Daughters Of The Storm (39 page)

But before the sword arrived, the pain did. Pain in his left hand, throbbing from one end to another, making him unable to stretch or curl his fingers. In the smoky half-dark of his hut at night, he peeled back the bandage gingerly to see a cruel purple edge on the wound. An infection was setting in.

They came for him at dawn, Hakon and the randrman. Eni was with them, dressed identically to Hakon, in rough wool dyed green and a string of amber beads with a silver raven hung about
his neck. He hadn't seen Eni for days; the boy looked tired and desolate, shadowed around his eyes. Wylm wondered what Hakon had been putting him through.

‘It's time,' the randrman said.

Wylm climbed out of bed and pulled on his breeches. ‘Are we going to the forge?'

At the sound of Wylm's voice, Eni grew agitated. ‘Rabbit?' he said. ‘Rabbit?'

‘Silence!' Hakon shouted, and his voice cracked through the dark. Eni froze, collapsed in on himself, hands pulled up defensively against his chest.

Hakon rolled his eye in contempt, then said, ‘No, we are going to the crown of the island. Follow.'

In the dim light, he followed. Eni stuck close to Hakon now, fearful of being shouted at again. Wylm came next and the randrman behind. They crested the island, then descended into a shallow valley, then up again towards a rocky outcrop where a fire burned high. Wylm had seen the outcrop before, but had never seen the steps carved into its eastern face. They rounded the outcrop and began to ascend. Gulls circled them. The smell was seaweed and birdshit. Up and up they went, until they arrived at a half-sheltered plateau of dark grey rock, where the smith stood with a sword that caught the morning light on one side and the firelight on the other.

Hakon caught Eni between his hands and pressed the child against him, standing back. The smith handed the sword to the randrman and stood back also. Up here, the wind gusted randomly. One minute flat, the next pushing salty air down Wylm's throat. The flame of the bonfire rode the wind and Wylm was careful to keep his legs away from the heat.

The randrman threw some herbs on the fire and then stood tall and began to move, that lithe, unnatural movement Wylm had
seen out on the ridge at night. It was as though his old age had fled his joints, and left a young man in his place.

‘
Kyndrepa
,' he said, holding out the sword on two palms. ‘Meet
Griðbani
.'

Wylm took the sword and hefted it in his left hand, wincing.

‘Only kin can slay Bluebell the Fierce,' the randrman intoned. ‘With the trollblade,
Griðbani
, forged with your own blood, you will meet her in battle. Go forward with this blade,
kyndrepa.
Though you may yet suffer injury or death, know that you can end her reign.'

Eirik then began his strange song, dancing and howling as though he were an exotic bird. Wylm considered the craftsmanship of the blade in the firelight. No jewels or gold embellishment, but it was a strong, sleek weapon. And it was a weapon forged with magic, the raven magic of King Hakon. Forged to slay his sister.

Wylm caught his breath, purpose hardening and fusing in him. The moment seared itself on his mind's eye: Eni in green with his black eyes sightless and his face bathed in firelight, the first glimmer of dawn touching Hakon's fair beard, the strange dancing contortions of the randrman's body, the smith looking on in wonder. And the weight of the sword in his hands; the weight of his destiny in his hands.

Wylm was rolling up his clothes, stuffing them into his pack along with some bread and dried fish he'd lifted from the pantry after breakfast when the door to the hut burst in and Eirik stood there, once again a stooped old man.

‘Let me see your wound,' he said.

Wylm offered the randrman his hand. Perhaps he could be of some use, perhaps he would put a poultice on it. ‘It heals slowly,' he said gruffly. The sword lay casually in its sheath on the bed
beside them. He'd barely dared look at it since taking ownership of it. To see the grim runic inscriptions on its grip was to be reminded of the cold, dark task ahead of him, and his own possible fate.
Though you may yet suffer injury or death ...

‘You were cautious with it this morning.' Eirik unwrapped the wound, and Wylm winced as the cloth brushed against the swelling. Eirik clicked his tongue in concern. ‘It's infected.'

‘It will be fine.'

The randrman drew close in the dim room, his pupils still unnaturally small as he eyed Wylm. ‘Fever?'

Wylm gulped. He had felt a little sweaty behind the eyeballs this morning. ‘No.'

‘To bed,' Eirik said. ‘I'll bring you some ale and a bucket of salt water to soak your hand in.' He eyed Wylm's pack by the door. ‘You won't be going anywhere until it's healed.'

He was constrained to spend the day in bed and, in truth, felt the better for it. He'd had an infection once before as a child. A nail had caught his shoulder and the wound had pained him for weeks and healed in a swollen scar. He expected this would be the same, and was itching to move, to be off this birdshit-stained island and on his way. Perhaps another day or two to grow well.

Late in the night, as had so often happened before, the door to the hut opened. Wylm opened his eyes and looked. Eni stood there, framed by moonlight. No Hakon, no retainers accompanying him. The boy hadn't been brought to him in over a week. This was new.

‘Eni?' he said, his voice catching on sleep.

‘Rabbit.'

‘Did you come alone?'

