by A. E. Rayne
Alys started to slide again, and she gripped the rim of the chest, eyes on Reinar. Her grandfather had told her the legend of the Sun Torc many times over the years. She frowned, watching as he clapped Ludo on the shoulder.
From memory, that wasn’t a prize anyone should be seeking.
Magnus had left Lotta in the paddock with the ponies while he snuck around the village, seeing what else he could take. He had crept down to the beach, wanting to see his father’s body, but it was gone. They were all gone, having been moved into the village where pyres were being constructed.
Magnus couldn’t find him.
He didn’t really want to either. He was glad Arnon de Sant was dead.
He never wanted to see him again.
No one was paying any attention to Magnus as he collected a few apples that had rolled out of a basket one of the women had likely dropped as she was captured. Sobs rose up into Magnus’ chest, and he became cross, knowing that he couldn’t be a child. Not now. If he wanted to save Lotta and get them both to safety, he couldn’t be a child anymore.
‘Magnus!’
Magnus froze, slowly turning around.
‘What are you doing?’
It was Olaf, one of Arald Hussak’s servants, a kindly old man. He had a gaping cut on his sagging cheek, and he appeared to be shaking. But then again, Olaf was often shaking.
Magnus didn’t want to be stopped. ‘I’m taking Lotta for a ride, to get away for a while. She’s upset.’ His saddlebags were with Lotta and the ponies in the paddock, and Magnus hoped that Olaf would leave him to it.
Olaf nodded. ‘Well, don’t be too long.’ He appeared distracted, his rheumy eyes barely focusing on Magnus. His daughters were gone, and he was still in a daze, slightly removed from the grief flooding his heart. ‘There’s a meeting in the hall tonight, for those who are left, about what we might do. There will be food. You can bring Lotta. I’ll find you something to eat.’ And with a nod, he was gone, shuffling and shaking towards Ullaberg’s tiny square, where the bodies were piling up.
Magnus thought about it for a moment. The idea of staying in Ullaberg was tempting; not having to go off on their own, wondering how they would survive; worrying how he would keep his sister safe. But he heard his mother’s voice in his ears, and it was insistent.
They had to leave.
And turning back around, he hurried away, not listening to what Olaf was trying to tell him.
7
Sigurd peered at the dreamer as she returned to the women.
He was sitting, leaning against Ludo, who wasn’t needed to row as the sail ballooned above their heads now, the wind pushing them home at speed.
Sigurd didn’t trust dreamers. He didn’t believe that they wove anything more than lies and tricks intended to trap and deceive those foolish enough to believe them.
Like Reinar, whose eyes were on Alys.
Sigurd sighed, knowing what that was about.
‘Do you think Tulia is alright? Without us?’ Ludo wondered.
Sigurd laughed, quickly grimacing. He tried not to move, gritting his teeth. ‘Tulia will be enjoying the peace and quiet without us there getting in her way. Though, she’ll be stuck with Gerda and Agnette. That will be driving her mad for sure.’ He smiled. Tulia was a hard woman to love, and things had not been good between them for a while now, but he was looking forward to seeing her again.
‘Sometimes I think you picked Tulia just to stir Gerda up.’
Sigurd tried not to laugh again, but his eyes were brighter than they had been all day. ‘You really think anyone could pick Tulia Saari?’ He shook his head.
Ludo laughed, watching the dreamer as she tended to the wounds of the women who crowded around her. ‘What do you think of Alys, then? Reinar seems happy to have found her.’
‘Alys? The dreamer?’ Sigurd could see the mess she’d made of her green dress. She had torn off so many strips to make bandages for him that he could see her legs. ‘Reinar does like to have a dreamer around, that’s true. Though if he spent less time listening to what dreamers said, maybe he wouldn’t be in such a mess.’
The ship smacked into a wave, and Sigurd bounced off the chest with a yelp. Ludo put an arm on his leg to try and hold him down. ‘You can’t blame him for that, not after what Ragnahild foretold. Not after living his life hearing where his destiny lies. It would be hard not to listen to dreamers after that.’
Sigurd looked ready to spit. ‘No one knows the truth about what Ragnahild told Gerda. Gerda was the only one in that cottage with her. Who knows what she really foretold? Not Reinar, that’s for sure.’
