Land of Fury, page 2
The princess looks sad, and even if it is irrational to blame her for any of it, I don’t want to look at her.
I can’t bear it, so I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see those shimmering, sympathetic green eyes intent on me. “Go away, princess. Leave me be.” I swallow thickly. I have hardly moved in days, yet exhaustion makes it all feel unbearable. “Go,” I repeat. “I want to be alone.”
“But—” Her voice cracks a little. “I thought we were friends?”
I would turn on my side if I could. I would hide myself away from the world, but I am forced to lie as I am, and it only enrages me more. “I said go—”
“Thora!” the queen barks from the doorway, making us both jump. In two strides, she walks in, takes her daughter’s arm, and yanks her off the bed.
The princess shrieks, and I wince as my body jostles again.
Queen Sigrid glares at Mary, and I note the eldest daughter standing in the doorway, closer to my age. All she does is watch the commotion in a meek sort of silence.
“I told you she was to leave the boy alone,” the queen growls at Mary, and if I didn’t know better, I would think the queen had fangs.
Mary apologizes profusely, offering one excuse after the other, but the queen ignores her as she wrenches Thora from the room.
The princess whimpers but doesn’t fight against her mother as she is pulled out the door.
“Must I always do everything myself?” the queen growls. “As if I do not have a kingdom to fortify and people to protect.” Her voice booms from the hallway. Then I hear Thora whimper again and what sounds like a smack.
My jaw aches as I grit my teeth, and I hate myself for not showing the princess a little more kindness.
But this is not my home, and she is not my friend, I remind myself. None of this is right. I should not even be here.
And staring at the onyx stone in my hand, I think of tossing it to the floor or out the window, wanting nothing from these people. Only . . . my fist clenches tightly around it instead.
2
ZANDER
The weeks become months before I am walking with any sort of comfort. Self-pity and loathing nearly unbearable, I roam the castle grounds as much as my body will allow as the burns continue to heal.
The wounds are horrendous to look at, so I try not to. They remind me of my failure—of my dead family and how much I hate this life.
Countless times, I’ve considered how I might end my suffering, but there’s a shadowy whisper that lingers in the back of my mind, telling me I shouldn’t—that it is not my time yet; that I lived for a reason, even if I wish I hadn’t. And those lingering whispers make me hate the queen even more. I still don’t know what she wants with me or why she saved me.
The guards pacing the ramparts above serve as a reminder that I am supervised, despite the appearance of freedom the queen bestows on me. Everywhere I look there’s a stone wall closing me in, yet Winterwood village bustles beyond the gates.
I walk through the snow-covered gardens and pass the chapel, not bothering to peer inside. I don’t know what sort of person can believe in the old gods and the Christian God, but there are remnants of both worlds throughout the hallways of this strange place—wooden crosses hanging beside carvings of the Allfather, as if the queen is touting her religious tolerance for all to see.
I pass the storehouse, stocked with seed and grain for the constant winter that blankets Norseland. It’s a disgusting sight—heaps of food within the castle walls when so much of the kingdom is hungry. Whatever the harsh weather doesn’t claim in the wildland, the chieftains and church do, and the keep’s full storehouse is another reminder how out of place I am, living with the queen and her daughters, who have no inkling what a cruel season is. They don’t know what it is to feel the winter, so cold in your bones you fear they might snap, nor the growl of hunger, so deep in the pit of your stomach it seems there’s no way it could possibly be sated.
The queen has ensured she and her daughters never want for anything, providing them a life far different than the one I’ve lived. We could not be any different . . . And she brought me here to be hers. It’s a concept I still don’t understand. And with the queen avoiding me over the past weeks, I’m not likely to learn more anytime soon.
I woke last night to find her in the doorway, watching me from the shadows with only a candle to light her face. Like so many times before, she was standing in silence with a look of tenderness on her face that I am starting to think only I have ever seen. Whether it is guilt or something else that plagues her, the queen is clearly conflicted about my presence in her stone fortress.
Limping into the stables, I find a menagerie of her finest horses, and those of her guardsmen. I hobble along the aisle at a snail’s pace, admiring the beasts’ long manes and braided tails, their thick muscles and groomed, shaggy winter coats. These horses have been bred for the cold and the fight. Their war-honed riders practice with their battle axes and swords each sunrise and sunset as if it’s all they live for.
“Easy, boy,” a man murmurs, bent beside a large gray stallion at the end of the line. He grumbles something as he picks its hooves clean.
“Is he yours?” I ask.
The man straightens and peers over his shoulder at me. His blonde hair is shaved on the sides, the rest tied back into sections away from his tattooed face. His bulky muscles flex as he drops the horse’s hoof to the ground.
“Ah, the young master is up and about, I see,” he muses. His voice is kind and jovial, despite his brutish appearance. He is not just a man, he is a warrior. His markings boast as much.
“His name is Goliath.” The warrior stands, nodding to his horse. “He is the best steed in this stable, no matter what you hear,” he says with a smirk.
