“Almost there.” Fiske waded into the shallows ahead, breaking up the thinning ice with the blade of his axe.
Morning was just beginning to warm the sky as Halvard followed his older brother away from the shore, holding his breath against the bite of the cold water. He lifted the barbed spear over his head, keeping his balance against the current. Winter had left the fjord, but it would be weeks before the days began to stretch and the sun finished melting the ice. Until then, they’d fish in the bitter waters.
“Here.” Fiske stopped, sliding the axe back into the sheath at his back and turning to face him.
The water rose to Halvard’s chest as he found even footing beneath him. “You promised,” he muttered.
“After.”
Halvard glared at him. “When you were my age, you started your day training. Not fishing.”
“When I was your age, I watched my friends die in the fighting season.” His voice turned sharp, his eyes narrowing, and Halvard relented. The only thing worse than standing chest-deep in the icy fjord was invoking the disapproval of his brother.
He took the spear before him, watching the shadows beneath the water. The clouds were thick enough to keep the glare from the surface, but he’d never been good at spearing fish. “My throw is bearing right.”
“I know. And we’ll work on it. After,” Fiske said again.
Halvard clenched his teeth, his hands tightening on the spear as he brought it before him. When his father died, Fiske had become the leader of their family and responsible for raising him. But with ten years between them, Fiske had a different kind of life planned for Halvard than the one he’d had as a boy.
He stilled, following the movement of the fish until he saw the flashing gleam of silver scales below. The weight of his feet sank into the silt and the wind calmed as he raised the rod higher.
“It will be different for you.” Fiske spoke quietly, watching him.
“I know.” Halvard brought the spear down with a snap, pinning the fish to the sand. They were the words he’d heard his brother say over and over since the day they came to live on the fjord.
Fiske met his eyes as he brought the spear’s end up out of the water. “I brought you here to have a different life.” The fish flicked as he pulled it from the two iron prongs and tossed it onto the ice beside him.
“But I have to know how to fight.”
“You do. I’ve been teaching you since before you could stand on your own feet.”
“Not like you. Not like Iri.” Halvard lifted the spear again, his attention going back to the water. The sooner they had four or five fish to take home, the sooner his brother would spar with him.
He still remembered watching Fiske and his father work at their armor and weapons beside the fire in the days before they left for Aurvanger, where they fought against the enemies of their god in the fighting season. He had watched them disappear into the forest, wondering if they would ever return. And he’d wanted to go with them, but even then, before the clans made peace, Fiske’s plans for Halvard had always been for him to take over his mother’s duties as the healer in their village. He’d never wanted to see him step foot into battle.
“You’ll get your chance,” Fiske finally said, as Halvard brought another fish up out of the water.
“You think the Svell will come?”
He’d heard the people in Hylli talking about the clan to the west. Some thought they’d be on the fjord by the next winter. Others thought that peace was possible. Fiske and his other brother Iri had never said what they thought the future held.
Fiske set the fish onto the ice beside the other one. “I think if it’s not the Svell, it will be someone else. Peace is never long-lived.”
Halvard lifted the spear again. “Then why are we fishing?”
A small smile pulled at the corner of Fiske’s mouth, but he was missing the wry look in his eye that was always there when he baited him. “Because I want to believe I’m wrong.”
Village of Liera, Svell Territory
Tova watched the cloud passing overhead, its shape wavering in her vision as her eyes filled with tears. Jorrund stood over her, squinting as he stitched the broken skin around her swollen lip.
He’d taken her to the healer, but she had refused to stitch Tova up, afraid that Eydis would bring a plague on the village.
Her blood shone on the needle as Jorrund pulled the thread in one long motion and tied it off. When a tear finally rolled down her cheek, he gave her another drink of the sour ale. She swallowed it down until the burn in her throat reached her chest. The sting of her lip was nothing compared to the bruises that were blooming over her back.
If the nighthawk had tried to warn her, she hadn’t heard him. She’d only opened her eyes to the sound of boots hitting the stone floor and before she’d even been able to think, she was being dragged through the forest screaming.
