DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3)

by Frankie Robertson

  “Aye,” Kellan said, “but Halageth and I will chance the ferry crossing. My Talent will let me reconnoiter the landing without being noticed, and Lady Solveig should have word her son is safe sooner rather than later.”

  Aren couldn’t fault that thinking, and the two women soon departed. His own party took a little longer to sort out. Vali tried to refuse when Aren said he should ride Pinter, wanting to let Annikke and Benoia ride. Aren respected him for it, but before he could disagree, Annikke pierced Vali with a look perfected by motherhood. “You’re still under my care, young lord, and I say you ride. If you walk, you’ll need to rest every quarter candlemark. We’d best get to Quartzholm before Lord Dahleven grows impatient.”

  Lady Solveig’s son had the grace to look sheepish, and climbed into the saddle. “You see Norva? Mistress Annikke will keep me in line.”

  The five of them made slow progress, partly because Aren called frequent rests. He said it was for the sake of the horse, but he wasn’t going to let Vali tire himself. Besides the young lord, it was for Annikke’s sake as well. Fatigue shadowed her eyes. She’d been sleeping on the hard ground for more than a week, eating meager rations. Whatever she’d done to mend Vali’s arm, an arm Aren would have sworn was broken but that the boy now used freely, had taken even more out of her, and then she’d endured a violent assault. She needed rest almost as much as Vali, and if he’d had a second horse he would have made her ride.

  Pines began to dominate as the elevation rose. The early summer undergrowth was minimal, but under the cover of fallen needles the ground was rocky and uneven. Aren chose a route through the forest that would intersect the road. “It’s longer in distance, but ultimately shorter in time,” he explained when Norva asked.

  They made camp under the spreading boughs of an old, lone oak, sharing a meal of journey-bread, cider, and roasted venison as the light faded. Vali again ate like a starving wolf, but Benoia sat rigidly, wrapped tightly in a blanket even though the night hadn’t yet grown cool, barely nibbling her ration. They would reach Quartzholm tomorrow, and no doubt the girl was nervous. Aren tried to think of some way to allay her fears, but he’d already said all he could. Her fate was in Lord Dahleven’s hands.

  “Sing us a song, Benoia,” Annikke asked.

  Benoia jumped, startled out of whatever thoughts were furrowing her brow. “I don’t feel much like singing.”

  “Oh, yes! Please do,” Vali said. “The Long Hunt! Do you know that one?”

  Benoia chuckled, as Vali no doubt intended. He’d named a song sung at every festival.

  “Of course.”

  Annikke nodded. “Good choice.”

  Aren could see Annikke was keeping her anxiety under tight rein, but even in the fading light he noticed how her knuckles whitened as she clasped her hands together tightly. Then Benoia began to sing, and the tension in her shoulders eased. Soon she was nodding her head in time with the song.

  The young woman’s voice was clear and sweet, and she sang the nearly endless ballad about the adventures of a band of men hunting in an endless wood well, omitting the more ribald stanzas. Aren wondered if she knew them.

  Probably, he thought. The young always manage to learn such things. I wonder if Tandra knows those verses.

  Aren decided he didn’t want to know, and joined Vali and Norva on the upbeat chorus. Was it Aren’s imagination, or were the leaves swaying in time with the tune despite the lack of a breeze?

  “Now you,” Benoia commanded Annikke.

  “You know better than to ask me to sing,” Annikke protested.

  Benoia laughed. “True enough. But you can tell us the story of the boys sheltered by the trees.”

  “That’s a children’s tale,” Annikke protested.

  “But a good one,” Aren said. “And appropriate to the setting.”

  Annikke glanced up into the shadowed boughs spreading overhead and snorted delicately. “Very well.”

  It was too dark for Aren to see her face clearly, but Annikke’s silver hair gleamed in the little light that remained. He imagined her smile twisting the corner of her mouth up with wry amusement.

