Winter's Fury

by A. E. Rayne

  Tarak smiled, sensing Thorgils’ plan. He swung his arm back as hard as he could, his sword almost touching the clouds in the sky. It took so long that Thorgils had time to slip out of the way and Tarak hit nothing but the dust from his boots. Tarak growled furiously and turned to pursue his opponent. ‘Running away already?’ he laughed as he stalked after Thorgils, who kept moving backwards, sideways, keeping away from Tarak, irritating him further. ‘I suppose when you already know you’re beaten, it’s all you can do!’ he laughed and brought his sword down onto Thorgils’ shield. Hard. The shield jarred sharply against his arm, and Thorgils’ teeth slammed together. Tarak came again, bludgeoning the shield over and over with his massive sword. Thorgils slipped to one side, leaving Tarak fighting the dust again.

  ‘Have you forgotten where you placed your sword, Thorgils?’ Tarak laughed, enjoying the cheers from the crowd. ‘Or is it that you’re so nervous, fighting in front of your long, lost love? Worried that she’ll see you for the man you truly are?’ He came rushing towards Thorgils again, chasing him. ‘I’m sorry, did I say man? I meant, coward!’

  Thorgils turned and stood, then. He wasn’t sure Tarak was tiring at all, and he was tired of running; he couldn’t win like that. His palm was sweaty on his sword’s grip, his eyes narrow, as he lunged at Tarak’s middle, but Tarak was taller than him and elbowed him in the side of the head as he came forwards. Thorgils was knocked sideways, straight into the dirt, his head ringing so loudly that he couldn’t hear a thing except for a high-pitched squeal that pierced his ears. He rolled away quickly from Tarak’s jab and this time it was Tarak scrambling in the dirt. That made him wild. He threw his shield away and ran towards Thorgils, his sword in both hands now, his face twisting into a violent scowl.

  ‘I wonder how that will work out for your Thorgils,’ Ivaar smiled at Isaura.

  ‘I imagine it’s Tarak you need to be worried about,’ Eirik said smartly. ‘He’s the fool without a shield.’

  Tarak herded Thorgils into the railings, and all Thorgils could do then was defend with his shield. He butted it towards Tarak’s face, catching him on the cheek, which just enraged him more. Tarak smashed his sword on the shield, over and over, striking it as hard as he could until it broke. Thorgils slipped his hand out of the shieldless grip, throwing it away, ducking under Tarak’s arm and coming around behind him with his sword, but Tarak spun and slashed with speed and power, his much heavier sword slicing straight across Thorgils’ shieldless middle.

  ‘No!’ Jael yelled in horror as Thorgils staggered backwards. He wasn’t wearing mail and Tarak’s sword had sliced straight through his leather armour. Jael’s eyes flashed to Isaura who had grabbed her throat, her face washed of any colour.

  Eadmund was on his feet again. ‘Father...’ he urged.

  ‘I’m watching, don’t worry,’ Eirik said calmly. ‘He’s still standing. Let him fight, Eadmund. This is no fight to the death. Tarak knows that. Give Thorgils a chance.’

  Thorgils staggered backwards, shocked by the force of Tarak’s blow. Tarak was after him, the smell of blood in his nostrils now. Thorgils looked to Jael; saw his fear reflected in her eyes. He shook his head, his ringing, pounding head, trying to think of what they had practised; trying, but his head was so thick, and the pain in his middle was hard to ignore.

  That was of no concern to Tarak, and he came again, aiming for the same spot. The crowd was cheering loudly now, those who were supporting Tarak, at least. Thorgils’ friends had gone quiet, worried for what was about to happen. Again.

  Tarak slashed his sword towards Thorgils’ stomach, but Thorgils jumped back and cut Tarak on the arm as he did. A cheer went up, which infuriated Tarak. He glanced up at Ivaar, whose narrowed eyes urged him to finish it.

  Thorgils stood there, gripping his sword desperately now, keeping it close to his body, one arm resting against his wound, hoping to stem the gushing blood. It didn’t seem to be working. His ears were buzzing; he had to blink to clear his vision. Tarak kept coming, though. Thorgils had no choice but to lean forwards to meet him. He swung out with his sword, making contact with Tarak’s but Tarak leaned back and kicked him hard, right in his stomach. Thorgils’ eyes bulged open as the pain hit; white, flashing shards of agony. His sword flew out of his hand as he toppled to the ground.

