by A. E. Rayne
‘Eadmund?’
Eadmund looked up, fighting the urge to grimace. Morac Gallas had never been his favourite person, but after how he’d treated Fyn and abandoned his father, he was even more inclined to shun his company.
‘You look very well,’ Morac smiled as he sat down opposite Eadmund, not waiting for an invitation. ‘Very well indeed. I hardly recognised you. You must be half the size you were the last time I saw you!’
Eadmund could tell that Morac was trying hard to be nice, which didn’t come naturally, and his narrow face looked oddly contorted because of it. ‘Well, I suppose that’s what happens when you do some training, and drink a little less,’ he said dismissively.
‘Yes, your father tells me that your wife has been helping you.’
Morac wasn’t wrong, but today that rankled. ‘My wife? Yes, she likes to work everyone hard. Including me, it seems.’
‘It is good to see you looking so well,’ Morac smiled, then leaned in, lowering his voice. ‘I shall be sure to tell Evaine. She has been very concerned about you these past few months.’
Guilt tightened Eadmund’s throat. He knew he’d used Evaine, and badly. She had wanted so much more than him, and he’d never had enough courage in his heart to break hers. But then, he had been drink-sodden and lost and in no state to think much about anything, except where his next jug of ale was coming from. ‘How is Evaine?’ he asked quietly, glancing around. ‘Has she had the baby?’
‘Oh yes,’ Morac said, beaming with pride. ‘Did your father not tell you?’
Eadmund looked annoyed. ‘No.’
‘Yes, that is why I have come,’ Morac said. ‘To talk your father into letting Evaine and your son return.’
‘My son?’ He felt strange, his body tingling unexpectedly. His son...
‘His name is Sigmund,’ Morac smiled. ‘He came very early and is small and struggling somewhat.’ He frowned, looking earnestly into Eadmund’s eyes. ‘In truth, Evaine has had a terrible time on Rikka, with Morana. My sister means well, but she is not... maternal. And her home is not warm. It is barely big enough for her alone. Evaine has been in poor health, pining for her mother, for Oss, and of course, for you.’
Eadmund’s guilt grew. ‘And what did Eirik say, about her returning with the baby?’
‘Well, he refused,’ Morac sighed. ‘He won’t have her here again. He disowns the boy entirely, so I shall have to return to Rikka and see what I can do for Evaine, to help her and Sigmund.’
Sigmund.
It was a name that sounded strange in his head. Not a baby’s name. Not really. The thought of him tugged at Eadmund’s heart though. His flesh and blood. His own child.
‘Evaine gave me something for you,’ Morac said, digging inside the small pouch attached to his belt. ‘She didn’t imagine that Eirik would want her back. She was wiser than me, it seems. She gave me this. For you.’ He pulled out a tiny blonde curl, tied to a thin, leather strap. ‘Something for you to keep. A reminder of your son.’
Eadmund didn’t know what to think as he reached out and took the strap. The hair was so light. It reminded him of Evaine’s. So soft and delicate. He ran his finger over the tiny curl and swallowed.
His son.
6
Aleksander handed his cloak and sword belt to Thorgils and ducked through the railings after Jael. He followed her to the centre of the Pit, past groups of red-faced, grunting men hammering each other with wooden swords. After weeks of near-constant rain, the ground was a chopped-up, sloppy mess.
Aleksander looked down the length of his battered sword. ‘Do you train with shields?’
‘Sometimes,’ Jael said, glancing around. It was not a good surface to fight on at all, she thought, wistful for the frozen, hard ground of deep winter. She shivered, already missing her thick fur cloak. ‘Why? Do you think you’ll need one?’ She walked up to Aleksander and touched her sword to his.
‘No, I don’t believe so,’ he said, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘You?’
‘No, I don’t plan on defending.’ She swung her sword back and struck Aleksander on the shoulder.
He barely flinched as he dropped to the right, aiming for her waist. Jael jumped back, missing his blow, skidding through the mud. Her boots were quickly soaked through, but she didn’t notice as she danced backwards, making him come after her. Jael suppressed the urge to smile, but it felt good to fight him again; so familiar. She knew everything he would do, and there was perfect joy in that. The sheer speed of their blows as their blades met and were parried with ease, showed how well they knew each other.
