The Burning Sea

by A. E. Rayne

Before the wind came.

  ‘Do something!’ Haaron yelled to his commander, who stood frozen next to him. He was reluctant to move any closer to the searing flames. The liquid that had exploded inside the Tower was on fire, everywhere they looked.

  ‘Water!’ Haaron cried, taking charge. ‘Bring in the water!’

  ‘But my lord,’ his commander muttered helplessly. ‘The sea is on fire below. ‘I don’t think that water will stop the flames.’

  Haaron blinked, wanting to slap the man, but he wasn’t wrong. He pulled his cloak tightly around his mail chest and stepped away from the blazing heat, shaking his head. How? How was the sea on fire? ‘Get to the other windows!’ he cried. ‘See what you can do from there!’

  But no one moved. The fire was growing taller and wider; a sheet of flames threatening anyone who attempted to go near the windows. And then another jar flew inside, shattering its liquid contents near their feet, another round of flaming arrows shooting in after it.

  ‘Back! Back!’ Haaron shouted furiously as their buckets of arrows were swallowed by the flames. His men had been too surprised, rendered too stupid, to think about grabbing those in time. ‘Get out!’ he bellowed hopelessly, his voice fading away, drowned out by the heady rush of fire, the urgent cries of his men as they tried to rescue those who had caught alight, the screams from below as his fleet exploded on the sea.

  If Jaeger and Berard were being burned to a crisp down in the Adrano, his heirs would halve. He could only hope that Haegen and Karsten weren’t making such a mess of the pass.

  Gant hung his head as Karsten kicked him in the groin. He groaned, trying to absorb the pain without letting it consume him; his head bent, his jaw working furiously, his mind clearing. He would gut that little shit one day.

  Haegen eyed his brother, wanting to reprimand him again. He doubted there was any point to his words, though; Karsten wasn’t listening. ‘We have a long march ahead of us, Lothar Furyck,’ Haegen warned the Brekkan king, smiling as he stumbled before him. ‘Best you get waddling!’

  His men laughed, and Haegen grinned, happy that he would return to the Tower with such prizes: two Furycks, the Brekkan army, and few losses. Haaron could not fail to be impressed by that effort.

  Osbert fell to the ground, his face skidding into the gravel.

  No one made a move to help him.

  ‘My son?’ Lothar turned to look at Haegen, the least volatile of the brothers, it seemed. ‘He’s badly injured. He needs to be helped!’

  ‘Helped?’ Haegen wondered coldly, trying to muster any sympathy for the pathetic man curled into a ball in the blood-dust. He sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose he does.’ He nodded to two men nearby. ‘Prince Osbert is yours to care for. Ensure he gets to the Tower still breathing.’ The men picked up their prisoner, whose sleeves dripped with fresh blood, whose head lolled hopelessly as they lugged him forward.

  ‘Can we not tend to his wounds before we march?’ Lothar wondered feebly.

  Aleksander wished that Lothar would shut up. Karsten Dragos looked ready to take his axes to him. He reached instinctively for his swordless scabbard, brushing past his knifeless belt, hoping that Jael was having better luck.

  ‘Berard!’ Jaeger called, trying not to swallow any more water. ‘Quick!’ His brother was not a strong swimmer, was not strong at anything, but Jaeger was. He reached out and seized his brother’s arm, too furious to notice the sharp bite of the sea as it froze his limbs. It was burning all around them, burning their ship to cinder and ash, but he had seen another ship, untouched by flames, a way out, if only he could reach it in time. ‘Help!’ he screamed hoarsely. ‘Throw out a rope! Help!’

  A man in the bow saw his commander sinking into the sea. ‘My lord!’ he cried, turning and rushing towards the stern. ‘Quick, it’s Jaeger and Berard! Throw out a rope!’

  The helmsman, one of Haaron’s oldest seamen, frowned, less than eager to stop. He shrugged, certain that Haaron would not reward him either way. ‘Hold water!’ he grumbled to his oarsmen, who quickly lifted their oars out of the burning sea. ‘Eilif, throw that rope over the side! And be quick!’

  Jaeger dug into the freezing water with his left hand, dragging Berard behind him with his right. He needed to get to that rope.

  He had to make it back to Skorro.

