by Zaya Feli
Doors opened as Isa approached the village centre, children poking their heads out to see who could be riding into the village so late at night. Warm lights glowed from between the cracks of sturdy huts and longhalls – more lights than he'd expected at this hour. When Isa dismounted, a figure appeared in the doorway of the council hall and came towards him. As the tallest woman in the village, Alma was unmistakable.
“I hope everyone isn't awake to wait for my return,” Isa said.
“Jarl Hjalmar and Eskal left to negotiate with Halafjell when the sun was highest,” she replied when she reached him. Her blonde hair hung loose, a rare sight, curling like a waterfall over her shoulders, chest, and back. The smell of firewood clung to her. “They haven't returned yet.”
Isa's jaw tightened. “Did they go alone? They know we can't trust Halafjell.” A young man took the reins from Isa and led his horse away, eyes downcast.
“Halafjell's jarl sent his son to stay with us during the negotiations to guarantee their safety. What did the Ravsø healer say?” Alma asked. She crossed her arms, placing herself like a barrier in front of him, between the puddles on the dirt road.
Isa waded through the muddy water to get around her to the council hall. “Later. I want a drink and I want to hear about Halafjell.”
A boy standing on the steps of a nearby hut watched Isa walk past. When Isa glanced at him, the boy's mother appeared from inside and yanked her son back, slamming the door.
Alma followed Isa into the council hall and closed the double doors. Torsten and Steinar sat beside the central fire, refilling horns of ale. They looked up at Isa’s approach and raised their drinks to him.
“Why are you not with Hjalmar?” Isa asked, pulling a stool over to the fire. He held his hands out towards the flames, wiggling his stiff fingers.
“Hello to you, too,” Torsten said. His massive arms were bare despite the chill winter night.
Isa rolled his eyes at him.
“Halafjell didn't want any Runiks at the negotiations,” Steinar said. “And Eskal didn't want Torsten along. His armpits smell too much like death.” He cackled, the sound turning into a growl when Torsten stomped on his foot.
Isa raised an eyebrow. Whatever was in Steinar's drinking horn seemed to have loosened his usually stern demeanour. A rare sight. “Eskal is a Runik,” Isa said. He accepted a horn from Alma, letting the strong ale fill his chilled insides with warmth. “What does Halafjell want now?”
“We don't know.” Alma sat down opposite Isa and stretched her legs towards the fire. “A rider showed up at midday wanting to negotiate. Hjalmar was glad to go. He's right that splitting up the smaller alliances was a bad move with Fenrisborg sleeping like a wolf in the north.”
“Hardly sleeping,” Steinar murmured.
“Eskal doesn't care about peace,” Isa said, taking a drink from his horn. “Why did he go?”
“Halafjell has a lot of ships.” Torsten drained his horn and tossed the last droplets into the fire, making the burning wood sizzle, then leaned back to keep the sparks from singeing his blond beard.
“Of course. I'm waiting for the day Eskal declares to Hjalmar that he's marrying a ship instead of a woman,” Isa said. “What's the Halafjell jarl's name? Orlan? I didn't think he had a son.”
“He does, apparently,” Steinar said. He waved a hand, the runes tattooed on his fingers dancing in the firelight. “A scrawny kid. Won't say a word.”
“Hopefully guarded well.” Isa wiggled his horn in Steinar's direction. “That scrawny kid ensures our jarl's safety.”
“And our jarl's son's safety,” Torsten said.
“Fuck Eskal,” Isa said. “He can go fuck a pig for all I care. Charming a sow might be the most he can ever hope for. Although someone should probably warn him not to stick his prick in a sow's mouth. They eat everything, after all.” Isa grinned.
Torsten laughed heartily, but Steinar sent Isa a hard glare. “Oh, shut your gullet, boy. You're ruining the taste of my ale,” he grumbled, taking another mouthful.
“Can't be worse than the taste of Eskal's prick,” Isa said, then leapt to his feet when Steinar splashed the remaining contents of his horn in his direction.
“Piss off, Isa.”
Isa laughed and set his horn down before walking to the doors. Torsten might be the larger of the two, but Isa would much rather pick a fight with him than with Ulfheim's master Runik.
