The Last Light of the Sun (33 page)

“There’s a tale to that, I imagine,” was all Thorkell said.

His voice had not changed at all. Why should it change, though all the world Bern knew had been altered entirely? “Leave Stefa’s mount,” his father said. “They’ll need a horse to find, after they get his body.”

Stefa. With an effort Bern kept his hand from going to his head. The stars had swung again with the blow. His father was a strong man.

“They’ll see the signs of two horses where we hid them,” Bern said. “Won’t work.”

“It will. I’ll find his horse and bring it out. Go now, though, and quickly—some fool killed Burgred of Denferth tonight. Aeldred’s riding out himself, I think.”

“What?” said Bern, his jaw dropping. “The earl? Why didn’t they—?”

“Take him for ransom? You tell me. You’re the mercenary. He’d have been worth your raid and more.”

But that answer, in fact, he knew. “Ivarr,” he said. “Ragnarson’s paying us.”

“Ingavin’s blind eye! I knew it,” his father rasped. His old oath, remembered from childhood, familiar as smells and the shape of hands. Thorkell swore again, spat into the stream. He stood waist-deep in the water, thinking. Then: “Listen. That one’s going to want you to go west. Don’t go. It isn’t a raid for Jormsvik.”

“West? What’s west of here? Just … ” And then, as his father said nothing, Bern finally thought it through. He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Blood,” he whispered. “Vengeance? For his grandfather? And
that’s
why he—”

“That’s why he bought your ships and men, whatever else he told you, and that’s why he wouldn’t want a hostage. He wants to go after the Cyngael. But with ransom paid for an earl you’d turn and go home. He was with the shore party, wasn’t he?”

Bern nodded. It was sliding into place.

“I’ll wager you land we don’t own any more they’ll find Burgred with an arrow in him.”

“He said the
burh
was still unwalled, that Esferth would be almost empty.”

Thorkell grunted, spat downstream again. “Empty? During a fair? Serpent-sly, that one. Poisons his arrows.”

“How do
you
know that?”

No answer. It occurred to Bern that he’d never spoken in this way with his father in his life. Nothing remotely resembling this terse conversation. He didn’t have time, no time at all, to unwind his own held-in rage, the bitterness for lives marred. Thorkell still hadn’t asked about his wife. Or Gyllir. Or how Bern had come to be in Jormsvik.

Fireflies darting around them. Bern heard bullfrogs and crickets. No human voices, though; they’d gone north towards the walls and tents. And would be coming out, back this way, heading for the coast. King Aeldred leading them, his father had said.

Guthrum’s party was on foot, would be running for the ships right now. If they weren’t dead. He had no idea where they’d been when they …

“Where are your horses?”

“Just west, in the woods.”

“In
those
woods?” Thorkell’s voice rose for the first time.

“Are there others?”

“I’ll hit you again. Show respect. That’s a spirit wood. No Anglcyn or Cyngael will enter it. Stefa ought to have known, if you didn’t.”

“Well,” said Bern, attempting defiance, “maybe he did know. If they don’t go in, it’s a good place for our mounts, isn’t it?”

His father said nothing. Bern swallowed. He cleared his throat. “He only went in a few steps, tethered them, got out right away.”

“He did know.” Thorkell sounded tired suddenly. “You’d best move,” his father said. “Think the rest of it out while you ride.”

Bern moved, climbing up the western bank. He said nothing but as he looked around, crouching, Thorkell added, “Don’t let Ivarr Ragnarson know you’re my son. He’ll kill you for it.”

Bern stopped, looking down at the dark figure of his father in the stream. A tale there, too, obviously. He wasn’t going to ask. He wanted to say something harsh about how late it was for Thorkell to be showing signs of looking after his family.

He turned. Heard his father come out of the water behind him. He walked south, quickly, bent low, went in among the trees to get Gyllir. He shivered, doing so. Spirit wood. He knew Thorkell was watching him, to mark the place. He didn’t look back. Offered no farewell and, Ingavin knew, no thanks. He’d die before he did that.

Gyllir whickered at his approach. The horse seemed agitated, tossing his head. Bern rubbed his muzzle, whispering, untied the reins. He left Ecca’s horse tethered, as instructed. It wouldn’t be for long. Emerged from the woods, mounted, rode, south under stars and the blue moon, pushing Gyllir. There would be mounted men following soon.