The boy felt his way across the room to the bed and sat down, not saying a word, just hitching a sob. Wylm understood that Eni
had got away from Hakon somehow, and had come to him for comfort.

‘What is it?' Wylm asked, knowing that the boy neither understood the question, nor could frame an answer. He grasped the child's shoulder and Eni gasped with pain.

‘What have they done to you?' Wylm muttered, and he opened the shutter to let a little weak moonlight in, and peeled up Eni's shirt to see dark shadows on his ribs. Bruises.

Now. The time was now. His heart beat with it. He had Eni, he had the sword, he knew how to get off the island.

The time was now.

‘Eni,' he said in a low voice, ‘Rabbit's going to take care of you now. We are going in a boat away from here, but you must be very quiet and do as I say.'

Nothing about Eni's demeanour or expression indicated he had heard or understood, but Wylm climbed out of bed and dressed anyway. ‘Come on.'

Eni hesitated, then stood and reached out to find Wylm's hand. He took it firmly, and Wylm almost shrieked with pain. Eni backed off, frightened.

‘No, no,' Wylm said softly. ‘No, it's not your fault. I have a cut on my hand and ... here.' He offered Eni his good hand. ‘See, Rabbit's not angry.'

Eni nodded. Wylm dropped his hand and grabbed his pack, attached the trollblade and its sheath to his belt and opened the door. ‘Follow my footfalls, boy,' he said. ‘We're going on an adventure.'

Down on the gritty beach, the cold wind caught his breath and enlivened him. He was filled with certainty —
Griðbani,
his sword; Eni, his shield; prophecy on his side. He would make fate bend to him, he would be that man who could change the course of history. He threw his goods into the little hide-skin boat and helped Eni in.

He was in cold seawater to his ankles, pushing the boat into the waves, when he noticed a shadowy movement at the corner of his eye.

Wylm turned. The randrman stood by, considering him in the pale sea-light. A frisson passed between them. Wylm wondered if Eirik would shout for Hakon, or try to stop him. A held breath.

But then Eirik simply nodded and said, ‘Let everything fall as it must.'

And Wylm was up to his shoulders in the sea, then climbing into the boat and taking up the oars, his left hand stinging thunderously.

He and Eni headed into the ocean.

This is a dream of searing pleasure that will turn to cold shame on waking. She clings to it, pushing herself under the layers of sleep.

Willow lies on the soft carpet of grass. She is completely naked. Cool green under her warm skin. Her hair is loose, snaking around her. The sun lingers on her nipples. She bends her legs and lets them fall apart, so the sun can find that other sensitive bud. Her back arches. She is a flower sprouting from the earth; wild, sweet feelings traverse her.

Sighing, she drops her burden. She need not be a good soldier for Maava. She is simply a thing of flesh and breath and blood.

But then the sun flickers behind clouds and the rising wind tears the tops of the trees. She tries to prop herself on her elbows, but finds herself unable to move. Naked, pinned to the grass by her own mortal weight. The trees part and there are dozens of them. Men with beards and hairy forearms and blood-spattered armour. Raiders. Tattooed, savage raiders; the ones spoken of in horrified tones in the chapel. And they will see her, they will come for her, they will smash her soft virgin body beneath them. The dream swallows itself and turns to a nightmare. Frozen, she can do nothing but wait for the brutes to come at her.

But then one among them strides ahead. She can't see his face, in the way that dreams have of obscuring crucial details behind a silver-grey cloud,
but he is not a bearded brute, not a hairy bear. A lean, olive-skinned beauty of a man.

‘I won't let them harm you,' he declares, and she notices he wields a large, gleaming sword whose grip is covered in strange symbols. He rams it hard into the earth near her feet, and the raiders evaporate. Now it is just the cool green grass and the distant sun and the scudding clouds. He kneels before her, and she realises he can see every intimate inch of her body. The soft pink folds and openings, the whorls of dark-gold hair. Thumping, thrilling desire grasps her.

Willow woke, pulse thudding hotly between her legs. She rolled over, pressed her face into her rough blanket. The fire had died and smouldered to nothing. Cold filled the air around her. She reached down with the side of her palm between her legs and pushed hard in the hope it would make the feeling go away. To her surprise, the feeling intensified, grew hard, and she thought she might wet her bed, which she hadn't done since she was a child. Then one, two, three big throbs pulsed through her, and the feeling withdrew.

Relief.

She listened for angels. Would they be angry with her? Or was the smooth-limbed man in her dream an angel himself? There was something familiar about him.

Cool embarrassment shivered over her as she realised. Wylm. Her stepbrother. She had dreamed of Wylm, but in such a way that it had some hypnotic effect on her blood and her shameful parts. She breathed deeply, her nose tickling against the rough threads of the blanket, willing herself back to sleep.

Hoping without hoping that the dream might return.

Why had Ivy never noticed before how handsome Wengest was? Perhaps it was the firelight, the company, the mead and the music.
But it seemed to her his profile was one of the handsomest she had ever seen. Manly, yet gentle, with a noble forehead and dark, expressive eyebrows. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled up, and Ivy found herself stealing glances at him, trying to see that smile. It was hard to believe Rose had ever looked elsewhere. Because Wengest was something Heath could never be: a king.