  ‘Who?’ Biddy wondered desperately, kneeling before Edela, clasping her hands. ‘Who murdered the king?’

  Edela was alert now, alert and focused, her mind sharp to the threat that was growing. She could feel it like a cloud descending, sinking, submerging them entirely. ‘I don’t know his name,’ she said slowly. ‘But I have seen him in my dreams. I have seen his face, and I can feel the depth of his hatred. He loathed Eirik Skalleson, despised him all his life.’ She stood up and took a deep breath. ‘And now he will try to claim the throne. And we must hope that Jael can stop him before it’s too late.’

  Biddy frowned, remembering Eydis’ dreams.

  Ivaar.

  24

  Eadmund gripped the simple wooden box in both hands, biting back tears. He thought of his son as he held the box to his chest; his son, who might one day stand holding his warm ashes, as he held his father’s.

  There was time, a moment, he knew, before the next assault would begin. They were chasing the only two unscathed Hestian ships back to Skorro. The Silurans were not wasting any more of their men or ships. They had extracted their few surviving crews from the flames and appeared to be heading far away from them all.

  Morac came up next to him. Eadmund wished he would stop lurking about, but then felt guilty for his petulance; Morac had known his father far longer than he had. He knew that, despite their differences, they had been like brothers for most of their lives. He nodded to Morac, and together they stepped towards the stern, away from the men who sat under Ice Breaker’s gunwales, preparing themselves for what would come next; away from the archers who were huddled in the wooden house tending to their wounded.

  ‘He would have liked today,’ Morac smiled sadly, watching the flames dance across the sea, growing, bursting, fanned by the wind; a wind that had thankfully remained steady but not overwhelmed them yet. He looked to the burning Tower that had terrorised them on their last attack. ‘He would have enjoyed it.’

  But Eadmund wasn’t listening; he was remembering his father handing him his first sword, smiling at him, that twinkle in his eye, maybe a tear too. He had been so proud of him. Once.

  Eadmund felt the sharp sting of the cold wind as it battered his face. He turned away from it, opening the box over the stern, letting the wind carry his father away to Vidar’s Hall, where he would drink with warriors of the highest order. Because he was Eirik Skalleson, first of his line.

  King of the Slave Islands.

  His father.

  They had two wounded men. Two. After all those arrows, which had torn into their wooden house, making it look like the back of a hedgehog. Just two. Jael sighed, pleased. It was a start.

  The burning ships; that was a start, too.

  The Tower on fire was also good, but she could see the ships ahead, pulling away, streaking towards the safety of Skorro’s fort; the fort they needed to claim for any chance of victory. Two ships was nothing against their fleet of 20, all still intact, but she had no idea how many men had been left to guard that fort.

  Enough, Jael was certain, there would be more than enough.

  Fyn looked slightly more confident now, relieved to have survived the arrow storm, his mind dwelling only occasionally on what lay ahead. He stared, transfixed by the fiery carnage of ships they passed, trying to block out the terrifying cries of burning, drowning men. The smell of their sizzling flesh wafted towards them, reminding him of Eirik’s pyre that morning.

  ‘I’ve never been to Skorro,’ Jael told him quietly as she came back to the stern. ‘But I can imagine it. They knew we were coming, so it will take some breaking into.’

  Fyn swallowed, reaching for the pommel of his sword. It still didn’t
have a name.

  ‘You’re ready,’ Jael said, staring into his anxious eyes. ‘I know it. And soon, you will too.’

  Fyn let out a long sigh and turned away from the flames, towards the island they were quickly approaching. He hoped she was right.

  ‘Faster!’

  Jaeger stood in the packed bow, leaning forward, watching the ship cut through the dark sea beneath him, urging it on. He kept turning, certain that the Islanders were gaining on them.

  His exhausted men lay scattered around the deck; many wet through, bloodied and burned, their arms worn from swimming, shaking from the freezing cold water. He growled, annoyed to be running away.

  Like a dog.

  But if they could reach the fort in time, he knew they stood a chance of still emerging victorious. Jaeger was not prepared to let his brothers gloat over his failure, nor his father hound him for the rest of his days. He glared at Berard who sat shivering near his feet.

  He’d made mistakes; too many, so far. But there was no way he was letting those Islanders into Skorro’s fort.

