“We will be at my home in five days if a good wind rises,” Merrik said to her late that afternoon when she came forward to stand beside him. He’d been teaching Taby how to row and now the child was fast asleep on Merrik’s legs. He rested his elbows on the huge oar and turned to face her, saying, “The men have decided that Thor demands a sacrifice from us to give us wind enough to fill the sail. I have decided it will be up to you.”
She nearly tripped as she lurched backward.
She felt a man’s hand on her back and jumped forward to escape him. She fell against Merrik. He didn’t touch her, merely looked at her and grinned.
“The sacrifice isn’t a virgin one. You must continue the story of Grunlige tonight else Thor won’t cooperate and give us wind for our sails.”
“After you finish preparing our meal,” Eller said. “We cannot decide which we prefer if we have to choose.”
“You can already smell that meal, can’t you?” black-eyed Roran said, and laughed.
“Aye, I dream of some pheasant, perhaps stewed with greens and peas and mushrooms.”
All they thought about was food, Laren thought, smiling now, her fear, surely ridiculous, well tamped down. “I will fill your gullets,” she said, then stopped cold at the sight of Deglin’s face. There was cold fury there and she knew fear of him because she wasn’t stupid. A man’s fury could quickly turn into violence. Deglin wasn’t a warrior as Merrik was, but he was just as frightening, for he was a man and a skald and the two were together in his mind, and she had poached on what was his. She had as good as attacked him physically. She thought of the four silver coins that lay snug in the lining of her trousers. She could only buy her freedom from Merrik with silver. Not with sweet womanish smiles and good cooking. No, only with silver.
She said slowly, “I will tell you what happened next only if you promise not to snore so loudly outside my tent.”
Old Firren laughed so hard he swung the rudder deep and sharp and accidentally swiped another sunken log. The longboat shuddered and rocked.
“What do you mean your tent, girl?” Deglin called out, his skald’s voice deep and clear and cold as the layers of water beneath the longboat. “Merrik sleeps there with you. We should ask you not to cry out so loudly when he plows your belly at night.”
Merrik said very calmly, “That is enough, Deglin. Your own vanity and conceit deprived you of the men’s interest. You went off to sulk, to punish us by refusing to continue the story. Blame not the girl.”
“She is no skald!” Deglin yelled. “She is nothing—a slave, a pathetic scrap you should have killed and left in Kiev! I don’t wish to hear her befoul my skills with her foolish attempts. She is naught but a woman and a woman has no use save for what is between her legs and the skill she brings to the cooking pot. She shows those skills, ’tis enough.”
Very slowly Merrik rose. He handed the still-sleeping Taby to Cleve, who’d been silent as a tomb.
He loomed over Deglin, who now looked uncertain, though there was still fury and hatred in his eyes and he was looking toward Laren.
“I told you not to blame her,” Merrik said again.
“But she—”
Merrik leaned down and grasped Deglin’s tunic. He drew him upright and held him very close. “No more else I will make you regret it.”
Deglin said, his skald’s voice soft now and pleading, filled with deep sincerity, “Nay, my lord, I wish no insult to you, but she . . . ah, you have the right of it. I should have done what you wished without showing my displeasure, without showing vexation. I will continue the tale. I don’t wish to deprive the men further. There is no need to listen to her again.”
Merrik was in a quandary. He released Deglin and returned to sit down on his own sea chest. He looked at Laren, but her head was down and he couldn’t see her expression. Deglin was the recognized skald. He saw no choice. He said then, “Tonight Deglin will continue the tale of Grunlige the Dane.”
No one said anything. Merrik seated himself again. The longboat righted and ran along smoothly in the water. Aye, everything was just as it should be again and Laren felt rage build within her. But she’d learned during the past two years to hide her rage, though with Merrik she hadn’t succeeded very well. But now she must. She didn’t want to, but she looked toward Deglin. He was smiling at her and it wasn’t a nice smile.
The four silver coins. There would be no more to add to them.
That night, she worked beside Old Firren and Cleve to prepare the evening meal. She paid little attention to the men’s talk as they went about their familiar tasks. She worked, saying nothing, knowing she must be grateful because she was alive and Taby was alive. The night was clear overhead, the stars brilliant, the moon nearly full. They were camped close to shore, the longboat pulled onto the narrow beach and covered with pine branches. The tents were up, several fires lit, and now the smells from her venison stew filled the soft evening air.
After the meal, when the men lay about on their furs, warm by the fires, their bellies full, Deglin rose, stretched to his full height, which wasn’t all that impressive, then coughed behind his hand to soothe his voice and took a small sipping drink of ale. He stared at all the men, gaining their full attention, then he said, “When Grunlige the Dane killed his hands with the ice, he knew that he had failed himself. He had believed himself safe and secure in his own strength and now he had killed part of himself; not his enemies, but he himself had done it. He was a proud man, a man without rival, a man with great strength and skills, but he had only himself to blame for the death of his hands. He looked down at them, saw the withered claws, the fingernails that were blue and ridged, curling up about the edges. He called his son to him and said, ‘Innar, it is over with me. I bequeath all that I have to you. Do not kill yourself as I have done.’
“Then he hugged his son to his chest and dismissed him. Three days later his men found him dead at the bottom of a ravine. He’d had one of his men chop off his hands and they lay there in the morning sun, shriveled and blackened, and all knew he’d stared at his hands until he had lost all his blood and died.
