Chapter 32
The sails remained at sea, lurking, waiting, watching. Ivar stayed at the coast as much as possible, observing with a group of others until well into the night, when his eyes refused to remain open any longer and he would soon fall asleep on his feet.
“Go home,” one of the men instructed him, with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “They’ll be coming whether you’re standing here or not.”
“I want to know when it happens,” Ivar replied, his voice breaking. “I want to see it for myself.” A yawn interrupted their conversation and the stars began to blur into one hazy point of light. “But you’re right. I’ll be of no use without rest.” If they did come just then, he’d likely pass out from exhaustion before he could remove a knife from his belt.
Excusing himself, Ivar fought to stay awake long enough to get home, where he collapsed by the fire and slept until a couple of hours before dawn. His sleep was dreamless, a single expanse of darkness unbroken by anything, until a knock on his door jarred him to reality. Still shirtless, hair prickling his eyes, he opened the door.
Damn it. Anneka. He considered closing it again, but she spoke.
“Ivar,” she said softly. “I don’t know where else to go. I can’t speak to my father and Ósa’s … gone.”
She was lying, or at least mostly. Ósa’s absence almost certainly had little to no bearing on Anneka whatsoever. She was playing to his emotions, saying what she knew he would want to hear, and that bothered him more than anything. He said nothing, just stared at her, waiting.
Her eyes darted up and down his body before she went on. “I’m terrified,” she said, and her jaw quivered slightly. Ivar couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not. “I don’t know what to do.”
He closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the roof. What was it going to take for her to understand?
“Are we all going to die?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.” Despair washed over her face, lines of worry pulling this way and that.
“That means I don’t know.”
“Can I come in for a bit? I’ve been alone for days on end. I can’t bear it.”
He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then opened his door wider. She smiled and brushed past him as she entered the house. Anneka didn’t strongly resemble Ósa, something Ivar found mildly relieving, only for the fact that he’d never got on well with her. Where Ósa’s face bore angles well and had a sort of well-balanced construction that gave her an air of dignified grace, Anneka still resembled a girl. Round features. Close-set eyes. It was a wonder they were related at all. He’d never known their mother, was only three when she’d died, but he liked to think she’d resembled Ósa more than Anneka.
“Make yourself at home,” he said as he pulled on a shirt. She watched intently, and then looked away. “But you’ll be alone here as well.”
Her mouth opened quickly. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the coast.”
“Can’t you stay, just a few minutes longer? Please, Ivar, I need someone. We all need someone, right now.” She crossed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m lonely. I think I’ve been lonely for years without realizing it. Father is always out at sea or with the village leaders, and Ósa… Well, you know. She’s always gone somewhere, with you, or alone in the woods or at the beach or the Goddess knows where. I was only a child myself when Mother died, but I believe she was my last true friend. I know much of your time is spent with my sister, but I like to think that in some small way you care for me too. Your presence has been such a warm and welcome one in our family for as long as I can remember. When I see you, I feel at home.”
Somehow, her words managed to chip away some of the ice that had been building up on his heart since she’d arrived at his door. It felt like a time to let go of the past, to let go of all the wrong she’d done Ósa and to simply comfort another frightened human being. Slowly, he pulled her arms from around his waist and held them gently but firmly. There was an unmistakable spark of light, of hope and expectation in her eyes when she looked up at him. His resolve to say something kind and reassuring began to disappear. The way she looked at him – the way she had always looked at him – meant something. Something that would never happen.
She smiled, a small, shaky smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “These days, the thought of you is the only thing that gives me any hope. I don’t feel so scared when I’m with you.” She took his hand gently, tenderly, moving closer while her gaze darted from his mouth to his eyes. “I might not make it out of this alive, so I think you should know how I feel. How I’ve felt for a while.”
“I’m in love with your sister.”
The words erupted from his mouth with certainty and force, permeating the air and repeating over and over again in his mind. It was surprising, even for him, yet never before had he been more sure of anything in the world. He hadn’t planned to say it, yet she’d driven it out of him with her words and looks. If he didn’t say it now, he might never get another chance.
Anneka’s mouth fell open, and she took a step backwards, dropping his hand. He crossed his arms and held his elbows as the silence closed in around them. She looked everywhere but at him. She cleared her throat, and tried to smile, but it faded away almost instantly.