Alma caught up with him. “So? What did Lena say?”
Isa glanced at her. “She's worked with the southern seers. She took my blood. Said she'd make an attempt.”
“That's good news,” Alma bumped her fist against his shoulder, which was about as much physical contact she ever dared with him. Isa didn't know why she bothered being nice to him when he never offered her anything in return. “Imagine not having to worry about that curse all the time.”
“It's the best chance I've had in a long time,” Isa admitted as they crossed the village centre in direction of one of the narrower dirt roads. “And it'd better work. I had to kill a man.”
“Shit, Isa!”
“I know. But it's taken care of.”
Her eyes lit up. “If you got rid of the curse...maybe you could even be jarl.”
A dangerously warm feeling spread through Isa's chest, but he kept his expression blank. “I think Eskal would have a word or two to say about that.” He paused as they passed the jarl's hall. The doors were open, casting squares of orange light onto the road. Voices and laughter filtered from inside.
“Jari is watching the Halafjell jarl's son,” Alma explained before Isa could ask.
Isa stared at her. “You're letting Jari watch the hostage? Are you out of your mind?” He marched past Alma in direction of the hall, but she caught up easily.
When Isa entered, Jari was standing with his back to the door, one foot propped on a chair between the legs of the hostage. As Isa watched, Jari drew a knife from his belt and flicked it forward, chuckling.
“Jari!” Isa barked, striding towards him.
Jari's entire body flinched and he dropped the knife, which clattered to the floor. Nervousness flitted across his features, but when he saw Isa, a cocky smile replaced it. He brushed his blond hair back from his face. He was scrawny and more than a head shorter than Isa, but radiated sly confidence. “I haven't touched him. I'm not that stupid, Isa,” he said, backing just out of Isa's range, something he had honed into a talent over the years.
Isa glared at him. “This alliance is important, Jari. If you jeopardize the negotiations—”
“I wasn't doing anything!” Jari cried, his still-youthful voice cracking on the last word. “You're such a bore.” His cheeks reddened and he marched out the doors.
Isa watched him go with a raised eyebrow.
Alma came up beside Isa. “One day he's going to be at your back in battle. You might want to start getting on his good side.”
“He has no good side.” Isa looked at the hostage. Jarl Orlan's son was tied to the chair at the wrists, head drooping against his chest. He wore dyed leather trousers and as much gold as you'd expect from a jarl's son. A tumble of golden-brown curls hid his face. Isa picked up Jari's knife and flipped it around, using the hilt to tilt the young man's head up. A pair of startling green eyes met Isa's, framed by freckles scattered across his cheekbones like a map of the stars.
Isa stared at him.
“Jari is young,” Alma was saying from somewhere on Isa's left. “Give him time to learn and grow less cocky.”
Isa lowered the knife. “Leave.”
“What?” Alma asked. “I'm just trying to give you good advice.”
Isa faced her, his expression carefully neutral. “I know. Go, I'll watch the hostage.”
Alma gave him a strange look, but shrugged and left, closing the doors behind her.
Isa followed, sliding the lock into place and leaning against one door to look the bound young man up and down. “Do I know you?” he asked into the silence of their
solitude.
It couldn't be.
Could it?
A raven's caw sounded from somewhere far away. Isa glanced up on reflex.
The young man's eyes were wide. “Isa? Is it you?”
“Do I know you?” Isa repeated, heart pounding faster.
The young man wiggled in his binds, lifting one foot to toe at the heel of the other. He slipped the boot off and stepped on the toe of his sock, pulling it off. Then he raised his leg, displaying the sole of his foot to Isa. A pale, curved line sat just below the toes. “You know me,” he said.
Isa wiped a hand over his mouth, a vibrant memory flashing through his mind. Of a boy in a forked tree and his own hands carefully bandaging an injured foot. Rakkian had aged – they both had – but there was no mistaking it. His jaw was wider; his shoulders too, although not by much. He had the same golden hair, the same freckles, the same kind eyes. “You're back.” Isa took a few steps forward, flipping the knife again so it was blade-out. “Why are you back?” Another, eerier memory crawled its way up his spine: glowing yellow eyes and sharp teeth scraping bone. He reached for his shoulder but forced himself to drop his hand. “I told you to run, little Sjaelir.”
