Mark of the Hunter: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (The Lords of Alekka Book 2)

by A. E. Rayne

  Wiping her hands on a cloth, Alys followed Ivan out of the shelter, into the busy camp where he walked quickly, head up, eyes alert. They had been forced to stop when Hakon fell off his horse, unconscious, his belly wound a pustulating mess, though they were lucky to have found a stream and enough of a clearing where their men were put to work setting up shelters. After their frantic escape from Ottby, it had given them all a chance to take stock, and they’d quickly discovered how much they’d left behind: servants and horses, weapons and supplies, their dead and wounded. It wasn’t ideal, and most were struggling to rise above the defeated gloom. ‘The lord is your cousin?’

  Ivan appeared to puff out his injured chest ever so slightly, one eye on the ground, wet with muddy slush. ‘He is. We are like brothers, raised together since we were boys. Hakon’s father won the right to claim the Alekkan throne after he’d killed mine, so I was sent to live with them.’ There was only a hint of resentment souring Ivan’s voice, for his father had been so cruel and soulless that even he had despised him in the end.

  ‘Oh.’

  Ivan laughed at the look on Alys’ face. ‘We Vettels are an unusual family, I think, born of Thenor himself. Always trying to kill and outdo each other.’

  ‘Though not you and your cousin?’ Ivan seemed happy to talk, keen for her company, and Alys wanted to pry as much information out of him as possible.

  ‘No, not us. I don’t have any desire to kill Hakon.’ Ivan stared into Alys’ eyes as she turned to him, surprised to see how blue they looked. Earlier, he’d sworn they were green, but whatever the colour, she was exquisite. ‘And, as far as I’m aware, Hakon doesn’t wish to kill me. Though,’ he realised, ushering her around the harried servants with flushed faces and red hands, ‘perhaps it won’t matter anyway, if your friends can’t save him?’

  He sounded worried, Alys thought as she ducked her head, entering Hakon Vettel’s tent. It was brighter than outside, filled now with a handful of candles and lamps, and a beaming Eddeth, who swung around with a smile.

  ‘There you are, and just in time! Stina had to leave.’

  Alys looked concerned. ‘Leave?’ She glanced back at the tent flap.

  ‘She felt ill. Perhaps it’s the smell? It’s a vile beast of a wound! Oh, so vile!’

  Ivan looked disturbed, not wanting another glimpse of it himself. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he decided, lifting a hand to his nose. ‘Unless you require anything else?’

  ‘No, no.’ Eddeth rushed him out of the tent. ‘I shall send Alys to find you if I do. Though I don’t even know who you are!’ She cocked her head to one side, studying him closely.

  ‘I’m Ivan. Ivan Vettel.’

  Eddeth’s eyes rounded. ‘Oh, well, I shall send someone to find you, Ivan Vettel, if I need you. Your cousin is resting comfortably, and I am hard at work, never fear!’

  Ivan sighed, relieved that his men had found the healers. Their time in Ottby had been a disaster, led by their reckless lord, who now lay in bed, lifeless, possibly dying. Ivan didn’t want him to. For all that he was tired of Hakon’s constant need to be at the centre of everything, he was his best friend, and he couldn’t imagine what he’d do without him. ‘Night is falling,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll have a servant bring you some bedding. You can all sleep in here.’

  Eddeth nodded, barely listening.

  Alys froze, not wanting to sleep near Hakon Vettel, but Ivan wasn’t looking her way for once, and he disappeared before she could protest. She waited until his footsteps were far enough away before turning back to the bed. ‘Will he live?’ she asked in a hushed voice, eyes on the ashen-faced lord. ‘Can you save him?’

  ‘Well, there’s no choice, is there?’ Eddeth whispered back. ‘If he doesn’t live, I fear we’ll be trapped here. Or worse.’

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll kill us?’ Eddeth mouthed. ‘You need to see what will happen. You need to have a dream!’

  ‘Ssshhh!’ Alys stepped towards her. ‘Eddeth, please, you can’t say anything about me. Nothing. Please.’

  Eddeth was shaking her head and her arms, cross with herself and her flapping tongue, which, more often than not, had a mind of its own. ‘No, no, of course I won’t. I won’t! I know what it’s like to be in danger, I do.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Well, we’re here, aren’t we? In danger. Right now! Not to mention what happened in Ottby.’

