Dagmar of the Northlands

By John C Adams

Eager to earn her share of the spoils, eighteen-year-old Dagmar sails for the island of Orkna on a raid with her half-brother, the king of the Northlands. Confusion over her feelings for Frakkok Warmhearth mingle with concern in Dagmar’s heart that her half-brother is not fit to lead their people.

Gortah van Murkar controls an empire that stretches around the world, yet he has no intention of taking the invasion of Orkna lying down. Yet his determination to hold his territory is distracted by his greatest worry of all: that the child the queen carries is that of her lover not her husband.

Dagmar of the Northlands continues the epic fantasy trilogy begun in Aspatria with a voyage to a land inspired by Viking culture, legend and history, in which a plucky young female warrior and the most powerful king in the world must each fight other for territory and honour.

Follow the author on Twitter at @johncadamssf.

An example of self-publishing done right...Beautifully written...Recommended for any fans of epic fantasy.
British Fantasy Society

An epic-length book, this story is filled with fantastical lands, intriguing characters, and a complex history of kingdoms and gods. I really enjoyed the vivid imagery and excellent characterization of both the heroes and villains.
Sunshine Somerville’s Blog

Very interesting concept full of vivid imagery and amazing characters.
Bookshelf Adventures’ Blog

Interesting read.
Goodreads Reviewer

A memorable, mind-bending, and emotionally-driven fantasy romance novel, author John C. Adams's novel “Aspatria” is a must-read epic fantasy. The readers will be instantly drawn in by the gritty and brutal war that opens up the novel, and be drawn in as the romance and emotions between Dextra and the men hoping to win her heart play out on the pages, creating engaging and entertaining drama that is impossible to put down.
Author Anthony Avina’s Blog

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C Adams
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463155431

John C Adams

I'm a nonbinary author and critic of fantasy and horror. Nonbinary tends to means different things for different people, and every path is valid for that individual and their family. Luckily, mine are incredibly supportive. I use the gender neutral pronouns they/them professionally as John C Adams, but to the kids I'm still 'Mum'. It's a question of what works for you. My decision to be nonbinary is a journey for all of us.I review for Schlock! Webzine, the British Fantasy Society and Horror Tree, as well as placing reviews and articles across a wide range of blogs and magazines.I have a Postgraduate Certificate in Creative Writing from Newcastle University. I've been a Contributing Editor for Albedo One Magazine and the Aeon Award since 2016. Before that, I was a Submissions Reader with them.My debut horror novel, 'Souls for the Master' (Ivy Spires Book One), and its sequel 'Blackacre Rising' (Ivy Spires Book Two) are both here on Smashwords retailers. Likewise, my debut fantasy novel, 'Aspatria' (Gortah van Murkar Book One), and its sequel 'Dagmar of the Northlands' (Gortah van Murkar Book Two), are out now on Smashwords retailers.Although I write mostly long fiction, since 2015 I have had stories published in anthologies from Horrified Press, Lycan Valley Press, Fantasia Divinity and Jersey Pines Ink. My short stories have also been published in the Horror Zine, Swords & Sorcery, Sirens Call, Blood Moon Rising, Lovecraftiana and various other magazines.Every emerging writer needs plenty of encouragement right at the start, and entering lots of competitions early on made a real difference to my confidence to press on with writing longer fiction and think about submitting short fiction to magazines and anthologies in due course. In 2012, I was longlisted for the International Aeon Award Short Fiction Contest for 'The Visitors' and again in 2013 for 'We Can Finish Your Baby's Brain For You'. My writing was also recognised by the Enrico Charles Literary Award (runner up in 2012) and by the University of Winchester Writers' Conference in both 2012 and 2013, including a Commendation in the First Three Pages of a Novel category, and other nominations in poetry and short fiction.I read PPE at Somerville College, and I am a non-practising solicitor. I live in rural Northumberland, UK, and I combine my career as an author and critic with raising my kids and caring for a severely disabled relative. I'm always busy!

Book preview

Chapter One

Gortah van Murkar stood vigil on his battlements at Zwaarstad, squinting at the northern horizon. A rider emerged from the woodland, galloped across the lowlands and clattered into the city. The king drew his scratchy woollen cloak tighter around his broad shoulders as he shivered in the chill of the gathering autumn night. A sudden wind whipped up, and dark clouds scudded across the green plain and away towards the dene.

Puffing on his pipe, Gortah savoured the sweet taste and aroma of his favourite tobacco. He tapped the lip of his pipe against his front teeth in a soothing rhythm.

Gortah’s eldest son came clattering up the battlements, a letter in his hand and worry on the lad’s slim face. His brown eyes sought his father’s as he handed over his charge, waiting for Gortah to open it. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Instead of the ornate seal of Gortah's wife, Dextra of Aspatria, the letter bore a smaller one. He frowned as he stroked the wax imprint of a cloak and boots. He poked his chubby index finger under the parchment to break the seal, but he hesitated, placed the letter on the battlement and rested his huge hand upon the parchment. The purple writing adorning it was spindly and delicate, the quillmanship steady and neat.

At last, Gortah realised with astonishment just who had written to him. He resisted the urge to fling the letter away, mulling over whether he should open it, though it seemed prudent to wait until he was alone. Yet, if Theydon's letter contained the news that their old friend Benedict lay dying, he could not afford to lose a moment.

As Gortah sniffed the letter, a hint of lavender tickled his nostrils. His chest muscles tightened as the disappointment of long separation from his lover coursed through his ageing body. Unshed tears stung his eyes at the agony of all the years they had spent apart.

The duke sent word for me too, Father. They are coming home at last. It will cheer you, will it not, to see the earl once more before the end?

Gortah's closest friend, the Earl of Dartelend, had lived abroad for thirty years. This was due to his ill health, which required the fresh mountain air of Reliatra. Gortah would’ve given anything just to have another moment with Benedict during that time, but instead of ardent excitement at the longed-for news, the letter evoked painful memories of their bitter parting.

A raven soared over the battlements, carking out more news for Gortah. Others gathered around Castle Zwaarstad, and away in the evergreen forests to the south, and they squawked in a discordant cacophony he understood as easily as his mother tongue: Benedict and Theydon would reach his capital in a few days’ time.

Word came, too, just now, that Dextra and Ludwig have pitched camp twenty miles upriver, Father. They’ll enter the city tomorrow. In good time for your birthday banquet!

Gortah gazed northwards longingly.

Diederik had already counselled against riding out to meet the queen, and the lad was right; it was beneath Gortah's dignity to run to her side after a year of cold silence.

