Kings of Fate A Prequel Novella

by A. E. Rayne

  Jael glared at him some more.

  ‘Alright, Isaak too.’

  ‘Three against five?’ She felt tense, wanting to be the one who ripped out Gudrum Killi’s throat; not wanting to risk anyone else getting hurt for her, or her horse. ‘Might be enough.’

  ‘It will be,’ Aleksander assured her. ‘I’ll get Tig back. I’ll put Gudrum in the ground.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I will. I promise.’

  Jael thought about her father, wondering what he would do. She didn’t have to wonder for long. His voice roared in her ears. ‘Kill the bastard,’ he urged. ‘You have to kill him, Jael.’

  And smiling, Jael kissed Aleksander. ‘Be careful. You’re never as good as you think you are. Remember that.’

  Aleksander laughed, his eyes quickly turning sad. He missed the way it used to be: Ranuf and Gant, him and Jael, riding off to battle at the head of the Brekkan army. ‘Haven’t heard that in a long time.’

  ‘No, me neither, but no matter what we think of Gant anymore, it holds true. Don’t think you can beat Gudrum easily. He’s good at games, at fooling people. Remember what Gisila said? Don’t let him outthink you.’

  Aleksander nodded, wanting to get back to the kissing. ‘Biddy should be gone for a while,’ he murmured, his hand roaming up Jael’s thigh.

  ‘She will,’ Jael agreed. ‘So we’ve plenty of time to go and find Jonas and Isaak. See if we can get them on board.’

  Aleksander frowned as she slid away from him, readjusting her swordbelt with a wink as she headed for the door.

  Winter was coming.

  Eirik stood before the hall doors, enjoying the bitter whip of the wind as it slapped his leathery face. He had managed to drag Eadmund outside with him for a time, and despite no obvious signs that his son had listened to him, he had seemed slightly more sober when he’d escaped back inside.

  Eirik shivered, his mind alert now as he surveyed the storm-battered square. Most items had been packed away. The braziers, benches, and tables remained, abandoned, but the traders and their stalls were gone, all the livestock secured back into their sheds. There wasn’t a person in sight. Eirik squinted, realising that that wasn’t true, lifting a hand to Entorp Bray who struggled towards him, into the wind, thick fur cloak billowing like a sail in a squall. ‘You’re a bit late!’ he laughed as Entorp tried to get his cloak under control. ‘Think the food’s almost gone in there. We started early today!’ He clapped Entorp on the back, surprised when he sneezed.

  Entorp didn’t look bothered by the thought of missing out on the food as he wiped his nose with a cloth he’d tucked into his trousers. ‘I promised Eydis I’d come. We’re going to talk about herbs.’

  ‘Oh, well, she wouldn’t want to miss that,’ Eirik snorted, though Entorp didn’t notice as he hurried past his king. He was a serious man, odd-looking, with a shock of tufted orange hair, and tiny bones braided into his orange-and-white beard, but a good man nonetheless. A wise man, Eirik realised, grabbing his arm. ‘Wait, Entorp, what do you think about the chances of Eadmund ever finding a wife? A good wife? I’ve had no luck matchmaking, I know, but perhaps, finally, I’ve found the right woman.’ Despite the ear-splitting wail of the wind, he heard a cheer from inside the hall, and he cringed, hoping that Thorgils had a tight rein on Eadmund. ‘Perhaps.’

  Despite his warm cloak, Entorp shivered, thinking that this wasn’t the sort of conversation to have outside in a storm. He sighed, deciding that to walk delicately around the ice lake of truth would only give him frostbite. ‘Eadmund will not marry willingly, my lord. I think it, and so does Eydis, and she sees more clearly than all of us put together. You wish to find a solution to a problem, I know, but Eadmund is a man of heart. His is still broken, even now. And only he, I believe, can repair it. Eadmund and the right woman.’ Entorp snatched at his cloak again as it flapped around him. ‘The right woman at the right moment. When the gods will it. Those who are old, those who are new. They all believe that fate comes for us when it is time. We are not the masters of our destiny, no matter how much we wish to believe it isn’t so.’

  Eirik let go of Entorp’s arm, nodding slowly as the old man threw back the hood of his cloak and entered the hall. He saw the burst of orange light, smelled the stink of smoke and ale, heard the bellow of greeting, and sighing, Eirik turned after Entorp, more confused than ever.