  ‘Thorgils!’ The cry went up all around. Jael could see Odda Svanter on the opposite side of the Pit, terror in her eyes. She saw Isaura, out of her chair, and Eadmund rushing down to the railings.

  Tarak couldn’t stop smiling as he threw himself onto Thorgils’ bleeding body, shoving his knee into Thorgils’ stomach, throwing his sword away. His arm was bleeding, but he didn’t notice. He pulled it back and punched Thorgils in the face as hard as he could, again and again, until Thorgils’ eyes and nose matched the mess of blood coming out of his stomach.

  ‘Over!’ Eirik yelled loudly and reluctantly. ‘Tarak wins.’ He didn’t even look at the gloating face of his son as he sat back down.

  Isaura couldn’t stop the tears that slid down her face as Ivaar reached out and grabbed her hand.

  Ivaar couldn’t stop the smile on his face as he watched Tarak raising his arm in victory.

  Eadmund was stunned. He ran into the Pit to help Jael and Torstan lift Thorgils off the ground. His friend was unconscious, his head drooping worryingly; a fleshy, bloody, Tarak-inflicted mess.

  Biddy was standing at the railings, waiting for him. Askel had rushed to find her when he saw how things were going for Thorgils. She pressed a rolled up cloth into his stomach wound. ‘Hold onto this,’ she ordered Eadmund. ‘Take him to the house, quickly,’ she said, her face tense. ‘I have everything waiting.’

  Jael let go of Thorgils’ arm, watching Torstan and Eadmund carry him away.

  58

  Tuura’s tavern was nothing more than a poorly lit, stinking hut, hidden down a narrow series of alleyways in the middle of the town, where men came to drink, and women came to tempt them to part with any coins they had left over. That is where he had met Hanna. He wondered if that was why he kept coming back.

  Aleksander sat at a table, alone, in the darkest corner he could find, slowly sipping some watery ale that he’d bought with his last silver coin. Alaric’s words wouldn’t leave his head. What was his family’s connection to the Widow? His grandmother had been taken to her by her mother. And his own mother had gone, and even he had been there. Why? How did they know where to find her? And what was it about her that made her so deadly? She killed men, they said, with dark magic. Lived, even when she must have been hundreds of years old. Were they all just tales to scare children? He didn’t think so, but somehow, he had to find out.

  He turned around as the door creaked open, and watched as Hanna and another woman entered the room. There were a few cheers at the sight of fresh offerings. Aleksander could hear the clinking sound as hands rustled in pockets. He turned back around, confused.

  ‘Hello,’ Hanna murmured as she came to sit beside him, ignoring the disappointed calls of the men holding up their coins, who quickly turned their attention towards her friend. ‘I had a feeling you might be here again.’

  ‘Did you?’ Aleksander stared at his drink, trying to ignore the effect her voice was having on him. He wasn’t drunk enough to be able to blame ale for any choice he made today. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked quietly, glancing at her. She looked cold; her round cheeks matching the pink tip of her nose.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she smiled, surprised at how sober he appeared. She had expected to find him in another messy state.

  Aleksander filled his empty cup with the remainder of the jug and passed it to Hanna.

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled at him.

  His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled back. He was so tired of feeling lonely and sad. It would be nice to forget it all for a while. He waved his hand towards the serving girl, motioning for another cup and turned to Hanna, staring into her kind, blue eyes. He had no urge to run away at a
ll.

  ‘How is he?’ Jael ran up to Eadmund, her eyes searching his face.

  Eadmund grabbed her arms, looking her over. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ She shook his words away. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You won?’

  ‘I did.’

  Eadmund hung his head. ‘Already? They didn’t wait?’

  ‘No.’ She looked to the sky, which was darkening ominously. ‘Eirik decided to hold the final fight today. The weather looks as though it will only get worse. They say a storm is coming.’

  ‘Jael...’ Eadmund looked at her with fear in his eyes. ‘Thorgils is a mess. Biddy has stitched his wounds, and he’s woken up, but he’s a mess. You can’t fight Tarak. As good as you are, you can’t fight him. You’re not as strong as Thorgils, and look at what happened to him!’

