by A. E. Rayne
‘What is it, Hakon?’ She squirmed, uncomfortable, trying to pull the furs over her breasts. ‘Is something wrong?’
He laughed, pushing it back down. ‘Because I choose to stare at you, you think something is wrong? Karolina! I’m simply happy to see you, to wake up next to you, to touch you.’ His other hand moved beneath the furs.
Karolina froze. Marriage had not been what she’d imagined as a girl. She had hoped for love or, at least, affection, but what she felt more than anything was fear. Hakon was unpredictable; at times, violent. She doubted he would hurt their son, but she worried that she would give him reason to hurt her.
She remained perfectly still, resisting the urge to wriggle away from his exploring fingers. She even tried to smile.
‘Tell me what you think of Ivan,’ Hakon murmured.
‘Ivan?’
‘Do you think he’s capable of leading our great army to Stornas?’
Karolina swallowed. She didn’t dislike Ivan. He could be funny and kind at times. He certainly seemed gentler than her own husband. But she never knew what to say, knowing that Hakon didn’t ask questions he didn’t already know the answer to. ‘I think he is young. Perhaps...’
‘Perhaps?’ Hakon narrowed his eyes, knowing that he was the same age as his cousin.
‘It may be that older men could provide some experience. Wisdom. They could support Ivan.’
Hakon liked hearing Karolina’s opinions. They were less abrasive than Mother’s and more considered than his cousin’s. ‘Experience, yes. Though we have years of battle experience now, Ivan and I. Still, I don’t suppose it would hurt to have him lean on Lief and Jerrik to balance his... enthusiasm.’ He was getting distracted, his mind wandering, but then Karolina arched her back, and his attention was right back on his fingers and her exquisite body. ‘Although, perhaps we will talk of that later, for I think we have other things to attend to right now.’
Closing her eyes, Karolina hoped it would be over quickly.
She wanted to go and check on her son.
Jonas Bergstrom woke with a headache, a griping stomach, and the intense smell of smoking fish in his nostrils.
He staggered out of bed, across the creaking floorboards which felt cold now that winter was on its way. They would have to think about a few new skins. Preferably furs. Vik had a breezy sort of cottage.
He blinked in the harsh morning light, head pounding, realising belatedly, and regretfully, that he could no longer drink so much ale. His body appeared to be trying to warn him that he was old. Jonas chuckled, not quite ready to listen. ‘What are you doing, you useless turd?’ he called to his best friend, Vik Lofgren. ‘Who smokes fish before the sun’s even up?’ He blinked, glancing back at the step to Vik’s cottage. He could almost see Alys sitting there as a girl, on one of their many visits, and his heart sank.
‘Well, I’m sure you won’t complain when you’re eating it for breakfast, you much older turd!’ Vik grumbled with a grin, emerging from his tiny shed in a cloud of smoke. He held a tray of ambered-coloured trout in his hands, steaming hot and ready to eat. ‘What’s wrong?’
Vik was almost sixty, Jonas almost seventy. They had been friends since they were young neighbours in Torborg; too many years ago to remember now. They had fought together in the shield wall, hunted in The Murk, even fished the Valgeir Sea. For a time, they had been travellers, adventurers, but over the years, they had both settled down, attempting to try family life.
It had not worked for Vik, who had married twice and ended up an unlucky, childless widower two times over. Jonas had been only slightly less fortunate. Though he had loved his wife and daughter, he had lost them both too young.
And then there was Alys.
Jonas glanced back at the step again, certain he’d had a dream. His wife had been a dreamer, his daughter, and then, Alys too. A dangerous occupation, he knew. One he had stamped out before Alys could do anything about it.
He’d never wanted her to end up like his daughter.
They were both gone now, but the memories of living with a dreamer still lingered, and Jonas knew that he’d certainly had a dream.
Barefooted and needing to piss urgently, he hurried away from the cottage to the latrine, which Vik had recently moved into the trees, some distance from the front door. Though, considering the winter chill in the air, Jonas realised that might have been a mistake.
When he returned to the cottage, he was pleased to see Vik at the table, a couple of stale flatbreads, half a round of cheese and a few figs waiting beside the tray of smoked trout.
