Aeva The Wild

by Claire Marion

  “Tell me what he is doing.”

  His voice was low, almost loving. Æva locked her jaw together to bite back her scream, raking air in through her teeth, faster and faster as she waited for the blow.

  “I don’t know,” she repeated.

  He smiled ruefully and shook his head.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  With a flick of his wrist, the whip lashed out, finding its mark on the soft flesh of her inner thigh. It burned like fire. Æva couldn’t stop herself, a scream erupted from her mouth. The noble closed his eyes, breathed out a sigh, and smiled.

  “Shall we go again?” the noble asked, the sing song voice of a parent suggesting a treat. Æva shook her head, tears flying, renewing her frenzied struggles to free herself. She closed her eyes, unable to bear watching, waiting. The grip on her arms held her entire weight, wrenching her shoulders. The pain worsened as the man holding her shook her, not stopping until she opened her eyes once more.

  The noble smiled as he met her gaze, pulling his wrist back for the next blow.

  “What is this?”

  Æva’s eyes snapped towards the voice, relief flooding her.

  Wulfram stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The noble looked panicked for a heartbeat, before sliding his glossy veneer back in place.

  “Your servant was disrespectful. She is being punished.”

  Wulfram took a step inside the room towards the noble. His face faltered a little, but he stood his ground. Wulfram took another step, seeming to fill the room.

  “That is not your place.”

  The noble’s mouth flapped, but no sound came out. Wulfram turned away to burn the two guards holding her with a venomous glare. The man holding her dropped her at once, and Æva fell to the ground in a heap. She lay, panting into the dust. Shame, agony, and fear pulsed through her. She hid her head in her arms, crying in silence.

  “Idin.” Soft footsteps padded towards her as Idin crossed the room and hoisted Æva into his arms. Without a word he swept towards the exit. Æva glanced up to see Wulfram facing down the noble.

  “There will come a time when you will pay for this insult.”

  Giving the noble no chance to respond, he turned his back on him and strode out into the night. Æva huddled in Idin’s arms as he followed close behind.

  ᚳ

  Æva was helpless to stop the tears flowing. They soaked into Idin’s tunic as she hid her face in his broad chest. The adrenaline that had rushed through her body had vanished, leaving her drained and exhausted. Her face, her back and her thigh burned torturously, making her want to claw at her flesh to dig out the pain. She trembled uncontrollably.

  “We are leaving?” Ælric called to Wulfram softly, as he led them out of town.

  She managed to look up long enough to see Wulfram turned his head a fraction to the side and nod. He looked furious, though at her or the noble, she couldn’t tell.

  Idin gave her a squeeze, and when she looked up, she saw his face was filled with pity. She imagined what he must have seen when he’d entered the room with Wulfram, what they’d all seen. How pathetic and wretched she must have looked. All of a sudden, she couldn’t bear the closeness any longer.

  She launched herself away from him. Ælric reached out a hand to stop her, but she spun from him, too. For a wild moment she thought about running, taking off at a sprint until her legs could no longer carry her and she was far away from here. She took one step into the night, then stopped her dead. Safety was here, in the company of Wulfram and his men.

  As painful as that was in this moment.

  She threw herself to the grass, wrapped her arms around her naked legs and burrowed her head against her knees, hiding her eyes.

  Wulfram approached cautiously, crouching in front of her.

  “Æva.”

  She refused to look up, but shook her head at him, her face buried.

  “Æva,” his voice was gentle, but firm, ‘Look at me.’

  Reluctantly, she raised her head. At first, she directed her gaze at her knees, unwilling to make eye contact, but Wulfram continued to wait. Eventually, she wrenched her face up to stare into his eyes. In the darkness she could barely make them out, dark coals glinting in the thin moonlight that filtered down through the sparsely covered trees. That made it easier, but her heart still pounded as they locked gazes. She felt fragile as glass. Wulfram reached out an arm, his hand resting lightly on her knee.

  “You have no reason to feel shame.”

