Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Aevar sat up, careful not to pull at the stitches in his side, but the pain sliced through him like a freshly honed blade. He clenched his jaw, hissing through his teeth as the muscles around the wound protested. Still, lying in bed while others combed the village or counted the dead was worse.
He pushed to his feet and his attention pulled towards the bed.
Eadlyn still slept, or at least she appeared to be.
She lay curled on her side, arms wrapped around the pillow, knees drawn up tight like someone who’d fought for every moment of sleep.
Her hair was tangled, and the flowers that had adorned it now lay crushed and wilted among the strands.
A sad remnant of what had begun as a perfect day.
The lamp on the table near the bed flickered low. She’d asked if they could keep it burning through the night. He’d already relit it once when the flame had sputtered, but now, with dawn’s haze creeping through the window, he blew it out.
Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t stir. He watched her a moment longer, the image of her in last night’s chaos etched into his memory. He would never be able to forget the moment the raider lunged at her. She could have been taken from him. In an instant.
The urge to lie beside her, to hold her and feel her breathe against him, almost broke his resolve. But he wouldn’t risk startling her. Wouldn’t invade her space without an invitation. So he turned from her, gathered his sword and knife, and slipped out of the room.
The longhouse was nearly silent. Just the soft rustle of the thralls near the hearth and Móthir’s quiet instructions.
She appeared calm and collected despite the turmoil of last night.
She’d always been a pillar of steadfastness and strength.
Now that he thought about it, he didn’t remember ever seeing her cry.
Perhaps his father might say differently.
He had no knowledge of what emotions his mother allowed to break through in the privacy of their bedroom.
He thought of Eadlyn’s words the night before. “Weak,” she’d said. She couldn’t have been more wrong. She had faced blood, death, and terror, and had still helped. Still served. Her hands had trembled, but they’d moved anyway. That was strength.
Móthir turned when she noticed him. “How are you feeling?”
Aevar touched his side, ignoring the way it throbbed. “Fine.”
She gave him the same look she had when he was five and tried to convince her that he hadn’t nicked himself with Erik’s knife.
“Alys, boil water for tea,” she said over her shoulder. Then she turned back to him. “Sit. Let me see.”
He laid his sword belt on the table and grunted as he pulled off his tunic before sitting on the bench.
Cool air filtered through the open door and drifted toward him, but it didn’t quite wash away the hint of blood.
Voices from outside drew his attention. Fathir entered with Erik and Kian, their faces worn with fatigue.
“Where’s Braan?” Aevar asked.
“Searching the village,” Fathir said. “Jorund found tracks heading north along the river. At least six men. Possibly more. I’ve sent a raven to Halbjorn alerting them to be on the lookout. I’ll send more once we have a better idea of what happened.”
Pain flared as the bandage pulled away, and Aevar gritted his teeth.
Móthir’s lips thinned. “It’s inflamed. You need to rest, or it could worsen.”
Rest. A luxury he didn’t have.
But her expression sharpened. “I mean it.”
Kian leaned against the table, arms crossed. “I’ll make sure he does.”
His raised brow dared Aevar to argue, but he didn’t rise to the bait.
“How many did we lose?” he asked his father.
Fathir’s face was like stone, but his eyes revealed the pain of a leader who hadn’t been able to fully defend his people. “Seventeen. Five in the first strike. Twelve more in the defense. Eleven men, six women. Another dozen wounded. Some may not last the day.”
Aevar swore under his breath, squeezing his fists. Almost twenty dead in one night. Fjellheim hadn’t seen such loss since the winter sickness several years ago. And the attack made little sense. Kalgoran raiders rarely ventured so deep into Nordra unless…
Ice spread through Aevar’s veins. “Do you think they were after Eadlyn?”
“It’s possible. She’s the only thing that makes this worth the risk. They might have been trying to break the alliance.”
Aevar gripped the hilt of his sword. “So what are we going to do about it?”
“I’ll send a message north to King Drocca. If he tries to claim ignorance, fine. But another attack, and it’s war. We’ll call for aid from Talta and Essix if needed. I’ll have Gudrik place more men along the border. Maybe send some to help him.”
Aevar’s blood urged him to ride north himself, to strike now and strike hard. They had tried to kill his wife. But that would take him away from her, and he did not want to see Nordra thrown back into war if avoidable. Especially when Drocca would deny any direct involvement in the attack.
Móthir finished binding his wound as Ingvald walked in.
“My lord, we found a wounded Kalgoran.”
Fathir straightened. “Where is he?”
