by A. E. Rayne
They were ready now; he was certain of that. Varna might think that the sea battle would test them, but Jaeger couldn’t see how. Their ships were prepared; their men, experienced and hard. They had the support of the Tower, whose archers were expertly drilled in destroying enemies on the sea. And they were well stocked for a siege, with healthy stores of both food and weapons.
If it were to come to that, Jaeger smiled confidently.
Berard groaned and rolled over, his snoring coming to a rumbling halt. Jaeger sighed in relief and rolled over himself, towards the wall. It was the biggest chamber in the fort, but there was barely enough space for their two narrow beds. Its stone walls were damp and cold, windowless and dark. There wasn’t a hint of comfort about the place. Jaeger had tired of it quickly, desperate to return to Hest, to Meena, to find out what she had discovered in his absence. Or whether, as he suspected, she had simply turned him in to Varna.
He closed his eyes. There was still more than enough of the night left for him to claim some sleep, and he would need it, for tomorrow they would take to their ships and sink their enemies to the bottom of the Adrano Sea.
Ivaar felt an unexpected sense of loss. His father had made it abundantly clear how little he thought of him, it was true, but still, a part of him felt empty. And frustrated. There was no victory to claim. No hope of ever being able to show his father that he was worthy of his respect. Or more.
He shook his head as he sat on the bench outside the quiet hall. In the hours since Eirik Skalleson’s death, most had drifted away to find sleep. Lothar had spoken to the lords and dampened any hint of rebellion. And for a completely ridiculous man, he had actually made a lot of sense. Haaron had to be their focus now. There would be time to conquer other enemies and make new alliances once they had defeated him. If they could manage it.
Ivaar thought of his mother, who he’d loved dearly, humiliated by his father, who he wished had loved him at all.
He was cold. And far too awake. He needed to find some sleep, or a distracting woman like Ayla. She had seen he would be king. But he wasn’t. He frowned, staring into the darkness. They were going to sea to fight the biggest battle of their lives, and there was certainly a chance that the new King and Queen of Oss might not survive. He smiled to himself; perhaps Ayla wasn’t so wrong after all?
‘Well, maybe they are right about you?’ Osbert whispered as he sat down next to Ivaar. He had come out of the hall, desperate to escape the stink of farts, stale ale, and smoke. ‘Sitting here, smiling, your father’s body barely cold.’
Ivaar glared at him. ‘Should I care what you think?’ he snorted. ‘When you don’t know me. When you didn’t know my father.’
‘No, and now I won’t, since we are about to cook him for breakfast.’
Ivaar reached out and seized Osbert’s throat, leaning over him. ‘You need to learn some respect, boy,’ he growled throatily. ‘My father was a king!’
Osbert spluttered, his one open eye bulging, realising that tiredness had thickened both his head and his tongue.
Ivaar released him, shoving him away. ‘You Brekkans think you are better than any of us,’ he spat. ‘And though we weren’t made by Furia and our line is short, we are no less than you. We never have been. We all came from Osterhaaven. We all share the same gods.’
Osbert coughed, feeling his throat. ‘Well,’ he coughed again, ‘it is true that some Brekkans look down on the Islanders. But not all. And not me.’
Ivaar raised a tired eyebrow at this small, swollen-eyed man, wondering what he wanted. ‘I doubt that,’ he scoffed. ‘What happened to your eye?’
‘A mutual enemy of ours punched me,’ Osbert said, leaning in closer. ‘We have more in common than you realise, Ivaar Skalleson.’
Eadmund had wept for his father, holding Jael in his arms. And both of them had slept, restlessly, and now they lay there, face to face, the first rays of sun seeping under the bedchamber door.
They were alone.
‘I let him down,’ Eadmund said haltingly. ‘So many years of embarrassing him. Of being less than a man, just a fool. And he endured it. All those years, he endured it. His heir, the one he had chosen. A fat, drunk, useless fool.’
‘But you changed,’ Jael whispered, running her hand through his beard. She had missed the feel of him, missed his eyes and his closeness. ‘He saw that. You came back to him. He was happy. He had hope again.’
