Kings of Fate A Prequel Novella

by A. E. Rayne

  Kings of Fate

  The Furyck Saga : A Prequel Novella

  A.E. Rayne

  Books by A.E. Rayne

  Winter’s Fury (Book 1)

  The Burning Sea (Book 2)

  Night of the Shadow Moon (Book 3)

  Hallow Wood (Book 4)

  The Raven’s Warning (Book 5)

  Vale of the Gods (Book 6)

  The Furyck Saga (Books 1-3)

  Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Winter’s Fury: Chapter One

  CHARACTERS

  About A.E. Rayne

  Prologue

  The figure in the dark-brown cloak was tall.

  A woman, Eydis thought, studying her closely as she approached.

  Dark hair hung down to the middle of her back, the sides finely braided, tied with thin leather thongs.

  Her cloak flapped away from her, and the woman turned, eyes on the muddy hill that ran down to the black stone beach. Those eyes were full of angry fire.

  She didn’t look happy.

  Reaching inside her cloak, she wrapped her right hand around the hilt of a sword, and Eydis saw her straighten a pair of broad shoulders and jut out her chin. She had a serious face; attractive; strong. Her nose was straight and determined; her eyes intensely green. Eydis noticed a scar running under her right eye, and she blinked, suddenly intimidated. Looking down, she saw that the woman was wearing brown trousers tucked into mud-splattered boots, which she dug into the stones as if trying to disappear beneath them.

  Flurries of snow blew across the beach, though in her dream, Eydis could not feel the chill of that bitter wind. But the woman could. She shivered, reluctantly releasing her hold on the sword, gathering her thin-looking cloak around her. She wasn’t dressed for Oss, Eydis thought, watching the woman narrow her eyes until her frown left a deep indentation between her eyebrows, before sighing and starting the long walk across the slippery stones, towards the hill.

  Eydis watched her go, holding her breath as the wind cried a painful song around her.

  As the gods came to watch them both.

  1

  Jael Furyck could never decide who she hated more.

  Her wet hair dripped onto her plate, soaking a lump of mashed turnips, though she didn’t care; she detested turnips. Her green eyes were fixed on the men sitting at the high table: her uncle, Lothar the Usurper, a bloated, scheming old crook; his son, Osbert, a weasely leech. Gant Olborn was there too, neither scheming nor weasely, but the man who had helped them both take Brekka away from her younger brother, Axl, after their father’s death. And though Axl did not appear to be turning into a man worthy of that throne any time soon, he was still the one her father had chosen to rule Brekka.

  Two years since Ranuf Furyck’s death and Jael still couldn’t let it go.

  She doubted she ever would, not while Lothar sat on the throne, destroying everything her father had worked so hard to build.

  ‘You want to go?’ Aleksander had nudged Jael, but she appeared in a dream, staring at the high table. He didn’t blame her, but it wouldn’t help any of them to live in the past.

  It was long gone now.

  Jael spun around, surprised to see him there. But Aleksander was usually beside her – in the hall, the training ring, in their bed – when he wasn’t off hunting. They’d been inseparable since they were children. Since Aleksander’s parents had been killed, and he’d been raised by her own. Jael frowned, dark eyebrows sharp. ‘May as well. I’d rather be in that shit cottage than sitting here for Lothar’s entertainment. Biddy’s better company, and a much better cook.’ She turned back to the high table, still surprised not to see her father up there, a moody scowl on his weathered face. He had been the most famous man in Osterland, a man strong enough in character and skill to have commanded Brekka for thirty years with no real challenge to his reign. His sudden death had left a void that someone as empty as Lothar could never fill.

  Jael threw back the last of her ale and adjusted her sword belt. ‘Let’s go.’

