The rain had stopped. The thunder and lightning had retreated too, but night was falling, and they had to get to shore quickly. There were many wounded on board both ships, but none Reinar cared more about than Sigurd.

He stared at the dreamer, trying to see her eyes, wanting to seek out any lies she might be weaving to save her own skin. ‘Will he live?’

Sigurd floated in and out of consciousness. He hadn’t spoken.

Alys didn’t know. Their attackers were dead, the enemy ships long gone, and she was wet through, shaking with cold and fear, worried about her children. Worried about her friends too, who she hadn’t been able to get back to since the attack.

Leaning forward, she placed a hand on Sigurd’s back, closing her eyes, feeling him shiver. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, turning to Reinar. ‘I believe so. I need to stitch him quickly, though. Is there any thread? A needle?’

Reinar spun around, pointing Ludo to the chests pushed against the gunwales. ‘Look for some thread! And a needle! Bolli likely has some.’

‘I do!’ Bolli called, hurrying to his chest. Sigurd groaned, trying to roll over again.

‘Stay where you are,’ his brother growled. ‘There’s nowhere to go now. Not yet. Hakon Vettel’s men have gone. Those who still live. We killed the rest of the stupid fools. Now we’re going to find our way to a cove. Somewhere to stop for the night.’ His teeth started hammering together, and for the first time, Reinar realised how cold he was. ‘Somewhere to make a fire!’ He patted his brother on the head and stood with a yelp, surprised to discover that his leg was running with blood, though there would be time to

sew that up later. For now, they had to get the ships out of the water, and themselves out of the storm. ‘Stay with my brother. Bolli will bring you what you need to stitch him up. And a good knife, Bolli! She’ll need to get those arrows out!’ Reinar called, nodding at Alys before heading away to talk to Torvig. They needed to clear the ships of the bodies quickly.

Alys watched him go before turning her attention back to the man lying before her, his back and leg soaked in blood. ‘Ssshhh,’ she whispered, feeling odd. Conflicted. These men had stolen her. Torn her away from her children. But she was going to need them to get back home, so she had to prove herself useful. And quickly.

The Ullaberg women were sobbing again, and with the noise of the storm suddenly absent, Alys could hear them clearly. She lifted her head, wanting to see what was happening, though it was too dark.

‘Here,’ Ludo said, trying to get her attention, his bloody hands shaking as he handed her thread, a giant needle and a short knife. ‘Is this all you’ll need?’

‘That needle is for sails.’ ‘Yes.’

‘Is there nothing smaller? It will hurt him. Make great holes in him.’ ‘Ludo, I’ve got a needle.’ Sigurd’s mumble was breathless, the pain

overwhelming. ‘In my chest.’

Ludo nodded, disappearing again.

‘What’s your name?’ Sigurd asked, wanting to take his mind off the pain.

Alys bent down, tearing more strips off her dress. ‘Alys.’ ‘And you’re really a dreamer? A Tuuran?’

Alys blinked. ‘I…’

Sigurd could hear the hesitation in her voice, and it made him even more suspicious.

‘I was born in Alekka.’ Alys spun around again, seeing Stina tending to one of the women.

Ludo was back quickly, ready to assist her.

‘You’ll need to give him something to bite down on,’ Alys said, shivering as the wind blustered around her. Her hands were numb with cold, shaking so much that she didn’t know if she’d be able to use them at all.

Ludo found an arrow and aimed the shaft at Sigurd’s mouth. ‘Bite on this,’ he ordered, looking anxious. What he could see of Sigurd’s olive skin

appeared to have turned a dull grey. ‘You can save him, can’t you?’ he whispered to Alys, who was busy trying to thread the fine needle in the near darkness on a rocking ship.

‘Yes. If you help me, I can,’ she murmured, working to convince them both; trying to strengthen her voice. ‘Now, please, hold him down. This is going to hurt.’

Magnus had twisted his left ankle when he’d run down the beach with Lotta, falling into a hole he hadn’t seen. And feeling around it, he decided that his left ankle was almost twice the size of his right. It was dark in their hiding hole. Entirely so. And raining. Which meant clouds and no stars to shine any light their way.

His sister whimpered beside him, missing their mother.

Magnus didn’t want to admit that he was missing her too. He needed to be strong, and dwelling on what he didn’t have would only distract him from what he needed to do next. So, closing his eyes, he tried to focus on his mother’s voice. It was a kind voice, he thought with a sad smile. She had rarely gotten mad at them. Only slightly annoyed. Though he had likely given her reason to be much more than slightly annoyed over the years, especially lately.

Perhaps she had always been too afraid to show any emotion because of his father? But now he was dead.

Magnus smiled.