During that time, while she ruled back in Aspatria with her upstart other husband beside her, she’d answered all his official communications, but not a single one of his personal letters received a reply. Even though he wrote daily, every messenger returned empty handed.

Gortah bit his thumbnail. He had acquired this foul trait in childhood. The habit crept back occasionally, no matter how often he promised himself that he would eradicate it.

The relationship between Gortah's twenty-year-old wife and his family had been tense from the start. He supposed that was what happened when a man married a virtual stranger who was thirty years his junior. Dextra was younger than half his children.

Even though Gortah longed to blame Dextra’s other husband for everything, he had so much ground to make up with her. Almost their entire three-way marriage involved the two men pulling her in opposite directions until she’d had enough. Ludwig held the trump card of being the father of her first-born child, and he never hesitated to play that card on umpteen occasions. Gortah had been pensive and distant after the little boy’s birth, pressing Dextra for a child of their own. Her son with Ludwig died aged six months. Overnight, she became a stranger to Gortah.

Above all, Gortah dreaded that Dextra would return pregnant again by her other husband. His heart twisted at the painful prospect that she would be cold and hard towards him tomorrow, and he dreaded that strife would again permeate their lives.

Father and son strolled down from the battlements with their arms draped across each other's shoulders. They paused outside Gortah’s chambers. He had a set of rooms on the top floor, next to his wife's and Ludwig's.

The capital had been built from stone dug from the quarry at Iglis. The old city lay just a mile from the new, and Gortah insisted that the stone for the royal residence be reclaimed from the ruins of Old Zwaarstad. His home therefore had a deep yellow hue, while the surrounding city houses and the arsenal looked almost white by comparison.

The daily bulletin has just arrived from South Eira, Father. Sjoern begs for Eugene’s urgent assistance. War is only days away.

Diederik handed over the letter. As Gortah scanned the contents, his heart fell.

The situation with the Eirans had been tense ever since the last major engagement between these longstanding foes two years ago. It would be typical of King Domhnall to order an attack on the garrison at Fort Belshan during Gortah’s fiftieth-birthday celebrations, when his attentions would be focused elsewhere.

What news from the north?

Diederik gave his father another parchment, and Gortah unrolled the letter.

Cenwulf Darkwater, Dextra’s half-brother, was up in Orkna. He provided a weekly report to his stepsister, and she always forwarded Gortah a copy. The deteriorating situation in Orkna, where the islanders were frequently harassed by the Men of the North's raiding parties, had dominated their disappointingly formal correspondence during her absence.

The contents of Darkwater's latest message were every bit as bad as Gortah feared. According to Cenwulf, the Men of the North had suffered an even worse harvest this summer than last year. Gortah's spies in the Northlands' capital Konungsborg had reported back to him late last night that the new konung had ordered a levy of ships and men, intending to raid Orkna before winter set in and the seas became too rough for the crossing.

Gortah forced a smile.

Typical rabble-rousing designed to deflect attention from how Njal got to be konung in the first place! Order the nobles to gather after dinner tonight. I’d like to celebrate tomorrow, not spend my birthday in councils of war, he said.

*

When the Men of the North gathered for the burial of their konung later that morning, the ship burial took place on a grass plateau overlooking the capital.

Konungsborg was a rapidly growing town on the southwest tip of the mainland. The vast majority of maps incorrectly depicted the mainland as a collection of islands, or as a single large island separated from Greater Albina by open sea. In fact, it shared a lengthy land border with Albina. However, poor roads traversing vast distances meant it was more usual to travel there by ship. The mainland was large enough to be divided into seven provinces. Konungsborg was in largest, Vasterland.

There was no greater point of national pride for Northlanders than to burn such maps whenever they fell into their hands. Every trade envoy or consul who travelled far enough to reach their capital was presented on the first night of their stay with a copy of the gigantic map that hung above the konung's seat in the great hall.

Dagmar Strongarm, the konung's eighteen-year-old niece, stood alongside the rest of her clan as each of them placed an item of value from their personal possessions into Thorlak's ship.

Rather than mooring up the laden boat containing the dead konung on the river, setting fire to the ship and letting the vessel drift out to sea, the new konung preferred to have his father interred. There were mutterings that this change was inauspicious, and the Seer of Konungsborg had tried unsuccessfully to have the old custom reinstated.

Thorlak Strongarm had ruled the Northlands for sixteen years. On the death of his older brother, he married his sister-in-law, and they had a son and a daughter together.

In the couple of days since the ruler's death, his son Njal had been accepted as their new konung.

Njal shot a smug glance at Dagmar. She sneered back.

There was plenty of time yet for Men of the North to discover the true nature of the viper they embraced, in Dagmar's opinion. They already knew of his poor prowess on the field of battle and that he'd cut down his own father to take his place as konung. Their folly was ridiculous. Yet still the jarls rallied to Njal and selected him as the new konung!

Njal's sister Yeen had braided her coal-black hair with beads carved from walrus tusk and the bones of white bears. She looked pale and scared, and her arms and legs were unhealthily skinny and feeble.

As Dagmar waited in line to place an object into the konung's ship, she stroked the white-bear fur she had chosen to wear and hugged the softness close. This fur had belonged to her mother, Brynhild. Her mother had truly loved Thorlak, and they had been happy together as man and wife. Dagmar's younger sister Ragnhild carried a tapestry their mother had woven, a portrait of herself and Thorlak when they were married. The young girl placed it by the konung's side, then bent and kissed his forehead.

Dagmar knelt beside the boat and laid the fur onto the tapestry. It nestled in between a soapstone jar of scented oil, which her cousin Olaf Barehead offered from his monastery, and a copy of the Men of the North's Book of the Snowy Leopard, which Olaf's brother Valdemar brought to honour their kinsman. She stroked the smooth oak of Thorlak's boat, running her nimble fingers along its side.

The ship was called Throttarthegn after the doughty ruler who sailed her. The men had carried the vessel up from the fjord and dug the pit only yesterday. They brought their fallen konung down from the great hall an hour ago and placed his body inside while other Men of the North carried items to send with him into the Great Beyond. He would have everything he needed to be content in the afterlife. His kinsmen made certain of it.

Thorlak lay with his arms folded across his chest. He was dressed in his finest tunic, a sky-blue linen one he'd been very fond of, and woollen breeches. His grey hair was brushed back from his face, but despite the severity of the style, he looked placid and content.

An unexpected burst of fondness broke over Dagmar for the uncle who'd become her stepfather when she was only a year old. Her mother was still carrying her first husband's child when the marriage took place, and Ragnhild had been born two months into it.