Eadmund sighed sadly and kissed her hand. ‘Because of you.’
‘No,’ Jael insisted. ‘You picked up the sword. You made the choice.’
‘Well, I think after that tincture, I didn’t have any choice at all, did I?’
‘Possibly,’ Jael admitted. ‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? Why or how? Just that you did and that he saw you come back. He believed in you again.’
‘In us.’
‘In us, yes,’ Jael murmured, remembering Eirik’s last words to her.
Eadmund frowned. His throat was dry. He couldn’t make sense of his thoughts at all. He closed his eyes and this time he didn’t see Evaine. He saw his father, slumped in the chair, his eyes wide with shock. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere,’ he murmured, running a finger across her scar. ‘Nowhere, without you. Not again. I don’t know why I went to Rikka like that. I don’t want to lose you, Jael.’
Jael swallowed, her whole body tense. He was there again; he’d come back. ‘There is so much I have to tell you,’ she whispered. ‘About Evaine. About what she is trying to do.’
Eadmund squirmed. ‘No, not now. Please, Jael. Not her, not now. Let us just have a moment. Perhaps after today, we might never have another. Don’t bring her here when it’s just us.’ He leaned forward and kissed her desperately, relieved that she was with him again. He felt the empty hole of his father’s death as it dug deeper into his heart, but they were together, and for a moment, he could forget about all that had been, and all that would come.
Rexon had put his people to work quickly. Morac had offered his assistance, and together they had worked through the night to ensure that a pyre was built on the beach; tall and thick with tightly stacked, dry wood. A pyre worthy of a true king. One whose smoke pillar would rise high, sending Eirik Skalleson onwards, to Vidar’s Hall, where he would sit and drink and fight for eternity alongside the King of the Gods and his faithful companions.
Eirik had been dressed in his finest clothing. His loyal steward, Gurin, had washed his face and combed his hair, braiding more silver nuggets into his long, white and gold beard, pushing arm rings over his tunic sleeves. He had been wrapped in a thick bearskin cloak, his silver crown sitting gently atop his head.
They came to say their farewells, then. First, his lords, the ones whose loyalties appeared so confused now. Their guilty faces were solemn as they stopped to take a last moment with their king as he lay lifeless on top of his pyre. And then his warriors, the men who had fought alongside Eirik throughout his long reign; men who he had freed, or whose fathers and mothers had been born slaves, living under the terrifying rule of Grim Skalleson. And Eirik had released them all, just as he had set himself free and turned the Slave Islands into a kingdom worthy of an alliance with Brekka. A kingdom about to go to war.
The sun was rising over the sea, and it was big and gold and warming after a desolate night, when many had not slept at all. Thorgils sighed, staring down at the familiar figure before him. Eirik would enjoy watching their victory over Haaron, he told himself, not wanting to give in to the sadness that was consuming him. They would all give him that. Eirik could raise a cup to his men as he sat in Vidar’s Hall; to his family, to all of the Islanders as they claimed the prize of Hest for him.
‘Are you happy?’ Rexon asked.
Thorgils blinked back the tears he could feel coming again. ‘Happy?’ he looked confused.
‘With the pyre,’ Rexon muttered, almost apologetically. ‘Is there anything else you think it needs?’
Thorgils looked it over. Eirik had his sword in his hands, h
is helmet and shield on either side of him. There was a small, wooden bucket filled with gold coins at his feet, with a jug of Rexon’s best wine and trenchers of food for his journey.
Thorgils glanced around at the gathering crowd. He saw Eydis coming through, with Fyn, Amma, and Gisila. His heart broke for her. She was carrying a wooden doll, her face turned towards the sand. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what they were about to do. ‘Yes, it’s fine, I think,’ he croaked. ‘But let’s see what Eadmund says when he gets here.’
Rexon nodded and stepped back into the crowd. There was much to do, but nothing more important than this, he knew. The Islanders needed to say goodbye to their king, to inspire their victory, for, without them, all of Brekka was doomed.
Eadmund stood staring at the wall as he tied his sword belt around his waist.
