by Sarah Fine
“And a witch who controls the clouds,” Thyra reminds him.
Jaspar’s warriors grumble, but he simply smiles. “All challenges can be overcome with the right strategy.”
We reach a place where the trail meets another, this one wide enough so that several of us can walk shoulder to shoulder. “This is a road,” Jaspar says. “They are made for carts and horses, and the south has many—they connect their kingdoms this way, for trade.”
We all look up and down the wide path, which is rutted with the tracks of wooden wheels. “They provide us trails we can use for raiding?” Preben says, his voice full of amused skepticism. “I like this place already.” Our laughter reaches the sky.
I watch Thyra, who is wearing a small smile, but her brow is furrowed. “How different this place is,” she says softly to no one in particular.
Jaspar points up ahead to the gate, where a massive door hangs open like a giant mouth. “And here we are—welcome to Vasterut, warriors. The city lies at our feet.”
We march toward it, and my heart kicks in my chest like it wants to run. As we reach the gate, the smells overwhelm. Human and animal waste. Rotting vegetables and fish. Next to me, Sander curses in a thick voice, pressing his hand over his nose. “What is this hell?” he mutters.
“This is twelve thousand people living in close quarters like animals in a pen,” says Jaspar. “We don’t exactly trust the locals, so the door stays closed. No one but Krigere allowed in or out.”
We clear the gate, and my stomach lurches. It seems like all twelve thousand Vasterutians have gathered to watch our arrival. An eerie silence hangs heavy in the air, along with greasy smoke from the torches that line the city wall and the road. Shelters taller than any I’ve ever seen jut up from the ground on either side of us, and faces peer from windows, from the muddy spaces between buildings, from doorways. Many Vasterutians have darker skin like Bertel does, brown like turned earth instead of sandy pale, but among the crowd there are so many shades. Perhaps they are like the Krigere, then, accepting in their midst anyone who earns their way instead of relying on blood relation and sameness. Most of them have dark hair and dark eyes that stare with sharp wariness at our daggers and axes and spears and swords.
Jaspar has invited Thyra and her senior warriors to the front of the line, and I walk a step behind. She did not invite me close, but she did not tell me to stay with the andeners and the rear guard outside the city either. That would have required her speaking to me, though, something she hasn’t done since last night, when she told me to keep my mouth shut and hide my curse at any cost. Now I am like smoke, drifting along, not sure whether she sees me or not. Jaspar, though—he sees me. He catches my eye as he gestures at the Vasterutians. “Once their militia was destroyed and their king and his family executed in the square, they put up no resistance. You see they don’t mind us so much. We protect them from other raiders.”
Thyra’s gaze slides from face to face. “Were they threatened by other raiders?”
Jaspar gives her a sly smile. “They certainly won’t be now.”
His warriors guffaw, and I fight a tangle of uneasiness. As Krigere, we raid. We take what we want. Weapons. Tools. As many horses as we can corral. Sheep and pigs and sometimes an ox. Sacks of grain, stores of wheat and barley. People, if they strike us as useful. But until now, I have never witnessed a tribe occupying another tribe like this. I suddenly realize that is exactly what Lars had in mind for Kupari. Would they have looked at us like this? Silent and stony-eyed? I’d never really thought about it—I hadn’t thought past the fight, the victory, the knowledge that I was the conqueror. Is this what comes after? There is something in their faces that sends a chill down my spine. “Twelve thousand?” I say quietly. If they stood up and fought, their sheer numbers would be like a giant wave on the Torden.
Sander grunts. “None of them warriors. And Nisse had several hundred.”
“Over a thousand, now that you’re here,” Jaspar calls out. “And we need every arm if we’re to fulfill my father’s vision.”
“I am eager to hear about that vision,” Thyra says drily, tossing me a questioning look.
“And so you shall!” Jaspar gestures up the road, which winds through the stinking, silent city to where the biggest human-made pile of rocks I’ve ever seen blocks out the setting sun. The shelters of the people seem to fall away as we hike a gently sloping hill that levels out at the top. The city surrounds the rock shelter on three sides like mushrooms around a tree stump.
