by A. E. Rayne
Fyn took a deep breath, his stomach lurching, his eyes accidentally meeting his father’s as he stood next to Eadmund. Morac scowled and looked away, turning his attention towards the fort as Ice Breaker eased forward.
Jael turned and swayed down to the stern, watching the rest of their fleet follow them in. There were no smiles that she could see, only faces tight with tension, minds flooded with impatient bloodlust, arms itching to wield swords, feet desperate to feel the earth again. They wanted battle and victory.
The time for waiting and hiding was done.
Lothar’s aching body slumped as he was butted towards the gates of the Tower by Haaron’s mountainous son. He was meant to be the victorious king; him and Eirik Skalleson, both. Now Eirik was merely drifting ash, and he was a prisoner, humiliated, ready to fall to the dirt, expected to beg for mercy. Lothar trembled, exhausted, but forced himself to straighten his aching spine. He was a king. The king, the most powerful king, from the oldest line in all of Osterland. And his niece was out there on the sea with a large fleet behind her, ready to attack Skorro.
All was not lost. Not yet.
It was the strangest twist in fortunes, Lothar thought, that he found himself praying to Furia, hoping that she would protect Jael, to see her victorious, so that Jael could then save him.
Osbert sighed, relieved to be at the Tower, at last, his stomach cramping with discomfort, his body ready to collapse. His wounds had been hastily wrapped in scraps of cloth, and much of the blood had clotted, but now he was left with the pricking, stinging pain of it all, and the worry of what was about to happen. He doubted that his father had the quick mind to talk them out of this and he could barely see straight, let alone think of how to help him.
Haaron strode through the wooden gates, the Tower aflame behind him, his black cloak flapping angrily with every determined stride. He nodded at his sons. ‘So, you have brought me better news than your brothers, I see,’ he growled, not bothering to acknowledge Lothar.
Not yet.
‘Father!’ Haegen could barely keep the smile off his face. His pride in their victory, in the prizes he had managed to retrieve from Karsten’s murderous axes, painted his face with a youthful confidence he had not felt in years.
His father did not share in his good mood.
‘Lothar Furyck,’ Haaron sneered, turning towards his bloodied and bruised enemy. No, Haaron thought to himself, his prisoner. ‘What trouble you keep causing for me, you, and your family,’ he frowned, circling before the dishevelled man who he could see was so desperately trying not to look as compromised as he actually was. ‘So, much trouble. What your little friend Eirik Skalleson did out there to my fleet... my Tower...’ He shook his head, his eyes flaring furiously at the reminder.
‘Eirik is dead,’ Lothar said bluntly.
Haaron’s eyes registered shock at that, as did his sons’. They all turned to look at Lothar, curiously. ‘When? When did he die?’
‘This morning. Last night. In the night.’ Lothar shook his head, stumbling over his words, too exhausted to think clearly. It was late afternoon now, but he felt as though he had not slept for days. ‘Poisoned.’
‘Murdered?’ Haaron was intrigued. ‘By who?’
Lothar’s mouth was so parched that it hurt to speak. He coughed, hoping to subtly convey his urgent need for something to drink.
Haaron ignored him, waiting on an answer.
‘I don’t know,’ Lothar rasped irritably. ‘There was no time before we left to discover who had done it. Although, there were suspicions that it was his son, the eldest one.’ He coughed again.
Haaron was surprised, although he wasn’t sure he should be after what he had heard about Eirik and Ivaar’s history. ‘Well, it appears that the gods have punished Eirik for what he did to his own father,’ Haaron mused, narrowing his eyes on the rapidly expiring Brekkan king. ‘Who led his fleet out there against my sons, then?’
‘Jael,’ Lothar croaked.
Karsten looked furious. ‘Jael?’ That bitch.
‘And now, she may be about to take my island too,’ Haaron muttered, ignoring more coughing from Lothar, as well as the rumble from his royal prisoner’s empty stomach. ‘Although, as we both know, a secure, well-stocked fort can hold out against most enemies. And there are not many better than the one I built on Skorro.’ He rose up on his toes, until he was towering over Lothar. ‘It has never been taken.’
‘Of course,’ Lothar conceded, annoyed by the lack of courtesy he was being shown. ‘But if it is? Perhaps it would make sense to begin some preliminary... negotiations?’
