by Zaya Feli
Karel shook his head. “Come on. Let's find him and get to the ships.” He gripped Isa's wrist. His touch was a bright light in a sea of darkness. Power. Energy. Isa wanted to cling to the sensation, but Karel yanked his hand away, gesturing for Isa to follow. He ran ahead and Isa fought to keep up.
When Karel slowed, Isa shook his head. “Keep going.”
Karel drew the arrow from his trousers and nocked it, holding the bow at his side. Ahead, three wolves fought over the remains of a man. When Isa and Karel approached, one turned and snarled at them. Karel drew the bow, aiming his last arrow at the wolf's head.
How the fuck were they going to get out of this alive?
“Isa!” Karel hissed.
“What?”
“Over there. Is that Rakkian?” He pointed the tip of his arrow past the wolves.
Isa inched around Karel's back, straining his neck to scan the treeline. At first he saw nothing, but then he spotted a man on the ground, unmoving. His brown curls blended with the leaves on the forest floor. “I think so.”
“Go get him,” Karel said, adjusting his grip on the bow when another wolf raised its head from the corpse. “I can't take my eyes off them.”
Isa was tempted to protest. He had no weapons, no means of defending himself...but he couldn't leave Rakkian. Taking a deep breath, he ran, pulse drumming a beat in his skull as he raced for Rakkian's still form. He didn't dare look over his shoulder.
“Rakki!” he called when he reached him. He dropped to his knees, rolling Rakkian onto his back and searching his body for wounds. No blood – not a scratch. He lowered his head to Rakkian's face and felt soft breaths tickle his ear. Rakkian was alive.
A caw from above made Isa raise his head and relief rushed through him at the sight of Skygge. “Good girl,” he panted, grabbing Rakkian under the arms. He dragged him upright and against his back with a groan of pain, nearly losing his balance on the soft ground. His shoulder burned and every time the bandages rubbed the bone of his finger, it felt like he was being cut again. Then Karel was beside him, helping him lift Rakkian off the ground.
“The wolves?” Isa asked, looking past Karel to where they'd been gnawing on the body.
“They took off. Come on.” Karel wrapped Rakkian's other arm around his shoulders and got to his feet. “What's wrong with him?”
“I don't know. Just go.”
They reached the beach and Isa spotted familiar faces ahead. Alma, with a firm grip on Signy's hand. Torsten. Eskal was aboard one of the ships, shouting orders to loosen the sails. The beach was chaos, people bumping into Isa as they raced for the ships. He nearly fell and would have dragged Rakkian down with him, but Karel kept them both on their feet. Karel was stronger than he looked. Out on the water, countless ships had already left shore. Fenrisborg's grey sails dotted the horizon.
Rakkian stirred, raising his head. He gripped Isa's shoulder. “What happened?”
“Shh,” Isa said. “Take it easy. Stand if you can.”
A woman raced past in direction of the treeline with an axe in each hand, joining the defensive line forming at the edge of the sand. Isa and Karel stopped on the pier; a man helping a pair of girls onto one of the Ulfheim ships turned and took Rakkian from Isa, leading him onboard.
A line of warriors faced the treeline, all brandishing spears, axes, and swords. The forest was eerily still. Isa couldn't hear if the wolves were still in the clearing – the sound of hundreds of people seeking safety on the ships drowned out all other sounds. More ships were on the move now, racing to be first to the mouth of the strait that funnelled into the open fjord.
Nothing moved in the forest. The warriors waited, holding their breaths for a clash, but it didn't come. Slowly, silence descended on the beach. The forest was quiet, too. The wolves were gone.
Somewhere, a woman wailed. Another shouted her anger at the gods. Most people were busy loading their friends and families onto the remaining ships.
Isa was turning to join them when the world went dark. Fabric was pressed against his face. A hand clasped over his mouth and Isa yelped, stumbling backwards in an effort to free himself. His back bumped the chest of someone who took a firm grip on his neck. The last thing he remembered was an explosion of pain in the side of his head.
* * *
For the second time that day, Isa woke to throbbing pain in his skull. Not just his skull – when he shifted, agony seared his left hand and he groaned, lying still.
