by A. E. Rayne
The Ullaberg women were sobbing again, and with the noise of the storm suddenly absent, Alys could hear them clearly. She lifted her head, wanting to see what was happening, though it was too dark.
‘Here,’ Ludo said, trying to get her attention, his bloody hands shaking as he handed her thread, a giant needle and a short knife. ‘Is this all you’ll need?’
‘That needle is for sails.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there nothing smaller? It will hurt him. Make great holes in him.’
‘Ludo, I’ve got a needle.’ Sigurd’s mumble was breathless, the pain overwhelming. ‘In my chest.’
Ludo nodded, disappearing again.
‘What’s your name?’ Sigurd asked, wanting to take his mind off the pain.
Alys bent down, tearing more strips off her dress. ‘Alys.’
‘And you’re really a dreamer? A Tuuran?’
Alys blinked. ‘I...’
Sigurd could hear the hesitation in her voice, and it made him even more suspicious.
‘I was born in Alekka.’ Alys spun around again, seeing Stina tending to one of the women.
Ludo was back quickly, ready to assist her.
‘You’ll need to give him something to bite down on,’ Alys said, shivering as the wind blustered around her. Her hands were numb with cold, shaking so much that she didn’t know if she’d be able to use them at all.
Ludo found an arrow and aimed the shaft at Sigurd’s mouth. ‘Bite on this,’ he ordered, looking anxious. What he could see of Sigurd’s olive skin appeared to have turned a dull grey. ‘You can save him, can’t you?’ he whispered to Alys, who was busy trying to thread the fine needle in the near darkness on a rocking ship.
‘Yes. If you help me, I can,’ she murmured, working to convince them both; trying to strengthen her voice. ‘Now, please, hold him down. This is going to hurt.’
Magnus had twisted his left ankle when he’d run down the beach with Lotta, falling into a hole he hadn’t seen. And feeling around it, he decided that his left ankle was almost twice the size of his right. It was dark in their hiding hole. Entirely so. And raining. Which meant clouds and no stars to shine any light their way.
His sister whimpered beside him, missing their mother.
Magnus didn’t want to admit that he was missing her too. He needed to be strong, and dwelling on what he didn’t have would only distract him from what he needed to do next. So, closing his eyes, he tried to focus on his mother’s voice. It was a kind voice, he thought with a sad smile. She had rarely gotten mad at them. Only slightly annoyed. Though he had likely given her reason to be much more than slightly annoyed over the years, especially lately.
Perhaps she had always been too afraid to show any emotion because of his father? But now he was dead.
Magnus smiled.
Arnon de Sant was dead.
After years of torture, his body was lying out on the beach, being feasted on by birds and beasts alike. His mother would be happy about that, wherever she was.
‘How will we travel?’ Lotta asked, sitting up with a yawn. ‘If you can’t walk, Magnus, what will we do?’
‘I will take Daisy, of course, and you’ll take Clover.’
‘Do you think they’re still here? Alive? I saw those men carrying goats and chickens. Someone had a piglet. I think it was Urna Kraki’s piglet.’
Magnus frowned, realising that his sister was right. ‘I don’t imagine they’d want to eat a couple of ponies, would they?’ He lightened his voice, wanting to comfort her. She was shaking as she lay her head back on his shoulder. ‘No, they wouldn’t have taken Daisy and Clover.’ He squeezed Lotta’s hand, hoping he was right.
Worrying about what those men would do to his mother.
Reinar’s ships were beached.
They had not sailed for long, just long enough to find a winding inlet, leading to a sheltered cove. And now half his men rushed around in the dark, setting fires, as the dead and injured were brought ashore. It was a stone beach, and the shadows had quickly revealed that though there were clumps of bushes, there were no trees within walking distance.
And everything was wet.
‘Not the most comfortable night you’ll ever have, Brother,’ Reinar laughed, trying to tease a smile out of Sigurd, who lay on a pile of furs and cloaks near the fire Bjarni and Ludo were crouching in front of. They blew on the scant flames, wafting smoke with their hands, conscious of Sigurd shaking uncontrollably behind them.
Sigurd lay there, head twisted to one side, uncomfortable, unable to focus. His sense of where he was and what was happening was displaced.