‘What is it?’ Vik wondered. Though not as tall as Jonas, he was a big man, strong and broad-chested. He worked with a sword most days, when he wasn’t fishing or hunting or repairing his cottage. He wasn’t ready for Vasa to claim him yet; determined that she wouldn’t catch him without a sword in his hand. Though the chance of him fighting anything other than a frisky trout these days was slim. ‘Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Jonas took a seat at the small table, just big enough for two. He’d been grateful when Vik had invited him to stay. And despite his friend’s annoying habit of getting up before dawn to tinkle about outside, he was enjoying the company. ‘Not quite, but I think I had a dream.’
‘About a woman?’ Vik joked. Isolation had its downsides, though surely after two failed attempts at marriage, the gods had made it rather plain that women were not in his future.
‘Perhaps...’ Jonas grabbed his eating knife, attacking a fillet of fish, his mind on Alys, his body taut with worry. ‘Perhaps...’
9
The waves curled effortlessly against the straked hull of the ship as it sliced through the dark sea.
Everyone on board appeared energised. The morning had rushed by, and even the injured men – those who had been moaning and groaning only hours earlier – started to perk up as they edged closer to Ottby.
Reinar felt different too. He was back on board Fury, confident that Sigurd was on the mend, watched over by his new dreamer. His chest tightened, his cold hands curling into fists, eyes on the familiar bridge that spanned the cliffs bordering the estuary. The need to keep that old bridge defended was paramount, for if Ottby was captured, enemy armies would be able to march directly to Stornas and threaten the king.
That weight had rested heavily on Stellan Vilander, and now Reinar felt it himself; though Ottby was not only a valuable defensive structure, it was his home, and the people he loved most lived within its walls.
Reinar blinked, wanting to speak to Alys urgently, but knowing there was still much to take care of.
Torvig stood beside him. ‘We need to be ready to move as soon as we’re back. Find more men quickly. Hakon will attack again. He won’t like that you sunk his ships. I doubt he had many more.’
Reinar smiled, imagining that little boy’s face, for Hakon Vettel was only a boy. Only twenty-three and he thought he could take on every lord along the Eastern Shore; become more powerful than Ake Bluefinn himself. ‘Well, he can go fuck himself.’
Torvig laughed. ‘He’s likely saying the same about you!’ He couldn’t feel his face, his hands or his feet, and he felt impatient to get into the fort. He could almost taste snow in the air, and his thoughts turned to the heat of a generous fire, the warmth of a fur-lined bench, a cup of wine in his hand. Then Torvig remembered Gerda, who was notoriously tight-fisted when it came to dishing out any item she considered a luxury. And a woman as miserable as Gerda Vilander would certainly consider wine a luxury best saved for a special occasion.
‘I’ve more important things to worry about than Hakon Vettel,’ Reinar muttered, his attention drifting to Dagger, sailing along in their wake. He caught a glimpse of the green-dress-wearing Alys de Sant. She was timid, lacking confidence, and young. Unlike any dreamer he’d known, yet he had such great need of her now.
Torvig watched his friend’s eyes narrow, seeking out the dreamer, as he had done since the first time he’d caught sight of her. That woman was going to caus
e problems for them all, he realised. Problems he would have to find solutions for.
And quickly.
Mother had been cryptic.
She was always cryptic, Hakon thought with a scowl, unlike Ivan, who sat opposite him, mouth ajar, eyes following Falla, who was sashaying around the hall after her young son.
Hakon kicked him.
Ivan bit his tongue, glaring at his cousin, though he was mostly just mad at himself for being unable to stop staring at Falla. She was the most mesmerising creature he’d ever seen. He couldn’t control himself at all.
Hakon laughed, watching Lief Gundersen enter the hall, shaking rain from his straight dark hair. His eyes were immediately on his wife, not his lord. Hakon could tell how much Lief loved his wife. Or, at least, how demanding his need to keep her safe was. He took great interest in her whereabouts, rarely allowing himself to become so distracted that he didn’t know where she was.
Hakon didn’t blame him. And though Karolina was no temptress, the idea of another man coveting his wife was enough to make him reach for his sword.