It wasn’t the first time someone from the village had tried to take her fate into their own hands. In the five years since Jorrund had brought her through the gates of Liera, she’d heard the whispers. She’d felt the stares pinned to her back. But no one had ever come so close to killing her.
She was a living curse. A betrayal to the Svell god. And even though she lived under the unspoken protection of Bekan and Jorrund, the disagreements over the clans to the east had fractured the people’s resolve to trust their Tala and chieftain. In the eyes of the Svell, she wasn’t just an eleven-year-old girl. She was a scourge. And there were many who wanted to see her dead.
The angry waves crashed onto the rocks behind her and she watched the water slide up onto the land, covering her bare feet. Jorrund opened his satchel and pulled a small bottle from inside. He dabbed the stinging oil onto her mouth and the cut across her forehead as he spoke. “Not everyone can see the will of the gods, Tova.”
He’d told her that before. But it wouldn’t be the last time a Svell from the village would come to her little house in the forest and try to take her life. The laws that protected the Svell from each other didn’t apply to her. There would be no consequences for killing a Kyrr girl.
Footsteps hit the sand behind her and she turned to see a man standing against the trees. The worn fur draped over his shoulders wrapped around him like a cloak, the old Svell leathers hidden beneath it.
Tova stood, stepping deeper into the water. If she’d ever seen the man, she didn’t remember. He towered over her, hiding her in his shadow as he stopped in the sand before them.
“Tova, this is Gunther.”
She waited for him to speak, but he only looked at her. His worn face was unreadable, his sharp eyes on Jorrund. “You ever tell anyone about this and—”
But Jorrund lifted a hand, cutting him off before he pulled the length of his robes into his arms and started back toward the trees. Tova watched him with wide eyes, looking from the man back to Jorrund as she realized that he was going to leave them.
She reached for the small knife at the back of her belt and pulled it free. The handle was slick in her sweaty palm as she stepped back, feeling the pull of the cold water against her legs. The waves soaked the wool of her dress as Gunther looked down at her, his eyes running over her small frame.
“You won’t need that. A bow would be best,” he said, taking it from where it hung across his back and unbuckling the strap of the quiver. It dropped to the sand beside his feet as he took a step toward her. “If anyone gets close enough for you to use a knife, you’re dead already.”
Tova stared at the bow in his hands, confused.
Gunther leaned forward, taking hold of her wrist and jerking her forward, out of the shallows. He squeezed hard until her fingers opened and the knife dropped to the water, the blade sinking into the wet sand.
“We’ll start with the bow,” he said again. “Then the knife.”
He plucked an arrow from the quiver and held it out to her. She looked around them before she took it, running her thumb over the edge of the black speckled feath
er that made the fletching. “Why are you helping me?”
The wind blew the hair across his face as he looked down at the marks on her bare arms. He was old enough to be her father, but she couldn’t find anything tender or warm in the way that he studied at her.
He turned into the wind, not waiting for her to follow. “First the bow. Then the knife.”
CHAPTER SIX
HALVARD
We gathered the bodies.
The broken skeletons of homes in Ljós jutted up from the blackened earth and dead Nādhir covered the ground like birds fallen from the sky. Most of them weren’t even wearing their armor or their boots, cut down as they tried to flee in the dark. They’d been sleeping when the Svell came out of the forest and set fire to their homes. They’d never had a chance.
The sight was familiar, even if it had been ten years since the Herja came. They’d drifted into our village as the moon rose when I was only eight years old. It was the first time I killed a man and the first time I’d thought I was going to die. The bodies of people I’d known my whole life had been strewn through the village, bright red blood staining the crisp, white snow, and I’d never forgotten it. I never would.
I blinked the memory away and took hold of the wrists of a man my age who lay at my feet. I dragged him down the path, his open gray eyes looking up at me, and lifted him onto the pyre we’d built outside the village gate. I straightened what was left of his burned tunic, crossing his arms over his chest.
