Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(78)

Holding back tears, but only barely, Ceolwen lowered her head. “I am trying. Truly. But my dreams give me no rest. I hear the thunder and see their faces beneath the waves, and though they say nothing, I see the blame in their eyes—I cannot shake it.”

These words, and the weariness with which they were spoken, sent a shiver up Aelfhild’s spine. She tried her best to be consoling, but the words seemed false in her mouth. The path ahead of them was a hard one, and nothing she could say would ease the journey.

If she is not strong enough to do this, then perhaps she does not deserve to be Queen. The thought ran unbidden through Aelfhild’s mind, and as ugly and distasteful as it was she could scarce drive it out. Time and again it returned, a gadfly lodged within her skull.

No! She drove out the niggling words with a new chant.

Ceolwen will see this through and Osric will fall. There is no other choice.

Back at camp, the Thrym looked to be having an argument of their own.

Eyvind announced his decision as the Earnfoldings arrived. “We have waited long enough. Tomorrow we break camp and set out, but we leave a trail behind us easy for Geir and Bercthun to follow if they yet live. We notch trees, break branches, and make whatever marks we can as we pass.”

Kolbrun did not look pleased. “We tried,” she said, patting Jarngrim on the shoulder.

Eyvind hooked both thumbs into his makeshift belt of knotted rope as he turned to face the others. “The plan is the same as before. We stay as close to the coast as we can and make our way north. On foot it will take longer. Weeks, a month maybe. We travel light and fast and hunt as we go. There should be food aplenty in the forests this time of year.

“We just need to find it. And soon.”





43

Halt!” called Rolf.

They clattered to a halt in a meadow of bracken.

Jarngrim passed over the one surviving waterskin, and Aelfhild choked down a mouthful. The only spring they had found so far dribbled down the cliffside in rust brown runnels. The water left a syrupy slick on the tongue and tasted of nothing so much as blood. Going thirsty was almost preferable.

“Small mouthfuls,” Rolf ordered. “We march again soon.”

The greybeard drove them hard. He seemed to need almost no sleep; he hollered at their backs until dusk then kicked them from their bedrolls the next dawn. And each day grew noticeably longer, with summer’s onset compounded by their northward progress.

Aelfhild cinched her rope belt tighter. Life at sea—the rowing and ship’s rations—and now the marching had burned off any excess fat from her frame. Any curves she had once had were replaced by wiry muscle, so her breeches sagged around the waist. Ceolwen, who had always been more richly endowed in that respect, was in much the same state.

She joined her mistress in rummaging through the brush in search of berries. Her stomach growled. The strip of dried fish at breakfast was a distant memory and even just a handful of wild strawberries were worth scraped knees and a stiff back.

The Thrym pulled up stalks of a tall, golden-crowned herb wherever they found it, munching on the raw stems and roots for the water as much as anything.

“Hvonn, it keeps you strong,” said Onund as he split a stalk between the two Earnfoldings.

It had a sweet musky smell and was eye-wateringly strong when undiluted, but it yielded a dab of moisture and cleaned Aelfhild’s tongue of the iron stain. The others squeezed a few muddy drops from the roots.

“Enough rest,” Rolf shouted. “March!”

Embla ranged out ahead as they tramped onward, and true to Eyvind’s words they made no attempt to hide their passing. Like some marauding army, they twisted branches, flattened shrubs, and scored marks on the bark of trees. In such remote lands there was little worry of a foe picking up their trail, and with any luck Geir and Bercthun might be able to follow.

“March!” The pace never slackened, and Rolf was quick with the lash if any of his charges lagged.

Knobbly birch trees broke up the sprawl of heather and and evergreen sprigs. Spring was already well underway; the flowers bloomed pink, white, and purple, and the bugs were hard at work.

“No dawdling, queenling!” Rolf prodded Ceolwen onward with the butt of his axe.

In several thickets the crew had stumbled upon swarms of bloodsucking insects rising from the ground and twice they had to make a sprinting retreat from the maddening, thrumming clouds.

They crested a hill and saw the glimmer of sun on flowing water.

“Water!” shouted Eyvind, though he was late.

Neck and neck with her mistress, Aelfhild was already leaping and sliding down the slope. The other Thrym were close behind.

It was a swift-flowing stream that pooled in a stone depression at the valley’s edge before falling as fine mist to the beach below. The water ran muddy through the hills, but tasted better than the dregs they had found so far.

Aelfhild immersed her entire head in the bracing flow. Layers of grime caked atop sand and salt peeled away from her skin. There came a splash from the side as Jarngrim disappeared into the rippling pool. He emerged, covered in goosebumps but with a wide grin slapped across his face.

Any sense of modesty had disappeared long ago, as they had all been cooped up together aboard Unn-marr for days on end with nothing but barrels to hide behind. They dove and splashed in the water. Even their taskmaster seemed content to just float in the pool.