by Rachel Ford
Viper’s Nest
The Dragonland Sagas, Book 3
By Rachel Ford
Chapter One
“What’s your name, cur?” the guardsman demanded.
Trygve Bjarneson ignored him. His focus was on his mug, where it had been these last few hours.
The other man cuffed him upside the head. That, at last, got his attention.
“I said, what’s your name?”
“Ask your mom,” Trygve replied. “She moaned it enough last night.” He laughed at the speech. In his state of drunkenness, he was heartily amused by his own words.
The guard was not. For his wit, he was rewarded with first one fist to the face, and then another. Trygve could feel his lip split. He could taste the blood seeping from the injury. It was the second blow, though, that really roused him. It pushed the fog of inebriation back, and he was on his feet before the officer’s third strike landed.
The Northman returned the blows with interest. He was a tall man, with broad fists and a powerful swing, who had spent more than a little time practicing his martial skills. The guardsman staggered under the first hit, dropped his own defense at the second, and went down with the third.
Trygve had no time to enjoy his handiwork, though, because his opponent was not alone. He’d been the leader of a band of three, and now the other two stepped forward. The Northman grinned. It had been a long time – too long – since he’d had a good fight. He heard Gunnar, his tundra snow leopard, growl at his side – a low, questioning sound. “Down,” he told the great snow leopard. This was a contest he was going to prosecute on his own. Two to one were the kinds of odds he liked. Against southerners like these, he would have taken four to one without blinking.
The guards, meanwhile, hesitated in the face of his confidence. Their leader was groaning on the ground, trying to stave the flow of blood that oozed from his nose. Of those who stood, the elder’s face was a mix of anger and fear. The younger’s expression was firmly on the side of fear. He was not much older than a boy, and his eyes were wide and scared.
Trygve saw him go for his sword, and he fixed the youth with a hard look. “You’d better be prepared to die, boy, if you pull a blade on a Northman.”
The sword remained sheathed, and so, too, did Trygve’s. Grinning, he said, “Alright, then. Let’s go.”
The pair descended on him with the elder leading the way. They were competent fighters, if unpolished, but Trygve was a seasoned brawler. He absorbed their hits with not much concern and struck only when it counted. He heard bones crack in the older man’s face.
So did the younger guard, who so far had escaped with nothing worse than a bruised jaw. He drew back, shouting something to his superiors in his native tongue. Then, he vacated the pub at a fast run, pursued by the Northman’s jeers.
Having carried the day, Trygve turned back to his cup. He scowled. In the excitement, it had been tipped, and his last sips lost. “Barkeep,” he shouted. “Another.” Then, glancing at the men on the floor – the one barely conscious, the other too pained to stand – he added, “And something for my friends here. Something strong. All-Father knows they could use it.”
A nervous man with shrewish features drew up. “Sir,” he said in the common language, “you have already exceeded your gold. I must insist you pay first.”
Trygve fixed the other man with a cold stare. “What’s that, barkeep?”
The publican wilted under his gaze. “Nothing. Coming right up.”
“That’s better.” Trygve, it was true, didn’t have the coin. He’d spent his last here, some hours earlier. But the pub’s prices were obscene, much less for the swill they provided. And he was a man in such straits as required strong drink.
Remembering the guards, he thought they, too, fit the bill. The leader was unconscious now, and Trygve ignored him. But the man with the smashed face, he pulled to his feet. The move provoked resistance and surprise, but he said, “Calm, friend. I’ve got you a drink coming. I think you could use it.”
“What?” the guard was all astonishment – and pain. He groaned as he spoke.
“It’ll take your mind off that,” Trygve nodded sagely; and his head swam at the motion. Still, he kept his footing, and plopped his newfound companion into a seat beside him.
“Are you insane?” the other man demanded.
“Probably,” Trygve grinned. “Or I will be, in a few more drinks.”
