by A. E. Rayne
Alys nodded, holding the stone by its edges.
‘Good! Now, back to my tea before it gets cold. I do hate cold tea. Bad for the digestion.’ And belching again, Eddeth frowned. ‘That and sour milk!’
They had crawled along towards Slussfall, battered by rain, wind, and snow, only to discover, in a small village nestled near the foot of the mountains, that Hakon Vettel was already on the march to Ottby. And being caught between the urgent desire to take Lotta to his wife, and the need to report to his lord, Long Beard had reluctantly turned them around, and started the long trek south.
Silver Tooth’s illness was progressing at pace, but Long Beard felt reluctant to leave him behind. They had been friends for years; warrior brothers. Yet he feared that soon Silver Tooth would become just like Eye Patch: a corpse he would have to abandon to save himself. Himself and the princess, who had told him with a sullen pout that her name was May.
He laughed, certain her name was not May.
He would leave it to his wife to give her a new name. She would like to do that, he thought with a wistful smile.
Long Beard chewed the willow bark. He ate elderberries and brewed the yarrow tea the little girl not-called-May had suggested he drink, and his own illness receded. ‘You’ll be able to help Bergit,’ he grinned. ‘She gets poorly in the winter. Aches all over. Especially when it rains!’
It was raining now, though Lotta thought it was hail.
It felt like hail, because rain, she was certain, didn’t hurt.
Long Beard held her close. She had learned not to squirm. He would squeeze her so tightly if she moved that she worried he would snap her in two. It was hard to know if that was his intention or not, but Lotta didn’t feel safe, no matter how much he smiled at her as he spoke.
She dreamed of Magnus often, and it made her both happy and sad.
Happy to have his company, even if it was only in her dreams.
Sad that she didn’t know if they would ever see each other again.
She had to work hard to stop herself crying.
They sheltered in a makeshift tent. The linen flap above their heads was wet through and dripping on them. Long Beard tried to tell himself that they’d be in worse shape without it.
But not by much.
Silver Tooth sat out in the rain.
Long Beard didn’t want him near the girl. In truth, he didn’t want him near either of them. The sickness was going to kill him. He was too far gone; they all knew that. Better he didn’t take them down with him.
‘Maybe you can ride your pony tomorrow? Just for a while. Save my poor old horse having to pull her along.’
Lotta, who had started yawning, was surprised. Happy too.
‘Though, you’ll need to be careful in this weather. You won’t want to go riding apace. That wouldn’t end well for either of you!’
But Lotta wasn’t listening. She was imagining the freedom of not having those hands on her for just one day. And nodding, she closed her eyes, wanting to disappear into her dreams and find Magnus again.
Hoping he would hold on.
Magnus was still chopping wood as night fell.
There had been no supper for him.
The list of chores from the farmer grew longer with each day.
The amount of food he was being fed, smaller.
Magnus found himself unable to stop shivering. He was outside in the rain, clothes clinging to him, boots sloshing with water, ankle-deep in mud. He would have food in the morning, the farmer had promised.
Unless, of course, he didn’t finish his chores.
Magnus had tried to hurry, but he had been working since dawn and his arms hurt. They hurt so much that every time he lifted the axe, he grimaced. Sometimes, he made a yelping noise, though when the farmer’s wife heard him, she yelled at him to stop his complaining, threatening to halve his breakfast.
Magnus tried not to make any noise, not wanting to give the farmer and his wife any reason to torture him further.
Their daughter occasionally came to stare at him. Once she’d given him a soft apple to eat, and Magnus had devoured it, core and all.
He’d never felt so hungry in his life.
The rain battered his body, and he wanted to sob and throw the axe away; fall into the mud and cry until he died. For he would die, he feared. He would die of hunger, of sickness, of whatever horrors the farmer and his wife had planned for him next.
But he saw his sister’s face.
And, reminded of how strong he needed to be for her, he straightened up his aching back and swung the axe again.
