“And the first?” she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow whilst feeling heat rising to her cheeks.
Bray’s green eyes twinkled mischievously. “The sunset.”
“Wake up,” said Nat. Elora felt him gently shaking her shoulder. Grey, pre-dawn light settled around the small camp, the fire having gutted sometime before and was now merely a miserable pile of ash. Otholo lay curled up next to it, an arm over his lute and his head hidden beneath a hood. Ejan was sat on the log, scraping a sharpening stone along the blade of her sword.
Elora stretched, neck and joints stiff from sleeping on the damp ground. “Where’s Bray and Diagus?”
“They left earlier, scouting ahead in case of trouble,” answered Ragna, taking dried biscuits from his pack and divided them into piles. “They’ll be back for breakfast, before we move off.”
Yawning, Elora wandered down to the stream and splashed icy water on her face, the mountains which it sprang from looming dark in the reflection. She gazed up at the imposing snow-capped peaks as the sun began to rise above, tinging the few clouds pink whilst projecting golden fingers down the mountain side. Bray was right, it was a beautiful sunrise.
“We’ve got to climb those?” she asked Ejan, as the Norsewoman joined her at the stream. Crouching low on a rock the Viking dunked her entire head beneath the water, held it under for a moment before lifting her head back, water flying from her long blonde plait.
“Yeah,” she answered, shaking the excess drips from her flushed face. “Those are the God’s Peaks. Aslania is at the top of the tallest.”
“They’re so big,” said Elora, toying with the idea of dunking her own head but deciding the water was too cold.
“They look big now? Wait until we’ve reached the base and you’re staring up at the summit. It’s going to make you feel mouse small.” Ejan was about to say something else when her head whipped about, her knife suddenly appearing in her hand.
“What is it?” Elora asked, as a tall man stepped from behind a tree on the other side of the stream.
He was dressed in boiled leather; a dull breastplate strapped to his chest and wore a rounded helmet of the same metal. A large crossbow lay heavily in his arms; its bolt levelled towards them. He grunted something Elora didn’t understand and Ejan said something back in the same language. She slowly rose to her feet and glared at the man as she dropped her knife.
He smiled and motioned for them to walk back the way they came. When they turned, Elora heard the splashes as he followed.
“Who is he?” Elora felt unnerved at having a huge weapon pointed at her back. She glanced behind and caught him staring at her with hunger in his eyes and an unsavoury grin splitting his matted beard, showing yellow teeth.
“Don’t know. But I don’t think he’s here to chew fat over the weather,” Ejan answered.
Elora pushed her cloak open using her elbows to hide her intentions from their captor, and she slid her sword from the smuggler’s pouch. She stepped to the side to block his view and placed the hilt in Ejan’s hand. The Viking tucked it tight to her body as Elora then pulled her dagger out, holding it against her forearm.
“Ragna will take him down,” whispered Ejan. But as they came over the rise Elora saw the huge Viking on his knees, another man dressed in boiled leather, held the point of a long sword against his neck. Nat and Otholo were both perched on the log with a third man holding a drawn bow, arrow notched between the pair.
Two more men rode out of the woods on horses, each pulling other mounts which Elora guessed belonged to the men that had silently crept up and taken them hostage.
“Definitely not here to discuss the weather,” said Elora, as another pair of men trotted in from the other side of the clearing, their horses snorting out small clouds of mist. One of the new arrivals, a grey bearded man with a shiny metal breastplate, dismounted and casually walked over to the spent fire and poked it with a stick - attempting to rekindle any sparks that were left.
From the way he moved and from the way the other men watched him, Elora took him to be the leader. After a few vain moments he realised that the fire was truly out and turned his attention to them. He smiled at Ejan and mumbled something.
“Crap,” Elora heard her whisper, then dropped the sword onto the ground. “Better drop that dagger, girl. They won’t think nothing of putting a bolt in your back.”
Elora let her weapon fall to the thick grass.
Grey beard smiled, appearing satisfied with their compliance. Then sauntered over to Ragna, speaking in that strange tongue, Elora guessing that he was being questioned. Frustrated at not being able to understand what was going on she took the tinker’s tongue from a pocket in her cloak and slowly clipped it onto her ear. Luckily the men around her were more intent on watching Ragna being interrogated than what she was doing.
“What are Vikings doing this far south?” Grey beard questioned.
Ragna stretched his neck away from the blade as he replied. “Enjoying the countryside. Maybe a spot of fishing.”
The interrogator tapped the Fist of the North with the toe of his boot. “Some bloody big fish you’re hunting, eh?”
Ragna grinned. “Huge.”
“Strange companions though. Vikings and Minuans, if I’m not mistaken.” His gaze drifted over Otholo, Nat and Elora. “Didn’t think you lot got on with each other.”
“Times change. You know how the saying goes; make friends, make friends and never ever break friends.”
Grey beard calmly drew a dirk from his belt and placed it against Ragna’s Adam’s apple, the point pressing an indentation into the skin. “You know the expression; tell me the bloody truth or I’ll make you gargle blood with the next lie.”
“Wait, wait. There’s no need for violence.” This from Otholo who attempted to rise from the log but was roughly shoved back down. “My name’s Otholo. These kindly Norsemen were escorting my sister and I, to Aslania.”
“Otholo?” Grey beard’s eyebrows knitted together as he looked him over. “Otholo the bard? Weren’t you the golden harp of Gosland or something?”
Otholo puffed out chest with pride at being recognized. “I am. Otholo the golden harp. Personal songbird to King Jerome, one-time lover of Princess...”
“I hate bards,” cut in the leader. Otholo sagged back, shoulders slumping, deflated at the reaction.
“Rebels, bandits, Vikings or just good honest thieves. It doesn’t matter none to me. You’re not going to Aslania. And that’s orders that have been sent down from the Emperor himself.”
“And who’s going to stop us,” said Diagus, stepping into the clearing, his hood hiding his face. “You and your rag-tag sell swords?”
Elora heard the man behind her curse, then hiss through his teeth. Gazing over her shoulder she saw that Bray held a knife against his throat.
“I’d be thinking about pointing that crank bow at your feet, about now,” his words were hushed, yet the threat was there. His eyes flicked to her and he gave her a wink. Elora felt relief wash over her.
“That’s right,” continued grey beard, regaining his composure after being interrupted. He pulled his dirk from Ragna’s neck as he approached Diagus. “Sell swords we maybe, but we’re taking the Emperor’s coin this season. We fall into his jurisdiction and hold his law.” He folded his arms across his breastplate and stood a foot from the Shadojak, their faces inches apart, and smiled smugly. “There’s a battalion of the Emperor’s men holding the bridge into Gods Peaks. Another spread out along its border and he’s hired sell swords to patrol the borders for anybody seeking passage into Aslania.”
“Who’s got command at the bridge?” Asked Diagus, coolly.
