by A. E. Rayne
Jael took a quick mouthful of the stew, eager to fill her body with its promised warmth. She almost gagged. Her frozen nose had led her astray because up close, the stew smelled rancid and tasted even worse. She knew she had to swallow what was in her mouth so as not to offend their host, but not one part of her wanted to. Fyn was staring at her now, greedily tucking into his own bowl as though it contained the most delicious meal he had ever eaten. Jael closed her eyes and swallowed everything inside her mouth in one big, unappetising lump. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’ she croaked, her eyes watering as she tried to ignore the vile flavours flooding her mouth.
‘I have some small ale,’ Fyn answered, leaping up to grab a jug from the stool by his bed.
Jael glanced quickly at Thorgils, who was staring apprehensively at his own stew.
‘That would be good,’ Thorgils coughed. ‘Pour me a cup too, Fyn.’
Fyn once again had to hunt about in his rubbish pile. ‘I’m not used to many guests,’ he apologised nervously. ‘It’s only my mother’s servant who I see these days.’
He managed to find two more broken cups and poured a small measure of watery ale into each. They drank quickly, desperate to wash down the putrid taste of Fyn’s stew.
‘Perhaps Jael can come and train you?’ Thorgils suggested cheekily, hoping to keep Fyn from noticing that they had both stopped eating. ‘She is, after all, a warrior of great repute.’
Fyn looked mortified by the proposition. ‘Oh no, no, I couldn’t imagine that would be a good idea.’
Jael raised one eyebrow but wasn’t sure who she intended it for.
‘No, I suppose you’re right, Jael really must focus on taking care of Eadmund and preparing for motherhood.’ Thorgils was enjoying the twisting, turning expressions on her face as he talked. ‘Although...’ he turned to her, ‘you do have that shiny, new sword and it would be a shame to keep it in its scabbard for long.’
Jael couldn’t help but smile as she reached down and fingered the unfamiliar hilt, running her hand over the chilled moonstone. It was reassuring to have a sword again and one that was, for the first time, truly hers. As amusing as Thorgils was attempting to be, he was actually right, the sword needed to be used. It was better to get to know its secrets now before she had to call on it. Although, not necessarily against a boy who couldn’t fight back.
‘I think it’s probably best if Fyn is trained by someone who can show him more basic techniques. Someone with a simple approach, someone, maybe like you, Thorgils, who is at that sort of level.’ She winked teasingly at the big man. ‘Someone with my experience and skill might only end up hurting Fyn, especially with a sword as well-made and sharp as this.’
Fyn’s mouth hung open, his eyes flicking back and forth, following the banter. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of either suggestion.
Thorgils was busy forming a retort when Jael spun around suddenly. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’ both Fyn and Thorgils asked quickly, their eyes darting towards the door.
‘The horses! I’m sure I heard someone out there!’
Fyn was out the door in an instant, and Thorgils made to follow him, still holding his bowl, before Jael hissed at him. She quickly grabbed the bowl out of his hand and dumped its contents back into the cauldron, along with her own. Thorgils hung his head at his dimness, then raced out after Fyn, remembering to duck his head just in time.
Jael and Thorgils turned to wave to Fyn as the horses carried them slowly up the hill. Both were relieved to have escaped without another mention of the stew.
‘That was truly the worst thing I have ever tasted,’ Jael muttered, shuddering at the memory. She leaned over and spat loudly onto the snow.
‘The boy is turning feral if he thinks that bowl of anus-smelling, bollocks-flavoured shit tasted good!’ Thorgils cursed. ‘Did you see him gulping it down as though it were food from the gods?’
‘I had fur in my mouth.’
‘Is that all?’ Thorgils countered. ‘I swallowed a claw!’
Eadmund had slept a lot. That hadn’t been his intention when he’d finally found some solitude in his favourite drying shed, but the rest had cleared much of the fog out of his muddled head. Suddenly he could see himself in sharper relief, and what he saw was brutal.
The drying shed was open on two sides, lined with row after row of hanging fish carcasses. It was a stinking place, a cold place. Normally Eadmund didn’t notice. He was usually barely conscious when he came here, desperate to escape Evaine or his father, needing to be alone in his own mess, without witnesses. But today, for the first time, there was a witness: himself. And it was all because of her.