Alys had stopped by Stina’s cottage on the way back to her own. The Ullaberg women had been sequestered in some of the abandoned cottages now, and after getting lost a few times, and with Ludo’s help, Alys finally found her way to Stina, and they headed off for a walk.
Stina was grateful for the bed and the warmth of the cottage, but she’d been lumbered with Ilene, who seemed to make a point of fighting over everything now. Her newfound strength and the special attention she was receiving from Amir Saari had made her unbearable. Amir had taken such a shine to Ilene that she was bragging about how soon she wouldn’t be staying with the women at all.
Stina rolled her eyes at just the thought of it, though it would mean no more Ilene to contend with, which would be a gift.
‘We’ve barely spoken in days,’ Alys smiled. ‘Ludo tells me he’s been taking good care of you.’
‘Ludo, ahhh, yes. He’s funny. Gentle. Not like the rest of them,’ Stina said, wanting to shut out the memories of what Torvig had done to her, but they came frequently. The pain in her body had relented, but the trauma was digging in deeper with each passing day. Smiling was an effort she saved for Alys.
‘He is,’ Alys agreed, her attention drifting. She smelled the smoke from the trees burning on the field, and it reminded her of bonfires on the beach at Ullaberg. When Arnon was away raiding, she would camp out under the stars with the children; when it was summer, and the air was almost warm. Sometimes, Stina would join them. Turning to her, Alys slipped her arm through Stina’s, pulling her close. ‘You’ll be away from here soon. I feel it.’
‘You do?’
Alys nodded. ‘Once this battle is done, Reinar will take you all back home.’
‘But not you?’
Alys froze. She saw flurries of snow twirling towards them, and for some reason, it reminded her of the children. ‘I won’t go back to Ullaberg,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
Stina had feared as much. ‘I don’t blame you. And perhaps you have other reasons for staying now? Other than wanting to escape the bad memories?’ Alys hadn’t spoken to her about Reinar Vilander, but she had seen them together.
Everyone had.
Though she hadn’t had a chance to ask Alys what it all meant.
‘Other reasons?’ Alys kept her eyes low as they walked beneath the tree. ‘Perhaps. I like it here.’
‘You do? After what they did? They stole us, Alys. Stole us away from our homes. Killed who knows how many in the process. Who knows what they did to Ullaberg.’
Alys didn’t want to think about any of it. Her children were lost.
An enemy army was on the march.
There was no time to think about what would happen when it was over.
No time at all, Alys convinced herself.
‘I thought that was snow,’ she smiled, looking up as they emerged from the tree, watching the ash drift across the fort.
‘I wish it was,’ Stina added, squeezing Alys tightly as Torvig walked towards them. Past them. Heading for the hall. ‘Snow might stop this Hakon Vettel.’
‘A wolf does not mind the snow,’ Alys said darkly, her thoughts drifting like the ash. ‘A wolf does not mind the snow at all. Not when it gets the scent of its prey.’ And smiling suddenly, she turned to Stina. ‘Come on, let’s get back to your cottage before Ilene takes all the furs!’
Stina smiled, nodding as Alys turned her around, heading back to the
cottage, just in time to catch Torvig’s eye. He had stopped outside the hall doors, waiting as a handful of men funnelled out.
And winking at Stina, Torvig slipped inside.
29
It was still raining the next morning when the farmer took Magnus into town.
It wasn’t really a town, but there were tradesmen and a decrepit old hut that sometimes passed as a tavern, where, for a coin, you could get a jug of insipid ale and a big-breasted woman to serve it to you. She was filthy in her threadbare dress, but amenable, and never complained if you stuck a hand up her skirt, or pulled down the front of her bodice to give her a tweak.
Magnus stood in the corner, wondering how long the farmer would be.
He was in no hurry to leave because out in the street it was pouring with rain, and though the tavern was leaking, the fire was still burning, and Magnus could almost feel its warmth. He didn’t move towards it, though, knowing that if the farmer suspected he was experiencing any pleasure, he would quickly send him outside.
