Beneath dark waters, p.18
Beneath Dark Waters, page 18
Torin returned to the bed, sitting propped up against the pillows. Valka sat beside him and continued working the antler comb through her hair. Every now and then, Valka paused to undo a plait, plucking the strings and hair ornaments from the lock as she untwined it, setting them on the bedside table.
“None of this matters.” Valka continued. “The consistency of them taking these women, the secrecy – moving the women to the most remote place in Bodan – those are the things that you should worry about. What magic are they dabbling in, what ritual are they casting that needs to take place so far from civilisation?”
“Nothing in the myths or stories links the Sirinea Pantheum to the Bleak Lands. I know there’s a mountain in the heart of the Sirinean Empire that they revere, but the only religion that speaks about the Bleak Lands are the Álfjoðr sagas.”
“I’m surprised you know all that considering your stance on religion.” Valka’s eyes glinted wickedly.
“I know a lot about religion, that’s why I’ve formed such a strong opinion about it.”
“Do you have any other questions?”
“Everything will become clear when you find the shadows in the fog. What does that mean?”
The seidkona pursed her lips.
“The prophecy in the snow.” Torin wanted to force Valka into an explanation.
“I can’t tell you, Torin. Even if I wanted to, I cannot.”
“A seer that can see the future but does not speak of it.” Torin scoffed.
“I am a daughter of Mor, our ways are not for anyone outside of our sect to understand.” She replied just as bitterly.
“Funny how that’s always the way, isn’t it?”
Valka glowered, insulted by Torin’s cutting remark.
“Knowledge of fate is a burden, Jaeger. A man burdened with prophecy no longer lives freely. He no longer lives and acts – instead he reacts. He is so desperate to control fate and decide its course, he doesn’t realise that he has become destiny’s instrument, ensuring its execution rather than altering it. A man who learns his misfortune ahead might take reckless actions to avoid it, unintentionally bringing about the very fate that he dreads. In the same way, if a man learns of future success or greatness, he might charge towards it blindly, forsaking caution or the vital steps needed to achieve it. He may even make fatal missteps, mistakenly assuming his future is guaranteed rather than something still to be earned.”
“Surely it should be my choice?”
“To live freely or bind yourself in fate’s shackles?”
“Yes.”
Valka rolled her eyes, sighing irritably. “Then see a different seidkona, Jaeger, for I will not be the one to fetter you!”
Torin’s stomach dropped, and heat billowed in the centre of his chest, his heart pounding against his ribs. He didn’t realise how much this meant to Valka; how much bigger this was than his own curiosity. He wouldn’t force Valka to do anything she would regret. He accepted her decision.
“It’s my turn to ask a question, Jaeger.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who is Celia?” Valka stared at him steadily, her lips drawn in a tight line, her body tense.
All fire and fury vanished the moment he heard that name – Celia. His heart skipped a beat, shocked to hear his lover’s name fall from the seidkona’s lips.
“How do you know her name?” Torin’s voice was soft.
“You whispered it in your sleep.”
Torin’s lips curved into a tender smile.
“Celia is the love of my life.”
Valka bristled at his reply, squeezing the comb hard. Her lips twisted, as though she couldn’t decide between frowning or grimacing.
“How would she react to knowing you are in my bed?”
“I don’t think she’d care much at all, to be honest.”
Valka balked at Torin’s reply. Despite the jealousy and fury radiating from the seidkona, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Celia can’t promise me fidelity because of her profession, so she doesn’t expect it from me.”
“Her profession?”
“Celia is a prostitute, yes.”
“Do you take other women to your bed, then?”
Torin shook his head.
“There’s no other woman in Bodan I’d rather be with that her.” The jaeger said, firmly.
“You don’t care that your woman spreads her legs for money? You don’t care how many men she’s with every day? What then, Jaeger? When you return home, you do what? Sit outside her bedroom and wait for your turn?” Valka’s words dripped with contempt.
“You loathe the concept of virginity, yet you’re shaming a prostitute? Have some consistency in your principles, Valka.”
