Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-six
Aevar rested his scythe on the ground and dragged a forearm across his brow.
The sun bore down, heavy and unrelenting, wrapping the field in a haze of heat and dust. His shoulders ached, and every breath tasted of hay and sweat.
Nearby, his father, brothers, and Kian worked alongside the thralls, their blades sweeping through the tall grass.
The sharp swish of metal as it sliced through stalks blended with the low drone of insects.
Another day nearly done. They’d finish this field by nightfall. Then, after a dip in the fjord, he could go home to supper. To Eadlyn.
He reached for the waterskin offered by one of the older thrall women, nodded his thanks, and drank.
Cool water cut through the heat in his throat.
He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now.
When he handed it back and bent to retrieve his scythe, movement caught the edge of his vision.
A lone figure running. Fast. He shaded his eyes and recognized Ingvald.
The huskarl’s full sprint soured the water in Aevar’s stomach and turned the sweat clinging to his back to ice. Something was wrong.
Ingvald didn’t veer toward Fathir. Instead, he came straight toward Aevar.
Aevar’s pulse stuttered, then slammed into a faster rhythm. “What happened?”
“The women,” Ingvald gasped. “They were ambushed. Eadlyn was taken.”
Aevar didn’t even feel the scythe slip from his fingers. He only heard it hit the ground with a dull thud that echoed through the hollow in his chest.
“What?” he choked.
“I don’t know more. I came straight here.”
The rest died away beneath the sudden, rushing roar in Aevar’s ears.
Eadlyn. Taken. The two words didn’t belong in the same breath.
Fathir’s commanding voice cut through the fog, but Aevar barely heard it.
The others converged, questions flying, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He turned and ran.
The children’s cries met him before he even reached the longhouse. Their wails echoed off the timber walls, and as he burst inside, he found them clinging to Ranvi, whose face stretched tight with worry. Heida sat on the edge of the table, Móthir working in front of her.
But no Eadlyn.
The breath died in his lungs. Some part of him had refused to believe she was gone, but her absence struck like a blow to the ribs.
The women turned toward him. First came his mother’s pained regret. A look far too reminiscent of the one she’d given him the day Thora died. He dropped his gaze to the blood on Heida’s sleeve. When their eyes met, hers roiled with both remorse and anger.
“Aevar, I’m sorry. I tried…” She shook her head.
He crossed the space in long strides, the rest of the men piling in behind him. “What happened?” His voice cracked. “Who was it? Where is she?”
“Three of them. They looked Kalgoran, but—” A deep groan that Heida forced through her teeth like more of a growl cut her off as Móthir applied pressure to the wound.
The couple of heartbeats of waiting—the couple of heartbeats he did not know where Eadlyn was or if she was even still alive—almost broke Aevar. “But what?”
She sucked in a hard breath. “But they fought like Nords. And the one I spoke to was fluent in Goric, but there was something off about it, like it was not his native tongue.”
Aevar’s mind spun, but the only clear thought was Eadlyn. Getting to her. Now. “Where did they attack?”
“Northeast. Near the old bilberry patch.”
Behind him, Fathir gave orders to Ingvald to gather men and horses. He then stood at Aevar’s side and focused on Heida.
“You’re sure they were Nords?”
Heida winced. “No, but I don’t believe they were typical Kalgoran raiders either.”
If it was Nords, who would dress up like Kalgorans and take Eadlyn? They would have to have a reason. A move like that could start a war. Aevar’s thoughts scrambled until one name launched itself into the forefront of his mind.
“Staegar.” He spun toward his father. “It must be him. Who else would target her like this?”
Fathir didn’t speak, but his grim expression was answer enough.
Fire ignited in Aevar’s blood, and he curled his fists. He was going to kill Staegar. And the three who’d taken Eadlyn and anyone else who laid a finger on her. But first he had to find her.
He turned and almost crashed into Kian, who held out his sword.
“You forgot something.”
Aevar grabbed it and snatched a shield from the wall on his way outside.
