Eye of the Wolf: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (The Lords of Alekka Book 1)

by A. E. Rayne

  Eye of the Wolf

  The Lords of Alekka : Book One

  A.E. Rayne

  Books by A.E. Rayne

  The Furyck Saga

  Winter’s Fury (Book 1)

  The Burning Sea (Book 2)

  Night of the Shadow Moon (Book 3)

  Hallow Wood (Book 4)

  The Raven’s Warning (Book 5)

  Vale of the Gods (Book 6)

  The Furyck Saga (Books 1-3)

  The Lords of Alekka

  Eye of the Wolf: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (The Lords of Alekka Book 1)

  For JCW

  In my heart, always

  Contents

  The Characters

  Map

  Prologue

  I. Taken

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  II. Nightmares

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  III. Broken Parts

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  IV. Mouth of the Beast

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  V. Siege

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  What Comes Next?

  Some things about me, the author

  Books by A.E. Rayne

  The Characters

  In Ullaberg

  Alys de Sant, 28, (pronounced Alice)

  Stina Arnborg, 38, Alys’ best friend

  Magnus de Sant, 10, Alys’ son

  Lotta de Sant, 8, Alys’ daughter

  Arnon de Sant, 34, Alys’ husband

  Ilene Gislar, 25, the husband thief

  Magda, Jorunn, Vanya, women of Ullaberg

  In Ottby

  Lord Reinar Vilander, 32, (pronounced Ray-nar)

  Sigurd Vilander, 29, his brother

  Stellan Vilander, 63, their father

  Gerda Vilander, 57, their mother

  Tulia Saari, 29, Kalmeran warrior

  Amir Saari, 24, her brother

  Torvig Aleksen, 34, Reinar’s friend

  Agnette Sansgard, 29, Reinar and Sigurd’s cousin

  Bjarni Sansgard, Agnette’s husband/Reinar’s best friend

  Ludo Moller, 25, fostered to the Vilanders/Sigurd’s best friend

  Eddeth Nagel, 57, healer

  Rutger Eivin, 35, warrior

  Bolli Ollsfar, 65, helmsman

  Holgar Agmund, 62, helmsman

  Rilda, the cook

  Martyn, Stellan’s steward

  Rienne and Matti, Gerda’s servants

  In Slussfall

  Lord Hakon Vettel, 23 (pronounced Hay-kon)

  Ivan Vettel, 23, Hakon’s cousin

  Karolina Vettel, 22, Hakon’s wife

  Anders Vettel, infant, Hakon & Karolina’s son

  Mother Arnesson, 66, Hakon’s dreamer

  Falla Gundersen, 34, Mother’s daughter-in-law

  Borg Arnesson, 2, Falla’s son with Borg Arnesson senior

  Lief Gundersen, 44, Falla’s husband/Hakon’s champion

  Jerrick and Njall, Hakon’s men

  At Vik’s Cottage

  Jonas Bergstrom, 69, Alys’ grandfather

  Vik Lofgren, 59, Jonas’ best friend

  On the Road

  Long Beard, Eye Patch & Silver Tooth, warriors

  In Stornas

  King Ake Bluefinn, 57, (pronounced Ak-ee)

  Algeir Tarkel, 48, head of his garrison

  In Hovring

  Lord Erlan Stari, 27

  In Vika

  Lord Alef Olstein, 31

  Prologue

  ‘I can help you.’

  Hakon wasn’t sure. He sucked in his cheeks, considering the woman. She was ancient. Round, like a full ball of yarn; wiry, short grey hair curling around a mean face; eyes dark with a look of madness; skin as leathery as his oldest helmsman.

  A dreamer.

  ‘You wish to fight for me?’ Hakon laughed as the woman twitched impatiently in her chair, eyes never leaving his face.

  She licked her hairy lips. ‘You are young, Hakon Vettel. Not as stupid as some, more ambitious than most, yet you have no sight. How will your dreams come true if you cannot see?’

  Hakon frowned, edging forward in his own chair, ignoring the angry spitting of the fire beside them; listening to the roar of the wind as it lifted the wooden tiles on the roof of his hall. ‘No sight?’

  ‘I have vision that goes beyond your walls. Ears that hear more than your spies. I see enemies who have not yet appeared. And you, Hakon Vettel, have more enemies than you realise.’ She sucked in a rasping breath. ‘They will crush you before you see them coming. Wreck your ambitions before they are fully realised. Without my help, you have no hope of becoming the king your father wanted to be.’

  Hakon watched the dreamer’s eyes turn to the flames, darkening further; glowing now. ‘And if you help me, what do you seek in return?’

  She smiled. ‘What do I want?’ And drumming gnarled fingers on her knees, she peered at him. ‘I want Jael Furyck.’

