Winter's Fury

by A. E. Rayne

  ‘What do you know, Thorgils?’ Eadmund demanded crossly. ‘Tell me!’

  Thorgils grimaced. ‘Can I not tell you after I’ve been for my shit?’

  Eadmund grabbed his arm. ‘Tell me, or you can shit in your trousers for all I care!’ He pulled Thorgils towards the doors, dragging him outside, away from Ivaar’s gloating eyes which were following them.

  They hurried down the stairs and through the square, Eadmund leading Thorgils towards the latrines before stopping just short.

  ‘Eadmund, I don’t really know anything,’ Thorgils began. ‘I don’t know this Aleksander, but I assume it’s the name of the man Jael left behind in Brekka.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Thorgils frowned. ‘There was definitely someone. How could there not have been? She’s a desirable woman. She was bound to have someone warming her bed all these years, wasn’t she?’

  Eadmund grumbled crossly. Of course, it made sense, but why hadn’t she told him? Was that why she kept running away? Because she still loved this Aleksander?

  Thorgils raced off and squatted behind the wattle fence, unable to hold it in any longer.

  Fyn took one of his stools outside to stand on while he slipped Jael’s mail over her head. It was sleeveless and fell between her hips and knees. She wore a thick, padded, black tunic underneath, which fitted snugly over her chest and arms. Fyn hopped off the stool quickly and rushed to help strap the leather guards around each of Jael’s forearms; they were fringed with mail, to protect her wrists. She took the belt he handed her, wrapping it twice around her waist, making sure it was tight enough to stay up, but loose enough to move comfortably when she did. Jael checked her two knives as she slotted them into her belt. She slipped Toothpick into his scabbard, and lastly took the two, smaller knives Fyn held out to her, tucking one into each of the straps she had tied around her ankles, covered by her socks and boots.

  ‘You have a lot of weapons,’ Fyn smiled, trying to blink away his worry as he handed over her helmet.

  Jael smiled wryly. Her father had given her that helmet after he’d nearly taken her eye with his sword; it was the last time he’d ever fought her. She touched her scar, remembering the horror on his face when he’d seen the mess he’d made of hers. Its prominent nose guard and cheek plates were heavily engraved with wrestling, angry wolves, and there were two axes crossing on the back of the helmet, for Furia. It had saved her life on more than one occasion, and every dent was a reminder of how careful she needed to be. Never overconfident; always looking for that which she couldn’t see coming. ‘One or two,’ she smiled, her eyes swollen now. She placed the helmet over her braids, strapping it firmly under her chin.

  ‘You should go,’ Fyn urged.

  ‘I should,’ Jael murmured, walking to where Tig stood, skipping about, desperate to leave. He was in a frisky mood, and despite her additional weight, he would get her back in time, she was certain. She led Tig back to Fyn. ‘If I’m still standing, I’ll be back. I’ll be back for you,’ she said firmly, stepping into the stirrup and reaching for the saddle. ‘Best you get your things together.’

  Fyn blinked at her, wanting to believe she could do it, but his stomach fluttered more with nerves than any certainty she could defeat Tarak. ‘Good luck, Jael,’ he wished her, reaching out to take her hand. ‘Just remember, don’t let him get you on your back.’

  Jael stared at him sternly, her mind already at the contest now. ‘I’ve worked very hard not to let any bastard get me on my back, believe me, Fyn. I’m not about to start now.’ She let go of his hand and pulled the reins to her waist. ‘Come on, Tig! Let’s go! Go! Go!’

  Fyn stood and watched as they flew up the snowy rise as one, wondering if he was ever going to see her again.

  56

  Eirik was getting nervous; where was she? He frowned, glancing at Eadmund, who looked more angry than worried. ‘She’s taking her time coming back from this ride,’ he muttered crossly, fidgeting with his cloak pin. ‘Are you sure she hasn’t just decided to run away?’

  Eadmund peered at his father, in no mood to discuss Jael and her endless desire to run away. ‘She’ll be here soon,’ he said sharply.