Aleksander lunged forward, slashing his sword through the rain. Jael slid back and grinned. ‘Have you forgotten how this goes, old friend? You’re supposed to hit me with your sword!’ She spun around, thrusting out with the tip of hers, jabbing his stomach.
Again Aleksander didn’t even blink. He rolled his tongue around his mouth, ignoring the sting, remembering just how frustrating a creature she could be in this sort of mood. But he knew her. He knew how to beat her. ‘Old friend? Is that what we are now? Friends?’
His voice was measured, low, but even so, Jael found her eyes darting to the railings.
‘Ha!’ Aleksander laughed, charging at her, his sword slapping her ribs. ‘Worried what your new husband thinks about your old friend?’
Jael grimaced and slipped to the side. ‘Ahhh, same old friend, always talking too much.’ She noticed a slight hint of distraction as Aleksander’s eyes wandered to her lips, and whacked him hard on the knee with her sword, kicking out at his thigh, before retreating quickly.
Now, Aleksander did flinch as his leg buckled. He recovered swiftly though and chased her with his sword, slashing sharply from side to side. Jael caught each blow on the edge of her blade, pushing him back as he slid in the mud. Aleksander struggled for any certain footing, fighting off Jael’s sword as she steadily gained the upper hand. She had been training hard, he thought to himself.
But so had he.
Thorgils elbowed Fyn. ‘Why don’t you hop off and find us some ale? It looks as though they’ll put on a good show, and I do like a nice drop of ale with my entertainment!’
Fyn lifted one unimpressed eyebrow at Thorgils and turned back to the fight.
Thorgils shrugged and smiled, his eyes following the fighters as they circled each other with intent.
Aleksander retreated, looking for a way to stall Jael’s momentum, but she followed him, smiling. ‘Axl has not helped you much, has he?’ She skidded to the left, spun and kicked him hard in the stomach. Aleksander fell into the mud with a plop.
A loud roar went up from the crowd. Aleksander kicked out at her in frustration, but Jael skipped away, too quick for his angry boot. Furious now, he scrambled to his feet and stood there, his clothes dripping with mud. Gritting his teeth, he threw away his sword.
Jael grinned and threw hers away too.
‘Oh.’ Fyn’s eyes bulged. ‘That will make it interesting.’
‘Just a bit!’ Thorgils chortled, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now we shall really see some fun. If only we had that ale...’
‘What’s going on?’ Eirik wondered as he stopped behind Thorgils. ‘Why are you all lolling about outside the Pit, when you should be training inside it?’ His eyes widened as he peered around Fyn. Fyn hurried to step out of the way, and Eirik moved up to the railings, a smile quickly cheering his stern face. He turned to Eadmund who had frozen as soon as he’d seen who was in the Pit. ‘Come on, then, come and watch your wife beat another man to a dirty pulp!’
Eadmund looked uncertain until Thorgils seized his arm and pulled him to the railings. ‘Come on!’ he insisted. ‘They’re just about to start wrestling. Jael’s already had him on his arse. As she does!’
Eadmund stood awkwardly, watching happiness bloom on Jael’s face as she approached the mud-covered Aleksander. He felt an odd mix of rage and fear surge through his body.
Jael rushed at Aleksander as if to push him over but inste
ad dropped to the ground and took out his legs. He trapped her ankle between his feet as he fell, twisting his legs, and she couldn’t get up. He was over her instantly, but Jael drove her feet into his chest, kicking him away. Aleksander rolled and was back up and grabbing for her arms, trying to control her. She smacked him aside, and they grappled furiously with one another, Jael grimacing at the pain in her right forearm as it cracked against his, mud splattering everywhere.
Jael finally untangled herself and was up, quickly rubbing the mud out of her eyes. Aleksander followed. She turned to face him, thrashing her foot into the side of his arm. It was the soft option, she knew, and her hesitation over it made her slow. Aleksander’s reflexes were sharp, and with Jael, well-honed. He grabbed her foot, to the delight of Thorgils and Fyn, who both cheered at the sight of that foot’s comeuppance.
Jael gritted her teeth, hopped on her left foot, twisted her body with every bit of strength she had and snapped her left leg up, into the side of Aleksander’s head. He fell, still gripping her right foot, and she went with him, her feet around his neck now, her body quickly sliding down towards his muddy face.
