by A. E. Rayne
Axl looked relieved to hear it.
‘Until your child is old enough.’
‘Doesn’t sound as though it’s my child.’
‘Not your blood, perhaps, but it will be your child in your heart.’ Jael thought of Sigmund, reminding herself that they would need to bring him back too. Runa had died trying to save that baby, and Jael would do whatever she could to bring him home.
Him and his father both.
Eadmund wanted Berrick to leave his tent.
It was early, but he was weary. Five days of slowly trekking through perilous mountains had been arduous, and, at times, terrifying. The weather had turned foul again, and he felt a heaviness in his body he hoped sleep would cure.
It had to.
They had finally arrived at Tokka, a crumbling rock of a village clinging to the edge of a cliff near the coast. It reminded Eadmund of Flane, which brought back taunting images of a naked Evaine. Eadmund quickly closed his eyes on that memory, smelling the sea, wishing for a patch of earth that wasn’t barren or mud-slick, and company other than his irritating steward, who had been fussing around him ever since their arrival that afternoon.
Tomorrow, they would attack the wall around Angard. They could see it from their camp – if you could call it a camp. It was more of a shelf of rock where the Hestians had gathered to eat and stay warm, huddling around fires, trying to dry their wet clothes and warm their shivering limbs. Despite the heat of the days, the nights on their journey had often been as cold as Oss.
Eadmund, like Jaeger, was sleeping in a tent. He didn’t feel comfortable about that, but Berrick had insisted, and though his steward was hardly someone to listen to, Eadmund knew that Draguta would be happier if he slept like the leader she wanted him to be. ‘You can go,’ he grumbled sleepily, rolling over. As well as raining, the wind was picking up again, screaming around the walls of the tent, snapping them noisily. Eadmund yawned, wondering if the gods were trying to disrupt Draguta’s plans.
Wondering if he wanted them to.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Berrick muttered. He was not looking forward to another night out in the rain, but Eadmund had made no move to let him sleep inside the tent, so he had little choice but to leave. ‘I will come in the morning, before dawn.’
Eadmund didn’t reply. He was already seeing the familiar face of Morac, who had haunted his dreams since he’d left Hest. He didn’t blame him, certain that he would do the same to the man who’d murdered him.
But Eadmund didn’t care. He thought about his mother.
About what Morac and Morana had done to her.
He didn’t care.
Trying to turn his mind away from Morac’s corpse, and Berrick’s muttering, he saw his mother again. He heard her gentle voice as she smiled, motioning for him to follow her. And sighing deeply, feeling his body sink into the cot bed, Eadmund slipped into a dream.
Briggit felt calm.
She could hear the storm battering the thin glass of her bedchamber windows.
The wind was becoming violent, and she wondered if they would shatter.
Perhaps that was what the gods intended?
Ebbert had been a good distraction, but he was sleeping beside her now, his bare feet hanging over the end of the bed, and her mind had wandered to Draguta. She was both a curse and a gift. The woman who had placed herself between Raemus and his Followers, thereby making herself indispensable.
The woman who had the power to give her everything she wanted.
And she would.
Briggit’s dreams were vivid slashes of colour.
Blood red, golden light.
She saw Draguta, and Draguta was on her knees. She ran her hand over Ebbert’s back. He stirred but did not wake, his scarred muscles tensing.
Draguta was on her knees.
And then what?
Briggit smiled.
She had seen that too.
It was as though Draguta’s mind was a beehive and all the bees were talking to her, buzzing with a desperate fervour. She could read their thoughts, their fears and desires. Mostly their fears.
There were so many of them.
