by Kim Wilkins
‘In good time. Ragnar is taking the ships and will position them so they can be deployed the moment we are returned from Gisli’s mountain hall. I haven’t told them yet what I intend. I have been thinking over my next steps …’ He trailed off, then leaned forwards suddenly and urgently, grasping her wrist hard. ‘Could you heal my eye?’
Willow shook her head. ‘That is between you and Maava now,’ she said. ‘If you pray well and do as He would wish, He may reward you.’ She was about to tell him that now he should cherish his hardships, but stopped herself. Instead she said, ‘The more souls you bring into His fold, the greater His debt to you.’
‘I just converted three hundred men,’ he said impatiently, letting her go.
‘All in the Lord’s good time,’ she said, caution tapping at her heart. Her wrist felt bruised. ‘Why don’t you pray with me, Hakon? We could –’
‘We go north,’ he said, ‘so that you can kill my brother.’
‘What?’ Angel shrieks bloomed in her brain then evaporated, leaving stinging echoes.
‘I’ll never get near him. But you, a princess of Ælmesse … he probably won’t even be armed.’
‘And I’m to kill him? He’ll be surrounded by guardsmen.’
‘You’ll conspire to get him alone. One blow. Willow, you are more than ready to take on an unarmed man. Then I take the Ice-Heart, and you will be my queen and our first act will be to invade Sæcaster.’ He laughed. ‘Is it not …?’ He said a native word, then looked at her curiously. ‘What is the word I seek? The height of knowledge?’
‘Cunning?’
‘Godly knowledge.’
‘Genius,’ she said.
‘Is it not genius?’ he said. ‘A plain woman, all dressed in pilgrim’s grey, lost daughter of Æthlric … he’ll suspect nothing.’
‘What did you mean about me being your queen?’
‘Why would you say no?’
She merely stared back at him, her head too full of voices shouting at her to answer.
He took her silence for assent. ‘We leave in the morning. I will let Ragnar know.’
‘Wait,’ she said, recovering her senses. ‘Let me tell him. Let me tell all of them.’
‘Why?’
‘So that they trust me. So that they see I am willing to sacrifice my sister Ivy, willing to risk my own life in battle with Gisli. There will be some who will cling to their heathen ways otherwise.’
He shrugged. ‘If you must. I will translate. Come.’
They emerged from the tent together and soon enough the cohort was assembled. Willow cleared her throat and gathered all of the Lord’s strength into her lungs. ‘My friends,’ she began.
Hakon translated. There were sidelong glances exchanged.
‘My sister, my twin, with whom I shared my mother’s womb, has lately taken control of Sæcaster and burned all the chapels. This affront against Maava must be avenged. We must take Sæcaster back …’ She let Hakon translate, let the idea sink in. ‘And when we have, we will have control of one of the richest ports in Thyrsland. We will adorn ourselves in the gold of the Southlanders.’
Grudging assent. Her heart hammered. Forgive me, angels, for appealing to their baseness.
‘Ragnar will take the army thence. Hakon will provide detailed orders. In the meantime, I will go north to test my blade against Gisli himself, to magnify the name of the Lord and to take Is-hjarta for Hakon, who is rightfully its king.’
As Hakon translated this last line, there was a whoop. There was no doubt at all that they loved him and would follow him devotedly. Hakon kept speaking, and turned to take her hand and press it against her lips. A perfunctory clap went around the camp, and she presumed he had just told them they would be married. Very well, she thought. Whatever it took to spread the word of the lord.
Willow smiled at him, nodded, tried not to see the terrible gash in his cheek. Tried not to think about what a dangerous game she was playing.
Ash said she could move the water, but the dragon might sense the magic and Bluebell would have her protective cloak. Besides, anybody with an axe, a knife, and a good brain could build a vessel. She and Ash worked on it together, chopping wood and tying ropes as dusk deepened around them. Bluebell relied on the withdrawing tide when Ash finally handed her the cloak. It settled around Bluebell’s shoulders, its hem clattering softly. She shivered with the thrill of it. If she had her hearthband, even Thrymm … but no, it was she alone who would kill the dragon, and she would wear the glory. She took Ash’s spear on her back, her sword against her hip, her knives around ankle and wrist.