Jael.
He needed to think, to find a way out of the hole he had sunk into, to change who he had become, but his mind kept wandering down the path that led to her. Why? He couldn’t understand it. She was prickly and stern and looked at him as he really was: a soft lump of waste. No one on Oss did that. Of course, sometimes there was a look of pity or disappointment, but most still held onto the image of who he had once been and the hope that he would return, someday. He was still their friend; they could still drink with him, share stories and jokes, and even women with him. Even his father, for all his fire, still treated Eadmund as though there was still some hope there. But not Jael. She saw nothing but the truth.
He sat on the hard dirt floor, his back against the shed wall, watching as the carcasses moved gently back and forth above him. He’d been quite happy to let the past consume him, secretly hoping it would devour him whole one day. But now he saw Jael’s face and wasn’t so sure.
Tarak was busy pounding someone’s face into the muddy slush when Thorgils and Jael rode through the gates, red-nosed, numb-limbed, but happy.
Snow had been cleared from an area known, Thorgils informed Jael, as the Pit. And making the most of the fine day, Tarak was putting on a show for a large crowd of cheering Osslanders. Swords had been abandoned, and it now appeared to be an all-out wrestling match, which was rather one-sided judging by the bloody pulp that used to be Tarak’s opponents face.
‘Could’ve been you,’ Thorgils winked at Jael.
She looked unimpressed, by both the sloppy wrestling and her new-found friend’s insinuation. ‘Why? Because he’s a giant and I’m a girl?’ she sneered. ‘That doesn’t make him a skilled fighter. He’s squashing that fool with his big, fat gut. There’s no skill in being able to lie on somebody to win a fight.’
‘That may be, but Tarak is skilled in winning, no matter how he achieves it. He’s only been beaten once in all the time he’s been here.’ Thorgils looked over as a cheer rang up from Tarak’s group of supporters. ‘And that shocked him so much, he’s never let it happen again.’
‘So, you’re going to tell me that it was you who beat him?’
‘Me? I wish I could say so as no one would like to knock that bastard out more than me, but no... it was Eadmund.’
Jael was stunned. She pulled on Tig’s reins, bringing him to a complete stop. ‘Eadmund? Eadmund can fight well enough to defeat that? When did that happen?’ Her eyebrows arched in surprise.
Thorgils shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘I’m not sure, maybe eight years ago, maybe more. I can’t honestly remember. It’s been a long time since Tarak was beaten and a long time since Eadmund even held a sword, that much I do know. A shame on both counts.’ He dismounted then. ‘Do you think your stables are finished? I’m sure your servant will have something better to offer us than young Fyn did. I’m starved!’ He whispered this to Jael; not many people knew that Fyn still resided on the island, and he certainly didn’t want Morac to catch wind of it from him.
Jael slid off Tig with a grimace, her legs stiff and sore from the biting cold. ‘That’s the best thing you’ve suggested all day.’ She yawned and ambled after Thorgils, tugging on Tig’s reins. It was barely midafternoon, but she was already thinking about her bed.
They led the horses across the sloppy, brown slush of t
he square that only hours earlier had been untouched snow. And in the midst of all that muck, Jael once again spotted the girl in the white cloak, talking angrily to the pointy-faced man. Morac.
‘So, do you know why Fyn was banished?’ she wondered, unable to stop staring. She couldn’t make out their words, but it was clear that they were arguing; Jael was itching to know what was going on.
Thorgils followed the turn of Jael’s head and swallowed hard. It was in everyone’s best interests for him to keep her away from Evaine. ‘No, I’ve never found out the reason. We weren’t told. Eirik and Morac kept that one close to their chests. I can’t imagine what Fyn could have done, though. He’s a bit simple.’
‘Simple? No, he’s not! He’s nice. And shy,’ Jael insisted. ‘I don’t imagine you can be banished for that?’
‘I don’t imagine so, but come on now, I need to get something hot and clawless inside me before my heart stops beating!’
Jael reluctantly turned away. ‘So, Morac is Fyn’s father...’
‘He is.’
