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

by A. E. Rayne

  Frowning, Sigurd inclined his head to Bjarni, knowing that he was likely the only one clear-eyed enough to see what needed to be done. And how.

  Bjarni nodded. He was a short, wide man, with a calm disposition and a friendly face. Trusted. Loyal. One of the only ones left now.

  Reinar ran past them both, a broad grin on his blood-splattered face, a piglet under each arm. ‘They’ve got some livestock!’

  Sigurd turned after him. ‘What about the menfolk?’

  But his brother kept running, followed now by more of their men, arms loaded with barrels of ale; baskets of turnips and onions; a small chest of silver ingots and coins, a couple of them trickling out onto the sand. It was a nothing sort of village, Sigurd thought with tense shoulders, doubting its lord was wealthy enough to be hoarding anything more.

  The women’s wails rose watching their children being chased down the beach by Rutger, and Berger, who though not as sadistic as his brother, was not to be trusted either. But at least they were both away from the women.

  Sigurd turned back to Bjarni. ‘Get them to the ships quickly. Divide them up. Ludo!’ he called, turning to the young man slouching awkwardly behind him. ‘Take half to Dagger. We may as well take the louder half!’ He grinned, though he did not feel happy.

  This was not who they were. Not who they had been.

  Not who their father would want them to be now.

  Sigurd’s eyes drifted to one of the women. She wasn’t crying, or making any noise at all. Her eyes were fixed down the beach, perhaps taking one last look at her children? Her dress was green; her hair long and golden. He could see freckles scattered across her nose like tiny grains of sand. Her eyes were blue or green, like the sea which turned from one colour to the other, depending on the weather. She was quite beautiful, and for a moment, Sigurd wasn’t aware of anything else. He blinked, noticing that Bjarni was trying to shepherd her along with his group. ‘Bjarni! Not her!’ Sigurd called. ‘Give her to Ludo!’ And with that, he turned around, heading for the village.

  Alys watched him go as though she was having a dream. He was in charge, she thought. He seemed calm, whereas most did not. Panic and noise engulfed the beach; so many tears and frantic goodbyes. Helpless mothers watched their terrified children run away from them, wanting to hold on to the memory of those precious faces; not wanting to think about what would happen to them without their mothers, and perhaps their fathers too.

  Alys stumbled, pulled away, conscious of Stina working hard to stay beside her, still gripping her hand, her long face the colour of snow, her grey eyes full of tears.

  ‘You want to take any men?’ Rutger snarled at Bjarni, who had three other men helping him tie up his group of women; rope around their hands, all bound together. They couldn’t afford to have even one of them escape. They were going to need the coins they would earn from every last one of them.

  Bjarni shook his head. ‘You know what Reinar says. No men. Only the women. They’re fetching higher prices in Goslund. They like an agreeable house slave in that snake pit.’

  Despite the blur of confusion and noise, the whistle of the wind, and the terrifying song of screams and blades, Alys was listening to the men.

  Goslund. Slave capital of Alekka.

  She felt a well of pain and fear rise in her chest, shutting her down, and then another, more powerful feeling: that of survival. And closing her eyes, seeking her children, Alys tried to hold on to a morsel of hope.

  Magnus was a clever boy, a good brother. He would keep Lotta safe.

  If he could just get to their secret place in time.

  Magnus had dragged his sister into the barn as soon as they’d run back to the village. His mother’s voice rang in his ears, urging him on through the chaos; that and the frantic beat of his heart which pounded like a storm, making him want to cry.

  He was so scared.

  His father was dead, his mother captured.

  The men would have taken her, he knew. There was nothing she could do. She was not a warrior, and even if she was, Magnus could hear warriors screaming and crying all around him as they dropped to the ground like felled trees. Some had been mighty in their time, but they were no match for fearsome raiders with the element of surprise.

  It was early. Many of their men had been asleep, drunk from the night before, celebrating their return, though it had been a quiet, morose sort of night. Most of the men were just angry. Bitter and sad. Wanting to hide from what waited for them outside the hall doors.