  Evaine didn’t like the way Eadmund was looking at Orla Berras. Nor the way Orla Berras was looking at Eadmund. They were talking across the hall, standing by one of the thick carved posts that held up the leaking roof. Eadmund was leaning against it, obviously trying to hold himself up too.

  Evaine could see that.

  It was as though she knew everything about him. As though she could see inside his head, feel his pain. She was the only one who knew how to help him. If only she could get him away from the hall, back to his cottage where they could be alone.

  She could see how it was all expected to unfold.

  Alliances were always tied to marriages, and a marriage for Eadmund was all Eirik had cared about for years. He was wasting his time, though, Evaine knew. There was only one woman Eadmund was meant to be with, and it wasn’t that orange-haired wretch he was standing next to.

  Evaine shifted her gaze away from Eadmund to where Orla’s parents watched from the high table where they sat with the King of Alekka, all three of them nodding their heads, murmuring to each other in satisfied tones.

  Feeling herself panic, and not bothering to say goodbye to her mother or father, Evaine hurried for her cloak, slipping out of the hall.

  Eadmund looked up as a burst of cold air blasted inside, wondering who kept opening the doors. But, he realised, he was just trying to distract himself. He had been pushed into this conversation, and he’d spent the entire time trying to devise a plan of escape.

  Despite that, Eadmund couldn’t deny that Orla was easy to talk to. She seemed kind and welcoming, brushing past everything that felt awkward with a soft voice that had no edge to it. It was not a demanding voice, nor a playful one. She had a sense of humour and lightness about her, but she seemed content just to talk. It had almost been pleasant for a time, but now Eadmund desperately wanted ale, and his leg was shaking in irritation as he debated how quickly he could find some without looking either rude or desperate. But then he would catch himself drawn back to Orla as she laughed, her freckled nose wrinkling, teeth showing. She didn’t appear to be making an effort, and it confused him.

  He didn’t want to like her at all.

  He didn’t want a wife, but if he had to have one... if his father was never going to give up until he gave in...

  Eydis, sitting nearby, listening with interest, was frowning.

  ‘Not sure why you’re in such a bad mood,’ her father laughed, plonking himself down onto his throne, leaning over to kiss her cheek. ‘You who love your brother more than anyone. He seems happy over there. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten what that sounds like?’ Eirik’s eyes drifted away from his daughter to where Ake was watching with Hector and Cotilde Berras. He nodded his approval and Eirik sat back with a grin. ‘He does look happy, Eydis. You can smile about that, I promise.’

  But Eydis’ frown didn’t budge. ‘There’s a cloud, Father,’ she whispered, knowing that Morac was likely lurking about, listening. He always was. Eydis didn’t like him, nor did she trust him, though she would never reveal her thoughts about that to her father. Eirik’s loyalty to Morac was not something she would attempt to pry loose. Not yet.

  ‘What cloud?’ Eirik was barely listening now. He smelled roast salmon, and licking his lips, he turned to see trays being carried out of the kitchen, which was just as well as Ake had started to look a little hungry again. ‘What do you mean, a cloud? It’s a storm, Eydis, there are many clouds!’ He laughed, though his daughter’s serious face quickly sobered him, and he leaned towards her, sensing her reluctance to speak plainly.

  ‘I don’t know, Father. My dreams are hard to understand most of the time, witho
ut any training...’

  Eirik pressed his lips together, not saying any more. He knew what Eydis wanted, but he had no intention of giving it to her.

  ‘But when I see Orla Berras and her family, I see a cloud over them. A dark cloud, sinking low. I don’t have a good feeling. She will cause trouble.’

  ‘Orla?’ That wasn’t what Eirik wanted to hear, and looking at the sweet girl, it made no sense at all. He shifted his eyes to Eadmund who was glancing around, no doubt searching for something stronger than water. ‘If only you could see what I can,’ he tried to convince his daughter. ‘You would change your mind, Eydis, I know you would. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman more perfectly suited to your brother. It’s as though this was meant to be.’

  Thunder crashed overhead, and Eydis clamped her lips together. She could hear more than anyone: every lie, every unspoken wish, every desperate fear.