“I’m simply trying to understand your situation.”
“When I’m in town, Celia is only with me, no one else. She doesn’t take any clients, regardless of whether I stay with her for a week or a year, wages be damned.”
“And her employer approves of this?”
“Celia is the most popular worker in Wildemaw. If Madam wants the money to keep pouring in, she knows it’s best keep Celia happy and let her do as she wishes.”
Valka shook her head, scowling sourly. “I can’t believe it’s a whore’s name you call out in your sleep.”
“She’s not just a whore. She’s my everything.”
“A common, street-roaming trollop is everything to you?”
“Careful, seidkona.” Danger flashed in Torin’s eyes.
“Your leg has healed,” Valka stormed across the room and vanished behind the partition. “I’ll give you some salve and clean linens, then go.”
15
YULE MONTH, 1515 ES
BLACK CLOUDS BILLOWED on the horizon mirroring Torin’s temper – dark, brooding, and ready to break. King Erik Stout-Heart drank deeply from his goblet of mead, glaring at the jaeger over the rim as if daring him to argue with his command. Torin bowed his head, concealing his scowl. Lord Riften, as stony-faced and unreadable as ever, was sitting at King Erik’s right, surveying the jaeger.
It had been difficult navigating his way through the snow-laden woods from Valka’s hut, shielding his face from the bitter, howling wind with his cloak, but Torin managed to find his way to the coastline. He staggered through the swiftly growing snowstorm to the Tusk and Antler, frozen to the bone.
Torin enjoyed a blissfully hot but regrettably short bath. Clean and warm, he towelled off and applied the fragrance Celia had gifted him the past Yule, rubbing dabs of it at the base of his neck and on the inside of his wrists, the refreshing aroma of green apple and warm amber and vanilla mingling with the subtle scent of the honey and goatmilk soap he’d washed his body and hair with. He tended to his wound, applying salve and clean bandages, before dressing in thick winter layers – a clean linen shirt, long-sleeved, padded doublet, thick leather jerkin, and his sturdy yet worn leather boots.
After eating a hearty meal and drinking a flagon of watered-down mead to steel himself for his next trip outside, Torin pulled the hood of his woollen cloak over his head, fastening his wolfskin cloak around his shoulders with his iron fibula. Torin’s sword was buckled at his hip, hidden from sight.
The jaeger was an intimidating sight: but for the wolfskin, every inch of Torin was covered in deep, inky black, as dark as a brewing storm. It wasn’t his intention to appear threatening, the jaeger’s dark wardrobe simply helped keep him warm in the winter and camouflaged him from grotesqueries when he was working, not to mention it concealed blood splatters impeccably, however the jaeger was ready to fight tooth and nail to claim what was rightfully his if the king hadn’t set his spoils aside. Torin was late collecting his payment for partaking in the kraken hunt from King Erik and a small part of him was concerned that the king might’ve reallocated his spoils because of his tardiness.
By the time Torin had trudged up the steep, snowy streets to King Erik Stout-Heart’s hall, his face had turned red from the frigid temperatures despite the copious layers he was wearing. Teeth chattering, the jaeger strode into the hall, glad to be out of the cold. A servant swiftly led him through the king’s elegant, sprawling home, sumptuous tapestries hanging between ornate weapons, shields, and animal head trophies on the high wooden walls, to where King Erik was drinking with Lord Riften and Prince Dagr. Flames blazed in every brazier, sconce and hearth, and soon the jaeger was sweltering beneath his layers.
Lord Riften and King Erik greeted Torin amiably, both relieved to see him in good health. It seemed that they, like Tam, had assumed the worst after Torin disappeared when he was unconscious in Valka’s hut for a week.
Torin got to business quickly, politely apologising for his lateness and briefly explaining the fight with the draugr. Torin’s jaw clenched and brows furrowed when Lord Riften explained that Tam had already notified them. Torin made a mental note to find Tam and demand why he thought he had the right to share Torin’s business.
