Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(26)

“Do not kill them!” Leofstan’s shouting was mute, distant through the pounding in Aelfhild’s ears. She was blind.

There were stories she had heard of men going insane in battle, frothing and rending their garments, but those were warriors. She was a servant. And surely those men were not close to soiling themselves with fear.

The Gods were punishing her again. They hated her. Why, she did not even bother to ask. But in that moment she hated them back. And Leofstan. And Sigfus. And the rider.

Osric’s face flickered in front of her, silhouetted against the blood. Here was the true enemy. Here was the source from which all her pain flowed. The air tore at her throat as she roared.

She lunged, swinging her blade from side to side. Her shoulder struck up against something soft, and she stabbed into it. Searing liquid poured out onto her hands.

The space around her was a cacophony of sound, but in her reeling mind it was impossible to sort her own shouting from that of the others.

A man tried to get an arm around her, and she bit down hard on flesh. She clawed, kicked, and howled as she was grabbed and pulled from all directions.

Something heavy struck the back of her head, and then there was darkness.





There was the sensation of being carried, then dragged, then dropped.

The pain was distant, but it lingered, waiting for opportunity.

She heard wood groaning, and the call of seagulls on the wing.

Thoughts came back little by little, shifting and slippery and jumbled together.

Someone was humming nearby. It was not a song she could recognize, in fact there seemed to be no rhythm or pattern to it at all.

With immense effort, Aelfhild cracked her eyelids. Light rushed in, searing white and razor sharp against the back of her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the pain had woken with her and would not retreat.

She raised her head. Her eyes took time to adjust to the harsh sunlight.

She was wedged against the hard wood of what looked to be the hull of a ship; the groaning was the boards flexing in the waves, and she could hear the splash and feel the rolling crests against the sides of the boat. The fog was clearing from her mind, but slowly, and the world still spun.

The humming continued, and she saw that she was not alone. There were women in the boat, several women, and she recognized none of them. A pair of mismatched eyes appeared over her head—one blue as summer sky, the other a dull, milky white. Their owner was a girl, maybe five or six years of age, who sat braiding strands of Aelfhild’s hair, humming away. The girl smiled down on Aelfhild from above.

Aelfhild tried to speak, but her mouth was bound with strips of cloth. Wriggling her hands and feet told her they were also tied fast, and sent fresh currents of pain writhing up her back and through her skull.

“Easy now, lady,” came an unfamiliar voice. A new face loomed over her, a woman with crow’s feet beginning to show around the eyes and grey edging into the hair at her temples. “They near did you in with that beating. You stay still and let me sort you out. Come away, Sola, leave the lady be.” The child retreated from view.

Lady. Aelfhild still felt drunk, but that was not right. She was not the lady. She needed to know where the real lady was.

The woman returned, brandishing a cloth. “You are all filthy with blood, here.” She began scrubbing at Aelfhild’s face, and the rag came away rust brown.

“I fear there is nought I can do about the ropes, lady,” she continued, and glanced over her shoulder, “until they say otherwise.”

The damp cloth soothed Aelfhild’s skin, but she yearned most for a drink. Her mouth was bone dry, and the fetid gag stuck to her cracking lips and cheeks.

“My name is Runild, lady,” said her new friend. “Though I wish we were not meeting like this. That is my daughter, Sola. She took quite a shine to you, even with all the blood.” Runild spoke softly, and Aelfhild could not ask whether it was for the benefit of her own aching head or out of fear of listeners. Her fingers twinged as she imagined Leofstan nearby.

“Gods forgive me, but I near forgot.” The woman bent low to whisper. “Your friend is here, too, and she is alive.”

Aelfhild wriggled against her bonds, mindless of the pain, as tears beaded in her eyes.

“Hush, lady!” Runild hissed.

No words could make it past the bindings in her mouth, but Aelfhild mewed her pleas anyway.

I need to see her. Please, just let me see her, she tried to say.

Runild hesistated; she threw another glance over her shoulder, then stared back down at her patient with watery eyes. Sighing, she put a hand behind Aelfhild’s back and lifted her up.

Aelfhild grunted as the pain swelled and crested. White splotches danced in and out of her vision as Runild steadied her.

But there lay Ceolwen. Filthy, tattered, face down in the straw that lined the hull, but breathing.

Tears streaked Aelfhild’s cheeks as she lay back down.

I have not failed yet! No pain in the world could stop her exaltations.





13

Aelfhild did not know why or how, but she had made a fast friend in Sola. The little girl sat and unwound the tangles in Aelfhild’s hair, braiding as she went. She hummed her disjointed little ditties but never spoke. Runild stayed close to her daughter. The woman did not appear to fully trust the strangers around her child, and as far as Aelfhild was concerned it was mutual.