  ‘Eddeth!’ Alys hissed. ‘You can’t say anything about Ottby either.’

  ‘No, no, of course, you’re quite right. I may need to eat something. I fear that I’m a jumbled mess. Or a tea! Oh, to have some tea!’

  ‘I can make you one,’ Alys suggested.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Eddeth huffed, snatching one of her saddlebags from the ground. ‘My teas are not something that can be pulled out of thin air. I must percolate what is needed before I ever choose a herb. It isn’t something you can just throw together!’ And she headed out of the tent, looking over her shoulder with a toothy grin. ‘I shall think of what to make and bring us back something delightful. Something for poor Stina too!’ And turning back around, she disappeared with a sneeze.

  Leaving Alys alone with Hakon Vettel.

  The man who had tried so desperately to kill Reinar and Sigurd, and take Ottby. The man whose dreamer she had killed, and who, if he found out, would likely try to kill her.

  Placing a tentative hand on his head, she closed her eyes, wanting to see whether he would live, hoping to find something about the future. And gasping, Alys opened her eyes, unable to catch her breath.

  He hadn’t wanted to come.

  And yet he had.

  Sigurd ran a hand over Velos’ muzzle, feeling his sadness. Sharing it.

  Tulia had loved her horse, bringing him all the way from Kalmera with her.

  And now?

  Flames flickered from the torch he’d shoved into a sconce, and leaning forward, Sigurd rested his head against Velos’ cheek, tears coming. ‘We’ll look after each other,’ he decided, sniffing. ‘I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll stay here with me.’

  Velos dropped his head, and Sigurd stepped away, out of his stall, closing the gate. He shivered, crying more now. He didn’t want to go and see Tulia’s body, because that would remind him that she was dead. That she wasn’t in the hall, waiting for him with a scowl on her face and a cup of wine in her hand.

  He didn’t want to see her.

  Rubbing tears out of his eyes, trying to see, Sigurd turned around, heading for the door. He would go back to the cottage. Sleep. He needed sleep first, he tried to convince himself.

  Velos whinnied loudly, and he stopped, almost hearing Tulia shouting at him.

  He should never have walked away from her. She’d been upset, grieving for Amir, broken-hearted. He should never have left her. He should have stayed with her until he broke through her anger, until she softened and let him in.

  She would have, he knew.

  If he hadn’t walked away.

  So, taking a breath, and trying to stop crying long enough to see where he was going, Sigurd walked slowly back to the stall. Opening the gate, he saw Tulia’s body lying in the straw, wrapped in a shroud, and everything inside him shattered.

  Dropping to his knees, he reached out, touching the pale linen.

  Touching her.

  So empty and cold.

  Gone.

  And throwing himself forward, he wrapped his arms around her body, wanting to feel some sign of life, some sense that she was still there; to know that part of her remained, with him. ‘I’m so sorry! I should have... I... Tulia... I love you! Please come back to me. Please... I’m so sorry.’

  5

  Magnus yawned, eyes on his great-grandfather. ‘Will you tell me a scary story?’

  ‘Scary?’ Jonas chuckled. They had built the fire up high, and he could see how tired Magnus looked, how nervous about going into the fort in the morning. Their tent fluttered noisily behind
them, and Jonas almost felt like heading for bed too, though it was barely dark. ‘Not sure a scary story will give you the sort of sleep you need tonight.’

  ‘But I like scary stories,’ Magnus insisted. ‘Not something boring about the gods.’

  Now it was Vik’s turn to chuckle. ‘You think stories about the gods are boring? What has your mother been telling you, then?’ He’d spent the afternoon cutting Magnus’ hair, and it had inspired him to trim his beard. He looked up, shaking tiny bits of hair off his cloak. ‘There’s nothing more interesting than a story about the gods.’

  Magnus tried not to roll his eyes. ‘But the gods do nothing! If something bad happens, everyone thinks the gods are angry with them. And if something goes well, they think they’ve pleased them. But how does anyone know? What has luck got to do with the gods at all?’