“This is the tower castle,” Jaspar tells us. “This inner stake-wall around it provides some protection, as does the ditch around the perimeter.”
“How did Chieftain Nisse overcome these defenses?” Preben asks as he stares up at the tower, which juts like a massive stone oak, the height of five shelters piled atop one another. “A siege?”
Jaspar shakes his head. “They thought the bluffs on the lakeside would protect them, but a few warriors simply scaled the rocks, crept inside, and executed their guards—they were soft and ill trained—before capturing the king and his family. It was like goats defending sheep.”
I smile at the thought. “And then you opened the gates for the others. You took it by stealth.”
Thyra gives Jaspar a cold, accusing look. “Something your father is particularly skilled at, as I recall.”
“He’s not the only one, is he, Cousin?”
Thyra glares at him, but Jaspar doesn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. In fact, he squares his shoulders, his pride obvious. “My father saved countless warrior lives with his decision to attack with stealth. Lives that would have been wasted in an out and out frontal attack. We lost fewer than ten in the taking of this entire kingdom. Could Lars have done the same? Could you?”
Thyra’s eyes flare with the insult. “Well, my father did prefer a bloody fair fight to a—”
“And here we are,” Jaspar shouts, cutting her off. His smile is knifelike and the sweep of his arm sharp as he points to an opening in the stake-wall, presenting us with entrance to this castle. “Welcome to Chieftain Nisse’s domain, Chieftain Thyra.”
His words are pure warning, and I pray she heeds it. She looks so small between Preben and Bertel, both stout and broad-shouldered, standing in the shadow of this ugly stone monster that’s about to swallow us. She does not cower, though, or show any indication that she is afraid of what will happen now. Instead, she gives him a breathtaking smile. “Many thanks. I look forward to meeting my uncle again, face-to-face.”
Jaspar merely gestures for us to pass. We have entered a broad clearing lined on one side with shelters that are clearly meant for keeping animals, and on the other by a huge area marked off by square pegs of green wood hammered into the ground, strung with thick rope, with plenty of room around its perimeter for spectators, including a set of raised wooden benches.
It’s a fight circle, but the ground within is smooth and untrodden.
“Niece!”
From the entrance to the stone tower strides a man I haven’t seen in a year, one that I never thought I’d see again when he rode from our northern camp, disgraced.
His long, graying blond hair is pulled back in a queue, away from his face, which is handsome in a weatherworn way, a fading echo of Jaspar’s. But it’s his eyes that overpower the rest, and they sweep over us like they see all, measure all. Like I always did when he noticed me during trainings or tournaments, my body seems to shrink back, as if to escape his assessment. I hold my breath, waiting to see how he will greet Thyra.
He raises his scarred hands, spreading his muscular arms in welcome, his wide smile radiating triumph and joy. “Thyra, I spent days believing that my brother and his heir had been wiped from the face of this earth by the witch of Kupari. I cannot tell you my relief at hearing you had survived.”
Thyra remains still and stiff as he rushes forward and pulls her into an embrace, clutching her head to his broad chest, which is covered in a rich brown leather vest. When h
e releases her, she looks up at him with a surprised gaze. “How I want to believe that, Uncle.”
He grasps her arms. “All grievances are washed away with time. I told Jaspar to do everything in his power to see your tribe made this journey whole. We must be united again.”
She doesn’t try to pull away from him, but I can tell by the tension in her posture that she wants to. “If that is what is best for my warriors. I have not yet decided.”
“Nor should you.” He puts his arm over her shoulders and guides her toward the tower entrance. “Come inside and let your warriors settle their bones. Tonight we will feast. You will tell me what has happened, and I will tell you everything I have planned.” He turns back to all of us. “Are you ready to stuff your bellies full of fresh meat and warm bread?” he shouts.
