as quickly, as if he was checking to see if we’d been watching. “Please, Thyra. Let me stay with you.”
“Nonsense.” She gives me a humorless smile. “It will be just like old times.”
Humiliation freezes my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
Thyra’s fingers squeeze my upper arm. “Draw Jaspar away now. I must have a chance to speak to Preben and Bertel before he wins them over. Their support will be important as we begin this journey. If they are with me, the others will feel more confident.”
I hear the pleading in Thyra’s voice, the note of desperation beneath the authoritative steadiness she’s trying to project. If we do not make this journey united, by the time we arrive in Vasterut, Nisse will be the chieftain of us all. A traitor and would-be assassin will be our new master. Honor will not protect us, nor will rules. And Thyra, as the chieftain of the defeated tribe, will be in the most danger. It’s so clear to me that the only reason she’s agreeing to this journey is to save our lives.
I throw back my shoulders, even as misgiving burns inside me. “As you wish.”
“Make him remember.” She leans close. “Because I will never forget.”
How foolish I was to believe that when Jaspar fled on the heels of his father and the other traitor warriors, he would take our past with him. “As you wish,” I whisper again.
“Don’t make it too easy. He’ll sense it if you aren’t yourself.”
I’m not myself, though. I’ve been cursed by a witch. I glance down at my hands, which are stiff with cold. My veins run blue beneath my pale skin.
“Have you lost something, Ansa?”
The sound of Jaspar’s good-natured voice brings my head up. Don’t make it too easy. I scowl. “Nothing that can’t be taken back with blood.”
His laugh echoes through camp. “You haven’t changed.”
“You know nothing.” I give Thyra one last look and then walk past Jaspar and the others, heading for the shelter where I’ve been sitting awake at night while others sleep. The crunch of his footsteps on the trail behind me brings me both triumph and dread.
“I know your temper is sweet as ever,” he says as he falls into step with me.
“Am I supposed to greet you with open arms?”
“That might have been nice.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “Why are you following me? I thought you were busy showing your big blade to the other boys.”
That laugh. I close my eyes and push memories away as he says, “I’d show it to you, too, if I didn’t believe you’d strip it from me and chop my head off.”
I enter the shelter and glance around, realizing I don’t have any great reason for being here. After a few faltering steps, I head for my little pile of scavenged belongings in the far corner, intending to pack them for the journey. “How long is the march to Vasterut?”
“Only four long days of hard riding, but on foot, with the andeners and children in tow, it will take at least two weeks. With luck, we could make it before the snow closes in.”
“Nisse moved quickly then, to send you here.”
“Chieftain Nisse, Ansa,” he says quietly. “He is ruler of Vasterut now and deserves respect. And as his heir, so do I.”
I turn to him, wishing I was taller so I could look him in the eye. “At whose expense?”
“Thyra will be treated according to her status. I promise. Is that what you’re worried about?” He reaches to brush my hair from my forehead, but I step backward out of his reach. His ha
nd falls to his side, and he sighs. “I suppose we’re not allies anymore. But I want us to be. And I only want what’s best for the Krigere. Our warriors are too precious to abandon to the winter.”
“We’d be fine here.”
“I’ve been in this camp less than a quarter-day, and the stink of despair is everywhere. Don’t tell me you’re fine—and don’t pretend a pathetic little ceremony will do anything but ease the guilt of your chieftain.”
I stare out the doorway of the shelter, at the bustle of camp, all moving in the same direction once more, just as we were on the morning of our great invasion. “So the solution is to march to Vasterut and bow to a—” I clamp my lips shut over the word traitor.
“Ansa, Vasterut is only a four-day quick-march from Kupari. Two days riding. Five hours on the oars, up from the south.”
The awful-beautiful face of the witch queen rises in my memory. When Jaspar sees the look on my face, he nods, his jaw hard. “Think of the possibilities.”
“Tell me,” I say in a low voice.
He waggles his eyebrows and takes a few steps back. “In good time. But I think perhaps this is conversation best reserved for our chieftains, eh?” He gives me a mischievous grin. “As I recall, Thyra doesn’t like to be surprised.”
The fire at the center of the shelter flares so high that it frames Jaspar with light. He turns when he feels the heat at his back and puts a bit of distance between himself and the reaching flames.
It gives me a moment to think cold thoughts. “Then go talk to her,” I say.
His look of surprise relaxes into a familiar, teasing smile. “When she’s ready. I should go pay my respects to your surviving senior warriors.” His fingers close over the hilt of his sword. “I hope we’ll have more time to talk as we travel.”
Thyra’s plea to discern his true purpose is still in my head. “We might.”
“We will.” He looks me over, his eyes as bold as stroking fingers. “I missed you, Ansa. More than I expected to.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me with a memory—a fall afternoon, my blood singing with victory after my first raid kill. The curve of Jaspar’s mouth as he asked if he could make the cut, my very first. The slice of pain, the red trickle of warmth down my bare arm, the way his fingers closed over my elbow. And then we were kissing and I barely knew how it had happened, only that it was. That’s all it was too. I had just wanted that moment, high from the fight and needing something vital to match the battle-lust still beating at my temples. Jaspar tasted of sweat and heat as he pushed me against that tree, as his knife fell to the ground with my blood still on the blade.