Arnon de Sant was dead.

After years of torture, his body was lying out on the beach, being feasted on by birds and beasts alike. His mother would be happy about that, wherever she was.

‘How will we travel?’ Lotta asked, sitting up with a yawn. ‘If you can’t walk, Magnus, what will we do?’

‘I will take Daisy, of course, and you’ll take Clover.’

‘Do you think they’re still here? Alive? I saw those men carrying goats and chickens. Someone had a piglet. I think it was Urna Kraki’s piglet.’

Magnus frowned, realising that his sister was right. ‘I don’t imagine they’d want to eat a couple of ponies, would they?’ He lightened his voice,

wanting to comfort her. She was shaking as she lay her head back on his shoulder. ‘No, they wouldn’t have taken Daisy and Clover.’ He squeezed Lotta’s hand, hoping he was right.

Worrying about what those men would do to his mother.

Reinar’s ships were beached.

They had not sailed for long, just long enough to find a winding inlet, leading to a sheltered cove. And now half his men rushed around in the dark, setting fires, as the dead and injured were brought ashore. It was a stone beach, and the shadows had quickly revealed that though there were clumps of bushes, there were no trees within walking distance.

And everything was wet.

‘Not the most comfortable night you’ll ever have, Brother,’ Reinar laughed, trying to tease a smile out of Sigurd, who lay on a pile of furs and cloaks near the fire Bjarni and Ludo were crouching in front of. They blew on the scant flames, wafting smoke with their hands, conscious of Sigurd shaking uncontrollably behind them.

Sigurd lay there, head twisted to one side, uncomfortable, unable to focus. His sense of where he was and what was happening was displaced.

Then a hand on his forehead.

‘Is he feverish?’ Reinar bent down, eyes on the dreamer.

‘No,’ Alys said, wanting to leave to check on the women. ‘But he may become so if we don’t watch him. It would be better if I could find some willow bark. Perhaps some yarrow?’

Reinar nodded. ‘I’ll have Ludo go with you in the morning. You can have a hunt around before we leave, see what’s out there. Though it doesn’t seem much. I know this cove, and it’s a barren place.’

Alys stood, wanting to get off the painful stones. ‘I… I would like to check on the women. My friends. Please. I need to help them.’

Reinar straightened up, grabbing her arm as she slipped. ‘I’ll take you. And you may, of course. I need them to live. All of you. And besides, we need to have a little talk, you and I. About how you came to see that ambush, those men. I’m… curious.’

Alys felt his hand on her arm as he pulled her towards him, across the stones.

‘Stay with Sigurd!’ Reinar called to Ludo. ‘I’ll send the dreamer back to him when we’re done.’ He looked down at her. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Alys.’

‘Alys…’ Reinar sensed Torvig lurking in the shadows, wanting to talk to him; Bjarni and Bolli too, no doubt. But first, he needed a word with the dreamer.

They walked towards where the women were being guarded.

Alys peered into the darkness, trying to recognise who was there, who was missing. ‘Where are the others?’ she asked, panicking.

‘Dead.’ Reinar sounded irritated. Each of those dead women was a loss of silver that would weigh heavily on his people, harming his ability to defend the fort. ‘Plus the one Rutger released of course.’

‘Dead?’ Alys could only count twenty-five women. She swallowed. ‘But…’

‘You saved most of them, seeing that vision as you did.’ Reinar grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop just before the fire the women were huddled around, trying to warm themselves up. ‘But what else can you see, that’s what I need to know now. Where are the Vettels’ men going? Where will they strike next? We’re stuck here, in no man’s land. Can we risk trying to get to Goslund now?’

Alys felt confused. Reinar’s hold was firm, squeezing her arm, his rough voice attacking her like a hammer. He wanted answers, but she didn’t know if she had any to give. ‘I…’ She shook all over. ‘I can’t see anything. I need… I…’

‘Sleep?’ Reinar wondered. ‘To dream?’

Alys didn’t want to help him take them to Goslund. She scratched her head, trying to think. He had to trust her. If he could trust her, she could be of use to him. ‘I need to be alone. I don’t imagine I could sleep, but I could try to let thoughts come to me.’

‘Good.’ Reinar felt his hopes lift. ‘If you can get us out of here, Alys, I will be grateful. Grateful enough to reconsider what happens to you.’ He released her, letting her walk towards the women.

Alys’ hopes lifted too. She could hear it in Reinar’s voice: his need for

her.

It was what her grandfather had always warned her about: the need those in power had for women who could see into the future. He had warned her away from that path, banned her from ever revealing her gifts, even to herself.

Torvig watched the dreamer, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Reinar seems to have found a real prize there,’ he murmured.