The land stretched level, forest to the west, open to the east across the stream, mostly empty at first, uninhabited, then some dark farms over that way, planted barley, rye, the harvest coming soon. A line of low trees, cluster of
houses, the ground beginning to slope towards the sea, and their ships. A long way to go. Men following. The bonfire still burning. After a time he saw another one, far off, and then, later, a third, sending its signals, which he couldn’t read. The moon was gone by then, behind the woods.

He leaned forward over Gyllir’s neck to make his weight easier to bear.
There’s a tale, I imagine,
his father had said, learning of the horse. He hadn’t asked, though. Hadn’t asked.

Heimthra
was the word used for longing: for home, for the past, for things to be as they once had been. Even the gods were said to know that yearning, from when the worlds were broken. Bern was grateful, as he rode, that no one on the wide dark earth could see his face, and he had to trust that Ingavin and Thünir would not think the worse of him, if they were watching in the night.

It was Hakon Ingemarson who had recognized Kendra by the stream.

He’d called out to her immediately as he passed with a torch amid a crowd of others heading for the tents. She hadn’t wanted to ask how he’d known her so quickly in the dark. Was afraid of his answer. Knew his answer, really.

She’d cursed, silently, the sheer bad luck that had led him past this point, even as she’d turned and achieved a tone of pleased welcome when he came hurrying over.

“My lady! How come you here, unattended?”

“I’m not unattended, Hakon. Ceinion of Llywerth kindly sent his own guard with me.” She had gestured, and Thorkell had stepped forward into the light. The dog, thankfully, was across the stream, out of sight. She’d had no least idea how she’d have adequately explained it.

“But there’s nothing here at all!” Hakon had exclaimed. She’d realized that he was drunk. They all were. That might make things easier, in fact. “The gathering is over by the tents! Your royal sister and brother are there already. May we escort you?”

Kendra had searched for and failed to find any way to decline. Cursing again, inside, with a ferocity that would have surprised all three of her siblings and utterly disconcerted the young man in front of her, she’d smiled and said, “Of course. Thorkell, wait here for me. I’ll likely just stay a short while, and I wouldn’t want these men to forgo their entertainment to take me back inside.”

“Yes, my lady,” the older Erling had said, in the uninflected voice of a servant.

Hakon had looked as if he might protest, but evidently decided to be pleased with what he’d gained so unexpectedly. She’d fallen in with him and the others and they’d made their way to the colourful village of tents that had sprung up north-west of the walls.

When they arrived, they found a boisterous crowd gathered in a wide circle. Hakon pushed through to the front. Inside were two people. It came as no great surprise to Kendra to discover that these were her older brother and sister.

She looked around. To one side of the ring she saw a skull, resting on the grass, a torch set beside it. Kendra winced. She had a fairly good idea, suddenly, what had happened here. Athelbert simply did
not
know when to leave well enough alone.

Judit had a long staff, held crosswise with both hands. She knew how to use it. Athelbert carried a significantly smaller one, a thin switch. Nearly useless, good for swatting at leaves or apples, not much more.

Judit was attempting, with grim purpose and no little skill, to club her brother senseless. Finish the task she’d
begun that morning. Athelbert—who had had a great deal to drink, it was clear—was laughing far too much to be at all safe from his sister’s assault.

Kendra, eyeing them, listening to the hilarity around her, was thinking about the Cyngael in the woods, and about his dog—the way it had stood on the far side of the stream, rigid and attentive, listening. She didn’t know for what. She didn’t really
want
to know.

There was nothing to be done now, in any case. No way to turn around and walk away just yet. She had sighed again, fixed a smile on her face, and accepted a cup of watered wine from Hakon, busy on her behalf. She watched her siblings amid a rapturous, howling crowd and smoking torches. A late-summer night, the harvest looking to be good, the fair soon to begin. A time of laughter and celebration.

