Sylvia sat beside Aimo at the front of his cart, resting her sore body and soul. Rise trotted alongside them, surely not lamenting the loss of her rider’s weight on her back. She had a new burden to get used to. The new saddle bags were sturdy and well filled. The new tent was strapped to the back of the saddle. Sylvia hoped she had distributed the weight evenly. She had traded the old tent in for a blanket to sit on. She also kept a few balls of sticky fire, wrapped in leaves and scraps of cloth, and a little bit of spirit. She reused the clear bottle Aimo had given them, and filled it with a splash during the drunken night which inevitably followed the battle.
The farewell dedicated to the fallen was loud and erratic, but their departure from Holms Fäste had been a truly grand event. It took them two weeks to clean up, declare a new mayor, tend to their injured, and trade with the locals. Having access to a bath and a real bed in the meantime was a blessing, but Yri had warned Sylvia not to get used to it. Once all was put to rights, the Fri took their farewell. The people of Holms Fäste dished up fish and shrimp. The Fri brought out cured meat. The farmers from the surrounding villagers brought vegetables and grain. Sylvia had never seen so much food in one place. The entire city smelled of delights. Thinking back on it now, saliva pooled in her mouth anew.
The road was harsh in contrast. The woods offered a bumpy ride, and once they left the trees and rode across the fields along the coast, the constant wind carried in salt from the sea. It burned in Sylvia’s eyes, drying them out mercilessly. She kept them closed for most of the ride, slouching in her corner of the wagoner’s seat. It was very comfortable. Aimo had draped a thick blanket over the backrest, and even tied a thin cushion to the seat.
It was nearly midday when a whistle came from the front of the caravan. The riders perked up in an instant. They pulled the reins taunt and felt for their weapons. All conversation died. For a tense moment, all was quiet. Sylvia looked around. There was nothing approaching the caravan that she could see. Another whistle, and the tip of the caravan detached, one group of riders dashing forward. The wagons stopped, protected by the remaining soldiers. No one bothered drawing a weapon, though. Sylvia stood up in the wagon to see more.
Yri led ten horses across the fields in tight formation. In the distance, a rider on a black horse made a sharp turn, attempting escape. The Fri closed in. Yri shouldered her arbalests. Balder readied an arrow. The sound of galloping hooves rang across the open landscape. A twang of strings. A series of dull thuds. The scream of a man. Sylvia tensed. Something was amiss. The black horse slowed ever so little. The Fri drew swords. They surrounded the rider, forcing him to halt. The black horse turned in a circle and then stilled. The rider was pulled from the high saddle, fell to the ground hard, and two Fri jumped on top. Another scream. Sylvia felt her soul shudder.
The rider was forced to his feet and brought back. When they neared the road, Sylvia could see more clearly. It was a white man they had captured, broad and tall. His wrists were tied together with a rope. Yri held the other end, leading him along. The black horse obediently followed its master, but it held its distance after the scare. It was a beautiful, strong animal. It seemed almost regal. Sylvia rubbed at her eyes to chase the blurry frame from her vision. It could not be, could it?
Yri stopped at the front of the caravan and shoved the captured rider to the ground. Sylvia could hear her pulse in her ears. Anger mingled with confusion inside of her. No. It crept in on her from outside. Fear rippled over her skin.
Thorun dismounted and stepped up to the broad figure, sitting on hands and knees in the dirt. “Who do we have here? It is rather brave to ride all on your own.”
“Or foolish”, Yri added.
Thorun hummed in agreement. “Mm. Not as foolish as trying and outrun a Fri.”
The man stared at the ground in silence.
“Not a talkative one, is he?”, Thorun remarked.
She took a hold of his leather shirt. Untying the three broad straps, which held it around his mid, she pulled his armour and clothes up. A deep scar rested at the very centre of his chest, right over his soul. It was a brand, shaped like the crescent moon.
Thorun began to chuckle. She let go and turned to the caravan at large. “A Wolf that has travelled too far from its pack!”
After hearing whom they had captured, some laughed and others whistled in delight. Sylvia, on the other hand, tensed even further. The tall statue. The light skin. The short brown hair. The way he walked even. The hairs on Sylvia’s arms stood up. She leaned forward and caught a glimpse of his face. It really was Afi. He was alive. But for how long?
