Queens of the Sea

by Kim Wilkins

  ‘Is King Renward expecting us?’ Ash asked.

  ‘He’s barely a king,’ Bluebell replied with a sneer. ‘He’s a warlord. The tribes have never united under him for any length of time.’

  ‘He calls himself a king,’ Ash reminded her.

  Bluebell gestured to the rough wooden structure ahead of them, stained by smoke and damp. ‘He calls this a hall. I imagine little joy or honour in being king of Bradsey. One may as well be king of the fog. Yet he is expecting us, which means good food and ale once we are in dry clothes. Come.’

  Ash glanced back to Sighere, who was giving orders to the stewards and did not see her. She hurried to keep up with Bluebell’s long stride, nearly slipping. The air was grainy with mist and damp. Some places in Thyrsland were beautiful in autumn; Bradsey was always bleak.

  The door to the hall slammed open and Renward stepped out, beaming, arms open, three or four ragged children in his wake, as there always were. Renward was famed for his appetites and for happily adopting every bastard child he managed to father. He had no wife, but nearly a dozen heirs, most of them half-bloods.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the king of Ælmesse,’ he said, engulfing Bluebell in a hug.

  ‘Renward,’ Bluebell said, through a mouthful of his long, wild hair.

  He stood back and then grabbed Ash. She submitted to his greeting, even though it felt like her ribs were cracking beneath him. He smelled of smoke and sweat and sheep grease. When he released her she staggered back a step. ‘Greetings, King Renward,’ she said. The children surrounded them, and a little red-haired girl of about four grasped Ash’s hand and began to babble at her happily. Ash couldn’t understand a word.

  ‘Go on, away with you all. Leave King Bluebell and Princess Ash alone,’ Renward said, scattering them gently. ‘A new addition,’ Renward explained. ‘Grew up with the Gwr-y-Corcumbos. We’ll teach her how to be one of us, never fear.’

  Renward had lived so long among the Ærfolc tribes that he was fluent in their language, and knew all their unpronounceable tribal names. He seemed to have genuine fondness and admiration for these conquered people who refused to be brought entirely under his rule.

  Bluebell looked at him sharply. ‘Gwr-y … is that Rathcruick’s tribe?’

  ‘No. “Men of the small valley”. We also call them Coombers,’ Renward explained as he led them into a small stone chamber adjoining the hall on one side, and the largest bowerhouse on the other. The chamber was dark and smelled like lime. ‘Rathcruick’s lot are “men of the many oaks”. Gwr-y-Derileor. You’d know them as Woodlanders.’

  ‘I know them as fuckers,’ Bluebell muttered as Renward opened the door to the bower. It was warm and well lit, with sheepskins rolled neatly on the beds.

  ‘You really should learn some of the language. It’s the language of Thyrsland’s history,’ Renward said.

  ‘You’ve always been too close to the Ærfolc,’ Bluebell said.

  ‘On the contrary, they think I’m too close to you. Your room, my ladies,’ he said with a bow and a flourish. ‘Water is boiling over the fire as you see, and somebody will be along presently to help you bathe and dress.’

  ‘I need ale,’ Bluebell said.

  ‘Oh, but of course. Tonight there will be a feast in your honour, Bluebell.’ He leaned in close. ‘We are making your favourite dish.’

  ‘The deer in honey sauce?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Renward,’ Bluebell said, her grudging tone falling away.

  ‘So are you!’ Renward exclaimed with a mighty slap on Bluebell’s shoulder. Bluebell didn’t flinch. A moment later, Renward had left and closed the door.

  Ash sat on one of the low beds and eased off her shoes. Bluebell was already stripping off, dropping her tunic and trousers on the clean rushes.

  ‘Are you worried about the Ærfolc?’ Ash asked.

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘Undermagicians are tied to them. They use the Ærfolc magic.’ The Horse God’s favour had marked Bluebell so strongly that travelling in the magic wastelands of Bradsey was dangerous to her.

  ‘I am not worried about undermagicians either,’ Bluebell said. ‘I have you.’

  ‘I don’t know that I am much use to you at the moment,’ Ash said.

  ‘Nonsense. It will be fine.’