To Torin’s relief, the Vastrune king had put his spoils aside and kept them safe for him. Unfortunately, niceties and silver were not the only things that King Erik had to give Torin. After the servants finished weighing out Torin’s spoils into a small, plain wooden chest, King Erik offhandedly made his announcement. Torin rolled his lips together, trying to stop himself from saying anything out of anger.
King Erik Stout-Heart lowed his goblet, smacking his lips together. He eyed Torin harshly, waiting for the jaeger to challenge him and seemed somewhat disappointed when Torin remained still and silent.
“I cannot ignore the spate of deaths that have occurred since the fleet returned.” King Erik continued. “One or two suicides could be considered unfortunate without arousing suspicion, but ten? Until the cause of these deaths are found, by royal decree, all palisades and ports in Freystad are shut. No vessel is permitted to sail, nor person allowed to leave or enter the city.”
“You’ve locked down the city?” Torin repeated, incredulously.
King Erik surveyed Torin sternly, gripping his goblet tighter.
“You argue with the king’s decree?” Danger laced King Erik’s words, his lips curling around his teeth like a snarling wolf. “Do you think I’m unreasonable, Jaeger?”
“I merely wonder why, Your Majesty,” Torin’s voice was cool, calm, level, not betraying his frustration. “After all, men can take their own lives without leaving their bedrooms let alone the city.”
“You don’t think I know this?” King Erik slammed his cup on the tabletop, splashing mead everywhere. “This isn’t suicide, Jaeger, it’s murder! Something is inciting the men to kill themselves, and I will find out who or what it is even if it means shutting down every port in Vastrune! Men are hurling themselves from the cliff tops or marching into the ocean to drown themselves! Some have even hanged themselves from the masts or the gunwales of their own ships – one man even set his ship alight and burned himself to death!”
“I’m sure Maddox didn’t mean to be impertinent. He is assumedly just disappointed not to be able to return home after all his time at sea.” Lord Riften interjected, tactfully.
Fury blazed in King Erik’s eyes as he glared at Lord Riften.
“He should hold his tongue, lest he wants to spend the rest of his time here in a cell.” King Erik turned back to Torin. “Don’t think I made this decision lightly, Jaeger. I have every godi in the city making sacrifices, and every seidkona communing with the gods in search of answers. If foul play is afoot, the murderer will only be able to hide for so long now the city is shutdown. He will be caught before the city stores run dry!”
“Perhaps you can offer your professional opinion on this, Maddox.” Lord Riften suggested, his voice low and smooth, not betraying a hint of emotion. “Are there any grotesqueries that might be capable of driving men to take their own lives?”
Torin’s face screwed up as he raked his brain for possibilities.
“Water horses commonly lure people into the water to drown, but the witnesses would’ve seen the beast. Water horses aren’t particular, either, they would’ve lured seafarers, children, the elderly – anyone. Sirens are the same, but they usually live in warmer climates, I’ve never heard of sirens this far north. Fossegrim can drown people, but they haunt waterfalls and rivers, not the sea – not to mention, fossegrim aren’t particular, either; witnesses would’ve heard his song and been enchanted themselves. Trollkjerring and Häxa are often associated with malevolent magic and trickery, but I’ve never heard of any strong enough to endure casting such a powerful spell as this. What of draugr? Fallen sailors might have resurrected seeking vengeance on their surviving crew. Did your witnesses see any draugr emerge from the waters and killing the men?”
King Erik shook his head, his short temper nearing the end of its already short tether.
“No magical hags, no music, no horses, no mermaids, no undead. None of the witnesses saw or heard a damn thing but the crewmen killing themselves by their own hand.” King Erik spat. “Anything else?”
Torin shook his head.
“Then take your spoils and go. If you think of anything that might be of use, come to me immediately.”
“Yes, Sir,” Torin nodded.
“Be gone.” King Erik grumbled, snatching up his goblet and guzzling down the remaining mead.
Gripping the small chest of silver tightly, Torin turned on his heel and marched towards the hall doors.
“Jaeger,” the king called.
Torin turned to look at him.
