by A. E. Rayne
‘I’m sure you could, but for now, let’s try and focus on saving him. I think Eydis has had enough to deal with lately. You don’t want to take away her favourite brother.’ Jael winked at Ivaar, who wasn’t comfortable enough yet to feel like winking back at her.
Or smiling.
Dropping his shoulders, he followed after them.
Bruno watched them go.
‘No.’ Ayla grabbed his hand, trying to get his attention. ‘We have no time for that. Ivaar will face his own reckoning for what he’s done. As will we.’ She stared into Bruno’s eyes. ‘The gods have a plan. It may not seem like it at the moment, but they do. You must trust in them. Let Ivaar go.’
Bruno sighed, his anger simmering, off the boil. Ayla was talking to him again. Talking of a future where they’d be together. A future they would build once Draguta was defeated.
He had to find a way of turning his attention to what was important. And, for all that Ivaar had done to both of them, he wasn’t important. Not now.
Revenge, he admitted with a frown, would have to wait.
15
Briggit had the shackles off her ankles, but her hands were still bound, so Eadmund helped her to walk, tugging her across the square, around the mountainous corpse of the black dragon. He was relieved not to be staying in Angard for much longer, reminded of how much the dragon had started to stink in Andala.
‘Draguta is not the mistress you need,’ Briggit murmured, her voice dripping with intent. She was trying to tempt him with something, but he didn’t care to know what.
He wasn’t about to listen.
‘I can free you from her spell. Once I have the book...’
Eadmund ignored her as they walked across the square, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine which was bright for the first time since his arrival in Angard, its harsh glare revealing the true destruction Draguta had wrought upon the city.
‘You love your wife. I could reunite you. Free you to be with her again.’
The pain in Eadmund’s heart was sharp as he thought of Jael, remembering his dream of her holding their daughter. But he quickly shut those thoughts away. They would not help him get out of Helsabor and away from Briggit Halvardar. ‘As you say, I’m bound to Draguta,’ Eadmund muttered. ‘So hold your tongue and save your breath because you’re bound to her too, in your own way.’ He looked down at Briggit’s fetters. ‘Don’t talk about freeing me, when you’re as much of a prisoner as I am.’ And Eadmund clamped his teeth together, trying not to scream. ‘I need to get you back to the castle, so show me where to go.’
‘Show you?’ Briggit was surprised, her eyes popping open. ‘Oh no, I must take you. It is complicated. You will not find your way there on your own.’ She wanted to lead him, to trap him. If she could just find where Morana Gallas was hiding, Morana could help free her.
Eadmund stopped, staring up at the castle, at a window on the second floor, watching a pale-grey curtain flapping against the glass. He turned, glancing down the narrow street, smelling winterhazel again. Shaking his head, he turned back to Briggit. ‘I think I will,’ he murmured, pushing her towards the castle. ‘Once I’ve secured you back inside.’
Briggit panicked, pushing her boots against the cobblestones as Eadmund pulled her away. ‘I must come with you! You won’t know where to go!’
She needed to go with him. She had to go with him.
Eadmund stopped, gripping her shoulders, looking down at her.
‘Thank you,’ he said coldly. ‘But no.’
‘This could be the strangest thing I’ve ever done!’ Jael called to Ivaar, who stood back against the railings, his eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun. The rain had gone, and though it had not lingered, the training warriors had quickly turned the moist surface into a choppy mess.
‘I think I’d say the same!’ Ivaar called back.
There was a lot of noise in the ring. A lot of grunting, growling, clashing warriors who were feeling the pressure to be ready for their departure.
Ivaar wasn’t sure why he wanted to save his brother. If he wanted to save him. As if he could undo everything Morana had done to his family? He shook his head. He couldn’t. But he could do something about what was coming. And maybe this was it. ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled, running forward.
Jael ran to meet him, trying to imagine that he was Eadmund. But Ivaar was gaunt and wiry. Eadmund was wide, broad shoulders, thick arms – muscle now, she had seen in her dreams. Perhaps she should have tried fighting Aleksander?