  ‘Bluebell, it’s not fine.’

  ‘Stop worrying. Tonight, and then one more day’s ride and we will be back in Ælmesse. I’ll be safe until then.’

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  ‘I am always right,’ Bluebell said. ‘I am going to enjoy my bath and my honeyed deer and my ale, and in a few days we will be back home in Blicstowe.’ A shadow crossed her face, and Ash suspected she was thinking about her fallen companions.

  Ash stood and took her sister’s hand. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t predict it,’ she said.

  ‘Prophecy is not one of your gifts. You’ve said so many times,’ Bluebell replied.

  ‘Still,’ Ash said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Bluebell grimaced. ‘Yes, well. So am I.’

  If there was one thing that northerners were good at, it was warming a dank, cold place. Renward’s hall, in the style of most halls this close to the border of the Ice-Heart, had a low roof for trapping the warmth, supported by a network of rough-hewn beams from which were hung charms: bird skulls and fox paws and feathers and shells. A dome-shaped earthen hearth sat at either end, and a blazing roasting pit in the middle. The smoke escaped slowly, and so the room was hazy and hot. Bluebell would barely have believed the wild, rain-laden wind still blew outside, if it weren’t for the howl of it across the smoke hole and the occasional violent rattle of the thatching.

  She knew she was drinking too much ale too fast, but on the other side of the yeasty curtain of ale, a quiet mind awaited.

  She sat among Renward’s thanes and family, and his unruly children ran about in all directions, as dirty and underfoot as rats but not as sensible. A tall, skinny one with bony knees poking out below a too-short tunic. A sullen teenage girl with hair the colour of burnished copper. A small group of overly energetic boys who larked about in so many places at once that it took Bluebell at least half an hour to realise there weren’t twelve of them. One hapless fatty straining against his clothes, whom two smug-faced others teased by poking his soft belly and arms. A sweet-faced red-haired boy of no more than three, who babbled incessantly to Bluebell while thrusting a puppy into her lap over and over. Hyld growled at him out of protective instinct or envy or perhaps both.

  Bluebell kept drinking. Renward eventually tired of the red-haired poppet and ordered him away. Hyld, relieved, rested her big head on her paws and went back to sleep under Bluebell’s bench.

  ‘You need a wife,’ Bluebell said.

  ‘I don’t trust women,’ he said, then gave her a smile. ‘I don’t mean you.’

  Bluebell shrugged. She certainly didn’t trust Renward. It was the way of kings not to trust one another.

  A band played across the other side of the hall, strange stomping music with reedy pipes and a harp that sounded like ice singing. Bluebell watched them idly, then saw Sighere pull away from her other thanes, head down, and slip out the door. A sliver of cold, damp air fell into the room and was absorbed by the fires.

  ‘Look, you,’ Bluebell said, leaning into Renward. ‘My first thane, Sighere, has left the hall.’

  ‘Do you want somebody to go fetch him?’ Renward asked.

  ‘No. I want you to watch my sister Ash, who sits with the healers and priests near the northern end of the hall.’

  Renward turned his gaze.

  ‘Give her two minutes. Perhaps five. She will go too.’

  ‘Are they …?’

  ‘They are.’ Bluebell laughed. ‘And they think I do not know, so they sneak about like naughty children.’

  Renward’s grin split his bearded face. ‘My lord, you are cruel. They are in love, then?’

  ‘They had better be. Sigh
ere ought not tup my sister if he doesn’t love her.’ She took a gulp of ale, pointedly looking away from Ash. ‘Is she going?’

  ‘As you predicted, my lord Bluebell,’ Renward said with a chuckle. ‘She has glanced your way, and is now hurrying to the door.’

  Bluebell felt the brief shiver of cold, then heard the door close.

  ‘You do not mind their romance?’ Renward asked.

  ‘Not in the least. It makes me happy. I can think of no braver man in all of Thyrsland.’

  ‘Then why make them suffer with sneaking and guilt?’

  ‘For my amusement,’ Bluebell said, and Renward laughed until spittle flew from his lips.

  Bluebell banged her empty cup on the table and one of the servants filled it, a small fellow with white skin and pale grey eyes, and hair the colour of carrot soup. The band finished playing and as they collected their instruments to leave, a man’s voice came booming over the crowd.

