by A. E. Rayne
Jael opened her eyes, annoyed that she had to wait so long for the sun to shed some light on her unanswered questions. She picked Vella up and tucked her under the furs, wrapping her arms around the sleepy, little body, letting the puppy’s warmth soothe her impatient mind.
‘That smells good,’ Edela croaked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She coughed, trying to clear her throat, which felt drier than she could remember. She tried to ignore the aches in her legs, her knees, her back; the list was endless. She smiled instead at Aleksander who was cooking bread over the fire.
He got up, rushing over to her. ‘Edela! Are you alright?’ Reaching out, he helped her to stand, slowly guiding her to her chair by the blazing fire. He brought a fur over and wrapped it around her shoulders.
‘Oh, to be so doted on every day,’ she smiled wearily at him, her eyes puffy and strained.
‘Well, I think you deserve it after what you went through last night.’ Aleksander went back to the fire, hoping to save his bread from burning. The little rounds needed to be removed from the skillet but appeared stuck. He had watched and helped Biddy cook, many times as a child, but those memories were dust-covered now; he was certain he’d gone astray somewhere in the process.
‘Ahhh yes, last night,’ Edela sighed, letting her head drop back onto the soft fur of the chair. ‘I cannot believe it worked,’ she sighed. ‘Well, at least I hope it did.’
Aleksander managed to scrape the three little flatbreads off the skillet without leaving too much behind. He left them on a plate to cool. ‘So what happened? Did you see Jael? Speak to her?’
‘I did, yes,’ Edela smiled. ‘Perhaps you could pour me some water, and I will tell you all about it.’
Aleksander quickly filled a cup and brought it to her, sitting on the little stool expectantly. Edela smiled sadly, remembering Jael there, not so many weeks ago.
‘Well, I certainly entered her dream and spoke with her. I warned her,’ Edela started, then stopped to consider things. ‘It felt very real, to me at least. And Jael listened, so I can only hope she remembers what I told her about the girl and the symbols. About how she can protect herself.’
‘I can’t believe it worked!’ Aleksander sighed with relief. ‘Or at least, that you made contact with her. I’ve never seen anything like it, what you did last night. I was worried about you. That you wouldn’t come back.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Edela admitted. ‘I felt the same, for sure. I knew I had left you behind and I could only hope I was able to return. I wouldn’t want to leave you even more alone.’ She reached out and patted Aleksander on the knee. ‘Thank you for staying last night. I wasn’t sure what state I would end up in, but I appear to have a beating heart and a working tongue, still!’
And a way of contacting Jael, Aleksander thought to himself. He could only hope that Jael had heard the message and was able to do something to protect herself; to keep herself safe. He hoped it would be enough.
Jael ended up lost, twice, but finally made her way to Fyn’s hut in the hill. She’d struggled to recognise much that was familiar from her ride with Thorgils. Visibility had been miserable most of the way there. The clouds were thick and dirty today, with the threat of more snow, or possibly even a storm, if the ferocity of the wind was any indication.
‘Jael?’ Fyn was outside, practising with his useless wooden man again.
She smiled as she dismounted, slipping Tig a piece of bread; he seemed to have enjoyed the ride, in spite of the wind, showing more confidence with his footing this time.
‘I didn’t expect to see you again so quickly,’ Fyn said nervously as he wandered over to greet her. His face suddenly froze. ‘I hope you haven’t come to train me? I didn’t think you would take Thorgils seriously.’
Jael saw an opportunity. ‘Well, yes, I thought I would come to help, not train you if you don’t want, but I could at least give you some advice if you’d like?’
Fyn glanced at his feet. ‘I.... I’m no good. I’m sure you saw that yesterday. It’s not worth your time to try and help me. Although, it is very kind of you, especially as I’m sure you have so many other things you need to do.’ He hid his face, not knowing where to look.
Jael walked Tig over to a small, covered shelter and tied him up. ‘What sort of things do you imagine me having to do?’ she asked over her shoulder.
Fyn scurried after her. ‘Ummm, well I’m not sure. You are a... princess. But I’m not quite sure what they do.’