‘Focus!’
She heard Aleksander from the railings where he’d been joined by Gant.
‘I’m going to try and kill you,’ Ivaar grinned, enjoying this part, at least.
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Jael said, ducking his first blow, whacking his arm with her wooden blade.
‘I’m going to keep coming!’ Ivaar called, edging closer, scything his sword in front of Jael’s face. ‘You need to stop me!’
‘You think I can’t stop you?’ Jael growled, trying to think of how she could stop him.
‘You can’t kill me! Can’t be killed by me! How are you going to stop me? You can’t go for my belly! I’ll bleed to death!’ Ivaar frowned as Jael ducked and swayed, avoiding the tip of his blade; stepping back, making him do all the work.
He was right, Jael realised. How to stop Eadmund without killing him?
She’d never really considered that sort of end to any fight.
Breaking away from Ivaar, she strode back to the railings. To Gant.
He inclined his head towards her. ‘Nothing fancy. You won’t have time for fancy.’
She knew that.
‘Here.’ And Aleksander pulled Jael close, handing her something, pulling her even closer as she concealed it, tucking it down her trousers.
Gant smiled. ‘Nothing fancy!’ he warned as Jael strode back into the ring.
‘Not sure you’ll have time for a conversation in the middle of battle!’ Ivaar called. ‘With Draguta urging Eadmund to kill you!’
‘You talk too much!’ And gripping her sword in her right hand, Jael stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his. Ivaar was no dreamer, and nor was Eadmund, though he would likely have Draguta’s help. If it truly was her intention to play the game of having them try to kill each other, then Draguta would be watching.
And Draguta would be in Eadmund’s head.
She would warn him.
Jael swung her sword, cracking it against Ivaar’s, pushing forward, hammering him again and again, ducking his blows, aiming hers at his throat, trying to unbalance him. Ivaar jumped back, and Jael lunged, anticipating it. Stretching her leg, she smacked her boot into his balls, knocking him to the ground. Ivaar cried out in pain, his head thumping back onto the muddy ground, barely holding onto his sword which had threatened to fly out of his hand.
Jael ran to him, kicking the sword away, throwing her own after it, elbowing him in the nose – a fair return for his kick in the mouth – and dropping to her knees, she pulled out the length of rope Aleksander had handed her, tying it around Ivaar’s ankles as he tried to sit up.
He did, reaching for her and Jael hit him again, the side of her hand straight across his throat. He jerked back, unable to breathe and she grabbed him, rolling him over, dragging his hands behind his back now, taking out the second length of rope, hurrying to tie a knot.
And dropping the moaning Ivaar back to the ground, Jael stood up, nodding at Aleksander and Gant. ‘That could work.’
Ivaar, face in the mud, his hands and feet bound, was struggling to breathe, listening to the laughter booming around the ring.
Jael flipped him over. ‘Very helpful, Ivaar,’ she grinned. ‘Though it looks like I broke your nose. Sorry about that.’ She tried to stop smiling as she bent down, untying his hands, letting the rope fall away.
Ivaar spluttered, grabbing his throat, wanting to wipe that smug smile off her face, but he saw an image of his father nodding his approval, and he sighed. ‘Well,
it’s one option at least,’ he croaked. ‘There are others. Maybe you can try with Aleksander? I might... need a seat.’
Jael smiled, pulling him up. ‘I can do that. Thank you.’
And she meant it.
Eadmund could still hear Briggit’s furious ranting as she was dragged back into the castle. He had left her with Berger and two other men. He wanted her watched closely, hoping that Draguta’s magical fetters would keep her from doing anything to control his men while he was gone.
He shook his head, wanting to get Briggit out of it.
His attention was quickly focused by laughter.
Laughter?