He lay on his side on something hard: wood, creaking in time with their gentle sway. They were sailing, but the world was dark. There was something – probably a sack – over his head, and Isa rubbed his temple against the planks to remove it, but the string was tight under his chin.
“He's awake.”
“Leave him.”
“He's hurt!” That was Rakkian's voice.
A coo and the click of talons told Isa that Skygge was nearby.
“It's me.” Rakkian's voice was soft. His hand brushed Isa's shoulder. The energy in that brief touch made Isa tremble with need, but he reeled himself in.
“I have water,” Rakkian said, fiddling with the drawstring of the sack.
“Don't take that off.” Eskal's voice came from farther away.
“I'm just giving him water!”
It was the first time Isa had heard Rakkian snap at anyone. Rakkian pulled the sack off and the bright daylight made Isa squint. “Raise your head.”
Isa did, pushing himself awkwardly onto one elbow. His hands were tied, he realised, making the movement difficult.
“Here.” Rakkian held the bottle to his lips and Isa drank, slowly at first and then greedily as the water soothed his raw throat. He coughed a little and Rakkian wiped his chin with the edge of his sleeve, then fitted the sack back in place.
Skygge cooed again and Rakkian soothed her with a soft tone.
“Is she all right?” Isa croaked.
“She's fine,” Rakkian assured him. “Ferocious. Torsten nearly lost an eye when they tied you up. She scratched them bloody.”
“Good girl,” Isa murmured. “You? You were unconscious.”
“My head hurts,” Rakkian said. “I must have hit it when I fell, but I'm fine. Don't worry about me.”
“How is he?” Alma's voice was somewhere to one side and Isa heard steps as she approached.
“He's awake,” Rakkian said.
“Take it easy. Ouch! I'm not touching him,” she hissed.
Isa couldn't see, but he could guess what was going on. “Skygge, be nice.”
Skygge made a small sound and rubbed her beak against the top of Isa's head.
“What are you doing?” Eskal shouted, still thankfully distant. “Leave him alone. You really want to baby him after what he did?”
“Oh, relax,” Alma called back, but she still moved away.
Rakkian stayed close. “Your hand looks bad,” he whispered. “It's been bleeding.”
Isa swallowed. He didn't want to think about it. His head pounded with every heartbeat and his hand... He'd dealt with lots of cuts and scrapes in the past – deep ones, too – but never anything like this.
“I'll give you my energy.” Rakkian's face was close to his, the whisper so quiet it was hard to hear over the sound of water rushing around the ship. “It'll make you feel better.”
“No,” Isa said quickly, a little too loud. He closed his eyes, composing himself. “Don't.”
“Why not?”
“The wolves,” he said, voice nearly failing him. “Was that really me?”
Rakkian didn't answer at first. The silence stretched until he said, “I don't know. They came out of nowhere. Eskal thinks the Varg's curse summoned them somehow. Did you feel anything?”
“No, I...” Isa's brow furrowed. His shoulder ached faintly. He thought about that morning. The lies. Eskal. The desire for revenge burning inside him. Was that what had summoned them? Had the curse somehow fulfilled his wish? He remembered the wolves turning away from Steinar to g
o for Eskal until Karel's arrows stopped them. His heart seemed to clench. “Steinar – what happened to him?”
“I don't know.” Rakkian's voice was farther away now. “He's not on this ship. He might be on one of the others.”
“Eskal's right,” Isa said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. Something heavy and awful churned in his belly.
“What?”
“You should stay away from me. Don't touch me. Just stay away.”
“Isa—”
“If I did this, what else might I do? It's not safe. I don't want you to get hurt.”
Silence. Isa thought Rakkian might try to argue again, but then heard him get to his feet and walk away.
How many people were dead? Men, women, children. None of them had been prepared. They'd been at Jættedahl to celebrate, hopeful souls seeking good things for themselves and their families. Instead, Isa had unleashed fury on them for his own selfish reasons.
He'd been wrong: the curse wasn't harmless. He'd sunk a fleet of ships to stop Eskal from sailing west and now he'd killed innocent people. Losing a finger was too light a punishment for that sort of evil. Lena's attempt to cure him had failed. There was no hope.