  She couldn’t answer him; she was too ashamed.

  “Here,” he said. He handed her a bundle and she realised it was her trousers, rescued from the noble’s house. She busied herself with sliding them on, using the task as an excuse to avoid Wulfram’s gaze. He opened his mouth to say something further, but mercifully Ælric distracted him, shifting restlessly.

  “Wulfram,” he whispered, his jovial voice for once deadly serious. “Look.”

  Immediately the three men around Æva changed. Snatching up their spears they lowered into a crouch, like hunters, creeping forward in silence into the thin line of trees, gazes fixed towards the river. The focus on their faces was absolute, their senses keened. For the first time Æva appreciated that they were elite, highly trained soldiers. They looked dangerous, deadly.

  The sudden change helped Æva to momentarily forget her anguish.

  “Wha…” she began, but Wulfram shushed her at once.

  She stared in the direction the three men faced, but she picked out nothing bar the faint glow of distant lights. The pinpricks seemed to hover and wobble, like tiny sprites propelled by the gentlest of breezes. As she watched, they glided closer, growing in size. Still she did not understand what she was looking at.

  Noiselessly she crept forward, closer to the three men. She didn’t speak but listened intently to their whispered exchange.

  “What should we do?” Idin’s voice was low and husky.

  “Watch,” Wulfram responded, “And wait. They are most likely headed for the town. It may be that they will pass us by.’

  “Should we warn them?” Ælric asked, shifting, ready to ghost into the darkness at Wulfram’s command.

  His question hung in the air, greeted by silence as Wulfram deliberated. Not to warn the villagers would be tantamount to mass murder. The blood of each life on his hands. He had committed many atrocities as a warrior, silencing an innocent woman to complete a surprise raid, cutting the throat of a soldier no more than a child with a spear and a shield. He was not proud of such acts, but he had known that they were necessary and so his conscious remained clear. To stand by and allow the Vikings to sneak unnoticed into Maelton would be revenge, pure and simple.

  He toyed with putting the decision in the hands of the girl; she was the one who had been so monstrously wronged, but he knew that would be weakness on his part, to put such a burden on her frail shoulders. In the heat of the moment she may make a choice that would haunt her to her grave.

  As he mulled these thoughts over in his mind, the lights of the Viking long boats drew ever closer. He thought of the short hour they had spent by the river helping the villagers to erect the tall fence of sharpened stakes. The activity had been frantic, apprehension and fear etched on every face. Even the women and children had been called upon to help, their husbands and fathers sickened by the knowledge that they would not be spared when the attack came. Those people did not deserve his hate.

  But then a final vision filled his head. Blurry, dredged up from the pit of his memory and losing clarity with the passage of time. Another girl, beaten, raped, murdered in front of his eyes. Though he had burned with the need to save her, he had been helpless. Her eyes, turquoise agony, had pleaded with him. The face melted into Æva’s, an almost imperceptible transformation; the eyes completely unchanged.

  His heart hardened to the plight of the villagers, turned to stone by the fire of his outrage. Though he knew he would suffer for it in the troubled dreams of
nights to come, he made his decision.

  “No.”

  Surprise flitted across Ælric’s brow, but he smothered it quickly.

  As Wulfram traced the path of lights as they floated nearer, his mouth twisted with dismay. The Vikings separated into three groups, one slowing ominously near to them. He was going to have to act after all.

  “Three boats,” he whispered to his men. “Two will go directly to the town; one will stop short and try to sneak around the back of the dwellings where there are no defences. Their path will likely take them straight through here.”

  He heard Æva’s breathing hike behind him, but he ignored her, his every thought fixed on the plan that was developing in his head.

  “It will be a smaller party. If we can despatch them silently, we will avoid drawing the attention of the others.” He straightened up, pleased at the compromise of his choice. “The people of Maelton will only have to deal with the direct attack. That much I will do for them.”

