I spin and catch the hand that holds the blade. It’s inches from my neck, wrist quivering—a Fjern dressed in black, blending into the island’s shadows, holds the machete. He presses, the tip piercing my skin, but Malthe has trained me against this maneuver a thousand times. I fall back so that he stumbles over me, and I throw him to the ground. I roll onto his back and twist the knife from his hand, grab a handful of his hair, and slice open his throat. Blood spurts then gurgles and pools. The twitching body, struggling against death, stills beneath me. I swallow and breathe hard while I grip the machete.
Sense comes back to me. I should’ve questioned the man. It’s too late. He’s dead. But there have to be more. There wouldn’t be only one Fjern sent to this island, just to kill me. I jump to my feet and race through the brush, roots and leaves tangling around my feet. I burst out onto another path and run to the house where the fires glow. I can see the brown faces, shining with sweat and laughter.
“An attack!” I yell. Faces swivel to me, freezing with surprise. Georg is the closest. He stands, eyes wide as he takes in the blood that covers my hands and the machete I hold. “The Fjern—one tried to ambush me. There have to be more—”
The explosion is a bright flash, a blast that punctures my ears and leaves a roaring silence. There’s a ringing in its wake. White dust and debris sails through the air, and fire catches on the plants around us. There are bodies, too many bodies, on the ground—I realize that I’m on the ground as well, though I’m already mindlessly crawling back to my feet, machete in my hand, swinging at the first of the Fjern that comes running from the brush with a scream. I cut him down, then the next. Georg takes the machete of a dead man and fights beside me. I can hear shouts echoing across the island. How did the Fjern sneak onto Hans Lollik Helle without our noticing? Where were the guards watching the seas?
I cut a Fjernman’s throat just as Georg kills the last of them. He doubles over, breathing hard. There are only four others still alive, reeling with shock. My throat stings in the burning ash of the ruins of Niklasson’s manor. There’s a hole in the side, people crushed beneath rubble. I run to them, trying to heave rocks and stones, but they’re all dead. I recognize Ulrike, red staining her dress. Her gaze is empty.
“We have to get to Malthe,” I shout, voice hoarse.
Though he fought well, I can see the uncertainty in Georg. He’s still young, and he hasn’t seen very much bloodshed. The night of the uprising was the first time he’d killed another person. His voice shakes when he speaks. “He’ll be in the barracks.”
The barracks are on the other side of the hill that holds the main manor. Malthe will want us to come to him immediately, to take our orders and fight for our commander. He’ll have the best sense of positioning, will be able to lead us against the Fjern. If he’s still alive, Geir will likely make every effort to find Malthe as well, to lend a strategic eye to the battlefield of Hans Lollik Helle.
But I can see the truth reflected in Georg’s eyes. There’s no time. From the sound of the screams echoing over the hill and the fields, the Fjern have come in waves from all sides. They came without their battleships altogether this time, sending in what seems to be an overwhelming number of men under the cover of night.
“What will we do?” Georg asks me.
All resentment he’d felt for me has disappeared. In its place is desperation. He watches me, waiting for orders and for me to reassure him with my confidence and commands that he will live. I see the same expectation reflected in the faces of the survivors around me. There are five of us, all guards. The survivors hold their machetes, taken from the dead Fjern at our feet. I’ve never led anyone in battle before, but I’ll have to try if we want any chance to survive.
“We need to make it to the barracks,” I say. “To join with Malthe and the others.” The smell of smoke gushes through the air, clogging my throat and burning my eyes. “They’ve likely set fire to the rest of the groves,” I tell them. “The only way to the barracks will be south, to the mangroves, up the bay and around.”
“To the beach?” one of the guards, named Ivar, repeats. “If this is a battle to take Hans Lollik Helle, it will be flooded with Fjern.”
“It’s either to the bay or through the fire,” I tell him. Ivar doesn’t respond with his preference.