Rakkian's head came up, eyes focusing on the knife in Isa's hand before rising to his face. “I did run,” he said, tired and sad. “I ran for half a day. I never made it south. Halafjell farmers caught me and brought me to their jarl, and I've been there since. Isa. Are we still friends?”
Something prickled unpleasantly at the back of Isa's neck. The sweet boy with the kind heart and the special gift had been just on the other side of the ridge for years. Isa had met with Jarl Orlan a few times. He had even been to their village. Of course, servant boys didn't have any reason to attend council. “You're no jarl's son.”
“No, I'm not,” Rakkian said.
Isa worked his jaw, looking away. All this time, the thought of Rakkian's escape had consoled him: an act of true kindness he could be proud of. He'd wake up after harrowing nights suspended in dreams about death and dark creatures and calm himself knowing he'd done one good thing, that he wasn't entirely corrupted. He'd saved a boy. He'd set Rakki free and helped him back home. Only, Rakki had never made it home. He had probably spent the past six years scooping shit in Halafjell pigsties.
“Isa, you have to listen—”
Another thought crept into Isa's mind, something that made the hairs on his body stand on end. Jarl Orlan had no sons. “It's a trap,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Rakkian met his eyes, brow knotted and jaw tense. “They don't care if you kill me.”
Fear lanced through Isa. “They're going to kill Hjalmar and Eskal.” He turned and bolted for the door, shoving the lock aside.
“Isa!” Rakkian's voice made Isa stop. His eyes were wide and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” Isa said, then slammed the door and ran for the council hall. He leaned through the doors only long enough to get the attention of the men by the fire. “It's a trap!” He didn't wait for the others to ask questions, but continued in the direction of the barn, splashing carelessly through puddles.
“How do you know, boy?” Steinar caught up and tried to grab his arm, but Isa twisted out of his reach.
“Orlan has no sons. The boy in the jarl's hall is a servant. They've tricked us.”
“Eskal met the boy two months ago near the road to Thorn Ridge. He wore gold and everything,” Steinar argued, stepping in front of Isa's horse as he led it out of the stable.
“It's a trick!” Isa snarled. He tossed a saddle onto the back of the horse and tightened its girth. “Trust me.”
Alma stood in the doorway, looking between Isa and Steinar. With a sigh, she tried to step past Isa. “I'm coming with you.”
“No.” Isa grabbed her arm. “I'm taking Torsten and Steinar. You stay and watch over the hostage. Don't let Jari hurt him.” He released her.
“Why?” Alma asked, rubbing her arm. “If he's just a servant—”
“Do it for me, Alma!” Isa said. His eyes bored into hers. “I'm asking you.”
“Fine! I'll babysit the servant boy.”
Isa pulled his horse outside and mounted up. The animal danced in circles, echoing his impatience as Steinar and Torsten found their horses. Isa heeled his mount and led the way out of the village, into the woods, and across the ward. He didn't want to think about how long Hjalmar and Eskal had been gone. They could already be dead. Hjalmar had been like a father to him, had saved his life when he was an infant. Isa couldn't repay him by being too slow to save his.
CHAPTER TWO
Without torches to light the way, trees appeared out of the darkness in front of Isa like sentries waiting to knock him from the saddle, reaching out twisting fingers to scrape against his face and body. He yanked his horse around a tree and the animal nearly slipped on the dew-wet soil.
“This way!” Steinar's voice boomed in the silence of the forest and Isa adjusted his course, following the white rump of Steinar's horse through the trees. The pace was breakneck and fallen branches threatened to tangle their horses' legs, but Isa didn't slow. Instead, he heeled his mount alongside Steinar's. “I need more energy,” he shouted, letting go of his reins with one hand to feel under his clothes for the half-dozen stone pendants dangling around his neck. “I used one up at Ravsø.”
“I don't have extras.” Steinar steered his mount up onto the trail. “Make do with what you have.”