  “Wulfram,” the low voice spoke in his ear, an undertone meant only for him. He turned his head to see the face of Idin looking at him with concern. “What about...?” Idin’s eyes darted towards Æva and then back again, a slight movement, invisible to all but Wulfram.

  “We will have to leave her here.”

  Idin grimaced, unhappy. Wulfram understood, but for his plan to work he could not afford to spare a man to protect her.

  “Prepare her,” he whispered to Idin, before turning back to trace the silent progress of the Vikings down the river.

  Only the final two words of this hushed exchange reached Æva’s ears. She swallowed nervously as Idin turned to her, his face troubled. He took her hand and drew her a few steps away.

  “Æva, do you still have the knife that I gave to you?”

  The question sent an icy shock into her stomach, but she nodded. She kept the blade tucked into one of the straps that wound around her calf to hold on the makeshift shoes she wore. Idin waited, and she realised he wanted to see the weapon. Fumbling down, she pulled the knife free and held it out to show him. The blade shimmered silvery purple in the dim light. Although the cutting edge was short, the simple handle carved from light wood, it felt heavy in her hand, alien. She could not imagine using it.

  “I want you to stay here and hide. Do not come out until we return. If anyone else approaches you, use the knife.”

  Æva stared down at it, then looked up to gaze pleadingly at Idin.

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  Her voice had almost no volume, but Æva heard the terror in it. Idin must have too, because he smiled at her consolingly.

  “You will be safe here.”

  He squeezed her hand once more and then walked back to Wulfram. As soon as he had joined them, all three men evaporated into the darkness.

  For several long moments, Æva stared at the spot where they had been, hoping they would miraculously reappear. She listened, trying to still the heaving gasps of her breath, but no sound reached her straining ears, not even the muted footsteps of them creeping through the undergrowth away from her. They were wraiths, silent and deadly.

  In the space of a few heartbeats, she was totally alone in the darkness.

  All of a sudden, the night seemed to be filled with noises. The snapping of a twig, the rustle of dead leaves swirling on the ground, the hissing breath of a predator sneaking up behind her. They were everywhere, and nowhere. Her darting eyes picked out shapes in the enveloping black that twisted, advanced, then evaporated.

  Æva squeezed her eyes shut, curled her fingers into tight fists. She took a deep, slow breath; exhaled.

  Opening her eyes, she tried to think. Idin had told her to hide. Here, stood on the road leading away from the town, she was conspicuous.

  She stepped hard-packed earth, moving away from the river, and crouched down in the cover of the long grass. Feeble shelter - in the light of day she would easily be discovered - but she hoped the camouflage of night would protect her. She did not have the courage to go further from the path; deeper into the unknown. Barely concealed, she settled down to wait.

  Seconds dragged by; it seemed time had stalled. To quell her burgeoning panic, she began to count in her head: one to a hundred, then the same in multiples of two, three, four...

  Halfway through her seven times tables, she heard a distinct noise. It was loud and solid, easily distinguishable from the shadowy tricks of her mind. Æva stopped counting, her thoughts as frozen as her motionless body. She waited, fear building as silence followed. Wulfram, Ælric, or Idin would have announced themselves. They would not make her linger in uncertainty like this. It was something, someone, else.

  Æva picked the knife up from where she had dropped it down at her side. She ran her finger over the blade and then gripped the handle. She tried to return to counting, but her mind refused to focus. Her free hand drifted to the small crucifix she wore. She prayed, lips trembling in silence as she mouthed familiar words that should have been comforting. They weren’t.

  A moment later, a second sound rang out: a dull thud followed by a prolonged scraping, like a foot connecting with a stone and sending it scrabbling across the dirt. This noise was much closer, near enough for Æva to whip her head to the left, sure of its direction. Something moved in the dark. Something huge, and hulking. It was travelling slowly, stalking along the path. Æva tried to hold her breath, to quiet each trembling inch of her body. Maybe if she kept still enough, and quiet enough, whoever it was would pass right by without noticing her.