“Why?” I ask, limping closer. “What do people say about him?” I stop a few paces away and stare into the steed’s beady, brown eyes, wondering what horrors he has seen with his master mounted on his back. I don’t recognize the warrior, but I would not be surprised if he was one of many who raided and burned my village. The queen’s sigil clasping his cloak together all but confirms it.
“That the bastard is more trouble than he’s worth, just like me,” the warrior says proudly, and he chuckles at that. The sound is jollier than anything I’ve heard or felt in days, and as infectious as it is, I can’t help but smile.
“Do you ride?” the warrior asks, and he leads his horse into an empty stall.
“I do—” I stop myself. Whatever I used to do doesn’t matter now. “Not anymore,” I amend. “Obviously.” I hate how feeble I sound, and scowling, I straighten my shoulders.
“Why? Because of your burns?” He shakes his head and shuts the stall door behind him. “That has never stopped a true warrior.”
“I am a farmer’s son, not a warrior, and especially not one for the queen,” I tell him, my words hard with promise.
The man’s eyes widen. “Oh? I would not let her hear you say that.” He has a smile in his voice and his mustache twitches a little. “You have no love for the queen, then?”
“She killed my family,” I bite out. “And she will not even speak to me about why I am here.”
The man hums and steps closer. “There are many reasons behind the queen’s actions,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His thick arms flex as he puts his fists on his hips and assesses my damaged body. “So, what do they call you, young master?”
I lift my chin. “Zander,” I tell him.
“Well, I am Gorm. I am the queen’s huntsman and commander of her warriors.”
“Then you,” I seethe, “are the one who killed my family.”
Gorm’s expression falters, but only slightly. “You have much to learn about life, young master. And I am meant to teach you.”
“I am to be one of the queen’s men, then?” I’m not sure if I’m more astonished that she thinks I would ever be willing to do such a thing, or that I would even be capable with my injuries.
Gorm nods. “She’s seen that you have the best care in the kingdom for a reason, boy. And it is not out of the kindness of her heart.” He chuckles at that.
“Even if one day I can ride again—even if I become the best warrior in all of Norseland—I will never fight for the queen’s army,” I swear to him.
Gorm chuckles again, which only makes my frown deepen. “You will change your mind.”
“No,” I say vehemently. “I will never wear the queen’s sigil.”
His easiness fades, and discontent sharpens his features. “With time, you will find safety and honor among me and my men. I will help you be stronger than you’ve ever been before.”
“Train me all you wish, but I will not maim and murder innocent people like the rest of you. So, you might as well kill me now and get it over with.”
“Take care, now,” Gorm warns, and he looks at me sideways. “You are angry and grieving, but you will watch what you say. You are alive by the grace of the queen. God has shown you a different path, a life far better than the one you’ve lived so far.”
“The gods, perhaps,” I reply. “I am no Christian.”
Gorm grins. “Still, things have a way of changing, young master. You will not only be strong in body, you will find strength and brotherhood among my warriors, and that is a feeling unlike any you have ever had. Take my word for it. You resist now, but you will find, just as I did, that the power and strength you wield outside of these walls gives you a purpose. And you will not turn your back on such a feeling, I promise you that. The man in you—the survivor you clearly are—will not allow it.”
“Gorm!” The red-haired princess runs into the stable, spooking the horses.
“Slow down there, princess.” With a belly laugh, he lifts her into his arms. She giggles, and the sound reminds me of my sisters. Though my heart aches remembering them, there is something about this little princess that softens me more than I want it to. It’s her innocence, I think. Her oblivion to the cruel world, and her loneliness, which I can relate to far more than I’d like to admit.
“Will you play with me?” she asks Gorm.
“Play?” he parrots with another laugh. “I am a warrior. I do not play with princesses.”
Her lip protrudes in a pout as he sets her down again. “Perhaps young Zander will play with you while he recovers.”
I shake my head. “I do not want to play,” I grumble. It would be too painful, the memory of my own siblings too raw and close to the surface. I walk past her, more quickly than I probably should, ignoring the sad look on her face.
“Go on, now,” Gorm tells her behind me. “Find the abbess. She’ll be looking for you anyway.”
I see a hunter straining to carry a young buck over his shoulders as he comes in through the postern gate leading from the rear woods. I decide to follow him to the butcher, where I assume he’ll dress the meat for tonight’s dinner.
While Gorm seems to think I will be a warrior one day, I don’t know if I will ever be able to hunt again, and I miss the weight of my bow and arrow.
Leaving Gorm in the stable, I hobble behind the hunter, heading toward the kitchen. Helping him skin and dress the meat would be a welcome diversion, if my body will allow it.
I’ve only taken a few steps when the little princess runs up beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she watches me limp hastily to keep up.
“Going with you,” she says, her arms swinging at her sides with each broad step. Her dress catches in the breeze, flowing behind her as she tries to match my stride. When she looks up at me, her eyes are the brightest green I’ve ever seen.