  “Long ago, there was a wood gatherer who lived on the edge of a vast forest with his two small children, Honeg and Gretna. He was a good man, but poor…”

  *

  The moon, just past full, was high in the sky when Aren returned from his turn at sentry duty. Annikke stood a short distance from camp, gazing into the shadowed forest, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Moonlight reflected off her silver hair, making it look like molten metal. He’d never seen an Elf maiden, but he couldn’t imagine they’d be any more beautiful. He paused just long enough to rouse Norva for her duty, and then gathered up one of his blankets.

  Annikke didn’t move as he approached, but as he laid the blanket over her shoulders, she said, “It was on a night such as this that they took me.”

  He hadn’t thought she would speak of her experience with the Elves. He certainly wouldn’t have asked, even though he’d wondered.

  “For many years Midsummer’s eve was a time of terror for me,” she said in a voice as soft as a dove’s call. “I didn’t remember what had happened, and they kept coming back, year after year, knocking and knocking. I thought I would go mad. And then, when I couldn’t endure it anymore, I opened the door and learned that my fear had all been for naught. I hope my fear for Benoia proves as unfounded.”

  “I do, too.”

  Annikke turned to him. The moonlight robbed her face of color. “I believe you. What you said about Lord Dahleven having a daughter, and wanting justice for her. You were really speaking for yourself, weren’t you?”

  Aren nodded. There was no point in denying it. “I’m doing this for her, for Tandra.”

  “How does taking Benoia in to face Lord Tholvar’s justice benefit your daughter?”

  “It won’t be Lord Tholvar she faces, it will be Lord Dahleven.”

  “Since I don’t know the Jarl or his motives, that’s not much comfort,” Annikke said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He hadn’t whispered secrets in the dark to a woman since before Tandra’s birth, and those youthful secrets now paled in comparison. Annikke stood still and patient, waiting for his answer. The quiet night invited him to confide in her. “Bringing Benoia to Quartzholm, to the Jarl, is just one small step in my quest to restore honor to my family name.”

  “And?” Annikke asked when his pause lengthened. “What damaged your family’s honor?”

  Aren took a deep breath. Her good opinion shouldn’t matter to him. It didn’t matter, with respect to what he must do. He had a duty to perform. But some foolish part of him hoped she wouldn’t think less of him, once she knew the truth. “My father is an Oathbreaker. Was an Oathbreaker. He couldn’t face his shame, so first he left, and then he killed himself, leaving my mother and me, and ultimately Tandra, to face it for him.”

  He told her the whole story then, how he’d been out hunting overnight when his mother fell ill, as she often did. It was pure bad luck that Lord Fellig, the new lord of the province, called all men sworn to him to raid against a neighboring province. Aren’s father, Birgir, had faithfully served Lord Fellig’s father as an armsmaster, and had been given his own land as a reward. But he’d also promised the old lord that he’d serve his son, too, if called, and so he’d sworn fealty to Lord Fellig.

  When the summons came, his father hadn’t answered. He’d stayed by his wife’s sickbed. They’d had a maidservant he could have entrusted her care to. He might have called upon the neighbor’s wife, except that the men were at odds with one another over property and water, and his father was too proud to humble himself.

  Even then, his father’s faithlessness might have been forgiven, except that Lord Fellig was a poor leader of men. His raid had been soundly repulsed and several of his warriors had died. Fellig took back the land his father had given Birgir to pay weregild to the families of the dead men, and named Birgir Oathbrea
ker.

  “And so we moved to an abandoned cottage on the edge of our village, and I kept my mother and myself fed by hunting, and clothed by selling furs. Trade was always at a steep price because I was my father’s get, an Oathbreaker’s son, and no one trusted me to make an honest bargain.”

  “And Tandra’s mother repudiated you.”

  “Yes—” Aren coughed, his throat unexpectedly tight.

  “Did you love her?”

  Had he? Her rejection had been painful enough. “We were young and wanted each other. It might have grown into love if my father hadn’t shamed us.”

  A moment later she put it all together. “And now Tandra is coming of age and you must salvage your family honor for the sake of her future.”

  “Yes.”

