Chapter 62
For a horrible, swaying instant, Raye couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight down the stark sickening panic.
Svein had taken Kalfr’s clothes, and he’d run east, toward their cottage. And to anyone searching for Kalfr, searching for his scent, it would be a beacon. A loud, screaming call. And even if no one followed it, those awful men were still watching her cottage, waiting for orcs to return…
No. No. No.
Raye clapped a hand over her mouth, choking down the bile surging in her throat. Svein thought he was helping them, saving them, by — by sacrificing himself. By drawing the men, and therefore Sybil, away from Kalfr, and toward him, instead. No. No. Fuck.
A hoarse, ugly noise escaped Raye’s lips, her chest heaving, and she fought down another bitter flare of vomit in her throat. No. Not Svein. I’m going to help, and save us. I love you…
The men would trap him. They would hurt him.
They would probably kill him. And Svein would be alone, he would be screaming and crying and calling for her, and she wouldn’t be there.
Kalfr and Gaelfr wouldn’t be there. Raye might never, ever see her precious son alive again.
No, please, the terror and agony like a brutal axe-blade to the gut, swallowing her alive, plunging her into the dark —
“Woman,” came a voice, deep and urgent. “You must come, then. We must go to him, and save him.”
Go to him. Save him. It was another jolt to the gut, but it snapped Raye’s head up, swayed her on her feet. And she found herself blinking toward Skirvir, who had already acquired his huge deadly axe, and was now strapping a jagged-edged sword to his belt.
“Fengr will lead us, and find him,” Skirvir said firmly. “His earth-magic is strong. Ach, brother?”
Raye wrenched to stare at Fengr, who was blinking at Skirvir — but when Skirvir thrust out what looked like a handful of knives, coiled in a leather sleeve, Fengr silently took it, and hooked it onto his belt. “Ach,” he replied, though his voice sounded faint. “And you, Grum, also?”
But Grum shook his head, and ducked into the nearby muster-room. “One of us must stay, in case Svein returns,” he called back over his shoulder. “I will fetch Eyolf and Iyolf, and send them after Kalfr to call the band back at once.”
Call the band back. It was another jolt through Raye’s screaming thoughts, swaying her on her feet. “You think — they’ll come back?” she croaked. “All of them? At once?”
Grum shot her an incredulous look as he strode back out the muster-room door, now carrying a fur cloak, a heavy-looking pack, and a gleaming steel sword, already hanging off a leather belt.
“They will come back,” he replied, with utmost certainty.
“There is naught more important than our sons, and our mates.”
Naught more important. Our mates. A hysterical urge to laugh jabbed through Raye’s chest, her head whipping back and forth — she wasn’t Gaelfr’s mate, he’d lied to her all this time — but Grum entirely ignored her as he shoved the pack toward Skirvir, and then stepped toward her, and slung the fur cloak around her shoulders.
“This is yours,” he told her. “And this.”
He thrust out the gleaming sword on its belt, too, and Raye blinked blankly toward it, and shook her head. “That sword — isn’t mine,” she managed. “I’ve — never seen it before.”
But Grum shook his head, and proceeded to circle the leather belt around Raye’s waist, fastening it against her hips.
And as she blinked down at it, she recalled that perhaps she had seen the belt before, because Gaelfr had bought it for her in the shop at the mountain, hadn’t he?
And she’d entirely forgotten it, until this moment.
“Ach, the sword is yours,” Grum said, as he pulled the belt snug. “Gaelfr had it made for you, in the Bautul forge at the mountain.”
Gaelfr had it — made for her? Raye stared at Grum, but he focused on adjusting the sword on the belt, perhaps checking the loop holding it.
“I am sure he wished to train you with it, first,” he continued, “so be sure you take care with it. And ach, I near forgot” — he dug his hand into his pocket — “he asked me to give you this, also, before he left.”
This. It was another folded piece of paper — another note? And though Raye’s chest heaved at the sight of it, she clutched for it, and yanked it open. And yes, it was another note, written in more block letters, far more stilted and shaky than Svein’s had been.
I am so sorry, syta, it said. I come home to you soon. Make you my mate for good. I love you. Trust you.
Raye blinked down at it for an instant too long, as more uncontrollable emotion careened through her chest. It was from — Gaelfr. Gaelfr had written her this, and had this sword made for her. Gaelfr wanted to make her his mate for good. Gaelfr loved her. Trusted her.
And amidst all the terror and grief, all the clamouring darkness, it was another tiny pinprick of light. Of hope. Gaelfr trusted her. Trusted her, to do this. And she — she could still try to trust herself, too. To follow her instincts. To protect her son.
So she drew herself straight, and gripped the new sword hilt at her side, as tightly as she could. Feeling the strength of it, the certainty of it, the whisper of Gaelfr’s solid stubbornness within it.
“Then let’s go,” she rasped. “And save my son.”