Dagmar's memories of her natural father were a blur. Her extended family told her tales of his exploits, and she found a charcoal drawing of him in her mother's things and kept the etching safe. She didn't dare display the image, but she often looked at it and shared the stories with Ragnhild. From their mother's family, she had inherited black hair. So had Njal and Yeen, and this set Dagmar and her siblings apart from the other Men of the North, for whom blond was the norm.

Magnus Broadchest, one of Dagmar's many cousins, placed an exotic coral necklace on Thorlak's chest.

Some of the women broke into the gentle Song of the Sea God in tribute to the deity who protected them upon the water, and Ragnhild joined in. The clan rose in one voice to pay homage to Grunn and to share with him that they bore the God no ill will for having allowed Thorlak to lose his life at sea. As they took a silent moment in prayer, Dagmar glanced over her shoulder. Her friend Frakkok Warmhearth was standing at the back of the throng, her auburn hair shining in the light from the fires.

Ragnhild was heavy with child and tired easily. After a few minutes, she stepped over to the new konung.

Njal, may I have your permission to retire?

Who's fathered your bastard, then?

Ragnhild simpered at her half-brother.

Someone I'm not related to.

Gossip ran around Konungsborg that Njal and his sister slept in the same bedchamber now. Dagmar had spoken to Yeen, to offer a way out of the horror of the situation, but the sixteen-year-old refused to discuss it.

Dagmar intended to leave the matter alone until the ceremony was over. Yeen would need support to assert herself against her brother, and that wouldn't be easy, but Dagmar could depend upon all the jarls and yeomen in the Northlands helping Yeen. It was not the way of the Men of the North for a man to lie with his sister.

Ragnhild cast a meaningful glance at Yeen, but Njal sneered.

I asked you whose child you carry. Answer your konung or face a penalty.

Dagmar whistled. Her cousins, the Bentbacks and the Snubnoses, cackled away at her insolence. Everyone enjoyed Njal's annoyance. The Seer of Konungsborg shuffled past the mourners, and he rested his palm on Ragnhild's belly. He lifted his sightless eyes to the heavens.

The child is that of Grunn. Our Sea God walks among us in human form! The child will grow to be a great ruler of the Men of the North. In time, the boy will marry a foreign princess and form powerful alliances with her blood relatives. In fact-

Drawing a dagger from his hip, Njal stabbed the seer in the stomach. The old man fell to the ground, blood gurgling from his mouth. Njal wiped the blood from the blade using the dead man's sleeve, then slid his weapon back into his belt.

"Clearly lost his mind. A mercy to put him down. As I understood it, that smelly slave of yours fathered your bastard. Word is, he's hanging around here because over in the Isle of Fires, they've declared him utlagi. They outlawed him for killing a man. Perhaps I'll send a messenger over there. Let them know where they can find their runaway."

Ragnhild shoved Njal, and he slapped her cheek. Dagmar forced her way between them and threw him to the ground. She rested her foot on his neck, pressing down until he was gasping for breath.

The four-way sibling battle got out of hand amid a cacophony of whining complaints as Dagmar kicked Njal in the gut; Yeen leapt onto her back, yanking her long hair. When Ragnhild dragged Yeen off Dagmar, Njal grabbed Dagmar by the ankle and tried to topple her over.

Magnus Broadchest pulled Dagmar away. The konung scrambled to his feet, but Magnus ignored him and turned to his female cousins.

The thrall for sacrifice is nearly ready. My wife has been sitting with her. Why not go and thank the slave for her service to your uncle? There's just time before she steps with him into the Great Beyond. I shall do the same with the yeomen and jarls who've volunteered for sacrifice.

When Dagmar wandered back to the great hall, she found Magnus's wife Odindisa sitting by the fire with Ingiborg, a chubby faced, blonde-haired woman in her mid-thirties.

Sure you want to do this? The jarls and yeomen going with Thorlak into the Great Beyond went freely.

Njal freed my family and gave them a farmstead with twenty acres. My name will appear on the memorial stone describing Thorlak's burial. History will remember me as more than just a nameless slave who toiled in mud and pig guts her whole life. And I will go to the Great Beyond with our king and dwell beside him for eternity and serve him.

Dagmar mulled the comments over as the women returned to the burial.

Magnus waited with the two jarls and ten yeomen who had been selected randomly from the many who had put their names forward to be sacrificed with Thorlak.

When Ingiborg jumped into the craft and lay down beside Thorlak, the jarls followed her example; the yeomen took the spaces left. The wider family, with Dagmar and her siblings at the front, gathered around the vessel with Njal.

Kinsmen! We now send my father into the Great Beyond, into the ever after. He has all that he needs beside him. A woman to warm his bed. Men to fight with him at the Final Battle. His favourite mead and fruits. Meat and clothes. We ask the Gods to accept his soul and let him make a home among them, where he will lie at peace for eternity.

Everyone grabbed shovels and threw the dirt onto the ship. Finally, the craft and its occupants were covered, and Magnus and Dagmar jumped onto the mound and stamped until it was smooth.

Come! Magnus shouted. We drink ale to honour Thorlak in his great hall!

Njal led the way back to the great hall, and Yeen followed. Dagmar took Ragnhild's arm, and the sisters strolled back inside together. They were followed by Magnus and the other Broadchests. Lumbering behind them came the Bareheads, the Snubnoses and the Bentbacks.

*

Whenever Grunn, the Northlands' Sea God, turned from human form back into a deity, he experienced an odd sense of loss that he was quite unable to explain to his fellow Gods.

Instead of attending the burial, Grunn remained at the homestead where Dagmar and her sister farmed; he wandered to a grove half a mile from their longhouse. Once there, he raised his hands to the sky and begged Virthing, the Supreme God, to welcome him home.

As Grunn was lifted up into the sky, the rustling of the trees filled his ears. When the sound drifted away on the wind, he was left cocooned in a warm silence, and, gradually, he found himself standing in Garthr.

The Gods of the Northlanders were recognized elsewhere and had their influence in all the known lands, even in countries like Murkar and Eira which had also embraced the One Faith and build huge cathedrals to honour it. But their worship was, and always would be, strongest among the Men of the North.

The Gods lolled around the silver fountain in the centre of the garden, dipping their hands into the cool water. Eyrir, the Goddess of Wealth, was amusing herself by forming coins and flipping them into the air in jest. When they landed in the water, they dissolved. Grunn's wife Kjolr, the Goddess of Ships, was leaning over and trying to catch the coins first. Every time she caught one, she tucked it into her pocket.