‘Stay under cover,’ she said to Ash.
‘Remember … between the eyes, but up a little.’
Ash had already drawn her a diagram in the dirt by firelight, and she knew what to do. ‘I know,’ she said, pulling her helm on, presuming that if the dragon breathed fire on her head, her brain would cook inside. Still, she couldn’t imagine going into battle without it. She lifted her shield over her shoulder, the raft between her arms. ‘Here I go.’
Ash’s bony, cold hand shot out and wrapped around her forearm. ‘Return to me alive, Bluebell. For I cannot live if you have died on my behalf.’
‘It’s my duty to die for my family,’ Bluebell said, feeling the surge of pride and purpose in her blood. ‘And I am on fire to fulfill it.’ When she saw Ash’s stricken face in the amber glow, she added, ‘I’m not going to die.’
Bluebell made her way towards the sloping cliff path, throwing the raft ahead of her onto the sand. It landed with a whump. The sun was an orange ball, just above the horizon. The clouds were dark blue against a pink sky. Bluebell climbed down, then dragged the raft out into the waves, laid her shield upon it, then stretched across it on her stomach and began to paddle.
The waves tried to bring her back to the shore, but she had strong arms and the tide was in her favour. A current caught her, hard, and swept her out over the bar. The next challenge was to steer the vessel. Water spurted up through the rough raft and washed over the side. She was soaked in minutes, but that didn’t matter. Aching shoulders, wet clothes. None of it mattered. Her body was alive with the thrill of anticipation. It throbbed in her veins like a drumbeat, filling her with extra strength, extra courage.
The hump-backed rock was coming up fast on her left, and she could see other rocks protruding from the sea, black shapes in the gloom. She put both her arms in the water and tried to steer herself towards them. Waves brought her close, then far, then close again, crashing onto the rocks, grazing her left arm. The raft began to splinter and fall apart under her. Bluebell climbed to her feet, grabbing her shield, and leapt onto a rock, leaving the raft to batter itself to pieces in the swirling water. She stood for a moment, gaining her balance and bearings, and then began to pick her way up and around, from one rock ledge to the next, until she could see the opening of the cave. Faintly, the first stars of evening began to glow in the east, behind her, where she hoped Ash sat safely by the fire. Bluebell took only one glance back, then climbed hand over hand to the cave’s mouth.
She heard the dragon before she saw it. It was sleeping, breathing roughly. Ash’s wet cloak clung to her, ensuring the dragon didn’t know she was here. Bluebell pulled herself up the last few feet, then stood inside the cave, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. The cave smelled of blood and fish and brine. The dragon was a curled shadow, iridescent skin shimmering as its ribs expanded and fell with its breath. Bluebell realised she couldn’t see its head clearly in the dark, and she needed to be able to see it to know precisely where to plunge the spear.
She inched closer, slowly, so she didn’t rattle too much. She rounded the front of its body, still trying to make out the exact location of the parts of its head. A shell crunched loudly as she stepped on it.
And the dragon opened its eyes.
Bluebell lifted the spear, lurched forwards.
The dragon’s head went up, recoiled. Bluebell’s spear pinged uselessly off its hide as
the thing kept recoiling, drawing in a huge gulp of breath.
Bluebell knew what was coming next.
She fell to her knees, crouching into a ball behind her shield, as the flame came roaring down. The heat was immense, suffocating. She struggled to breathe. Her hands were stinging from trying to hold the shield. It caught alight; another moment and she would have to drop it.
The fire stopped. The dragon took another breath.
