Chapter 30
Ivar had given up trying to quiet his mind days ago. Now, instead of sleeping, he’d lie awake most of the night, thinking of everything all at once. He thought of Ósa in the mountains. What was she doing? Had she reached the peak? Was she still alive? He thought of the Ør. Were they on their way to shore? How many of them were there? He thought of Móri. Why had he not refused to let him go? Why had he let the boy out of his sight during the battle?
Ivar lay staring at the roof, one arm draped across his stomach and the other behind his head. It was just days ago that he and Ósa had both been trapped in here during the storm, reading scrolls and making plans and listening to the howling wind. Now she was Goddess knows where, doing hell knows what. That was wrong. Different. Since they were children he’d always had at least some idea of where she was, what she was doing. This kind of physical distance between them was too real, made him too helpless.
The door opened. Ivar sighed and closed his eyes. Peace and quiet. That was all he wanted.
“You can’t stay in here for ever, Ivar.”
His mother. He rolled on to his side and eyed her where she stood.
“You will feel better if you keep your mind occupied.” Freja wasn’t usually home during the day, or even late into the night, when things were normal. She taught children how to knit and weave and doubled as a carer when their mothers and fathers fell ill or were otherwise occupied. It suited her. She’d always been a good mother, and now that Ivar was grown, he didn’t need her around as much.
When she spoke, Ivar had a hard time arguing with her, especially not when he felt the way he did now. Sighing again, he sat up and yanked on his boots and wraps. Sitting around here thinking wouldn’t help a soul, and right now, a lot of souls needed helping.
“You are right, as always,” he said, crossing the room and kissing her forehead. “I’ll be back later.”
He shoved some food into his pockets and left the village behind.
There was blue sky overhead. The trees stood tall, the snow deep. All the things he’d always loved about Skane, about their frozen little world, were still here, yet somehow their magic had disappeared. The once cheerful blue sky seemed less vibrant, the once glistening white snow looked dull. He kept his head down as he walked, feelings of foolishness playing with his mind. How could they think this wouldn’t happen? Why should they be any safer here than in Löska? Looking back, these events seemed obvious, unavoidable. But until that run-in with the scouts in the forest, it had never crossed their minds.
He hadn’t planned where to go, but once Neska had fully vanished behind him he found himself heading north, and climbing. His path led him close enough to the water to hear the crashing waves in the distance, though mostly the only sounds were his footsteps crunching through the snow.
Ivar had been up here, and many times before, to hunt or to find nearby caves with Leiv or his father. Sometimes it was with Ósa, for no other reason than their chores were done and her father had gone out on the sea. These were some of his most cherished memories, traipsing through the snow and trees with her, or finding cliffs over the water and sitting down to watch the stars come out. It was always the same one that shone first, high overhead and bright as a bonfire against the dark.
An hour after he’d left the village, he stopped to catch his breath. He hadn’t been much further north than this but once or twice. The furthest he’d gone this way was last year with a group of villagers tracking a boar. They’d found it hiding in a thicket perhaps fifteen minutes from here, and it served as a feast for the mid-year—
Footsteps.
He was on his feet again in a second, the single small hunting knife in his hand. That dreadful sense of someone approaching him, of someone watching him, seeped into his mind in the same way it had that day in the woods with Ósa. They drew nearer, nearer…
His father emerged from around a bend in the path. Ivar’s shoulders fell and crisp air once again filled his lungs.
“Why did you follow me?” he asked, releasing a breath through his teeth.
“You shouldn’t leave the village alone,” Sigvard replied, crossing his arms and taking in the area. “You know that.”
“I always leave the village alone,” Ivar replied. Then he realized. “Mother sent you, didn’t she?”
“She told me you’d left. She worries, as I do. You haven’t been the same since… Since it happened. Neska can’t afford for you to let this consume you. Skane can’t afford that. You can mourn when all of this is over.”
“How could I be the same?” Ivar breathed. “How can I carry on as usual knowing that a boy of thirteen years is dead, when I could have saved him? Eldór has no feelings for anyone, but how can you carry on?”
“Móri knew the dangers he was facing, Ivar. He knew what could happen and he went anyway. If you had been his age, you would have done the same thing. I cared for him deeply. You know that. But his death was only one. If we keep our heads, we can save hundreds.”
Ivar turned away and picked up a rock from the snow, then hurled it into the trees. “His life should have been saved.”
“His life could have been saved,” his father corrected. “You can make yourself suffer for his death until the end of your days, but it will not change the fact that it happened. Móri is gone, but you are still here. I am still here. Ósa…” He trailed off.
“Ósa is still here.”
“Perhaps.”
Ivar closed his eyes and breathed. The logic of his father’s words made sense in his mind, but accepting it meant reconciling himself to Móri’s death, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. It was far too soon.
But.
Sigvard was right. If everyone didn’t work together, Móri’s death would be just one out of hundreds. Most of Is̊avik had already been lost. The least they could do was try to save everyone who was left. If the Ør weren’t stopped, all of their deaths would have been in vain. All future deaths would be in vain. They deserved to be avenged. They deserved to have died for something.
When he turned to face his father, he said nothing, only nodded.
Sigvard let a moment or two of silence slip by before asking, “Where are you off to?”
Ivar shrugged. “I want to see the boats from up high.” He didn’t remember making that decision, but now he was certain that was why he’d come. “I’m looking for a better view, so I can see when they move on the attack.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
Ivar shook his head.
Their pathway led steadily upwards. They spoke from time to time, about little things, like a white hare that ran across their way. As the way grew steeper, they had to slow their pace, and when at last they reached the top of the hill and a cliff that looked out over the ocean, Ivar nearly collapsed out of breathlessness into the snow beneath them. It took him a few moments before he could focus enough to look out over the water.
Cold air swept in from the sea as they both stared, silent. A long, thin line of dark boats stretched away, about two boats deep.
Further out to sea, boats were steadily making their way to the others from the horizon, streaming down from the north in an endless line. So many he couldn’t even count their numbers. It made sense the more he thought about it. He and Ósa had killed their first scouts, and then he and the others killed the next five. Since they’d never gone back to spread the word about who and what was on the island, they didn’t know what to prepare for. They were waiting to attack until more support came. But there were so many, far more than they’d ever need.
A quarter of those boats would have been enough.
“We should go and tell the others,” Ivar whispered.
Sigvard didn’t reply, just stared at the sight far below.
The Ør had back-up arriving.