  Hakon was confused. ‘Jael Furyck? The Queen of Oss? You? You want her?’

  ‘I do. And when I help you take Ake Bluefinn’s throne, you will have an army at your command. An army strong enough and large enough to conquer the Slave Islands. And when you do, you will bring me that bitch, and I will have my revenge, for it is a thirst I must slake before Vasa comes to take me.’ She glanced at Hakon, salivating, not seeing the young lord anymore. In her mind, she held a knife, and that knife was carving a hole into Jael Furyck’s beating heart.

  ‘Who are you?’ Hakon wondered, his breath suddenly pumping before him in frosty waves. He shivered, wondering what the woman was doing to him. The warm chamber with its blazing fire, had quickly turned as cold as ice.

  ‘You may call me Mother,’ she murmured, her weathered face breaking into a maniacal grin. ‘I am Mother Arnesson.’

  I

  Taken

  1

  Alys was eager to escape the cottage.

  Arnon had been in a dark mood since his return.

  The men had been away raiding for weeks, yet they had come home empty-handed. There was little to find along the Eastern Shore, which had been ravaged by torrential rain and storms throughout the summer and into autumn. Ruined crops lay abandoned in fields, children died of hunger, merciless plagues came to steal their parents and grandparents away.

  There was little to find, yet the men of Ullaberg still had to try, for they had their own f
amilies to feed over winter, and few stores left with which to do it.

  Alys turned away from the tiny coastal village, towards the sea where the sun was struggling up over the vast horizon. It was a bitterly cold morning, and the sky was a grey reminder of the suffocating gloom winter would soon bring.

  Her two children were playing behind her.

  She could hear them laughing, teasing each other, and her spirits lifted as she walked. They sounded happy, silly, and she almost smiled.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  Alys froze, suddenly aware of how cold the sand was beneath her bare feet. How brisk the wind as it battered her bruised face, sweeping her long wheat-coloured hair behind her like a galloping horse’s mane.

  She swallowed, looking around, checking the children.

  ‘He will kill you one day, Alys. I truly think he will.’

  Stina Arnborg was a good friend, a loyal friend, some ten years older than Alys. Widowed young and childless, there had always been a sadness about her that Alys was drawn to.

  She supposed it was like looking in a mirror.

  Alys sighed. It was hard to hide the truth when that truth was all over her face. And turning back, she braved her friend’s concerned eyes. ‘It’s not so bad.’ She looked past Stina, out to sea, listening to the comforting whoosh of waves rushing the shore. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Not yet.’

  It was a lie, but Alys needed to keep her secrets hidden for the children’s sake.

  ‘The raid was not a success. Again. And soon, winter will come. Soon it will get harder to leave. And then...’

  Alys didn’t want to think about winter.

  She would be gone by winter. She had to be.

  Nodding, smiling, she grabbed Stina’s gloved hand, squeezing it with a grin, trying to pretend she wasn’t covered in bruises. Trying to imagine she was as she wanted to be: free, safe, happy.

  Loved.

  ‘Let’s not worry about it now. That wind feels like an ice giant coming to crush us, but I think we can still enjoy our walk, don’t you? Without worrying about winter and what may happen. And especially without worrying about Arnon. I don’t want to think about him.’ Alys dragged Stina along, spinning around to see what had happened to Magnus and Lotta. ‘Don’t get too far behind!’ she called, seeing that Magnus was leading his younger sister on an expedition over the steep sand dunes that bordered the tiny village.

  They had grown apart lately, Magnus not wanting his little sister’s company as much, so it warmed Alys’ heart to see him gripping Lotta’s hand, pulling her after him.

  Turning back around, she froze, shivers racing up her body like streaks of lightning.

  Stina, still gripping her hand, could feel it. ‘What is it?’

  They were just about to round the headland where the beach would turn into a series of sheltered coves, where the Ullaberg men kept their ships and fishing boats.

  ‘Alys?’

  ‘Run!’ Alys screamed, turning, charging towards her children. ‘Magnus! Magnus! Take Lotta and hide! Run! Run!’ She spun back to Stina, who was looking after her in surprise. ‘Raiders!’

  It was a small village.

  Ullaby? Ullaberg?

  Reinar Vilander couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been there before, but he’d decided it was worth trying. There were no walls, no fortifications at all, apart from a few dunes and boulders, and a lopsided wattle fence barely strong enough to hold in a few chickens. He saw that as he rounded the headland, running through the sand, winking at his brother, though he felt no joy as he gripped his sword in one hand, his battered shield in the other.

  Their no-quite-sixty men ran behind the Vilander brothers, up the white-sand beach, a bitter wind at their backs, the screams of the women rising ahead of them in a great shrieking storm.