The entertainment in the ring continued, marked by two pauses for wine on the part of the combatants. Judit’s hair was entirely and immodestly unconfined now. Not that she would care, Kendra thought. Athelbert was dodging and ducking without pause. He’d taken two or three blows, including one to the shin that had knocked him sprawling, barely able to roll away from Judit’s urgent follow-up. Kendra thought about intervening. She was certainly the only person who could. She wasn’t actually sure how much self-control Judit had left. It was sometimes hard to tell.

Then someone shouted loudly, in a different tone, and people were pointing to the south, beyond the city. Kendra turned. A bonfire. They watched the signals begin, and repeat. And then repeat again.

It was Athelbert who decoded the message aloud for all of them. Judit, listening, dropped her staff, went over to stand next to her brother. She began to cry. Athelbert put his arm around her.

Amid the chaos that ensued, Kendra shifted from where Hakon had been hovering at her elbow. Then she slipped away into the dark. Torches were everywhere, shaping patterns in the night. She made her way back to the river. The dog was still there. It didn’t seem to have moved, in fact. Thorkell was nowhere to be seen.

Nor was Alun ab Owyn. He ought
not
to matter now, she was thinking. Her mind was in a whirl. One of their own had been slain tonight, if Athelbert had the message right. She was certain that he had.

Burgred. He had been in the marshes with her father, had fought at Camburn, both times, when they lost and when they won. And he had gone chasing a rumour of Erling ships while the king lay wrapped in fever.

Her father, she thought, would be tortured by that knowledge.

There was a movement across the stream. The man she’d followed came out from the trees.

He stopped at the wood’s edge, looking lost.

Kendra, heart pounding, saw the dog pad over to him, push his muzzle against the Cyngael’s hip. Alun ab Owyn reached down and touched the dog. It was too dark to see his face, but there was something in the way he stood that frightened her. She had been frightened, she realized, all night. All day long, really, from the time the Cyngael party had come into the meadow.

There were noises, men shouting behind her, running towards the city gates, which were open now. Kendra heard a different sound, a footfall, nearer: she looked over, saw Thorkell. His clothes were wet.

“Where were you?” she whispered.

“He’s come out,” the Erling replied, not answering.

Kendra turned back to the woods. Alun still hadn’t moved, except to touch the dog. Uncertainly, she walked towards the river, stood on the bank amid reeds and
dragonflies. She saw him look up and see her. Too dark, too dark to know his eyes.

She took a breath. She had no business being here, no understanding of how she knew what she knew.

“Come back to us,” she said, fighting fear.

The dog turned to her voice. Blue moon and stars overhead. She heard Thorkell come up behind her. Was grateful for that. She was watching the other man by the trees.

And at length, she heard Alun ab Owyn say, in a voice you had to strain to hear, “My lady, I have a long way to go. To do that.”

Kendra shivered. Was close to tears, and afraid. She made herself take another deep breath and said, with courage that perhaps only her father was aware that she had, “I am only this far.”

Thorkell, behind her, made an odd sound.

By the trees, Alun ab Owyn lifted his head a little. And then, after a moment, moved forward, walking as if through water even before he reached it. He crossed the stream with the dog. His hair was disordered. He had no belt on his tunic, carried no weapon.

“What … are you doing here?” he asked.

Her head high, feeling the breeze in her hair, she said, “I am truly not certain. I felt … afraid, from when I saw you this morning. Something … ”

“You were afraid of me?” His voice was drained of emotion.

Again she hesitated. “Afraid for you,” she said.

A silence, then he nodded, as if unsurprised.

I am only this far,
she’d said. Where had that come from? But he’d crossed. He’d come across the water from the trees to them. A little behind her, the Erling kept silent.

“Did someone die tonight?” Alun ab Owyn asked.

“We think so,” she said. “My brother believes it was Earl Burgred, leading a party south of here.”

“Erlings?” he asked. “Raiders?”

He was looking past her now, at Thorkell. The dog was beside him, wet from the river, standing very still.

“It appears so, my lord,” said the big man behind her. And then, carefully, “I believe … we both know the one who leads them.”

And that made a change. Kendra saw it happen. The Cyngael seemed to be
pulled
back to them, snapped like a leash or a whip, away from whatever had happened in the trees. The thing she didn’t want to think about.

“Ragnarson?” he asked.

Not a name Kendra knew; it meant nothing to her.

The Erling nodded. “I believe so.”