The smoke of the fire lifted like a cloud into the sky and we stood before it in silence, watching it burn as Espen led the funeral rites. His deep voice carried over the sound of the wind and we spoke them in unison, the eyes of every warrior on the flames.
“Take my love to my father. Ask him to keep watch for me.” I whispered the last words, “Tell him my soul follows behind you.”
I wondered what my father would say if he could see what had become of us, those who were once enemies, mourning each other’s dead. My mother said that he would be proud, but I didn’t remember enough about him to know if it was true. I was six years old when he died of fever and even when I tried to pull the image of his face from where it was buried in my mind, he was only a shadow.
Footsteps in the gravel sounded behind us and we turned to see one of our men at the tree line. “They’re here!”
Espen and Aghi met eyes before they gave the order and everyone moved, drawing their weapons and lining up before us. I pulled my axe from its sheath with my left hand and my sword with my right, letting their comforting weight fall at my sides.
“They’re waiting in the glade ahead.” He ran to us, shouting between heavy breaths.
Espen clapped him on the back as he passed and he took his place at the end of the line.
Aghi reached up, tightening the strap of my armor vest beneath my arm. He set his hands on my shoulders and turned me, checking the other side. “Stay at the back. Use the sword before the axe.”
“I know,” I answered lowly.
He reached up, taking the back of my neck with his rough hand and meeting my eyes. “Ready?”
I searched his face, a knot tightening in my throat. At the back, I wouldn’t be able to fight beside him if he needed me. And he wouldn’t be able to run. If a fight broke out, he was the most vulnerable of us. “Ready.”
“Good boy.” He let out a long breath, smiling.
He took his place beside Espen, and I went to the back as he gave the signal. We moved toward the trees shoulder to shoulder, taking measured steps and keeping the line tight. When we passed into the forest, the quiet swallowed us, the cool air like water against my hot skin.
I looked to my right, half-expecting to see my brothers there. Fiske’s dark head of hair pulled into an unraveling knot and Iri’s blond beard braided down his chest. Mýra had been right. They’d be angry when they found out that I’d come to Ljós without them. So would Fiske’s wife, Eelyn. And now, Mýra’s words echoed in my mind, making me wonder if this was a mistake. Maybe it had been foolish to meet with the Svell. Maybe it had been a desperate, weak move.
The glade appeared ahead, bathed in warm sunlight and the stretch of tall golden grass was aglow with it. It wasn’t until we reached the tree line that I saw them.
Two lines of twenty-five or more Svell were on the other side, their elk-hide leathers making them almost invisible in the trees. A single hand lifted into the air and a man with long flaxen braids stepped forward, out from under the branches. Espen lifted his hand in response and we moved together toward the center of the glade. The wind blew through the grass and it rippled around us like the calm waves of the fjord when we stood in the shallow waters, fishing with spears.
Espen and Aghi stepped forward as we stopped and the blond man across the glade did the same. From the look of his armor and the brooches around his neck, he had to be Bekan, the Svell chieftain. A black-bearded man walked at his side and they parted the grass in a straight line as my heart kicked up, my pulse pounding at my throat.
Aghi’s fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to lift his sword at the ready, and I counted the number of steps it would take for me to get to him if I had to. A bead of sweat trailed down from my brow, stinging my eyes.
“Espen.” Bekan spoke, coming to a stop before them.
But it was a face in the distance that pulled my gaze, a raven-haired figure standing behind the two rows of their warriors. A cloaked girl stood beside their Tala, her eyes fixed on me. The telltale black marks of the Kyrr crept up and out of the neck of her tunic, where an unfolded wing spread across her throat.
The only Kyrr I’d ever seen in my life was Kjeld, Asmund’s man, but I knew the stories told over night fires well. They were a people of mysticism and ritual, their marks holding the secrets and stories of their ancestors. They lived in the fog of the headlands, the borders of their territories drawn with stone statues of their god Naðr and the sun-bleached skulls and tusks of boars.
But what was a Kyrr girl doing with the Svell?
