Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(83)

She looked over at Kolbrun, who stared with equal wonder. “We found it,” whispered the shield-maiden. “I did not think…”

Calls from below and a tug on the rope around her waist brought Aelfhild back to the task at hand. There were no easy places to tie down the rope, so she and Kolbrun would have to use their own weight to belay the other climbers. The two women sat side by side, feet wedged against the ground and held tight to the lines as the others came up to join them. Going was slow, but pair by pair the crew emerged over the ledge.

Rolf and Eyvind stayed down with Embla, who had to be lifted in a harness woven of some spare lashing. It took four strong backs to pull the poor dog up the cliff, but Embla put up little struggle, only whining softly as she bumped and scraped her way up the rough wall. The hound’s master followed, leaving Rolf to bring up the rear.

With both Aelfhild’s and Kolbrun’s lines tied around his waist, Rolf made the climb, cursing loudly as he slipped and slid. His burly feet and hands did not serve him well on the cliffs.

Only once did he fall. The rope bit and sawed at Aelfhild’s waist and shoulders, while gouts of cursing and wheezing from below told the waiting crew that Rolf yet lived. When he finally hauled himself over the edge, blood streaked the greybeard’s face, but he waved off any attempt to examine the wound and continued to curse everyone and everything in sight.

The old Leifing fell silent, though, when he stood to look north.

They all did. It was an odd mixture of awe and relief and shock that crossed her companions’ faces upon seeing that distant harbor, and Aelfhild marked each one. Ceolwen stood and blinked, not seeming to trust her own eyes. Eyvind grinned. Jarngrim rejoiced at the sight, lifting his arms high in victory; he grabbed Kolbrun’s shoulders and shook. Onund tugged at his beard as he laughed.

Rolf was the hardest to read. Fear was not the proper term for what she saw in the old man’s eyes, more a sort of reluctance. The creases in his forehead ran deep.

“Two days’ journey, I think,” Eyvind said in response to a question no one had asked, pulling them all back from wherever their minds had wandered. “We can cut inland from here and stick to the hills, avoid climbing through any more of these wretched valleys.”

Rolf spat and rubbed his head. He agreed.

Shading her eyes from the sun, Kolbrun peered off into the west. “There is a gully leading down from here, should be easier going.”

“I want us down from here before nightfall, then we make camp. No time for dawdling! Take in the view tomorrow, cousin,” he said as he jabbed Ceolwen in the ribs. The Thrym chuckled as they shouldered their coils of rope and wool-wrapped bundles and shuffled down from the rocky crest in single file. Aelfhild lingered.

“After everything, we are almost there. Some part of me thought it was all a lie. I can scarce believe it, Aela.” The voice came from far away, but it seemed steadier and more confident than Aelfhild had heard in a long while.

“You sound more like yourself,” she replied. The uncertainty that had been building in Ceolwen’s voice of late had caused her no end of worry. Learning of the crew’s reservations had not helped, either, but that seemed to be behind them. None had challenged Eyvind’s decision, nor shown any resentment. Not in front of the Earnfoldings, at any rate. “It is good to have you back,” she added.

“Just two days and I will be Queen. And then we can go home.”

Stronger by the minute, Aelfhild marveled.

“First we have to get there, your lordship. One step at a time. Down we get.” She curtsied mockingly before pulling Ceolwen, who still seemed lost in a daydream, along by the belt.

The two Earnfoldings followed the Thrym down through the gully.

“Think of it. We can sleep in a bed again, under a roof. Wear clean clothes,” Ceolwen droned on from behind. “Ride a horse instead of walk. Grow big and fat.”

“Eat something other than dried fish and unripe berries,” Aelfhild joined in, “wash with warm water.”

“Shoes for our feet. Combs for our hair,” Ceolwen suggested, as they caught up to the Thrym.

Eyvind seemed less keen on the little game. “And a rest for our ears,” he called, leaving Aelfhild and her mistress to snort with laughter as they jogged along at the rear.





46

Thunder rumbled off to the west, and Eyvind called for them to quicken pace.

Aelfhild puffed at the steady stream of rain that flowed from the tip of her nose as she pulled her threadbare cloak closer around her shoulders. The squall was stifling—they marched, hemmed in on all sides by translucent walls of water, seeing little but an outline of a person ahead, and hearing nothing but the pounding rainfall. The rivulets streaming down her face probed for a way into her mouth and nose with every breath. Sodden ground squelched underfoot and more than once she feared she might lose a foot wrap to the sucking mire.

Eyvind led, and Rolf brought up the rearguard, while the rest trudged along and tried their best not to tread on the heels of the indistinct figure ahead.

The ground turned from mud to sand as they came nearer to the coastline, and soon they could hear the cresting whitecaps of the sea once more. Somewhere in the mist nearby was the roaring, rocky mouth of the bay, and whatever remained of Aettirheim in the cloud-covered hills beyond.

They got a respite from the worst of the rain as the deluge eased, but the swelling thunderclaps hinted it would be brief.