  ‘Do you think I’m going to let what he did to Thorgils be the way it ends?’ Jael growled into his face. ‘That he gets away with hurting more people because no one can beat him? Stand up to him? Destroy him?’ She shook her head, her whole body vibrating with fury. ‘He has more to answer for than you know,’ she spat. ‘Nobody deserves to be defeated more than that fucking bastard.’

  ‘But Eydis...’ Eadmund tried to remind her. ‘She dreamed about this, about what Tarak would do to you.’

  ‘So what?’ Jael said coldly, her eyes already focusing on what she was about to do. ‘What do I care about Eydis’ dream? It’s a dream. You can change a dream. The gods can change a dream. I can change this dream!’ She grabbed Eadmund’s arm. ‘If it makes you feel better, stop the fight before he kills me. If it comes to that and I’m on my back, and he’s lowering his sword towards my throat, stop the fight. Easy.’

  Eadmund didn’t look as convinced as she did.

  ‘Contestants to the Pit!’ Sevrin yelled. ‘We need to begin now before we lose the light!’

  Eadmund grabbed Jael’s hand, panic in his eyes, wishing he could step into the Pit for her; he felt ashamed that he couldn’t. ‘He will snap your legs. He will shatter your shield. He will keep coming. You have to take him out at his foundations, remember?’

  Jael nodded impatiently. She didn’t want to hear anymore; she had to go. She had to lock herself away now and find what she needed to defeat Tarak. She reached up and held Eadmund’s face in her hands, kissing him quickly, then letting go. With one final look, Jael turned and walked away, shutting him out of her head, feeling the thud of her heart as she strode towards the centre of the Pit.

  ‘Eadmund!’ Eydis called. ‘Eadmund, you have to stop her!’

  ‘Eydis,’ Eirik soothed as he moved to sit beside his anxious daughter. ‘Come here, come here.’ He reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ‘I have watched Jael fight all day. She is going to be just fine, I promise. I have all my coin on her now. She promised me she would be my champion, so you have to believe in her.’ He shivered, his eyes following Jael as she walked to meet Tarak, his stomach fluttering with nerves. If she could someone manage to defeat Tarak, then she would be his champion, and he truly would give her anything she wanted.

  Jael blinked slowly. Everything now had to be about defeating Tarak. Every movement and breath, every look, everything she did had to be focused on destroying him, undoing his confidence, breaking his belief, beating him any way she could. She let the memory of what he did to Thorgils float out of her mind. She remembered standing in front of Aleksander, preparing to fight him. She knew he could have beaten Tarak and she had beaten Aleksander.

  It could be done.

  ‘Father?’ Ivaar leaned across to interrupt Eirik’s conversation with Eydis. ‘We’re all waiting.’

  Eirik sat up, looking into the Pit. He closed his eyes, asking Furia to protect her daughter, in this, surely her toughest test. He glanced at Tarak, whose eyes were trained on Jael, dripping with bloodlust. ‘Otto!’ he called.

  Ivaar frowned as Otto turned from the railings and walked up to Eirik’s chair.

  ‘I will call this fight,’ Eirik said calmly. ‘You may step away.’ He picked up his horn and walked down to the railings. Above his head, he could sense the afternoon light diminishing as the clouds swept in, thicker and more threatening than before. The wind chilled his face, but there was no sign of rain or snow yet.

  ‘This,’ Eirik began loudly, ‘this is not a fight to the death, and you will both remember that! This is a fight to become my champion, the Champion of Oss. I have already spoken of the prizes on offer to the winner, but let it be known that another prize is waiting to be claimed if Jael is to be victorious. A prize that only she and I know about, but one which I now agree to, if she is to become my champion.’

  Jael’s head snapped around in surprise.

  Eirik nodded at her briefly. ‘Prepare yourselves now, for victory will offer you everything you have always wanted!’ he called loudly over the excited roar of the crowd.

  Eadmund wondered what prize Jael had asked for, but it was a fleeting thought, quickly replaced by a sick feeling of utter dread. The look on Tarak’s face told him that Jael had no chance.