‘Princess? Yes, I suppose I am,’ Jael laughed as she approached the tiny patch of ground where Fyn had placed his wooden friend. ‘But I think most princesses spend all day fussing over their hair and dresses, don’t they?’
She took off her cloak and sword-belt and placed them on a large log, then reached down to pick up a practice sword, noting the sizable pile of wooden swords stacked nearby, many of them broken. ‘But I’m not bothered about what I wear, and, as for my hair... as long as it’s not flapping around my face while I’m trying to remove someone’s head, I’m happy.’ She turned around, held the sword out in front of her and narrowed her eyes. ‘Let’s begin.’
Fyn gulped and stepped reluctantly towards her, every part of his body clenched in fear. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes already defeated as he stopped in front of Jael, his sword held out awkwardly in front of him.
‘Well, there’s the first thing,’ Jael said evenly. ‘You need to face your opponent more from the side. Don’t give him so many things to aim it. Here, like this.’ She dropped her sword back into the pile and came over to grab hold of Fyn’s shoulders, turning him slightly side on, spreading his legs into a more stable position. He flinched from her touch. ‘You need to be balanced at all times, especially when wielding an actual sword and shield. They can be heavy, so it’s much easier to be knocked off balance, and if you have no balance you’ll likely end up on your arse, and that’s a hard place to defend from.’
Jael picked up her sword again. It was smooth and well made. ‘You obviously have a lot of time on your hands out here? How many of these swords have you carved?’
‘Many,’ Fyn said sadly. ‘Too many.’
Jael felt sorry for him, and as much as she was desperate to talk to him about his sister, she knew that she needed to coax him into trusting her first; his eyes told her that he didn’t trust anyone much. ‘Well, perhaps you could work on some shields next?’ she smiled, coming forwards. ‘But in the meantime, I can teach you how to defend yourself with whatever you have to hand. There will be times when all you have is your eating knife, or maybe not even that.’
Fyn held his sword loosely, watching Jael’s every move as she strutted about in front of him.
‘So, here you are, someone wants to kill you, and they have a sword, you have a sword, nothing else. The ground is mucky. The sky is murky. You have no shield. There are many things against you right now, but many things in your favour also. First, you are in your own surroundings so you can use that knowledge to help you. Think of what you may have lurking around that you could use as a weapon if your sword were to break or be lost. Think.’ Jael tapped her head with her free hand as she circled in front of Fyn, her two side braids flapping angrily in the wind. ‘That’s how you start a fight, with an alert mind, a thought-filled mind, always thinking. Think about your opponent, too. Look into his eyes. Is he tired? Weary? Injured? Many warriors are carrying old wounds that haven’t quite healed. That makes them weaker. Find those places, look for clues. Does he favour one leg or the other, wince when you aim for a particular spot? Keep watching, keep looking. Does he smell?’
Fyn looked surprised. ‘Smell?’
‘Yes,’ she grinned. ‘Sick, rotting wounds smell. They have a stink that you’ll become familiar with. Blood, the smell of blood, is iron-strong. It lingers on a person. Use every sense you have to keep thinking, forming ideas. You may be fighting with a sword, or your hands, or an axe, but mostly I think, you’re fighting with your mind. That’s what my father tau
ght me.’
Jael lunged forwards and hit Fyn’s sword straight out of his hand, her sword coming to a point in the middle of his chest. Fyn gasped, stumbling away.
‘Always keep thinking, Fyn,’ she said bending down to pick up his sword. ‘What is my opponent doing? Why are they doing it? To confuse you, relax you, make you more comfortable than you should be? And most importantly, hold onto your sword!’ She laughed, and Fyn’s face relaxed. He took the sword from her, holding it firmly.
‘You need to think of it as part of your arm,’ Jael insisted. ‘You wouldn’t want to lose the bottom half of your arm, would you? Not without a fight, I’m sure. You’d grip that arm so tightly that no one could take it. You have to feel the same about your sword. You lose your sword, you’re halfway dead.’ She watched as his hand squeezed around the grip. ‘Tighter. Even tighter. Get your fingers used to it, to how much pressure you need to exert for it to feel natural but secure.’