Bluebell wasn’t going to crouch here and wait to be fried. She dropped her shield and it crumbled to embers at her feet. She leapt forwards, grabbed the dragon around the head and pulled herself onto its back, one arm wrapped around its neck. Its rear leg came up to push at her, the claw raking her mail but connecting hard and deep with her calf. The pain flashed at her heart, but she held firm, withdrawing the Widowsmith and curling forwards, finding the spot between the dragon’s eyes. A great jet of flame came thundering out of its mouth, illuminating the scene in yellow-bright light and smoking shadows. Bluebell shoved her sword through tough hide until she felt give, then plunged it deep, deep inside the dragon’s brain. Blood spurted with such force that it stung Bluebell’s arm, and the dragon let loose a screech that seemed to gather all the air around it, then release it in deafening waves of fire and sound. Bluebell held firm, hanging over the dragon’s head, wrist deep now in the dragon’s skull and bathed in gore, until the fire blinked out and the dragon slumped against the cave floor. Bluebell waited, breathing hard and ragged in the dark. The dragon didn’t move.
She withdrew her sword. She could taste blood in her mouth, though she didn’t know if it was hers or the dragon’s. She slid off its back, and sat, leaning against its body, for a while. The pain in her calf was excruciating and she didn’t want to look at it just yet. Outside, the restless sea roared. Bluebell closed her eyes.
Then opened them again. The sound of the sea had grown louder, water withdrawing hard over sand and gravel. She stood, hobbled to the mouth of the cave and looked down. The water was rolling away from itself, revealing glistening sand in the half-light. Bluebell climbed down far enough so she could see back to the shore. A small black figure holding up one hand that glowed white and bright. Ash. And she’d parted the ocean for her sister.
Ash had heard the screech of the dragon and nothing could have compelled her to stay in hiding any longer. She’d run down, hoping against hope, too big for her heart. A long quiet, in which she’d decided she needed to go out there herself, to see who had lived and who had died.
And then Bluebell was there in the distance, a lanky black shape climbing down from the rocks. Ash began to run, wet sand sucking at her shoes.
‘Bluebell!’ she cried.
Bluebell was favouring one leg. Ash put on a burst of speed, losing one shoe and stopping to slip off the other, then running heedless over rocks and broken shells. Closer now, she could see Bluebell was drenched in blood. Alarm tapped at her heart. Her sister stopped and sat down on the wet sand.
Ash finally reached her and crouched, pulling her to her feet. ‘Here, lean on me.’
‘My leg,’ Bluebell managed.
Ash glanced at it. Even in the dim twilight, she could see a huge gash. ‘I can stitch it.’
Bluebell leaned heavily on her. She stank of sweat and burned skin and blood. But then she muttered the sweetest words Ash had ever heard. ‘It’s dead, Ash. I killed it.’
Only the need to continue supporting Bluebell kept Ash from falling to her knees. ‘Are you sure?’ she said in a trembling voice.
Bluebell spread her arms. ‘This isn’t my blood. At least, most of it isn’t.’
‘Then it’s over.’
‘And you can come home?’
‘I can come home,’ Ash said, and something about saying this aloud made sobs bubble out of her. Now Bluebell was supporting her, even on her wounded leg, lifting Ash into her arms as though she were a child, and striding unevenly towards the shore with dragon blood dripping in her wake.
Steady hands, now. Sharp eyes. Ash sat by the fire and stitched the wound that ran up the back of Bluebell’s calf. Bluebell lay on her front, propped up on elbows, wearing one of Ash’s shirts that was far too short for her. Half her bare white arse was visible in the firelight. Ash couldn’t understand why Bluebell was hardly wincing as the stitches pierced her skin and pulled the wound together, but then reminded herself that her sister was hard from battle, and courageous of heart. She was not known as Bluebell the Fierce for nothing.
‘I have nothing to dress this wound to keep it from growing an infection,’ Ash said.
‘You said yourself that Stanstowe is a day’s walk. We’ll go there tomorrow and see a physician. I’ll need my hands dressed too, though I’ve had plenty of salt water already.’
This was true. Ash had brought the water back in and Bluebell had bathed off the blood.
‘Stanstowe is very crowded, though,’ Ash said.
‘So?’
Of course. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that being seen didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered. It was over. She forced her limbs to relax. Inserted another stitch, the last one. Pulled the skin together then knotted the thread and cut it with her knife. She ran her finger along the bumps. ‘This will leave a big scar,’ she said.