‘But she was the most famous dreamer of all,’ Ludo insisted with round eyes. He knew Sigurd hated dreamers with a passion – something he had in common with Tulia – though he was fascinated by them himself. ‘Why would she make up stories?’
Sigurd shrugged. That hurt too. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t Ragnahild making anything up?’
Ludo narrowed his eyes. Sigurd hated Gerda too, and he didn’t blame him for that. She had never been kind to him. Her favouritism towards Reinar was something she wore proudly, like a colourful cloak. And despite Stellan’s best efforts to get her to treat Sigurd fairly, she never had. ‘Well, I wonder what she’ll think of Alys?’
Sigurd frowned. ‘He’s going to keep her, isn’t he?’
‘Reinar?’ Ludo nodded. ‘He is, which is good news for her.’
Sigurd wriggled, trying to get comfortable as the ship creaked, moving him around. He pushed his wet boots onto the planks, water sloshing over them, trying to keep himself still. ‘Or not. Ottby’s not the place anyone would want to live, not anymore.’ He stared at his brother, wishing he could get through to him. But Reinar Vilander was not about to let go of that which he believed to be the foothold of his destiny.
Faced with clinging to the precipice of certain doom, Sigurd knew that his brother was determined to keep on clinging.
Agnette had no appetite as she sat between Gerda and Tulia at the high table, listening to the fires crackling brightly before them. With Bjarni away, Gerda had invited her niece to sit beside her every night. She needed someone to talk to Tulia. To sit near Tulia.
She certainly didn’t want to.
Agnette was surprised that she had no appetite. She’d thought of nothing but food since falling pregnant, but now, with Bjarni gone and the threat of Hakon Vettel growing by the day, she felt worried and vulnerable.
Gerda peered at her. ‘You do not like the fish? I thought it was rather good myself. Rilda tried a new recipe. My suggestion.’ Gerda Vilander prided herself on being a lady. A hostess. Someone whose job it was to please those around her. Over her nearly twenty years as the Lady of Ottby, she had worked hard to turn the hall from a smoky shed packed with filthy, fighting men, into a comfortable, tastefully decorated space, where all of their people could come to eat, drink, and socialise with one another. Stellan had barely noticed her improvements, nor Reinar, she knew, but it gave her both pleasure and pride to see how far it had come.
But for how long, she wondered gloomily, picking up her cup of small ale.
How long would they be able to remain?
‘I’m just worried about Bjarni,’ Agnette sighed. Her belly was growing so big that she had to sit far back from the table, leaning forward quite a way to grab her own cup. ‘I don’t like it when he’s gone.’
Tulia tried not to snort. Her plate was scraped clean, and she had almost finished her second cup of ale. ‘Would you rather he was here, fussing over you?’
‘I would, yes!’ Agnette insisted. ‘As I’m sure you would if you were pregnant. It makes you feel... different. More vulnerable.’ She eyed Tulia. ‘Although, perhaps not you. I’m sure you’d still be able to kill someone if you needed to, even if you were about to drop.’
Tulia laughed. ‘I would, of course. And don’t worry, Agnette, we are all here together. If anyone tries to attack, I’ll protect us, which is, perhaps, even luckier for you. Bjarni is not s
o good with a sword, is he?’
Agnette sat up straighter, insulted on Bjarni’s behalf.
Gerda held up a hand, signalling for a servant to clear the table. ‘She’s right, Agnette. Bjarni is good at many things, but I doubt he could strike down an attacking sheep. He’s better with a bow. With a spear, perhaps?’
Agnette clamped her lips together, not enjoying her husband being the rare reason her aunt had decided to side with Sigurd’s woman.
‘What we do need is a new dreamer,’ Gerda went on. ‘Someone who could tell us what’s happening. What we should do. When Salma died, it plunged us into darkness, and now, here we sit, waiting. At that Vettel boy’s mercy!’
Tulia laughed, banging her cup down onto the table. ‘We’re at no one’s mercy, Gerda,’ she insisted, eager to leave. ‘We have solid walls. We have weapons, and men to wield them. We’re not at anyone’s mercy.’ She felt the need to say things that weren’t entirely true, for the truth did not always inspire confidence. And fear running rampant in the fort would not help any of them survive. ‘You need to see things clearly. Reinar would want you to.’ She saw Gerda stiffen, realisation clearing her eyes, knowing that Gerda would do anything for Reinar. Tulia lowered her voice, though the hall was mostly empty. No one wanted to come and drink in the hall without Reinar and Sigurd. ‘You are the Lady of Ottby. He needs you to keep everyone calm.’