He was walking down a dark, narrow alley; dirty, sky-high stone houses crowding him as he walked; loose cobblestones threatening to trip him. Cold. It was surprisingly cold. Eadmund shivered, listening again, wondering at the wisdom of letting Briggit return to the castle. Though, perhaps she had been planning to ambush him? Lead him towards those Followers who were hiding, not bound. Who would kill him and free their mistress.
He drew his sword, his hand clammy on its leather grip.
Eyes everywhere.
Up and down. Doors. Windows. Around corners.
No one was there.
Not a Helsaboran. Not a Follower.
No one he could see, at least.
Eadmund crept forward, into the shadows. It was getting darker, the streets growing narrower. Too narrow for a cart. Houses towering over him.
He heard the laughter again, and he recognised it.
And then the smell. Spinning around, he tried to see who was there.
Someone was. Leading him...
Leading him where?
‘They will not stay in Angard for long,’ Dragmall insisted wearily. The damp and cold of the catacombs was making things even more unpleasant. They were all exhausted by the gloom. The heaviness of the darkness was suffocating. ‘Draguta wants Briggit and the Followers. We all know that. She wants them in Hest.’
‘You think they’ll just leave?’ Morana scoffed. ‘This place? After all they did to claim it? After what Draguta did?’ She sighed, bored with the conversation. Hungry too. Her own stomach had finally joined in the rumbling chorus. ‘And if they do?’
‘We’ll be free to come out, won’t we?’ Else suggested, her voice just a croak. She was aching for something to drink, her dry throat becoming painful now. ‘Won’t we? If they have taken the Followers and left, we can come out. Decide what to do.’
Dragmall didn’t move. Every hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. He could feel it. It was a strange sensation that travelled down his arm, fluttering in his protesting stomach.
Morana could sense it. ‘What? You don’t agree?’
‘I... I don’t feel safe here. Do you?’
Morana shook her head. ‘No. Not here. Not while they are still up there. If they are –’
They held their breaths, listening to the creak of a door handle.
At first, Eadmund thought the door was locked, but eventually, he felt some play in the handle as it turned. He pushed it open, groaning hinges inconveniently loud in the silence. He cringed, looking around, swapping his sword back into his right hand.
It was dark, but tiny beams of light from the alley illuminated the symbols around the door. Around the walls.
Eadmund shivered, turning one way and then the other, looking from the doorway to the darkness.
Eskild watched him, sensing her son’s trepidation.
He didn’t know what he was about to walk into, but she did.
She tried to urge him on. He just needed to keep going.
Into the catacombs.
They hid.
It was not hard. Everything was cloaked, veiled in a darkness so thick that no one could see a hand in front of their faces. There was no source of light. No obvious sense of where air was coming from at all.
It was not hard to hide.
Dragmall felt Else shaking beside him. He had been holding a hand over her mouth, whispering in her ear to be quiet. Now, he released it, keeping her close, hoping he could trust her not to cry out.
Morana was beside Else, her hands on the great stone tomb they crouched behind, listening. Her hearing had deteriorated over the years, she knew, but once she had been able to hear a pine needle drop in a forest. Now, she held her breath, waiting, hoping to get a warning.
Of who it was.
She couldn’t tell.
It panicked her.
She couldn’t tell who was coming.
Eadmund could feel the trickle of sweat snaking its way down between his shoulder blades, another dripping down his temple. He kept one hand out in front of him, the other tightening around his sword grip.
He tried to calm his breathing, to silence the noise of his boots scuffing the dirt.
It was so dark. He kept turning, afraid that he would miss something.
Walk into something.
He couldn’t smell anything now except sewage.
Distracted for a moment by the overpowering reek, Eadmund tripped over a rock. Stumbling, he tried to keep his balance, but he pitched forward, throwing out his hands to break his fall, his sword lost in the darkness.
Scrambling quickly onto his knees, stirring up clouds of dust, he tried to find it, crawling left and right, back to where he’d started, but his sword was gone.
Eydis couldn’t stop thinking about Eadmund. He was in danger. The sudden feeling of a hand around her throat told her that. She couldn’t see what was threatening him, but she could sense it. It felt as though Draguta herself stood before her, squeezing the air from her lungs.