  Eirik sighed, ignoring Ivaar, who sat gloating on his other side. Isaura perched nervously on the edge of her chair on Ivaar’s right, and Ayla next to her. Eydis shivered beside Eadmund and looked as though she had changed her mind about being there.

  The Pit had been thoroughly cleared and divided up into four areas; one for each group of contestants. Eirik wasn’t confident that they were going to fit all of the battles in, though; without Morac’s help, he wasn’t sure he had organised everything properly. But Sevrin and Otto had stepped in, and were out in the Pit, ready to patrol the fights, along with two other men Eirik had selected.

  The men in each group stood waiting, looking towards their king for the signal to begin.

  Their king ignored them.

  Eirik’s eyes skirted the Pit, inhaling the ripe stench of nerves as the misty morning settled around them all. He stared at the gates. Again. They were open, waiting. He looked to the first men who were poised, waiting. He could only give her moments more.

  Tig flew faster than Jael had ever thought possible in so much snow. He must have sensed that she was going to battle, for he rode with a desperation she remembered. His hooves pounded down into the thick snow. He brought them out powerfully, and down, again and again, thundering up the hill towards the fort. Jael heard nothing but the sound of his thudding hooves and the steady beat of her heart. Inside her helmet, her mind was quiet, and focused, and ready. She had never had the chance to hurt those men for what they did to her. She had watched as they bled to death, as hacked up pieces of who they once were, but there had been little satisfaction in that. She had been grateful to Gant, of course, but it had not been his revenge to seek; not for her.

  Jael was tired of sitting back and watching, as men in crowns, and men with swords took what they wanted from her, from women, from helpless children, who could not defend themselves. She had had enough. This was no fight to the death, she knew that, but whatever she did today, there would be no mercy. And if the gods favoured her, Tuuran and Oster alike, then they would be with her today while she fought. For she was Furia’s daughter, and she would dispense justice, for herself and Fyn.

  She was ready.

  All eyes turned towards the gates, listening to the rumble of hooves in the distance. They got louder as they rushed inside, echoing like drums around the silent fort.

  Tig whinnied as Jael yanked hard on his reins, skidding to a stop just before the Pit. She could see that they were waiting on her, and thankfully, so was Askel. She slid off Tig, grabbed her red shield, handed the reins to her stable hand, and strode towards the Pit, one eye on Eirik, not looking for Eadmund; her face hard and ready for battle.

  Jael found her group quickly. They had drawn straws, it seemed, and she was first to fight. There were smiles on the men’s faces as they crowded around her, pushing her out into the centre.

  There was no smile on hers.

  She slid Toothpick from his scabbard, tightened her grip on her shield and took a deep, frosty breath, before striding towards her opponent, a thick-necked man called Niklas. He grinned, almost toothlessly at her, happy to think she had been drawn against him first. There was some fun to be had with her, he knew. Of course, he had seen her fight Thorgils, but Thorgils had beaten her, for all the show she had put on. He didn’t imagine he would have much of a problem, no matter how fancy she had dressed for the occasion.

  Jael saw her father’s face in her mind, heard his voice booming in her ears. ‘Don’t rush,’ he called to her. ‘Use that clever head of yours, Jael. See everything. Wait. Wait.’ She pushed her boots into the earth, eased her shoulders down and centred herself, taking in everything about her opponent and the way he carried himself; his axe, his lack of a shield, his bloodshot eyes, his casual stance, his ale-sour breath as it drifted gentl
y towards her.

  Eirik blew on a small horn, and they began. Niklas was confident, young, and arrogant as he sauntered around before her. That’s what Jael saw in the brief glimpse she caught of his eyes as she ran at him, slashing her sword straight across his unprotected chest. She brought her leg up quickly, kicking him firmly in the place she’d just hit him, sending him flying; his head banging into the hard ground with a loud crack.

  Niklas lay there blinking, a look of horror distorting his face; his ears ringing, his axe well out of reach. Jael dropped down, leaning her weight onto his chest, her arm across his throat, her sword at his eye. There was no show today. Jael wanted Tarak. Only Tarak. Everyone else was in her way and the quicker she disposed of them, the better.