Bjarni was beside him, staring at the flames, pleased at last. He glanced down at his arm, feeling blood leaking through the strips of cloth he’d hastily tied around it. ‘Well, if you consider a dreamer a prize. Many wouldn’t.’ He grimaced, unravelling the cloth, happy the injury wasn’t on his right wrist; certain he could see a flash of bone.

‘You mean Sigurd? Ha! We all know why Sigurd doesn’t like dreamers,’ Torvig laughed, though after the day they’d just endured, his laughter sounded hollow, even to his own ears. ‘And why Reinar does. Though not every dreamer will be as useful as Ragnahild One Eye.’

‘No, and likely a dreamer living in a hole like Ullaberg is in no great demand. Though, perhaps Reinar will find the answers he’s looking for?’

‘I hope so,’ Torvig said, eyes back on the flames, hands extended now, gratefully accepting their warmth. ‘It’s time he listened to someone. Going on like this won’t help him or us. The gods want him to suffer, and until he accepts the arc of his fate, he has no chance of mastering it.’

Bjarni looked up in surprise, stomach growling. ‘You think a man can master his fate? Even if the gods have set against him?’ He shook his head, thick blonde hair matted with dried blood, hanging around a weary face.

‘Of course.’ Torvig sat back, digging into his pouch, searching for something to eat. ‘The gods are fickle. Much like women.’ He grinned, thinking about that dreamer, who had the prettiest face he’d seen in a while. And as for the way that wet dress clung to her hips…

Running his tongue over his teeth, he tasted blood. ‘But they’ll turn their favour to Reinar again, once they find reason to.’

As much as Bjarni hated Torvig Aleksen, he hoped he was right. For if the gods continued to shun Reinar, they had no hope of keeping Ottby out of Hakon Vettel’s hands.

Hakon Vettel had no thumbs.

They’d been cut off by his mad uncle, who had kidnapped him as a boy. Hakon’s uncle had hated his father. They had battled each other for years, fighting over who had the right to reclaim the Alekkan throne from

Ake Bluefinn.

Now both men were dead, and the future of the Vettel dynasty lay in Hakon’s thumbless hands.

At just twenty-three, he ruled the impenetrable stone fortress of Slussfall with a ruthlessness and hunger that belied his years, his eyes permanently fixed ahead, never content to sit still. He only wanted action; eager to move south towards the prize his father and uncle had so desperately sought but failed to capture.

His army continued to grow as neighbour after neighbour was felled by experienced, hardened warriors.

But not quickly enough. And not in every way that was desirous.

Hakon needed Ottby to fall so he could access the bridge to Stornas, capital of Alekka. But that stone fort had stood before the bridge, protecting it for the Alekkan kings for centuries now. Built by the Vettels themselves, Hakon knew it would not break easily. Though its pathetic old lord had finally been moved aside, both his mind and body deserting him, and now his son, Reinar the Unlucky, sat in his chair. And yet, despite all that had befallen Ottby and the Vilanders, they would not break. They would not bend.

And now this?

‘You return to me with one ship? One?’ Hakon was incredulous as he paced before his throne in Slussfall’s great hall, eyes on the gathering of miserable-looking men before him. Bedraggled. Defeated. Pathetic. Leaking water all over his dark flagstones. ‘When we’d only managed to scrape together four new ships? And you return me one out of three, leaving me a fleet of two ships? Two?’ He was seething, his skin glowing white beneath his pointed brown beard. ‘But how is that possible, Dagfinn, my loyal friend, my most competent commander? How could you fail me so badly? Become so inept? Have you been bewitched?’ Hakon stepped forward, clear-blue eyes piercing, dark eyebrows sharp.

He was not a tall man, though he was strong, and the black tunic he wore hugged his body tightly, showing just how powerful his arms were as he clenched his fists, biceps twitching.

Dagfinn was exhausted, frozen solid after sailing through the night, almost too tired to speak, though Hakon’s eyes demanded an explanation. ‘They did not come down the estuary, my lord,’ he tried. ‘At the last moment, they turned away. We could not ambush them as intended. The battle was harder because of it. We lacked the element of surprise.’

‘And why do you think the Vilanders turned? What would have made them suspicious? Could they see you? See a glimpse of your prows? My banners flapping?’ Hakon saw his wife, Karolina, carrying their infant son into the hall, and he frowned, annoyed. The dress she wore did not suit her at all. He wanted her to catch the eye, though that plain grey dress made her look like a nursemaid. Blinking, Hakon tried to focus. ‘Tell me, Dagfinn, what did you do wrong?’

Karolina smiled at her husband, preparing to walk towards him, but he flicked a thumbless hand at her, sending her away without a word, a snarl curling his thick lips.