‘I’ll add it to the collection,’ Bluebell replied, flipping over and sitting up, tucking the shirt between her legs and pulling her bony knees towards herself. ‘And how are you?’
‘Tired. A little nauseous. Nothing compared to what you’ve been through.’
‘You’ll tell my story for me, won’t you, Ash? How I killed the dragon? I should have cut off its head to bring to Stanstowe with me.’
‘We have the scales I picked out of your hands,’ Ash said. She had put them in a little pile by the fire.
‘That will have to do. Perhaps we can sell them. Let me see?’
Ash scooped up the pile and handed them to Bluebell, who caught them in her burned palms. She picked one up and held it in front of the fire to examine its crimson iridescence.
Ash watched her. The scales were all of a uniform shape and size, their colour ranged from crimson to pink, like the one she had burned in the seeing fire. And it occurred to her, looking at Bluebell now examining her booty, that they looked nothing like the two scales she’d originally found, the ones sewn into her cloak. Those had been larger, pearlescent white. She’d known this. She’d reasoned that the white scales had been from a different part of the dragon’s body. But now doubt clouded her heart.
Bluebell tore a square from the sleeve of the shirt she wore – Ash tried not to wince; it was the only good shirt she had left – and wrapped the scales carefully, then tied the package with stitching thread. ‘Bluebell the Fierce, dragon killer,’ she laughed, though Ash knew she was only half joking. Bluebell revelled in her reputation.
‘Tomorrow we will go to Stanstowe and tell everyone,’ Ash said happily.
‘Yes. I am so incredibly tired, Ash. I will sleep now. Goodnight.’ Bluebell turned on her side and within minutes was breathing deep and easy.
Ash sat up a while longer, unwelcome thoughts tumbling through her head. She told herself that perhaps she had simply become host to unwelcome thoughts, and eventually, through time and happy circumstances, they would lift away and disappear. One day. One day she would be breathe freely again.
Twenty-three
The feeling of nights and days melting and washing into one another was not simply a trick of time and tiredness, Rose realised. The hours actually passed differently here in the Howling Wood. They would lie down to sleep only to find the sun rising an hour later. This distortion of time grew more skewed every day, until Rose was equally as baffled by when they were as where they were.
‘It’s because we are drawing closer to Rowan,’ Skalmir said one evening – or was it early morning? – as they gathered fuel for a fire. ‘I know it. Closer to where Rathcruick hides his tribe.’
‘I hope you are right. I am
tired all the way into my bones.’
‘Let’s hope it stays dark long enough for us to sleep well,’ he said, dumping an armful of kindling in the circle of stones she had laid out. ‘Stand back.’
He dribbled fire oil on the kindling and lit it up. Rose watched his face from the other side of the fire, waves of heat blurring the detail. He looked weary too. Whatever had passed between them in the true tree had not put them at odds with each other; quite the opposite in fact: it was easier to trust one another now they knew each other’s shadowy thoughts.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
He shook his head, sat down. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know when I ate, when I slept, when I shit. My body is as confused as my brain.’
Rose sat down too, then lay on her side. ‘Tell me something I don’t know about Rowan,’ she said. She asked him every night, or at least every time they laid down to rest. It saddened her to think that he would likely never run out of stories.
‘Hmm … what this time?’ he said, leaning forwards to drop a log on the fire. In the bright firelight, she noticed for the first time a streak of grey in his light brown beard.
‘What did she dream about?’ Rose asked.
He furrowed his brow, thinking. ‘Just before her fifth birthday,’ he said, ‘she developed a fear of the dark. She’d been utterly fearless until then. Nothing scared her; not spiders nor storms nor strange noises in the night. Then suddenly, she wouldn’t sleep without a candle burning. One night, I smelled smoke and she’d managed to roll on the candle in the night and make her blankets smoulder. After that, I would have to put her to bed screaming about the dark, screaming about how her body came apart in the night … I think that’s how she said it. I remember it being a very difficult time and thinking I might have to send her back to Wengest. I was grieving my wife’s death and presumed Rowan was too, in her own way.’
Rose’s heart squeezed tight, thinking about Rowan’s distress. Remote, yet needling under her skin.