  Annikke was silent for what seemed to be a long time. In the distance a mockingbird trilled, pouring its heart into one song after another, apparently unaware or uncaring that it was the middle of the night and not time for such expressions. Aren grimaced, feeling as foolish as the bird. What madness had taken him, to make him reveal his family’s shame to her? Was she appalled that she’d put her trust in him? Was she thinking that a promise given to an Oathbreaker’s son wasn’t binding?

  “Your father must have loved your mother very much.”

  “Love?” Aren’s voice was rough with incredulity. “If he loved her, if he cared for either of us, how could he saddle us with his dishonor?”

  “If Tandra were gravely ill,” she countered, “could you leave her?”

  “Of course, if my duty demanded it. My mother would look after her.”

  Annikke just stood there, arms crossed, holding the blanket tight around her, with one eyebrow raised in challenge, and he knew he’d just told a lie.

  “No. I couldn’t leave her.” The horror of that threatened to choke him. He was no better than his father.

  He turned without saying another word, and walked away.

  *

  Annikke walked silently beside Benoia, lost in her thoughts. Vali road behind, with Norva bringing up the rear.

  Aren had said very little to her, to anyone, this morning. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said what she did the night before. Men needed their delusions. But Aren’s had seemed to be hurting him, and she hated seeing him suffer. Now she’d just made whatever burden he carried heavier. He insisted on carrying it alone, and so he’d ranged ahead, returning only long enough to let Norva know that all was clear.

  Apparently he regretted what he’d said the previous night and was trying to make up for it by uttering as little as possible to her now.

  And who am I to say he should do differently?

  It wasn’t as if she often shared her concerns with others. The problem was, his story had touched her. Though her parents had barely been able to look at her after she’d been Fey-marked, they hadn’t turned their backs on her. They’d even tried to protect her, as best they could. Aren, on the other hand, felt his da’s choice as a personal betrayal. A rejection that diminished him.

  He probably wished he hadn’t shared his story with her last night. But did he have to take his unhappiness out on all of them?

  The ground had stopped rising by mid-morning. Now at mid-day they were descending again into woods dominated by trees that dropped their leaves. Leaf mold muffled their steps and undergrowth kept the line of sight short. She could just glimpse Aren as he skirted a stand of young trees.

  “I’m going forward to walk with Aren,” she said to Benoia.

  “Good luck with that.” Then Benoia added, “Ask him how much farther we have to go.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aren heard the swift soft footfalls approaching from behind and suppressed a groan. He’d known that Annikke wouldn’t let it go. For the hundredth time that day he asked himself what Loki’s whim had possessed him to tell her of his father’s shame? And why couldn’t he forget her foolish words?

  Your father must have loved your mother very much.

  He wanted to turn aside the bitter truth that if faced with a similar choice, he would make the same decision, but he couldn’t.

  I’m no better than my father.

  Aren clenched his jaw. He refused to accept that. He might not have fulfilled his promise to protect Annikke, but he would not fail in his duty to the Jarl, or to his daughter.

  Annikke caught up to him, only slightly out of breath from hurrying. Aren deliberately didn’t look at her. If he didn’t meet her eyes, maybe she wouldn’t try to engage him in conversation. There really wasn’t anything to say. He’d said more than enough last night.

  “Before Benoia came to live with me I was used to people not talking to me. My parents didn’t know what to say after I was Fey-marked, and the villagers—” She made a little noise of frustration. “There wasn’t much point in trying. I was angry most of the time. Benoia changed me.”

  He wasn’t going to ask how. If he didn’t ask, she might return to Benoia’s side, and leave him to the task of scouting the way ahead. And stewing in his own thoughts.

  They walked a dozen steps in silence, and then a dozen more.

  Is that all she’s going to say?

  “Benoia didn’t see a Fey-marked woman,” Annikke continued, “at least, not after we got used to each other. She didn’t see my past; she just saw me. I, in turn, saw someone worth reaching out to. Someone worth letting into my heart. And then I realized that with a little effort on my part, some of the villagers might see me for who I am, and not just the color of my hair.”