Thorun turned back around and kicked Afi’s arms out from under him. His face hit the ground, dust billowing around him. He offered no resistance. He lay limp on the street.
“What is a lone Wolf doing so far from home?”, Thorun asked.
Afi did not respond.
“I am talking to you, Rat!”
Nothing. Afi stared at the ground in determined silence.
Sighing, Thorun lifted a boot and pressed it into the small of his back, until he was pressed flatly into the gravel of the road.
Sylvia drew a sharp breath. She could see it now, the thing that had slowed him down. A bolt was lodged in his right arm. Pressing her foot down hard on Afi’s elbow, Thorun reached for the bolt and tugged it out. Afi’s scream filled the air. He struggled for a few seconds, before relaxing under the boot. He huffed at the ground in deep breaths, his face contorted in pain.
Sylvia was only vaguely aware of the startled noise she made. She stood frozen, nearly shaking with fear, her own fear.
Aimo got to his feet. Standing on the wagon beside Sylvia, he got a better view of the situation. Seeing but a Wolf in the dirt, he frowned. He looked between the captured man and Sylvia to double check that it was this sight which distressed her so. He had to conclude that it indeed was. Sylvia, who had acted so mercilessly just a few weeks ago, was fearing for the life of a Wolf. Aimo pondered this for a few seconds. Realisation soon softened his face. He placed a hand on Sylvia’s arm to get her attention. Seeing her wide worried eyes, he smiled his softest smile, and motioned toward the front of the caravan with an open palm.
“You are Fri. The Fri do what they need and what they will. Do not fear reprimand.”
Sylvia’s gaze shot back to Afi. Thorun dug her heel into his back, shifting most of her weight onto him, until he wheezed, but he still did not speak. Sylvia’s breathing quickened further. Pressure built in her chest. She parted her lips and the words spilled from her in a yell.
“Stop it! Please! Do not kill him!”
Silence fell over the caravan. All heads turned to Sylvia. She stood motionless atop the wagon, hands clutched to her chest, and Aimo’s caring hand resting on her arm. Even Afi peaked up, turning his head a little in an attempt to spot her.
Foreign relief mixed itself into the cocktail of Sylvia’s emotions. “Please”, she repeated.
Thorun frowned at Sylvia for what felt like an eternity. The fierce brown eyes searched her face. They ran down her entire body, and then snapped back up again. Keeping eye contact, Thorun pointed the bloody bolt down at Afi. “You know this rat?”
“I do”, Sylvia admitted. “Please. He saved me.”
Thorun huffed a laugh. Yri frowned. Some soldiers shook their heads in disbelief. When Sylvia did not laugh, did not smile, a whisper began to spread. What in the world had gotten into her?
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“A Wolf saved you?”, Thorun asked, making no attempt to mask her disbelief.
Sylvia nodded. “He did. Please, I beg you, grant a life for a life.”
“Do not beg. It is not dignified. And especially not for a rat”, Thorun reprimanded.
“Thorun”, Yri calmed. “Sylvia invoked a life for a life. She is Fri. She does not have to give proof.”
“Fine. You want him? He is yours”, Thorun spat.
Throwing the bolt at Afi’s head, she finally removed her foot from his back. Sylvia felt an icy cold run down her spine when Thorun's eyes met hers again. Thorun knew how to intimidate with a single look. It did not even seem intentional. Thorun waved her arm in a wide gesture, beckoning Sylvia.
Sylvia climbed down from Aimo’s wagon. Making her way past horses and disapproving stares, she reached the sisters, the other riders, and Afi. He looked terrible, worn and exhausted. Blood was pooling from his arm, but it was clearly not the worst he had experienced in the past weeks.
“How did he save you?”, Thorun asked.
“She does not—”, Yri began.
Thorun raised a hand to silence her. The silence along the entire caravan thickened. It lay like a heavy blanket over the fields.
“You do not have to give proof, but I am asking”, Thorun demanded.