Then a hand on his forehead.
‘Is he feverish?’ Reinar bent down, eyes on the dreamer.
‘No,’ Alys said, wanting to leave to check on the women. ‘But he may become so if we don’t watch him. It would be better if I could find some willow bark. Perhaps some yarrow?’
Reinar nodded. ‘I’ll have Ludo go with you in the morning. You can have a hunt around before we leave, see what’s out there. Though it doesn’t seem much. I know this cove, and it’s a barren place.’
Alys stood, wanting to get off the painful stones. ‘I... I would like to check on the women. My friends. Please. I need to help them.’
Reinar straightened up, grabbing her arm as she slipped. ‘I’ll take you. And you may, of course. I need them to live. All of you. And besides, we need to have a little talk, you and I. About how you came to see that ambush, those men. I’m... curious.’
Alys felt his hand on her arm as he pulled her towards him, across the stones.
‘Stay with Sigurd!’ Reinar called to Ludo. ‘I’ll send the dreamer back to him when we’re done.’ He looked down at her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Alys.’
‘Alys...’ Reinar sensed Torvig lurking in the shadows, wanting to talk to him; Bjarni and Bolli too, no doubt. But first, he needed a word with the dreamer.
They walked towards where the women were being guarded.
Alys peered into the darkness, trying to recognise who was there, who was missing. ‘Where are the others?’ she asked, panicking.
‘Dead.’ Reinar sounded irritated. Each of those dead women was a loss of silver that would weigh heavily on his people, harming his ability to defend the fort. ‘Plus the one Rutger released of course.’
‘Dead?’ Alys could only count twenty-five women. She swallowed. ‘But...’
‘You saved most of them, seeing that vision as you did.’ Reinar grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop just before the fire the women were huddled around, trying to warm themselves up. ‘But what else can you see, that’s what I need to know now. Where are the Vettels’ men going? Where will they strike next? We’re stuck here, in no man’s land. Can we risk trying to get to Goslund now?’
Alys felt confused. Reinar’s hold was firm, squeezing her arm, his rough voice attacking her like a hammer. He wanted answers, but she didn’t know if she had any to give. ‘I...’ She shook all over. ‘I can’t see anything. I need... I...’
‘Sleep?’ Reinar wondered. ‘To dream?’
Alys didn’t want to help him take them to Goslund. She scratched her head, trying to think. He had to trust her. If he could trust her, she could be of use to him. ‘I need to be alone. I don’t imagine I could sleep, but I could try to let thoughts come to me.’
‘Good.’ Reinar felt his hopes lift. ‘If you can get us out of here, Alys, I will be grateful. Grateful enough to reconsider what happens to you.’ He released her, letting her walk towards the women.
Alys’ hopes lifted too. She could hear it in Reinar’s voice: his need for her.
It was what her grandfather had always warned her about: the need those in power had for women who could see into the future. He had warned her away from that path, banned her from ever revealing her gifts, even to herself.
Torvig watched the dreamer, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Reinar seems to have found a real prize there,’ he murmured.
/> Bjarni was beside him, staring at the flames, pleased at last. He glanced down at his arm, feeling blood leaking through the strips of cloth he’d hastily tied around it. ‘Well, if you consider a dreamer a prize. Many wouldn’t.’ He grimaced, unravelling the cloth, happy the injury wasn’t on his right wrist; certain he could see a flash of bone.
‘You mean Sigurd? Ha! We all know why Sigurd doesn’t like dreamers,’ Torvig laughed, though after the day they’d just endured, his laughter sounded hollow, even to his own ears. ‘And why Reinar does. Though not every dreamer will be as useful as Ragnahild One Eye.’
‘No, and likely a dreamer living in a hole like Ullaberg is in no great demand. Though, perhaps Reinar will find the answers he’s looking for?’
‘I hope so,’ Torvig said, eyes back on the flames, hands extended now, gratefully accepting their warmth. ‘It’s time he listened to someone. Going on like this won’t help him or us. The gods want him to suffer, and until he accepts the arc of his fate, he has no chance of mastering it.’