Gant and Aleksander glanced at each other.
Osbert’s one open eye bulged.
‘Negotiations?’ Haaron eyed Lothar curiously, then laughed, smiling at his sons. ‘You are aware that you are my prisoner? That all of your men are my prisoners? That I can kill you, should kill you, as you stand there dribbling and stinking before me? Pathetic and meagre and conquered! By my sons! By me!’ His voice rose loudly until he was bellowing at them all as they stood near the edge of the cliff, the smell of burning sea-fire, a bitter stink in their nostrils; the Tower swallowed by smoke and flame behind them. ‘Because of you and your foolish ambition, my fleet is sunk, my Tower is on fire, entirely useless, and my youngest sons, if they still live, are about to be attacked by your niece. So, why do you think that you have anything to say that I would wish to listen to?!’
Lothar could feel the hot anger rising from Haaron, the spittle from his mouth, twisted in fury as it was, but he didn’t waver, nor shrink in the face of it. Because Jael was Ranuf’s daughter and, just like his brother, he knew exactly what she was capable of.
‘Your husband is here?’ Isaura’s mouth hung open. She looked around. ‘Where?’
Ayla sighed, suddenly wondering whether she should have said anything at all. It was too late now, though. But she didn’t know where to begin.
Isaura shivered, curious but cold; she couldn’t feel her toes anymore. ‘Let’s get back to the hall. We can go to my chamber.’
‘No!’ Ayla cried anxiously. ‘No, it’s better that we talk here. There are no spies out here.’
Isaura nodded. ‘Alright, but I must get my boots first,’ she smiled, heading for the rock she had left them on.
Ayla followed her, waiting silently while Isaura sat down and pulled her socks and boots on over her wet, frozen feet.
‘So, why?’ Isaura asked, standing up, jiggling her toes about, trying to feel them again. ‘Why did you come here?’
Ayla ducked her head and started walking, her eyes scanning the shore, but there was still no one about, on the beach at least. She could see people near the fort, but with most of the men gone, it was a quieter, more subdued atmosphere. Almost pleasant.
‘My husband, Bruno,’ Ayla began. ‘He was from Silura. A merchant. He charmed me when he came to Tuura, refused to leave until I married him.’ She smiled, warmed by the memories for a moment. ‘Which I did.’
‘Because you wanted to?’ Isaura wondered, walking carefully across the stones beside her.
‘Yes,’ Ayla nodded eagerly. ‘I loved him. I had seen him in my dreams for many years. I knew that he would come for me and I was desperate to leave Tuura. So, I went with him, as his wife. Willingly,’ she sighed. ‘We travelled everywhere together for years, and although we were happy, I was desperate to stop and find a home. Bruno promised we could return to Silura. But first he wanted to sell a large shipload of furs he had bought in Alekka, so we came to the islands. And that is how we met Ivaar.’
Isaura frowned. ‘I don’t remember you coming.’
‘You had only recently given birth to Mads,’ Ayla reminded her. ‘You were very ill, remember? In bed for weeks.’
Isaura nodded. ‘That’s right, and when I emerged, you were there. But just you. All of a sudden Ivaar had a dreamer. But where was your husband?’
Ayla opened her mouth, then closed it, trying not to cry. ‘Ivaar entertained us lavishly
when we arrived. He was making deals with Bruno, but his eyes were all over me. Bruno could see it, of course, but he thought that we would just take his money and leave,’ she said sadly. ‘But then, one night, he drank too much... talked too much. He told Ivaar that I was a dreamer.’ She stopped suddenly, struck by the memory, still so fresh, of when Ivaar had first grabbed her, threatened her, touched her.
Isaura stopped; they were getting too close to the fort.
‘He took Bruno as his prisoner... to force me to stay here,’ Ayla said quietly. ‘He’s in his dungeon. Still. After all this time,’ she cried at last. ‘And I am allowed to see him once a month. Nothing more. Not until I get Ivaar on the throne, and then he will release him. But I don’t believe him!’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t believe he’ll ever let him out. Ever set us free. I can’t see anything ahead for me. There is nothing in my dreams but Ivaar.’
Isaura reached out for Ayla’s hands, her eyes full of sympathy. ‘Ayla, I’m so sorry,’ she said passionately. ‘I’m so sorry for you.’