“The consequences for defying this ban will be absolute. I have swarms of sentries posted at every entrance, and patrols choking the palisades and coastlines. If anyone is caught trying to smuggle themselves in or out of Freystad, they will find themselves at the sharp end of my warriors’ swords before they clear the city’s shadows.”
Torin’s fingers curled tighter around the chest of silver. His heart pounded in his ears as King Erik’s warning hung in the air, as smothering and cloying as woodsmoke.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Torin masked the venom dripping in his words well enough that King Erik did not notice it. “If that is all, I’ll take my leave.”
*
WOLF MONTH, 1516 ES
TRAPPED IN THE city, the jaeger found himself with little work, nary even a mischievous imp to chase off. Though King Erik Stout-Heart was housing the foreign fleet sailors in the barracks and inns, providing three square meals a day at the hall, Torin’s coin was still steadily trickling away. Every day spent idling in Freystad when he could’ve been on a ship headed for Albion only added to his mounting frustration. For six weeks now, the city had been locked down, and King Erik was no closer to discovering the cause of the suicides. The jaeger was not the only frustrated one. Anxiety and anger exuded from every soul trapped inside Freystad’s palisade, palpable and suffocating.
Winter squeezed Vastrune in its frigid fist, burying the country in a deluge of snow. A wicked wind battered the city, chilling the residents to the bone. Freystad hosted its twelve-day long festival for Yule, unrest hanging over the attendees like a fog. The celebration was cut short; by the middle of the festival, seven more men had taken their lives.
King Erik continued to provide food and drink and kept the Yule log burning in the heart of the city for his people to enjoy, but the musicians did not play their songs, no rousing speeches were made, and no games were played. King Erik kept his hall doors open, but barricaded himself in his war room, spiralling over the investigation.
Pyre smoke billowed into the sky in twisting plumes almost daily, the acrid scent permeating every crack and crevasse of the city. The death toll was rising, crewmen were found hanging from the ceiling beams of their homes or rooms, lying in bathtubs with their wrists slit, or crumpled at the bottom of wells. Many of the crewmen were killing themselves in front of witnesses so there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt that it was suicide, but how could so many men be fine one day and kill themselves the next? Not a single man had shown any sign of wanting to end his life until the moment they showed up dead … But, Torin reminded himself, they never did.
Whispers ripped through Freystad that King Erik Stout-Heart was considering detaining the kraken hunt survivors in the dungeon to keep a close eye on them and prevent them from taking their lives if the urge took them. The crewmen were ready to revolt, desperate to escape. They blamed Freystad, stating it was cursed. The very sight of a Vastrune guard put the crew’s hackles up, the guards that were supposed to be protecting them now viewed as enemies lest they were coming to round up the crew and imprison them ‘for their own safety’.
“How ya holding up?” Tam asked, sitting beside Torin.
“What are you doing here?” Torin growled, eyeing Tam from the corner of his eye.
Not long had passed since Auðun had left after enjoying a few drinks and a meal with Torin at the Gnarled Oak, a quiet tavern just a stone’s throw from Auðun’s home. The tavern was situated off the beaten path just outside of the housing district. Despite being tiny and swelteringly warm, it was much more peaceful than the larger establishments in the heart of Freystad.
“Came for a drink, what else do you do at a tavern?” Tam jested, turning to the barmaid and winking cheekily. “A beer if you’d be so kind, darling.”
The barmaid’s plump cheeks bloomed as she scurried off to fetch Tam’s drink, tittering to herself.
“I came looking for you while you were unconscious at the witch’s place. I thought she would’ve told you.”
“She did.”
“Why didn’t you come find me then?”
“What do you want, Tam?” Torin gave the captain a cutting sidelong glance.
Tam maintained Torin’s glare with an equally searing one of his own.
“That’s eight copper, please,” the barmaid said, setting the beer in front of Tam.
Tam fished the coins from his pocket and placed them into her hand, flashing her a cheeky grin before taking a deep draught of his beer. He sighed and wiped the foam from his lips and moustache.
