Chapter 12 Cenric
Cenric
Every time Cenric tried to leave the great hall, either Ovrek or one of Ovrek’s men found a reason to go with him. They wouldn’t even let him piss alone. They were treating him like an enemy hostage—an uncooperative one.
Ovrek suggested Cenric spend the night in the hall instead of going back to the tent he had shared with Brynn. Cenric knew that was only so that they could guard him without it being obvious. He hated it. Hated everything about this.
It was an insult.
But he spent the night on the floor, sleeping in the safe warmth of the hall. He imagined Brynn freezing in the forest, falling into a river, or tumbling off a cliff. It was dark and the land was treacherous even in the daylight.
Snapper curled up beside him, quieter than usual. The dyrehund whimpered, whining for Brynn, asking where she and Guin were.
Cenric did his best to reassure the dog as the two of them settled in for a night in Ovrek’s hall.
Flames roared against the night sky, consuming storehouses, ships, and anything else in sight. Istra was in ruin.
Bodies lay scattered on the sand, missing legs, arms, heads, and pieces of torsos, as if a great maw had taken bites out of them and then grown bored.
Panting, Cenric was armed with nothing but a shield and a spear he’d taken from one of the dead men. He was soaked in seawater and his boots squished, wet and chafing.
A hiss over Cenric’s shoulder made him jump. He turned.
A scaly head rose over him, at least ten times the height of a man. Teeth flashed. He’d never known serpents had teeth.
Red, glowing eyes with black slits focused on him. Claws flashed as the creature lumbered toward him.
Brynn’s scream came from his left. “Cenric!”
Cenric jolted awake on the hard floor, aching and confused.
Had that been a foretelling? It seemed more like one of his nightmares, but as he lay awake with eyes wide open, it did not fade.
The memory of it stayed. The feel of the spear in his hand and the sand shifting beneath his feet had been so real.
He’d felt his wet clothes sticking to him and his soggy boots squishing underfoot. Why had he been soaked in seawater?
As he thought back, it felt almost like a memory. The fear he’d felt for Brynn the moment she screamed for him still sent icy chills along his back.
But that creature? How could that not be a product of his nightmares?
Cenric had never confused a simple nightmare and a warning from Morgi before, but now he was not so sure. If it was a foretelling, at least it implied that Brynn was alive.
Hróarr had still not returned from last night, presumably still searching the forest for Brynn. Cenric sent out a curse, hoping that his cousin had wet boots.
Cenric would trust Hróarr with his own life, but not Brynn’s. Not after all this.
If Hróarr tried to hurt Brynn, Cenric feared she would hold back. She held back most of the time, but she knew Hróarr was important to Cenric. Hróarr didn’t care that Brynn was important to Cenric.
Slow movement stirred the hall, voices chattering and low words passing from man to man.
A boy came to fetch him, eyes downcast. “King Ovrek invites you to join him this morning, lord.”
Cenric stifled his reaction to that. Ovrek wanted to keep an eye on him, did he? But Cenric could hardly refuse a king in his own house.
“Do you know if there has been any word of Lady Brynn or Hróarr?” Cenric pinned his own mantle in place. He reached for his sword, then remembered Ovrek’s men had taken his weapons when he’d entered the hall last night.
“No, lord. Forgive me.”
Cenric hadn’t had much hope for either. Vana might know more, but he wasn’t sure where she was now.
“My thanes? My servants?”
“In your camp, lord.”
Hopefully, Kalen was looking after Esa. The last thing Cenric wanted to explain to his wife was why something had happened to her ward.
The thrall led Cenric outside. The early morning light was faint, just the barest blush of the sun against the horizon, but the first king of Valdar was awake, bright-eyed, and laughing with his whole belly.
Ovrek spoke with several men, strangers to Cenric. The men laughed. Ovrek had a way of doing that, of putting people at ease.
The strangers crouched around a fire along the beach, having slept there from the look of it.
Their longship crouched nearby, dragged partially onto the shore and tied to the nearby trees.
These must be attendants for another of the gathered jarls.
Two of the men stood a little apart from the rest with much finer clothes, so they must be the leaders.
All the same, Ovrek conversed with all the men around the fire in turn, speaking to each one like an old friend.
Not for the first time, Cenric thought that this was what kings should be. A giver of rings and a leader of men—Ovrek was everything Cenric had ever wanted in a lord. He was the kind of leader who made it easy to follow.
If given the choice, Cenric would never have chosen anyone else—until Ovrek had accused his wife of murder.
