Eye of the Wolf: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (The Lords of Alekka Book 1)

by A. E. Rayne

  A spell of protection.

  And holding her breath, Alys scrambled off the bed, undoing the purse attached to her belt, looking for the two curls of hair she always kept with her.

  Falla needed to be convinced, though Mother had no patience for it. Still, she wanted the girl’s help, and it would be better if she felt invested in what they were doing. Mother didn’t want her ruining it again. She gnashed her teeth together before trying to smile, though her eyes remained dark and angry. ‘If Reinar Vilander doesn’t have enough men to mount the walls to hold our army out, there will be no need for a siege. And Hakon must avoid a siege. Winter is almost here. He needs to get into the fort before then. We don’t want to be sleeping in tents, do we? And we certainly don’t want to be camped outside that fortress when Ake Bluefinn returns from the West.’

  Falla sighed, almost convinced. ‘And what about Ivan? When will you do something about that idiot? Lief should be leading the army. He needs to be by Hakon’s side. We both know that. It’s the next step.’

  Mother ran a hand over the thick fur of her wolf hood, eager to begin. She knew how things would unfold when the time came. It was not where her attention needed to be at all. ‘My dear,’ she hissed, ‘we must clear our minds of all but that which is before us. Lief will have his way, as will you, as will I. But none of those things will even be possible if we don’t rid that fortress of its warriors.’ She stood, waddling towards Falla, wolf hood in one hand, lifting Falla’s chin with the other. ‘Understood?’

  Falla nodded, sensing the rage building behind that patient wall, ready to burst forth. Mother wasn’t even blinking as her eyes tried to consume her. ‘Understood.’ And picking up the drum, she tried not to sigh, watching as Mother stepped back, satisfied, her eyes snapping to the fire and the basket of herbs which waited beside it.

  Ready to begin.

  Reinar felt caught.

  His wife had left him, and he wanted to hate her for it, for causing him all this pain and confusion. But he loved her, and he couldn’t.

  Ottby was under attack from dark forces, and he wanted to gather his people and run. But he was responsible for defending the bridge, and he couldn’t.

  All of it was true. And real.

  And all of it was in his hands. He was the lord who was fated to become a great king. The greatest king of all, according to Ragnahild One Eye. And if he couldn’t find a way out of this mess, how would he ever rise to claim such a prize?

  He had to act.

  But first, he had to decide what to do.

  Standing, he left the fire behind, heading to his bed. It was an enormous bed, once slept in by his parents; too big now, he thought sadly, glancing down at the two chests by his feet.

  Decisions had to be made, and he was the only one who could make them.

  So, bending down, Reinar opened a lid.

  She was a dreamer.

  Alys kept telling herself that she was a dreamer. After a lifetime of having to hide, ignore, and pretend that she wasn’t, she was faced with a deep lack of confidence in what she was capable of.

  The spell called for a dreamer’s blood.

  Alys saw Magnus’ terrified face as she picked up the old dreamer’s knife, slicing across her palm, sucking in her cheeks as the pain bit. The cat watched her from a stool, green eyes blinking, urging her to hurry. Brushing hair out of her eyes with one hand, Alys squeezed her other hand, dripping blood into the bowl.

  There wasn’t much in the cottage, apart from the bed, the chest of books, and a small table, but Alys had found a few bowls and knives; a hazel switch; some dried herbs, bones and stones. Salt too.

  The spell appeared simple, though Alys worried that she was doing it wrong, certain that there was not nearly enough blood. But she dropped the curls of hair into the bowl, trying not to cry again. And picking up the switch, she started stirring, eyes on the book, which sat on the stool beside her, conscious of the wind playing with the flames.

  Dipping her finger into the bowl, Alys read the words on the page, then bent forward, drawing a circle with the bloody mixture, trying to match the intricate symbols from the book. And sitting back on her heels, she blinked, watching the flames burst into life, growing higher and higher, sparks flying up to the rafters like a scattering of golden midges.

  And finally, closing her eyes, Alys tried to bring her children’s faces into her mind.