As Grunn stroked Kjolr's silver hair, he turned one lock over and it curled around his finger. Her skin was dry and taut with age, but he would love her for all eternity, regardless of whatever needs drove him in the world of men below. He kissed her forehead and led her back to the fountain.

Helga, the Goddess of Death, beckoned the rest of the deities over. She elbowed Eyrir aside, spreading out her hands across the water of the fountain. The waters darkened, but gradually a mauve image formed of the Great Beyond. Helga preened her shiny black hair as the Gods crowded round to watch.

Thorlak awakened from his rest on a pile of furs in the hall. A fire crackled in the hearth running down the middle of the room. Beside him lay the yeoman and jarls who would be his bodyguards in the Great Beyond. A woman, her face full of peace, lay beside him. Dressed in silk finery, she would be his companion in the afterlife.

He has made the transition safely, Helga said.

Grunn smiled and nodded. Thorlak was a ruler beloved of his people and the best of men. Grunn was glad the final journey had been completed smoothly, and he was very excited to see what the konung would make of his afterlife in the days and years to come.

Chapter Two

Cenwulf Darkwater stood at the far end of the rough wooden jetty, staring northwards across the foaming waves to the reef beyond. When the wind wailed from the north, the stench of rotting seaweed overpowered Orkna. The tide crashed against the jetty, spraying Cenwulf until he was drenched, but he straightened his spine until he stood erect, watching the ebb and flow of the waves.

Months after Cenwulf's son's disappearance, there was no hope that the infant would return alive from the waters. Whatever force of evil snatched his little boy during the few seconds he'd taken his eyes off Orphir had probably drowned the lad immediately.

The twenty-year-old licked his dry lips, chapped by the salty air. Since Orphir's disappearance, Cenwulf had fallen into the habit of chewing the soft skin inside his mouth. Hot tears ran down his cheeks as his thoughts dwelt upon his loss.

All the fatherly pride in Orphir's brief life. All the naïve joy. These were no guarantee of safety because, despite Cenwulf's vigilance, a thief stole onto the sand that day, snatching all hope from his heart.

Cenwulf gripped the endpost of the jetty until his knuckles hurt.

The Orknans carved images on the wooden stops. They believed that these helped travellers to find their way home. In the months after the disappearance, he abandoned his usual cynicism and found himself clinging to that superstitious belief.

Drawing his knife from its sheath, he stabbed over and over at the shape of the Orknan croft until he obliterated it. He did the same to the carved seal on the other side of the jetty.

A wail echoed across the bay.

I'm here, Orphir, I'm here!

But the screech was only a gull gliding overhead, and Cenwulf sagged as the bird soared above him.

Nothing good ever came out of the north: just raiders, instilling in the islanders a feeble dread of an invasion that they lacked the resources to repel, and an ill wind that always blew in the autumn months.

Cenwulf fetched his sling and a brown pebble out of his tunic pocket. The stone felt smooth to the touch, and the gut strings creaked as he drew them back and took careful aim. Frowning with concentration, he fired the missile at the bird. It cried out as the pebble hit its chest. Splashing into the water, it sank beneath the surface. As he turned away from the jetty, an agonising twinge of disappointment throbbed in his heart.

Orphir might be lying on the seabed, his tiny body rotting until only his bones were left, being tossed hither and thither for eternity by the relentless ocean.

A seal carcass floated by, and bile rose in Cenwulf’s throat. He covered his mouth against the stench and closed his eyes, but his stomach heaved and he vomited onto the sand. As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, another call drifted to him. He endured the sound, but it always riled him to hear his wife’s voice.

Swona picked her way over the pebbles down to the wide sandy shoreline. She touched her husband’s arm, but he shook her off.

The sooner he could obtain Dextra's permission to leave, the better. Until then, he had to bide his time despite the ennui of his life here.

Swona stroked her swollen belly. Cenwulf's lip curled into a sneer.

He'd been unconscious of the gesture until his sister-in-law chided him. Since then, he hadn’t attempted to conceal his contempt for his wife or her sister, or his desire to shun them both.

As Cenwulf strode back to the castle, Swona followed him over the grassy dunes and along the little path to Longhope. She trotted to keep up and, as they approached the island’s capital, tried to hold his hand, but he shook her off, lengthening his stride and leaving his wife behind again.

The sky was turning gloomy as Cenwulf reached the drawbridge, heralding yet another September storm that was only a rehearsal for the winds that would batter the island through another unforgiving winter. He entered the murk of the castle keep. The portcullis rattled down behind him, and the cranking pulley brought the drawbridge up for the night.

*

During dinner, Princess Briana o'Eira took her younger sister Emer aside while their grandmother was discussing the Khan of the Albins' visit with their mother.

Queen Gala had fought to prevent her husband from arranging a match between the khan and eighteen-year-old Emer, but Domhnall considered him to be a good catch and he was determined that the marriage should be agreed quickly now that Khan Nicholai had returned at last from the easternmost stretches of his empire. Weary of debate on the subject, he instigated a ban on further protests.

Liosmor's great hall was crammed with clan chieftains, soldiers and the king's own retinue. The clinking of knives and forks, the latter concept new to Eira, filled the room as the court ate together, seated at the long tables that lined both sides of the hall. The room had a low ceiling, and a fire crackled in its huge hearth.

The rich aroma of roasted meats filled the air. Briana licked her lips as the servants brought in the second course, her green eyes glittering at the sight of rare beef with blood dripping from its slices. Spoons clunked against wooden bowls, now drained of their onion and carrot broth by hungry soldiers, as the servants exchanged steaming pewter platters of meat and vegetables for empty bowls.

Briana could never remember a moment in her life when the comforting blaze hadn't been carefully tended. The royal family gathered round the fire in the evenings with their clan chiefs to tell tales of Old Eira, of battles past, of soldiers dead and buried.

The walls were hung with luxuriant tapestries depicting those battles. Briana and her sister had recently completed one showing their grandfather's victory over Jerome van Murkar, reluctantly bending over their needlework and ruining their eyesight in order to record the exploits of King Nolan for posterity.

Briana palled at the thought of travelling to Murkar as the wife of a stranger whose countrymen hated Eira for burning their capital to the ground thirty-six years earlier, but her father talked of marrying her to King Gortah's youngest son.

Twisting the ends of her long brown hair around her slender fingers, Briana tossed her curls back over her shoulder, and her eyes flashed at her younger sister.

Khan Nicholai will be here in a few days!

Emer's freckly cheeks turned pale, and her mouth crinkled into a pout.

I won't give myself to that oaf!

You won't have any choice! And you'll be shackled to that tyrant for life. The khan will drag you all over the frozen wastes of his empire. His mistress gave birth in a tent in midwinter. She and the baby died.