‘He forced me!’ Ayla wept. ‘I do not wish to be in his bed, you must know that.’
‘Of course,’ Isaura soothed. ‘Of course, neither do I!’ She tried to make Ayla smile, but the dreamer was barely listening as tears streamed down her cheeks. Isaura leaned forward, pulling her into her arms. ‘And do you?’ she wondered quietly. ‘Do you really see Ivaar on the throne?’
‘I did,’ Ayla sniffed, pulling back, wiping away her tears. ‘I did. Once. But now it’s very clouded. I’m afraid that he will become king and hurt a lot of people. Afraid that he won’t, and I’ll never be with Bruno again.’
Isaura narrowed her eyes. ‘Ivaar Skalleson has taken far too much from both of us,’ she said firmly. ‘Far too much over all these years. There must be something we can do?’ She looked at Ayla, desperate for a sign of hope. ‘Together?’
25
‘Remember what I said... it’s all about what you do up here.’ Jael tapped the side of Fyn’s helmet as he shook beneath it. ‘Stay calm. Keep thinking.’ She sought his eyes quickly. It was time to begin.
Fyn nodded, attempting a smile, gripping his sword, reminding himself that he could do this. He closed his eyes and saw Thorgils’ face urging him on.
Jael turned to Arlo. ‘How many arrows left?’
‘At least a hundred, my lady,’ he said with certainty.
Jael cringed, not wanting the reminder that Eirik was dead, that she was suddenly a queen. ‘And jars?’
‘Six.’
‘That’s enough to start a fire or two, I’d say,’ she smiled tightly. ‘Light the braziers and let’s test the range again!’ Jael called to her archers before turning to her men whose hands were on the oars, itching for their swords and axes. ‘I’m getting hungry, aren’t you? Ready for a nice jug of ale to toast our victory!’ Her eyes wandered up the imposing stone shell of the fort. ‘I’m sure Haaron has a good store of food in there too!’
They had slowed to a stop, lurching in a choppy sea, the clouds sinking around them. Jael knew that they didn’t have long to get into the fort before night came to snuff out their plans.
Arlo’s arrow went straight through the cheek of a man standing on the ramparts. He screamed, grabbing his face, and pitched forward, falling onto the death-making rocks below.
‘Stow the oars! Into the houses!’ Jael cried. ‘Two flags up Fyn! Yellow and red!’
Jaeger threw up his shield as the first jars of sea-fire arced over his head, smashing onto the ground behind him. A thick shower of burning arrows followed. Men on the ramparts and those standing around the inner fort below – those who had not been out on the sea – froze, blinking in surprise, watching as the liquid caught and exploded into flame.
‘Water!’ Jaeger yelled down into the fort. It seemed a futile order, he knew, but something had to stop the fire from spreading. ‘Berard! Try anything!’ he implored. ‘Get that fire out! Now!’ He turned back around, watching as the catapults were pulled back again. ‘Archers! Aim for those men!’
Berard froze in front of the flames, panicking as men rushed before him with buckets of water. It made no difference at all; if anything, it seemed to be helping the fire to spread. And quickly. ‘Flour!’ he yelled suddenly to one of the cooks who was rushing out of the kitchen, ferrying water in a cauldron. ‘What about flour?’
The cook, an elderly man, looked at him incredulously. ‘You think I have enough flour in my kitchen to throw on that?’ he cried, pointing to the towering flames blowing towards the wooden walls of the bedchambers and storage rooms.
The fort’s shell may have been made of thick stone, but many of its interior walls were wooden. Flames were already licking the poles and posts that held up the wooden ledge running around the ramparts.
Berard glanced around anxiously, stepping away from the heat of the flames as they surged towards him. There must be something he could do. But what?
‘Berard!’ Jaeger yelled as another batch of jars sailed overhead. ‘Get out of there! Quick!’
‘Aim for the gates!’ Jael called. ‘The sea-fire is so thick, it’ll stick. Aim high and let it run down. Just one jar!’
The arrows flew towards them from the top of the ramparts, stabbing more holes in their shelter.