Her head tilted as her eyes narrowed at me and a sting ignited on my skin like the burn of the funeral fire. I shifted on my feet, watching her, and her brow pulled as her hand lifted, her palm pressing to her ear.
“Three days ago, a group of my people attacked Ljós. This act was taken without my consent and in direct defiance of my orders.”
My eyes went back to the men in the center of the glade.
Espen stood like a statue, his gaze unwavering. “More than forty Nādhir are dead.”
A long silence widened around us, and the race of my heart reignited, watching their warriors carefully.
“This is my brother Vigdis, the village leader of Hǫlkn.” Bekan looked to the dark-haired man beside him who stood so rigid that he could have been carved out of stone. “We hope you will accept this offering of reparation.”
Vigdis reached over his shoulder and took hold of the sword at his back. He slowly pulled it free and the sunlight caught the amber stones forged into the metal as he held it out before him.
It was a valuable weapon. Maybe the most valuable I’d ever see, with a steel blade and jeweled hilt. But offerings of reparation weren’t meant to pay the value of an offense. There weren’t enough precious stones on the mainland to cover the cost of forty lives. It was a symbol. And its power was entirely dependent on the honor of the one who offered it.
“Neither of us want war.” Bekan stood still, waiting for Espen’s answer. “Accept the offering and we both go home without another life lost.”
My attention went back to the girl. She stood motionless, staring at the men in the center of the glade until a piercing call echoed overhead and her gaze snapped up to the sky, where a hawk was circling. Its wings tipped against the wind as it turned and when I looked back at her, her eyes went wide. She took a faltering step forward, her mouth opening to speak before the Tala caught her by the arm, holding her in place.
I searched the glade for what she saw, bu
t there were only the warriors standing side by side. She was staring at Bekan.
And just as the hawk called out again, Vigdis turned to his chieftain, breaking the silence. “I love you, brother. And one day, you will understand why I’ve done what I’ve done.” He suddenly reared back with the sword, launching it forward with a snap, and it sank into Espen’s stomach.
The tip of its blood-soaked blade reached out behind him where it had run him through.
My breath caught in my chest as Espen fell forward onto his knees and the wind stopped, every sound snuffed out around us. My hand drew my sword before I’d even realized what I was doing, and the sound of shouting raced through the glade. But Bekan was frozen, his hands out before him and his eyes wide with confusion. He looked from his brother to Espen and back again.
The line of Svell broke into a run, charging us, and every weapon left every sheath, blades sliding on leather in unison. Aghi called out the order and he met my eyes for only a moment before he took off in a limping run, headed straight for Vigdis, who stood over Espen’s bleeding body.
I took off after him with my boots slamming into the earth as chaos broke out between the trees. Bodies slammed into each other as the two sides collided and I kept my eyes on Aghi, raising my sword as a Svell headed in his direction. I ran faster, passing the Svell and spinning on my heel as I twisted my sword in an arc around me to catch him in the gut. He tumbled into the grass and I lifted the blade before me, thick blood dripping onto the golden grass.
Aghi threw his axe behind me and it spun out ahead of us before it sank into the chest of a Svell woman, knocking her off her feet. He hobbled to her as the roar of battle swelled, his attention still set on Vigdis, who was cutting the throat of a Nādhir on his knees.
Aghi snapped his arm back, his sword slicing into the arm of a man behind him before he raised it up over his head to bring it back down into his chest. I jumped over the body as we pushed forward, staying close to Aghi’s back.
Bekan pulled his sword from the side of a Nādhir and I took the knife from my belt, sliding to a stop as I aimed. I sank my arm back, the handle light in my fingers, and sent it forward, the blade flying. Bekan faltered as it caught him in the shoulder, one knee hitting the ground before he got back to his feet and ran straight for us. His sword rose behind him, launching toward me before Aghi plowed into his side, knocking the blade from his hand. He lifted his axe, but in the length of a breath, Bekan tore my knife from his shoulder and drove it forward with both hands.
The Girl the Sea Gave Back Page 5