Brynn might be Hyldish, but she was an alderman’s wife and a lady of kingly blood. If she was not deserving of justice, who was?
“Cenric!” Ovrek caught sight of him behind the thrall boy. “Such a fine morning, isn’t it?” Ovrek clapped an arm around Cenric, greeting him like long-lost kin.
Cenric had always appreciated how Ovrek greeted everyone this way, but just now it felt like a lie. A deception, at the very least.
“This is Cenric, son of Wulfram. He’s the alderman of Ombra now, but I still remember teaching him to hold his shield.” Ovrek presented Cenric like a proud father. Gesturing to the men gathered around, Ovrek introduced their leaders with the same eagerness. “This is Jarl Egill and his son Dagrún.”
Friends? Snapper asked, trotting to the two strangers. When they didn’t acknowledge him, he trotted off to investigate a patch of grass.
Egill was weathered, a lean man who moved hunched over, like a wild animal guarding a kill. Scars carved a path through his beard in a way that reminded Cenric of rivers carving through mountains.
Dagrún was at least a head taller than his father. Pale with a stringy beard, he was probably still in his teens despite his height.
Though Cenric had met Egill up close only a handful of times, his eagle standard had been well known in the war. Egill was a fierce fighter, or had been. From his hunched posture, Cenric had to wonder if he might be battling some injury or sickness.
“Cenric will be guarding me today. I don’t think it’s necessary, but he insists!” Ovrek chuckled at that as if it was a great joke. “These Hyldishmen always think a king must be guarded. Even among his own people.”
Egill and Dagrún joined Ovrek in laughing at that.
Cenric forced a smile, not quite able to laugh. Even if Cenric had suggested a guard for Ovrek, how exactly was he supposed to guard anyone while unarmed?
Anger simmered deep in Cenric’s chest, stoking his fury over the injustice to Brynn. Ovrek was playing games, the exact sort of games Cenric hated. This was a way for Ovrek to keep Cenric close, while flaunting that he had the loyalty of a Hyldish alderman.
But Cenric had never agreed to pledge his loyalty to Ovrek. Even if it seemed obvious yesterday that he would, even if he had as good as told Brynn he would, Cenric had given no oaths and made no pledges. Ovrek took Cenric’s allegiance for granted.
Once, that would have made Cenric proud. A younger version of himself would have been glad Ovrek didn’t question his allegiance.
After the imprisonment and allegations against Cenric’s wife, it was an insult. Did Ovrek really think he could mistreat Brynn and still get Cenric’s oath?
That was exactly what the king thought, Cenric realized.
Cenric fought to stay calm as he followed Ovrek. The king spoke to Egill and Dagrún, giving them much the same presentation Cenric had received the day before. Ovrek even used some of the same jokes.
There were unique references to a past life spent sailing with Egill, adventures in the south. All the same, Cenric couldn’t help but feel that this whole thing was a performance.
The genuine, authentic image that Cenric had of Ovrek seemed to crumble before him with every step down that beach. This man was a king just like Aelgar, a better warrior, perhaps, but not a better man.
Had kingship changed Ovrek, or had Cenric simply been too na?ve all those years ago to recognize the farce?
Ovrek took the jarl and his son down the beach, pointing out the ships his people had constructed. He spoke with animation and excitement, telling of how many men had been gathered, how many spears were ready to sail in a matter of weeks.
Cenric watched the beach. If nothing else, the lie that he was here as a guard gave him an excuse to search in all directions.
As the time of the Althing drew nearer, Istra swarmed with people left and right. Cenric could scarcely see a patch of beach that did not have a ship dragged ashore or a camp set up on the dark sand.
Cenric espied Brynn’s servant serving Vana beside a cookfire. It seemed they were keeping the girl watched as well. Kalen crouched not far away sharpening his sword.
It seemed the Valdari had forgotten that Esa was a sorceress, too. Good.
Snapper stopped, ears cocked. Brynn?
Not now, Cenric sent back.
Snapper snorted and whined. Where? Guin?
I don’t know, Cenric sent back. Hróarr is looking.
Hróarr! Snapper trusted Cenric’s cousin and thought that was a good thing.
Cenric certainly hoped so.
They continued up the beach. Egill spoke very little, but Dagrún asked questions, often glancing to his father. There seemed to be some unspoken agreement between father and son, a kind of easy communication that reminded Cenric of hunters.
“Are all the other jarls aligned with you?” Dagrún asked.
“None have refused yet,” Ovrek rumbled in response, as if it was obvious.
“Even Ingmar?”