Dagfinn tried to find the words to save himself from further blame; from whatever repercussions Hakon had in mind. He was exhausted, cold, and wounded, though, and he couldn’t. ‘I don’t believe I did anything wrong, my lord.’

‘So you think, perhaps, it is… someone else’s fault? Not yours? That someone else is to blame?’ Hakon raised his hands in the air, looking around, his voice rising sharply. ‘Was it any of you? Did you do something wrong, Kalf? Or you, Njall?’ He swept his eyes over Dagfinn’s crew, some of whom stood around the two long fire pits, eager to warm themselves. They lifted their weary heads, shaking them, shrugging.

‘Well, it appears as though the truth has revealed itself without any help from you, Dagfinn Vilo,’ Hakon murmured, stepping down from the fur- covered dais, circling his fleet commander, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘And that truth is a sharp blade in my heart, for I had thought you so loyal, so competent. So heroic. I thought you would cut down our enemies like Thenor himself! Yet, here you are, whimpering before me like a motherless kitten.’ Hakon’s eyes were hard, but his voice was suddenly lighter, almost insisting that his men find him amusing.

And they attempted to, a light smattering of laughter coming from those weary men now.

‘And as I’m sure you realise, Dagfinn, I have no use for kittens. Not in a fight to kill Reinar Vilander and his Ottby scum!’ And with that, Hakon

drew his knife from the scabbard attached to the back of his belt, and he swung it forward and up, straight into Dagfinn’s throat.

He left it there, stepping back slowly, ignoring the gasp from his wife, who had lingered by the dark curtain that led to the family’s private chambers. Hakon smiled, watching the horror bloom in the eyes of Dagfinn’s crew, happy for them to see how failure was rewarded in his hall. Dagfinn dropped to his knees, gurgling, trying to pull out the knife, hand shaking, eyes on his lord. Surprise lingered; pain and shock too. Then he shuddered, watching as Hakon took a goblet from a servant, smiling as he wandered back to his chair. And sitting down, he watched Dagfinn gurgle helplessly, tipping forward, falling onto the flagstones with a

defeated thump.

Hakon waved a hand at his servant. ‘Drag him outside before he makes a mess. I’ve only just had the floor washed.’ And taking a sip of sweet wine, Hakon surveyed his stunned hall. ‘Jerrik!’ he called, making his decision quickly. ‘Congratulations! You are the new commander of my fleet!’

‌5‌

The night had been a painful one for Alys. She wasn’t sure if she’d even slept. Though, if she had, it was only in snatches, for she had been regularly awakened by the discomfort of lying on the stone beach, and the cries of the injured men all around her.

Her patient, though, remained mostly silent, which worried her. And rising to her knees, she edged closer to Sigurd, wanting to ensure that he was breathing.

Ludo was quickly on his feet, shaking himself in the murky dawn light. ‘What’s happened?’ His voice boomed, waking Reinar and Bjarni, who had both slept near Sigurd. Bolli and Holgar too. ‘Is he alright?’

Reinar grimaced, his arm having gone to sleep beneath his cold body. He stretched it out, shaking it, and himself. His blue eyes, which had initially gone to his brother, soon lifted to check that their two ships were still there, dug into the black stones of the beach. He shifted them to the horizon, relieved to see no sign of Hakon Vettel’s ships returning. ‘Sigurd?’ Reinar bent over his brother, who was shivering beneath his cloak. He looked at Alys, wanting to see some sign of confidence in her eyes.

‘He’s cold,’ she said, yawning. ‘Which is good.’

‘It is good.’ Reinar almost smiled as he sat back down, stopping himself from slapping Sigurd on the back.

‘For you, maybe,’ Sigurd grumbled, desperate to roll over, but his back and leg were covered in trails of painful stitches, and he knew that this was the only position for him now. Until he could sit. And just the thought of that made him dizzy.

Bjarni laughed. ‘Well, lucky you’re still breathing, or Tulia would have killed us all!’

Ludo nodded vigorously, searching through the waterskins, trying to find something to drink. ‘She would, that’s true.’

Reinar laughed, his mood quickly souring as he watched Torvig in the distance, touching one of the women. He scowled. Couldn’t anyone follow orders? Couldn’t anyone keep their hands to themselves for a day or two?

Bjarni was thinking of his own wife, wishing he was in their soft bed, lying next to her while she nattered on about nothing he cared about; complaining and gossiping usually. He smiled, thinking how much he liked to listen to her complain and gossip. She took such pleasure in it.

Glancing around, he sighed, realising how far away he was from Agnette, sitting in a damp heap on the stones with his battered friends in the dark gloom of the morning after another disastrous raid.

