by A. E. Rayne
Tulia was enjoying herself. ‘Well, I have one potential warrior here, but as for you...’ And she held out a hand to Alys, helping her back to her feet. ‘Perhaps I should send you back to archery training? Or spears? Maybe axes?’
Breath streamed from Alys’ nose and mouth. Angry, cold breath. She eyed the smug-looking Ilene, feeling an urge to knock her down to the ground. And gripping the wooden sword more tightly now, she shuffled her legs apart, hoping to stay balanced on the slippery surface. She skipped to the left, away from Ilene. And then to the right. Alys was wiry and fast, and though her hips throbbed where she’d fallen, and her impatience to leave was a constant distraction, she managed to keep away from the grunting Ilene.
‘You have a sword!’ Tulia called, moving around them. ‘Use it, dreamer! Try and hit her! Are you going to let her humiliate you? Knock you down again?’
Curious, Ludo came over to the railings, watching Alys, who had a fierce look in her usually placid eyes. The woman she was facing had a fiercer look, though, and in the next breath, Ilene threw herself at Alys, overwhelming her, knocking her down to the ground again, punching her in the face.
Ludo rushed into the ring to pull Ilene off Alys, who was blinking in surprise, trying to avoid Ilene’s fist as it threatened her face again. ‘Best we don’t kill each other yet,’ he muttered, moving Ilene away, though she appeared to be enjoying herself, quickly back on her feet, gripping the wooden sword in both hands, ready for more.
Tulia laughed. ‘She’s like an ursa!’
‘What’s that?’ Ludo wondered, one hand out to keep Ilene away as he pulled Alys back to her feet.
‘My people call women who fight like scrapping dogs, ursa. They fight without fear. Without sense. Just pure fury. You call men like that the bear men, I think?’
Ludo nodded. ‘We do, though I’ve never met one. But you,’ he said, eyes on Ilene, ‘might well be an ursa. Though, you’ll need to learn how to use a sword properly. Hakon’s men won’t be bringing wooden weapons.’ And with a sympathetic smile, he left a mud-covered Alys to Ilene and Tulia, returning to a clearly frustrated Amir.
Rain was pouring down on Slussfall’s muddy square, though Hakon Vettel, drenched by the rain, unable to feel his fingers or his toes, couldn’t have been happier.
Their weapons’ stores were abundant.
Their siege towers were complete.
Their allies were with them.
And their enemies were weak.
Hakon slapped Ivan on the back, confident that he finally stood on the precipice of everything he’d dreamed of since his father was cut down by Stellan Vilander. Hakon had watched, three years ago, as the Ottby men had pinned them down near Hovring. He remembered the blood-splattered flurries of snow drifting across him in waves, his father’s pained cry as Stellan Vilander’s blade took him in the neck.
His helmet had come off, lost in the fray.
Hakon had found it later, after he’d been dragged away from the battlefield, kept safe by his own men. They had all become his men from that point on. He had returned to claim his father’s body that night. The Ottby men had left it on the field, confident enough in their victory not to need to rub the loss of Jesper Vettel in his son’s face. Or perhaps they thought they were being merciful?
Hakon swallowed, reminded of how far he’d come.
Of how far he was about to go.
‘They look impressive, Cousin,’ he breathed, admiring the deep rows of men assembled in their gleaming armour, stretching from the hall steps, back through Slussfall’s long square, all the way to the gates, and beyond.
And this was not even all of them.
Ivan took the compliment with his usual shrug, as though nothing was ever too great, nothing ever too tragic. Just somewhere in between. It helped him to weather the storm that was Hakon, who was either up or down, never in the middle. It was often hard to predict which way he was going to go, though it had always been Ivan’s job to try. ‘They look ready.’
Hakon nodded. ‘They do. And so do you.’ He poked a finger at his cousin’s mail chest. ‘This is new.’
‘Well, we must all look the part,’ Ivan smiled, running a hand over his moustache, which was itching his nose, needing a trim. ‘Even you!’ He knew Hakon had had a new set of armour made too, and though he was not wearing it, Ivan was well aware that he would be required to heap praise on his cousin when he was.
That was his job too.