  For that was where he’d hidden the book.

  Aleksander hadn’t noticed the cut on his thigh, but it was leaking through his trousers now as he stumbled, prodded in the back by one of Haegen Dragos’ men. He bit his lip, resisting the urge to turn around and kick him in the side of the head.

  Aleksander glanced at Axl, who had a few cuts on him but otherwise seemed whole. He looked morose, though, his eyes turned down towards the well-worn path they trudged along. The Hestians didn’t appear to know he was a Furyck and Aleksander hoped that Lothar was smart enough to keep it that way. Prisoners were weapons that Haaron would unleash upon Jael, depending on the success of the sea battle.

  Aleksander grimaced, already regretting saving Lothar’s life, although, he was sure that Jael would have done the same thing. It didn’t matter how much they hated Lothar; he was their problem to solve, not Hest’s. Brekka must stay strong. The Furyck line must continue, safe under Furia’s protection. It was everything to their people.

  Aleksander smiled, peering over the cliffs as he walked, watching the Islanders chase the Hestians across the sea. He wished he was there, standing on Sea Bear next to Jael, far away from the endless moaning of his pathetic king.

  Lothar was demoralised as he shuffled in front of Haegen. Despite the clouds, it was warm, and he was suffering, never having walked so far in recent memory.

  ‘Move your feet!’ Haegen grumbled, poking him with the butt of his spear, as he had countless times already. ‘I plan on getting to the Tower before dark! Unless, of course, you’d like to sleep in the bushes tonight?’

  Lothar lifted his aching feet, motivated by that miserable fate, peering at Osbert, who limped morosely beside him, pain etched onto his pale face.

  Karsten simmered beside his brother.

  ‘You think Father would have been happy to see us return with just a couple of heads?’ Haegen wondered calmly, enjoying his brother’s sulking. ‘He sent us to destroy them and to bring him prisoners!’ he smiled, motioning with his hand at all the Brekkans they had captured. ‘And look how well we have done. Better than Jaeger down there!’

  It was true, Karsten realised, his eyes wandering to the edge of the cliff. They were sheltered from a sheer drop by a waist-high wall of red rocks, that most eyes were trained over as they walked, fixated on the unfolding chase below.

  ‘You think Jaeger and Berard are on one of those ships?’ Karsten wondered, his head suddenly clearing.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Haegen admitted. ‘I can only hope so. Although, after the disaster down there, I’m sure Father won’t agree with me!’

  ‘No,’ Karsten agreed. ‘But, as you say, at least we are returning him half a victory.’

  Haegen laughed at his brother’s abrupt turnaround. ‘So, you’ve come back, then?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ Karsten shrugged. ‘Although, I may be tempted to push one of these worthless pieces of Furyck shit over the cliffs. Accidentally, of course.’

  Lothar swallowed, his ears open to the conversation behind him, his eyes darting to the left. He had no desire to end up in the burning sea.

  The afternoon was not over, but the sky had already darkened, turning the day even colder. Ayla dipped her toes in the water, her body heavy with pain. Trapped. She was trapped here. And nothing she dreamed showed her the way out.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Isaura asked gently as she walked beside Ayla, her own bare feet braving the icy water, just as desperate to clear the smoke out of her head. ‘Why did you try to save Eirik, when you are loyal to Ivaar?’

  ‘Because it was the right thing to do,’ Ayla murmured. ‘For Eydis. For the king.’ She shook her head. ‘But it was not meant to be. The gods made sure of that.’

  ‘You mean Ivaar did.’ Isaura pulled fly-away strands of golden hair out of her eyes, tucking them inside her hood.

  Ayla didn’t answer as she searched the bare horizon, where stone grey sky met stone grey sea.

  Isaura sighed. ‘Why are you here, Ayla? Why do you stay? If you don’t want to be with Ivaar, loyal to him, why not just leave while he is away?’

  Ayla dropped her head. Isaura’s questions were fair and kindly asked. Perhaps, perhaps it would be nice not to feel so utterly alone. ‘My husband,’ she whispered at last. ‘My husband is here.’