Emer pinched her sister.

Everyone says Prince Eugene is lovely. The stars have aligned for you!

You've some gall, Emer! I don't know what kind of celestial gift involves betraying the man I love.

When Emer stamped her tiny foot, Briana shook her head.

Really, Emer had left the phase of childish tantrums behind, but they still ran riot occasionally. The mere thought of her being old enough to marry seemed quite ridiculous. She was turning eighteen but, in many ways, the royal family's youngest-but-one sibling was little more than a child who still thought of love as a game.

The puppy fat on Emer's curvy hips had thinned slightly in the past year, but it seemed likely that, after she bore a couple of sons for her husband, she would become a buxom woman, just like their mother. Briana's tall and angular frame suited Jarlath; but, at nineteen, she was woman enough to see how the admiring glances of other men lingered on Emer instead.

Emer lunged at her sister, scratching Briana's cheek. Briana cupped her jaw in her hand, then lashed out, kicking Emer's shin. Emer yanked her hair; Briana snatched a handful, too, twisting the blonde locks until her sister yelped.

The brawl attracted the attention of the rest of the family as laughter spread around the room. Queen Riley strode over, shoving herself into the middle of the sisterly strife as the girls sprawled on the dusty stone flags. As they tried to crawl away, the old queen's grey eyes narrowed, and she gripped both her granddaughters by the earlobe. They tried to wriggle free, but Riley hauled them both to their feet.

Back in my day, young women remembered that there was plenty more to life than getting themselves a husband, she said.

*

After Dextra bid goodnight to the rest of the Aspatrian party, she retired. Her maid unlaced her dress and helped her loosen her corset. Dextra wriggled free, and she slipped on her soft white-linen nightgown. She tucked her shoes under her bed, and as she sat patiently waiting for Jenna to comb her long blonde hair, she dabbed a fingertip of scent to her wrists and neck. The breeze clinked the tent rings, and, when the wind picked up further and the trees rustled, Dextra grabbed a black-bear fur, wrapping it around her shoulders.

When Ludwig entered, he sat on the bed waiting for Jenna to finish plaiting the queen’s hair. She lit the lamp and clipped the tent flap closed behind her. He patted the bed beside him, and Dextra reluctantly joined him. As he caressed her breasts, she tensed up.

The doctors in Aspatria had declared Dextra fertile a year ago, and since then she’d been putting Ludwig off with one excuse after another to avoid becoming pregnant. The thought of having another child, only for the poor little mite to die too, was too painful to endure.

Please be patient. Maybe I'll feel better next month.

Ludwig flung himself on his back and swore.

If you knew how fed up I was hearing you say that. I’ve been very decent about this!

Dextra resisted the temptation to snap that this was an interesting way to describe his habit of bedding noblewoman after noblewoman in her own court.

He rolled over and stroked her stomach, but she squirmed away from his touch as he tried to push her legs open.

Damn you! I’m not waiting until after we get back to Zwaarstad and the old man’s warming your bed!

Dextra ignored the slur upon her second husband. Ludwig's frequent attempts to foment discord there had earned her resentment. Hearing Gortah named so often, considering the way he’d treated her, tormented Dextra, but this did nothing to deter Ludwig.

I’ll be asking Gortah to wait, too.

You never meant anything to him. A whole year you've spent apart. Not a single letter from him, was there?

Dextra lay down. Ludwig dragged up her nightgown and pressed her legs open, but she wriggled away from him and shook her head. He smacked the bedpost in frustration. Eventually, he gave up trying to force her and got to his feet, but as he was about to step outside again, he turned back to her.

Your other husband might be king, but every one of his nobles will support me. A husband’s entitled to sex from his wife whenever he wants it. This time tomorrow, in Zwaarstad, you’ll satisfy me with a good grace or I'll make you.

Burying her face in her straw pillow, she wept.

Little Aelred had been born blind and deaf. The tiny baby was her whole world until he had died in her arms, so frail and feeble that even breathing had become too much. At that moment, a darkness descended upon Dextra that she couldn’t imagine would ever truly lift.

*

Just before lunch the next day, Gortah received word that Dextra and her party had broken camp, and he went to greet her on the steps of his residence. A long line of nobles, in strict order of precedence with their wives beside them, formed in front of the fortified house in the middle of Zwaarstad where the royal family lived.

The manor was surrounded by the wide moats and canals that made Gortah’s home unique amongst capital cities. Further out from the centre of Zwaarstad were the homes of the lesser nobles, the merchants and professionals, and beyond that, in one immense circle nudging up against the massive city walls, were the barracks for the army he kept mustered at all times.

Gortah straightened his crown and drew his cloak around his shoulders. His heavy ceremonial cloak was made from raven feathers. It rustled with every stride in a way he found very soothing. The cloak was warm, and he felt like he was wrapped in the love of his entire nation.

Flags bearing the Murkan First Raven were draped from every window in the city to celebrate Gortah's fiftieth birthday. In his residence, and in the home of many of the more prominent citizens, the Aspatrian flag of the Brewer, holding a sheaf of barley and sitting with her harp, was also given pride of place.

The steady clop of three sets of hooves rang out on the cobbles, and Dextra's mare appeared through the main gate first. Gortah’s wife was Murkar’s queen, as well as reigning monarch of Aspatria in her own right, and their marriage gave her precedence over every other woman in the country, including his four daughters and two daughters-in-law.

Behind Dextra rode Gortah’s daughter Lilian. Lilian had been born blind, but she always seemed serene and content, as if sight was something she never really missed.

The seventeen-year-old princess adored her stepmother and, when it became clear Dextra would not be returning from Aspatria soon, Lilian insisted on going to stay with her. Gortah missed her desperately during those ten months, but the pair were inseparable.

Ludwig pulled up behind the two women. The old enmity flamed up again immediately at the sight of Ludwig. If there was any way at all to persuade Dextra to divorce him, then Gortah intended to do it, even if he had to bide his time.

Gortah drank in the sight of his daughter's pale, thoughtful face and long red hair. Striding over, he grasped her reins.

Father is here, little one.

Lilian's face broke into a lovely smile. She scrabbled for Gortah’s shoulders, placed her hands squarely on them and kicked her leg over the pommel. He held her waist as she slid to the ground, then crushed her to him. She giggled as the raven feathers crackled against her cheek. She slipped her arm through her father’s, and he drew her towards the rest of the family, where her siblings quickly surrounded her.

