Chapter Four Frejara
The air outside the tent felt cold enough to burn the sides of my lungs as I breathed it in deep.
I hoped the sting of the night air would calm the raging blood in my veins, but whatever peace I hoped it would give me was quickly stolen by the lurking Acolytes, their sunken eyes and hollow faces expectantly turning to me, their feeble, bony bodies scurrying around me like cockroaches.
I hated the sight of them. Not because they were grotesque – though they were – but because they reminded me of the way my Mother held people in her grasp, twisting them until there was nothing left but empty shells.
“Quick, quick.” Said one of them. Or all of them. They all looked and sounded the same to me; I would not be able to tell them apart if my life depended on it. “We must prepare the offering.”
I reached out and grabbed one of them by its garments, yanking it closer. The bony creature shuddered in my grasp. I could smell its unwashed skin, its rancid breath, as I searched for any trace of humanity in those dark, lifeless eyes.
“The offering?” My voice was low, sharp as a blade. The creature hesitated, and for a fleeting moment, I saw something I had not expected – fear. “Speak,” I demanded, tightening my grip, “or I’ll take the choice from you.”
It screeched, the sound slicing through the night like a knife. The other Acolytes lurched forward, clawing at me, their frantic movements chaotic. “Let go, let go!” they chanted in unison, a cacophony of dry whispers. “The child must let go. There’s much to do!”
My fingers tightened around the creature’s brittle frame, the bones beneath its thin skin sharp and fragile against my palm. I was a mere breath away from snapping the wretched thing in two, and I would have if I had not heard a familiar voice over the frantic murmurs of the Acolytes.
“Ara,” the voice called, calm yet firm, cutting through the chaos like a bell through fog. “If you’re planning to kill it, at least wait until I’ve placed my bets.”
I turned my head, still gripping the Acolyte, and found Benni leaning casually against one of the wooden posts marking the camp’s edge.
His arms were crossed over his chest, that familiar crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth – but his hazel eyes were steady, flicking between me and the creature in my grasp with a sharpness that cut beneath the calm.
“In whose favour?” I replied, my voice cold, though I let the Acolyte go with a shove that sent it sprawling to the ground. It scurried backward on its hands and knees, hollow eyes darting between us, then scrambled back to its kind with frantic, insect-like haste.
“I don’t know; the little rodent has some life in it.” Benni walked over to me slowly, as if taking the temperature of the situation.
I scoffed and rolled the shoulder of the arm that had been holding the creature. “They’re insufferable, Benni.” I rolled my shoulder again. There was a sharp pain – like a knife piercing skin – that had not been there before.
“And they know it,” he said softly, stopping a pace away from me. “That’s why they crawl around you like rats around a shipwreck.” Then, he frowned, tilted his head and pointed at my shoulder. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. And your shoulder is hurt.”
“It’s fine.” I rolled my shoulder again, pulling my neck to the side to stretch the muscles. “It’s not my shoulder that bothers me.”
“Huh.” Benni raised his eyebrows. “Then pray tell what is.”
“It appears I am going to have to miss the ale and singing tonight.” I said, the words barely escaping from behind my gritted teeth. “The Queen beckons her General to deliver the prisoner to Irongate in person.”
“In person?” Benni didn’t even try to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Before the Feast of the Black Flame.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Benni tilted his head to the side, his usual cocky smile absent from his face for once. “That’s in less than two weeks. You’re going to have to ride hard.”
“While dragging a feeble old man with me.”
“I almost regret letting the sergeants rough him up when we dragged him out of the hole he was hiding in.” Benni turned to follow me as I started to stride slowly towards where the grunts had set up my tent. I intended to have a few hours of sleep before I had to leave the camp at first light.
“Where was he hiding?” I asked, realising I hadn’t had time for the full details of how this prisoner, whom my Mother was so keen to get her hands on, ended up being captured.
“In the cargo hold of one of the ships docked in the harbour.” Benni huffed, as if holding back a chuckle.
“The poor bastards were probably hoping for a quick escape across the Northern Sea.” The humour lingered for a breath, then slipped, as if even he heard the edge in his voice.