  ‘Hear me! For I have a tale to tell!’

  The chatter immediately died away. Renward said close to Bluebell’s ear, ‘This is Armax, our finest tale-teller.’

  Bluebell turned to see Armax approaching. ‘Oh, he is fine,’ she murmured. Tall and well built, stripped to the waist, his muscular torso and arms painted with decorative woad. Golden hair and moustache, and a flaming red beard in two neat plaits secured with silver beads.

  He came to stand in front of Renward’s table, as was the custom, but it was Bluebell whose gaze he sought. ‘This tale,’ he said, ‘is of a warrior queen so fierce and mighty that dragons quake when they hear her name.’

  Bluebell couldn’t help but smile. The story of her defeat of a dragon off the coast of Ælmesse was the most widely told tale of her deeds. She wished Ash had been here to listen.

  ‘Flatterer!’ she called to Armax, but he was away now, prowling the crowd, jumping on and off tables, acting out the story with his arms and face and hard, hard body …

  ‘You like what you see?’ Renward said to her with a leering grin.

  ‘Is it so obvious?’ she asked.

  ‘Your tongue is on your collar.’

  ‘He is hand-carved by the Horse God, surely,’ Bluebell replied.

  Armax glanced over his shoulder at her. They exchanged smiles.

  ‘Lord, I’d love to get astride that,’ she said.

  ‘I think he’d be just as pleased,’ Renward replied. ‘I can have him sent to you.’

  Bluebell sighed, shook her head. Five years ago, there was no doubt she would have. ‘I have a husband,’ she said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I once believed I would be happy to keep fucking around, until I thought of him fucking around and it made me so wild with rage I didn’t speak to him for a week and he didn’t know why.’

  ‘Hadn’t picked you for the jealous type,’ Renward said.

  ‘Nor had I.’ Damn everything. She needed to be home. She needed Snowy to take care of this ache between her legs. Bluebell pushed her cup aside and rose, then said, ‘I have to go. I can’t look at him any more.’

  Renward opened his mouth to offer her some fond, drunken insult, but then the door to the hall blasted open. Icy wind gusted in, setting all the charms on the beams dancing. A general cry went up and Armax stopped mid-tale. A bird skull loosened and fell on Bluebell’s head, bouncing onto the floor. While she was distracted, she didn’t hear the whistle of a weapon flying into the room.

  With a clatter and a thud, an axe embedded itself in the table in front of her, throwing up splinters. The axe was carved with a pattern of swirls and spirals, and the blade glowed faintly green.

  ‘What is this?’ She reached for it.

  Renward stilled her hand. ‘Don’t touch it,’ he said. ‘It is a bogle axe.’

  ‘What is a bogle axe?’

  At that instant, a huge hulking shape blocked the doorway.

  ‘An axe,’ Renward said, pointing, ‘that belongs to a bogle.’

  Armax shrieked and clambered over tables on his way to the eastern exit. Panic fumbled its way through the gathering. Women clutched children and ran, others dived under tables, as the bogle ducked through the doorway and lumbered into the room. It had a head like a rock, misshapen and huge. No, not like a rock. It was a rock. Bluebell gasped as she realised. Its enormous torso, arms and legs were fashioned from stones and branches and twigs, held together with mud and magic. It stood for a moment, hunched down under the roof beams, and turned its head this way and that. Dull black eyes blinked as if it were thinking.

  Bluebell unsheathed her sword.

  The bogle saw the movement and lunged towards her. Tables split. People scattered. Hyld barked. The bogle stepped on the roasting fire, upending the remains of the spitted deer and stomping out the flames. Bluebell climbed over her table and slashed out at the creature. It raised its mighty arm and deflected the blow. Bluebell raised the sword again and the bogle half turned so its shoulder was exposed; the Widowsmith buried itself into the bogle’s shoulder and stuck.

  Bluebell yanked as hard as she could, but the creature turned and the sword tore from her grasp. The bogle barrelled towards her, rock head slamming into her chest and crushing her into the table she had been drinking at. She gasped for air, dimly aware that Hyld snapping at the creature’s heels made no difference, that her thanes’ weapons were uselessly bouncing off its wood-and-earth back. The bogle would likely pummel her to death before they pulled it off her. Her hand flailed out, striking the bogle axe.