“Aye!” Jaspar and his warriors roar, along with several of ours. My stomach growls at the thought of bread, in spite of the wariness in Thyra’s gaze as she looks us over. But then she jerks her head toward the tower, telling us to get inside.
I obey, along with all the others. Our trek to the south is over. All the Krigere warriors are within these walls or just outside the city, but as I see Nisse enclose Thyra in another embrace she cannot possibly want, I know our journey has only just begun.
* * *
We lay our blankets down in a dank collection of little chambers set along a stone walkway that Jaspar calls a corridor. My shoulders are hunched up around my ears the whole time—it feels like this whole place could cave in and crush us at any moment. All our own warriors look equally nervous, eyeing windows and arched doorways and staircases as if pondering escape. I share a chamber with four other warriors, one of them Tue, Aksel’s best friend, who slinks around like a whipped dog, eyeing me with resentment. Thyra has taken Sander, Preben, and Bertel into her own chamber, and she seemed to be deliberately avoiding my gaze as she made the assignments.
Once again I wonder if I should be here at all. My curse has been quiet today, and I have done nothing to call attention to myself, just as she asked. Despite his questions this morning, Jaspar seems to have believed my lies, though he sought out my eyes numerous times this afternoon. Sander hasn’t said a word or thrown me a single suspicious look all day. Things are as she wants them to be—I am just another warrior. I am nothing out of the ordinary. But she gives me no window or doorway back to her side.
Jaspar’s words return to me over and over again—she has had my loyalty, and what has she done with it? She’s treating me as one of her secondary warriors instead of her wolf, the one who has guarded her sleep and stayed by her side. The one she kissed. The one she was cruel enough to give hope to. She’s discarded me like a bone. She’s stripped away what was useful and tossed the rest. The hurt burns in me like a smith’s fire, low and hot and utterly unquenchable. It doesn’t help that the others look at me warily, no doubt wondering what has changed.
We wash the dirt from our faces and hands—not in a stream and not in the lake, but with water that comes from a metal tube stuck in the ground, which only flows when you crank up and down on a pump attached to its head. The others shiver, telling me that it feels like the water came from the heart of winter herself, but somehow, it simply feels cool to me. Thyra’s skin is bright red as she splashes it over her cheeks and hair.
The others change into spare tunics if they have them, but I remain in mine, as my other is stained with blood and smells like burned flesh and I’d prefer to keep my wounds from my fight with Aksel well covered. They itch and ache and are barely closed, and I clench my teeth as I tighten the sheaths on my forearms. We all keep our weapons strapped to our hips and calves and arms and backs by Thyra’s order. Until she is sure of Nisse’s intentions, she wants us to remain ready. We all know that fighting would result in death—they outnumber us three to one—and fewer than fifty of us are actually within the castle walls. But we would take a staggering number of Nisse’s warriors down with us, and Thyra is obviously hoping the threat is enough to stave off a possible ambush.
Jaspar appears long after the sun sets and our bellies have begun to growl. “Chieftain Nisse waits in the grand hall!” The bright look in his green eyes softens when he looks at me, and he frowns and glances at Thyra, who is deep in conversation with Bertel. I close my eyes and look away. I don’t want to see the confirmation in his expression that she has abandoned me.
We follow him down the corridor to another and another. This place reminds me of the ant mounds we used to dig up as children, searching for their queen so we could watch them scramble and scatter without her. Now I am part of such a mound, and I feel for those little ants, lost within their mazes.
The way is lit by torches, but it feels gloomy and close all the same. That is, until we reach a high arched doorway and enter a massive cavern of a chamber. Ten long wooden tables that seat at least fifty each are arrayed within, and at the front of the room, on a raised platform, is yet another long table. I look for where we will sit and realize that Nisse has already filled many of the places with his own warriors, but they have left spaces hither and thither to accommodate the few of us that Thyra brought inside the castle.
“How clever,” Thyra murmurs as she realizes what he’s done. United with former friends and kin they haven’t seen in a year, her senior warriors’ loyalties are about to be tested.