  ‘Over!’ Sevrin yelled as he stepped into the ring. ‘Jael wins!’

  Jael stood up without smiling, nodded her acknowledgement to Sevrin, and walked to the back of the line.

  Ivaar blinked in shock; Jael looked ready to kill someone.

  ‘Well, there’s a fine start for me and my coin,’ Eirik smiled confidently, finally relaxing. ‘Gurin!’ he called to his servant. ‘Bring us something to warm our bellies and some milk for Eydis.’

  Eadmund was more worried than cross now as he tried to catch Jael’s eye. She had her back to him, ignoring everyone as she stood there waiting for her next turn.

  ‘Is Jael alright?’ Eydis asked urgently.

  ‘She is,’ Eadmund murmured. ‘So far.’ He noticed how worried his sister looked. ‘Are you alright, Little Thing? Here, take some of my furs.’

  ‘No, no, I’m warm enough.’ Eydis tried to smile, her breath puffing out slowly in front of her. ‘It’s just that...’

  ‘Just that, what?’

  ‘I had a dream about Jael, about Tarak fighting her,’ Eydis sighed. ‘Jael couldn’t move. She was lying on the ground. He was about to kill her.’

  Eadmund felt the shiver as it charged up his spine. He reached out to grab Eydis’ hand. ‘Do you believe it? That it was a real dream?’

  Eydis blinked, her mouth gaping open. She didn’t know what to say, but in the end, there was only the truth. ‘Yes.’ She hoped she was wrong.

  Thorgils was not having much luck. His fight had been going for a while now, and he was impatient to move on. He was fighting an energetic man named Povel, who bounced about like an excited dog, swaying this way and that, darting about, making little bursts of attack, then retreating.

  Thorgils sighed. He stood back and waited, reminding himself what Jael had taught him about fighting a battle with your mind. He could see what Povel was trying to do: play with him, confuse him, make him doubt himself. But as Thorgils frowned and waited, he could see that the only one with doubts was his opponent. It was time to end things.

  He strode forwards, his shield high, his sword extended, his eyes hard-edged. He shunted his shield forward, hard and fast, fighting off the wild blows of Povel’s axe, smashing the rim into his chin, releasing his sword and bringing it down on Povel’s arm guard. Povel scrambled to control his axe and shield at the same time, but the shock and force of the double blow overloaded his senses, and he dropped both, scrambling backwards, blood gushing from his gaping chin.

  Otto was stalking around the perimeter of the ring, but he didn’t stop the fight, despite the fact that Povel was weaponless and injured. Thorgils was in no mood to be generous; generous Thorgils would have thrown down his weapons and finished it with fists, but this Thorgils was only thinking of Tarak. He had a chance to meet him today, and he couldn’t wait to get there. He lunged, slamming his shield into Povel’s narrow chest, knocking its iron boss towards his nose. Povel tumbled backwards this time, his face a bloody mess. And as Thorgils jammed his foot down on Povel’s pulsing throat, Otto called it. ‘Over! Thorgils wins!’

  There was no smile from him either. Not until Tarak was sucking dirt through his nostrils, would there be any smile on Thorgils’ face.

  Aleksander didn’t know why he was still in Tuura. All of his belongings were now hidden away in the forest, and he had said goodbye to Edela. Nothing was keeping him here, nothing except his own nagging questions. Edela had seen something, and he wanted to find an explanation for it. He knew that if he could find out what his mother had actually been doing, who had really sent the men to Tuura, then Edela would have to see that she had just chosen the wrong dream. He was certain of it.

  He had gone to Alaric’s, but there had been no one home. No doubt he was somewhere with Edela, looking for more information to help Jael. There was guilt in that thought. Aleksander sighed; he was supposed to help Jael, supposed to love her, but he’d abandoned her grandmother and then broken his vow to wait for her. The thick clouds that hung around Tuura’s walls matched his morose mood.

  Looking up, he suddenly saw Alaric scurrying ahead of him. He was moving much faster than normal, and Aleksander had to hurry to catch up with him, pushing his way through a large throng of people who had gathered near the gates to watch a fight being broken up by a thick swarm of soldiers. Whatever the argument had been over, small or large, the perpetrators were being attacked fiercely with swords. Aleksander grimaced and looked away; he was yet to find anything about this place to like.