Gortah steeled himself to turn back towards Dextra. He expected a crotchety reception, but she smiled at the exchange between father and daughter. Her straw-blonde hair lay loose over her shoulders in the Aspatrian fashion. In Murkar, a woman had to wear her hair plaited and pinned up or risk being thought of as a hussy, and she had not found that a comfortable transition. His glee at her return faltered as he scanned her face: her sapphire-blue eyes were dull, she was even thinner than when she left Murkar, and she looked exhausted.

Dextra gazed back expressionlessly as Gortah held out his hands. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted and slid to the ground, tucking the long skirts of her scarlet-velvet riding habit over her arm. The bodice was trimmed with lace around her bosom. She was as lovely as ever, and she had all her usual grace of bearing, but she had become even more fragile in the year they'd been apart.

Turning to the crown princess, Gortah held out his hand. Adriana handed him a bunch of keys. Some large, others small; some old, others more recently cut. One or two were ornate and ceremonial, whereas others opened the more prosaic doors to the kitchens and the wine cellars. They jangled in a way he found very satisfying as he weighed them in his massive palm. He clipped the keys onto Dextra's belt, and a rosy blush spread across her cheeks as she smiled gently at him.

Welcome home, my dear, Gortah said.

Chapter Three

On the second day of Thorlak's wake, the great hall at Konungsborg was full to bursting with Dagmar's relations. All four clans and more were there. The Snubnoses gathered along the oblong firepit, warming their hands and swilling ale from drinking horns, and the Broadchests whispered in a corner, glancing over their shoulders all the time. The Bentbacks goaded each other over a drinking challenge involving daggers, and the peace-loving Bareheads stood alone by the door.

The throne graced the dais, and beside it rested the pillars of state. The oak columns were carved in the shape of ceremonial oars. They'd been carried by ship from the old capital a hundred years earlier. The new capital's site had been chosen by throwing the pillars overboard and allowing them to float ashore. Konungsborg was then founded where they reached land.

Wooden benches lined the hall, and tapestries hung above them. A firepit stretched the length of the room. It was always kept lit. Extra trestle tables were set out, laden with bread and roasted meats. Ragnhild served some of the men ale from metal bowls, helped by Yeen and several of the other women.

A tapestry of the family's common ancestor, Konung Rollo, dominated the wall, but its image was beginning to fade. Queen Astrid's blonde hair was also dulled by wood ash from the fires. The smell rose up off the tapestry as Dagmar stroked the wool lovingly. Astrid was her great, great grandmother, and she liked to think that the headstrong queen looked out for her from the Great Beyond.

Frakkok joined her, and they stood gazing up at the images.

Just thinking these could use a clean. Shall we ask Njal for permission?

Frakkok shrugged. Some of the women began singing the Lament of the Dead Konung, and the two friends wandered over to them. The melody soon filled the room.

As Dagmar sang with them in her strong voice, she remembered the uncle who had become her stepfather.

The men quieted their drinking games, turning to listen as the women honoured Thorlak. When the singing finished, Njal held up his hand.

Kinsmen! Those interlopers on Orkna have squatted on Northlands' territory for far too long!

Ofeg Snubnose blew a raspberry drunkenly at Njal.

Lead a force to drive them out, then, if you're capable.

Ofeg's sons Fromond and Grep cackled at their father's lack of respect. A snigger or two echoed around the hall, and Njal's cheeks reddened.

Who stands ready to fight for our land?

A great roar went up.

Dagmar smiled ruefully at the thought of her half-brother leading anyone into battle.

"Happy to oblige, provided you stay home!"

When Dagmar scanned the room, hoping to work out who had thrown out this quip, Mad Ofeg's brother Thegn grinned at those who pointed to him as the culprit.

Njal bristled. Who else would do it?

Thegn pressed his way through the throng and poked Njal's chest.

Hoping we'll forget the tattle going round about you, boy, while we're away at sea?

Mad Ofeg yelled, If Thegn’s against the konung, then Thegn stands alone. The Snubnoses stand with the new konung!

Thegn brandished his dagger and pushed his way through to his older brother. They brawled on the stone flags, trying to stab each other.

Thegn had never accepted Ofeg's authority over the family. When their father Harald lost all grip on reality twenty years ago, Thegn declared himself head of the Snubnoses and, when that failed to garner support in their family, he took the name Bentback instead. The two factions loathed each other.

When Ofeg thrust his blade into Thegn's thigh, he squealed. Thegn's son Rig throttled Ofeg, who fell gasping to the floor. Gylve and Karl bore their father Ofeg over to a wooden bench. Magnus Broadchest dragged Ofeg out of the hall, and Odindisa knelt before Thegn to clean and bind his wound.

To distract attention from the unpleasantness, the storyteller launched into everyone's favourite tale of the Battle of Konungsborg. The women poured more cups of ale and handed them round, and the tension eased. Njal then snuck away, followed by the Bareheads. Dagmar scuttled after them and listened at the anteroom door.

Olaf, I need you to find a document for me. Just make sure it says what I need!

I'm not doing that! It's wrong!

Write the parchment yourselves if you have to. None of those fools can read, anyway. Just give me something to wave in front of them to claim the islands. Something with authority. It's the look of the thing that matters!

Olaf's brother Valdemar was a respected scholar, and Olaf was a priest, having embraced the One Faith five years earlier.

I'm not doing that, Njal. Neither of us will! Leave Olaf and me out of your lies.

When Dagmar quietly returned to the hall, Frakkok shook her head at Njal's folly.

Sounds like the men will sail for war in days. You're going too, I suppose?

The usual gnawing temptation at the mention of combat assailed Dagmar. Anything to prolong the last few days of autumn!

Why not? she said, stroking the handle of her knife.

*

Twenty miles northeast of the Eiran capital lay ancient forests brimming with horrors. On his father's orders, the crown prince took a small force to oversee the clearing out. The untold acres of gnarled trees and dripping undergrowth proved to be inhabited by a disturbing array of creatures.

Brandon leant over the wooden fence and stared into the pit below. The last one of the twisted beasts was down in the pit, all ready to be transported back to Liosmor with the other monstrosities he had captured alive. The thing was part human, part pig, and it reviled him.

Brandon was grateful to his father for suggesting the trip. He was a recent widower, and he still found that his temper exploded out of nowhere. His mother blamed his anger on grief, and his grandmother Riley lashed out at him that this was guilt at having treated his wife like a hag or a chit in alternate measure, and at the relief he felt when the Great Fever killed Liana. He bore his shame with as much dignity as he could muster.

The twenty-four-year-old grimaced at Chieftain Jarlath o’Cruach and gestured for him to approach the beast trapped down in the pit. It snarled at the far end, and Jarlath brandished his axe, edging forward into the gloom.