‘See how much longer the blacksmith’s going to be!’ the farmer bellowed, flapping a hand at the boy. The tavern was packed with men, and the farmer wanted his turn at fondling Gyda before he had to head home to his frigid wife, who didn’t even pretend to enjoy his fondling anymore. His new horse needed shoeing, and he’d leaped at the chance to get away from the farm. The idea of conversing with someone other than his wife and his cloth-headed daughter appealed beyond words. That and the ale and the serving woman in the threadbare dress.
Magnus wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard the farmer, but if he didn’t hurry, he knew that soon he’d be thrown outside with an aching ear. So, sighing, he turned to the door, pulling it open, and with a shudder, he stepped out into the rain.
The tradesmen’s huts were squeezed together on the right side of the road. The tanner sat next to the potter, and the metalworker, but the blacksmith’s hut was a walk away, and Magnus’ aching shoulders slumped as the rain hammered down on his unprotected head.
He had left Ullaberg in a cloak. His cloak. As had Lotta. But Long Beard hadn’t seen the need to go back for it when Magnus had forgotten to pick it up. He heard his mother’s voice in his ears, scolding him for always losing his things, and shivering, Magnus thought how right she had been. Though, a scolding had usually been followed by a hug and a lecture about why not losing things was important. Sometimes, his mother followed that with some milk and a slice of cake. When his father was away, at least. When Lotta was down the path at Stina’s. When it was just the two of them.
Magnus jumped, nearly falling over as two horses galloped down the road, flinging mud and water all over him. He gulped, shaking, amazed to discover that it was possible to become even more drenched than before. Blinking the muddy water from his eyes, he tried to see. And rubbing them, he spied a tall old man talking to the blacksmith. Someone who hadn’t been there before.
Magnus stiffened, coming to a stop.
And then his eyes popped open, his heart quickening.
He shook his head, closed his eyes, then opened them again.
The man was still there.
Or was he? Was Magnus so tired and ill with hunger and cold that he was having visions like Lotta?
The man turned to him, eyes bursting open just as wide. ‘Magnus?’
And running now, tears falling from his eyes, Magnus ran into his great-grandfather’s arms.
Sigurd knocked on Alys’ door, but there was no answer. Her cottage fronted the square, and everyone passing could see who waited to talk to the dreamer.
He didn’t want help with dreams, though. He was looking for his brother.
‘Did you want me?’ came a soft voice behind him.
And turning around, Sigurd saw Alys with her bruised head and her bruised eye, and he was reminded of that moment on the beach when he’d torn her away from her home. The guilt left a horrible taste in his mouth, even now.
He shook his head. ‘No, my brother. Thought he’d be in there with you.’
Alys blushed, her pale cheeks colouring a deep pink. She looked down at the basket she cradled against her chest. ‘I’ve not spoken to him in days.’
‘No?’ Sigurd was surprised.
And then, so was Alys. There was too much going on to dwell in one place for long, but Reinar’s attentiveness had become noticeable by its absence. ‘I imagine he has much on his mind, preparing the fort...’ She moved past Sigurd, wanting to get inside.
Sigurd frowned. ‘He thinks he’s chosen, you know. Chosen to be the High King of Alekka.’
‘Yes, you said. I remember.’ She stopped, hearing the concern in his voice.
‘When everything went wrong, with the curse, I almost felt relieved, because he wasn’t thinking about it anymore.’ Sigurd was conscious that they weren’t alone. And though the wind was especially strong, and the leaves on Valera’s Tree were rustling with urgency, he wasn’t keen to be having such a public conversation.
Alys could tell. ‘Come inside. You can help me set a fire.’
Sigurd nodded, not sure whether he wanted to talk to her at all, though there were very few people he could talk to about Reinar; no one without an agenda at least. And ducking his head, he followed Alys inside, shutting the door behind them.
Tulia watched from the training ring, one eyebrow raised.
Dark and sharp.
Feeling more concerned than she would ever let on.