Bjarni looked up in surprise, stomach growling. ‘You think a man can master his fate? Even if the gods have set against him?’ He shook his head, thick blonde hair matted with dried blood, hanging around a weary face.
‘Of course.’ Torvig sat back, digging into his pouch, searching for something to eat. ‘The gods are fickle. Much like women.’ He grinned, thinking about that dreamer, who had the prettiest face he’d seen in a while. And as for the way that wet dress clung to her hips...
Running his tongue over his teeth, he tasted blood. ‘But they’ll turn their favour to Reinar again, once they find reason to.’
As much as Bjarni hated Torvig Aleksen, he hoped he was right. For if the gods continued to shun Reinar, they had no hope of keeping Ottby out of Hakon Vettel’s hands.
Hakon Vettel had no thumbs.
They’d been cut off by his mad uncle, who had kidnapped him as a boy.
Hakon’s uncle had hated his father. They had battled each other for years, fighting over who had the right to reclaim the Alekkan throne from Ake Bluefinn.
Now both men were dead, and the future of the Vettel dynasty lay in Hakon’s thumbless hands.
At just twenty-three, he ruled the impenetrable stone fortress of Slussfall with a ruthlessness and hunger that belied his years, his eyes permanently fixed ahead, never content to sit still. He only wanted action; eager to move south towards the prize his father and uncle had so desperately sought but failed to capture.
His army continued to grow as neighbour after neighbour was felled by experienced, hardened warriors.
But not quickly enough. And not in every way that was desirous.
Hakon needed Ottby to fall so he could access the bridge to Stornas, capital of Alekka. But that stone fort had stood before the bridge, protecting it for the Alekkan kings for centuries now. Built by the Vettels themselves, Hakon knew it would not break easily. Though its pathetic old lord had finally been moved aside, both his mind and body deserting him, and now his son, Reinar the Unlucky, sat in his chair. And yet, despite all that had befallen Ottby and the Vilanders, they would not break. They would not bend.
And now this?
‘You return to me with one ship? One?’ Hakon was incredulous as he paced before his throne in Slussfall’s great hall, eyes on the gathering of miserable-looking men before him. Bedraggled. Defeated. Pathetic. Leaking water all over his dark flagstones. ‘When we’d only managed to scrape together four new ships? And you return me one out of three, leaving me a fleet of two ships? Two?’ He was seething, his skin glowing white beneath his pointed brown beard. ‘But how is that possible, Dagfinn, my loyal friend, my most competent commander? How could you fail me so badly? Become so inept? Have you been bewitched?’ Hakon stepped forward, clear-blue eyes piercing, dark eyebrows sharp.
He was not a tall man, though he was strong, and the black tunic he wore hugged his body tightly, showing just how powerful his arms were as he clenched his fists, biceps twitching.
Dagfinn was exhausted, frozen solid after sailing through the night, almost too tired to speak, though Hakon’s eyes demanded an explanation. ‘They did not come down the estuary, my lord,’ he tried. ‘At the last moment, they turned away. We could not ambush them as intended. The battle was harder because of it. We lacked the element of surprise.’
‘And why do you think the Vilanders turned? What would have made them suspicious? Could they see you? See a glimpse of your prows? My banners flapping?’ Hakon saw his wife, Karolina, carrying their infant son into the hall, and he frowned, annoyed. The dress she wore did not suit her at all. He wanted her to catch the eye, though that plain grey dress made her look like a nursemaid. Blinking, Hakon tried to focus. ‘Tell me, Dagfinn, what did you do wrong?’
Karolina smiled at her husband, preparing to walk towards him, but he flicked a thumbless hand at her, sending her away without a word, a snarl curling his thick lips.
Dagfinn tried to find the words to save himself from further blame; from whatever repercussions Hakon had in mind. He was exhausted, cold, and wounded, though, and he couldn’t. ‘I don’t believe I did anything wrong, my lord.’
‘So you think, perhaps, it is... someone else’s fault? Not yours? That someone else is to blame?’ Hakon raised his hands in the air, looking around, his voice rising sharply. ‘Was it any of you? Did you do something wrong, Kalf? Or you, Njall?’ He swept his eyes over Dagfinn’s crew, some of whom stood around the two long fire pits, eager to warm themselves. They lifted their weary heads, shaking them, shrugging.
