Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(25)

The churning in her stomach had not faded since waking.

We made this turn before, a voice screamed in her head. We will not make it in time. The ship will leave without us.

Any wood left for long in the salty sea air weathered to the same pitted grey sheen, making all the walls around her identical. How men got any work done in this snarl remained a mystery.

Or, even worse, we will make it in time, the voice continued, and Osric’s spies will be there. Not many witnesses around here.

That phrase repeated itself, over and again: not many witnesses. Aelfhild clenched at each turning, expecting Bercthun to come hurtling back around the corner screaming of ambushes.

Ahead of her, Ceolwen trudged through the mud, wrapped tight in her cloak and hood. Bercthun led the way out of some unfathomable sense of direction.

Or maybe he is as lost as we are, and is too proud to admit it.

They rounded a corner and spotted Sigfus’ distinct frame beside a warehouse, one which she would have sworn they had passed by at least once before. He was perched atop a barrel, feet crossed in front of him and hands clasped on his belly.

Then came that insidious voice again. Of course they are still here. Why would the hunter leave without his quarry?

The massive Thrym stared as Bercthun, Ceolwen, and Aelfhild approached. He rose, stretching, and gestured for them to follow. Around the side of the building were arched double-doors, wide enough to accommodate a wagon or cart; Sigfus knocked twice, and one of the doors was unlatched and opened from within. The giantling led the way, while Aelfhild brought up the rear.

It was dark inside, a single sconce hanging from one of the wooden columns that ran down the central line of the building. Aelfhild could make out nothing past the crates and bails of straw stacked to the roof. She recognized Leofstan by his boney frame, standing in the torchlight with his back to the door, talking to another figure whose face was hidden in the darkness.

The sound of the door closing—and a bolt sliding into place—made her jump, and she pressed closer to Ceolwen’s side. Bercthun moved his hand toward his right hip, she noticed, where the axe hung in his belt.

She still had the dagger given to her by Cuthbert in the front pocket of her robe. It had been dead weight since they left Cynestead, unused and untouched. But now the feeling of cold iron, which had made her recoil days before, steadied her hand.

Sigfus stooped to whisper in his master’s ear. Leofstan turned to the three newcomers, his eyes bright in the torchlight.

“So, you found us. Good! Welcome! We are almost ready to set sail, just one more thing to see to.” He stepped aside to reveal his companion. Aelfhild placed the face at once—it was the rider, the man they had seen along the Swiftea.

“Hail, friend,” the horseman spoke to Bercthun. “Ill luck meeting like this.”

It was a relief to know. That was a surprise for Aelfhild. Not that Leofstan had betrayed them, she had feared that from the moment they handed over coins—so had the others. The uncertainty, the un-knowing, had been torment, and as it departed there was the briefest window of serenity.

Then fear rushed in to fill the gap.

Cuthbert’s last words to her rang clear in her mind. “Keep the Aethling safe, whatever the cost,” he had said. She gripped the hilt of her dagger tight.

Whatever the cost.

Leofstan took a step back. “The new King asks us to take care of you lot, and we always obey our king. Is that not right, lads?”

With the sound of clinking metal, two men stepped out of the shadows with chains in hand. Bercthun drew his axe, but it looked a paltry weapon in the torchlight. Behind them, Aelfhild noticed two other men had left the shadows and circled around by the door, blocking their exit. They hefted wooden clubs.

She could not swallow. Her tongue cleft to the roof of her parched mouth. Blood hammered in her ears.

Sigfus towered over them, seeming to unfold toward the ceiling in a column of flexing muscle. Leofstan, still smiling, spoke from behind his henchmen. “This will go much easier for you,” he said, “if you do not fight.”

Bercthun gave no answer, but pressed his back to Ceolwen as Aelfhild did the same, drawing her little blade from its sheath. The two men behind them advanced a step, and Aelfhild brandished the wavering tip of her dagger at them.

A wisp of red, like a drop of dye spreading tendrils through clear water, drifted through her vision. She shook her head to clear it from her eyes, but another blood-colored thread snaked inward from the edge of sight. She tried to look past the spots, focus on her assailants.

There were no wasted words, no threats or begging or pleading. Their choice, fight or submit, had been made quite clear. In silence, their attackers circled, looking for an opening. Leofstan looked on from afar with Osric’s messenger beside him. Sigfus moved forward, swinging a length of wrist-thick knotted rope in slow circles.

One of the club-wielding men advanced on Aelfhild. Her breath came in ragged gasps now. She could only make out a partial shape through the haze in her eyes; the tendrils twisted together in ever increasing number. A wild, uneven swing of her dagger and the man danced back out of reach, laughing.

His laughter was interrupted by an ear-rending scream from one of his compatriots, who had evidently met with Bercthun’s axe. The two men wrestled, blood spattering the floor, as Bercthun attempted to free the axe from his attacker. Sigfus was upon them before he could manage it.

With a bestial howl, the great bearded Northman slammed his body into Bercthun’s side, knocking him to the floor. Sigfus set about with the rope, laying into Bercthun and Ceolwen with unbridled savagery. Ceolwen raised her arms to ward off the blows, bent low, and threw herself against the Thrym’s broad stomach, but her weight was nowhere near enough to bring him down. Sigfus’ battering ram of an elbow hammered the back of her head and left her sprawled on the floor beside Bercthun.