Hakon noticed a snow-dusted Mother and Falla slipping through the gates, skirting the armoured men, no doubt heading for Mother’s cottage. He felt his confidence surge. It wasn’t only his warriors who would be waging war on his behalf.
Erlan Stari came to join them. Alef Olstein too. He was slightly older than his Southern neighbour, but just as eager to impress his hosts. His dark hair was tied back from a rugged face in a long braid, and he stood before Hakon in his armour, sharp eyes full of intent. ‘Your father would be proud,’ Alef enthused, his tongue honey-coated. The young lord was Thenor-favoured, and it was in his own interests to keep Hakon happy, for once the Vettels retook the Alekkan throne there was the prospect of more land, and the generous granting of wealth he was sure would flow in the direction of Hakon’s most loyal supporters.
Ake Bluefinn may have been beloved by the long-suffering people of Alekka, but Erlan’s father had always grumbled that Ake was tight-fisted when it came to his lords. According to Herold Stari, those men who had sacrificed so much to put him on the throne had received little in return over the years.
‘I can only hope so.’ Hakon’s smile started to slip, suddenly wondering if that was true. His father had been almost peerless in battle. He had plotted and planned his way down from Orbo for over a decade, only to be felled at the final hurdle of Ottby. A man as skilled as his father had been outthought and outfought by a creaking old has-been and his two useless sons.
If it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone.
‘We will sacrifice to Thenor tonight,’ Hakon said to the lords. ‘Seek his favour for our journey. And tomorrow, we’ll march!’
Lief, who stood to the left of Ivan, watching on in silence, felt a chill wind creeping up his spine, snow flurries twirling to the ground before him.
He was a suspicious man. He sacrificed to the gods often.
It was a sign, he thought, watching the snow, listening as Ivan started joking again. The dolt was always playing to the crowd, as though he was the village fool instead of the head of its great army.
But Lief’s attention was not on Ivan and his childish ways.
It was on the snow sweeping in.
If Thenor had truly wanted them to be successful, he would not be bringing winter to their door in such a hurry.
23
Gerda had ordered Rilda and her helpers out into the square where they started grilling sausages over the braziers. She clamped her dry lips together, unhappy with using the sausages, which she liked to save for Reinar, though the warriors had to eat. They had to believe that there was enough food to sustain them over winter. Those who remained in Ottby needed to be encouraged to keep their chests in their cottages and their horses in the stables.
Reinar had told her as much, sending Gerda on her way with an ill-tempered bark. And Gerda had realised that her son was right. If they were to defend Ottby, those defenders needed nourishment, so she would have to use whatever they could spare. For as long as they could spare it.
Alys could smell the cooking sausages, and she eyed the railings, wanting to escape through them, but Tulia was there, blocking her path. She had her eyes on the women, coordinating who was doing what; moving those around when she could see that they might be better suited to another weapon.
Alys had been removed from mad-eyed Ilene’s clutches, sent back to the archery group. She caught glimpses of Stina, who looked so utterly morose that Alys felt worried about her, and when Tulia finally called for them to stop and warm their hands over the smoking braziers, Alys hurr
ied over to her. ‘Are you unwell?’
Stina looked surprised. She had stumbled through her training sessions, barely aware of anything, just going through the motions, not wanting to be noticed. Not wanting to see a glimpse of Torvig again. Her body ached where he’d grabbed her, inside and out. She felt the shame of it heating her cheeks, the memories rising out of the fog of shock now. And turning away, Stina looked towards the braziers. ‘We should get something to eat before it’s all gone.’
Alys wasn’t hungry, but she nodded, following after her red-faced friend.
They were all red-faced after their morning in the training ring.
Tulia didn’t look pleased, though, as she reached Agnette, who was helping Gerda to portion the sausages. They had the kitchen staff ferrying out plates of flatbreads too. There were trays of cups filled with small ale, though Agnette felt embarrassed to call such a watery beverage anything resembling ale.
‘You seem to be making progress,’ Agnette said, handing Tulia a plate.
Tulia’s eyes were on the gates and then the hall doors, wondering what had happened to Sigurd. She hadn’t seen him in some time, though he had obviously been hard at work, she realised, noticing the stack of clothes on the nearby table.