He deserved to die.
* * *
The atmosphere in Ulfheim was tense.
Those who'd remained in the village to tend the animals and the smallest children greeted them on the beach with smiles and waves. By the time the ships docked, the smiles had faded. Eskal was subdued when he asked for a count of casualties. Steinar and one other dead. Four injured.
Rakkian stepped off the ship. A tight-lipped young woman pushed past him, cradling her arm against her chest, her coat soaked with blood.
Part of Rakkian's mind still struggled to catch up as he stood on the sand and watched the unloading. He'd enjoyed himself for the first time in as long as he could remember. The forest had felt welcoming, and the food had been amazing. The sacrifices had been difficult to watch, but he'd felt pride radiating from Isa when he'd drunk from the bowl of blood.
Isa.
Rakkian watched as Torsten led Isa off the pier with a grip on the back of his neck. Isa didn't struggle but hung his head, feet dragging in the sand. What would happen to him? Would they kill him? Rakkian had seen the kind of cruel power the Varg's curse held. But it wasn't Isa's fault, was it? Isa was a good person. He'd saved Rakkian's life, had stood up for him. Rakkian rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't know what to think. He was sore and tired, his body aching like he'd scaled a mountain, all his muscles tingling from fatigue.
Karel walked past in direction of the village. Rakkian wanted to follow and thank him for his help in Jættedahl, but he was too tired. Isa's hut was close, so that was where he headed. He'd sleep, then eat.
He'd just placed a foot on the bottom step when a sharp whistle stopped him.
Jari stood in the muddy road behind him, hands in his pockets. “Eskal wants you in his hall.”
Rakkian stared at him. “I'm going to sleep,” he said.
Jari took a step closer. It looked like he'd meant to grab Rakki but changed his mind. “He said right now. You'd better hurry.”
Rakkian clenched his jaw. He was sick of being told what to do, sick of being ordered around like a dog. Still, he feared what Eskal might do when he was angry. “Fine,” he said, turning with a sigh to follow Jari along the road.
The jarl's hall was packed with people when they entered. Torches flickered and the central fire roared, warding off the chill. Jari pushed through the crowd and it parted for them, all eyes going to Rakkian. The attention filled him with unease, reminding him of the first time he'd been here, strung up against one of the ominous dragon beams and nearly gutted.
“—tend to our wounded and mourn our dead.” Eskal stood in front of his high-backed chair at the back of the hall, addressing the crowd with open arms. When he saw Rakkian, he paused and motioned him forward. Rakkian went, resisting the urge to flinch when Eskal laid a light hand on the back of his neck. The Dagaz pendant against Rakkian's chest kept Eskal's touch from prickling uncomfortably.
Isa had made him that necklace.
“We were lucky not to lose any of our Sjaelir, but we lost a Runik today at the hands of another. Ulfheim's magical defence has been weakened, but I assure you that I will do everything I can to protect our home.”
Rakkian glanced up at Eskal. Steinar was gone and Isa was locked up somewhere. Jari was too young, and so were the twins. Ingrid was old and used her powers only for healing. That meant Eskal was the only Runik in Ulfheim still in fighting condition. Rakkian swallowed. If Isa was right, Rakkian was the strongest Sjaelir in Ulfheim. He had no illusions about what that meant for him and it filled him with dread. What Eskal said next, however, made Rakkian forget his own misery.
“Runik or not, Isarin Eiriksson will pay for what he's done. We will strike this menace down once and for all. Steinar is dead because of him. Gitta's husband was killed by wolves.” He pointed to a woman in the crowd. Her face was streaked with tears. “I refuse to place Ulfheim in that kind of danger any longer.”
Mumbled agreement rippled through the crowd.
It felt wrong to judge Isa when he wasn't here to defend himself. Eskal had already twisted the truth once. If he hadn't pushed the blame on Isa in Jættedahl, maybe none of this would have happened. Rakkian gathered his courage and spoke. “The curse isn't Isa's fault. He doesn't control it. He didn't ask for any of it.”