  “I like your hair.” Gods, why did I say that? It had just popped out. He couldn’t stop himself; he stole a glance at her and was unexpectedly pleased to see he’d provoked a slight smile. Just as quickly, he pushed the feeling away.

  A few steps later she added, “So now it bothers me again when people who should don’t talk to me. I probably shouldn’t care. But I do.”

  Hoder’s hurl. What could he possibly say? He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he didn’t want to talk about this either. He settled on simple honesty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you grief.”

  “No—” She shook her head. “I mean yes, you grieved me, but it’s my own fault. I was wrong, or at least not right. I can’t imagine anything that might induce me to bring harm to Benoia, so your father’s action is beyond my understanding. But I do know one thing, it had nothing to do with you. He made his decision for his own reasons. It had unintended results. At least I hope they were unintended, even though, in the end, his choice was a selfish one.”

  He knew Annikke’s words were meant to help, but they stabbed deep.

  “Don’t. Just stop.”

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again.

  Aren clenched his jaw tightly. He already knew his da had made a selfish choice. That was no comfort, because he knew now that he was just like his father.

  Annikke gestured widely, lifting her hands with a jerk. “What did I say this time?”

  He shook his head and looked away, into the trees. His heart jolted at what he saw there.

  Bollocks! Aren pushed Annikke back behind him just before an arrow flew past where she’d been standing.

  “Ware! Ware!” he shouted, as he swiftly nocked an arrow. “Get back!”

  Annikke, bless her, didn’t hesitate, but ducked behind a broad tree shouting, “We’re being attacked!”

  Aren had never been in combat beyond the occasional fist fight as a boy. The closest he’d ever come to dying was when the bear had charged him. Now, as then, time slowed while everything seemed to happen at once. Without conscious thought, he aimed and loosed his arrow.

  It found its mark.

  Aren barely took notice as he stepped to the side while pulling another shaft from his quiver. In the back of his mind he hoped that Vali had the sense to dismount, but with the forefront of his attention Aren was scanning the trees for his next target.

  There. Another archer exposed himself as he drew down on Benoia, who was h
olding Pinter’s headstall while Vali jumped from the saddle. Aren let fly at the man but his arrow thunked into a tree trunk. The man jumped at the sound; his shot went wide. Aren heard the thrum of another bowstring from behind him, and heard a sharp cry. He hoped that was Norva giving a good account of herself.

  Behind Aren another man broke from cover. Aren heard the heavy footfalls and turned just in time to bring his bow down across his opponent’s forearm with a crack. The man dropped the knife in that hand, and stumbled, but he carried a second blade. Aren shifted, barely preserving his manhood, but the knife sliced high across his thigh.

  His leg collapsed.

  Pain like nothing Aren had felt before lanced up into his groin. His assailant fell to his knees beside him, bent over the arm Aren had broken. He lifted his bloody knife to finish Aren, but the blow was prevented by Annikke throwing her body against the man’s in a blur of green and silver. The man fell with a grunt, Annikke sprawled over him.

  Aren tried to rise, to pull Annikke away before the man cut her, but the pain stole his breath. Before he could reach her, Annikke slammed her palm down on the earth. In an instant, the undergrowth they’d been fighting through half the day tangled itself around the other man’s arms and legs. The warrior struggled, but couldn’t move.

  Before she could rise, another man broke from the trees heading directly for Annikke. He ran half crouched, holding his dagger low like an experienced fighter. At the last possible moment Annikke rolled away. The warrior followed. He only needed one step to reach her.

  “No!” Suddenly Benoia was there, screeching, and hanging off the man’s neck.

  Aren expected the man to fling Benoia aside, or slice himself free of her grasp. Instead he gurgled, his eyes rolled back, and he toppled forward onto Annikke.

  Benoia pulled and Annikke pushed, struggling the large man off of her. Annikke rose to hands and knees, then crawled to Aren’s side. A second later she’d used the knife Aren’s attacker had dropped to cut open Aren’s trouser leg. She peeled the blood-soaked cloth back from his wound. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed as she examined his damaged flesh.