  Lothar’s eyes followed her as she pushed her way through the flame-lit hall, heading for the doors, his moist lips wrinkling with displeasure. His temperamental niece continued to be a nagging problem. If only he could think of how to get rid of her without damaging his own standing. The people of Brekka would not tolerate her sudden demise, not at his hands at least. No, he had to remain far removed from whatever tragedy eventually befell the only daughter of his dead brother. Lothar reached for another oyster, slipping it into his quivering mouth, eyes still on his niece who had stopped by the giant smoke-stained doors, watching as they opened. And ushered in by a surprisingly cold gust of wind, came a tall, burly man swathed in a hooded cloak, dark-grey beard dripping, four men following behind him, the doors scudding closed after them all.

  The man threw back his wet hood, yellow-tinged brown eyes gleaming as they fixed on the king in the distance. ‘My lord!’ he called, striding towards the fire which beckoned warmth and light before him. It was late summer, though it appeared that winter was already flexing its muscles, for the chill of the evening had seeped into his bones, and he couldn’t stop his teeth chattering like an old woman.

  Jael stumbled back in surprise, banging into Aleksander who grabbed her arms, feeling her body tense.

  The man held his hands to the dancing flames of the fire, turning around, his gaze briefly on Jael. His smile grew as he ran a hand over his wet hair which was darker than his beard; recently cut short to get rid of a bad case of lice. He turned back around, eager for those crackling flames.

  His equally bedraggled, shivering men fanned out around the fire pit behind him, wet hands extended, hungry eyes skipping from the flames to the trays of salted herring and oysters being delivered to the high table.

  ‘Gudrum!’ Lothar struggled to his feet, surprised but pleased to see his old friend.

  ‘Lothar!’ Gudrum poured himself a cup of ale and headed for the high table, draining it quickly, ignoring the scowl he could feel following him.

  He didn’t turn around.

  He had seen that face in his mind for years.

  That bitch’s face.

  Let her stew, he thought. Let her wonder.

  And slamming his cup down on the table, he opened his arms and strode towards the King of Brekka.

  Jael watched Lothar embrace him. The noise in the hall, momentarily quietened by the surprise arrival, was suddenly loud again, and she could feel Aleksander tugging her arm, attempting to drag her out the door.

  Gudrum clapped Gant on the back as he squeezed onto the bench beside him, next to Lothar who returned to his high-backed, fur-lined chair. ‘It’s been a long time, old friend,’ he grinned, showing off a full set of teeth, cramped tightly together, even yellower than his eyes. His round face was still dripping with rain, and grabbing a used napkin from the table, Gudrum wiped it over his hairy round cheeks, rubbing his beard. He threw the cloth back on the table and smiled, taking in the familiar sight of Andala’s King’s Hall.

  Ten years since he’d last been here. Ten years of imagining this moment.

  Gant’s smile was slow to arrive, but he could see Lothar watching him, so he bit down on his distaste and made an effort. Though he had grown up with Gudrum, the man was no friend of his; never had been. He was useful with a sword – more than useful, he admitt
ed grudgingly – but Gant had always doubted the strength of his character. Though, staring at the hall doors as Jael and Aleksander disappeared outside, he knew that he was the last one to talk, sitting alongside Lothar the Usurper as he was.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ Lothar wondered, flicking a chubby finger at his harried steward who struggled over, slopping two jugs of ale onto the table. ‘Or is this my long overdue visit you’ve been promising for years?’

  ‘Ha!’ Gudrum’s thick shoulders relaxed, his body sinking towards the table. He was a sizeable man, still in his prime, lethal with a sword, with a knife, with any weapon he could lay his hands on. He killed, could kill, would kill for the right price. And he had. And over the years he’d become a wealthy man, though he’d grown bored with serving kings. First, Ranuf Furyck, then Hugo Vandaal in Iskavall, and though Lothar had wanted him by his side in Andala, Brekka’s capital, he was ready to forge a new path now. To find his own seat of power across the sea.

  But there was just one thing he needed to attend to first.

  ‘I wanted to see you, of course,’ Gudrum grinned, the lines of his grizzled face deep like the folds in a cloth. A thick scar ran down from his receding hairline, through his left eyebrow just past the corner of his eye. ‘Ramon Vandaal has no use for my services any longer, which is no surprise, of course. Ravenna never liked me. She was always in his ear, despite the best efforts of your sweet daughter, so he let me go.’

