The Burning Sea

by A. E. Rayne

  Jaeger hadn’t noticed the smoke on the sea, but here, enclosed within the thick stone walls of the fort, its throat-clogging, ashy tang was making it impossible to breathe. He glanced around, grimacing as he hurried to his feet, awareness dawning as he watched the flames spread towards the bedchambers, racing for the wooden doors of the hall.

  The book.

  ‘Berard, come on!’ Jaeger called, running to the hall. ‘We must get the book!’

  ‘But...’ his brother tried, looking around at the men who needed their help; the ones trapped between the gates and the flames. Their screams rose the hairs on his arms, his mouth hanging open in confusion.

  He ducked his eyes away from theirs and ran after Jaeger.

  The flames sparked and spat as the wind rose and the night fell.

  ‘We may as well get comfortable,’ Jael said to Beorn. There were no arrows coming for them now. No men waiting on the ramparts. They could hear their screams as they stood and watched the fire consume the fort’s interior. The stones would stand, and they would have to wait to find out how much damage they had done inside.

  ‘That fire does like to burn,’ Beorn noted wryly. ‘Rather useful stuff your grandmother made.’

  Jael nodded. It wasn’t pleasant, listening to the terror they had caused, and she didn’t smile. Better that it wasn’t the screams of her men, though; better that she took them home to their wives and mothers and daughters and sisters. Most of them. If she could.

  ‘We should eat and rest now!’ she called to her men. ‘We can’t go anywhere till that fire dies down.’

  Weary shoulders slumped around her, tension releasing for the first time all day. And it had been a long day. A day of fear and death and loss.

  The loss of their king.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Thorgils bellowed cheerfully over the side of Fire Serpent. ‘Have you lost any men?’

  ‘No!’ Jael shook her head. ‘You?’

  ‘No, but we have a few arrows to remove!’ Thorgils smiled back. ‘I don’t think they’ll be able to say the same!’ He nodded at the fort, cringing at the screams from within. He didn’t envy that fate: dying on a nothing island, trapped in a stone bowl of fire. For what? Ambitious kings. They were all the same; playing with the lives of men who meant nothing to them. Thorgils shook his head. ‘So, we wait?’

  ‘We have no choice. There is nowhere for them to go!’ Jael called. ‘And we can’t get in till the fire burns itself out. Tell Torstan. I’ll talk to Eadmund and Ivaar.’

  Thorgils frowned, peering at Ivaar, waiting by his prow for news. ‘Rather you than me,’ he growled and walked away.

  Haegen turned from the flames in the distance towards his father’s sullen face. His victorious mood had been entirely consumed by fire; the fire smouldering in the Tower; the fire that had destroyed their fleet; the fire they could all see still burning out there in the black sea.

  Lothar’s mood had improved over the course of the afternoon. He was still thirsty, hungry, and sore but he had begun to feel optimistic. ‘It seems to me that your men are struggling out there,’ he suggested.

  Haaron glared at him as they stood outside the stables, inhaling a stomach-churning mix of horse shit and smoke. The smoke that scratched the back of his throat was so bitter and pungent, like nothing he’d ever smelled before. His face contorted with rage as he strode back and forth in front of his prisoners. Irritated. Thinking. It certainly did not look as though his men were having any luck on Skorro. But how could he expect them to against that fire?

  ‘Your confidence is charming,’ Haaron spat. ‘But how do you know who burns in that fire, Lothar Furyck? How do you know it is not your ships, and your niece being consumed by the flames? From this far away? In this light? It could be anyone.’

  Osbert glanced at his father, willing him to keep his mouth shut. He sat on the ground, resting against the stable wall, trying not to move, his limbs weak and his mind working hard to ignore the pain. But he had not gotten any worse, and his wounds were not leaking as they had been earlier. He would recover. He cringed, adjusting his back, watching his father.

  Haaron looked ready to kill him.

  ‘True,’ Lothar smiled, swallowing, desperate for an entire jug of ale to wet his desert-like throat. ‘But perhaps unlikely, wouldn’t you say?’

  Haaron bit down on his teeth again, twisting the rings on his left hand. What did he care for Skorro? Really? It was a useful island, or had been. But did he really need it? And as for his sons...