  How was she going to do it? She had thought about this moment for weeks, practising many different strategies, but as Thorgils had shown, practice meant nothing when you were facing Tarak in the naked flesh. She thought back to Fyn; remembered what Tarak had done to him. Remembered what those men had done to her. She held onto that feeling of bursting rage as it flew through her body, demanding to be released.

  Eirik blew his horn.

  This did not need to look good, Jael knew. She also knew that she had to stay off the ground.

  She ran straight at Tarak and threw herself to the ground, sliding towards him, kicking out at his ankle as hard as she could. She kept going, rolling, standing up, and moving away. It had only taken a moment, but Tarak was frowning, shaking his ankle, as she stood there in front of him, breathing heavily, crouching, sheathing Toothpick, and grabbing her short knife from its scabbard, ready to begin again.

  Eadmund stood, grabbing his face anxiously. The crowd gasped, surprised by that as a beginning.

  His foundations were thick, Jael could see. The knife down her boot would have hurt most men, broken an ankle in many, but he had not even stumbled. He was well balanced as he came quickly towards her, a frown digging itself into the small space between his eyebrows.

  Jael ran at him, sliding through the dirt again, this time slashing the back of his left leg with her knife. She felt pleasure in the sound of his tearing flesh and the bellow from his naked chest, as she slid past. Rolling away, she was up again, crouching, ready.

  Tarak turned on her, furious now. Furious and ready to make her bleed. He didn’t even look down at his leg. He could feel the blood flowing steadily; not deep enough to slow him down, though, and soon the cold would freeze it. He squeezed his fists until his knuckles turned white, pulled his shield into his chest and smashed his sword on it in a thunderous burst of fury. He would kill the slippery bitch now.

  Tarak rushed at her with all his power, viciously hacking with his giant sword. Jael dropped one shoulder and twisted away, leaving Tarak cursing the dirt as he spun around to look for her. She was dancing about now. Now it was time to dance. He was big, too big for her to defeat with swords or knives alone. The power in his arms was far more than anything she could counter, but she could dance. And she did.

  Tarak chased her around the Pit. Jael would come near him, he would lunge, and she would slip and twist away, just out of his reach. The crowd laughed at the sight of the biggest hero of Oss falling about, chasing a woman around the Pit as if she were a little rabbit. Tarak’s face was red; his blood was boiling. He had to change things quickly.

  Ivaar glared at Tarak as he got up and walked down to the Pit, his lips tight. He banged his arms onto the railings in frustration.

  It was not going well.

  ‘Worried?’ his father smiled at him. ‘You should be.’

  Ivaar looked straight ahead. ‘No, I think it’s Ja
el who should be worried,’ he said coldly. ‘A fly may buzz about and annoy a man, but eventually, the man will snap and kill the fly.’

  Jael wanted to launch herself at Tarak now, but she knew he could hurt her if she didn’t weaken him more first. And the way he was surging towards her, there appeared nothing weak about him yet. She slipped her knife into her belt and slid Toothpick out of his scabbard.

  Jael let him come and waited this time. Tarak was surprised, and that lessened the power he put into his swing. His sword was slow as it sliced towards her, giving Jael enough time to duck down, dropping into a crouch as fast as she could, throwing one leg out with speed, smashing her ankle into his once again. She rolled away, listening to his scream of frustration. That was a good sign, she thought to herself as she jumped up and lunged towards him. Pulling her shield up near her chin and swinging back her sword, she aimed to hit him high on the shoulder. Grimacing, he raised his shield to meet her strike, swinging his sword back to counter attack, but as he did so, Jael lashed out with her leg and caught him hard in the balls.

  The crowd groaned, feeling Tarak’s pain. His face turned even redder as he screamed, veins pulsing at his temples as his head dropped forward. Jael pounced then, slashing her shield boss into the side of his face, watching the blood as it splattered out of his torn cheek, spinning away before he could recover, going for his legs now. Dropping down to the ground quickly, she slashed the backs of both his legs with Toothpick, lifting her shield up to protect herself from Tarak’s sword as it came clanging down with all his weight behind it. She absorbed the blow, then rolled away and was up, facing him, running at him, ready to finish him. His teeth were bared with pain, his legs bleeding, his balls breaking, and his cheek hanging open; he was weak enough now.

  Eirik looked back towards Eadmund. There was nothing but tension on his face as he stood there.