“That’s…” she started, but stopped. “I thought you viewed her as a sister. I’m sure she thinks of you as a brother.” Another pause. “I should go.”
Without waiting for a response, she left.
Ivar stared at the door. What had he just said? It was the truth, there was no doubt about that, but he’d been so careful, so cautious in what he said and did. Ósa wasn’t a romantic. Those kinds of feelings just weren’t in her nature, or if they were, she chose to conceal them, and he’d always tried to respect that. Despite their being close, she’d always managed to keep enough distance between them to keep her comfortable. Except for that one time…
Everything with Ósa’s family, with what happened to her mother, were things that she still had to face. Still had to deal with. There was no place in her life for him – not in that way. Not right now. But—
Shouting reached his ears. He jolted back to the present and yanked on his boots before stumbling out the door.
“What’s happened?” he yelled to the nearest person to him, a woman hurrying from house to house. A baby’s cries from within the last house followed her out through the open doorway.
“They’re in boats!” the woman shouted back, terror running rampant on her face. “They’re coming ashore!”
A lump formed in his throat, cutting off his air.
No.
The wait was over. They’d had almost no time at all to prepare, yet it had felt like for ever since they’d begun to watch the waters, waiting for the day that the Ør would come. Waiting for the inevitable. Yet it had always been something that would happen. Something that would eventually come. It had never been so immediate, so present. Like how in the winter, they knew one day it would be warm again. One day, the air wouldn’t bite the skin from their bones. One day. Now that day was here, and all he wanted was just a bit more time.
“Grab a bow and get to the water!” Eldór shouted at him as he ran past him in the street. Spinning on his heel, Ivar ran into the house and grabbed his bow. In a repurposed fishing net, a makeshift quiver, he retrieved the fire arrows that had been prepared.
Chaos flew through the village on a wind of doubt and fear. The hurried plans of the previous days fell apart into a maelstrom of opposing wills. Many of the children were being rushed towards one of the fortified underground storerooms, their little faces pale and some streaming with tears. Most of the others, he was vaguely happy to see, were running towards the water armed with an array of the weapons the villages had been working so hard to prepare. Knives here, bows and arrows there, even spears and darts. Some, particularly the younger ones, carried slingshots with bags of stones. What little use they’d be in such a fight, but bless their souls for the thought. Despite the harsh words that had been thrown around, despite that frightened man who’d hung himself, somehow, these people were coming together, and it was exactly what Skane would need.
How many of them, he couldn’t help but think as he hurried to the sea, would be gone by the end of the day? All of them? Half of them? He knew what he ought to think, that given what they knew of the Ør, there wouldn’t be a single villager who could still draw breath in a few hours’ time, but that thought was too defeating, too overwhelming to contemplate.
He turned his eyes towards the northwest where only trees and snow and sky sat quietly. No sign of Ósa. No sign of the hope he’d been resting so heavily upon. That letter she’d sent; she’d reached the mountains. What had become of her since? If only he could send her his thoughts, cast them out into the void and see if hers were still out there. Would she ever know how this fight would end?
At the coast, it was a grim sight indeed, despite the darkness. In the moonlight, wide, bulky wooden boats, so unlike Skane’s long, narrow ones, were coming ever nearer across the water. They moved quickly, too, much more quickly than any row boat Ivar had ever seen. Perhaps it was that kind of strength, paired with much larger boats, that gave them the power to make it through the wild White Water to the north. Or maybe the danger just didn’t deter them. Maybe they did it regardless of how many lives they lost.
Ivar darted his eyes nearer to the coast on the water. Three boats were coming back to the shore, and one man waved a hand wildly in a signal. They’d done it.
“Eldór!” Ivar called to the man who stood a few metres away. In his hand was a torch.
Eldór hurried over while Ivar proffered the soaked tip of his arrow, and it was ablaze in seconds. It took him a moment to stop the shaking of his hands before he could properly take aim. It wasn’t so much fear that wracked him as a sudden understanding of an event that had recently seemed so distant.
Taking a high aim so it would be sure to travel such a distance, Ivar drew in a slow, steady breath before letting the arrow fly. It soared into the windless sky, a signal of their first hope against the coming onslaught.
Without ceremony the arrow plunged into the water, swallowed by the ink-black waves. Just as Ivar began to think about readying a second arrow, a blue glow became apparent at the arrow’s final destination.