Satisfied that Falla was alone, Lief’s eyes quickly snapped to the high table, and he attempted a smile. ‘My lord,’ he said, ignoring Ivan entirely. ‘Anyone would think winter had arrived out there!’ Holding his hands over the flames, he rubbed them together, shaking his head, not wanting anything from the trays of pickled eel and oysters the slaves offered him.
‘Winter arriving early will disrupt our plans,’ Ivan suggested, ensuring his eyes remained on Lief, whether he acknowledged him or not. He could sense Falla approach, helping her husband take off his wet cloak, but he forced himself to ignore her.
‘Not all of them,’ Hakon grinned, just as cryptically as Mother Arnesson. He reached for his goblet as Lief left Falla behind, approaching the high table. ‘But we have time before the first snow falls, I’m sure.’ His mind drifted back to his conversation with the old dreamer. She had spoken of things he didn’t believe possible. But if they were...
If what she said could truly happen...
Hakon smiled, turning to Ivan. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk, Cousin? Lief, you should join us. We have plans to make. Urgent plans. It’s best we keep them to ourselves, away from gossiping women.’ He enjoyed the tart look on Falla’s face as he stood, winking at her.
Ivan wasn’t wrong to admire Falla Gundersen and her endless curves, Hakon knew, quickly shifting his eyes to the hall doors.
He was just far too obvious.
Agnette waddled with speed. She felt like a mother duck, with Bjarni’s two old hounds chasing after her, barking, as she hurried through the bridge gates into the square. Tulia was striding towards her, spear in hand. ‘They’re coming!’ she called, already out of breath, hands on hips, stopping to cup her protruding belly. ‘They’re... coming!’
Tulia looked relieved as she stepped past Agnette, her long legs quickly taking her away from Gerda, who had left the hall at the first shouts from the ramparts. The gates to the bridge were open, and Tulia hurried towards them, eager to get down the stairs to meet the ships.
‘Agnette!’ Gerda scolded, rushing past her after Tulia. ‘Your hair’s a mess! You shouldn’t greet your husband in such a dishevelled state. Go and tidy yourself up!’
Agnette glared at her aunt, who did indeed look as well-groomed as ever, unsurprisingly, since she barely lifted a finger to help anyone but herself. And certainly not her husband, who she had tasked Agnette to care for as soon as he took ill.
Ottby’s harbour saw little traffic as the fort was no trading station. Its market was small, servicing just the local area, and those few merchants who had built up relationships with the Vilanders over the years. The three piers jutting out from the bottom of the cliffs were full of warships, which, though sea-worthy, saw little action these days.
Those in the fort hurried down the steep stone stairway which led from the bridge, eager to see what their returning lord had brought back with him; hoping most of all that he’d brought back a change of luck.
They all needed some of that.
Reinar jumped down onto the boards of the old pier with a bang, happy to see Tulia, though she barely looked at him, quickly seeking out any sign of Sigurd. She ran her eyes over Dagger, not seeing him by the prow as she would have expected to.
Reinar put a hand on her shoulder. ‘He was injured, but he’ll live. Hakon Vettel sent men to ambush us near the estuary to Goslund. They were lying in wait. Three shiploads of them.’
Tulia shook off his hand, hurrying to Dagger, wanting to see Sigurd for herself. She rarely worried and wasn’t prone to panic, but in the four years they’d been together, he’d barely had a scratch on him.
Gerda, who had quickly made her way down the stairs, overheard their conversation, forcing herself not to interrupt. But as Tulia left, she grabbed Reinar, hand on his arm, slightly out of breath. ‘You weren’t injured, were you?’
Reinar shook his head, pleased to see his mother. ‘No, but Sigurd –’
‘You must come up to the hall! Let Bjarni sort everyone out,’ Gerda insisted, slipping an arm through Reinar’s, frowning at the dampness of his cloak. ‘I think snow’s on the way. Best we get to a fire, take off this wet cloak.’ She tried to move him towards the stairs.
Reinar held his ground. ‘I need to see to Sigurd.’ He glared at his mother, wishing that, just for once, she would show a maternal instinct towards his brother. ‘You need to see to him.’