We move together as one, through the brush—too tight for formation, we could easily be flanked and slaughtered, but speed is more important than technique and precision. Branches and leaves crack beneath our feet. We could awaken the entire island with our noise. We sound like a dying beast crashing through the groves. I hear a whisper, feel a presence at my neck—I whirl around and shout at Georg to stop. He’s spun with his machete in his hand, ready to cut down the shadow at his side, but it isn’t Fjern. Helga clutches Anke. There are more women following them, six in all. They’d escaped from the Larsen manor, where they’d begun to spend their nights. A quick scan of Helga’s thoughts shows me that they’d managed to surprise three Fjern who wandered from the path. The women killed the men and took their blades.
“Is everyone all right?” I ask them.
“We’ll be fine when we’ve got the Fjern off our island.”
I nod. Everyone’s ready to move forward—ready to fight. Anke shines with determination. She has the fearlessness of the heroine from the tales, facing the spirit of the sea—or the courage of a child, who doesn’t yet understand the permanence of death.
We move forward as one. The trees become thinner, and the clearing of the beach is ahead of us. There are Fjern as we expected—but I’m surprised to see them fighting islanders. Scouts, I realize, the spies and messengers—Tuve’s people, caught by surprise and still battling for their lives. There are only four left, countless others dead on the sand, perhaps herded to this bay to be massacred. The Fjern who remain seem to be playing games, a group already beginning to search the dead, others laughing while some lazily stab at the remaining guards who swivel and spin and block, slashing with their machetes—
I put a finger to my lips. The others nod. We move as quietly as we can from the trees and onto the beach. I move faster, until I’m running. The closest Fjern turns to me with wide eyes before I slice his head from his neck. It falls to the sand, and I spin and stick my machete through muscle of the Fjern that has turned to stab me—the machete is lodged in bone, and I can’t pull it out, so I take his blade instead, slicing his neck when he still fights and spinning to the Fjern who swings at Georg—
The scouts, reinvigorated by our arrival, fight harder. One of the kitchen maids takes a knife to her shoulder with a scream, but she only pulls it out and slides it into the Fjernman’s stomach. I see Anke in the corner of my eye—she’d wandered into the battle, frozen with terror, and a Fjernman runs at her, seeing not a child but an easy target, but they’re both too far away for anyone to stop him—
I don’t think. Remnants of kraft still inside of me surge forward, and the man drops to his knees with a piercing scream. I imagine fire licking at his skin, searching through his body, and he contorts in pain. Ivar chops a machete into the back of the man’s skull, and he falls to the sand. Anke’s chest rises and falls like a mouse caught in a trap.
The man Ivar killed was the last of the Fjern. We all stand in shock for a moment, staring at one another as if we want to be sure we’re actually still alive. We are. We were outnumbered by about ten, and we managed to kill all of the Fjern without losing any of our own. Confusion over the man Ivar killed, and why he’d dropped to his knees in excruciating pain, is eclipsed by the amazement that we managed to survive.
“Is everyone all right?” I ask, breathless. I realize that this isn’t something a commander would ask his guards. I can’t imagine Malthe asking it of any of us, anyway. But I decide in the moment that I don’t care. I see the blood, the wounds, the wheezing breaths—but when I ask my question, everyone stands straight, fire in their eyes. Anke returns to my side. They all nod as one.
“Good,” I s
ay. “Let’s keep going.”
CHAPTER SIX
We move up the beach and along the mangroves, cutting down any Fjern we see, before we move up the path back into the trees and around the burning fields toward the barracks. We find survivors along the way. Islanders hiding in the brush and behind the ruins of old manors, guards who had been left for dead are helped to their feet. By the time we reach the barracks, there are dozens of us, easily overpowering any Fjern in our path. Georg, Ivar, and other guards help keep the untrained islanders in formation. I can see the assurance growing in the others, the possibility that we will survive this battle swelling inside of them. But I can only feel dread deepening with every step. Where are Malthe and his guards? There should be a raging battle as they fight for control of Hans Lollik Helle, but as we come closer to the barracks, I only hear silence.