  Lotta was oddly silent beside her brother, her blue eyes blinking rapidly in the dark barn. Men were shouting outside, though the battle to defend Ullaberg had ended quickly. The raiders were ransacking the village now, taking their livestock, their meagre stores, their treasure. Magnus wrinkled his freckled nose, doubting Ullaberg had any treasure. Not with a lord like Arald Hussak in charge. He was not a warrior, just a fat old man with a bright red nose, who held a cup in his hand instead of a sword. Likely dead, Magnus decided, shaking suddenly, listening to the barn doors rattle.

  Someone was outside. Coming in.

  Lotta clung to him, snowy hair, luminescent skin, big eyes like two moons staring out of a tiny round face. She had lost a tooth that morning, and she’d carried it in her hand ever since. Magnus could see her gripping it now. He took her other hand, lifting a finger to his lips, urging her to come with him.

  Quietly.

  They crept through the straw, ignoring the two rats nibbling a parsnip they’d likely stolen from Urna’s stores. Nobody loved a parsnip more than Urna Kraki. She grew too many to eat herself and was always sharing them around.

  Lotta stumbled after her brother, biting her lip. She didn’t cry out, though, well aware of how much danger they were in. Magnus pointed to the cart, and Lotta nodded, creeping after him as he crouched down, crawling around the big wooden wheel, quickly brushing away the mounds of straw which hid an old chest. Beneath the chest, Magnus had dug out a deep tunnel, and he pushed his sister into the dark space, grabbing the straw and pulling it back to cover them.

  The barn doors creaked open, one man walking inside, sword out, poking through the straw. He kicked out at the rats, who squealed, abandoning their parsnip, making a hasty escape.

  And then another two men burst inside, brandishing swords, panting.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Hasn’t been mucked out in some time, that’s for sure,’ grumbled the first man, gagging at the smell. ‘Nothing that I can see.’ He lifted his eyes, noticing the thick cobwebs stretching up to the rafters. ‘Nothing here at all.’

  Magnus held his hand over Lotta’s mouth, hot all over. It was a freezing cold autumn morning, but he felt ready to rip off all his clothes and run into the sea. Lotta shook, her back trembling against his chest as they cowered in the hole.

  Waiting.

  ‘What’s over there?’ The second man was not prepared to be dissuaded so quickly. He hadn’t found anything worth taking back to the ships yet. It was such a pitiful place, but he couldn’t head back to Reinar and Sigurd Vilander empty-handed. ‘The cart?’

  Magnus’ eyes bulged, his mother’s voice suddenly loud in his ears, warning him to keep his sister quiet. He gripped Lotta tightly, afraid that she might cry, listening as the heavy footsteps stomped closer.

  The men were at the cart now, rummaging about, though there was nothing but cobwebs to find; sticky masses of cobwebs that clung to bloody fingers, despite their best efforts to shake them off. Cobwebs and a few old tools.

  Nothing of any use.

  Magnus held his breath, trying to think of what he would do if the men discovered them. His father had shown him how to use a sword and a knife, but Magnus had neither on him. He’d barely been dressed when he’d run out of the cottage to follow his mother and Stina down the beach. He’d been desperate not to be left behind, worried that his sleeping father would wake up.

  The men walked around the cart, listening.

  Crouching down.

 
Running their hands through the straw.

  Some of the women were fighting, tearing at their captors with sharp fingernails, kicking out with unbound feet. The men dragging them on board the two ships waiting in the shallows of the cove were not in the mood to be sympathetic to their plight. They tugged the women along, threatening them with big, filthy hands, gripping them tightly.

  Stina cried out as she was hoisted over the gunwale, into the first ship, rough hands digging into her waist. Both ships were bigger than any seen in Ullaberg before; longer, with more oars; curled dragon prows.

  Real warships.

  Alys stumbled, almost thrown over after her friend, her rope, attached to Stina’s, dragging her forward, unbalancing her. The young man leading them was awkward. Too tall. Hunching. Big eyes, full of shame.

  ‘Gather here!’ he called, trying to make himself heard over the cacophony of terror. ‘You will all gather here! Nothing will happen to you! Stay calm now!’