Gerda inhaled sharply, quickly insulted. She lowered her voice, hissing. ‘I... will, of course, but Tulia’s there. I doubt she’d even let me look at him. You know how that woman is, always taking charge, as though she’s a man. I’ll look at him once you get him up the stairs, into the hall.’
Reinar decided that he was too cold to stand around trying to change his mother, who had likely been much the same for all her fifty-seven years. There was little he could do to bend and shape her into the mother Sigurd had always wished for. It was far too late for that now.
Alys shivered, eyes on the dark cliffs facing the estuary, almost perfectly sheer, running with moisture. She tipped back her head, turning it to the right, towards the imposing bridge, then back to the left where the stone fort perched on the edge of the cliff, reaching up into the clouds.
Over the years, Ottby’s fortress had proved near impenetrable, with two stone walls protecting the nearly three hundred homes and buildings housed within. The low wall led to a narrow courtyard and the much higher inner wall; both walls fortified with defensive ramparts and towers that gave a clear view of the fields and forests to the north, east, and west, and the bridge to the south.
Looking away from the bridge, Alys turned her attention to the men clambering out of the ships, onto the pier. Many of them looked happy to be home. Some appeared sullen at the thought of having returned with nothing to show but two shiploads of women no one wanted, and a handful of squealing, bleating animals.
The Ullaberg women just looked terrified.
Though Ottby was surely better than Goslund.
But only just.
Alys yelped as Torvig grabbed her by the elbow, roughly pushing her towards the gunwale. Her eyes snapped to Sigurd, who grimaced as he limped forward, leaning on Ludo.
‘Let Ludo take her,’ Sigurd gasped. ‘You should help Reinar.’
Torvig froze, eyes on Sigurd’s pained face. He bit his teeth together, hand still squeezing Alys’ elbow. And then Tulia jumped down in front of him, moving past him towards Sigurd, and Sigurd lost sight of Torvig and the dreamer.
‘Well, no surprise to see you’re injured.’ There was worry in her heart but not, she hoped, on her face, for Tulia Saari preferred to keep everyone at arm’s length; even, sometimes, Sigurd Vilander. ‘For without me, what use are you really?’
Alys’ eyes widened. The woman was striking, strong-looking, and fierce. She wore a tight-fitting leather vest over a red tunic; her trousers tucked into black boots. A long mane of dark hair hung
to the middle of her back, gathered into a single braid, tied with ribbons. And when she swung back around, Alys caught a glimpse of her rich-brown eyes; sharp and almond-shaped, and not at all welcoming.
Tulia glared at her, then turned back to Sigurd, who she could sense was staring at the woman. And her scowl deepened. ‘Why don’t you get your prisoners off the ship, Torvig? What are you waiting for?’
‘I’ll take her.’ Reinar leaned over the gunwale, arms out, reaching for Alys, who looked relieved to see him.
Getting more incensed by the moment, Torvig shoved her towards Reinar, turning back for another of the women. There were many still to get off the ship, though most weren’t as quiet as the dreamer. The wailing, bleating noises quickly picked up again, the goat slipping its rope, tangling itself around an irritated Bolli’s legs.
Reinar laughed, placing Alys on the pier, before turning back for Sigurd, who wasn’t surprised to see his mother already disappearing towards the stairs, without even a glance his way. He yelped as Ludo and Reinar tried to lift him over the gunwale, struggling with the tilting ship and Sigurd’s many injuries.
‘Just leave me here,’ Sigurd groaned, eyes closed against the pain. ‘I can’t face the stairs.’
‘Alright, I’ll send down some ale. Something to eat.’ And Tulia strode off after Gerda.
‘What?’ Sigurd opened one eye just in time to see her turn around, frowning at him.
‘Well, hurry up, then! The quicker we get you up the stairs, the quicker we get to a fire!’ Tulia was shivering, irritated by the cold, worried about Sigurd, though she didn’t show it as she turned back around, disappearing up the stairs.
Reinar laughed at the look on his brother’s face. ‘Surely you’re not surprised? Not after all this time?’ He kept laughing, inclining his head for Bjarni to get the women moving in the same direction, right after Tulia. ‘Ludo, go ahead of us, I’ll push Sigurd from behind. If he’s going to fall down those stairs, I think I have a better chance of stopping him!’