by A. E. Rayne
The man wore leather armour, so to stop him quickly, she had to aim for flesh.
Jonas walked her through it.
‘Chin down. Don’t let him hit you.’
Alys ducked the slashing blade, trying to think. She swung hers back, releasing it quickly, lacking power, barely tickling the man’s waist. He seemed too amused to take her seriously, and she wanted to make that work in her favour.
‘Legs won’t hold a man up if you tear his hamstrings,’ Jonas growled.
Alys frowned, slipping on the icy street. She held her balance, shuffling out of the man’s reach, going low, aiming for his knees. And hearing him yelp, Alys skipped past him, turning, cutting his legs again, even lower. He shouted, wild with anger now.
‘Bitch! Come here, bitch!’
Magnus wanted to help, but the man’s sword was long, moving too quickly. His mother slid left and right as he cursed and spat at her, and Magnus shuffled around behind her, waiting for his opportunity.
‘Alys!’
‘Here!’ Magnus shouted, head turned up to the stormy sky, happy to hear his father’s voice for the first time in his life. ‘Help us! We’re here!’
The man noticed the shouting boy, sensing the problems he was causing. If he was going to have the woman, and now he really wanted to have the woman, he’d have to stop playing her game. ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he tried, one hand open, trying to tempt her into giving up. ‘Put down your sword, and I’ll let you go. Just drop it. There, on the ground. I won’t hurt you, darling.’
He was lying.
Alys could read his thoughts, knowing exactly what he was hoping to do to her. He would kill Magnus too, slit his throat, and the thought of that enraged her, but she took a deep breath, trying to calm down. ‘You’ll let us go?’
‘No!’ Magnus cried, hearing defeat in his mother’s voice. ‘Don’t believe him!’
Alys ignored him, dropping her sword arm, shoulders slumping. ‘Please, let us go. My son... he’s just a boy.’
‘No!’ Magnus yelled behind her. ‘Mother!’
The man smiled. ‘Drop your sword, then. Do it.’
Alys took a step towards him, nodding her head. She felt the ice beneath her boots, the snow on her tongue, and her father’s sword in her hand as the tattooed man stepped forward with confidence now, teeth gleaming.
She moved her sword into her left hand as though preparing to toss it away.
As though he had defeated her.
And throwing the sword across the ice, Alys watched it slide past him. Now her hands were free. And so was the sword.
‘No!’ Magnus screamed.
The big warrior sheathed his sword, relaxing his face. ‘That’s the way, there you go. Now we can have our fun before your boy calls everyone down on us.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come here. Come on.’
‘Keep them guessing,’ Jonas smiled. ‘You remember.’
Alys took the man’s hand, yanking him towards her. Hard.
Unbalancing him.
It had been perilously slippery where she was standing, and the man’s boots immediately skidded away from him. Releasing his hand, Alys let him fall, running, sliding towards her sword. And quickly back on her feet, sword in hand, she spun around, watching the man rolling on the ice, hands fumbling, trying to find his swordbelt beneath his cloak. It had twisted around him, though, enclosing him like bread around a sausage, and he couldn’t. And as he rolled onto his stomach, trying to push himself off the ground, Alys stabbed her sword into his back.
She cringed, feeling muscle, scraping bone, quickly dragging it out.
Magnus was beside her, on his knees, using his knife, sticking it through the screaming warrior’s neck. The man rolled back, screaming some more, lashing out with a meaty arm, knocking Magnus over.
So Alys stabbed him through the chest.
Hands moving, mouth wrenched open, he roared, legs twitching now.
Magnus was back, ignoring those flailing arms, sensing the man weaken but wanting to make it end. Now. And leaning over, he jabbed his knife into the man’s throat, tearing flesh.
‘Alys!’ Arnon ran down the alley, Borr and Ebben behind him. ‘Alys!’ They’d been running up and down dark streets, trying to find where Magnus’ voice was coming from, getting nowhere. ‘What?’ He saw her sword hanging down by her side, Magnus leaning over the body of a dead man, knife in his hand. And he shook his head.
So did Alys.