  Vik sat up straight, frowning at Jonas. ‘Seems to me your great-grandson might need a nudge back on the right track. Who’s been telling you that, then? Your father?’

  Vik sounded cross, Jonas thought, which didn’t surprise him, knowing how superstitious his friend was.

  ‘I suppose. He hated the gods. He blamed them for the sickness and the rain. He blamed them for the raids that went badly. I imagine he’s blaming them for getting killed too.’ He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, feeling strange all over.

  Jonas moved towards Magnus, arm around his back. ‘It must have been hard having a father like that,’ he said softly. ‘Such an angry man.’

  Magnus’ lips quivered, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t want to cry for his father.

  ‘Though, I suppose, some children are unlucky enough to have two terrible parents.’

  Magnus nodded, thinking back to the farmer and his wife, and their unfortunate daughter.

  ‘So, you could either see yourself as unlucky that your father was a cruel man or lucky that your mother is such a good woman,’ Jonas smiled. ‘I know which I’d rather focus on.’

  Magnus lifted his head, almost smiling. He liked to hear Jonas talk about his mother. There was such warmth in his voice. And love. It always made him feel better.

  ‘You’re very much like her, you know,’ Jonas went on. ‘She loved to hear scary stories before bed too.’ And pulling Magnus close, he lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you pop into the tent, burrow under the furs, and I’ll come and tell you a story. I’ll just finish my ale with Vik first.’

  Magnus nodded, glancing at Vik, feeling awkward, but Vik smiled at him as he headed away. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Sleep well, Magnus. And don’t worry, I’ll come and save you if evil spirits try to steal you away!’ Vik finished trimming his beard and looked up at Jonas. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You look younger,’ Jonas decided, squinting. ‘Perhaps you can trim me next? I wouldn’t mind looking younger. Or feeling it, at least!’

  ‘I will, but in the morning, before we take Magnus to the fort. I think my back will give out if I sit like this any longer.’

  Jonas burst out laughing. ‘If Ake were here, he’d send us on our way! What use would he have for a couple of decomposing farts like us?’

  Vik grinned. ‘True. Think we need to get in a little practice tomorrow, then. Forget your beard, old man, let’s see if we can loosen up those creaking arms of yours. Sharpen you up a bit!’

  ‘Old man, is it?’ And Jonas struggled to his feet, feeling stiff and sore all over, laughing some more. ‘I think you’ve got the right of it there! Practice it is, first thing in the morning. But first, I must terrify my great-grandson!’ And winking at Vik, he ducked his head, disappearing into the tent, hoping that wherever Alys was, she knew that Magnus was safe with him.

  Lief eyed Hakon’s tent with a frown. He stamped his foot, trying to shake off whatever he’d stepped in. It was dark, and they were away from any fires. He couldn’t see, but whatever it was stunk. ‘Are you sure about letting those women stay in there with Hakon?’

  Ivan laughed, draining his cup of ale. He wanted more, more ale to numb his body and his mind, but their stores were perilously low, and he was smart enough to foresee the problems that was going to cause. Better that he wasn’t seen having more than his fair share. ‘What do you think they’re going to do to him? I think it’s more of a punishment than some reward. Staying in there with that stink?’ He shuddered. ‘Whatever that odd woman put on Hakon, it smells even worse than his wound.’

  Lief’s frown was like a canyon, carved in between two thick black eyebrows. It wouldn’t budge. ‘I just don’t have a good feeling.’ And flicking the dung off his boot, he looked for some snow to wipe it on.

  ‘About the women?’ Ivan laughed again, enjoying Lief’s irritation. ‘I think they could probably say the same about us!’

  ‘Not the women, not really. It’s everything. Where’s Ake? Why hasn’t he followed us?’ Tiredness had Lief doubting their strategy to head back to Slussfall, questioning whether they should have stayed to face Ake’s army. They took the word of a handful of scouts that Ake was bringing thousands of men to swallow them whole. But had that been true? He glanced at Ivan. ‘For all that she was a difficult woman, I miss Mother.’

  Ivan couldn’t say the same, though insight would have been useful. They were stuck in a forest, waiting for their lord to die, or the Alekkan king to come and kill them all. He spun, hearing a noise, worrying that someone was creeping through the underbrush, listening. Stepping towards Lief, he lowered his voice. ‘We don’t need a dreamer to tell us how bad things are. What we need is a plan. Two plans. One for if Hakon lives, and one for if he dies.’