  ‘Alaric!’ He was close enough now to make himself heard, and indeed, Alaric spun around in surprise.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he frowned, his eyes darting up and down the street. ‘What do you want?’

  Aleksander laughed. ‘You’re not happy to see me, then?’

  Alaric looked embarrassed and dropped his head. He supposed he felt mad on Edela’s behalf, but more than that, he had become increasingly worried about Aleksander’s peculiar family history. Edela might trust him, but perhaps she was blinded by loyalty to her granddaughter? Alaric had no such loyalty and was able to look at Aleksander with open eyes. ‘Well, you have hardly made yourself popular around Tuura, from what I hear,’ he said sharply. ‘And as for Edela... I think you abandoned her quite harshly, when she needed your help and guidance.’

  ‘I can’t deny any of that,’ Aleksander admitted with a guilty shrug, as aware as Alaric that they were standing in a very public place. ‘But I need to speak with you. Please. I have some questions.’

  Alaric shook his head and made to leave. ‘I have no information for you. There’s nothing I can help you with.’

  Aleksander snatched at his arm. ‘Please, Alaric. I’m still here for a reason. I don’t know what that reason is, but I need some answers. I’m sure you can help me. For Edela’s sake,’ he tried.

  Alaric turned back with a sigh. He could never resist doing anything to help Edela.

  They were all through to the third round, Tarak noticed happily, hardly caring who he was facing next. There were only two people he wanted to break into pieces for Ivaar, and neither of those were within touching distance yet. He smiled as he walked to the back of his dwindling group. His fights had been relatively short, and the wait in between had him bored and thirsty, itching to move things along.

  ‘We should break before the next round,’ Ivaar suggested. ‘I can’t feel my face, and I think we could all do with something to eat and drink if we’re going to keep sitting out here much longer.’

  Eirik was already out of his chair, grabbing hold of Eydis’ hand. He smiled happily, frozen but elated. ‘We take a break!’ he called loudly to the contenders. ‘Go warm yourselves up and get something in your bellies!’

  Jael was as numb as anyone, but she just wanted to keep going. It was her turn to fight again, and she was eager to put her sword to the idiot who was waiting for her. He’d watched her send two of his friends off quickly, but his expression hadn’t changed one bit. He still appraised her with the same cocky smile. He still grabbed his crotch and thrust it in her direction. She didn’t even frown as she walked off. She looked right through him, her mind empty of everything but her desire to reach Tarak.

  Eadmund watched Jael walking towards him and knew he couldn’t say anyth
ing about Aleksander. He had calmed down a little, and as much as he wanted to throw that name in her face and demand she explain her feelings, he could see how focused she was. He couldn’t break into that and distract her, not after what Eydis had revealed to him. The thought of Tarak killing Jael tightened his chest, and when he looked at her, he only saw the fact that he loved her. There was no way he was going to let Tarak try to kill her. They would all be watching the fight. It couldn’t happen.

  Jael didn’t smile as she approached him. She removed her helmet and walked beside him into the hall, suddenly noticing how cold she was. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, noticing the tension in his face.

  ‘Nothing,’ he lied, trying to look less annoyed. ‘You’ve done well so far.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ she mumbled, grabbing a piece of bread and a slice of meat. She wasn’t hungry at all, but there was a lot more of the day to be had yet. ‘So far doesn’t mean much.’

  ‘No.’ Eadmund was starving but distracted. He reached for a cup of ale and drank it without thinking. ‘Tarak is looking good. So is Thorgils.’

  Jael looked up at him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Eadmund ducked his head, hoping to escape her piercing stare. ‘I’m just... worried about you. Not many men watch their wives fight, do they? And, well... Eydis told me about her dream.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jael understood now; that made sense of his face. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall join the long line of men going to piss.’ She walked off without another word, as distant as if she were still in Brekka.

  Eadmund watched her go, worried. He wasn’t mad at all now. He just wanted to keep her safe.