Sheathing her bloody sword, feeling sick, she turned back for Magnus, pulling him to his feet. ‘The hall!’ she panted, nearly falling over. ‘We have to get to the hall!’
‘And what will he do? Your Gudrum?’ Sigurd snarled, feeling cross at Raf. She didn’t seem to care what she was doing or who she was hurting by helping Gudrum, but he could hear the agony of those being killed by Gudrum’s invaders. Over the raging storm, he could hear how mercilessly those men were tearing through Orvala. Sigurd was amazed to think that after so many wrong turns, he’d ended up here after all. He wondered if Alys and Magnus were in the city; if her daughter was. And he thought of Reinar, knowing how much he’d want to trade places with him.
‘You should stop thinking about your brother and worry about yourself,’ Raf warned. ‘Gudrum won’t care what you think. He won’t care about your feelings. He’s following his path towards the destiny the gods have chosen for him. I don’t decide his fate or mine!’
‘No, you don’t decide it, but you help make it come true. You’re as bad as Gudrum if you help him. You killed those people as much as he ever did!’
Raf was furious and embarrassed and surprised that Sigurd would be so mean. She stood, picking up the enormous cloak, twisting it around so she could move her legs. ‘You don’t think all men are the same?’ she cried. ‘But every man must kill to get what they want! Don’t you know that, Sigurd? Don’t you remember your father and your brother? What they’ve done to survive?’
The guards watched the dreamer, whose voice rose in anger, surprising them both.
Sigurd looked away, ignoring her, regretting feeling anything for a soulless creature like Raf. ‘My brother? You don’t know anything about my brother. You don’t know anything about me!’
‘Oh, don’t I?’ Raf hissed, bending down to him, her face almost touching his. ‘You think I don’t know about you?’ The words waited on the tip of her tongue, and they were weapons, and she could use them. But she saw a hint of those blue eyes, and her body stirred. So, shaking her head, she stepped away, forcing all thoughts of Sigurd Vilander out of her mind as she swept her cloak around her tiny body, disappearing into the trees.
Arnon led them back to the hall, Borr beside him. Alys followed with Magnus, shaking more than ever. She had barely stopped shaking since she’d dived into the water after her mother.
How long ago had that been?
There was fighting in the main street. It was wide and long, like Slussfall’s square, and hundreds of men were locked together in knots, swords and axes swinging from one side to the other, blades clanging. Sverri was yelling at them from a stool at the top of the hall steps. He was firing arrows, protected by rows of shields. Archers flanked him, and they were nocking arrows with speed, trying to dent the impetus of their attackers.
‘We can’t get in!’ Arnon yelled, eyes on Alys.
‘We can go around the side! To the kitchen! We have to. Lotta’s in there!’
‘Only way in is to fight our way through!’ Borr shouted over the noise. ‘What else are we going to do?’
Alys turned her head, sensing that someone was coming. Men were turning their own heads, hearing a building roar in the distance, and she knew that they had to hurry. ‘Let’s go!’ And grabbing Magnus’ hand, she dragged him towards the seething battle.
Mirella searched the darkness, looking for Tarl.
She felt the warmth of Lotta’s small hand, and it pushed her forward, through Orvala’s open gates, down the path that led into the forest, and then she was in the snow, l
istening to hooves pounding the snowy earth.
The beat of war drums echoed in the distant corners of her mind.
It wasn’t that.
It was horses, of that she was certain.
‘An interesting choice you have made, Mirella,’ came the voice.
She turned in surprise, seeing a figure emerge from behind a tree.
Just the hint of a shape. A man.
A god.
‘To have trusted Alari? And Eskvir?’ the god mocked, his voice full of amusement. ‘And yet you could have chosen a different path. The right one.’
‘Your path?’ Mirella hissed, knowing that voice all too well. ‘Do you think yours is the righteous path, Thenor, Goddess Killer?’
The disrespect in her voice enraged Thenor, but Mirella Vettel had been betrayed by Alari, and it was always wise to befriend your enemy’s enemy. ‘I think we all make mistakes, god or human. We are flawed, every one of us. Do you think you are without fault? That you have lived a life without mistakes? Without regrets?’
Mirella wanted to find Tarl.
‘Tarl Brava is no king!’