At the stable, a dozen huskarls rushed to saddle horses.
Fathir shouted orders, selecting six riders to accompany them.
He dispatched the rest to patrol the village borders in case more trouble lurked nearby.
Within moments, they had mounted, and Heida took the lead, riding hard toward the forest trail.
Aevar’s heart pounded in time with his horse’s hooves, a brutal drumbeat driving him forward.
He gripped the reins tighter, clenching his jaw against the images trying to claw their way into his mind.
Eadlyn in enemy hands. Afraid. Bleeding. Or worse.
Branches whipped past in a blur of green and shadow as they rode deeper into the woods. At last, Heida slowed. The trail ahead bore signs of struggle. Baskets lay overturned, deep blue bilberries scattered across the grass.
She turned in the saddle and pointed into the dense cluster of trees to the north. “This is where they attacked. They took Eadlyn that way.”
Aevar didn’t wait. He turned his horse, ready to charge in, but Fathir’s voice broke through the haze of desperation driving him forward.
“Erik, take the lead. You’re the best at tracking.”
Erik moved ahead at a slower, more deliberate pace.
Aevar ground his teeth. His mount, as restless as he was, tossed its head and snorted. The horse wanted to run. To storm through the forest with Aevar. By the time they reached a clearing and paused, he, like his horse, was about to crawl out of his skin.
Erik looked around. “They stopped here.” He dismounted to better survey the ground. “Horses. Four of them, I think.”
Aevar squeezed the reins until his knuckles ached. That proved Heida was right. Kalgorans didn’t use horses for anything but food and sacrifices. It must be Nords.
“They continued north from here?”
“Looks like it.”
They pressed on, and Aevar found himself praying.
To the gods. To God. To the wind. He wasn’t even sure.
He didn’t care who answered, so long as someone heard him.
The trail narrowed, winding through trees and uneven rock.
Pine sap and damp soil thickened the air as they rode deeper into the forest. Branches clawed low, and every hoofbeat thudded against the growing dread in Aevar’s chest.
Eventually, Erik reined in and dismounted again, frowning at the rocky ground ahead of them.
He moved carefully and crouched low over a patch of disturbed moss and gravel.
Long minutes passed. Aevar held his horse steady as it pawed at the ground, ears twitching.
Tension burned beneath his skin in a slow-rising fire, crawling into his throat.
Erik straightened and turned back to them, his expression grim. “I’ve lost the trail.”
The words hit like a hammer.
“What? They were heading north. Shouldn’t we keep going?”
“They chose this spot for a reason. It’s rocky and hard to track through. They were trying to cover their trail. They could have turned aside at any point. We can’t be sure where they went from here.”
Aevar scanned the trees as though they might offer an answer. The forest stared back in silence. “Then what do we do?” He turned to his father. “Do we gather the men and go to Ormvik?”
He had no doubt Staegar was behind this, and he was ready to fight the entire clan to find Eadlyn.
Fathir didn’t answer right away, and Aevar could see his mind turning.
“Staegar will deny knowing anything,” he said at last.
“We can make him talk,” Braan growled, his voice full of heat.
Fathir frowned. “Perhaps. But it would take time.”
Time they didn’t have. Every moment wasted left Eadlyn at the mercy of her captors. Who knew what they were doing to her?
“Then we’ll tear Ormvik apart.” Aevar gripped his sword hilt and peered back toward the fjord.
Fathir shook his head. “Staegar wouldn’t risk keeping her in the village. Too many eyes. Too much risk.”
“One of his other settlements then. We’ll start with the closest and work our way through them.”
War might follow, but he didn’t care.
“He wouldn’t risk that either. He would take her somewhere isolated. Somewhere we wouldn’t think to look and won’t draw attention from anyone less than loyal to him.”
Aevar’s pulse thundered in frustration. “Then what? We go back and do nothing?”
“We go back for Jorund.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the horses seemed to still.
“He’s the best tracker we have,” Fathir went on. “He’ll be able to find the trail again. If we press forward now, blind, we might lose more time. Or lose her entirely.”