Drawing her gaze from Afi’s injury, Sylvia met the cold of Thorun instead. She forced herself not to waver in the harsh stare. In an imitation of her mother’s grace, she straightened her back and spoke with a steady voice. “He bought me from the market in Surtearv. He never lay a hand on me, and he never gave me to anyone else, not even for money.”
Hearing this, Thorun relaxed, her shoulders falling back into a natural slouch. Sylvia was surprised, shocked even, when she was pulled into a firm hug by the fierce warrior. She could hear Thorun’s voice, softer and warmer than she had ever heard it, whispering into her ear. “I am glad he did not harm you, but do not think it a service. Do not celebrate a man for the things he did not do.”
“No, you do not understand. He kept me safe. He made sure I had food and shelter. He ensured my safety in the city. He taught me. And I was free to go.”
Easing her hold, Thorun questioned, “Were you? Really? Would he have made sure of it? There is a stark difference between theoretical and practical freedom.” When Sylvia hesitated, she continued sternly, “No man will ever set you free. Least of all a Wolf.”
“I hear you, but still…”, Sylvia insisted. “At the very least, he gave me negative freedom, freedom from. From violence. From hunger.”
“Very well. As Yri made sure to remind us all, you do not need to give proof. If you insist…”
“I do”, Sylvia said firmly.
Breaking the hug entirely, Thorun draped one arm over Sylvia’s shoulder and turned her attention to the Wolf at their feet. “A life for a life, justice as old as time. I do not like it, but I will not deny it.”
Afi dared steal a glance at the two of them, but he made sure not to move from his prone position on the ground.
“However, you did keep a Fri captive”, Thorun continued. “If you want to live, you will swear your life to her service, Rat. I will grant you life, but not freedom.”
Afi nodded at once.
Sighing deeply, Thorun pointed to his bound hands. Yri tugged at the rope, forcing Afi to scramble to his knees and face her. Untying the knot, she made a point of pulling so hard that it had to hurt. Afi’s face stayed blank. The stoicism only irritated Yri further. She kicked Afi to the ground again, before gathering the rope into a neat bundle and stowing it away.
Thorun leaned in close and spoke softly into Sylvia's ear again. “Are you sure you want this rat?”, she asked. “It will be yours to command, but also yours to feed. His actions will reflect on you.”
Truthfully, Sylvia had no desire to take a sworn, and especially not by force, but she knew Afi would die today if she did not claim him. The tables had turned. She nodded, “He belongs with me.”
Thorun gave an exasperated shrug, like someone had taken a toy from her, but she wanted to pretend like she did not care. She untied one of the scabbards from her belt. She turned the scabbard around and presented the polished bone hilt to Sylvia. “Have this as your weapon, Sylvia Fri. Finest steel from Guldhamn. Treat it well and it will never rust nor break. It will keep you safe.”
Accepting the small blade with both hands, Sylvia nodded in reverent silence. Coming to Afi’s side, she was handed his sword by one of the soldiers. She handed it to Afi in turn. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She breathed deeply to compensate.
“The oath goes: As long as your blood courses though my veins, I swear my undying loyalty, and so on and so fort”, Yri instructed.
Afi sat up on his knees. His limbs were quivering and his breathing unsteady, but he kept his composure. Unsheathing his sword, he ran the blade across the ball of his thumb, just firm enough to break the skin. He held his hand up to Sylvia in offering. Blood slowly trickled down his wrist.
Sylvia looked down at the cut. It brought up an unexpected memory. Alice had always been rather squeamish around blood. When their mother cut her hand on the kitchen knife, Alice nearly fainted. She could not stomach watching slaughter. Sylvia balled her free hand into a fist. Alice would never learn to tolerate the sight of blood now, and it was likely the last thing she ever saw. Hatred still smouldered in Sylvia’s heart. She doubted it would ever be entirely extinguished.
Yri and Thorun stood waiting. Yri was curious about the delay, but Thorun wore an impatient expression. Thorun was still hoping, Sylvia guessed, that she might refuse the offer after all, and that they could have the pleasure of ending the Wolf’s life today. Only after an appropriate amount of playing with their prey, of course.
Taking a measured breath, Sylvia unclenched her hand. Bringing the tip of her new dagger to her thumb, she pricked her skin and waited for a few pearls of blood to seep out. She pressed it into Afi’s cut. Afi’s eyes met hers, wide and scared, maybe even surprised. There was too much going on at the same time to tell.