“But it wasn’t just the old man.” He looked away, jaw tightening.
When he spoke again, his tone had shifted – lower, more deliberate.
“There were others. A young man and an old woman. Not soldiers. They wore the same tattered robes as the old man.”
Benni glanced around, in a way he did when he was about to say something outrageous and didn’t want others to hear it.
“One of the grunts said the woman was whispering something to the old man,” he said then, after a beat.
“Language none of them recognised. Thought it was nonsense. But it… stuck in his head somehow. Gave him a nosebleed.”
I stared at him. “From a whisper?”
“Said it was like the words got lodged in there.” He tapped the side of his temple. “Wouldn’t go away.”
I stopped, turning to face him fully. “That’s just nonsense.”
“The nosebleed wasn’t. I had to give him my kerchief; he went through his own in a hurry.”
“Alright then. These people with the prisoner –” I arched a brow. “They were just… there, with him?”
“Yes.” Benni’s expression hardened slightly.
“And they didn’t exactly put up a fight.
As soon as the sergeants made a move, they folded like wet paper.
Barely reacted at all. It was like they’d already given up.
And the old man…” Benni’s eyes narrowed, his gaze darkening.
“He didn’t fight either. He almost seemed…
prepared for it.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “Or maybe he just knew he wasn’t getting out alive. Maybe both.”
My arched eyebrow now turned into a full frown. “He didn’t fight?”
“No.” Benni’s voice was flat. “He didn’t resist. Just… let himself be caught.”
“And that’s when you decided to torch the entire harbour?”
His tone shifted to his usual brand of delightful, barely bearable audacity. “Well, you know, just to be sure. Couldn’t have anyone slipping away on us.”
“Very practical of you.”
“I knew you’d appreciate my thoroughness.”
I clapped Benni’s shoulder, perhaps slightly harder than I meant to, but not in anger. I knew why he’d burned down the harbour. I didn’t begrudge him for it. What I did begrudge, though, was the sound of the soldiers clinking their tankards together and their tone-deaf singing.
Beneath the moon, the waters bled,
A crimson tide where ships lay dead.
The harbour burned, its riches torn,
A beacon turned to ash and scorn.
By the sword and by the flame,
We came to claim you in the Queen’s name.
The Jewel of the North, so proud, so bright,
Now dims beneath the ash of night.”
Benni followed my gaze, wandering to the fires at the camp and the soldiers revelling in their victory.
“You could join for a while.” He said, gently. “The troops would like it if you did.” Then he paused, with that wicked, crooked smile on his lips again. “I would like it, too. Be like old times.”
I tilted my head, considering it for a while. I probably could down a tankard or two, hear some stories from the front lines, and actually enjoy myself for a moment before I would have to take my leave to Irongate. But I knew I needed a clear head and a rested mind to begin the long journey back.
“And I would, if I could.” I said instead. Disappointment shadowed Benni’s face for but a moment before he ran his hand through his dark hair and shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well.” He said. “Let me at least take care of the arrangements for you. I’ll get you the best horses and the best company to ride with.”
“You know you have to stay here to see to it that we are ready to move for the Twin Cities when I return.”
“Well, the second-best company, then. But I mean what I said about the horses.”
“I know you do.” I smiled, tired, clapped Benni’s shoulder once more, gentler this time, and headed to my tent to rest.
But there was not to be any rest for me in those few hours before dawn.
The ache in my shoulder kept my eyes wide open and staring at the insides of my makeshift quarters.
The campaign table took up most of the space, its surface cluttered with parchment and maps, edges curled from too many nights spent poring over them.
Brass markers – tokens shaped like soldiers, siege engines, and banners – held them in place, their positions shifting with each new strategy.
A candle had burned low beside them, the hardened rivulets of wax creeping over the wood like veins.
Near the entrance, my weapons rack stood at attention, blades lined up like sentries.
Some were old, edges dulled by time and battle, their hilts wrapped in worn leather.
Others were newer, still sharp enough to bite.
My sword leaned against the rack, always within reach.
You only had to be caught off guard once to learn that lesson.