She moved forward, trying to focus, willing Thenor away.
‘He murders women and children. He tears down that which displeases him on a whim. Alari is doing you a favour. Something I never thought I’d say! She is giving you an opportunity to change course before it’s too late.’ Thenor walked out of the trees now, approaching the dreamer. ‘You were not born this way, Mirella. It was never your destiny to become Alekka’s most dangerous enemy.’
‘Your Alekka, not mine. My Alekka is one that is whole. One where the gods assume their rightful place again. Where the kings are chosen by those gods that remain.’
‘Remain?’ Thenor froze, hearing something in her voice.
‘You have your own dreamer, as I know all too well, so do not seek my insight. I have no desire to share it with you.’
Thenor dropped his shoulders, feeling oddly powerless. ‘And you will carry on regardless, Mirella? Now that Alari has destroyed your plans?’
She turned as she passed him. ‘I don’t deny losing this battle, but I will win the coming war.’ And without looking back, she strode off into the darkness.
39
Ulrick was sure that he should be shaking from the cold, but he felt hot all over. He opened his mouth as he rode, enjoying the snow on his tongue. Fear kept him alert. Fear and the desire to be ready for whatever Tarl Brava needed.
The lord was spurred on by rage. By fear of loss.
He didn’t want to lose his city, his wife, his unborn son.
His dreams of becoming a king.
They were all motivating him, Ulrick knew, but most of all, he sensed that Tarl wanted to see his dreamer. He curled his aching hands around the reins, feeling how tight they were becoming in his leather gloves, knowing that his fingers were swelling. He’d punched more than one man, hitting bone, breaking noses, cracking jaws. Though the pain in his hands was less demanding than the fear in his heart, which spurred him on through the trees.
They had spent four days riding away from Orvala, and now they had no time at all to get back.
Magnus clung to his mother, squeezing her hand, reminded of trying to flee Slussfall with Jonas. He wanted to see his great-grandfather. Vik and Leonid too. He hoped they were all safe. And realising that his tired mind was drifting, he thought of Lotta, who they had to get into the hall to protect. Bad things happened to women and girls when cities and forts fell. He knew that.
They had to hurry.
‘This way!’ Borr cried, pushing through a throng of brawling men, fists flying.
‘Watch out!’ Alys yelled, her voice lost beneath a clap of thunder, which shook the ground they stood on. She looked on in horror as Borr was felled by an axe to the back of the head. Arnon spun around, motioning for Alys to follow him, not noticing that Ebben had stopped, rushing to his father.
Arnon slipped through the crowd of battling warriors, snow in his eyes, sword arm by his side, not wanting to fight anyone. He didn’t want to draw attention to them by causing trouble, though it was almost impossible to get through unscathed, and he was quickly knocked sideways, slipping, falling against a man who turned with a grunt, punching him in the face. Arnon staggered back, mouth filling with blood, ready with his sword, but the man was taken in the neck by a thudding arrow, gone in a heartbeat. ‘Come on!’ he yelled, leading Alys and Magnus towards the side of the hall.
Alys wanted to turn back for Ebben, but she thought of Lotta, knowing that she had to get inside. She could hear Sverri screeching and cursing at everyone from his stool, and she dragged Magnus after his father, slipping around the jostling warriors, swerving out of the path of blades, images of the man she had killed flashing before her eyes. She could feel Magnus’ terror, and shutting away her own fears, she looked up, seeing that Arnon had found the alley that led to the kitchen door.
Mirella broke out of her trance, memories of the icy water quivering her body anew.
‘Mirella?’ Bergit had been watching her, and she was on her feet quickly. ‘You need a fur. Something to warm you up. After being in that water?’ She turned towards the chairs she had been sitting on with Solveigh, reaching for a fur, but Mirella brushed her aside.