  Sigurd stopped, letting his older brother take his men ahead while he drew the archers back towards the sea. Nocking an arrow, he pulled the bowstring past his ear, feeling the fletching brush his cheek. The waves were surging forward. He could taste salt on his tongue, hear the cries of hungry gulls, suddenly loud in his ears.

  Or perhaps that was the women?

  Alys ran towards the village, heart pounding, watching Magnus and Lotta before her. The sand was no trouble for them, and they scattered like two little beetles seeking shelter and safety, racing past her husband.

  Arnon stumbled towards her, half-asleep, naked from the waist up, sword in hand, eyes scanning the beach. He didn’t appear to see anyone but the men chasing them all.

  ‘Keep going, Magnus!’ Alys screamed, her voice breaking, whipped away by the wind. ‘Hurry!’ She stopped for a moment, closing her eyes, hoping to get through to him somehow.

  Panic exploded into chaos and terror as the raiders surged towards the villagers, bellowing, swords clashing with the first men who had hurried down to the sand, hoping to mount a defense.

  Alys could see it as she opened her eyes. She watched Magnus turn around, tugging Lotta’s hand, his shoulder-length hair, dark, his sister’s so fair it was almost white. He looked up, searching the beach, and for the briefest of moments, he met his mother’s eyes.

  And Alys knew he could hear her.

  ‘Go,’ she breathed. ‘Go, my loves.’

  Arnon roared before her, sword out, lunging for the big raider who was rushing him, ducking his blade, aiming for his waist.

  The arrow shot past Alys, thrumming like a speeding bird, lodging in her husband’s bare chest. Arnon looked up in surprise, puffy eyes meeting his wife’s, before moving past her, seeing the men who were running, ready to grab her.

  Shock flooding his body, he staggered in the sand, legs wobbling.

  Reinar spun around, glaring at Sigurd and his archers. He was the leader, the Lord of Ottby; he didn’t need his little brother watching over him. Turning back as the man collapsed to the sand, he bellowed at his men. ‘We move quickly! Take slaves! Take treasure! Fuck, take food if you can find it! Then we go!’

  Arnon lay in the sand, perfectly still, arrow moving about in his chest as the wind picked up, fluttering the fletching’s white goose feathers. Alys couldn’t move. She stared down at her husband, feeling nothing. After eleven years of terror and love and everything in between, she felt nothing at all.

  Not even relief.

  How could it be over so quickly? So suddenly?

  And then a hand, roughly grabbing her arm, yanking her backwards.

  Alys tried to turn, inhaling sour ale breath, a smoky beard. She stumbled in the sand, attempting to stay on her feet, eyes up again, searching for Magnus and Lotta as the man dragged her away, growling in her ear; threatening sounds. She was caught, wanting to fight, to run and escape, but she needed her children to escape more.

  Fingers digging into her, the man pulled her back down the beach towards the ships.

  ‘We need to gather them together!’ someone yelled.

  Alys could understand them. Alekkans.

  Arrows whistled overhead as the man dragged her across the sand. His stench was overpowering, and she turned her head, struggling to breathe.

  Struggling to think.

  ‘Get her with the others!’

  And roughly thrown towards a huddle of sobbing Ullaberg women, Alys was suddenly free of the man. She saw Stina, mouth wrenched open in shock, long dark hair whipping around her petrified face; some of the other women clinging to their children.

  ‘We’re not taking children!’ came a sharp voice. ‘What are you thinking, Rutger!’

  Alys glanced at Marren, a mean-spirited gossip who clung to her son with panic in her tear-filled eyes.

  ‘Please! No, please!’ Marren begged over the terrified wails of her boy. ‘Don’t take him from me! Please!’

  But the man slung his bow over his back, snatching the boy out of her desperate arms with an impatient grunt. Marren’s son bit the bearded warrior, kicking and shouting at him, not wanting to go.

  ‘Mother!’

  Other children were
screaming, their mothers desperately holding on to them, pleading to stay together.

  Alys was shaking now. The wind cried painfully, lifting the hem of her faded green dress, flapping it like a banner. She didn’t notice, not even trying to hold it down.

  Beside her, Stina was shaking, and Alys gripped her hand, attempting to steady them both.

  Sigurd Vilander was getting annoyed. He spun around, frowning.

  There were too many children.

  It was bad enough that they were doing this at all.

  He wasn’t going to take children.

  Rutger shot him a sour look, spitting on the sand, before turning back to the women, tearing their children out of their arms. ‘Go! Go on, go!’ he yelled to the boys and girls with bulging eyes and tear-wet faces. ‘Run away, little piggies!’ He laughed, throwing one girl to the ground, her mother trying to run after her. ‘Not you, beautiful.’ And pushing the woman back towards the huddle, he ran a filthy hand down her petrified face. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’