  Lothar sat up in surprise, readjusting his straining belt. He saw his youngest daughter, Amma, emerge from behind the grey curtain that separated the hall from the bedchambers, though he didn’t acknowledge her as he turned back to Gudrum. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I hold no grudge against the boy. He’s weak and spineless, and knowing Ollsvik as we both do, he’ll soon be dead,’ Gudrum growled with some satisfaction, eyes on the tray of oysters Lothar was picking at, his cold lips moist with hunger. ‘I shall set my own course now. See where the wind takes me. As long as it’s far away from Osterland, I’ll be happy. I’ve enough bad memories here to never need to see the place again. ’

  Lothar’s worry about his son-in-law was quickly surpassed by his curiosity. ‘You’re taking a ship?’

  Gudrum nodded.

  Osbert coughed, gagging, a fishbone stuck in his throat. He was just as curious about Gudrum’s plans as his father, though neither man had even acknowledged him yet.

  Lothar frowned, irritated by Osbert’s coughing, though his attention remained on Gudrum. ‘A ship to where?’

  ‘Up north. Alekka to start with, maybe further, up into The Murk.’

  ‘That far?’ Gant bent forward, finally intrigued himself. ‘It’s a bit wild up there, isn’t it?’ He filled his cup, offering the ale jug to Gudrum who took it with a nod, filling his own.

  Gudrum scanned the hall, checking on his men who’d helped themselves to stools around the fire, and were now being attended to by Lothar’s servants. He sat back with a shrug. ‘Free, you mean. Plenty of opportunities for a man to make a name for himself. Land, land, and more land! All for the taking. If you’ve got enough coins and skilled men with weapons, you can make a fortune. Make your own rules.’

  ‘If you can stomach the cold! You’ll have balls the size of peas!’ Lothar snorted, slapping Osbert on the back, desperate to shut him up. ‘Balls the size of peas, and cannibals looking to serve them up for supper!’

  ‘Ha!’ Gudrum’s laugh was a low rumble in his belly. ‘You believe those tales, old friend?’ He ran a hand through his beard, wringing water onto the floor. ‘Tales to scare children, not men. Not men with swords and axes. Men who’ve been knee-deep in blood since they were weaned from their mother’s tit.’

  Lothar saw the hungry look in Gudrum’s eyes, and he felt a twinge, not wanting a warrior that hard and sharp to slip through his fingers again. He had tried without luck to lure him back to Andala when he’d made his move on the throne. He’d wanted Gudrum beside him then, helping him push back against Jael and any resistance she would mount against his rule. Though, in truth, she had offered little. Nothing of any substance. Not yet, at least. ‘So, how long will you be staying, then? Long enough for me to change your mind, perhaps?’

  Gudrum laughed. ‘You think you can change my mind, Lothar Furyck? I wish you the luck of the gods trying! I’ll stay a couple of days. Enough time to sort a few things out.’ His eyes were up, watching the doors swing open. A small man he recognised skulked in, dripping hood hanging low, face hidden in flame-tipped shadows. Tiras. How that snivelling worm was still alive was anyone’s guess. Though a snivelling worm was the perfect spy for a slug king. He smiled at Lothar. ‘But enough about me, old friend. How are things with you?’

  Gant heard Lothar belch in response before dipping his head towards Gudrum, lowering his voice. If he’d wanted to, Gant could have tried to hear what he was saying. No doubt something about Jael. About Aleksander and Axl.

  He sighed, grey eyes skipping past Lothar and Gudrum to Osbert who had recovered from his choking fit, and was now busy molesting one of the servants whose eyes were dull with resignation as his hand slipped inside the bodice of her worn dress. Gant clenched his jaw, knowing there was little he could do about that. Lothar both despised and enabled his only son. He would never take anyone’s side against him; not his precious heir, the one who would rule after his death, whenever that might be.