Against the far wall, my cot sat unmade, the rough wool blanket kicked to the side.
Beneath it, a spare set of boots waited, half-packed supplies shoved next to them.
I’d learned long ago to keep a pack ready.
When orders came, when plans changed, when everything turned to chaos… you didn’t waste time.
A wooden chest rested beside the cot, plain and unmarked.
I hadn’t locked it. There was nothing inside worth stealing – just a whetstone, a few coins and a dagger I had carried since I was a child.
Its hilt was made of an odd, discoloured pearl.
It was impractical and unattractive, but it was also the only thing that was mine when I was thrust into the barracks to learn how to be a soldier.
It was of no value to anyone but me, and even I never used it.
I just carried it around to remind me of…
what? Of times in the barracks, earning my place in the army?
Of the very few moments in my life when I had felt almost free?
Perhaps all of them, perhaps none of them.
Who knew, and what difference did it make anyway?
The brazier in the corner still smouldered, the embers casting a faint orange glow against the tent walls. The air smelt of charred wood and iron, a scent I scarcely noticed anymore. The warmth barely reached me, but it was enough to keep the cold at bay – for now.
In the back, my armour stand held my breastplate and gauntlets, the darkened metal worn with age, the leather straps supple from use. A deep scratch ran down the left pauldron – a mark from a battle that should have killed me. It didn’t.
It wasn’t much. Just a tent, just a place to rest my head between fights, between the endless march forward. But here, I had always felt more at home than I ever had at Irongate, as the heir without her birthright of magic. A disappointment and a shame to my great house.
I rolled my aching shoulder again. The pain had started dull, just a whisper beneath my skin, but now it throbbed – hot and insistent.
I reached back, fingers fumbling for the spot just around my shoulder blade, where the ache was worst. My fingertips traced the familiar ridges of skin, the mark I’d carried since birth.
Benni used to joke about it. “Looks like a handprint. Did your mother give it to you when she pushed you into the barracks?” I’d laughed then.
Now, with the pain gnawing beneath it, the joke didn’t seem so funny.
The ache was not just discomfort but a pull – like something beneath my skin had begun to stir. Or to rouse me in turn.
It had been this way before, though the pain always faded in time.
When I was younger, my Mother had tried to rid me of it, as if the mark itself offended her.
She brewed her broths, ground roots into paste, and whispered charms meant to bend even my skin to her will.
Some scalded instead, turning the mark raw beneath her hands.
I’d cried once – only once – and she’d smiled through my tears, calling the pain ‘a lesson in endurance’.
Her cruelty always came dressed as care; her affection bound to the lesson it carried.
The mark had never changed, but I had. I learned to flinch quietly and swallow resentment even when it hurt to breathe.
I sat up and twisted my torso, craning my neck toward the tarnished metal mirror propped on the campaign table.
The flickering brazier cast uneven light, making it difficult to see, so I yanked the mirror closer, tilting it to catch the right angle.
Still, all I could make out was a shadowy smudge on my skin.
Frustrated, I shrugged off my tunic and turned my back to the glass, twisting my arm awkwardly over my shoulder, trying to angle my hand to feel what my eyes couldn’t quite reach.
My fingers skimmed the raised edges of the mark – five distinct shapes, like fingers splayed across my skin, and an imprint of what looked like a palm.
I lay back down, staring at the canvas ceiling, listening to the distant crackling of dying fires and the occasional murmur of soldiers shifting in their sleep. Outside, the world had gone quiet – the kind of hush that comes just before dawn.
I turned my head. The brazier had burned low, the embers barely clinging to their last breath of heat. In the dim glow, I caught the first sliver of pale light creeping beneath the tent’s edge.
I reached for my tunic and pulled it on, wincing as the fabric scraped over the sore spot. My fingers hesitated for just a breath over the mark before I grabbed my belt and fastened it tight.
Outside, I could hear movement – hooves stamping, voices murmuring, and the tell-tale clang of armour being fastened. Benni would have made good on his word; the horses would be ready, the road waiting.
I stood, rolling my shoulder once more before reaching for my sword. It was dawn, and I had to go.