He had been out to check on proceedings, relieved to see that Rexon and Morac had everything under control and that Thorgils was there, keeping an eye on them both. He had gone back to the house with Jael, to take a moment to prepare himself for what he knew he must do. He needed to lead, just when he wanted to sink into a hole of utter despair. But he was the king. And, he smiled to himself, remembering his father’s words: a king must put his people first.
‘Shall we go?’ Jael wondered as she came up behind him and touched his back.
Eadmund flinched, turning around to scowl at her. Jael was surprised, catching a flash of anger in his cold eyes.
He had gone.
She sighed, her body sinking at the unexpected loss of him again.
‘Yes,’ Eadmund said blankly, wishing he had Evaine’s small, warm body wrapped inside his arms; certain that her presence would make him feel better. Hers and their son’s. He smiled wistfully. ‘Let’s go.’ Eadmund didn’t look around as he headed for the door.
Jael pushed her shoulders back and waited for a moment. She remembered Eirik’s face, the shock on it as death came to claim him; the surprise in his eyes that it had happened like that. Was it Ivaar? Jael didn’t know. But she did know that Eadmund had gone, Eirik had gone, and somehow she had to keep Oss out of Ivaar’s hands. She had to keep them all safe from whatever threat was coming next.
Jael took a deep breath, placed her hand over the cool, moonstone pommel of her sword and followed Eadmund outside.
Evaine smiled as she watched her son sleeping next to Tanja in the small cot on the opposite side of the mezzanine.
Now that Sigmund was well-fed and cared for by his wet nurse, she could finally get more sleep, and the joy of her body belonging solely to her again was overwhelmingly pleasurable. What wasn’t pleasurable, however, was worrying about Eadmund and what would happen to him in the battle. Morana had assured her that they were meant to be together; that he would survive and return to her. And while there was comfort to be found in that, there was no certainty. Not until he was back on Oss would she be able to truly relax again.
Evaine yawned as she slid out of bed and tip-toed over to her chest. Grabbing her white fur cloak from the nearby stool, she wrapped it around her shoulders and held her breath, lifting the lid of the chest. It creaked. She cringed. It was her father’s chest, old and fusty smelling, and despite having Respa oil it regularly, it continued to make the same groans every morning when she got up to go through her ritual.
The servants were not awake yet. Morning was coming, Evaine could see that, as faint rays of light leaked through the smoke hole above her head, but there was still time, she knew, before anyone would see what she was doing.
Runa stirred, groaning slightly, still mostly asleep. The creak had woken her, as it had for the past few mornings. Her body was getting into a rhythm now; the same rhythm as the person opening the chest with a surreptitious creak just before dawn. Runa was desperate to know what Evaine was doing up there, but there was no way to find out. The mezzanine was only accessible by the stairs, which were louder and creakier than the chest.
Runa kept her eyes closed as she listened to the shuffling footsteps, wondering about Fyn, wishing it were Evaine about to face her death instead of him. She felt a stab of guilt, having raised Evaine as her own daughter, but she had always been slightly terrified of her, never feeling safe when she was around. Because she was Morana’s daughter.
And Morana Gallas was most certainly a witch.
Varna had woken early and now stood, fully dressed, hidden beneath a shabby brown cloak, prodding Meena with a rough, cold finger. ‘We don’t have time to lie in bed all day!’ she grumbled hoarsely.
Light was barely straining through the tiny window in Varna’s chamber; dull, blue morning light. It was too early. Meena yawned, not ready to get out of bed yet. Her eyes refused to open. She had been dreaming of Jaeger, and the visions that had been teasing and tempting her were so vivid that she did not wish to leave them behind yet.
Varna poked her again. ‘If you don’t want a slap, you had better rouse yourself quickly my girl!’
Meena shuddered, cold underneath the thin blanket that was all she had been given; uncomfortable on the old, straw-stuffed mattress that Varna had handed down to her. It stunk of piss. She thought of Jaeger’s luxurious bed, then blushed and blinked, shaking her head, banishing the ridiculous dream and all thoughts of him, both terrifying and oddly exciting as they had been.