  If they lived.

  ‘We will sleep here tonight,’ he grumbled at Haegen. ‘You may have secured a victory for us today, but it is ash-thick and burned down by whatever catastrophe your brother has led us into out there.’ He attempted a smile, but there was no joy in his heart, so it warped into a pained sneer. ‘We will march back to Hest at first light!’

  Lothar’s shoulders slumped. Hest was two days away by foot at least. That didn’t sound like a good idea at all.

  It was bitterly cold out on the sea. Despite the hot flames being fanned all around the fort, the wind blew icily into Eadmund’s face.

  He didn’t notice.

  The minds of his men were weary after the long day, but their bodies weren’t. No eyes were closed as they sat hunched under the gunwales of Ice Breaker, arms crossed, chatting quietly to one another, waiting for the flames to die down. Most of them, having sat out the battle, were eager to play their part. They had not spent hours sharpening their blades just to watch the archers impress the gods.

  Eadmund lay his head against the high rise of the stern, wishing he had one last chance to speak to his father. There was so much he needed to say. And now there was nothing but the memory of his ash as it rose into the sky and drifted across the sea, far behind them.

  And his murderer still lived.

  ‘I shall lie with you,’ Amma insisted for the third time, tucking the furs around Eydis. ‘You shouldn’t be alone.’

  Eydis’ eyes hurt. They felt thick and heavy, swollen from crying, and ready for sleep. She needed time, silence, a chance to escape into her dreams and find answers.

  And Amma Furyck couldn’t help with any of it.

  ‘Come away, Amma,’ Gisila said gently as she sat sipping wine by the fire. ‘Eydis is not used to so much fussing, I’m sure. We are not far away, are we, just over here?’ Despite her worries and fears for her children, she felt surprisingly calm. Perhaps it was the wine? No, she had barely sipped her way through half a cup. It was most certainly the absence of her cloying husband and the stench of his warm breath as it threatened to consume her, as it had done, every single night since their marriage.

  Gisila felt relief in Lothar’s absence that was as sweet as a cool breeze picking up on a hot day. As strange and unsettling as everything was, there was freedom in the quiet of the evening; an evening without Lothar, who she hoped was lying, abandoned in a ditch, his dead body feasted on by creatures of the night.

  ‘Gisila?’ Amma murmured, concerned by the strange look in her step-mother’s eye. ‘Are you unwell?’

  Gisila blinked away her fantasies, shades of guilt rushing across her face as it glowed warmly before the flames. ‘No, I was just thinking of Axl and Jael, and Aleksander,’ she said quickly. ‘Wondering how they fared today.’

  ‘You mean if they still live?’ Amma asked, shuddering.

  ‘Yes,’ Gisila whispered, feeling the familiar twinge in her stomach that had gotten considerably sharper over the course of the day. ‘We can only hope and pray that Furia protected them all.’

  ‘I wish Edela were here,’ Amma sighed. She grabbed a fur from the nearest bed and perched on a stool in front of the fire. ‘She would see what is happening. If anything had... gone wrong.’

  ‘I wish she were here too,’ Gisila agreed. ‘But remember, she was not worried, not that I saw. Not that she said. We must take comfort from that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Amma murmured, thinking about Axl. Worrying about Axl.


  Eydis rolled over, trying to shut them both out. She had not wanted to sleep in the other room, in the bed she had slept in when Ayla had come to warn her. She didn’t want the memory. Eydis just wanted sleep, desperately. She needed a chance to rest. And once she had recovered, she would try to dream and find her father’s killer.

  Ivaar stared at the fort, wishing the flames would disperse, but they burned with as much vigour as they had for the past few hours.

  It appeared that they’d all still be waiting until the sun rose, but would there be anyone left to fight? He turned back to his men who were mostly sleeping now.

  Ivaar scratched at his short beard, thirsty for ale, but at the same time desperately aware that he needed to keep a clear head. Whatever happened when the new day broke, he was certain that Eadmund was going to try and kill him.