‘And the girl... Evaine? Is she Fyn’s sister?’
Thorgils was silent. He kept walking.
Jael laughed loudly behind him. ‘You, my friend, say more with your silence than you do with your words!’
Tiras stood to one side of the hall, watching Jael walk away. Without her husband. Again. He still hadn’t seen her with him. Not once. Turning away into the shadows of the alley, he smiled.
14
Eirik banged his fist on the table again to silence the hall. He frowned; he was having a hard time getting anyone’s attention at all. It was no doubt the snow’s fault, keeping everyone indoors for much of the day, so that they were only just now using up all of their energy. Finally, though, voices hushed and expectant faces turned towards their impatient king.
‘Well, it seems we are now in the grip of the Freeze. We are officially frozen in!’
There were cheers at that. It was a happy tradition here on Oss, and despite the hardships that accompanied the frozen sea, most seemed to embrace the challenge of having to sustain themselves till spring. Their stores were healthy enough this year, and there was a good deal of optimism in the hall knowing that they would invade Hest and refill their coffers come the Thaw.
‘But we must not turn into fat hermits while we wait for spring, though. We cannot spend all our time face-deep in women and ale!’ There were a few hearty boos then. Eirik smiled, rolling his eyes. ‘We must keep our minds and bodies sharp, ready for battle. So, you are all going to train, sweat, and practice in the snow and ice every day, for we are going to hold a contest before the Thaw is upon us!’
Eirik looked pointedly at Jael, who had barely been listening, and even now, stared at him blankly.
‘It has been many years, too many years, since we held one of our famous contests and now, with the arrival of my new daughter,’ he smiled, and Jael cringed, ‘it feels like the perfect time to return the tradition to our beloved Pit!’ The hall thundered with raucous applause and table thumping, and Eirik soaked it all up. As king, all decisions were his, and not many were greeted with much joy, so this was something to savour. ‘For those of you who don’t know how this works,’ he looked towards Jael again. ‘There will be four groups of men, who will fight each other until we have one champion from each group. And of course, we narrow it down from there, until there is only one standing. And that bloodied and broken man, or woman, will be named Champion of Oss!’
Jael was listening now, and she didn’t like the look on Eirik’s face. He kept glancing at her, as though she was the prize he was holding up in front of all these spitting, dribbling, frothing men. She couldn’t deny the charge she felt in her gut, the desire to exercise her sword arm again but she was rusty, and, with a new sword, unsure of herself; she didn’t want to be anyone’s prize.
The hum of excitement in the hall intensified, and Eirik sat down, content with the outcome. He nodded to Morac, sitting at the far end of the table, who looked similarly pleased, then turned to Jael, who looked anything but. ‘So, that should be something to make you smile,’ he said confidently.
Jael frowned. ‘Smile?’
‘It’s a chance to fight. I thought you would like that. A chance to use your new sword.’
‘So, you organised this for me?’ She looked doubtfully at Eirik, taking a small sip of ale.
‘Well, no,’ he conceded. ‘But I’m sure you won’t complain about having to fight this lot, will you?’
‘No, I don’t suppose I will,’ Jael admitted, taking in the wild bunch before her. She didn’t fear them, but she knew that she would have to start training immediately and that was a strange thought; she had only ever trained with Aleksander. ‘Is it a fight to the death, then?’
‘No, it’s a fight until I declare a winner. I can’t afford to lose most of my warriors before we invade Hest!’ Eirik laughed. ‘Is that how you do it in Brekka?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s the point in fighting someone if you know you can’t kill them?’
Eirik peered at her, looking for signs that she was merely playing with him, but he could find no humour in her eyes.
Eadmund sat anxiously on Jael’s left. He had barely exchanged more than a nod with his wife over their meal. In truth, they had barely exchanged more than a nod since their wedding.