‘Well, it appears as though the truth has revealed itself without any help from you, Dagfinn Vilo,’ Hakon murmured, stepping down from the fur-covered dais, circling his fleet commander, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘And that truth is a sharp blade in my heart, for I had thought you so loyal, so competent. So heroic. I thought you would cut down our enemies like Thenor himself! Yet, here you are, whimpering before me like a motherless kitten.’ Hakon’s eyes were hard, but his voice was suddenly lighter, almost insisting that his men find him amusing.
And they attempted to, a light smattering of laughter coming from those weary men now.
‘And as I’m sure you realise, Dagfinn, I have no use for kittens. Not in a fight to kill Reinar Vilander and his Ottby scum!’ And with that, Hakon drew his knife from the scabbard attached to the back of his belt, and he swung it forward and up, straight into Dagfinn’s throat.
He left it there, stepping back slowly, ignoring the gasp from his wife, who had lingered by the dark curtain that led to the family’s private chambers. Hakon smiled, watching the horror bloom in the eyes of Dagfinn’s crew, happy for them to see how failure was rewarded in his hall.
Dagfinn dropped to his knees, gurgling, trying to pull out the knife, hand shaking, eyes on his lord. Surprise lingered; pain and shock too. Then he shuddered, watching as Hakon took a goblet from a servant, smiling as he wandered back to his chair. And sitting down, he watched Dagfinn gurgle helplessly, tipping forward, falling onto the flagstones with a defeated thump.
Hakon waved a hand at his servant. ‘Drag him outside before he makes a mess. I’ve only just had the floor washed.’ And taking a sip of sweet wine, Hakon surveyed his stunned hall. ‘Jerrik!’ he called, making his decision quickly. ‘Congratulations! You are the new commander of my fleet!’
5
The night had been a painful one for Alys. She wasn’t sure if she’d even slept. Though, if she had, it was only in snatches, for she had been regularly awakened by the discomfort of lying on the stone beach, and the cries of the injured men all around her.
Her patient, though, remained mostly silent, which worried her. And rising to her knees, she edged closer to Sigurd, wanting to ensure that he was breathing.
Ludo was quickly on his feet, shaking himself in the murky dawn light. ‘What’s happened?’ His voice boomed, waking Reinar and Bjarni, who had both slept near Sigurd. Bolli and Holgar too. ‘Is he alright?’
/> Reinar grimaced, his arm having gone to sleep beneath his cold body. He stretched it out, shaking it, and himself. His blue eyes, which had initially gone to his brother, soon lifted to check that their two ships were still there, dug into the black stones of the beach. He shifted them to the horizon, relieved to see no sign of Hakon Vettel’s ships returning. ‘Sigurd?’ Reinar bent over his brother, who was shivering beneath his cloak. He looked at Alys, wanting to see some sign of confidence in her eyes.
‘He’s cold,’ she said, yawning. ‘Which is good.’
‘It is good.’ Reinar almost smiled as he sat back down, stopping himself from slapping Sigurd on the back.
‘For you, maybe,’ Sigurd grumbled, desperate to roll over, but his back and leg were covered in trails of painful stitches, and he knew that this was the only position for him now. Until he could sit. And just the thought of that made him dizzy.
Bjarni laughed. ‘Well, lucky you’re still breathing, or Tulia would have killed us all!’
Ludo nodded vigorously, searching through the waterskins, trying to find something to drink. ‘She would, that’s true.’
Reinar laughed, his mood quickly souring as he watched Torvig in the distance, touching one of the women. He scowled. Couldn’t anyone follow orders? Couldn’t anyone keep their hands to themselves for a day or two?
Bjarni was thinking of his own wife, wishing he was in their soft bed, lying next to her while she nattered on about nothing he cared about; complaining and gossiping usually. He smiled, thinking how much he liked to listen to her complain and gossip. She took such pleasure in it.
Glancing around, he sighed, realising how far away he was from Agnette, sitting in a damp heap on the stones with his battered friends in the dark gloom of the morning after another disastrous raid.