  Gant tried to clear his mind, but a storm of memories swirled around him with ever-increasing ferocity. He saw Tiras, who had crept around the bed-lined walls of the hall, edging his way behind the dais and Lothar’s chair, where he waited in the shadows.

  Gant felt his shoulders creeping up to his ears, wrenched with discomfort.

  Wondering what Jael was going to do about Gudrum.

  ‘You can’t do anything about Gudrum!’ Aleksander insisted, dark eyes glowing like coal in the flames.

  Their servant, Biddy, fussed around the fire, trying not to burn her fingers as she readjusted the logs, hoping to encourage more light in their miserable cottage. Sparks flew. ‘There’s barely enough room to sneeze in this box,’ she grumbled, rubbing a sooty hand across a furrowed brow. Biddy had her bed fur wrapped around her shoulders, so there was only a threadbare sheet covering the straw-stuffed mattress on her tiny bed. She sat down with a thump, listening to the straw crackle beneath her.

  With Jael and Aleksander eating in the hall, she had not bothered to make much supper for herself; just a few slices of cheese and some stale crispbreads. Her stomach rumbled in protest, though, so she bent to look under her bed, hoping she still had a few plums ferreted away.

  Jael ignored her, wobbling on her stool, trying to ignore Aleksander too. ‘Gudrum came back for me,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve no choice but to do something about him.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Aleksander said, watching the scar under Jael’s eye twitch as she grew more incensed. ‘He’s thick with Lothar. Has been since he left Andala. He was his man in Ollsvik. Perhaps he’s just come for a visit?’

  ‘Ha! Thick with Lothar? And he’s only coming to see him now?’ Jael ran a hand through one of her braids, trying to unravel it. The wind had tangled her hair into a bramble bush, and she needed to get a comb through it before it became impossible. ‘No, he’s here because of me. You know that.’

  ‘Why?’ Biddy sat up, nibbling an over-ripe plum, suddenly interested in their conversation. ‘Why does Gudrum want you?’ She was slightly older than Jael’s mother, Gisila, though she felt like an old woman already. Her aches and pains seemed to multiply with each passing day, and her mind was struggling to keep afloat as their lives continued to sink. Day by day, bit by bit, Lothar and his vile son were working to make everything untenable, wanting to provoke a reaction. Biddy didn’t know how much more Jael could take. Or Axl. Especially Axl. It was his throne Lothar was squatting on. His kingdom that Lothar was using to enrich himself.

  How much longer would it be before Jael or Axl did something to get themsel
ves killed?

  ‘You don’t remember?’ Aleksander wondered, turning around to Biddy whose brown curls bounced around a worn face.

  Biddy frowned, eyes widening as memories flickered. ‘His boy? What was his name? Ronal? He’s the one who killed Asta!’

  Jael nodded, running a whetstone down her long blade. The sword had been her father’s – the Furyck sword – passed down through generations of kings, and now to her. Ranuf may have inexplicably left Axl his throne, but he had, at least, left her his sword. ‘And now Gudrum’s come for me. And what am I going to do about that?’ She looked up, staring into Aleksander’s eyes, searching for some clue as to what he thought.

  They were so close that they usually knew what the other was thinking.

  ‘Nothing,’ Aleksander insisted, dark hair falling over an angular face, jaw working hard as he leaned towards the flames, warming his hands. ‘We’re only safe here for now. Lothar chooses to let you live, you and Axl, until he doesn’t. You do something now, you risk both your lives. Gisila and Edela. Biddy. All of us.’

  Jael’s chin was throbbing where he’d punched her earlier during training. Her boots were wet through and, in the rundown cottage where the wind was whistling through gaps in the crumbling wattle-and-daub walls, and the rain was dripping down the smoke hole splashing the flames, she felt cold, though her body vibrated with anger.

  Gudrum Killi thought he would come for her.

  Now?

  After all these years?

  She swept the whetstone down her blade again, watching its sharp edge glint in the spitting flames.