Magnus couldn’t stop crying long enough to make any sense. He shook and shivered in Jonas’ big arms. His nose blocked quickly, and then he couldn’t breathe either.
‘Ssshhh,’ Jonas soothed, feeling Magnus trembling against him. The boy was wet through, terribly thin. So cold. ‘Let’s find somewhere to get out of this rain.’ And he made to walk towards the rundown tavern.
‘No!’ Magnus panicked, realising that he’d forgotten all about the farmer. ‘We have to leave! Hurry! You need your horse!’ He spun around to where he’d tied Daisy. ‘Hurry! I have to get Daisy!’
Jonas squirmed. ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, I’m afraid. Klippr died.’ The words bit at him; the stark reality hard to bear. ‘I need another horse. Thought I might find one for sale around here.’
‘Take his horse!’ And Magnus spun away, running towards Daisy, who was tied up next to the farmer’s new horse, both of them suffering in the downpour. ‘Hurry!’
Jonas followed him, rain in his eyes, chest tightening. He saw men looking warily at him from the shelter of their porches. The street, as it was, was sloppy with mud after days of solid rain, and Jonas didn’t have a good feeling about any of it. His sword banged against his leg; a sword not used in anger in many a year now.
Glancing again at the men, he headed for the horses tied up along a bowed railing. And hearing a creak, Jonas saw the door to the tavern swing open, an angry-looking man striding out into the street, his bald head quickly slick with rain.
Magnus slid to a halt, heart racing.
‘What’s taking you so long, boy?’ the farmer bellowed. ‘Thought you might have decided to run for it. Though, being such a runt, didn’t imagine you’d get far.’ He hid his relief that the boy was still there, realising that he must have been half-drunk to let him walk out of the tavern on his own. He could imagine the colour of his wife’s face if he’d returned without him.
‘Get your pony, Magnus.’ The rain was loud, but Jonas didn’t raise his voice as he stepped forward, hands in the air, eyes fixed on the farmer.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the farmer growled, wet brow furrowed.
‘I’m taking the boy with me. He’s my great-grandson. I’m taking him.’
The farmer was livid. ‘I paid for that boy! Paid! In silver! I don’t care if he’s your mother or father, he belongs to me!’ And stomping forward, the farmer lunged for Magnus’ arm. But Magnus skidded away from him, heading for Daisy.
The farmer raised a hand to him, but Jonas unsheathed his sword, aiming it at the man’s barrel-like
chest. ‘Do not touch him!’ His booming voice conveyed even more threat than the sword. Jonas didn’t blink, feeling the once familiar thrill of battle stir in his old limbs. And he stepped forward, one purposeful boot at a time, conscious that Magnus was edging closer to his pony.
The farmer moved surprisingly quickly for an overweight, half-drunk middle-aged man who’d never even sniffed a battle. He slid his old sword from its scabbard, jabbing it at Jonas, who jumped back, slipping in the mud, but his head was up, and his balance was solid.
And against this man? Jonas liked his chances.
Magnus’ eyes snapped to the tavern as four men staggered outside. One drunk for sure, and weaponless, who appeared more interested in watching. The other three had axes, short and lethal-looking. Magnus saw their sharp blades glinting in a shudder of lightning, and he gulped, blinking at Jonas.
Jonas almost laughed.
The rain was getting heavier, and the sky was rolling as though the gods themselves had come to watch, checking to see if the warrior they had once favoured so highly was still worthy of their attention.
Jonas hoped so.
‘Now Reinar knows it was a curse, he feels invincible again.’ Sigurd looked down at his hands, warming them over the flames he had worked to bring to life. ‘And if he believes he’s destined to beat Hakon Vettel, he’s liable to make a mistake. But we still have no men. We’re still trying to train a bunch of useless women to help us.’
Alys frowned at him. ‘Useless women? You mean the women you stole away from their homes and families, and are now forcing to fight to save your lives? Those useless women?’
Sigurd laughed, enjoying the spark in her eyes. He shook his head. ‘I... yes, well, that would be a fair point.’