  She could hear more than anyone, and she could hear how much her father wanted something to change with Eadmund. They both did. But there was no joy to be found in shoving a large boulder into a tiny hole.

  A tiny hole made for a very specific, special stone.

  And Eydis felt with all her heart that Orla Berras would never be that stone.

  The night was cold, but Jael and Aleksander enjoyed the chance to escape the furtive eyes of gossiping Andalans as they slowly walked back to their cottage. Clouds hid the moon, so it couldn’t watch them either.

  It felt as though they were entirely alone.

  Aleksander put an arm around Jael’s shoulder, and she leaned into him, surprising them both. ‘You must be very cold!’ he laughed, though she didn’t appear to be shivering.

  Jael ignored him. She was always cold. It wasn’t that.

  She just felt odd.

  They didn’t leave the fort without each other. Not for a fight.

  Not ever.

  ‘You need to be careful,’ she warned. ‘Think things through. You don’t always see everything coming.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Aleksander lifted an eyebrow. ‘Never heard you say that before.’

  ‘Well, I’ve always been there, keeping you out of trouble.’

  ‘Is that so? Thought it was the other way around?’ He laughed, feeling odd himself. ‘You can’t come, so there’s no point worrying. I’ll get Tig back. And then we’ll think of a way to...’ Aleksander stopped, realising that someone was probably lurking in the shadows.

  Likely Tiras.

  Jael could sense what he’d been about to say. She was quiet, thinking about Lothar. About her father. About how sad it was that her home had become such a torturous place to be now; all her memories of her father ruined by Lothar. His presence tainting everything.

  She didn’t want to stay.

  But where would they go? And how could she walk away from Brekka?

  Though her father had not wanted her on the throne...

  Aleksander squeezed her arm as they turned the corner, seeing the familiar silhouette of their horrible little cottage in the distance. He turned Jael to him, holding her close, his lips by her ear. ‘We’ll get rid of Lothar, I promise. He won’t sit on that throne forever. It’s Axl’s throne, and one day, somehow, we’ll take it back. Together.’

  Eadmund felt so tired that he’d been tempted to sleep in his old bed, in his old chamber in the hall, but remembering that his father had put the Berras family in there, he’d headed back to his cottage, stumbling between Thorgils and Torstan who were well used to helping Eadmund walk.

  ‘Eirik looked pleased,’ Thorgils grinned, easing Eadmund down onto the bed while Torstan tried to secure the cottage door. ‘With you.’

  ‘Makes a change!’ Torstan laughed, sweeping his burning torch around the cottage, noticing the ash heap in the fire pit. ‘I’ll get you some wood. You’re going to need something to keep you warm tonight without the lovely Orla in your bed!’

  Eadmund frowned, wrapping his cloak around himself. ‘There’s plenty of wood,’ he slurred, not even able to see a hand in front of his face, nor the white puffs of breath smoke blowing before him in the cold shack. ‘You go. I’m fine.’

  ‘Fine to fall asleep and freeze to death,’ Thorgils snorted. ‘And what would our king do to us then? Leaving you to die just before you married the woman of your dreams!’

  Eadmund’s frown intensified. He gripped his head, trying to stop it moving. ‘She’s not the woman of my dreams,’ he said dully.

  Thorgils stopped smiling. ‘I know, I know, but maybe she’ll make you happy? Wouldn’t be so bad to be happy, would it? After all these years? I bet you’d like to be happy again?’

  Torstan headed for the door, not wanting to be stopped. He would get the wood, and they would make Eadmund’s cottage warm enough to see him through the stormy night. They had been friends since they were swaddled babies. Eadmund would do anything for him, he knew, as he would in return.

  Eadmund didn’t answer Thorgils, but his mind wandered back to Orla.

  She was funny.

  He remembered how easily she had laughed. How comfortable and confident she appeared. Not bothered by the dripping roof or his drunken state.

  And guilt swelled up in his chest as he turned towards the pillow, wanting to go to sleep. Not even the call of ale was as urgent then as the desire to sink into a dream. He didn’t want to think about Orla anymore.

  He wanted to disappear.