‘Well?’ Varna loomed over her. ‘Are you ready, then? I cannot dig this book up without you, Meena.’ She shuffled away to the door. ‘And if you can get it out of the ground quickly enough, I will let you have some breakfast!’
Meena frowned, feeling her fingers twitch, in anger, not anxiety. That was new. She was 28-years-old now. Not a child. Not someone who should have to beg for food or a blanket. But as her grandmother turned and glared impatiently at her, she found herself shrinking in fear.
That was not new.
‘How is he?’ Thorgils whispered as Jael stopped beside him, leaving Eadmund to go to Eydis.
Jael blinked, trying to avoid the pyre. The sun was still low in the sky, shining right in her eyes. ‘He is...’ she shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know. He was there for a while, but he has gone again. I’m sure Evaine has done something to him,’ she sighed. ‘But what and how, I don’t know.’
Thorgils frowned, nervously twisting the ends of his red beard. ‘Well, it makes sense of the way he’s been. It’s like talking to an open window. There’s nothing there at all most of the time.’
‘Perhaps she’s controlling him, but how?’ Jael murmured, shaking her head. ‘I wish Edela were here.’
‘My mother would often talk about Morana Gallas, of the things that she would do to people before Eirik got rid of her,’ Thorgils mused, digging into the dusty corners of his memory. ‘She used to say that Morana had put a spell on Eirik, to make him love her, which is why he was blind to her evil ways for so long.’
Jael’s eyes were sharp now, feeling another rush of grief as she remembered her conversation with Eirik about Morana. ‘Well, if that were true, it’s knowledge she could have passed on to Evaine. But there is nothing we can do about it now, not till we get back to Oss and Edela.’
‘Mmmm,’ Thorgils nodded. ‘All we can think about now is what we have to do today.’ He glanced at the pyre, which was ready; ready for something that none of them were prepared for. He waved at Torstan, Fyn, and Axl who came to join them. ‘It won’t be an easy morning for anyone.’
‘No,’ Jael said quietly. ‘Especially Eydis.’ Her eyes drifted over to Eadmund, who was comforting his broken-hearted sister.
‘She seems to like Amma and Gisila, though,’ Fyn said softly. ‘They are taking good care of her.’
Jael smiled at him. He looked unusually pale. She had almost forgotten that they were leaving for battle soon. Fyn’s first. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Oh, Fyn here has spent most of the morning in the latrines with your brother,’ Torstan smiled, slapping the much taller man on his back.
Both Axl and Fyn glared at Torstan, who looked t
o Jael and Thorgils for support, only to be met with frowns.
‘Not really the time for joking,’ Thorgils grumbled. ‘Not in front of your new queen at least.’
Torstan’s smile slipped as the realisation of that sunk in.
Jael swallowed uncomfortably, looking towards the pyre, at last, remembering Eirik’s eyes, so filled with shock as she had run for him. If only she had run faster. If only Osbert had not been there...
Axl peered at his sister, his face as ghostly and anxious as Fyn’s. ‘Queen of Oss? I’m not sure how Father would have felt about that.’
Jael smiled sadly, imagining Ranuf Furyck’s stony face upon hearing that news. ‘Well, I suspect that if he had gotten to know Eirik, he would have thought it was an honour.’ Tears were coming; she could feel them. The depth of sadness and loss she felt surprised her. But, she realised, Eirik had quickly become more than a friend. He was someone she had respected. Someone she had wanted to impress, much like her own father. To prove herself to him. And he had given her the chance to do just that.
And now he was gone.
‘I’m going to see Eydis before we begin,’ she mumbled and walked quickly away.
Thorgils watched her go, trying to raise herself up, keeping her head high. Queen Jael. ‘It will be a hard day for your sister,’ he said to Axl. ‘She thought a lot of Eirik. And he put all his hopes for Oss in her.’
‘She won’t let him down,’ Axl insisted. ‘She will make a good queen.’
Thorgils nodded, pulling his own broad shoulders back, determined to let the sadness go for now. They would have to gather themselves together quickly, for today they had to take Skorro. ‘Now, let us go and say goodbye to our old king. It’s time to send him to Vidar.’