Satisfied with Fyn’s hold, at last, Jael went back to her starting position. ‘Alright, so remember to stand more to the side. To think, all the time, about everything. And to hold onto your sword like losing it will mean death.’
Fyn nodded eagerly, and Jael smiled. He was standing taller now, his fingers wrapped firmly around his sword’s grip. His body was positioned side on, his legs wide enough to balance him, and his eyes were alert. He was a fast learner. And he was showing signs that he was beginning to trust her. That was a start.
Eadmund vomited onto a pile of snow. He spat twice to try and clear the taste of sour ale from his throat, wiping his hand over his short beard.
‘Ahhh, I can see why the ladies like you so much,’ Thorgils laughed. ‘Who wouldn’t want to kiss that tasty mouth?’
‘Shut up,’ Eadmund grumbled irritably, swallowing again. He felt worse than he could remember. Nausea, the headache, and the aches and pains were all familiar feelings, but it wasn’t any of those that was troubling him. It was the realisation, finally dawning, that he was no longer a man. He’d seen it last night in Jael’s eyes, more clearly than he’d ever seen it before. And it wouldn’t leave. It clawed its way inside his head and would not leave. The picture was so sharp now; he was desperate to escape its mocking vision.
Torstan snorted as he stood, breathing white fumes, holding his sword, waiting for Thorgils to come and meet him. The temptation of glory in the contest had roused more than a few warriors out of their cold beds earlier than normal this morning, none more so than Thorgils. But why Eadmund was up so early was a question on both his friend’s lips.
‘You are not used to this hour, it seems,’ Thorgils smiled as he touched swords with Torstan, before stepping back into position. He was eager to get their practice underway before the weather put an end to it. The sky was thick with the promise of another heavy dump that day, and small flurries were already blowing across the Pit. ‘Perhaps you need to crawl back between Evaine’s warm thighs a while longer?’
Eadmund frowned as his friends exchanged childish giggles. ‘Thank you, but no, I’ve come to watch you two idiots try to figure out how you’re going to defeat Tarak.’
Serious looks replaced grins then, as both men hardened their expressions.
‘Well, there is no hope for Torstan here, of course,’ Thorgils said confidently. ‘For he has never even beaten me, and besides, he only comes up to Tarak’s knee!’
Torstan raised his sword at that and swung sharply at his much-larger friend. Thorgils brought his wooden blade down to meet it, expertly turning it over to crash down upon Torstan’s sword. Torstan shuddered from the force of the blow, stepping back to regain his balance.
‘Tarak’s knee?’ Torstan wondered boldly. ‘At least down at his knee I don’t have to sniff his ballsack like you do!’ He shot forwards then, extending his sword arm in an attempt to hit Thorgils low but Thorgils was sharp-eyed this morning, and once again he countered Torstan’s strike. Torstan backed off, frustrated, his mind whirring.
‘You could always come and show us how you managed to defeat him,’ Thorgils suggested, his eyes fixed firmly on his prowling opponent. ‘If you can still remember?’
Eadmund smiled wistfully as he leaned on the railings surrounding the Pit; that was an old memory, but yes, he remembered some of it still. ‘I would like to say there was a reason behind it but it was likely just luck from the gods. I’m not sure he’s beatable by anyone here on Oss. Not anymore.’
‘Not even your wife?’ Thorgils asked as he parried one way, then reversed and struck out at Torstan in the opposite direction, catching him in the stomach.
Torstan grumbled, annoyed with himself for taking Thorgils’ bait.
‘That would be one point to me,’ Thorgils nodded cheerfully.
‘Jael?’ Eadmund scoffed. ‘You think she could beat Tarak?’
‘Me? No, I don’t think she can. Perhaps with her tongue, but no, her size would count against her, for sure, just like Torstan here. Tarak would break her and squash her.’
‘I’m not that much bigger than Jael and certainly not as big as you,’ Eadmund pointed out. ‘But I defeated him. So perhaps there is a chance for you, after all, Torstan?’
Thorgils, puzzling on that, allowed himself to be distracted long enough for Torstan to make a sharp attack on his left, weaker side, hitting him on the hip.