Brandon rested his foot on the lowest rung of the fence and fumbled for his tobacco pouch. As he filled his pipe, his brother Conall lit a splint from his own burn. They laughed and pointed at Jarlath, who was still making a great show of circling the beast.

His grandmother was thinking about taming them and maybe training the male for battle. She would be glad they'd captured a breeding pair, and it would certainly give their old foe, the Murkans, a shock to see such things careering across the fields of South Eira towards them.

Brandon smoothed his shaggy black hair and rubbed his fingertips over his stubble. He’d recently tried being clean-shaven, only to find that he preferred a beard just like every other man he knew. Conall's gaze rested uncomfortably upon him, and Brandon was unable to control his irritation.

Speak up, if you've anything sensible to say, Brother!

Father suggested we capture Prince Eugene, next time we face the Murkans in battle. Gortah would swap his treasured youngest son for his wife's royal prisoners, don't you think?

At the mention of Gortah, Brandon spat into the pit.

Dextra had two Eiran royals in her donjon. Aedan was the third of their four brothers. He had ridden across the Great Land Bridge into Aspatria a year ago without first seeking leave of the young queen, in aid of a brief treat: to spend the night at an inn nearby, sneak back home at dawn and brag to his brothers. But word spread that an Eiran prince was on Dextra’s soil without permission and, given all the bad blood between their countries, Dextra's younger husband leapt at the chance to take offence at the misdeed. Ludwig galloped in with a band of her nobles to capture Aedan before he could flee and flung him into her donjon alongside Uncle Phelan.

Jarlath threw a rope around the beast’s neck while Conall slid down the slope into the pit, groping the tree roots dangling out from the dry earth round its edge and landing on a pile of wet leaves.

As the beast roared, Jarlath dragged the thing out from its gloomy corner. The group saw it clearly for the first time. The creature stank of that high urine Brandon had always associated with boars, but it was more human than porcine. Its back was covered in black prickly hair, its belly straining with the weight of pregnancy, and its teats swollen.

Brandon shuddered in revulsion.

Not for the first time, he regretted obeying his father's orders with such enthusiasm, and felt glad to be going home. Never much of a one to rely on religious belief, he still intended to visit the priest immediately and unburden his soul about what he'd witnessed out here.

Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Brandon turned away. The beast wore a sly expression, and the longer he stared the more he could see her human side. Her hunched back and trotters reviled him, and he bent over to vomit up what was left of his lunch.

When Brandon gave the order to break camp and prepare for the ride back to Liosmor, his soldiers were very subdued. Most stared at the monster, one pointed to her pregnant belly, and a sense of distrust and revulsion spread through their group.

As they dragged her along, the beast’s side heaved and she emitted a fearsome yell quite unlike anything Brandon had heard before. He covered his nose and mouth against her noxious breath. She wailed again, much louder: a plaintive cry in the direction of Liosmor. Nearing the capital, they heard a throaty reply.

Brandon thought better of quipping that Queen Riley would be glad of a breeding pair. He still struggled to identify the monstrosity, but he was glad that her care would not fall to him.

Granny has a strong enough stomach. Let her deal with this mess, he thought.

When she reached the middle of the drawbridge, the creature braced and resisted the soldiers hauling her along. They yanked at her ropes in vain, but Brandon and Conall went to help. Jarlath prodded her rump with his sword.

The beast lurched forwards. Jarlath slid over as the animal lunged at him, but Brandon shoved her hindquarters with his shoulder and she fell forward. He dragged Jarlath to his feet. She looked more human than ever up close: her full teats and swollen belly were disgusting, she had a devious glint in her black eyes and her gaze sprang from man to man.

Another bellow rang out from inside the fort.

Come on! Brandon told his men. Let's get this thing inside.

*

Dextra was helping Lilian with her unpacking when Jenna brought her a note from the king.

She accepted his summons without complaint: he would only fume if she didn't obey immediately, and Gortah in a temper was something to delay witnessing for as long as possible.

She trudged upstairs to the married couples' floor and knocked on Gortah’s door.

The regal pair had a set of chambers in the middle of the corridor. Ludwig had demanded a bedchamber next to hers, and he had responded to the fuss over this logistical problem by insisting on having a decent-sized daychamber as well.

On the far side were Diederik and Adriana’s bedchamber and their shared daychamber. On the near side of the king and queen’s rooms were the set of chambers occupied by Gortah’s middle son, Arjan, and his wife. The unmarried royal men and women slept on the floor below.

Dextra took a deep breath before opening the door and stepping inside. Gortah stood with his left hand resting on the lintel, staring pensively into the crackling flames. A log split and hissed, but he prodded it with a poker until the wood crumbled. After he stoked the fire, he threw another log onto the blaze. His round face was scarlet with embarrassment, and his gaze, usually fearless, gloomily drifted away from Dextra. His silver fringe fell forward into his eyes and he pushed it back, not with the boyish smile she loved, but with a frown. He gestured curtly for her to sit, and she sank into a chair beside the fire. He filled her a goblet of wine and one for himself.

The room reeked of beeswax. The tapestries were newly washed, and their colours stood out far more brightly than she remembered. The sheepskin rug by the fire was pure white. Gortah was habitually messy, and resented the intrusion of the maids doing even the most basic chores, but the chamber had been tidied to the point of regimentation and was spotlessly clean. A fluffy little dog lay curled up on the bed, asleep.

Well, my dear, to business! Are you with child?

Dextra bit her lip, resting her hand over her womb. She gripped the stem of the goblet until her knuckles turned white. Eventually, she shook her head.

It was so painful to even contemplate motherhood again, and she dreaded this discussion, but Gortah was already leaping ahead excitedly.

Can you be certain, my angel?

Tucking her hands into her lap, Dextra sat up very straight.

I am not with child, I assure you.

A puzzled look crept across Gortah’s face at Dextra's arch tone, and he rubbed his chin. Unlike every other man she knew, he was clean-shaven, but his face had become lined with age and worry in the last ten months. At six foot, he was taller than any man of her acquaintance, and he was broad chested and muscular.

Gortah dug in his pocket for his tobacco pouch, filled his pipe with practised ease and lit it. He relaxed into his chair, stretching out his legs and smiling to himself.

But other than that, you are well? Fit and healthy, so far as your doctors are concerned? Nothing I should be aware of?

Dextra graciously inclined her head. She'd expected the persistence of her husband’s questioning, but it boded well that he didn’t greet her naked from his bed.