Georg is stiff beside me. He’s also noticed the quiet. We come to the edge of the groves. The field where Malthe leads his drills has become a grave. The dead are piled on top of the dead, blood soaking the ground and heavy in the air. Small fires burn the dry grass and the remains of most of the barracks and slaves’ quarters, disintegrating them into embers and soot that stings my eyes. Fjern—my eyes scan about twenty, maybe thirty—stand in rows, wearing their uniforms of black. They face a line of islanders.
Malthe’s guards are prisoners, hands on top of their heads and weapons gone. There’d been at least forty guards, but over half that number are dead on the field. Malthe is at the very end of the line, face swollen and blood staining his shirt, though it’s difficult to see if the blood belongs to him or a dead Fjern. Someone gasps behind me, but another hushes them quickly. I can feel all of the others waiting for me to give my command. From where we hide in the trees, I can see who I think might be the commander of the Fjern. He speaks to another with an expression of boredom. He’s deciding what to do with the prisoners. He gestures at them, and his guard nods.
“To your knees,” the Fjern guard orders.
Our people don’t move. The guard marches to Malthe and kicks him behind his knees, forcing him to the ground. Other guards do the same to the remaining islanders. I can see what will happen. The Fjern don’t need to question Malthe and the rest. They’ll simply slit their throats before hunting the island for any survivors.
My voice echoes in the quiet. “Now!”
We run forward as one with a scream that rips through the air and into the sky, machetes drawn, feet pounding the dirt. The closest Fjern, still in formation, haven’t drawn their weapons when they’re cut down. The prisoners see their opportunity for life and grab the Fjern who were seconds away from cutting their necks and struggle to take their weapons. The commander of the Fjern stands among the chaos, surprise switching to irritation. He locks eyes with me and draws his blade. Battles clash around me, but I see the challenge in his gaze. I walk to him, gripping my machete, handle slick with blood and sweat.
“Løren Jannik,” he says. “I was warned about you.”
Words meant to crack my concentration, but I take the bait. “What were you told?”
“That if I have the chance, I should take my time and kill you slowly.”
He takes a step forward, ready to charge, but a blade sticks through his neck and red spurts out. His eyes widen in surprise, and Malthe pulls his machete back so that the man falls at his feet. Malthe gives me one long, grim look that’s impossible for me to read, even with Sigourney’s kraft. He nods, and we turn away from one another, blades slashing. My arms shake and my chest is tight, but my body continues like it doesn’t belong to me. The spirits take control, moving me from one neck to one stomach to one chest, until all I know is the smell of blood and intestines, the blur of pained and surprised expressions, the shouts and grunts—a whisper in my mind, a last thought and prayer. The final thoughts of dying men are incoherent. Thoughts on the scent of salt and grass, whether the gods will accept him.
My machete is stuck in the chest of a Fjern guard. I yank it out again, blood spilling on my arm. I turn, expecting another, but there’s no one. Fjern are at my feet, some in piles. I turn again, and I see islanders watching me. Malthe had told me once that I fight like a dancer. Rhythmically, methodically, losing myself to the movement. I feel like a dancer with an audience might. The surviving islanders stare at me as I pant, nearly stumbling in exhaustion, covered in red. Alongside the awe, there’s also fear. Inhuman. This is the thought I can feel rise from the others. I fought like a monster from the stories we’re told as children. Like a man possessed by a spirit set on revenge.
Malthe’s heavy expression has not changed. The Fjern are dead, but we lost most of our own people as well, and many are injured. Helga presses a hand to Anke’s side, where blood spills between her fingers. Others of us are on the ground, groaning and pleading for help. Malthe begins to snap his orders.
“First garrison,” he shouts, voice echoing over the battlefield. There are responses of survivors, both those who had been here on the field and those who had followed me along the bay. I count seven. I’ll need to know how many guards remain. “Search the island for any remaining Fjern. Kill them.”
The guards move without hesitation. Malthe calls on the second garrison, six survivors in all, to find any injured islander and to bring them here to this field. He believes we’ll be safest in numbers until we have a better sense of the condition of the island, and how many of us remain. The third garrison was almost wiped out, but its four guards will stay here and keep the rest of us safe, in case there’s another battle to be had.