He had felt an unfamiliar sense of clarity since returning to the fort, a building desire to reclaim the man he had once been. He wanted to show his father that he would make a good king. He couldn’t avoid or escape his life anymore, couldn’t run and hide inside a cup of ale. So, he had walked into the hall that evening, with his head a little higher than normal, his eyes more alert, his back straighter. And then he’d smelled the ale, and watched his laughing friends drinking, and he’d started to sweat. And throughout the meal, he had stared at his cup, his teasing, tempting cup, filled with perfectly-scented ale, as it called sweetly to him. He’d ignored his itching palms and jammed his teeth together, and tried to do anything but take up its seductive offer. He wanted to stay this way, this clear-headed, determined way, or did he? Or was it even anything to do with the ale? Would one drink make any difference? Certainly not after the amount he had been drinking these past few years. No, he was sure that one drink would barely affect him at all. But perhaps he would wait; wait until the end of the meal at least.
Thorgils chatted incessantly next to him on his left, and to his right, his wife was mostly silent. He listened as his father tried to engage her in conversation, but she didn’t respond with much enthusiasm. He couldn’t imagine she wanted to be here any more than he did.
Eadmund didn’t know what to say to her. She was a wall of intimidating ice and every idea just dissolved before it ever reached his lips. Once in a while, she would turn to look his way, but there was nothing in her eyes inviting his company, or his conversation. His mood was sinking fast, and his cup’s call grew louder.
‘So, what do you think, are you going to enter the contest?’ Thorgils laughed, thumping his friend firmly on the back.
Eadmund glanced anxiously towards him, wiping moisture from his brow; he couldn’t stop sweating. ‘Very funny.’ He licked his lips, fiddling with his fingers.
‘Are you alright?’ Thorgils wondered, noticing for the first time how disturbed Eadmund appeared.
‘What? Yes, I’m fine.’
‘You’re not drinking?’
‘I‘m... taking it a bit slower,’ Eadmund muttered. His head was screaming at him now, demanding that he pick up the cup. ‘I’m getting too old to be sleeping on the floor every night.’ He tried a casual smile in an attempt to bat away Thorgils’ interest.
‘Well, that’s good news.’ Thorgils’ face broke into a crooked grin. ‘Very good news! Perhaps we will get a sword back in your hand, then?’
Eadmund panicked; he felt his body starting to shake. ‘Hold on, hold on! I hardly said I’m going to turn into you!’
‘Well, no, that would be
impossible my friend, for I am sure to be crowned the next Champion of Oss!’ He leaned in closely, lowering his voice. ‘And I’m going to beat that arsehole, Tarak, once and for all. I’m going to push his fucked-up face into the muck and claim my long-overdue prize.’
Eadmund couldn’t wait any longer. He grabbed his cup and drank from it, his desperation finally proving greater than his half-formed resolve. Thorgils frowned slightly, more in pity than disappointment. Eadmund chose not to notice; he didn’t care. His body loosened its tense hold on him at last; his breathing slowed, relief flooding his tight chest.
Jael turned around just then. She saw the blissful smile on Eadmund’s face as he drained his cup and reached out to a passing servant for another. She saw the disapproving look on Thorgils’ face, and while she knew it was not in Eadmund’s, or perhaps her own best interests for him to be drinking, she couldn’t help but feel relieved. A drunken Eadmund would surely not find his way to her bed tonight.
‘Will you be fighting in the contest?’ Eadmund wondered, turning towards his wife, his confidence partly restored.
Jael saw Thorgils watching with interest. ‘I suppose I have no choice,’ was her flat reply.
‘Well, you may be with child then,’ Thorgils suggested with a cheeky grin. ‘You couldn’t fight if that were so.’
‘Yes, yes, that is true,’ Eirik interrupted. ‘Hopefully, that is the case!’ He stared pointedly at Eadmund, whose head was down, ignoring his father.
Jael looked just as disturbed by the thought. ‘When is this contest taking place? Next week?’
‘Oh, no!’ Eirik scoffed. ‘It’s something we take seriously. It’s not just a few scrappy fights. I still have to choose a day, but we will give the men two or three months to prepare. It should keep us from turning to fat while we wait for the Thaw. It will help prepare us for Hest.’
It was Jael’s turn to scoff. ‘You think that one contest is all you will need to be ready for Hest? To have a few lean men, who can fight in the snow?’ She surveyed the hall, doubt flaring in her eyes. ‘No one has conquered Hest. Ever. Why do you and Lothar think you can change that?’