‘Wait!’ Jael called, sensing the danger. ‘Four shield men, go with Bjorr and Alek! Quick!’ She turned to her archers. ‘Nock! Light your arrows!’ Jael watched as the archers dipped their pitch-soaked arrowheads into the braziers before stepping back into position, then looked back to the catapult crew crawling around the bow, protected on all sides now. ‘Load the catapult! Fire at will! Draw! Open! Aim! Release! Down!’
There were a lot of men on those ramparts. Two went down, tipping back into the flames she could see rising from behind them now. Two more took their place.
Jael heard a scream as her catapult loader went down, an arrow through his arm. Another man quickly rushed out to take his place. She frowned. ‘I’ll be right back! Fyn! Run another drill at those gates!’
Fyn gaped but did as she asked, his voice wavering, but his pace steady.
Jael grabbed two shields and hurried out through the rear of the house, towards the stern, trying not to attract much attention. Ivaar and the lords stood in the bows of their ships, waiting. ‘Ivaar!’ she cried. ‘Lead your line! Bring your ships in range! We need every bow you’ve got! Take those men on the ramparts down!’ She ducked back into the house quickly as the Hestian archers turned their bows towards her, firing off a whistling volley of arrows.
‘Well, your shield works fine,’ Jael smiled crookedly at Fyn, handing it back to him, decorated now with three arrows. ‘Perhaps we’d better swap?’
Thorgils turned to Otto as they crouched in their house, which was quickly becoming more holes than wood. ‘Nothing to say?’ he taunted the mumbling old man as he squeezed his helmet over his huge nest of hair. ‘I’m not sure what to make of all this peace and quiet? You have me worried!’
Otto tugged on his leather helmet strap, avoiding Thorgils’ eyes. ‘You need to watch those jars,’ he grumbled. ‘We don’t have many left.’
‘No,’ Thorgils smiled, watching another jar fly. ‘But hopefully, we won’t need to use too many. It’s not a big fort, is it?’ He nodded to the two men who stood nearest the catapult. ‘Follow Sea Bear’s lead,’ he ordered. ‘Archers! We need to burn the bollocks out of those gates, so stick your arrows through that wood!’ He jumped back as an arrow flew into the wooden house, screaming straight past his nose. ‘I might need a new pair of trousers when we’re done!’ he smiled. ‘Now fire that fucking catapult!’
They were running low on arrows.
Eadmund watched as the gates burned, as the ships behind him decimated the men on the ramparts, their line growing smaller and smaller under the constant pressure of the Islander’s arrows.
Behind those men, the flames grew, and before them, the rocks beckoned. Neither fate looked appealing to the men trapped on the wal
l.
And then, as Eadmund looked on, they disappeared entirely from view in one, big, clattering bang.
They were far away now, and it was getting too dark to make out much, but the fire was obvious enough. It was a good sign, Aleksander thought to himself as he glanced at the demoralised faces of the men around him.
Jael was their only hope.
They all knew that. All of the Brekkans who crouched and sat and lay on the rough, gravelly dirt in the dim light of the gloomy afternoon knew that if Jael didn’t take Skorro, they were all dead. Because if they could not capture the island or either of those two Dragos sons – if they lived – then Lothar would have nothing to bargain with.
The blood from Aleksander’s leg wound had congealed, forming an encouraging shield over his cut. He was relieved. Many of the men around him were not as lucky. They gripped bellies and arms that still oozed, worsened by their long trek to the Tower. His tunic was in tatters; he had ripped so many pieces from it in the hopes of staunching his men’s bloody wounds. Some were luckier than others. Two had died since they had been left on the dusty ground beneath the burning Tower to wait – without water, or food – guarded over by rows of axe-wielding Hestians, while Lothar and Haaron and their sons negotiated.
Negotiated what?
‘Jaeger!’ Berard yelled, racing to the fallen men, only some of whom were scrambling out of the broken ramparts, burning poles and sparking flames all around them. He reached for his brother’s hand, trying to drag him away from the fire.
Men rushed to join him, trying to rescue those yet to be consumed by the flames, trying to ignore the terrifying screams from those who had.
‘We have to get out of here!’ Berard panicked. ‘The fire is everywhere! We should surrender!’ He coughed, gagging on the thick smoke that rose up in billowy clouds, threatening to suffocate them all. Sweat dripped down his forehead, settling into his furrowed brow.