She was dizzy, struggling to breathe.
Fyn was ignoring her, talking to that girl. That dreamer.
Eydis didn’t trust her.
She shook her head, not wanting to get distracted. Something was wrong. Eadmund was in danger now. She could feel the heightened sense of terror, her body almost convulsing with it.
They were near the training ring, Eydis remembered, though all the loud voices around her had blurred. Suddenly she was freezing. Shaking.
And then she was falling, hitting her head on the dirt, collapsed into an unconscious heap.
‘Could this be what you’re looking for?’ came the hoarse voice in the darkness. ‘This sword? Your sword?’
Morana had quickly given it to Dragmall, who stood beside her now, his breath coming in panicked bursts. She could feel his fears, loud for a moment before they retreated, and she turned all of her attention to Eadmund.
‘Your mother,’ she growled. ‘That dead bitch led you here, didn’t she? For me?’
Eadmund wasn’t sure who had led him here. But here he was, at last, face to face with Morana Gallas. He couldn’t see much more than a shape, but he knew it was her.
He knew that voice.
His knee was bleeding, stinging with pain. He must have landed on something sharp. Blood ran down his leg, into his boot.
It was too dark to see who else was there, but there appeared to be at least two of them. Someone was holding his sword. He saw the glint of its blade occasionally. It wasn’t Morana, but she was near it. Eadmund doubted she needed his sword to hurt him, though he would need it back to hurt her.
Morana frowned, wanting to see inside Eadmund’s head. But whether it was the symbols carved around the catacombs or something Draguta had done to him, she couldn’t see anything. ‘You shouldn’t have come, Eadmund. This was never your destiny. To die here? With no one watching? Ha! That wasn’t what your gods imagined for the mighty Esk’s son, was it?’ She laughed, coughing suddenly as the dust Eadmund had stirred up caught in her parched throat. ‘And what of your wife?’ she wondered, her voice teasing him, her confidence surging back. ‘Who will kill her now? Jaeger? I suppose that’s the only choice Draguta will have left. To send the Bear to kill the Bitch! Ha!’
Eadmund couldn’t throw himself forward. He thought about it, but being unable to see, he could just as easily throw
himself onto his sword, and then what use would he be?
Morana could sense Eadmund’s hesitation as his boots moved around in the dirt, deciding what to do; planning how he would overcome her; underestimating what dreamers could do.
Dragmall gripped the sword, his hand shaking.
‘The only bitch I know is you, Morana,’ Eadmund seethed, his voice as heavy as stone. ‘You who killed my mother. Who killed my father and my wife. Who turned my brother against me! Who forced me into Evaine’s bed, and took me away from Jael! From my home!’ Eadmund’s body was jerking now, losing control. ‘The only bitch I know is you!’
He wanted to kill her. To rush into the darkness and grab her by the throat, but he hesitated, panting, coughing.
Waiting.
And then Morana spoke.
‘Kill him.’
And Eadmund lunged in the direction of her voice. Low. Wrapping his arms around her legs, knocking her to the ground.
She hissed and growled, wriggling away from him, chanting.
And suddenly Eadmund was screaming. The pain in his ears was as though a thousand birds were screeching inside his head. Rolling away from her, he clamped his hands over his ears, crying out. ‘Aarrghh!’
Morana laughed, spluttering, blinking. She’d hit her head on something, and her own ears were clanging as she scrambled back to her feet. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ she demanded, looking up at Dragmall’s towering shadow. ‘Kill him!’
And then she blinked, her senses alert to a sudden shift in things.
Turning away, she scuttled into the darkness, running, stumbling, arms out in front of her.
Dragmall reached down and found Eadmund’s hand, pulling him to his feet, trying to give him the sword, but Eadmund ignored him, drawing a knife from his belt instead, his ears suddenly clear. He listened to Morana’s boots as they raced away. And then a light.
In the distance, he saw a light.
A bright, warm, golden light.