Sighing with happiness, she headed into the catacombs, not noticing how stale the air was, or how it clogged her throat. It was dark, though she had all the light she needed from the torches carried by Brill and a burly slave she had commandeered to help her. With no Jaeger, no Eadmund, and no Rollo, there was no one to do her heaving lifting anymore, so she had replaced them all with a new man named Ballack. A man twice as wide as Jaeger, and uglier than an inbred troll. A strong-jawed, hulking beast of a man with arms big enough to move a stone coffin. ‘That way!’ And pointing to the archway, Draguta hurried ahead of the shaven-headed slave and her shuffling servant. ‘Come along, come along, we can’t take all night! We have work to do. More things to prepare. All this dawdling, waiting, hesitating! I am growing bored! The pieces of my puzzle are taking far too long to fall into place. I say we give them a little... push in the right direction!’
Eskild could feel the battle of dark and light inside her son, and she wanted to help. To intervene. She had exposed what had remained hidden for all those years, revealed it all, and Eadmund had killed Morac, and left Evaine.
But it wasn’t enough.
Soon Draguta would make him kill Jael, and with it, every part of himself.
And if that were to happen...
Eskild needed to help him. In here, she hoped, in Eadmund’s dreams, Draguta couldn’t find him. Couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t twist him into self-destructive knots. Couldn’t make him kill for her.
Eadmund didn’t recognise where his mother was taking him. It was a small fortified village. Not Oss. Not an island.
Brekka?
‘Come with me,’ Eskild said. And she walked through the door of a thatch-roofed cottage, into a brightly-lit room.
Eadmund followed his mother, his eyes quickly on a tired-looking Thorgils, wrapped in bandages, sitting on a stool beside a bed. Aleksander was there, frowning, a woman he didn’t know standing beside him.
And Jael.
Jael was in the bed.
Eadmund blinked, hurrying forward.
She was in pain, he could see. Crying out. He couldn’t move any further, though. He couldn’t help her.
‘That’s it,’ the woman urged. ‘As hard as you can. Push as hard as you can!’
Jael screamed out as Eskild gripped Eadmund’s arm, feeling the tension coursing through it as he stood beside her. And with a powerful roar, Jael threw her head forward, gritting her teeth, squeezing Aleksander’s hand. Sweat shone on her brow, her braids stuck to her forehead, her face cut and bruised.
Exhausted, she dropped back onto the pillow, dark hair splayed across the pale linen, Aleksander checking to see if she was alright. Her eyes remained closed. Eadmund wanted to get closer, but his boots wouldn’t move.
He wanted to be there, holding her hand.
Jael opened her eyes as the woman wrapped the baby in a blanket.
The baby.
Eadmund listened, but there was no sound. No sound but the exhausted panting of his wife, who lay in the bed, tears streaming down her face.
No sound as the woman carried the baby away.
No sound as Thorgils watched her, tears falling down his own cheeks.
Just as they were falling down Eadmund’s.
‘We will make her pay for this,’ he heard Aleksander say. ‘We will make Draguta pay for what she’s done.’
Eadmund turned to his mother, who held his gaze, her eyes reflecting the pain in his. And when he turned back, they were no longer in the cottage, and Jael was sitting against a tree, a tiny bundle in her arms.
He edged closer, wanting to hear what she was saying. Wanting to be with them.
‘I was lying when I said I didn’t want you,’ Jael almost whispered. ‘I was lying. I wanted you very much. More than you will ever know.’
Eadmund watched as Jael wiped her tears from the baby’s
face.
‘I’d thought of a name for you, you see. It was Lyra... Lyra Skalleson.’ And bending forward, Jael sobbed, gripping the baby to her chest.
Their baby.
Their daughter.
Dropping his head, Eadmund wiped the tears from his eyes, watching as they dripped on the grass.
Their daughter.
Jael shut the door and leaned her back against it, sliding down to the floor. She felt just as impatient as Axl and Karsten, though she’d never let them know it. She wanted to ride to Hest, slice her sword across Draguta’s throat, tear her open. Make her pay for what she had done to all of them.
Dropping her head to her knees, Jael sighed, wondering if she had the energy to drag herself into bed.