‘I believe that is one point each,’ Torstan smiled smugly.
Thorgils frowned, turning to Eadmund. ‘Go and find yourself a drink and stop distracting me. I have to focus both my mind and body on defeating this little turd here.’
Thorgils meant it jokingly, of course, but Eadmund’s face fell. He’d woken up early, seeking a new purpose, and had come to find his friends with the half-formed idea of picking up a sword; maybe taking the first steps towards learning how to use it again. But it had been so long, and Thorgils and Torstan had forgotten who he used to be just as much as he had.
He shrugged, defeated, and turned to leave.
‘Or, you could get into the Pit and pick up a sword?’ Thorgils called after him. ‘Show us how it’s done?’
Eadmund stopped and considered. The suggestion of a drink was far more appealing than the offer to make a fool of himself. He heard Jael’s voice then, and the memory of last night taunted him until some unacknowledged pool of anger started to bubble up inside him, overtaking all other fears and desires. He turned around and walked back to the railings. ‘Alright then,’ he smiled, more confidently than he felt, his knees shaking from more than the cold. ‘I can do that.’
‘So, that is what I need you to dream on,’ Eirik murmured as he guided Eydis around a large mound of snow. He didn’t want everyone knowing his business, nor how reliant he was on a 13-year-old girl’s advice; he didn’t wish to put Eydis in that position. There was a suspicion, of course, amongst most Osslanders that Eydis had inherited her late mother’s gifts, but Eirik kept her abilities close to his chest. Eadmund was only one of a handful who knew.
‘I’ll try, Father,’ Eydis promised. ‘But you know it doesn’t always work like that. Not for me. Not without any training.’
‘I understand that, of course,’ Eirik said distractedly, waving to Morac, who was walking to the hall ahead of them. ‘But if there is any sign I should pay attention to, then I would gratefully receive it. There are many lives I am committing to this invasion. I don’t wish to waste them. Not after last time.’
Eydis could sense the weight upon her father’s shoulders, but she didn’t feel confident that she would be able to help him; she felt no mastery over her dreams.
Eirik suddenly gripped Eydis’ hand with such strength that she cried out. ‘Father! What is it?’ She was immediately on edge, desperate to know what was happening, but Eirik remained silent.
Silent, because he had just been rendered speechless.
‘Father?’ Eydis turned towards him, imploring an answer.
‘It’s your brother,’ Eirik said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘He’s in the Pit. W
ith a sword. He has a sword in his hand!’ He was amazed, almost tearful. He had given up hope of witnessing such a thing again.
‘Eadmund?’ Eydis was just as overcome. ‘Truly?’ There were tears in her eyes. Her face shone with happiness and relief in equal measure.
‘Truly.’
Eirik watched on as Eadmund stumbled around the muddy Pit. He looked awkward and unsure, there was no doubting that, but he was there, sword in hand, face flushed with effort, and that was the best gift Eirik could ever have imagined.
There was hope.
‘Hit me.’
‘No! I can’t do that,’ Fyn insisted, shocked that Jael would suggest such a thing.
‘True,’ Jael acknowledged. ‘Try to hit me.’
Fyn had shown some improvement with the sword, but that had been abandoned now, and Jael was showing him how to defend himself using only his body. Despite his growing confidence, he had no desire to try and hurt her.
‘I think, perhaps we should stop. The snow is getting heavier... we should head inside to the fire...’ He started to edge his way backwards.
‘Fyn!’ Jael glared at him firmly. ‘You want to be a warrior? Well, you can be. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing is stopping you, except a lack of knowledge and some confidence.’ She stood in front of him, her nose dripping, and despite the tension she felt about her dream, she was enjoying herself. ‘It took me years to learn how to protect myself. How to kill when I had to, to keep my people safe. My father trained me so hard that I spent most of my childhood in tears, covered in cuts and bruises. But he didn’t care what I thought, or how hard I believed it was, or how much I complained. He needed to know I would be safe. He wanted me to learn everything, to master every way I could possibly keep myself alive. So, he never gave up trying. He never gave up forcing me to try.’