‘Once you’ve finished eating,’ Gerda said, lifting her sharp voice above the noise, ‘you may look through the clothes over here! Some of you will need warmer things to wear perhaps? Though not all of you.’
Agnette knew how hard Gerda was working to be generous. It was not in her nature at all. But Agnette and Sigurd had managed to convince her that Ottby needed all the help it could get to withstand Hakon Vettel’s forces, and she had finally been swayed by that. Gerda had spent nearly twenty years as the Lady of Ottby, and though for much of that time she had felt confident with her husband in charge and a fort stacked with loyal warriors, she knew how precarious their position was now. The hall had become quiet. The square much less busy.
Even the ramparts appeared empty these days.
Though looking at the ragged women who elbowed each other towards the plates of food with an unbecoming show of hunger, she knew that they weren’t the help Reinar needed.
Reinar almost laughed at his mother, lost amongst the Ullaberg women, doling out her precious sausages with pursed lips. He nudged Bjarni whose eyes were on a clearly-exhausted Agnette as she hurried to keep up with the demand for food.
‘Your mother doesn’t look too happy,’ Bjarni said, starving. Those sausages smelled like food from the gods, though after a morning of trying to dig through frozen earth, he would’ve happily eaten some of Agnette’s cooking.
‘Nothing new there,’ Reinar snorted, eyes on Alys, though he quickly looked away, wanting to remain focused.
Bjarni noticed. ‘No word from your dreamer, then? About the wolf? Whether she’ll return?’
Reinar was quickly irritated, not wanting Bjarni to read his mind, though after all these years, he supposed it was hard to hide much from him. ‘After we exposed it as just a trick? I doubt it. And what difference would it make anyway? Those who’ve stayed have seen and heard all the wolf can do.’
‘But maybe there’s more?’ Bjarni suggested, smiling at his wife, who handed him a plate, though he was quickly frowning, wondering why there was only one sausage on it. And no flatbreads. He glanced around, looking for more.
‘More what?’ Reinar nodded at his brother as Sigurd joined them.
‘More Hakon’s dreamer can try. If the wolf nightmare failed, perhaps she has other tricks ready and waiting?’
Sigurd shook his head. ‘Why worry about dreamers, Bjarni? Dreamers aren’t going to be firing catapults over our walls, assaulting the gates. Dreamers aren’t going to be trying to kill us.’
Reinar hoped his brother was right.
He changed the subject, not wanting to get Sigurd started on dreamers. ‘Looks like you’ve made the women happy, Brother,’ he smiled, watching the Ullaberg women fight their way through the pile of new clothes.
‘I don’t imagine Gerda picked anything more than rags,’ Sigurd muttered. ‘But it should keep them warm.’
‘And what about the cottages?’
‘Agnette’s got that all sorted. She’ll take them down once Tulia’s finished torturing them.’ He grinned as a scowling Tulia approached, looking as though her patience was finally at an end. ‘Unless that’s now?’
‘I think I may kill one of them if I get back in the ring!’
Torvig joined them, chewing a sausage. ‘Ahhh, so you’re admitting defeat, then? What a surprise!’
‘Defeat?’ Tulia laughed. ‘Not at all. But they can’t handle much more today. They’re weak. Hungry. Tired. Cold too. They need rest. Perhaps we’ll try again this afternoon, if the snow doesn’t come.’ She lifted her eyes, trying to sense what the clouds were up to. They looked ominously grey, gathering together like a wall.
Reinar followed her gaze. ‘Looks like snow to me.’ He shivered, happy about that. ‘I’d better get in a ride before it comes.’
‘Taking the dreamer again?’ Torvig wondered, watching irritation spark in Reinar’s eyes, and not minding it.
They all turned to Reinar, who shrugged. And finishing his own sausage, he headed for his mother without looking back.
‘Interesting,’ Tulia mused. ‘Don’t you think?’ She nudged Sigurd.
But Sigurd wasn’t listening. He was watching Alys, who was watching Reinar as he pushed his way towards Gerda.
Reinar left his plate on the table, giving his mother a squeeze. ‘You’ve done a good job, Mother.’