  Magnus had fallen asleep, but Lotta’s cry woke him and he was at first confused, then angry, and finally, worried. She was still far away from him on the other side of the fire, next to Long Beard, who was stroking her hair again, though he appeared mostly asleep, occasionally reaching out a hand to soothe the little girl.

  Lotta often cried out in her sleep, though she never woke, and within a few heartbeats, she was quiet again.

  Magnus watched her, not moving. He lay on his side, wishing for a fur. It was so cold that he was shivering, so uncomfortable on the ground, lying on all shapes of stones and twigs, that he wanted to move. Silver Tooth sat by him, leaning against the tree, and Magnus could hear him.

  ‘He won’t hurt her.’

  Magnus froze.

  Perhaps tiredness had softened his voice, as Silver Tooth almost sounded sympathetic.

  ‘He lost his daughter when she was a girl. Poor thing drowned. He won’t hurt her.’

  Magnus wished he could ask his sister if that were true, but he couldn’t.

  Instead, he lay perfectly still, watching, waiting.

  Hoping he could think of a way to escape.

  What was real and what was a dream was becoming more confusing by the day, Alys realised as she crept forward, wondering where she was.

  It was dark, but she could feel sand beneath her feet.

  Cold, familiar sand.

  ‘Mama! Come and find me!’

  Alys spun around, hearing gulls overhead, a hint of sun now, glowing in the distance, just above the horizon. Frothy waves surged up the beach, but no one was there.

  ‘Lotta?’ Panicking, she started to run, away from the beach, towards the village. But the village kept getting further and further away, and she couldn’t reach it. She couldn’t find her children.

  ‘Mama!’

  Alys couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. ‘Lotta?’

  There was still no one on the beach. No one at all.

  ‘What will you do to us?’ It was Magnus’ voice. He sounded frightened.

  ‘You mean if we don’t eat you?’

  A man’s voice.

  Shivers raced up Alys’ spine, her body rigid.

  ‘We’ll get a coin or two for a weed like you, I’m sure, useful boy that you are. Your sister... she’ll come with us. I’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry. You’ll be safe with me, won’t you, little princess?’

  Men laughing. Someone coughing.

  ‘But where? Where will you take her?’ Magnus cried. ‘What do you want her for?’

  Alys didn’t move. She needed to hear more.

  ‘Nowhere you need concern yourself with, boy,’ came the rasping reply. ‘Nowhere at all.’

  Alys shook, sensing everything change.

  Darkness again. The sand was mud now, and her feet were stuck in it.

  ‘And where do you think you’d be if you left here?’ Arnon spat at her, slapping her across the face. ‘Nowhere! You’d be fucking nowhere, you useless bitch! Nowhere without me!’

  Alys tumbled backwards, falling into the mud, heart breaking.

  Who were those men? Who had taken her children?

  Storm clouds blocked out the sun, sinking low, Arnon’s voice like an echo, abusing her, taunting her. But Alys didn’t care about him. He was a distraction.

  A wound that would one day heal.

  He leaned over her, eyes bulging, lips twisting, and her eyes drifted to his chest and the enormous tattoo of the wolf, a bloody hole where the arrow had pierced its eye.

  And then she heard the drumming.

  17

&n
bsp; Tulia studied Sigurd’s face, hoping to see a sign that something had changed, for if it had, she wouldn’t be forced to make the decision herself. That decision had been coming towards her like a sandstorm for months.

  ‘Don’t say it.’ Sigurd knew that look. Even in the darkness, he knew that look.

  ‘I won’t, if that’s what you want.’

  Lifting a hand to Tulia’s face, Sigurd stroked her cheek. ‘I don’t want you to leave.’

  ‘I have to think of my brother.’

  ‘And I have to think of mine.’

  The wind was loud, mournful, and they both listened to it, neither knowing what else to say.

  ‘Hakon will come soon. Whatever that wolf was, it doesn’t matter. What’s real is that Hakon Vettel and his army will be knocking down the gates in weeks. They have every reason not to hold back now,’ Tulia insisted. ‘We’re weak. Depleted. Their scouts will be riding back to Slussfall with that news before long.’