A few of the villagers cheered as the oil spread atop the water went up in flames. From a distance, where the oil wasn’t clearly visible, it looked as if the ocean itself was ablaze, the sight blindingly bright in the darkness. Despite the gravity of the situation, Ivar allowed himself a small smile when the boats carrying the Ør ground to a halt. A mist of spray from their shuddering oars rose around the fleet. It wouldn’t put them off for long and the fire would soon burn out, but any way to throw off their attack and perhaps set them on their guard, especially if they feared fire, was welcome.
The flames burned a dull red. They were like liquid coals, petering out into a thick black smoke that obscured the stars and the ships. Ivar wished more than anything that they would sail their boats straight into it and burn to death, every single one of them. What a sight that would be. But they remained still. They had travelled such a great distance to do this; they wouldn’t be put off so easily. They would wait the fire out, and then continue their invasion.
The men who’d spread the oil were dragging their boats inland now, readying for their second set of tasks. The second step wouldn’t do much, no doubt. It would only stave the Ør off for a few more seconds or minutes, but that extra time, time between now and their last breaths, was all they wanted.
Here and there, where the water was moving in and out the fires were dying down, and holes were forming in the wall of flame. Already the Ør were making for those gaps. The first one to make it through unscathed made Ivar’s skin prickle. They were so close now, so huge and monstrous.
When the first of the boats were just nearing the shore, grinding on to the pebbles beneath the surface of the water, Eldór handed him a second flaming arrow. The villagers began to draw back, intimidated by the sudden closeness of the Ør and the menace of their appearances.
Ivar shot the second arrow on to the ground just at the edge of the beach.
It was thick with oil, and this time caught the flame much faster than on the water. Now, the only way forward for the Ør would be through it. There were so many of them, though. More than he could have imagined. Once the first Ør fell, the others would be able to walk across their fallen bodies and reach the villagers in no time – if they treated their comrades with such contempt. Ivar hoped that wasn’t the case. Those who were already at the shore hung back, leaving a small gap of water between them and the blaze.
“For those of you with bows and arrows, your time is now!” Ivar shouted, fixing a regular arrow to his bow. He took aim at one of the brutes directly across from him, but realized they were more heavily armoured than the scouts. Their necks were covered in hardened leathers, which had been the one place he remembered they were the weakest. Where else? he thought quickly. Their arrows were fairly weak, not reinforced with stone or metals. It was unlikely they would pierce their skull.
Then he saw it.
Taking aim, he let the arrow fly in the monster’s left eye. It sank in deeply, so deeply it had certainly reached his brain. The monster shrieked, stumbling and yanking the arrow from his face. Shooting it had been one thing, but seeing the Ør pull the arrow back out, dripping with blood and leaving a hole where it had pierced, turned Ivar’s stomach.
“Aim for their eyes!” he shouted to the other archers. Within second, a small hoard of arrows was zipping through the air towards the monsters. Only a few of them made their mark, but those few hit were knocked off their feet, and some directly into the fire. Before they could move to stand, they were ablaze. For those whose eyes hadn’t been pierced, some had been nicked in the arms or legs, and some missed altogether.
As Ivar moved to string another arrow, he caught sight of a familiar figure to his right, half-hidden in the trees. Anneka. She gripped a small knife tightly with both hands, her eyes wide. He caught her gaze for a moment before she shrank back.
With a sudden deafening cry, a large group of the Ør charged through the fire, moving so quickly it didn’t have time to fully set them aflame. While a few fell, clawing at small flames licking their feet, most of the oils that had stuck to them were soon wiped off by the wet rocks of the beach. From that single point, it spread down the line of fire until hundreds of them were pouring through. Any unease over the flames they’d once felt had vanished. Now they were ready to fight.
Sigvard, Eldór and a few others were forming a solid group armed with swords and large knives. On a shout from Ósa’s father, they charged into the fight.
Something above caught Ivar’s attention and he glanced up. The lós were faintly visible overhead, but – it couldn’t be the lós. He craned his neck, as if it would give him a better view. Sure enough, they were waving, moving lights, just like the lós, but…
They were gold.
Smoke carried to Ivar on the breeze, along with screams from the villagers and shouts from the Ør. But something else was carried along with it. Something faint that reached his ears despite the shrieking of the devils.
The beat of wings.