Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(61)

He lifted the talisman from his chest and shrugged. “A lump of rock. Some damn fool charm or spell on it, no doubt.”

“Let me see that,” said Onund. Leaning closer, he peered at the stone and rolled it about in his hands. “Troll bone!” The old man whistled in surprise.

The words were greeted by puzzled stares from his companions.

Onund scoffed. “Young folk,” he muttered, then launched into a story.

“Long ago, in the time of my father and your grandfathers,” the old man began, waggling his grey whiskers, “there were trolls all about these parts. In the forests and in the mountains they waited, to devour unwary wanderers or steal lost sheep. Wicked creatures, they were, but stupid.”

“Like an Ulfing!” shouted Geir. His outburst garnered a few chuckles from the Thrym.

“My father, and your grandfather, and yours,” Onund continued, pointing to Eyvind and Kolbrun, “were troll hunters, and there were many such men in those days. With dogs and spears and fire they gave chase, for a troll was a threat to one man but easily tricked and trapped by many. Long years ago, the last troll was felled in these parts. They linger on only as bones now, these rocks that a wise eye can see.”

“And bring good luck,” Onund crooked an eyebrow in Eyvind’s direction, “to those that remember their roots, and listen to their elders… and betters.”

Smiles shone once more around the fire.

Cupping the troll bone in his hand, Eyvind ran a finger over its smooth surface. He nodded to Onund, then spoke for all to hear: “And tomorrow it shall bring us good fortune, I am sure of it. The fog will lift, and we will pass through the Sund.”





Unable to sleep, Aelfhild lay beneath her blanket and stared up into the night sky. There were sparse clouds, and she could see the stars quite clearly. The Anvil, with the North Star at its tip, moved higher aloft each day as the journey brought them ever closer to the crest of the world. Other constellations barely rose past the line of the horizon now, where back home they would float well overhead this time of year.

Back home, she mused.

Cynestead’s high walls had girded her whole world for as long as she could remember. She and Ceolwen had ventured out on occasion, but no further than an afternoon’s journey. Everything within those confines had seemed so terribly important, while news from the outside, of the death of some jarl or king, of the marching of armies or sailing of fleets, had counted for nothing at all.

Do they still think of us? She wondered if anyone in Cynestead spared a thought for her or Ceolwen’s whereabouts.

Doubtful. Whether it was King Osred’s son or daughter that took up the throne was of little concern to most Earnfoldings as they went about their lives. It was tempting to think their disappearance would be keenly felt and long remembered, but the truth of the matter was less romantic.

With all that had happened in the short span since their leaving, folk would scarcely even recognize them when they returned.

And they would return. Osric would be dealt with, and Ceolwen would be Queen. In Aelfhild’s mind that was fact, with the particulars to be filled in along the way. But what happened afterwards, that was less certain.

Embla must have noticed that one of her humans was awake, for the hound trotted over and settled onto Aelfhild’s blanket. Aelfhild scratched at the dog’s velvety ears and stared skywards.

Here she lay, on a beach strewn with the bones of trolls, at the far, icy edge of the world, and watched the ghostly bands of the Northern Lights dance their spectral greens and blues across the sky.

The horizon stretched out in every direction, unbound and alluring. Aelfhild understood now what Eyvind had meant when he talked of the pull of the open sea. Endless, unwritten possibility stretched out before them now. That thought might once have frightened her.

Ceolwen snorted and stirred in her blanket nearby. Aelfhild watched her mistress settle back into whatever dreams troubled her.

The Aethling had a royal future waiting for her back in Cynestead. For herself, Aelfhild saw only the past there; a Queen’s servant was a servant all the same.

She had tasted freedom beyond those walls. It was bought with danger and pain, beyond a doubt, but she was loath to give it up now.

Surely Ceolwen would understand. Once she was Queen, she would free Aelfhild to go back into the world. That much was owed.

Embla wagged her tail, and offered her belly for rubbing. Aelfhild obliged.

The stars shone above, figures of myth standing out in eternal, fiery relief. Aelfhild drew in a deep breath.

I cannot lose this, she thought.





33

The groan of the creeping mass of icebergs was their constant companion, an unrelenting reminder of the danger lurking in the lightless depths; it called to mind the gnashing teeth of some giant monster, grinding wood and bone without effort in its frozen jaws.

Slowly they rowed through the dark channels of the Ormsund, winding their way westward through the maze of bays and rivers and dead ends in the ice field. No words passed between the crew, as each mind was turned fully to the task at hand.

Aelfhild pushed a slab of splintering ice from their path with her spear. Looking back, she could no longer make out where they had entered; the strait shifted and changed to mask their passage, constantly opening new routes before blocking them off again. If the Sund were indeed a great beast, then they had been swallowed through its maw and drawn down into the roiling belly.