  ‘We have our neighbours. Hovring and Vika, Kutbo and Orsa. Reinar has their support. They’ll stick with us. They’re all Ake’s men. They won’t bend to Hakon Vettel. Not to that little shit. Bitter and twisted Hakon Vettel, thinking he deserves a crown that was never his to begin with.’

  Tulia bit down on everything she wanted to say.

  Nothing had changed.

  After going through Elin’s chests, Reinar had been unable to sleep.

  He needed some air, hoping it would help him to think clearly. He needed to escape the torturous memories of his bed too, so grabbing his cloak, he headed for the ramparts, surprised to find Torvig slumped over the inner wall, eyes on the dark forest in the distance. ‘Didn’t know you were on watch.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Couldn’t sleep, though. Waiting, I suppose, for Vasa to come.’ He laughed.

  Reinar didn’t know what to think about that. Though, it was likely what he was doing there too. ‘You really think she’ll come? And if she does?’

  ‘Well, you know how vengeful Vasa can be. She’s a collector. She retrieves the forsaken. Takes them to her lair. Gives them to her ravens, who feast on them for all eternity. Isn’t that right?’

  Now Reinar grinned. ‘Not the sort of death we’d hoped for. Hardly the destiny Ragnahild told Gerda about.’

  Torvig frowned, eyes on the wall of tall fir trees in the distance, watching the blustery wind shunting them from side to side as though they were dark blades of grass. ‘Well, that’s something to hold on to, isn’t it? Ragnahild said you would wear the Sun Torc. She saw that. And you haven’t yet.’ He turned back to Reinar. ‘So we keep going?’

  Reinar nodded. ‘We keep going.’

  ‘And the women?’

  Reinar was surprised that Torvig’s mind wandered so quickly away from the danger lurking outside the fort, though Torvig had always been obsessed with women, slaves or not. ‘We hold them until I decide what to do, which means that you keep your hands to yourself. You and the rest of the men.’

  Defiance sparked in Torvig’s eyes, though it was dark, clouds masking the moon, and he doubted Reinar could see his anger. ‘Makes sense. However this comes out, we’re going to need more silver, that I do know.’

  It had been Torvig’s idea.

  When their raids started turning up nothing but empty stores and starved people, it had been Torvig’s idea to start slaving. Being a slave wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, he’d insisted. Slaves were fed by rich masters. Slaves could even be freed in time. And though the thought of it had left a bad taste in Reinar’s mouth, and the act of doing it had turned his stomach, it had helped him feed his people and keep some of their warriors from leaving. He’d even been able to tempt more to join them.

  But now it all seemed pointless.

  Torvig’s eyes widened as he leaned out over the rampart wall. ‘Did you see that?’ He shuddered, blinking, staring again.

  ‘You’re going to say it’s a wolf, aren’t you?’ Reinar laughed, though he felt his heartbeat quicken as he tried to see where Torvig was pointing.

  And then he saw it.

  Like waves rippling through the trees.

  Grey fur.

  Mother laughed, head back, on her hands and knees, crawling around the circle, inside its thick line of blood symbols and stones. She felt the wind chill her face, the hungry thirst on her tongue.

  The terrified stench of the humans in the fort.

  They were still there, cowering in their cottages, waiting for her to rip them to pieces, their minds twisting with uncertainty, wondering who to believe.

  Their lord?

  His dreamer?

  Or what they could hear and see with their own eyes?

  The drumming was pulsing in her limbs now, everything blurring as she swung her body around, turning in the direction of the fort.

  Alys threw away the fur, blinking herself awake.

  She could hear the drumming again, louder than the frantic beating of her heart. Her dream stayed with her as she hurried around the fire, towards the door. Stopping for a moment, she wrapped her cold fingers around the cold handle.

  And turning back, she looked to the book.

  Winter was sitting on top of it, where she had left it, on a stool.

  He miaowed, hopping down, watching her.

  And Alys rushed back to it, wishing for brighter flames, as she quickly flicked through the pages, wondering if there was anything she could do to help.

  She could barely see a word, but one page caught her eye, and she saw the corner was bent where she had turned it over the day before, meaning to go back.

  The spell of the waking nightmare.