Wondering what they were going to do now.

‘Your brother needs a fire,’ Alys said shyly, glancing at Reinar. ‘He needs to stay warm… until we leave.’ She didn’t want to say that. She didn’t want to imagine what might be coming next.

‘Ludo and Bjarni can see to that,’ Reinar yawned, slipping as he stood, body aching. ‘You and I need to talk, don’t we?’ And holding out his hand to Alys, he helped her to her feet.

He had such a firm grip, Alys thought, grimacing, trying not to meet Reinar’s eyes, though they were desperately seeking hers. He wanted answers, though she was afraid of what the questions were going to be.

They walked along the foreshore, listening to the waves chasing each other up and down the beach in a steady rhythm; squawking gulls searching for breakfast, loud above their heads. The air was frigid, and the freshening breeze made it even more so.

Alys began to feel more anxious just listening to the sound of those waves as they walked, remembering Ullaberg; seeing Magnus waving to her as he dawdled behind her with Lotta, who was always bending down to pick up shells, hiding them in her little purse with all her baby teeth.

And then he spoke.

‘What did you dream of last night?’ Reinar asked, looking down at her. She was a nervous woman, he thought, seeming to shrink away from him as they walked. He noticed the bruises on her face. ‘What’s your last name?’

Alys was surprised, hesitant, not liking the sound of her last name at all.

It reminded her of her dead husband. ‘De Sant.’

Reinar raised an eyebrow. ‘Not an Alekkan sort of name.’ ‘My husband’s family came from Silura.’

Reinar was silent for a time, suddenly wanting to avoid asking her the questions that had been waiting near the tip of his tongue for weeks. ‘Did you dream what we would do next? Where we would go? To Goslund? Ottby? Did you see us getting attacked again?’

Reinar’s eyes never stayed still. They jumped from her face to the waves, down to the stones, back to his men. Alys could tell that though he appeared to be a strong leader, with a powerful body and a big voice, he was plagued by doubts. She could read his thoughts. She could hear how being a lord weighed on him. Though it appeared to motivate him too. He was proud of it. But worried.

She swallowed. ‘Not Goslund. I didn’t see us going there.’

Reinar laughed, his handsome face relaxing. ‘No? I am surprised. You don’t want to be sold as a slave, then?’ He reached for Alys as she stumbled into a hole. ‘Though, I don’t blame you. Although, perhaps your new owner would be kinder to you than your old husband?’ He smiled, meeting her eyes, seeing the sudden flash of terror in them. They were a dark blue- green, dull with pain.

Mesmerising.

‘Your brother killed him.’

‘And?’ Reinar stopped, tightening his grip on Alys’ arm, making her look up at him.

‘I’m glad,’ Alys breathed, trying not to cry. ‘He was cruel beyond words.’ She blinked furiously, never wanting to cry for that man.

Reinar turned, walking again, slowly so that she would catch up. ‘He was a lucky man to have a dreamer wife. And a beautiful one at that.’ He didn’t look at Alys, but it was true. Impossible to ignore.

‘He didn’t know I was a dreamer, nor did he think me beautiful. He used to yell at me that I was the ugliest woman in Ullaberg. That I embarrassed him.’

Reinar was surprised on both counts. ‘Cruel and blind, then. But why didn’t you tell him you were a dreamer? Perhaps Sigurd was right? Perhaps you’re not a dreamer at all?’ He turned back to her, wanting to see those sad eyes. ‘Your friends certainly looked surprised. Suspicious even.’

Alys felt hot all over, growing even more uncomfortable. She wanted to change the subject, but the Lord of Ottby only had one subject in mind, she knew. He would not be dissuaded from this path. There was no point in keeping secrets anymore. Not now that her life had been ripped apart. ‘No one knew. I kept it secret. My mother, she was… killed for being a dreamer. Murdered by those who didn’t like to hear the truth. My grandfather forbade me from ever acknowledging my gifts. He called it a curse. No one knew until yesterday.’

Reinar was intrigued. Heartened too. It made sense, though his face revealed little. ‘And what did you dream of last night, then? Besides not going to Goslund?’

Alys wasn’t really sure.

Mainly her children, she knew. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. She wasn’t going to tell him about her children at all.

‘I saw a man who wants to be a king.’ Reinar froze, intrigued.

‘A man with strange eyes. Blue, but so pale, like a clear pool of water. Evil. Without feeling. As though he has no soul.’ Alys no longer felt either hot or cold. She no longer noticed Reinar was there. ‘And this man wants to crush everyone in his path, one by one, until he claims the Alekkan throne. He is ambitious. Powerful. And he will grow even more so, until he overwhelms us all.’