Gerda nodded, biting her tongue.
Agnette was surprised, though she felt some responsibility to stay calm herself. Putting down her cup, she placed her hands on her belly, feeling her child swimming around inside her like a fish. It was comforting, and she sat back, trying to relax. ‘Perhaps they will be home tomorrow?’ She glanced up at Tulia, who stood, ready to leave.
‘Perhaps,’ Tulia mused, wanting to check the fort. She ignored her own fears that trouble might have befallen Reinar and Sigurd, knowing that trouble seemed to be following Reinar around like a hungry dog these days. And flicking her long braid behind her back, she shrugged, picking up her cloak. ‘But if not, we’ll enjoy the peace and quiet a little longer!’ And winking at Agnette, she headed around the tables, aiming for the doors. It was getting darker and colder much earlier now, making her wistful for Kalmera, where the sun warmed her skin, and the days were bright and clear; not a hint of the leaden clouds that hung over Ottby like a curse from the weather gods.
Dragging open a door, Tulia headed outside, wrapping her blue cloak around her shoulders, thinking about Sigurd, annoyed that she missed him so much. She smiled, hurrying down the steps, already keen to head back into the hall and warm her frozen toes by the fire.
Falla Gundersen was the most desirable woman Ivan had ever seen. She had a body so replete with curves that he wanted to bury himself in her tits, wrapping his arms around that perfect waist, squeezing her tight. She wore clothes that accentuated those curves; tight-fitting dresses that called his attention to every nook and cranny. Each one of them as tempting as the other.
And yet, Falla was married to Hakon’s champion, a man Hakon had no intention of killing, for Lief Gundersen was a warrior of great reputation and skill. Though he was not handsome, nor young, nor charismatic, and Ivan often stared at Falla, wondering what she saw in her dull old man of a husband. It hardly mattered what Falla saw, of course, for what Hakon saw was a mountain, rarely bettered in battle, hard and unsmiling, unwavering in the face of threat, no matter the enemy.
Hakon would be a fool to end him, yet at that moment, Ivan wanted him dead more than anything.
Falla flicked her hair over her shoulder as she glided past him, child on her hip; a boy, as raven-haired as she was. Not Lief’s. He had married her as a widow a year ago and taken on the boy, eager to get her pregnant with his own sons.
Hakon hit Ivan.
They were sitting at the high table: Karolina on Hakon’s right, Ivan on his left.
Hakon smiled. ‘Though Lief’s eyes are ruined, he can still see, Cousin.’ He inclined his head to where Lief Gundersen was standing near one of the hall’s enormous fire pits, chatting to his men, his dark, scarred eyes occasionally wandering to the high table.
Ivan shrugged. ‘Everyone looks at Falla,’ he whispered. ‘How can they not? She makes sure of it, dressing the way she does. Walking like that? It’s as though she’s in heat all the time!’ He edged closer to Hakon. ‘Must be that Lief doesn’t satisfy her, don’t you think?’
Hakon burst out laughing, causing more than a few heads to turn their way. Lief sharpened his eyes, and Hakon lifted his goblet in his champion’s direction. ‘A man like that? Most famous warrior on the Eastern Shore? More like wishful thinking on your part, Cousin.’
‘You think every man skilled with a sword knows how to use his cock?’ Ivan laughed back, listening as the musicians started plucking their lyres, raising a smile from the usually morbid-looking Karolina.
‘Well, I wouldn’t presume to know, but if I were a betting man, I’d bet upon it. Falla looks like a satisfied woman to me.’ Hakon’s eyes followed her as she walked up to the old crone who had entered the hall, seeking her out. He blinked, happy to see her. ‘I think it’s more that she likes to cause trouble. And getting you in trouble would be very easy. Imagine how that would work out for her?’
Ivan didn’t follow.
‘You’re the leader of our army, Ivan. You’re my most trusted advisor, my most loyal friend. And when we sit in Stornas’ hall, we will sit together, and I will make you a great lord, wealthy for life. Why wouldn’t I? We are family, and you will help me, so I will reward you. And Falla... I think she wants power. Wealth and power. With Lief, she has a famous husband, but she seeks more than reputation. She is definitely after more.’