The drinks were not long in coming, and soon the inebriated Northman and bewildered guard each held a tankard. “To a good fight,” the former said, raising his mug. “You did well, for a southerner.”
“Who are you?” the latter demanded. “You’ve attacked three members of the city militia. You must know the penalty for that.”
“You attacked me,” Trygve countered good-humoredly. “I only defended myself. There cannot be a law against that, I think. Now drink.”
But the other man was persistent. “Who are you?”
Answers, however, were necessarily delayed by the sudden bursting open of doors, and the heavy stomping of boots. Trygve smiled. “Looks like your friends are back for more,” he said, turning to face the newcomers.
The surmise had been a solid one. A troop of six militiamen, led by a sharp-eyed, well-dressed nobleman of middle age, had entered. “Welcome, friends,” the Northman called out.
“That’s the one,” a voice confided to the nobleman.
Trygve saw the boy, the one who had scurried away, and he smiled. “Didn’t get enough last time, eh?” he asked. He took a long drink and got to his feet to face the new arrivals. His broken faced interrogator, meanwhile, stumbled out of his seat and returned to his people.
But there was not at once the clashing of steel. The nobleman scrutinized him, and said, “My men tell me you are quick to fight.”
Trygve grinned. “Your men struck first. I only fight to win.”
A smile painted itself on the features of the other man. “Then may we talk for a minute?”
The question was disappointing in a sense, but the Northman was not so drunk as to imagine that even a good brawl had to come to anything but an end eventually. “I won’t raise my hand to you unless you raise it to me, if that’s what you mean.”
The smile broadened, and the man behind it advanced with a word to his guards to stay put. They hovered by the door, and he pulled up a seat. “May I join you?”
“I’ll drink with any man,” Trygve declared, contenting himself with the situation. If a fight was not in the cards, drinking would do as well.
“My name is Governor Caius,” his new companion said. “And I am in charge of this island, Blackstone.”
The Northman snorted. “Your island took my ship,” he said darkly. “Should I thank you for that?”
Caius scrutinized him a second time. “I do not understand, Northman.”
“Three days ago, we went down on your eastern shore, in the storm. I and Gunnar alone survived, as far as I know.” There was an edge of bitterness to his words now. His crew had started at ten strong, but he’d entered these waters with only three other men. Two deaths and five defections to other crews or gleaming shores had downsized the party. Now there was no party at all. His most loyal friends lay at the bottom of the ocean, feeding the fish. Only Gunnar remained.
“Gunnar?” Caius repeated, glancing around.
Trygve’s ill humor took on a less pronounced measure at the southerner’s confusion, and with a gesture toward the great snow leopard who watched them, he answered, “My snow leopard.”
“Ah. You have named the beast, then?”
He snorted. “Of course.”
Caius smiled. “Well, I am glad you have survived. But I know your beast’s name, and you know mine. But I have not the pleasur
e. How are you called, Northman?”
“I am Trygve.”
“Trygve,” he repeated. “And have you no patronymic?”
Now, the Northman grew silent for a moment. His expression was dark and his thoughts morose. When he spoke, he said, “Ingensen.” It was, in its own way, a kind of joke. It meant son of none. And it was at once true and a lie. He had a father, Bjarne, king of the North. And yet he had no father, for though the man lived, Bjarne had cut him off from his life. So Trygve Bjarneson had become Trygve Ingensen.
“Ingensen,” the other man said. “A most unusual surname.”
Trygve snorted again. “How would you know, Governor?”
Caius smiled. “I am not entirely unfamiliar with your language, son of none.”
The Northman regarded him with astonishment. The speech had been proved the more accurate by its being delivered in a flawless, if accented, rendition of the Northern language.
Caius laughed at his confusion. “Your people are a seafaring one, Mister Ingensen. As the master of an island, it is my duty to know something about those who may visit her shores. But come; we have matters of business to discuss.”