‘Ahhh, so you dreamed of Hakon Vettel, then?’ Reinar wasn’t pleased to hear it, but who else could it be? ‘A man I would happily destroy. Though we are not evenly matched, he and I. Not any longer. Between him and his dead father, they conquered everyone between Orbo and Slussfall. Everyone but my father, and now me. I stand in his way. Sigurd and I do.’ Reinar ran a hand over his short blonde hair, shivering.

‘He plans to overthrow you,’ Alys warned. ‘You see that?’

‘I feel it. He is fixed on it. He sees you as a rival for what he wants.’

Reinar stared at her, his thoughts quickly coalescing into a single purpose. ‘We won’t go to Goslund, then, Alys de Sant. We’ll go home, to Ottby. Goslund can wait.’

Tulia Saari was growing tired of Bjarni’s wife.

Since becoming pregnant, Agnette had turned into even more of a busy- body, always following her around, making suggestions. Fussing, fretting, worrying about whether the fort was secure. Whether there were enough men on the ramparts. Whether more should have been left behind to man the walls and the bridge. Agnette wasn’t convinced that they could even trust the ones who had been.

Tulia wished she’d gone with Sigurd, and she would have if they hadn’t been planning on kidnapping women to sell as slaves. She had barely spoken to Reinar since he’d become desperate enough to embark on that endeavour, nor Sigurd, who had unsurprisingly gone along with it.

Though, now she was stuck in the old stone fort, in charge of a garrison of miserable old men and young boys, most of whom disliked her, plagued by a stream of questions from Agnette, who sat opposite her, stroking a black chicken which sat on her knee as she talked to Sigurd’s mother.

Tulia glanced at the hall doors, shut to keep out the frigid morning, wondering when she could leave. Though warmer than most places in Ottby, the hall was still cold, with its dark stone walls and its big holes in the roof to let out the smoke. Two long firepits ran through its centre, across the floorboards, stools and benches around which the men and women of Ottby would gather to share a cup of ale with their lord and his family. Though there were fewer and fewer people left in the fort now, and the hall was becoming an empty sort of place.

‘Did you hear those odd noises in the night?’ Gerda asked in her typically sharp voice. ‘Sounded like wolves. Do you think it was wolves?’

Tulia was a deep sleeper. ‘I heard no wolves, Gerda.’

‘Though where you come from, perhaps they don’t have any? Perhaps you don’t recognise the sound as well as we Alekkans do? Kalmera is not known for its forests.’ Gerda Vilander was a snarling sort of woman, with lined lips that always appeared dry, as though they were shrivelling up, much like Gerda herself. She was becoming meaner in both spirit and appearance every year, her tall figure starting to curl forward, her long hair, which she mainly wore tucked into a tight bun, turning different shades of grey.

Tulia tried not to sigh. Gerda had made it perfectly clear that she didn’t like that her son’s woman was Kalmeran. But Tulia didn’t care. Sigurd

hated Gerda, most people in Ottby barely tolerated her, and Tulia hoped that soon, she would convince Sigurd to leave with her and return to Kalmera.

They had lived in the city of Varis for three years after finding each other, and Tulia knew that Sigurd had enjoyed being away from Ottby. Alekka was a cold, bleak land and Ottby was like an anchor around his neck. He had sought to break out on his own, hoping to weave himself a new destiny, but instead, he’d turned around and hurried home as soon as his father had taken ill. And Tulia had gone with him, bringing along her younger brother, Amir.

Against her better judgement.

That was a year ago now, and she was determined not to stay in this sinking ship of a fort much longer. Its fate was sealed long ago. It was only Reinar who refused to see it.

‘Could have been bears,’ Agnette murmured, dropping the chicken. She leaned over, checking her uncle, Stellan, who sat slumped in his wooden wheelchair beside her, hands in his lap, snoring lightly. ‘Reinar killed that bear before they left, remember? Perhaps it wasn’t the only one?’

Gerda’s grey-blue eyes widened. ‘Well, I’m not sure what’s worse?

Though, it must be an omen, wouldn’t you say?’

Tulia didn’t believe in the gods, Alekkan or Kalmeran. She rolled her eyes.

‘We should sacrifice something,’ Agnette muttered, feeling her rounded belly. She was heavily pregnant and growing increasingly anxious.

Now was not the time for dark omens.

Gerda nodded. ‘I’ll speak to Eddeth, though who knows what use she’ll be today. Last I saw her, she was dancing around the tree, half-naked, howling at the moon!’ And already on her feet, Gerda hurried out of the hall with barely a glance at her ailing husband.