  ‘Ludo!’ Rutger threw the last woman on board Dagger, swaying down the deck towards him. He wasn’t anywhere near as tall, but his body was stocky, thick with muscle. Threatening. ‘You want them to run away?’ he snarled. ‘Tie that one to the prow. You know what happened last time!’ He lowered his voice, eyes up, glancing back at the headland. ‘You let any of these bitches escape, what will Reinar think? Forget Sigurd. It’s Reinar you need to worry about. He’s not going to care about a few bruises, is he? Not when you risk losing one of his pretty prizes.’

  Ludo was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be. Rutger Eivin had a big mouth; a mean one too.

  More men were clambering on board in a noisy, disorganised rush. Ludo heard a goat bleating, panicking as the ship tilted. He glanced at the women, who clung to each other, some weeping, all of them in shock. Guilt nagged at him, and he felt ill with the thought of what they were doing, but he knew that Rutger was right. Reinar would be wild if he lost even one of the women. They needed to get them to the slave markets at Goslund quickly. After the disaster of their last raid, they couldn’t afford another mistake.

  ‘Alright,’ he mumbled to Rutger. ‘Help me.’

  Alys was yanked forward by the ugly, angry man. He was a threat, she realised quickly. The young man was not. But that angry man? Alys knew men like him. His eyes were on her breasts, and then, so was his hand.

  Ludo made a noise, almost like a squeak, though one look at Rutger and his eyes were up on the headland again, and this time he saw Sigurd coming; his long brown hair tied into a topknot, coming undone in the wind. Relief flooded Ludo’s tense limbs as he started wrapping the ropes around the dragon prow.

  Rutger could sense his skittery companion relax, and seeing Sigurd coming himself, he gave Alys’ breast another tweak, winked at her, and disappeared down the ship to greet his leader.

  ‘More men are coming!’ Sigurd was yelling, arm in the air. ‘More men! Oars in!’ He spun around, happy to see his brother jumping on board Fury, clapping Torvig Aleksen on the back. Sigurd tried not to roll his blue eyes. They were surrounded by sick little turds. Everywhere he turned these days another cockroach crawled out of the woodpile, and Reinar seemed determined to bring them all into the fold. Murderous, self-interested, desperate men who took an oath in return for coins. There was no loyalty anymore, no shared purpose, just pure, unadulterated greed.

  It was not going to end well, Sigurd was sure.

  The way things were going, it was definitely not going to end well.

  A shout outside the barn stopped the bloody hand in mid-air. Lying in the hole, Magnus could see it coming towards him, about to part the straw that hid the chest. But the noise caused the hand to retreat, taking its owner with it, and soon the three men were rushing through the straw, out of the barn, all thoughts of searching for treasure gone.

  Magnus could feel Lotta collapse against him, his own shoulders loosening with relief. He held her tightly, one hand over her mouth, the other over her heart.

  Their mother would come for them.

  She would.

  And in the meantime, he would get Lotta to safety.

  The hole they lay in was narrow, but Magnus knew that inside the chest his mother had hidden saddlebags stuffed with food and clothes, a tinderbox and waterskins. There were fur bedrolls, linen sheeting, and knives. A small cauldron too.

  Everything they would need for their journey.

  Sigurd’s eyes were on the clouds tumbling overhead, darker than he would have liked, sinking lower. His crew was at the oars, all but Ludo, who was fussing around the women, and Bolli, whose calloused old hands were gripping the tiller as Dagger backed up into the waves.

  Sigurd liked raiding. Or he had once. But, he thought, one hand holding down a panicking goat who was going to drive everyone slowly insane, this was not the sort of raiding to make the gods smile.

  And then the clouds opened, rain cascading over them like a waterfall.

  Big drops. Cold too.

  Grabbing the goat by the scruff of its neck, Sigurd dragged it down to Bolli whose own eyes were already screwed up against the torrential rain.

  ‘I don’t want that whiny beast for company!’ the old helmsman groused. ‘Why do we need a goat?’

  Sigurd grinned, grabbing a length of rope, tying it around the goat’s neck as it skittered around, unhappy with the rocking ship. The waves were rolling like the clouds now, and he was struck by the overwhelming certainty that it was going to be a rough ride home.