‘So she wants to marry me?’
Hakon grinned. Ivan was quick at many things, but not when it came to women. ‘I don’t imagine so. She will likely keep her husband and hope to make him rich and powerful by removing you. And if she gets you in trouble with Lief, well... he will take care of that for her.’
Ivan sat back with a frown. ‘You really believe that?’
Hakon laughed. ‘I have a dreamer, and she sees many paths ahead. Some paved with death and darkness, some with gold and silver. But I see things too. I’m always watching. My people. The ravens. I look for omens. I see more than most. Those things they think are hidden... I see them all.’
Ivan swallowed, wondering what Hakon saw in his heart, which had often been bitter and resentful where his cousin was concerned. He snorted to cover his discomfort, helping himself to more ale. ‘Seems to me you can just burn Mother, then. What use do you have for that old bitch when you can do your own dreaming!’
‘I tell her that all the time! Just so she knows not to play games with me.’ Hakon watched the hunched figure waddling around the fires, elbowing his men out of the way.
Mother Arnesson was a small old woman, but wide, still thickly padded; grey hair curling in a furious mess; big eyes, slightly mad looking; lips always pouting with displeasure. She was intimidating and threatening, and most of all, mysterious, so the hardened warriors standing near her quickly jumped out of her path, much to Hakon’s amusement. She ignored both him and them as she aimed for Hakon’s private chamber, not even bothering to incline her head in her lord’s direction.
Hakon nudged his cousin. ‘Looks as though there’s some news.’ And standing, he left his goblet on the table, bending down to Ivan’s ear. ‘Keep your eyes on your meal, Cousin. I would hate to return to find you missing your head!’ He grinned, watching the famously unsmiling Lief Gundersen’s frown intensify as he headed away from the table, not even bothering to look at Karolina.
Sigurd’s eyes followed Torvig as he inspected the women’s ropes. Again.
Bjarni sat down on a log of driftwood with a groan, sticking his hands near the flames, thinking about Agnette. He looked up, following Sigurd’s eyes. It was long since dark, and they had made camp in a sheltered cove, its stones just as uncomfortable as the last o
ne. No one was looking forward to trying to sleep.
Especially not Sigurd.
‘You think Torvig would have made sure their ropes were tight the last time he went over there,’ Bjarni whispered, eyes on the flames.
Sigurd turned to him, hearing the resentment in Bjarni’s voice. Bjarni Sansgard had been a loyal friend to both him and Reinar since they were boys. He was a calm man, his thoughts taking time to form. Never rash. Not judgemental either. But his impression of Torvig had taken shape quickly, and that shape had not altered in eighteen years. ‘You’d think so, a man as careful as that.’
‘As long as Torvig understands how important those slaves are to Reinar. Especially the dreamer. I’m sure Reinar wouldn’t be happy to lose another one.’ Bjarni turned his attention to Sigurd. ‘Though, I was happy to lose Rutger. He was a worthless shit in the end.’
‘As we knew he would be, old friend,’ Sigurd mused. ‘If only my brother would listen to either of us. These days no words get into that thick head of his, though. None but Torvig’s.’
‘Mmmm, Torvig’s the one who suggested we start slaving. Perhaps that was only for himself? I see no value in it, except to make us all nothing in the eyes of the gods. In the eyes of our women too.’ They both thought on that, knowing how Tulia and Agnette felt about slaving. Tulia had refused to come along. And Agnette talked about it incessantly, layering on heavy cloaks of guilt every time Bjarni returned from raiding.
‘We have little choice for now,’ Sigurd tried to convince them both. ‘Men need to be paid. Bought and paid for. They’ll not come willingly. Reinar is no lord anyone wants to follow anymore.’
Bjarni pushed himself up. ‘What do you mean?’ he hissed.
Sigurd brushed off his friend’s prickles. ‘Men who don’t know a lord are drawn to that man by two things. His reputation. Or his ring-giving. And Reinar’s reputation has been torn to shreds, you know that. What’s left of it? The only men willing to suffer and follow him now are those who know him. Who know his character and the truth. The rest? They need paying. And unless we travel further for longer, there’s no one around Ottby with enough treasure for our needs.’