Agnette stared after her, blinking. She was a short woman and pregnancy had made her as rounded as one of the carvings of the fertility goddess, Valera, they had placed at the tiny temple to the rear of the hall. Her cheeks were pink and full, with dimples that made her husband smile, and blonde hair in a permanent tangle, much to her aunt’s annoyance. She sighed, turning back to Stellan, who had dribbled some of his porridge into his grey beard. And grabbing a napkin from the table, she started cleaning him up. ‘I suppose we must try to focus on something else. Keep ourselves busy.’ She glanced at Tulia whose eyes remained fixed on the blackened

hall doors, as though she wanted to escape. And not just from the hall, but from Ottby entirely.

Agnette didn’t blame her. Tulia didn’t really fit in.

She was a tall woman – almost as tall as her cousins – with a lean, strong body. Raised as a warrior, like her mother before her, she had a stern, angular face, rarely showing any hint of a smile. Agnette wondered what Sigurd saw in her. Though Tulia was attractive to look at, with her dark- brown skin and silky black hair, she was terrifying. Cold. Hard. The complete opposite of any woman in Ottby. Though, perhaps, Agnette realised, perhaps that was the point?

Tulia stood. ‘I’ll grab a few men, and take a look around the forest.’ And adjusting her swordbelt, she headed for the doors.

Agnette straightened up, feeling the ache in her lower back, panic flaring. ‘Is that safe? Safe to leave us?’ Stellan groaned, but she didn’t take her eyes off Tulia, who was pulling open a door, letting in a shaft of welcome light. After a stormy night, the day had started gloomy, and the permanently soggy weather was not helping to lift the dour mood of the fort.

Tulia spun around. ‘There’s no safe anymore, Agnette. Hakon Vettel sits on his throne like a hungry bird. And one day, his wings will be strong enough to carry him over these walls and devour everyone who remains. As I’ve told Reinar and Sigurd many times, you need to leave. We all need to leave. This is no place to be anymore.’ She glanced at Stellan, who was awake now, watching her, but in the next breath, he started making strange shapes with his mouth, and she turned away, disappearing outside.

Agnette watched her go, shoulders sinking. Hoping that Bjarni would hurry home.

Karolina fussed over her baby son as if he were sickly, though he was not. Anders Vettel was seven months old now, with chubby arms and legs, and a tiny mop of dark hair already sprouting on his head. He was always wriggling, gurgling, sucking his hand. A happy, healthy boy.

But fussing over Anders gave her an excuse not to look at her husband, who had a temper like a storm that exploded often, only to completely

vanish as quickly as it had come, as though it had never been there at all. Karolina never knew which version of Hakon she would see, and it left her with a sick taste in her mouth. So, she fussed over her baby, avoiding her husband’s eyes, not wanting to provoke his rage.

‘Come and sit down, my love,’ Hakon cooed as he prodded the fire, enjoying the spark of flame and ember that felt so welcome on such a cold day. ‘Leave the boy in his crib. Surely he can amuse himself for a moment?’

Karolina swallowed, a sense of reluctance making her slow to react. ‘Or, if he is becoming so demanding, perhaps it’s time you found a

nursemaid? Now that your mother is dead, there’s no one to help you.’ Karolina froze. She had been carefree once, always smiling, her dark-

brown eyes full of mischief and fun. Then Hakon had taken an interest in her, and Jesper Vettel had made an alliance with her father, making her Hakon’s wife. And nothing had ever felt good again.

She laid her son in his wooden crib and came to join her husband by the fire, trying to lift her eyes, to give him her attention. He never touched her when he was angry. Never beat her. But there were other ways to terrorise someone, Karolina had discovered.

She tried not to tremble, squeezing her hands as she took a seat.

‘We continue to have problems with the Vilanders,’ Hakon began, taking the chair opposite her, pouring wine into a silver goblet and handing it to his wife. ‘Though, be assured that we won’t for long. The noose is tightening by the day. They may celebrate one small victory over me, but their end is coming quickly. And soon I will help hurry it along.’

Karolina wasn’t sure why Hakon was telling her this. She had no interest in battles or rivalries. She knew her husband had great ambitions, and a strong desire to avenge his father’s murder, but it was not something she paid much attention to.

‘I want you to do more than hold that baby to your chest, Karolina,’ Hakon murmured, watching her eyes, eager to see something other than fear. She was attractive and desirable, but her timidity irritated him. There were women with fire in their eyes, and he had bedded many of them, but not his wife, who cowered and blinked and tried only to keep him happy.

Karolina cowered and blinked, attempting a smile.

‘Soon you will be the Queen of Alekka. My queen. And you must prepare to rule beside me. To have interests. To take an interest in things

other than our son. Talk to Igne about dresses. Hairstyles. Perhaps she can help you find new jewels? I must have a queen worthy of the throne, my love. Slussfall is… not Stornas. And Stornas will be the beginning for us. You, me, and our sons.’ His eyes were on her stomach, which had flattened back to its natural state, though not for long, Hakon knew, for Karolina was already carrying his second child.