  King Eadmund, the man who wore the crown meant for him; the crown given away by a bitter old man. A dead old man now, Ivaar smiled sadly, feeling a pang of loss, but his hatred built again, and he frowned, his mind whirring away.

  He needed to think of a way to escape before it was too late. He had to get back to Ayla and see what her dreams told her would happen next.

  It had been a horrible day, with an early start and a strange visitor, and in between everything had turned upside down and nothing was ever to be the same again, Meena was sure.

  A chill settled over her as she stared up through the smoke hole, counting the stars, wondering if Jaeger lived. She shuddered and looked down, back to the fire she was supposed to be attending to.

  ‘Are we to freeze to our very bones, girl?’ Morana spat, blowing on her pink-tipped fingers. ‘While you gaze at the moon, pining for your love?’ She laughed, and it cackled around the tall, stone walls, running down Meena’s spine.

  Varna sighed, wishing away the sharp sound of her daughter’s hateful voice. Her return had been an unwelcome intrusion. Varna had given Morana and Morac away many years ago; sold them to Grim Skalleson when they were small children. She had no desire to be a mother, so it was easy to ignore their weeping little faces as they begged to remain with her. Although, she had softened somewhat by the arrival of her third child, Meena’s father, Morten.

  She had kept him.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Varna grumbled. ‘I have told you, we need her. She will lead us to the book.’

  ‘But not if we freeze to death, she won’t,’ Morana muttered, rolling her eyes, thinking that the sparse fare her mother had organised for their supper had barely been enough for one mouthful, let alone the first proper meal she had eaten in days. For all that Varna Gallas had the ear of the King of Hest, she appeared to live in total poverty.

  ‘And what of your daughter?’ Varna asked loudly, wanting to get Morana’s mind away from torturing Meena, at least until she had brought the fire back to life again. ‘How is that plan unfolding?’

  Morana smiled, laughing as she leaned towards her mother. ‘Better than you could have imagined. She is so lovesick for Eadmund Skalleson. Obsessed. Desperate to have him for herself. Her motivation is strong.’

  ‘And you have taught her how to claim him, then? Seen that she has? That he is hers?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s working.’ Morana bared her teeth gleefully as the flames burst into life between Meena’s carefully stacked logs. ‘She has his son, and now she is taking him away from her. It will be done. Soon, Jael and Eadmund will be far apart.’

  26

  The water rippled under the slowly rising sun. It was cold as Jael jumped down into it, gushing into her boots, icy and wet between her toes. She shivered but it was more in anticipation, listening as her men splashed down behind her, some well-rested, most on edge. Tense hands gripped swords and axes, all eyes fixed on the entrance to the fort.

  Ashy smoke had wafted towards them as they rocked gently on their ships all night, but now, as they approached the jagged shore and stared up at the towering stone fortress, its stench was all-encompassing.

  There were no flames.

  No gates, either.

  ‘What do you think?’ Eadmund waded up onto the beach, frowning at his wife.

  He looked tired, Jael thought as she listened for any sign of life. More men surged forward onto the narrow stretch of beach that sat beneath a lip of overhanging rock. There was a short path that led to the smoke-filled hole where two wooden gates used to be.

  They heard nothing but themselves.

  ‘It’s made of stone,’ Jael said quietly, nodding at Thorgils who yawned as he approached, ignoring Ivaar and the other lords, who stood at a distance, talking amongst themselves. ‘And the stone is still standing. So, they’re in there. Somewhere.’

  Eadmund nodded, cracking his neck from side to side, flexing his fingers around his sword. ‘Well, then,’ he smiled tightly. ‘Shall we?’

  Axl yawned in the dawn light, his body aching as he rolled over, stiff and uncomfortable in the gravel. He had dreamed of the battle; disturbed dreams of the men he had injured or killed. In most instances, he wasn’t sure. He’d seen their eyes, the shock in them; wide-eyed terror and then nothing. Axl felt different, certain that he was changed as he lay there, flexing his injured hand, not wanting the day to begin. At least in his dreams, there was a chance to escape the reality that they were Haaron’s prisoners.

  Their fate lay in his hands now.

  His and Lothar’s.