Thorgils and Fyn exchanged open-mouthed looks of disbelief as the crowd fell silent, shaking their heads in confusion and surprise.
Aleksander’s ears were ringing as Jael leaned her forearm over his throat.
‘I think you’re done,’ she breathed with a smile, cringing at the pain shooting up to her elbow, before falling into an exhausted heap beside him.
Aleksander laughed as he rolled towards her. ‘Well, what sort of friend would I be if I humiliated you in front of your people?’
Jael growled and punched him in the arm. ‘How kind you are,’ she taunted, sitting up, trying to find her breath. She froze as her eyes caught Eadmund’s.
He barely acknowledged her, before turning to leave.
Varna Gallas was older than anyone Haaron knew. She smelled like the piss-soaked swaddling cloth of a small child, and as much as he welcomed their talks, there was nothing worse than sticking her near a fire when the door was closed. He could barely stop himself from gagging at her foul odour. But Varna loved to be as close to the fire as possible. Her skin was almost translucent as it sagged around her ancient bones; there was no longer any warmth in it at all. She was far too thin, she knew but could do little about it now. She had no real interest in food, or sleep, could only tolerate an occasional cup of wine, and could not abide the company of anyone, apart from Haaron, and Meena, her granddaughter. As much as Varna was ready for death – well past ready to be claimed by the Old Gods – her iron-clad will would not let her be taken until she had ensured Hest’s future. And now, as things stood, Varna knew that Hest was in peril.
Haaron stood up and went to pour himself another cup of ale. He needed to take a breath of something that wasn’t Varna. ‘Are you sure I cannot get you a cup?’ he wondered, exhaling deeply.
Varna rolled her rheumy eyes and ignored him. She turned her head towards the flames, watching as they wove themselves around each other in a slow dance of heat and mystery. She had been dreaming endlessly of late but was too old for such a heavy load of dreams. If only Meena could help her, but the girl was almost entirely useless. There was no one, no one she could trust; no one Haaron could trust either. She had kept him safe on his throne for 25 years, but she could feel the danger he was in growing stronger by the day. Without her, what hope did he have?
Haaron filled his cup high with ale, inhaling its earthy scent as he walked back to his chair.
‘He is growing powerful.’
‘Who?’
‘The Bear,’ Varna growled, her voice as dry as the red dirt of Hest. ‘He is in my dreams every night.’
Haaron frowned and leaned forward. ‘You mean, Jaeger?’
Varna ignored him again as she bent lower in her chair, the ache in her back, excruciating. She looked up suddenly. ‘He wants to kill you!’
Haaron laughed, the leathery skin of his face folding back like curtains. ‘You do not need to be a dreamer to tell me that!’
‘He is growing powerful,’ she repeated. ‘Somehow. But he seeks more. More power. I see him filled with it! Growing stronger and stronger. Swallowed whole!’
Haaron inched towards the edge of his chair, dropping his voice to a whisper, despite the fact that they were alone in his very private chamber. ‘And?’
‘He will kill Haegen and Karsten. Of that, you can be sure. They stand in his way. As do you. His care is only for himself and his revenge upon you, for favouring them all his life.’
‘This is nothing new that you are telling me, Varna,’ Haaron insisted, relaxing his shoulders down as he sipped on his ale. ‘I should have gotten rid of the boy years ago, before it came to this. Before he became this bear, you warn me of.’
‘But you didn’t. And you don’t,’ the old woman spat. ‘Because of her.’
Haaron didn’t acknowledge her judgemental scowl, but he could feel its displeasure as it tried to consume him. ‘There are many things I have done, many that I would do differently,’ he said slowly. ‘But you are right. I do not like the boy. I have never liked him, or the way he has looked at me all these years. But, he is Bayla’s favourite –’
‘And you love her still?’
Haaron frowned. ‘She is my wife. If I were to kill her favourite son –’
‘Yet, she despises you too!’
‘If he were to fall in battle...’ Haaron braved those scorn-filled eyes. ‘Then she could mourn. We could all mourn. But it would be nothing to do with me. There would be no one for her to curse, but the gods themselves.’
‘Then we can only hope that things on Skorro become as dire as I fear they may. As I see in my dreams.’