  Lief stiffened, wondering where this was going. They were not allies, and he wasn’t prepared to play games. He stepped away from Ivan. ‘Agreed. But let’s see what the morning brings. The healers need time to use whatever skills they have. And it gives us the night to think things over.’

  Ivan nodded, teeth clenched in irritation, wanting to slam his fist into Lief’s ribs. The man had to try and control everything. Everything! He stepped back himself, smiling again. ‘We can talk in the morning after we’ve seen Hakon, then. And in the meantime, you needn’t worry about those women. Rikkard’s in there, and Njall’s keeping watch outside. Hakon has nothing to fear from three harmless women!’

  Stina rolled towards Alys. They had been allowed to use their own furs and told to sleep in turns, ensuring that one of them was watching over the Lord of Slussfall all night long. ‘How can we sleep with that smell?’ She glanced at Eddeth, who was hovering over Hakon, fingers slick with honey

  ‘You don’t like garlic?’ Eddeth sounded offended. So many people disliked the pungent aroma, but it had always been one of her favourite healing tools. There was something so powerful about garlic. So magical. She felt indignant when people took up against it.

  ‘I don’t mind garlic, but Eddeth, it smells as though you’ve slathered his entire body in the stuff!’

  Alys wasn’t listening, nor was she bothered by the smell. She was thinking about Reinar’s offer to send men with them; warriors with weapons who could have protected them. Or could they? Had she simply made the mistake of riding too close to where the retreating Slussfall army was marching? Sighing, Alys stared up at the roof of the shelter, watching its linen sheet rippling like waves, and she remembered Ottby and the wind and the smoke. Her weary mind started wandering, Stina and Eddeth’s argument becoming a hum in the distance.

  The fur over her felt almost warm, though she couldn’t feel her nose or her toes. But she felt her body sink into the hard ground, thoughts of Ottby dragging her towards a dream.

  And how desperately she needed a dream.

  She needed to see what to do.

  Reinar had struggled to sleep since Elin had disappeared, since Hakon Vettel had broken his walls and Torvig had killed Tulia.

  Since Alys had left.

  His thoughts tormented and teased him. He couldn’t quiet them long enough to relax. They jumped around like sparks of lighting, a new one ex
ploding every few moments, trying to drag him away from any hope of sleep.

  Torvig was dead, and he needed to tell Elin.

  And the fort was broken.

  The baby started crying through the wall, and Reinar realised that he’d been struggling to sleep for longer than he’d ever acknowledged. He ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes, wanting to rub everything away; every ache and pain, every mournful feeling. He wanted to feel something joyful. Some warmth and light.

  Some happiness.

  And then he saw Alys’ face. Alys with her bruises.

  He remembered the feel of her skin, her freckles scattered over her nose. It wrinkled when she smiled. He remembered the feel of her lips too. Soft and gentle and delicate. Just like Alys.

  Kissing her was the single nicest experience he could remember in such a long time, though even that was tainted with guilt.

  Sighing, Reinar closed his eyes, pulling the furs up over his shoulder, trying to forget it all. He focused on the sound of the wind whistling angrily around the hall, ignoring the howling of Liara Sansgard through the wall, trying to fall asleep.

  ‘Almasa.’

  Alys turned in surprise, recognising the sharp voice.

  ‘My sword. Its name is Almasa.’ Tulia Saari stood in the moonlight watching her, silken hair shimmering like raven’s wings, voice as hard as ever.

  Alys shivered, seeing the bloody hole in her neck.

  Tulia shook her head, full of regret. ‘I should have listened to you, dreamer. If I had, I wouldn’t be here, and Sigurd wouldn’t be...’ She frowned, turning away.

  She was dead, but not empty of pain.

  Alys followed her, seeing clearly now that Tulia was in Ottby’s square, standing outside the hall. She could see the glow of light seeping beneath the closed doors; hear the boom of laughter and murmur of conversation from within.

  Smoke filled her nostrils; the smell of roasting meat; the tang of ale in the air.