She doubted Draguta was quaking at the thought of being attacked by a gaggle of exhausted, injured, broken warriors, led by the most broken one of all.
Lifting her head, Jael grimaced, feeling around her lips.
Hardly a fiercesome leader, she grinned, struggling back to her feet, knowing that she needed sleep if she wanted any chance of thinking clearly in the morning.
Or dreams. Perhaps she needed more of those?
Sitting down on the bed, Jael wasn’t sure which was preferable, then she remembered what Edela had said about Eadmund attacking Helsabor. Helsabor which was ruled by a dreamer queen and her army of dangerous Followers. Eadmund was trading one enemy for another. Jael frowned, tugging off her dusty boots, wanting to grasp those threads, to have some control.
Any control at all.
Pulling off her socks, she placed her bare feet on the floorboards, feeling the rough surface against her heels, wishing she could push them straight into the earth. She had an overwhelming urge to ground herself. To remember who she was.
‘A warrior,’ her father barked. ‘You’re a warrior, Jael.’
And smiling, welcoming his voice, Jael lay back on the bed, closing her eyes, trying to remember his face as he stood before her in the training ring, glaring down at her. Trying to encourage her, motivate her, prepare her.
So many times she had wanted to give up, but he’d never let her.
Countless times he’d pushed her into a situation she thought she wasn’t ready for. And she’d never let him down.
‘You’re a warrior, Jael,’ Ranuf growled. ‘And now it’s time to fight.’
There were boxes everywhere, lids discarded now as Draguta dug into each one. She had faint memories of the contents of some. Strong memories of others.
What she was looking for was tiny.
It was the key to their attack on Helsabor. And despite her earlier confidence, Draguta was starting to wonder if someone had come into the tomb and helped themselves to it. But who?
Had those revolting Followers known about this place?
Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, though. But where was it?
‘You!’ she shouted at Ballack who was edging towards the stairs, wanting to find some air. ‘Get back here and do some digging for me. And you!’ she grumbled at Brill who looked just as uncomfortable as she tried to suppress a cough. ‘A box is missing. It must have been put inside something else. It’s not large.’ She was muttering, almost under her breath. Taegus had given it to her. A prize, he had promised. The perfect weapon. He wanted her to have it.
She had to find it.
‘Keep looking!’ Draguta screamed. ‘I must have it! Hurry!’
Morana could hear Dragmall snoring through the wall. She was certain that Briggit would be able to hear him from the castle. And though it was hard to think of Briggit without sneering, Morana had to admit that she was a surprisingly shrewd woman. Those cat-like eyes were conniving, yet careful, and Morana couldn’t see beyond them.
She wanted to.
She wanted to know why Briggit was so confident that she could defeat Draguta. Morana had seen what Draguta did to Yorik and his Followers, though her attack on them had been a surprise. This time they would know.
They would be waiting.
The crash of thunder that shook the house was louder than Dragmall, and Morana was grateful for some respite from his hideous noise. Thinking of Dragmall reminded her of the prophecy, and she wondered if the old volka was right. Could it be that what Briggit had in her possession was no more than a story? Something masquerading as the true prophecy?
And if that were so, then Morana needed a plan.
A way to survive whatever Draguta intended to throw at them.
Draguta sighed, sinking to her knees with a smile, gripping the box. It was impossibly tiny, smaller than she had remembered. She had never used it before, though she could still see the gleam in Taegus’ eyes when he had presented it to her.
The Ring of Taron.
It did not shine like the baubles worn by the ladies of Hest. It did not gleam or glimmer or catch the eye. Its plain silver setting held a large, oval, black onyx stone. Impenetrable. Dark. Deadly.
Draguta blinked, lost for a moment.
That was the last time she had seen Taegus; just before his mother, that bitch Daala, had killed him. Anger flared as she rounded on Brill. ‘Now, go!’ she snapped impatiently, wanting to be alone. ‘And take that beast with you. Leave the torch, though. I will be up soon. And then we will go and wake Meena.’