Haaron drained his cup, distracted. He wanted Jaeger gone, there was no doubt about that, but at what cost? What would he have to lose in order to destroy his vengeful son?
‘How is your grandmother?’ Fyn wondered, looking up from his meat-stick.
‘Much the same,’ Jael sighed as she sat down next to him, motioning for Aleksander to take the empty space next to Thorgils. She had no idea where Eadmund was and couldn’t decide whether to be worried or annoyed at his childish way of disappearing whenever something uncomfortable occurred. ‘Biddy seems pleased by that, though. Perhaps there will be better news soon?’
Aleksander wasn’t sure if he had much of an appetite, but the smell of charred meat drifting towards him had his stomach growling. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ he asked Jael.
‘Mmmm, please,’ Jael said. They were both covered almost entirely in dried mud and needed a good bath.
‘You haven’t noticed your husband lately, have you?’ Thorgils wondered slowly as he watched Aleksander take his place in line. ‘He doesn’t look too pleased with things, if you know what I mean.’
Jael frowned, glaring at him. ‘Things?’
‘Well, you and Aleksander... the fight,’ Thorgils spluttered through a mouthful of meat. ‘It’s not easy for him to watch. The way you are with each other. Any man would have a hard time with that.’
Jael blinked. She didn’t know what to say. Her eyes drifted towards Aleksander, as he stood, chatting to some of his men who had obviously discovered the joy of Ketil’s fire pit too. Ketil and his sister were red-faced as they hurried about trying to keep up with the extra demand. Aleksander turned around and smiled, his shoulder-length dark hair hanging around his face like a muddy cloak. Jael felt a stab in her heart. ‘We are old friends,’ she tried.
Thorgils gave her a doubtful look as he finished his mouthful, wiping a greasy hand through his beard, smoothing out his moustache. He leaned over the table towards her. ‘If that were so, then I don’t think it would be like this, do you?’ He looked sharply at her. ‘You might need to find your husband and give him a smile or two to see him through.’
Fire coursed up into Jael’s mouth. She wanted to be furious with Thorgils for poking his nose into her marriage, but she knew
he was right. She took a deep breath and decided to ignore both him and her darkening mood. ‘And how is Odda?’ she asked Fyn, changing the subject.
Fyn’s eyes bulged as he squirmed on the bench. There wasn’t much more to say than that.
Both Jael and Thorgils laughed.
‘I think young Fyn is wondering how I turned out to be such a cheerful soul!’ Thorgils grinned. ‘And probably reconsidering if he could suffer through Morac’s miserable company instead.’
Fyn looked horrified. ‘No! No, I’m not thinking that. Not ever! Not anymore. I don’t have to endure him anymore, do I?’
‘No,’ Jael said, watching his panic. ‘Of course you don’t. But as for your mother...’
‘My mother needs to find a way to stand up to him,’ Fyn said firmly. ‘But she won’t. She doesn’t want him there, but what can she do?’ He had quickly lost his appetite and pushed his stick away.
Thorgils eyed the neglected meat.
‘Well, she could divorce him, couldn’t she?’ Jael wondered.
Both Thorgils and Fyn look shocked by that suggestion.
‘Why not? He abandoned her. For nearly half a year,’ Jael said, smiling at Aleksander as he returned and handed her a piping hot meat-stick of her own. ‘Surely that’s reason enough?’
Thorgils stole Fyn’s abandoned stick, almost inhaling the meat in one breath. ‘Mmmm, Runa could ask for a divorce because of that. I remember my father reciting all the ways he could get a divorce from Odda every couple of weeks. I know them by heart!’ He belched, then lowered his voice, glancing around. ‘But would she?’
Aleksander had no idea what anyone was talking about, but the serious looks on everyone’s faces were reason enough to stay out of it, and besides, his food smelled too delicious to waste time on words.
Fyn shook his head sadly. ‘I wish she would, but I’m not sure she’s brave enough to try.’
‘But is he even going to stay?’ Jael wondered. ‘Perhaps he’s just visiting?’
‘You can only hope,’ Thorgils smiled, nudging his morose companion. ‘Now, come on, we don’t have time for all this gossip,’ he muttered, standing up with a groan. ‘We need to get back to the Pit. I want Jael to show me how she did that thing with her legs. I’d like to try it on Ivaar when we get to Saala!’