The bed dominated the room. Gortah told her all about it, just after he brought her home to Zwaarstad for the first time, presenting it to her as their personal sanctuary from the cares of state. He spent decades sleeping in the same bed with first his mistress, then his lovers and sometimes his betrothed, then his second wife and, after her death, another mistress. The walnut frame had been presented to him on his eighteenth birthday by the burghers of the city. On his marriage to Dextra, he'd ordered a new one, telling her this would give the two of them a fresh beginning together.

Everything in the room was the same as a year ago. The frame was crafted from cherry, and it was adorned with carvings of hops and sheaves of barley in deference to Dextra's home country, intermingled with the raven of Murkar. The deep-red brocade hangings had been woven in Logor, Gortah's mother's home country, and were embroidered with ornately intertwined images of their initials. The soft silk sheets matched them. Black bear furs were strewn across the bed. In hotter weather, they threw them on the floor and slept there naked.

Dextra's heart thumped as she remembered the smell of Gortah's hair, wet from bathing before bedtime. The taste of his lips pressed against hers; the gentle touch of his fingers. The ache between her legs as their bodies moved in rhythmic ecstasy together; the pleasure with which they'd lain in each other's arms afterwards and fallen asleep.

Gortah's pupils dilated, and Dextra suspected he could follow her train of thought perfectly.

I'm delighted to have you back home again, my dear. Thank you for the care you’ve shown Lilian, by the way. A foreign trip appears to have done my daughter the power of good.

I bore in mind your wishes for her, when I invited foreign princes to my capital.

Gortah beamed.

Mechteld is on retreat at the convent at Spits. I obtained perfectly respectable offers from two of my nobles, but she won’t take either, and refuses to explain herself. We both needed some time apart to cool down after our last discussion. Sloane is wilder than ever, so I guess I should give up hope of finding her a husband either, and Ursula becomes more difficult by the day. I thought a seventeen-year-old would have outgrown it by now, but I can barely get a civil word out of her. Though she calls it wit, I name it rudeness, plain and simple. My daughters need their stepmother. They're lucky to have you in their lives and struggle when you're not here. We all do. In fact-

As Dextra leapt to her feet, Gortah scrambled up. He held out his hands, but she sidled towards the door.

Forcing herself not to look over at the gigantic bed again, she fled, leaving her husband staring after her as she quit the room.

*

As Cenwulf stood on the balcony on the top floor of Castle Longhope, gazing down at the port, he drew his black woollen cloak around his shoulders. He wore the best boots he possessed, a wedding gift from his stepsister Wulfa, but his feet still felt like blocks of ice. His fingers were numb with cold. The sun fought a losing battle this far north, even in the middle of the day, and if the winter was a harsh one, as many predicted would happen, he dreaded the months ahead.

Cenwulf fumbled for his leather whisky flask, took a nip and pushed the stopper back in. The warm liquid settled in his stomach. It was rumbling, but he couldn't bring himself to go down to lunch when every meal featured fish and the kitchens just ignored his repeated requests for beef or pork.

Rognald, Cenwulf's brother-in-law, stumbled out to join him. The Orknan was tall and broad chested, but his lumbering step and hunched posture irritated Cenwulf.

As the illegitimate son of Leofric of Aspatria, he always carried himself with poise.

Rognald stared at the ground four or five paces ahead, and his deep, throaty laugh ended with a high-pitched wheeze.

In the two years that the man had been his brother-in-law, Cenwulf had never been able to imagine the Steward och Orkna surviving long. His three sons were miniature versions of their father, but the boys possessed all the crabby tempered petulance of their mother Skara, and her sister Swona showed every sign of going the same way.

Breathing in deeply, Rognald raised his face to the sun and smiled placidly.

That new maid's a sight for sore eyes!

Cenwulf longed to snap that the only woman he imagined making love to was currently thousands of miles away in Reliatra. He had almost given up hope of finding his way back to Princess Notburg's side, and with every letter that arrived from his stepsister he dreaded breaking Dextra's seal to find that Notburg had married someone else.

As he tucked his long blond hair behind his ears, Cenwulf tried to muster the self-control not to shove Rognald.

They will send help, won't they?

The boat that Cenwulf had sent to Aspatria with a message, saying that he required men and arms to fight off the Men of the North, had still not returned a week on.

Dextra could spare the men and ships. Gortah van Murkar would comprehend that, if help wasn't forthcoming, Rognald could also turn to Eira because Murkar and Eira both asserted a right to the lordship of Orkna via their mutual claim to South Eira. The marriage of Lord Finial, one of South Eira's most senior lordships, to Old Magnus Longsword's daughter Margaret several generations back had given both Murkar and Eira reason to suggest that the island in fact belonged to them. The precise legal situation had never been properly resolved, but Gortah had made it known that he regarded Orkna as an integral part of South Eira.

Dextra and Gortah wouldn't stand idly by as Domhnall strengthened Eira's claim, sending men and weaponry to hold off the Men of the North. She hated the Eirans for killing her father and three legitimate brothers in battle during the course of a single morning two years ago.

Cenwulf couldn't care less if Orkna did get captured by the Men of the North; in fact, the sooner the island fell into their hands the better. Dextra would ransom him, and he'd be back in Brewchester with the rest of the Aspatrian royal family, but Rognald's family had ruled over the island ever since his great, great grandfather Old Magnus Longsword won the island's independence from the Northlands. Many of his kin died defending the place, and even more of his people perished from starvation when bad harvests came.

When the wind blew from the south, the breeze brought the freshness of the ocean, but that was soon overpowered by the stench of the smoke houses, and by the time the air reached the castle, it reeked. Cenwulf longed to cover his nose and mouth against the odour of salted fish drifting up from the drying sheds until he almost hoped for a north wind, chill and bitter, but leaving the dank air of the castle undisturbed.

Dextra had warned him before he left that Castle Longhope was riddled with damp but, angry with her for forcing his marriage to Swona when he preferred to take Notburg to wife, he accepted none of her good advice. Many a dark winter's night since then he had lain awake, listening to the wind howling and wishing that he had.

Down on the quayside, men gathered around the boats returning from the Aspatrian mainland, but these were just regular supply vessels, and there was no sign yet of the help Cenwulf had requested from Dextra.

They were unloading barrels of ale, whole sides of beef and pork, and caskets of wine. The fresh supplies were carried away to the castle kitchen. The boatmen unloaded the weaponry as quickly as they could, before heading up to the hall for a tasty roast dinner from the grateful Orknans.

Chapter Four

Gortah smiled graciously around the great hall at his guests. The room was huge and echoing, with its cavernously high ceiling. Its walls were built from stone reclaimed from Old Zwaarstad, and the presence of his father, King Jerome, could be