Gerda beamed, pleased to have his approval. It pained her to waste so much food on the women, though it would hardly encourage the gods to change their minds about her son if they let them starve. ‘Well, we need all the help we can get, as you said.’ She leaned closer, lowering her voice. ‘Though I have my doubts. Tulia seems to think every woman should be like her. But she’s not made like anyone else, is she? Not with those manly arms of hers.’
Reinar grinned. Tulia was strong. Clever. And hopefully able to deliver on her promise. He had the same doubts as Gerda, though he didn’t give voice to them, wanting to believe it was possible.
Possible to have some hope.
His eyes accidentally found Alys, and he smiled.
Gerda followed his gaze, frowning, but Reinar was already on his way to the dreamer.
‘Hello.’ Reinar blinked in surprise, not noticing the mess of Alys’ face before. ‘Did Tulia do that to you?’ He turned around, glaring at Tulia.
‘No. Ilene. She never liked me. Though she did like my husband.’
Reinar turned back around. ‘Oh. Well, it’s going to hurt.’ He stopped himself from touching her eye, sensing his mother staring at him. ‘Maybe you should return to your cottage? Do some dreaming instead?’ He said it with a smile, but he could sense Alys taking his words seriously.
‘I need to. I want to.’
‘You do?’ Reinar took her arm, leading her away from the women, towards Valera’s Tree. ‘Why? Has something happened? Have you seen something?’
Alys felt trapped between two worlds: the one where she needed to save herself, and the one where she was desperate to save her children.
And then she did see a glimpse of something flash before her eyes.
‘There is a woman. She is old, but not ancient. Her hair is dark grey. She looks like a troll, round and stumpy. Her nose is round too. Her eyes are big and jumping.’
Reinar’s own eyes sharpened. ‘Is she Hakon’s dreamer?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. She’s... working spells.’ The images faded and Alys shivered, turning to Reinar. ‘Spells to hurt people.’
‘And how do we protect ourselves against that?’
‘I don’t know if we can.’
They reached the door to Alys’ cottage, and she looked back at the square, realising that she hadn’t been able to get through to Stina to see if she was alright.
She wasn’t
alright, but why?
Reinar pushed open the door, ushering Alys inside. He thought he felt flurries of snow wet on his face as he followed after her, closing the door.
Torvig watched them. ‘Reinar seems to have forgotten my sister rather quickly. After all those years together, that’s a surprise.’
Tulia had been called away by Gerda, who was trying to break up a fight between Ilene and another woman over one of the better-looking dresses. And that left Sigurd, Bjarni, Agnette, and Torvig, all of them friends since childhood.
‘Well, seeing as how Elin’s the one who left Reinar, you hardly need worry about what she’d think,’ Agnette said sharply.
Torvig glared at her. ‘Know that, do you?’
‘I do, actually. I’m the one who helped her leave. Elin begged to go. She told me she never wanted to see Reinar again. She never wanted to return to Ottby.’
That shut Torvig up. Bjarni and Sigurd too.
‘So, if I were you, Torvig Aleksen, I’d worry about those men on the ramparts, the men out digging ditches and bringing in wood, and I’d worry less about what my cousin chooses to do with that dreamer.’ She poked a finger in Torvig’s direction, feeling her belly tighten. ‘It might just be that Reinar finding Alys will end up saving all our lives!’
Torvig, not about to be barked at by a busy-body like Agnette, turned on his heels, and headed for the gates, deciding to check on Bolli and his ditch digging.
The day felt longer than any other.
Magnus’ arms fell limply by his sides as he considered the sloppy dung heap he’d made and was now attempting to shovel into the wagon. He was starving, though his guts griped too, and it had become impossible to tell which was the dominant feeling. Mostly, he ignored all of it, and the stomach-churning smell of the dung, and just focused on worrying about Lotta.
She would be far away by now. The men had been woken by the farmer’s wife, who’d wanted them on their way before they tried to eat more of her stores. Magnus had not seen the farmer’s wife all day, though her daughter had brought him a skin of water. He’d taken it with gratitude in his exhausted eyes, looking for some sign of kindness in hers, but the girl had barely looked at him as she’d trudged away, called back to the house by her shrieking mother.