  ‘Though, I suppose, rather a bleating goat than those bleating women!’ Bolli snorted, listening as the sobbing in the bow grew into a great chorus of misery. He hoped the wind would pick up further. That searing whistle would surely drive the pitiful wails out of his head. He kept his eyes to the right, not wanting to catch a glimpse of them.

  Alys was being jostled about, struggling with her balance, worried she was going to fall onto Stina, who was sobbing, shock replaced by grief and misery now. They all were.

  Except Alys.

  She was trying to think of a way to stop them from going to Goslund.

  They couldn’t go to Goslund.

  2

  The sail was up now, flapping above their heads.

  It was still raining, though it was almost irrelevant as so much of the sea was tipping over the bow that they were already soaked to the bone, shivering. The men were hunkered down, backs against the shield-lined gunwales, watching the women; keen, roaming eyes peering out beneath dripping hoods.

  Alys held Stina’s hand, looking away. Her friend was silent, the young woman on her other side whimpering softly. A calm had descended over the ship now that they were under sail. It was not a peaceful calm, but a fretful one, as the reality of what had happened started to sink in.

  ‘What can we do?’ Magda sniffed from Alys’ left, fingering one of her long black braids. She was young. Eighteen. Newly married. The prettiest girl in the village, according to her new husband. She leaned towards Alys, lowering her voice. ‘How can we escape?’

  Stina turned to her, hissing. ‘They’re Alekkans, Magda. They will hear you. We don’t want them to hurt us. They’ve left us alone. Don’t give them reason to come over.’ She glanced up as the lanky young man who had tied them up came swaying back down the ship, his shoulder-length dark hair slicked back from a handsome face, wet with sea-spray and rain.

  ‘Water?’ he wondered, trying not to make eye contact with any of the women. ‘Would anyone like a drink?’

  They stared at him as though he was mad. The ship was riding the waves, crashing down with a bang, creaking and groaning, and the fifteen women, soaked to the bone, were sitting bunched and bound together, struggling to stay upright.

  Eventually, having no takers, Ludo turned and stumbled towards Sigurd, who was hunkered down behind Bolli. Shoulders up around his ears, and shaking with cold, Ludo didn’t see Rutger’s boot until it was too late, and he tripped over it, crashing down onto his forearms as the ship rose up, smashing his nose on the deck. />
  Sigurd peeked out from his wet hood, watching Ludo pull himself to his feet, listening to the laughter from Rutger’s men, who were bracing themselves against the gunwale beside him. Bolli turned around, shaking his head.

  ‘That’s the side of the ship you chose to walk down?’ Sigurd growled, flicking a hand at Ludo as he ducked down, crouching next to him. ‘How many times have I told you to stay away from Rutger?’ He pulled back his hood, blue eyes glowing intensely against the dull sky, rain streaming down his cheeks, soaking his straggly beard. ‘That bastard will kill you. Happily too. You think I’m going to save you, Ludo Moller?’ Sigurd dragged his friend down to the deck. ‘You think I’d want to?’

  Ludo struggled with his hood, fighting the wind, trying to pull it over his wet hair. He was twenty-five years old, still as gangly and awkward as a teenager, too tall to ever feel truly comfortable in his own skin. He had been sent to Ottby as a boy, fostered to Sigurd and Reinar’s family. They had grown up like brothers, though Ludo was still struggling to find where he fit in. He was a fair enough warrior, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a raider.

  Not after the last few months.

  He took the soggy sliver of salt fish Sigurd handed him and slouched back against the stern, trying to avoid looking at the women.

  Alys saw him through the rain. She was shaking so much now that her teeth were chattering. The young man seemed harmless, kind even, though the same couldn’t be said for the rest of the crew. And whether harmless or threatening, they were all taking them to Goslund, where they would be sold as slaves.

  Never to hold their children again.

  Alys closed her eyes against the rain, seeing Magnus and Lotta as they ran down the beach, Lotta’s dark-blue cloak snapping behind her, hair tangling in the wind. Magnus had reached for his sister’s hand, she remembered. And after their eyes had met, he hadn’t looked back.