Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(70)

Ceolwen and Aelfhild stood in the bucking prow as water splashed up onto their faces and wetted their hair, voices raised to the breeze. Any trace of seasickness was long gone, even in the high swells.

Jarngrim stood at the port-side rail and stared at a spot along the coast. Something had caught his attention. Rolf and Eyvind both raised a hand to their brow as they scanned the shoreline; Aelfhild did as well, but could see nothing.

“What do you see?” hollered Eyvind over the booming of the keel.

Jarngrim shouted back, “Cannot be sure. On the bluff there, south and west.”

“Stone walls,” cried Geir. “Vines on them, but handwork beneath.”

Rolf angled the ship in the direction of Jarngrim’s outstretched hand. The move brought them head-on into the wind, so their sails were of little use.

“Oars!” Eyvind called, as the crew scampered to their places.

Aelfhild’s view was rather limited with her back to the prow of the ship. She focused on keeping time with the shoulders in front of her, though such a mundane task did free her imagination to wander.

He said ten days, and the details are all wrong, so it is not Aettirheim. Maybe it is one of Vidar’s long-awaited treasure hordes.

In her mind’s eye, piles of silver and gems glittered in underground vaults. There were always traps in the stories, spiked pits, hidden rooms, and rings of fire. And wyrms.

A wyrm atop a mountain of gold!

They would need their spears.

By the steering oar in the stern, Eyvind and Rolf pointed and peered at whatever Jarngrim had seen. Her curiosity was truly piqued now, and Aelfhild struggled with all her will against the temptation to turn and look; her task, though, was to pull the oar, and if the rest of the crew could resist looking, so could she.

Rolf changed course to the southeast, moving them along the shoreline, which afforded the rowers a better view of the clifftops. High above, perched on the rocks and cloaked by the undergrowth, was the unmistakable shape of stonework. The joints between stones, all sharp angles and level edges, stood out even at a distance. Oars knocked against one another as the rowers stared upwards.

Though the forest had tried its hardest to reclaim the bluff, part of a wall remained.

The cliffs here were too sheer to scale, rising straight from the water to dizzying heights atop which the wall stood. But a fissure split the rock face and snaked inland, and they followed its course.

Rock hemmed them in on both sides, and they rowed in darkness lit only by the sliver of sky overhead. The channel was narrow, not twice as wide as the ship; if they stretched the oars out to full length, they could scrape the canyon walls. The splash of oar blades and the sound of their breathing echoed in the tight space.

The canyon emptied into a small cove.

Aelfhild watched Eyvind’s eyebrows rise as they passed back into sunlight. As she turned to look with the others, she heard Ceolwen gasp.

The cove was perfect. A stream tumbled down from the cliffs and through a sluice of boulders to mix with the saltwater of the sea. Tall pines dotted the bank above and cast dancing shadows over the shell-strewn sand of the beach. The water below was perfectly clear, revealing swarms of iridescent fish that darted and hid amongst the seaweed strands.

Over the ship’s starboard side, a path rose along the cliff and disappeared into the upper crags. There were wide steps carved into the steeper sections of the trail; even the ancients had not wanted to spoil the inlet’s beauty, it seemed, and the carving had been done only where necessary.

It felt crass to spoil the pristine beach with footprints. Aelfhild tried to step lightly as they pulled Unn-marr ashore.

“Geir, Vidar, with the ship,” ordered Rolf, slipping an axe into his belt-loop and a shield over his shoulder. “The rest with us.”

Embla led the way up the path, with Eyvind behind. Years of rain and ice had worn the stone smooth, so they placed their feet with care. The way was steep and winding and they were out of breath when they reached the top. Aelfhild stood bent over at the waist, hands on her knees, sucking in deep breaths full of cloying pollen. Kolbrun and Rolf beside her were in no better state.

Emerging from the rocks at the trailhead, they found themselves on a carpet of dry needles and cones beneath a stand of spindly evergreens. Ravens croaked and cawed at the intruders. Black wings beat the air as the birds swooped off from their roosts, spouting indignation.

The wall that Jarngrim had spotted was little more than a half circle of fallen stones at the edge of the bluff. Vines and bushes wrapped themselves around the bottom of the masonry and sprouted from every exposed crack. At such a height, the site commanded an unmatched view of the coastline for as far as the eye could see, and they all stood for some time admiring the scene.

“A watchtower, maybe?” said Bercthun.

Eyvind agreed. “Most likely. There would have been many along the coast to spy out raiding ships. And they would burn fires in the mist to mark the shoreline for wayfarers.”

“So does this mean we are near to Aettirheim?” Ceolwen asked.

“No. We are still too far south. This is just some small outpost, but it means we are at the edge of the lost lands now,” Eyvind replied.

Ceolwen nodded.

There was a mix of disappointment and relief on her mistress’ face; Aelfhild could tell because she felt the same, just for different reasons. She knew Ceolwen wanted the journey to end but feared what they might find. In Aelfhild’s case, it was the opposite.