Afi’s voice was rough when he spoke, much rougher than usual. “As long as your blood courses through my veins, I swear my undying loyalty to you, Sylvia…” He hesitated, searching his memory.
“Fri. Sylvia Fri”, Sylvia told him.
“As long as your blood courses through my veins, I swear my undying loyalty to you, Sylvia Fri”, Afi repeated.
“I accept your loyalty and give you my name, Afi Sylvias.”
The pact was made. From this moment forth, heir lives were woven together. It was a strange sensation, more tangible than Sylvia would have expected. It was much stronger than her previous oath, made with his blood but without his name. Their bond was like a thread hanging between them, invisible, but strong as blackstone. Letting go of Afi’s hand, Sylvia stared down at her thumb, at their blood smeared over her skin. She always thought the oath was phrased in a curious manner. If this meant her blood was in his, did it not also mean his was in hers? How long did it even take for foreign blood to leave your body? Surely it did not actually stay there all your life? Nevertheless, the oath was evidently true. The magic responded to the words.
Thorun took Afi’s sword from him. “You still have questions to answer, though, and I warn you now, it is not beyond me to lay my hands on a sworn if they are disobedient.”
Afi looked to Sylvia and she nodded her approval. Turning his attention to the Fri leader, Afi admitted, “I am alone. I was separated from my troop. I have been trying to find a boat to go back north.” His voice was lower than usual. He spoke slower as well, every word careful and controlled.
“And the rest? Heading?”
“Holms Fäste. But it was several weeks ago”, Afi answered.
“And?”, Thorun pressed.
“Nothing”, Afi said.
Thorun looked right into his eyes. “What was that?”
“Nothing. That is all I have”, Afi repeated.
Thorun scoffed.
Yri clicked her tongue, “Even better. He is not even of any use.” Shaking her head, she stomped away.
Thorun merely gave another aggravated sigh. She placed a hand on Sylvia's shoulder again and told her to pack her things, while motioning in the general direction of Afi.
“Short rest! We move in ten!”, Thorun called.
Sylvia tied her new weapon to her belt and then sucked her thumb into her mouth to remove the blood. She did not care for the metallic taste, but she was not willing to wipe it off on her clothes. Being on the road left her dishevelled enough. She watched Afi get up slowly, as though he was not entirely sure if he was allowed to. After brushing the dirt off his knees, he stretched his back out with a badly suppressed groan.
When the other riders left them in favour of grabbing a drink during the break, Sylvia also got a clear view of Afi’s black horse. Her breathing quickened. She had been right after all.
“Where did you get that horse?”
“I got it off a dead man”, Afi answered.
Sylvia inspected his face. Fear was still dancing in his eyes. “Who?”, she demanded.
Afi swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, but his eyes never left Sylvia’s. “What does it matter?”, he evaded.
“Natta”, Sylvia said softly.
The black steed calmly trotted over to her side. Natta nudged his nose against Sylvia’s shoulder in friendly familiarity.
His expression carefully blank, Afi nodded in understanding. “His name was Fredrik. He was a Wolf, and he was part of the Nyberg raid.” Taking a slow breath, he added, “He was the one who brought you to market.”
“So both of them are dead”, Sylvia said, not addressing anyone in particular. “Good.”
Looking at the strong horse, she stroked through its thick mane. “This horse is now mine”, she determined. “You ride that one”, she added, pointing toward Rise. With that, she swung up on the high saddle and steered Natta into the midst of the Fri caravan.
When the caravan set into motion again, Afi was riding on the white mare beside his liege. He watched Sylvia with keen interest. Whatever she was thinking about, it clearly made her restless. The sensation was crawling all over his skin. It was good to see her, though. He was relieved that she was not only alive, but doing well for herself. She had gained weight, and the clothes she wore fit her short statue. It looked a lot more comfortable than what he had been able to offer her.
Sylvia glanced back at him and frowned in question.
Clearing his throat, Afi stroked a hand over the mare’s neck. “What is her name?”
“I called her Rise.”
“Rise”, Afi repeated. “Nice to meet you.”