  Bjarni rumbled down the ramparts, nightshirt flapping over his trousers, wrapping his swordbelt around his waist. ‘What?’ He stopped, fumbling with the belt, glimpsing a flash of fur himself. ‘It’s huge! It’s huge! We have to get off the wall!’ Reinar was further away with Torvig and Sigurd. ‘Reinar! We have to get down!’ Bjarni was quickly moving towards them, arms flailing, belly jiggling as he ran. ‘Reinar!’

  Reinar felt stuck, oddly indecisive.

  An illusion, Alys had suggested. It was just an illusion.

  The wolf howled, shaking the ramparts.

  It didn’t feel like an illusion.

  Screams lifted from the square up the inner wall, panic charging around the fort, and Reinar spun towards Bjarni. ‘Get back down there! Get everyone into the hall. Barricade yourselves in!’ He grabbed Sigurd. ‘Go with Bjarni! You’re injured. You can’t use a bow.’

  Sigurd wanted to argue, but his brother was right.

  The wolf howled again, and Sigurd was limping towards the stairs, almost knocking Ludo over as he stumbled into him. He peered at his friend, seeing the fear in Ludo’s eyes as he hurried past, bow in hand.

  Tulia came towards him. ‘Don’t fall down those stairs!’ And then she was gone, into the shadows, calling the archers into formation.

  Gerda trembled, unable to decide what to do. She stood in the doorway of the hall, Agnette beside her. ‘If that wolf gets in here, we’re all doomed!’

  Agnette grabbed her aunt’s arm. ‘Come, let’s get you into the bedchamber. You must be with Stellan.’

  Gerda didn’t look so sure.

  Agnette was insistent, though. ‘If this is the end, Aunty, you must be with Stellan.’ Agnette was usually clear-eyed in a crisis, though this was like no crisis she’d experienced before. But Gerda was not, and she needed to get her out of the way quickly. ‘Rienne!’ she called, seeing the servants gathered in a huddle by the kitchen door. ‘Come and take your mistress to her bedchamber. Hurry now!’

  And not waiting for any arguments, she turned back to the doors, stepping outside. Reinar had the hall guarded every night, and those two men looked confused about what exactly they should be doing. ‘Stay there!’ Agnette ordered, eyeing them fiercely, feeling a stab of pain in her belly.

  Just a stitch, she told herself, breathing out slowly. Just a stitch.

  ‘C
ome inside!’ she called to those villagers who were running around, causing more panic and hysteria. ‘Come and shelter in the hall!’

  A few women, eyeing the ramparts where their husbands had gone, turned her way, terrified children clinging to their legs.

  ‘Hurry!’ Agnette implored. ‘We’ll lock ourselves in! Hurry!’ She saw Sigurd, hobbling across the square, no broom under his arm now.

  And then Alys, running towards him, nearly knocking him down.

  ‘What are you doing? Get back to your cottage!’ Sigurd’s eyes were insistent; bright blue, even in the darkness.

  ‘It’s not real!’ Alys cried. ‘I must tell Reinar. It’s not real!’

  Sigurd grabbed her arm. ‘Why do you say that? How do you know?’ He didn’t believe in anything much, but that wolf?

  Its howl lifted the hairs on his arms, twisting his guts.

  ‘I need to see Reinar!’

  Sigurd stared into her eyes, though it was dark and he had no more answers once he was done, just an overwhelming feeling to believe her. It surprised him, but he let Alys go, pointing her to the guard tower. ‘Run to the tower. Up the stairs. He’s on the ramparts. There!’ And pointing to his brother in the dark fur cloak, he pushed her away.

  Reinar was frozen to the spot, thoughts rushing through his head like wind. He needed to make a decision quickly, but he didn’t even know what was happening, so how could he decide what to do?

  ‘You believe your dreamer now?’ Torvig cried, pulling his bowstring past his ear, feathers brushing his cold cheek.

  ‘Aim!’ came Tulia’s call.

  Torvig could sense movement. Sometimes he thought he saw flashes of grey.

  Or was it mist?

  Then the trees would move and shake, and he saw nothing but shadows.