  Thorgils stood in the bow, next to the catapult, willing his ship on as it skimmed the deep, murky water. They were gaining. And, for the first time, Otto was quiet. Not just quiet, though, he was barely noticeable as he watched the chase from the stern, muttering conspiratorially with their helmsman. Thorgils had long since realised that whichever part of Fire Serpent, Otto was in, he was best to stay on the opposite side. It was easier to resist the temptation to tip him overboard.

  ‘Come on!’ Thorgils bellowed to the wide red sail, curving taut and full as it soared above him, his right hand twitching over the iron pommel of his sword. He smiled widely, enjoying the sharp bite of the wind as it numbed his face, savouring their first taste of victory. But now was the real test. Could they take Skorro? Capture Haaron’s prize?

  Soon they would find out.

  Eadmund turned to Villas. ‘Bring us alongside Sea Bear,’ he instructed his helmsman, his eyes never leaving the ships in front of them. They had gained significantly over the stretch of sea between the Widow’s Peak and Skorro, breathing down the Hestian’s necks, urged on by the chase and the sense that victory was now within reach.

  Skorro was not a large island, but its fort appeared mighty; Eadmund could see that clearly enough in the fading light of the afternoon. Thick stone walls crowned with heavily patrolled ramparts rose out of a rocky mound. Two tall, solid wooden gates. And a garrison within. Eadmund knew what that meant: more arrows.

  It was time to slow down and wait.

  ‘Quick!’ Jaeger screamed. They needed to disembark with speed, to get all their men off the ships and into the fort before the Islanders landed. He knew they were prepared for a siege.

  If they could get inside in time.

  ‘Berard!’ Jaeger grabbed his brother, pulling him up from the deck. ‘Get ready!’ he demanded, his eyes enraged at the defeat in his brother’s. ‘We have a chance for victory!’ he yelled insistently, loudly, so that everyone could hear. ‘We will not lose Skorro! You know how secure the fort is! We have men, we have weapons, arrows, everything we need to defeat those bastards! To take revenge for what they did to us! For what they have taken from us today!’ He was shaking with fury, but also determination. He would not be defeated. Not here, not in front of his father, his brothers, his men. He would not give in without a fight. Because he was going to be King of Hest.

  And Dragos kings were not defeated by nothing Islanders.

  Gant kept his eyes down, not wanting to accidentally make eye contact with Axl. He didn’t want to lead Haegen or his dolt of a brother to any conclusions about Axl’s parentage. He was not surprised to see that Ale
ksander was employing the same tactic.

  Despite the precarious nature of their situation, Gant had seen enough of what was happening down in the Adrano to realise that the Islander’s fleet was about to attack Skorro. The only hope the Brekkans had that he could see was that Jael and her men would be victorious. And that Lothar and Osbert would keep their mouths shut for long enough not to get them all killed.

  Jaeger didn’t wait for the ship to be grounded. He jumped into the water, ignoring the cold as it soaked him quickly to the bone again, wading towards the foreshore, his swords in the air. Berard gulped and jumped in after him.

  Jaeger looked past the men who gripped the sides of the ships and started pulling them towards the beach, past the men who were still clambering into the water, swords, axes, and shields raised, hurrying to the fort. They were there, Jaeger saw, the Islanders. Waiting. ‘Open the gates!’ he roared, hurrying up onto the narrow beach that was mostly rock and very little else. There were three ships moored to a small pier. He was relieved to know that he’d left such a large garrison in place. One hundred men were inside, ready to help them repel their attackers.

  The gates creaked and groaned open as the ships were quickly abandoned on the foreshore.

  ‘Inside!’ Jaeger yelled as his sodden men stumbled past him. ‘Get inside! We need to close the gates! Archers to the ramparts! Hurry!’

  Villas eased Ice Breaker in beside Sea Bear as their crews hurried to bring down yards and furl sails.

  Jael nodded at Eadmund, relieved to see that he was alright.

  ‘After you!’ he called, motioning to the fort.

  She looked up at the darkening sky as arrows from the ramparts soared towards them, burrowing into the water some distance from their ships. Turning around, Jael was pleased to see the rest of their fleet gathering behind them. ‘Let’s close in, just a bit!’ she called to her men who were busy slotting oars into holes, nodding at Beorn on the tiller. ‘At my signal get back to the house, though. No point in dying till you’ve got a sword in your hand!’