“You are not going with me, princess,” I tell her.
“Why not? Gorm said I could.”
I stop to face her. “I do not care what Gorm says. You will not like to watch an animal butchered,” I promise. “Trust me.”
“Yes,” she says hotly, “I will.” But the fleeting apprehension in her eyes as they shift to the dead deer gives her away.
I grin. “Fine. Come along, then. If you get squeamish, it is your own fault.”
I continue toward the kitchen, the princess striding alongside me with purpose, as if she’s about to prove something to me. I nearly chuckle. Silly girls and their pride. I know it well. Or rather, I did.
I clear my throat at the somber thought, and when we step into the kitchen, I see there’s a room with cured meats hanging from rafters. The hunter steps up to a large, bloodstained table and hefts his kill onto it.
“May I help?” I ask, hopeful.
The man isn’t more than twenty, but his body is toned from hard work, much like my father’s had always been. “No, young master,” he says. “The queen would not like it.”
I frown. After witnessing the queen’s anger a few times now, I don’t wish for the hunter to get in trouble, so I don’t push him. “May we watch, at least?”
He looks between Thora and me, and with a huff, he finally concedes.
The princess and I file in and squeeze back into the corner, out of his way.
Thora watches with rapt attention as the hunter cuts the deer’s hide to peel it away. Each movement is quick and practiced, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. The bloodier it gets, the wider Thora’s eyes become, and I smile.
“You can leave, if you wish.”
She tosses her curly red hair over her shoulder and lifts her chin just as a princess would. “No,” she says, but her face turns green, contorting in horror as the hunter disembowels his kill.
“I think you may lose your breakfast,” I say with a laugh.
The princess doesn’t respond, watching every move the man makes, and by the time he’s chopping off the deer’s knees, she seems enraptured by it.
Pesky as she is, I smile at the princess despite myself. “Remember how much work went into your stew tonight when you sit down to eat it, princess.”
She glances at me before she loses herself in the thralls of butchering once more.
While I’ve grown up working hard for every single meal my family ever ate, the princess is likely clueless about this life—about this world. Probably down to where her food comes from and how it’s prepared for her table.
Minutes stretch on until, finally, the hunter finishes. As he cleans up, I nod for the princess to follow me out of the man’s way.
“But—I want him to do another.” Thora looks at me, swiping a fire-red curl from her face. “Will he do another one?”
“It appears not. Go off to your abbess now, like Gorm said. I’m sure she is looking for you.” I start to walk away but catch Thora’s crestfallen expression from the corner of my eye, and it gives me pause. “What is it?”
Thora’s eyes gleam. “I hate the abbess,” she says sadly. “She is cruel.”
“What do you mean, cruel? You are the princess. Surely she has never struck you.”
The princess looks at me as if she is worried she has said too much, turns on her heels, and walks away.
“Hey!” I call, remembering the mountain glass she gave me weeks ago. The princess stops. “I have your worry stone in my room. Would you like it back?”
Thora glances back at me, looking indecisive for a minute before she shakes her head. “You can keep it.”
“What if I don’t want it?”
Her face falls even more. “Then throw it away.” As she marches off, a servant woman with a basket of laundry drops a linen into the snow, and the princess bends to pick it up. The servant bows her head with a small smile of gratitude. It’s a kindness very few people within these walls would stoop to perform, but the princess doesn’t think twice as she slouches away, dejected.
As horrible as I feel about making her upset, a part of me is relieved that I’ve hurt her feelings, because now the princess will leave me alone.
I don’t want a friend here. I don’t want to like any of them. And whatever the queen may think, I will not be one of her men, nor will I stay here a second longer than I have to.
3
ZANDER
THREE YEARS LATER
My footsteps echo in the hall as I make my way through the castle. I’ve been stuck inside for five days. No muted daylight or fresh air. No sisters to annoy me, or parents to chide us for bickering. Just me with my conflicting thoughts.
Stopping in the corridor, I peer out the window, but all I see is a veil of angry white. The storm is ferocious and unrelenting as it thrashes against the glass, determined to get in. Still, I want nothing more than to be free from this maze of drafty, torchlit hallways.
Liar. I hate the internal voice that nudges my animosity aside.
Winters like this, out in the woods, can be far more brutal than any raid exacted at the queen’s command. I’ve seen men the size of mountains struck down by the coldest seasons, frostbite claiming their means of livelihood. Healthy farmers, like my grandfather, who have lived off the land since the day they were born—all too familiar with winter’s wrath—succumbing to the cold; closing their eyes, never to awaken.
So here, in this fortress of stone, I find I am grateful for the comforts of the castle despite myself. For the warmth of the queen’s fires, and for my cup that is always full and my plate that is never empty.
The window rattles and the scars along my arm and down my side prickle with chills. They ache more than I can sometimes bear, the muscles beneath the skin tightening and pulling with every movement until the sting of pain fills my eyes. Doing my best to ignore it, I continue my listless walk through the halls, seeking a diversion.