Trygve grumbled at the idea, saying, “Not until you have a glass in hand, Governor. You may speak my language, but I’ll not trust a teetotaler.”
The comment was taken in stride. Governor Caius flagged the publican, who was watching with nervous, attentive eyes from a corner, and ordered a drink. When it arrived, he took a long draught.
This satisfied the Northman, and he allowed the more tedious discussions to proceed. “Well, then, what is it? I told you, your men struck me first.”
Caius nodded. “My men,” he acknowledged, “can be – impetuous.”
“Impetuousness,” Trygve said sagely, “is foolishness, if you’ve not the skill to back it up.”
The governor smiled. “But you must acknowledge that their concerns were justified, Mister Ingensen. You have run up quite a tab here, yes? And you have paid nothing toward it. And – if you will pardon my saying so – I do not think you in a way to pay.”
Now, at last, Trygve surveyed the governor of Blackstone Island, taking in the full measure of the man. He was taller than anything else, with a frame that was somewhere in between a warrior’s and a scribe’s physique. He was lean and had quick eyes; Trygve would give him that. Otherwise, though, he was not a remarkable person. He was exactly the kind of person who relied on his station rather than himself to demand respect. The Northman had known a few of those men back home and had met a lot more since leaving those shores.
“Perhaps not,” he conceded, reminding the other man, “Your damned island took my ship, and everything I owned.”
“Lady Fortuna is cruel,” Caius demurred. “But the fact remains: taking what you cannot afford is theft.”
Trygve’s blood boiled. “Are you calling me a thief, little man?” he demanded.
Caius smiled at the heat in his words. “Nothing of the kind, my friend. If I thought you a thief, I should have you arrested.”
The Northman harrumphed. “Your men tried that already.”
Caius’ smile broadened. “Yes. But I have enough men at my command that, eventually, they would succeed. Even against a warrior such as yourself.”
These last words placated Trygve, and he subsided. The governor continued, “I want to avoid that situation, that would be so distasteful to all of us. You seem a good man, Trygve Ingensen. And Fortuna’s caprices have done you ill. I would offer you a way out of your current circumstance.”
“Oh?” Trygve asked warily. He was not so drunk as to be entirely naïve.
Caius nodded. “The beast you travel with, the one you call Gunnar? He is a fine specimen of Northern animal. I should like to call him my own. And I would be willing to settle your tab and give you gold enough to satisfy many more such nights, in exchange for him.”
The Northman snorted. “Part with Gunnar? I’d sooner die.” He meant it, too. He’d lost his family, his homeland, his ship and his crew. All he had left were the clothes on his back, the sword at his hip, and the snow leopard at his side. Of his homeland and his old life, of everything he had ever known, only Gunnar remained. He would sooner die than lose the great cat.
“I see.” The governor seemed perplexed. “Well,” he added in a minute, “then we aren’t left with many alternatives.”
“I guess not,” Trygve said. He was steeling himself for a fight to the end when the other man spoke again.
“I suppose I’ll have to offer you a position in my employ, then.”
“A job?” That did surprise the Northman.
“Yes. I am governor of Blackstone, but I have business interests on the mainland. I’m sure I could find a spot for you.”
Trygve considered. To his inebriated brain, this sounded like an unexpectedly good idea. He had no coin, and no way to get it. He had no job, and no way to move on from Blackstone. He would need to work, or he would starve. “Alright,” he agreed. “But no accounts. I can’t stand accounts.”
Caius laughed. “Fair enough, Mister Ingensen. No accounts. I’m sure we’ll find something far better suited for your skills than paperwork anyway.”
Chapter Two
Trygve Bjarneson woke with a start. There was a devilish pounding in his head, but it was the icy water than ran down him that concerned him the most.
“On your feet, scum,” a gruff voice was saying.
The Northman tried to see what was around him, to see his attacker, but the light blinded him. He shielded his eyes, blinking fiercely until the pain receded and he could begin to make out his surroundings.