Eskal turned a hard gaze on Rakkian, but he refused to cower. He squared his jaw and stared back.
“¨But it isn't your ships he sunk, is it? It isn't your family he murdered.” Eskal made to grab him again, but Rakkian stepped out of his reach. It was a mistake; Eskal lunged close and slapped Rakkian across the face. He scarcely had time to react before Eskal leaned down, snarled, “Go to the back room and stay there,” and shoved Rakkian towards the door to his private room.
Rakkian stopped in front of the door, fists clenched, but there was nothing he could do in a room full of Ulfheim villagers. He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him, the sound of the groaning hinges giving him at least a bit of satisfaction.
He looked around Eskal's room. It was small and dark. A massive pair of antlers on display above the bed filled most of the wall. There was no other furniture, and Rakkian didn't want to sit on the bed, so he sank onto the floor, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
If they were going to kill Isa, he had to get away. Eskal's plans to sail west had been overtaken by Karel's promises of this strange, forgotten rune, and the journey west could be years away. Rakkian would simply have to find his own way home. Slipping a hand under his shirt, he drew out the warm stone, studying the concealment rune on its surface. Isa's magic tingled faintly along its surface. It would hide his Sjaelir status, but where could he go? Fenrisborg and its allies controlled all the routes to the Western Isles, but it had been seven years since he'd left that place. He looked a lot different than he had at eleven winters. He could do it – secure himself a spot on one of their western trade ships.
And then what?
Once he was back, where would he go?
It didn't matter. All he had to do was get far enough from the territories the Norsemen controlled. The Western Isles had no Runiks. His old home was full of Sjaelir who had no clue of their own power because no one had ever tried to shove invisible hands into their souls. He'd all but forgotten the culture and his knowledge of the language was rusty from disuse, but he would be all right. All he wanted was to be his own master.
So why did the thought of leaving make his chest constrict so painfully?
Rakkian thumped his head against the wall.
He had to go now, before the seas froze over.
I'm sorry, Isa.
* * *
Karel gripped the edge of the table until the wood creaked, breathing through the dizzying discomfort. He'd done it hundreds of times, but he still couldn't help the rising panic, the way it drie
d his mouth and sped his heart with an instinctual need to protect himself from invisible danger.
It faded, the glowing fire in the hearth warming his bare torso and easing his tense muscles.
Karel released the table, stretching his stiff fingers. He grabbed the cloth from the stool and rubbed it through his hair, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.
He hadn't felt the familiar rush of weakness and fatigue since his visit to the Ulfheim seer. Was distance an issue after all? But then, Torvald hadn't mentioned it in Jættedahl. Maybe he thought Karel was close enough to a result that he'd leave him alone to focus. Karel couldn't let him down.
A knock at the door made Karel turn. Before he could answer, it opened. A woman with long brown hair and a jug in her hands stood in the doorway; she blinked, eyes tracking across his bare chest.
Karel snatched up the cloth and held it in front of himself, cursing his dulled reactions. She'd seen. Fuck.
“I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean—” She took a step back, shoulder hitting the door frame so she stumbled. Her eyes darted everywhere but back to him.
Karel swallowed. “Come in,” he said with a sigh. “And close the door.”
She did, eyes downcast. “I should have waited. I'm sorry.” She closed the door with her elbow and held the jug out to him. The hut wasn't small, but right now, it felt cramped. “I brought ale.”
Karel blinked, still clinging to the ridiculous piece of cloth. “Who are you?”
She gasped, eyes widening. She looked nervous, her elbows tight against her sides. “Oh! Silly me. I'm sorry. I'm Signy. Eskal sent me. With this. As thanks. For, you know,” she stammered, putting the jug on the small side table. “Saving his life in Jættedahl.”
Karel frowned. “Are you a servant?”
“What?” Signy looked back up and met his eyes. “No. No, I'm uh...I'm a Sjaelir.”
“Eskal sent you,” Karel said, inching towards his discarded shirt as casually as he could. “To, what? Serve me ale?”
She swallowed, the corners of her mouth tight. “I guess. And...” She bit back her words and crossed her arms over her chest.