  ‘It is very kind of you,’ Lothar mumbled to Haegen in between mouthfuls of cool ale, relief easing his throbbing limbs as he sat back against the stable wall. It had been a night of aches and pains and frantic conversation as he and Osbert had conspired to find a way out of this mess.

  Osbert, drinking from his own cup, looked equally grateful, his body collapsed weakly next to his father’s.

  Haegen glared down at them both, frustrated that they found themselves in this position; unsure where they went to from here. But any decision his father made about what to do with all the Brekkans would have to wait until they heard from Skorro.

  ‘Why are you giving them our ale?’ Karsten grumbled behind his brother.

  ‘You think they shouldn’t drink?’ Haegen snorted. ‘That they can last without drinking? That’s how you’d treat your prisoners, is it, if you were king?’

  ‘If I were king,’ Karsten spat, lowering his voice, ‘I wouldn’t keep prisoners. What’s the point? Feeding them, watering them, housing them?’ He kicked out at Osbert’s bandaged legs. ‘Fuck them! I’d leave them to the birds.’

  ‘Well, that is good to know,’ Haaron murmured as he approached, his face taut with irritation. ‘I shall make a note of that, my second son. Perhaps now, my youngest son?’ He shrugged his shoulders, unsure how he felt about that. He did not despise Berard in the way he did Jaeger. But Berard was almost entirely useless, so would be no real loss.

  Except to Bayla. And she would blame him.

  ‘Jaeger wouldn’t have just given up, Father,’ Haegen assured him. ‘You know that.’

  Haaron inhaled, frowning, wishing to smell something other than smoke. ‘I don’t imagine he would have. He is a Dragos, after all.’

  ‘Ivaar!’ Jael called reluctantly. ‘Do your archers have many arrows left?’

  Ivaar came over with the other lords. ‘They do.’

  Torborn and Frits nodded in agreement, their faces more amenable as they looked towards her now.

  ‘Well, send them to the back. We’ll all go in with shields. Have your archers ready to provide cover. We have no idea how many are left in there.’

  The fort’s gates may have burned into a crumble of ash and charred wood, but there was nothing to see beyond them which provided any further information. Just thick clouds of stinking smoke.

  Jael smiled encouragingly at Fyn, who stood nervously next to Thorgils and Torstan. ‘Archers to the back! Shields to the front and sides! Eyes everywhere! There may be no one left alive, or just as easily, hundreds in there, hiding in the smoke!’ she shouted to the waiting, jiggling, eager men
. ‘Kill anyone you like, except a Dragos! We need them whole. A head on its own won’t do!’

  Thorgils elbowed Fyn. ‘Time to show your shit of a father how wrong he was about you, wouldn’t you say?’ he whispered in his friend’s ear, smiling widely at the morose face of Morac who hovered near Eadmund.

  ‘Let’s finish what we started!’ Jael yelled, sliding Toothpick out of his warm, sheepskin-lined scabbard, lifting him up to the sky that was quickly brightening above them. She turned and walked up the path, Eadmund and Torstan on her left, Fyn and Thorgils on her right, Ivaar and the lords behind them. Her eyes raced ahead, checking for any sign of movement in the dense smoke. ‘Let’s take this island for Eirik Skalleson!’

  Eadmund glanced at his wife, but her attention was elsewhere, searching for the threat they all could sense lurking within the walls of the silent fort.

  Haaron sat upon his horse, his head turned towards the sea. Whatever had happened, he knew, word would be taken to Hest. And so he would have to wait before making any decisions about the Brekkan’s fate. He had sent a man ahead, on a fast horse, to warn Bayla. He wanted her to be prepared for whatever news might come before his return.

  Why, he wondered, as he so often did... why did he care so much about her feelings, when she cared so little for him?

  Haaron shook his head, smiling suddenly at the sight of Lothar Furyck huffing and puffing beside him. It was not an easy march back to Hest, but soon they would reach the summit and then it would all be downhill. His smile was brief, quickly replaced by a frown. If Jael was in command of Skorro, would she be so inclined to hand it back in return for her uncle and cousin? He doubted it. Lothar was not her father and certainly not a man worth sacrificing anything for. But he was her uncle, a Furyck. Perhaps she would see the importance in that?