Brill hurried away, not wanting Ballack to leave without her.
Draguta didn’t hear them. She didn’t hear anything but the pounding of her heart as she held her breath and popped open the lid again, inhaling the odour of neglect, and death.
Lifting her eyes, she smiled.
And victory.
Jaeger hoped Draguta would be ready.
At her seeing circle. Watching.
She needed to be. They couldn’t get into Angard on their own.
Turning away from the wall, he headed back to his billowing tent, knowing that although his body was already vibrating with anticipation for the impending battle, he had to get some sleep. His sword arm needed rest, as did his mind. Sitting atop a horse day after day had both bored and exhausted him, wearing him down with tedium. He was ready for battle. A release from all the tension.
In his mind, at least.
Reaching his tent, Jaeger turned around to look up at the wall, stretching back his neck. He wasn’t sure that he could even see its ramparts. The storm clouds were low, dark, rolling, the wall disappearing into them.
‘My lord? This way.’
Jaeger frowned, certain he recognised the voice, rubbing his aching eyes as he walked towards it, surprised by how heavy the rain suddenly was. He didn’t hear the voice again. Nor did he hear any footsteps, but suddenly, he was entering a wood. He shook his head, convinced that he hadn’t seen a tree in Tokka since they’d arrived. He swallowed as a figure appeared before him. ‘Egil?’ Jaeger was confused, turning around, starting to panic as bare trees thickened into a lush deep-green forest, enclosing him in a grove. He could hear the sound of rushing water now, the distant hooting of owls.
And turning back around, he came face to face with his father.
‘My son,’ Haaron growled, his condescending smile bright in the moonlight.
There was no rain. No storm clouds anymore.
‘How I have missed you.’
Jaeger felt warm all over. His tunic was too tight. Too heavy. He reached up, yanking at the collar, pulling it away from his neck. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat, turning again. But when he stopped, his father was still there. ‘Get out of my way, old man. I ended you! You’re irrelevant to me now. Get out of my way!’
‘Irrelevant? Am I?’ Haaron smirked. ‘I imagine you wish that were so, Jaeger. I am dead. Your brother is dead. Berard has one arm. And Karsten is coming to kill you.’
‘He can get in line.’ Jaeger turned again.
Haaron was still there.
‘Get out of my way!’ Jaeger seethed, pushing past his father – through his father – but when he reached the trees, there was no way out. Nowhere to go.
Jaeger jerked awake, panting, looking around the tent.
‘My lord?’ His servant was bending over him, a lamp in his hand.
Jaeger could hear the rain thumping onto the tent roof, dripping through it.
‘My lord, it is time to begin.’
II
Weapons
7
Jael blinked in the darkness, wondering for a moment where she was. Turning her head to the right, she was half expecting to see Fyr perched there, watching her from the chair in the corner of her chamber.
But she was alone.
Not even the puppies were with her tonight.
Closing her eyes, she tried to fall back to sleep. From experience, she knew that if she didn’t do it quickly, her mind would wake up and then there was no chance. No chance of sleep again.
Then she saw a flash of Eadmund, and panicking, Jael opened her eyes, sensing that he was in danger. Lying perfectly still, she tried to focus on his face, hoping to see what was happening. Wanting to find him.
‘It’s too late,’ she heard him say. ‘I have to go.’
And then he was gone, and Jael blinked into the dark void of her chamber.
Alone.
‘But, my lord!’ Berrick charged out of the tent after Eadmund, cringing into the crashing storm. ‘You’ve forgotten your cloak!’ He had been trying to help prepare Eadmund for the battle, but Eadmund had been impatient, focused on leaving the tent as quickly as possible. He was still sleepy, not concentrating on getting dressed.
‘I don’t need it!’ he called, hurrying into the darkness, the rain cold on his face, eager to get to his men and far away from nagging Berrick.