Aevar struggled to breathe. It would take an hour to return to the village. More to get back here. Jorund then needed time to track. “They already have the lead. And now we’re going to give them more?”
Fathir’s voice softened. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the best chance we have. And once we do find her, we could be outnumbered. We need to prepare for a fight now that they’ve had time to gather more men.”
Every part of Aevar resisted. Rage, fear, and helplessness twisted in his gut. But Fathir was right. Charging in half-armed when the captors could have met up with reinforcements was a quick way to fail. He forced himself to nod, though everything in him screamed to press on.
Back at the longhouse, Aevar marched straight to his room and threw open the old chest where he kept his armor.
He yanked off his sweat-soaked tunic and pulled on a clean one, the cool fabric clinging to skin still hot from the ride.
Then came the reinforced leather jerkin, scarred and worn with the memory of past battles.
The motions were familiar, muscle memory guiding him.
His gaze slipped to the bed.
Still. Undisturbed.
The room pressed in without her presence.
Silence wrapped around him, bringing ghosts in its wake.
The emptiness after Thora’s death. Nights that didn’t end.
Days that bled together. The part of him that had so recently healed now throbbed like an old wound ripped open.
He dragged a breath into lungs that refused to expand.
He would find her. Or die trying.
Strapping on his sword and seax, he returned to the hall where his father, brothers, and Kian had already donned their own armor.
Fathir wore the chain mail passed down through generations, its links darkened with time.
Heida entered a moment later, dressed for battle despite the fresh bandage on her arm.
Braan eyed her. “You should stay here. You’re wounded.”
Her voice was quiet but lined with iron. “I’m going.”
“And what if they actually were Kalgorans and the blade was poisoned?” Braan pressed. “What if you fall ill?”
Heida turned to face him. “Then you leave me behind.”
They stared each other down, the air thick between them, until she sighed.
“I couldn’t stop them from taking her. I need to help bring her back.”
Braan’s expression softened as he relented.
Móthir approached. Her face was set and grim with purpose, but Aevar caught the fear in her eyes. The same fear she’d worn before they’d lost Thora. She loved Eadlyn. They all did.
“We’ve packed provisions. Enough for a few days. Gods willing, you won’t need them.” She gestured to the packs laid out on the table.
They gathered the supplies and carried them out to the horses.
Here, Fathir faced Móthir and set his hands on her shoulders.
“Keep an eye out for trouble, especially from Ormvik. If you suspect anything, send for more men from our other villages and to Halbjorn. And send ravens to the other jarls. Don’t mention Staegar, only that Kalgorans took Eadlyn, and everyone should be on the lookout for her in case we don’t find her right away. ”
She nodded. “Be careful.”
“We will.” He drew her close and kissed her.
A short distance away, Erik exchanged parting words with Ranvi.
Aevar couldn’t help but watch. The pain in his chest stabbed deeper.
He should’ve been holding Eadlyn. He should’ve had her beside him, safe, whole.
Her absence screamed in the spaces she used to fill.
Standing here alone brought the agony of the past roaring back.
As Erik turned to mount, Ranvi caught Aevar’s eye, her expression somber.
“One of them grabbed Trygg,” she said. “They were going to kill him if Eadlyn didn’t surrender. She gave herself up willingly.”
Aevar looked at the boy. Pressure choked his throat, and his vision blurred. She had sacrificed herself for Trygg. Just as she had once sacrificed herself for her people. His brave, selfless wife.
A hand gripped his arm. He turned to find Móthir beside him. She pulled him into a fierce embrace. “You will get her back.”
He nodded against her shoulder, unable to speak, but he had to believe it.
He would believe it.
With final goodbyes exchanged, they mounted again, this time with several more riders in tow.
At the village’s edge, Jorund waited, his dark braids matching the color of the winding tattoos across his forehead.
Some said he could track a bird through the sky.
Exaggeration or not, Aevar was willing to believe it.
They needed every bit of the man’s skill, real or imagined.