Jaspar starts to walk up to the head table, where Nisse stands, waiting for us to join him. Half the seats at his table are empty, allowing Thyra to have an equal number. She begins to call out names, the warriors she has drawn close. Sander, Preben, and Bertel are among them. I am not. As that group marches up to the table, Jaspar strides back to our group with a hard look on his face. “Ansa, please join us.”
Thyra whirls around, and Jaspar smiles at her. “Ansa and I were only just renewing our friendship on the road,” he says. “I assume you don’t mind if we continue to do so over our meal?”
I can see the conflict in Thyra’s eyes. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want me near. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll accidentally set fire to someone’s hair or freeze the wine. Perhaps she’s afraid of me. But if she refuses Jaspar, it is not only rude to him as the host—it’s an open rejection of me, which makes her look weak and petty at a time she needs to be strong, with a united tribe. Everyone is watching us, including Nisse and his most senior warriors, who used to be high-ranking warriors in her dead father’s tribe.
I believe that she regrets allowing me inside the castle, and another pang of resentment turns my stomach sour.
“By all means,” Thyra says in a light voice. “I was about to call her name.”
Liar, I want to scream. But Jaspar only grins. “Of course you were.”
I force my shoulders back as I join the group headed for the table on the platform, and the maelstrom of emotion, ice, and fire inside me is temporarily quelled by the most amazing scent. In the center of the table is a whole hog, beautifully roasted and lying on a thick bed of greens, with a rosy apple in its gaping mouth. Surrounding it are wooden bowls piled with steaming carrots, sweet potatoes, and many other things I can’t identify but that smell like I imagine heaven must. Fat skins of wine, piles of crisped turkey legs and brown loaves, so much of it that I can barely see the surface of the table. Around the table are a few Vasterutian attendants, who remain hunched against the wall watching Nisse with rapt attention, responding to the slightest wave of his hand. All except for one—a woman with cheeks round as plums and a wild spray of black hair who is eyeing all of us newcomers with a curious, bold stare.
I edge in next to Jaspar as we surround the table. Nisse is at one end and Thyra is at the other. Jaspar has guided us to the middle, right next to Sander, which is good because as angry as I am at Thyra, I cannot openly abandon her now by sitting on Nisse’s side.
Nisse sweeps his arm over the feast, and then looks out over the assembled warriors with a rapturous smile on his craggy, blond-bearded face. “Blood and victory!”
“Blood and victory,” we all echo, loud and sharp as we’ve done since childhood.
Nisse takes his dagger from his waist and plunges it into the pig in front of him. “Eat your fill, warriors!”
With a shout of appreciation, we dig our own daggers into the food, spearing loaves and chunks of meat before plopping them down in front of us. I could be mistaken, but the Vasterutians look vaguely disgusted, though I don’t know why. We’re sitting at a table, aren’t we? I’ve never eaten at a table, but I’ve seen them in other camps and I know the council used to sit at one. I decide the Vasterutians are ignorant, and lucky to still be alive if they commonly look at Krigere warriors that way. But it becomes easy to ignore them after my first bite of hot food. I moan as the crust of the bread gives way under my teeth and fills my mouth with its nutty, chewy sweetness.
“I sent a hundred attendants to provide your other warriors and andeners with a similar feast outside the walls,” Nisse says loudly, though there is no need, as none of us are talking. We’re all too busy stuffing our faces.
Thyra looks up from her food. “They’ll need better shelter as the frost descends. In the north they had roofs over their heads.”
“And they will have the same here. Tomorrow they can take their pick of the shelters in the city. The ones already taken by my own warriors and their families are marked with blood on the wooden posts outside each, but you may have any of the others.”
Thyra frowns and glances at the Vasterutian attendants. The round-cheeked one stares steadily back. “Aren’t their shelters already occupied?”
Nisse nods as he sinks his teeth into a chunk of hog loin. “By Vasterutians, though. Merely tell them to leave and they will.”
“And go where?”
He shrugs. “They find shelter elsewhere within the city. It’s not your concern.”