  As the shadow approached, she realised it was a man. He took another step towards her, then another. One more stride would put him directly in front of her. Another and the danger would be past.

  She kept herself motionless, only her eyes following his progress. He drew in front of her, blocking out the light of the moon for a moment. Æva watched as his foot lifted to complete the step to take him away from her, the one that would allow her to breathe again. Halfway through, it stopped, planted itself firmly back on the ground.

  The man turned to face her, just feet away, but Æva was sure he didn’t know she was there. Her heart pounded faster. Her open eyes seemed like an invitation, but she was powerless to look away. He took three deep sniffs of the air, as if he smelled her fear. Then he looked down for a fraction of a second, a brief final glance before walking away.

  Their eyes locked.

  Æva heard him breathe out, a loud exhale which seemed more like a groan of pleasure. A sickeningly familiar leer spread over the stranger’s face. She clutched the knife as the Viking prowled nearer. She knew he would have to be almost on top of her before she would have the chance to use the dagger, and she couldn’t bear to have him that close. Her breathing came in shallow pants, her eyes fixed on him as he loomed towards her. One arm reached out to take a vicelike grip on her slender wrist.

  From nowhere a third arm appeared, coiling round the neck of the Viking. Something glinted for a fraction of a second before the hand yanked back. Æva saw shock flit across the man’s face, and then hot liquid spewed over her and he dropped, chest heaving, to the ground.

  Standing behind him, glorious, terrible, spattered with blood, was Ælric.

  He stared into her wide, terrified eyes for an instant then vanished, swallowed once more by the darkness of the night.

  The Viking took a long time to die. Ælric’s vicious slash to his throat had not been deep enough to completely sever the arteries in his neck, or the windpipe funnelling vital oxygen to his lungs. Instead, air whistled through a puncture in his throat, half inflating his giant chest, keeping him on the edge of consciousness. The wound at his neck bled terribly; it pooled on the ground, soaking into the dark clothes he wore and congealing in the tangled dark beard hiding his jaw.

  He writhed in obvious pain, one hand clutching at his throat, trying in vain to stem the tide which seeped through his fingers. The other scraped at the ground, clawed fingers digging into the dirt.

  Finall
y, finally, he breathed his last. There was no groan of agony, or convulsion as his spirit left his broken body. The final gasp was identical to the one which preceded it. Æva waited for the next, her heartbeat doubling in speed in response to the knowledge that his had ceased.

  The sound of hoof beats at first did not register. As they drew closer, their slow steps clopping on the ground, Æva stiffened. Listening hard, she tried to distinguish the number. Was it the noble and his men, escaping and leaving the villagers to their fate? She lifted herself back up into a squat, ready to disappear into the abyss of countryside.

  “Æva?” a voice called, quiet but carrying through the stillness of the night. It was Idin; they had returned.

  A moment later, he came into sight, jogging up the path. He paused at the sight of the murdered Viking lying prostate in the road. Æva shifted, just a stirring of her feet, and Idin’s gaze locked on hers. His relief was obvious. Moving closer, he stepped over the body and reached for her hand, pulling her from the grisly presence of the blood-soaked figure. Æva curled into him, leaning against his strength. She felt him kiss the top of her hair, hugging her close before leading her back to where Wulfram and Ælric waited.

  “Horses?” she asked. The two men held the reins of three steeds, each tacked with luxurious saddles and gleaming leather bridles.

  Ælric answered her. “It seems our high and mighty noble friend was keeping these close at hand to make his escape. We thought it only fair he stay and aid his subjects. Now they are ours.”

  He grinned wickedly and handed the reins of one to Idin.

  Wulfram mounted his horse, a well-muscled grey who snorted and stomped the ground.

  “The Vikings are moving swiftly,” he told her. “It is imperative we deliver our message to the King as soon as possible. These horses will greatly increase our speed.”

  As he spoke, Ælric and Idin climbed lightly atop the other two horses, one jet black, the other a gleaming chestnut.