He was in a small room of rough stone. There was straw – damp straw, now – under him, and a muddy dirt floor. He was not alone. Another man – one with an empty bucket in hand – hovered over him, and Gunnar lay a meter across, watching with suspicious green eyes. Sunlight streamed in from an iron gate, but he was not yet prepared to endure the agony of staring into the brightness outside. For now, he contented himself with trying to understand the interior.
“On your feet,” the other man repeated.
Trygve glanced at the speaker. He was a wiry fellow, old but not geriatric, with a hard look and more than a few scars. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And where am I?”
The first question was ignored. “You’re in the games, idiot. And you’re up next. You and that infernal beast of yours. Now, on your feet.”
Games. He remembered something about games. And a contract. He squinted into the light, trying to make out what lay beyond his little enclosure. His view was limited, but he could see a dirt floor, and stadium seating.
Then he remembered. The games. He’d signed with Governor Caius, to play in the games. A six-month contract. The memories came flooding back. He recalled agreeing to work for the governor, to fight in the arena as one of his players. “For as much liquor as you like, and a settling of all your debts here,” the other man had said.
“Can I take Gunnar with me?” had been his only question.
“Of course. By all means.”
And that had been that. Damnit. He cursed himself for the fool that he was. He remembered taking full advantage of that unlimited alcohol stipend. The memories grew less clear as time passed. He vaguely recalled a ride at sea, and a lot of vomiting. There was evidence of that still all over his person. He had the faintest memories of being escorted in the dark through a city. The rest was an indistinguishable blur.
The man with the bucket, meanwhile, had gone for the door. “Wait,” Trygve called. “Come back.” But he’d slipped through, and before the Northman could reach it, he heard the turn of a key. “Damn you, come back. This is a mistake.”
“Fight like a man, not a coward,” the other said. “Get out there. The crowd’s waiting.”
“I was drunk,” Trygve protested. “This is a mistake.”
The other man’s flinty eyes were visible through the bars in the door, and for a moment he sa
w something like compassion in them. “Don’t make them drag you out,” he said. “If you do, you’ll get no mercy. Fight well, conduct yourself with courage. And the crowd might like you.”
Then, he was gone, and no amount of rattling the bars could call him back. Gunnar was on his feet now, pacing agitatedly. The snow leopard was tall and long, larger than any two dogs, with a long tail. His fur was silver, spotted with black, and he had quick golden eyes that had no trouble discerning that something – even if he didn’t know what – was amiss.
Snow leopards were a token of his house, back when he’d had a house, sent by the gods themselves to one of his ancestors. In ancient times, they’d accompanied their masters and mistresses into battle. In more recent years, when peace had come to the North, they rode out to hunt and no more.
Now, it seemed Gunnar was destined to share his master’s fate, whatever it was to be, on the battlefield like one of his ancestors. For himself, Trygve did not mind particularly. He did not like that he had been tricked and pressed into service here. He did not like that he might die for the entertainment of whatever southern riffraff lay beyond his cell.
But he particularly did not like that he had condemned Gunnar to his fate.
The crowd, meanwhile, had begun to roar with impatience. He could hear their voices, high and low, coarse and refined, all yearning for blood.
Remembering the words of the other man, his quasi-jailer, and knowing that he had no other choice in the matter, he headed for the aperture. The sun was bright beyond, and he stood blinking into the full power of the day. His headache was far from gone, and he wished – not for the first time – that he was back home with some of his sister Karina’s hangover cure on hand. But she was kingdoms away and wouldn’t have seen him even if she could. There’d be no miracles for him today.
The attitude of the crowd shifted. The thunderous booming of voices increased, and cheers mingled with the jeers. All at once the sounds fell away. Trygve was only just getting his bearings, had only just spotted a set of figures on the opposite end of the arena. Now, he threw a wary glance around him, his eyes moving from the other combatants to the crowd.