  ‘Well, you lie down there,’ Thorgils chuckled as Eadmund toppled over, cloak on, boots on, eyes closed as soon as his head hit the pillow. ‘I’ll help Torstan get the fire going, then we’ll leave you to it.’ He stared at his friend, not smiling now, trying to remember the man he had once been. But lifting the tattered fur over Eadmund’s back, he realised that he no longer could.

  Evaine couldn’t sleep.

  Her bed, on the mezzanine, was the most comfortable in her father’s luxurious house. Morac had done well for himself as Eirik Skalleson’s closest advisor over the years. The Gallas’ home was the finest on the island, and Morac had ensured that Evaine had her own space, far away from him and Runa, who enjoyed the privacy of the downstairs bedchamber.

  It suited Evaine as well. She could head down the stairs and out the door without ever alerting her parents to her plans. The stairs creaked, as did the floorboards, but the storm was so violent overhead that Evaine couldn’t even hear the sound of her father’s thunderous snoring as she secured her cloak to one shoulder with a large bronze brooch. Both her parents snored, oblivious to any other noises in the house, and Evaine was grateful for it, especially on a night such as this.

  She turned the key with a look back into the darkness, relieved to see nothing but the faint shadows of flames flickering across her parents’ bedchamber door.

  And lifting her hood over her hair, Evaine slipped out into the night.

  Gudrum had drunk nearly everyone under the table, yet he still looked keen for more.

  Lothar was finally ready for his bed, though he had enjoyed his evening enormously. Andala felt like less of a home than Ollsvik had ever been. Despite being his father’s second, much less favoured son, he had tried to fight Ranuf for the Brekkan throne after their father’s death. He’d had little support, though, and against Ranuf’s strength and experience, no chance. Lothar had been younger, weaker, poorer. Not a very good warrior. Disliked by many. Dismissed by even more.

  He had failed and been banished to Iskavall as a result.

  A mistake, he thought, with a wry grin.

  His brother’s mistake had been to leave a challenger to his throne alive, and Lothar had never stopped thinking about it, knowing that one day a chance would come his way. So he collected loyal men and wealth, drawing himself closer and closer to Hugo Vandaal; becoming an invaluable aide in that snake pit of a kingdom; helping to keep Hugo’s many enemies at bay.

  And being paid handsomely to do so.

  By the time Ranuf died, Lothar was in the perfect position to take what he had so desperately sought
for all those years.

  And he had.

  Quickly and decisively, he’d disrupted Axl’s ascent to his father’s throne; spreading rumours, undermining his viability; infecting the whole of Brekka with lies and fears about how useless a boy Axl Furyck truly was. How dangerous it would be to the stability of the kingdom to be ruled by one so inexperienced. What with the growing threat posed by the Islanders? The Hestians?

  No, what they needed was a man. An experienced man.

  A Furyck.

  And time had moved on, so that many had forgotten what a sneak Lothar had been. A sneak and a leech. A greedy man of such weak character that he had tried to overthrow his own brother, going against their father’s very clear wishes.

  They had forgotten perhaps or forgiven, because it was better to have a king who could save them from the enemies they feared, than one who would make them feel vulnerable and weak.

  The people of Andala had looked to Jael, but Ranuf had sidelined her, which had shocked her as much as it had them. And a sidelined Jael had surprisingly sat back and let it happen.

  Lothar wondered why. Again.

  What was she planning?

  And why was he letting her live to find out?

  ‘Are you sure you’d rather ride off on that horse than fight it out with my niece?’ Lothar mumbled between yawns. ‘It would help us both if you took her life as the blood price. It would certainly help me.’

  ‘Perhaps Gudrum doesn’t think he could beat Jael?’ Osbert slurred from his father’s left. ‘Perhaps he thinks killing her horse would be easier?’

  Gudrum’s smile remained on his face, his hands around his cup of ale, but as he looked past Lothar to his son, his eyes hardened like a cooling bar of iron. ‘You may fear that woman, Osbert, but I don’t. I could kill her, but I want to hurt her. Just like your father here does. He’s a smart man. He sees how much more pain he can extract from his enemies by forcing them to witness his success.’ Gudrum’s eyes were gleaming again. ‘You need to think, Osbert. One day the throne will be yours if you use your head, and learn when to hold your tongue. And it’s always better to hold your tongue around experienced men. Men skilled enough to cut it out.’