‘But…’ Her confusion made her more confident. ‘How do you know all of this?’

Hakon poured himself a goblet of wine, eyes glinting in the flames. ‘I’ve always known my destiny, my love. My father knew it too. It’s what he wanted more than anything, to see me as the King of Alekka. To have the Vettels back on the throne.’ Hakon sat back, listening to his son whimpering, missing his mother. ‘My family was run out of Stornas by Ake Bluefinn all those years ago. But he made a mistake thinking we would be happy to shrink away, content to leave our kingdom to him. No, I believe that I will be the one to return the Vettels to their rightful place. And you, Karolina, will be by my side, with all our healthy, strong sons around us.’

Karolina smiled, her teeth showing, her dimples revealing themselves. Her eyes bright with terror.

They sailed slowly back to Ottby, hugging the shore, heads swivelling, searching through the gloom for more of Hakon Vettel’s ships. Though likely they had returned to their master, licking their wounds.

Reinar hoped so.

He turned to Torvig, who once again had his eyes on the women. ‘You need a wife!’ he grinned, clapping Torvig on the back. ‘How is it that you’ve never found yourself a wife? Don’t you want sons? Someone to warm your bed every night?’

Torvig laughed. ‘You don’t think I’ve someone warming my bed every night, Reinar Vilander? Ha! I’m happy to avoid the distraction of a wife, for what are women but a constant distraction? And as for sons? Well, that will come one day. But for now, I think we have other things on our minds, don’t you? Like trying to hold back the Vettels, and finding men for the walls. They’ll not hold themselves.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Reinar agreed, turning around to check on Sigurd, who lay on his stomach in the stern, just behind Bolli, the dreamer sitting beside him.

Alys, he remembered. Her name was Alys.

Her hair was darker beneath the cloudy sky; a deeper blonde, he thought distractedly. ‘I just hope Tulia hasn’t had any problems. Perhaps Hakon’s men headed there? Perhaps the ships were just a decoy?’ Reinar felt the wind suddenly, whipping his new fur cloak away from him.

‘With barely one ship between them and all those injuries?’ Torvig snorted. He was a cocky man, not given to any show of weakness. It was something he tried to impart upon his friend. ‘No, Hakon will need to gather himself before he mounts another attack, but I imagine he won’t wait long. He wants you. Sigurd too. He wants to kill Stellan’s sons.’

Reinar turned away, hoping he was right.

‘And what are you going to do with all those women?’ Torvig wondered, stumbling away from Reinar as the ship tilted abruptly. ‘If we’re not going to Goslund?’

Reinar turned to him, a warning in his eyes. ‘You’ll leave those women alone. I know what you’re thinking, what you want, but I didn’t take any of them for you. They’re silver for my coffers. Silver I need to pay the new men. To get more.’ He glanced around Dagger, not liking the look of many of its crew, but tough times called for desperate measures.

And Reinar Vilander had become a desperate man.

‘Understood,’ Torvig said, jaw clenched. ‘No hands shall be laid upon their pretty heads. Not mine at least,’ he added, eyes drifting to Rutger’s men, some of whom had their heads together, muttering, eyes furtive. ‘Though, you might have a few problems if you’re not careful, after what happened to Rutger.’

Reinar swayed away from Torvig towards Sigurd and Alys. ‘Add them to the pile!’ he called, shaking his head. The stench of blood remained strong, wounds everywhere he looked.

Three of them on his own brother.

Crouching down, he tried to catch Alys’ eye, though she seemed intent on looking anywhere but at him. ‘How is he?’

‘He?’ Sigurd mumbled irritably. ‘He is ready to get up.’ ‘You tried that and almost passed out,’ Ludo reminded him. Sigurd growled nothing anyone could understand.

Reinar smiled, pleased to hear his brother sounding like his usual irritable self. ‘Well, we’ll be home soon. I’m sure Mother will be beside herself with worry. Ready to stick you in bed. Care for you day and night!’

Bolli, who knew Gerda better than he’d ever wish to, burst out laughing. ‘I’d like to see that!’

Sigurd closed his eyes, thinking about Tulia. She was going to be cross.

He was cross.

If Rutger hadn’t been dead, he would have killed him himself.

The pain bit, though it was hard to tell where it was coming from. Mostly all over. He felt oddly weak, his ears ringing every time he moved. And that dreamer kept hovering around him, not knowing what to do with herself.

He wondered what Reinar was going to do with her. Fearing the answer.