“She is in the guardhouse. Braan and Heida are questioning her.”
Aevar pushed himself up and tugged his tunic on, ignoring the way his side protested and his body moved sluggishly with the lack of sleep and blood loss. He grabbed his sword, but his mother blocked him with a mug of tea.
“Drink this first.”
He downed it in a couple of gulps. Hot and bitter, it tasted of willow bark and other painkilling herbs. He handed it back, and she gave him a look piercing enough to stitch a wound on its own.
“Take it easy.”
“I will.”
He moved to catch up with his father and Erik.
Kian waited at the door and pointed a warning finger at him. “After this, you’re eating. And resting.”
Aevar rolled his eyes. “I’d forgotten how insufferable you and my mother are when you join forces.”
Kian chuckled.
They crossed the village toward the guardhouse, where huskarls stepped aside to let them through.
Inside, the prisoner sat in chains, a crusted gash cutting across her forehead.
She was young—barely a woman—with raven-dark hair, kohl-smeared eyes, and jagged runes inked across her cheeks.
Heida stood before her, speaking Goric in low, firm tones. The girl only sneered in reply.
Fathir gestured at her. “What has she said?”
Heida turned to face them, planting her hands on her hips. “Other than cursing us all? Nothing useful.”
Aevar regarded the woman warily. While he didn’t really believe the curses held any weight, Kalgoran women were feared for a reason.
Said to carry the favor of their gods, they were more than warriors; they were vessels.
But in the back of his mind, he heard Eadlyn telling him there was only one God, and he found an odd amount of comfort in that.
Fathir stepped forward, looming over the girl. She didn’t flinch. Just stared back, small and furious. But that was what made her so dangerous. The small ones could slip through shadows unnoticed. Quick. Silent. Deadly. And you’d never know it until your blood was soaking the ground.
“Have you asked what their purpose was here in Fjellheim and why they traveled so far south?”
Heida nodded and held the girl’s stare without wavering, reminding Aevar she was one of them. Had she not grown up in Nordra, she might have been the one in chains. But no, Heida never would have been caught.
“She refuses to answer. We may get something from her with time, but Kalgorans are as unyielding as Nords.”
Fathir considered the girl for a long moment. “Normally, I’d say keep trying and then get rid of her, but she can carry my message to Drocca.”
Heida’s expression didn’t change. “You want her patched up?”
“Enough to travel. Feed her. Dress her wounds. Give her supplies. I’ll write the warning, and you can translate it.”
“Gladly.”
After painstakingly untangling the crushed flowers from her hair, Eadlyn brushed out the snarls and worked it into a simple braid.
Her shoulders ached, and her stomach pinched.
Last night’s memories clung to her like cold fog.
It was a miracle she’d slept, but even rest hadn’t dulled the exhaustion pressed into her entire being.
She turned to leave the room and paused. The furs where Aevar had slept were rumpled and empty. There had been moments in the darkest stretch of night where she’d almost asked him to join her in bed. Just for his nearness and safety. Yet she’d held back for reasons she couldn’t fully grasp.
She stepped into the hall, and the hush struck her.
The air felt wrong. Too quiet. Ranvi and Inga sat by the hearth with Alys and Nesta.
Katla pressed in tight against her mother, silent, while Trygg stacked wooden blocks with Alvir.
No usual mischief or uncontained energy.
The subdued atmosphere sat heavily on the vibrant hall.
She looked around. “Where is everyone?”
Inga’s face turned solemn. “A wounded Kalgoran was found. They’re questioning her now.”
That news settled uneasily in Eadlyn’s stomach, though not with the sharp fear of last night. Just a deeper kind of wariness.
“How is Aevar?”
Inga sighed. “He should be resting, but stubborn men never do.” She softened the words with a smile. “We’ll see he sits when he returns.”
Before long, voices stirred at the door, and the rest of the household entered, their faces stony.
Eadlyn immediately sought Aevar. He was pale this morning, hints of weariness and pain tugging at his taut expression.
However, when he met her eyes, his face relaxed, and she sensed his relief at seeing her.
The attack last night had surely awakened his fear of loss.
He came straight to her, scanning her face as if daylight might reveal something he’d missed. Once near enough, he reached for her, drawing her close.
“Are you well this morning?”
She would need time to recover a sense of safety and peace, but it would come. “I am. And you?”
“I’m fine.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Eadlyn soaked in the warmth of it, then tipped her chin up in silent invitation. His tired face crinkled in a smile, and he kissed her again, this time on the lips. A quiet assurance that they were both still here.