‘What I must do is greet our conquerors!’ she announced, glancing around the hall, ignoring the surprised faces. ‘Those men have overwhelmed us. Gudrum’s men. Helped by the Goddess of Magic herself. We stand no chance of defeating them now. Any resistance will only deplete our forces and risk our lives.’ Mirella strode towards the doors, nodding for the guards to open them as she reached for Lotta’s hand. ‘You will do as I say. All of you. Especially you, Solveigh. Whether you wish to live or die, you will do as I say now, for those men will not treat you kindly without my help. Know that.’ Mirella spun around suddenly, surprised to see Alys and Magnus rushing down the corridor with a bloody-faced Arnon. Her eyes dropped to the sword in Alys’ hand, and she blinked. ‘Hide that sword, and stay in here, all of you. I must talk to this Gudrum.’ Alys hesitated, and Mirella sensed her resistance, so she let go of Lotta, who ran to her mother, too relieved to speak as she fell into her arms.
Waiting while two of Sverri’s men pulled the barricades away from the doors, Mirella tidied her hair, smoothing down her dress, focusing her thoughts. And when the doors were open, she stepped outside. ‘Sverri!’ she shouted over the noise. ‘Call back your men! We must surrender!’
Bow in hand, Sverri turned to her, mouth gaping open in horror. ‘What? But we can hold the hall! We can!’
‘For what purpose, man? We must surrender and save our men!’ Bending down, Mirella whispered in his ear.
Sverri listened, eventually nodding, eyes full of doubt. ‘Fall back!’ he cried through gritted teeth. ‘Fall back to me! Swords down and fall back!’
Mirella straightened up, aware that Gudrum was coming, and taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin.
Smiling.
Ilmar came back for Sigurd and Raf.
Raf had remained in the trees, not wanting to be near Sigurd, still mad at him.
And Sigurd was happy about that, still mad at her.
But with Ilmar’s arrival, Raf had returned, and now she walked in silence beside Sigurd, the two of them hanging back from Ilmar and the guards, who were leading them towards the city wall at a quick pace.
‘You need to be careful,’ Raf whispered, eyes on Ilmar’s back. ‘Your only value to Gudrum is that gold. But now he’s captured Orvala, he might not care so much about it.’
That was a worry.
‘I can try to escape,’ Sigurd whispered back. ‘If you help me.’ He hesitated to tell her that he wanted her to come with him, but despite everything, he did.
She ignored him, walking faster now, not wanting to encourage that sort of talk. ‘Your brother will come. I’ve seen him here, with you. The sea is frozen, so he must come overland now, but he’s making his way here. And your friends. T
hey will come too.’
Sigurd stopped as Ilmar turned back to them.
‘Hurry up! You want all the ale gone when we get there? Come on!’
‘My friends? Where are they?’
But Raf hurried ahead of Sigurd, deciding to catch up with Ilmar.
Gudrum was surprised by how easy it had all been, though Raf had seen his success, so perhaps he shouldn’t have been?
He sheathed his bloody sword, leaping up the steps towards the statuesque woman, who didn’t look like the lord’s wife. She was older, and though not unattractive, she wasn’t the dark-haired beauty Raf had seen in her dreams. ‘You’re the dreamer!’ he announced with a grin, settling on an explanation. ‘Though not a very good one if you couldn’t see us coming!’
Mirella felt the sting of Gudrum’s words, though despite all eyes turning to her, she showed no reaction. ‘It appears not.’
‘Yet you are wise enough to see that you’re beaten. That your lord is defeated.’
‘Our lord is not here, so we know nothing about what has befallen him. Your friends have stopped me seeing anything, so I can only assume that he will discover your betrayal himself and return with haste.’
Gudrum laughed, liking the woman already. ‘You’ll be waiting a long time, I promise you, for my dreamer has seen his death! She has seen his fallen body, buried beneath the snow, mourned by his loyal men. Oh yes, your sight may be impaired, but my dreamer has seen it all!’ He glanced around. ‘And where’s the lady? Solveigh? I want to lay my eyes on her great beauty. If she pleases me, perhaps I’ll make her my wife? She can retain her title and her place in my hall!’ Gudrum looked past Mirella, but she stood alone, apart from a tiny man who hovered by her side. ‘And you are?’
‘The head of Lord Tarl’s garrison,’ Sverri said loudly. ‘We surrender Orvala to you, my lord.’
Mirella could hear the seething anger in Sverri’s voice. She felt it herself. After all her hard work, to have been humiliated so resoundingly by this grinning fool?