There are only seventeen guards on this island. Seventeen, out of what had been fifty. The Fjern, if they were smart, would have sent in this first wave to kill us, and then a second to make sure that the first had completed their task. But the Fjern have always underestimated us. They probably thought they’d sent more than enough men to slaughter every single one of us on this island. Technically, they had. It’s luck that we’re still alive. Marieke would say that it was the spirits that watch over us.
Georg is with the third garrison. Twelve of the nonfighting islanders are still alive. The surviving three orphans are grouped together with the adults who sit in a daze. Cloth has been ripped into strips, and Helga helps to wash Anke’s wound. There’s a deep cut in her side. It’s the sort of cut that can turn yellow and then green. Anke will not survive a cut to the stomach like this. Anke, still determined to be brave, doesn’t cry. She’s been used to hiding her kraft all of this time, so she’s surprised when I approach her and ask if it’s true that she can heal another person’s wounds.
Helga is as old as Marieke, but her hands are steady as she cleans Anke’s cut. She’d been on Niklasson Helle working under Herre Lothar Niklasson before she was brought here for the storm season. She’s worked closely with Marieke both in the kitchens and in the network of whispers. When I ask my question, she looks at Anke with surprise. Helga thought she knew of everyone who had kraft, and she especially wouldn’t have expected this of the girl that’s been running underfoot for nearly a month, laughing as she hid from Helga and anyone else who called her name. Helga pretends that the girl annoys her to no end, but she enjoys Anke. She enjoys the reminder of why she must continue to fight.
Anke looks at me with frightened eyes. I tell her not to worry. “You won’t be in trouble for the power you have.”
It hurts her to speak, but she wants me to think that she’s brave, so she does her best to hide this. “There was a girl who was whipped by the master. My mother said she was my sister, so I had to help her. I put my hands on her back and asked the cuts to heal. It worked.”
“Have you ever tried to heal yourself?”
She shakes her head. I help guide her hands to the wound. She flinches. I can feel the pain in her, like iron from a fire searing into her flesh. But as Anke concentrates on the wound, asking it to go away, the pain eases. The blood stops seeping. Helga looks from the bandage and back to me before she begins to unravel it. The wound is
still there, but it isn’t nearly as deep. Saltwater to clean it, a fresh bandage, and rest is all Anke needs.
I remember Sigourney’s suggestion that I can take any kraft I want. I remember untangling Patrika Årud’s kraft in my veins. I close my eyes and breathe, imagining that I’m holding Anke’s kraft in my hand. The power is warm and still has an innocence. I’ll be able to help heal anyone on the field, but if we want to save as many people as we can, it won’t be enough.
“I have to ask your help,” I say to Anke. “I know that you’re hurting, and I know that you’re tired, but I need you to be strong.” Anke is eager to prove herself. She nods her agreement with determination.
Helga helps Anke move from one person to the next. I go to a woman, lying on her side and crying, her stomach cut open. She would have died without question, but I hold my hand to her and feel the warmth spread from my chest, down my arm and to my palm. The kraft takes a lot of energy. Black haze covers the corners of my eyes, but when my vision clears, the wound is much more shallow. We spend hours of the night like this. Torches are lit as we hurry to the sides of those pleading for help. People run back and forth from the bay with buckets of saltwater to clean the wounds. Anke is exhausted, but she continues to work. She cries when a man beneath her hands stops breathing and can’t be saved.
I stand from a woman I’ve helped Helga bandage. The woman fell unconscious, the blood leaking from her thigh turning black. I survey the field as I walk and see that all of the survivors have someone tending to them.
Georg releases a heavy breath as he positions himself at my side.
“The commander should thank you,” he says to me. “If it hadn’t been for you, this island would’ve been lost.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Yes, it is,” he says plainly. “Without your warning, I wouldn’t be alive. Without your guidance, we wouldn’t have made it here in time to save the commander and the others. We would’ve had our necks cut.”
King of the Rising Page 6