  She tugged. It came easily into her palm. She raised her arm, struck out wildly.

  The bogle stumbled back. Its arm, cloven clean off, dropped to the flagstones with a thud. Bluebell hefted the axe to take off its other arm, but then the bogle’s rock head fell off and smashed to the ground, narrowly missing Bluebell’s toe.

  She leapt back, cracking her arse-bones on the table, watching in shock as the bogle fell apart. Its other arm plopped to the floor, its torso dissolved, until all that was left was a pile of stones and twigs, and Bluebell’s sword.

  Bluebell realised the bogle axe was in her hand.

  Renward ran over. ‘My lord, are you all right?’

  She offered him the axe, pulse thundering in her throat. ‘Take this thing away from me.’

  Renward flinched as if burned, hands flying up in the air. ‘I will not touch it,’ he said.

  Bluebell stared at the axe between them.

  ‘And nor should you have,’ Renward continued. ‘But it is too late now.’

  Bluebell tried the door to the bower but it was latched. ‘Ash! Sister! Are you awake?’ she called, thundering on the door.

  A few moments passed, then Ash opened the door a crack and slipped out, closing it behind her. ‘Bluebell? What is it?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Let us walk then.’

  Bluebell could have laughed. It was night time, freezing drizzle blew sideways in the gusting wind, the paths between the buildings were ill lit and uneven. The only reason Ash wanted to walk was because Sighere was hiding in her bed.

  ‘I don’t need to walk,’ Bluebell said, brandishing the bogle axe. ‘This thing has attached itself to me.’ The faint green glow was only visible if her eyes were not on it directly.

  Ash considered it, wisely keeping her hands clear. ‘And how did you come by a bogle charm?’

  ‘A bogle came with it,’ Bluebell said. ‘It’s a pity you retired so early and missed the excitement.’ She shook the axe. ‘Why do you call it a charm? Renward says this thing is cursed. I don’t want to be cursed.’

  ‘Bogle charms take many forms. This is the form you were most likely to pick up. Renward’s wrong. It’s not a curse. That is, it’s not necessarily bad to pick up a bogle charm. It means something unpredictable will happen to you. That’s all.’

  ‘Unpredictable like being poisoned by undermagicians? Slain by raiders?’

  ‘The problem with unpredictable things is that they are unpredictable,’ Ash said. Then she
lowered her eyes. ‘This would not have happened if my magic was still flowing unhampered. I could have protected you.’

  ‘You weren’t in the room,’ Bluebell said, unable to keep the accusative edge from her words.

  ‘I would have been in the room. I would have been alert. Because I would have known that a bogle was coming, for certain. They are made of the natural world. I would have heard it with my blood.’

  ‘This was made by somebody,’ Bluebell said. ‘Can you see who? Renward said the only way to lift the curse is to return it to the magician who made it.’

  ‘It’s common Ærfolc magic,’ Ash said, her long dark hair gusting across her face in the wind. She scraped it back behind her ears. ‘It comes from one of the tribes, for certain. One that doesn’t like how close you and Renward have become these past few years.’

  ‘There are so many tribes,’ Bluebell said. ‘Not an inkling?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s as though my magic has had a thick blanket laid on it.’

  Bluebell’s stomach lurched. She was cursed by a bogle charm, stuck in the middle of Bradsey among the undermagicians who hated her, and Ash was of no use. For years she had wished that the burden of dark magic hadn’t fallen on her sister – her favourite sister – but now she had come to rely on it. She was a king. She couldn’t afford something unpredictable to happen to her.

  ‘Heath may know,’ Bluebell said suddenly. ‘We will go to Rose. Heath is the leader of the Moonhorns. He will recognise the axe, these carvings.’ She ran her thumb over the handle.

  ‘We should get out of Bradsey,’ Ash said.

  ‘I am cursed, sister. I will not take that curse home to Blicstowe with me.’

  Ash sighed. ‘You know you cannot rely on me any more. I pledge my heart and courage to you, but my magic is all but gone.’