Isa swore under his breath. None of them had any idea how well-prepared Halafjell was for a fight. They could be riding to their slaughter. No – if Halafjell had enough warriors to be a threat, they wouldn't have chosen a trick like this, luring Ulfheim's leaders into their halls like snakes. They were no match for Ulfheim. They'd never dared strike against them. Until now.
Lights ahead made Isa draw the axe from his belt. His horse heaved and foamed from the hard run but he urged it on mercilessly.
“Straight through!” Steinar shouted over his shoulder.
The Halafjell ward folded itself over Isa like a sickly blanket of spiderwebs, alerting the village Runiks of their arrival. Isa didn't care. All they needed was brute force.
They rode straight for the ring of houses, across the square towards the main hall. The doors slammed open and warriors flooded out, alerted by the ward, weapons raised. They saw the three riders and Isa heard their laughter a moment before Steinar severed the heads of two men with a swing of his axe. A thrill of excitement rolled through Isa and he shook himself like a dog as he slipped from the saddle, catching the wrist of a man swinging a sword at him before burying his axe in the man's chest.
Someone came barrelling out of the darkness on his right, shouting like an idiot and revealing his approach as he swung a bearded axe. Isa parried effortlessly and put all his strength behind the slash at the side of his neck. His axe sunk through muscle and cracked bone. Rune magic rippled against Isa's skin. He spun and saw Steinar swinging his sword at another man. Their weapons clashed with the distinct static of potent energy that only loaded runes created. Behind them, the jarl's hall loomed against the backdrop of dark mountains. The doors were still wide open.
“Hjalmar!” Isa shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of clashing weapons. He ran across the square past Steinar and the Halafjell Runik in the direction of the jarl's hall. Isa heard screams of children, doors slamming as he ran past, but he ignored it.
The moment he stepped inside, the blade of an axe filled his vision and he twisted backwards, pain burning along his shoulder. Shouting, he swung his axe, drawing on the energy of the pendants around his neck and igniting the battle runes carved on the backs of his hands. He felt their power adjust his senses and allow him to evade the twist of the man's arm. With rune-heightened accuracy, Isa's axe glanced off his opponent's shield and buried itself halfway through the man's skull.
Sounds of fighting deeper in the hall made Isa look over his shoulder tow
ards the longtable, scattered chairs strewn across the space, but he had no time to lower his guard and investigate.
A second opponent closed from Isa's left and he raised his axe to block the strike, but the woman was too fast, twisting his axe down and slamming her shield against his chest. Isa groaned as the iron edge hit his chin and snapped his head back. Viper-like, she moved before Isa could recover, striking at his stomach. Isa leapt back, but the blade still cut through leather, cloth, and skin. He hissed, mind reaching for the energy in the pendants rattling against his chest. But no power rushed up to meet him. They were empty. “Shit,” he hissed, ducking another vicious strike. His back hit the wall and he raised his axe to block her sword, but the blow never came. The woman's eyes widened and her mouth opened as she gasped like a stranded fish before collapsing on the floor with a long serrated knife in her back.
“Getting slow, wolf-killer?”
Isa looked up. Eskal stood before him, vest splattered with blood, sliding his tongue across his teeth. He regarded Isa with a smug expression.
“You should be thanking me for saving your ass,” Isa said, poking the tip of his bloody axe against Eskal's chest. “Where's your father?”
“What in all the realms went wrong?” Hjalmar's voice echoed at the back of the hall. He appeared from behind a broken table with his tunic torn and his grey beard splattered with blood.
A cry of terror made Isa raise his axe. Across the hall, Torsten slammed a man's face against the wall, the body collapsing on the floor when Torsten released it. “I think that's the last of them,” he declared cheerfully.
Isa looked back to Hjalmar, pushing past Eskal. “Are you all right, Uncle?”
“I'm fine. Still got all my fingers and toes.” Hjalmar coughed and took a heaving breath. Isa made to check him for injuries with the healing Bjarka marked on his palm, but dropped his hand in frustration as he remembered the pendants' emptiness.
“What went wrong?” Hjalmar asked again, turning to watch Steinar enter the hall behind Eskal and pull the doors closed. There was a deep gash in his upper arm. It was lucky Halafjell was less than half the size of Ulfheim.