“His son, Innar, did not weep, for he believed his father to have done the right thing. Like his father, he was proud and sure of himself, but he held no great respect for the old man whose seed had created him. He had no wish to cleave bulls in half, no wish to use great strength to bend those to his will, for he had not the great strength of his father in any case. Instead, he wanted to go araiding and amass wealth. What his father had left him wasn’t enough. He gathered his father’s men together and told them that they would sail to Kiev. On their way there, they would gather slaves and sell them in the slave market of Khagan-Rus. He was brave when he was surrounded by his father’s men for they were seasoned warriors and knew well how to kill and plunder. They would protect him because it was their duty to protect him. They killed many tribesmen on their voyage and portage to Kiev and captured many women. And Innar, secure in his prowess, had all proclaim that it was he who had killed the tribes and had them tell all they knew of his skill and cunning.”
The men were looking at each other, furtive looks that showed anger, embarrassment, uncertainty. There were murmurs.
Deglin continued quickly, “Innar became well-known for his skill in dealing at the slave market. One day he chanced to see a girl there who was bowed and thin and dressed in rags. He decided he wanted her and thus he bought her and brought her with him back to his home. He didn’t know that she was filled with evil, that she hated being a woman, that she wanted to be a man with a man’s talents and skills and a man’s genius. She tried to do the things the men did and she failed and her rage grew for she knew she was inferior.”
The talk was louder now, drowning out Deglin’s words. The men were looking toward Merrik. His face was still. He said nothing for a very long time, merely looked at Deglin thoughtfully. He raised a hand finally to quiet the men and said, “You do not wish to continue the tale as it is now going, Deglin.�
�� His voice softened now, and Laren felt a shiver of sheer terror at the feel of it. “Tell us what became of Innar, this man who had no respect for his father.”
“Why, my lord,” Deglin said after a moment, “he changed, certainly he changed. He became his own man and thus gained respect for his sire who had given him all the gifts he now used to make himself successful. He won himself great honors and respect from the men, for he was a trader above all other traders. He killed the evil slave. He brought home much silver and became richer than ever his father had dreamed of wealth. He wed the girl his father had picked for him and he had many sons. Thus Grunlige the Dane was followed by men who did not shame his name.”
There was a long silence, broken finally by Oleg, tall and lean and menacing, who loomed over Deglin and said in a voice of disgust, “Your tale is unworthy, Deglin. I found it filled with ill-disguised venom and lies. You are like a gnat that buzzes about—you dart in to strike, then you’re off again, hiding in your cowardice of words. I would prefer to hear the girl tell us what happened to Grunlige the Dane.”
Deglin’s beautiful skald’s voice shook with anger as he said, “The girl will tell you nothing! She has not the wit nor the skill. She pretends to it, aye, but she has it not. She is a slave, nothing more, just a miserable slave. She would not dare to speak her foolishness, for I will not allow it. Do you not see it? She is evil, she brings discord. She makes us angry at each other. She has cast spells on Merrik, weakening him!”
Oleg slipped his knife from his belt. He took a step toward Deglin. There was no expression on his face, nothing to show his intent. He stopped when Merrik said, “Hold, Oleg. Again Deglin has allowed his mouth to rule the logic of his brain. Is that not true, Deglin?”
Deglin drew a deep breath, gaining control. “I have been careless. Aye, my lord, I have not heeded what I should heed. I will tell you another story, one that you will find more to your liking.”
Oleg just shook his head at Deglin, sheathed his knife, and eased himself back down on the wolfskin, crossed his legs, and said, “Come, Laren, what happened? Parma touched Selina’s arms and he felt something strange. Continue.”
She was silent, wondering what to do. The men were all looking at her expectantly. She could tell nothing from Merrik’s closed expression. Taby was drowsing in his arms, his head against Merrik’s chest. The men all nodded at her now, some telling her to begin again, aye, tell them about Parma and what Selina did to him. She continued to look back at Merrik. Finally, he nodded at her. She smiled. She rose. She opened her mouth to speak, the words brimming in her mind. She saw his arm rise but she didn’t move back quickly enough. Deglin hit her cheek hard with his fist, knocking her sideways to the ground, and into the fire.
7
MERRIK DUMPED TABY onto the ground and leapt to his feet, but Cleve was faster. He raced to Laren and dragged her from the fire. She was still senseless from the blow Deglin had struck her. Her right trouser leg was burning, sluggish flames that were seeping into the dry wool, seeking better purchase, billowing up black smoke from the material. He knocked her onto her face and dug dirt up with his fingers, flinging it onto her leg. Then he pressed the dirt into the trousers, rubbing furiously. Merrik pulled Cleve aside, jerked off his own tunic, and flattened it against her leg. He raised it and looked down at the burned wool, peeling back, now gaping about her flesh. She turned slowly onto her side and he looked at her face.
“Are you all right?”
She stared at him a moment, her face without color, her fingers digging into the earth, spasmodically, with no reason, just digging and digging. She winced, lightly touching her fingertips to her cheek where Deglin had struck her. Then she shook her head, as if to clear it. The blood pounded deep and hard, fear clogging her brain, and she smiled and said, “I wasn’t fast enough.”
Merrik just stared at her, shaking his head. “Is your jaw broken?” Even as he spoke, he touched her cheek, his fingers light and gentle, then nodded. “No, but there will be a bruise.” He looked at her leg again. “Sit up,” he said. He was aware of the men’s angry voices all around them. Good, they wouldn’t stand behind Deglin, not that it mattered to Merrik.
She did, saying nothing.
He ripped back the wool, baring her leg. Her leg wasn’t too badly burned, but the flesh from her ankle to her knee was dark red. He imagined the pain must be great, but when he looked at her face again, he saw only blankness, and realized she hadn’t yet given over to it, hadn’t yet realized fully what had happened and what the consequences were going to be. “Stay still,” he said and rose. He turned. Oleg was holding Deglin.
The skald was panting, struggling against Oleg, but Oleg was strong, as strong as Merrik, and he was very angry.
Merrik walked to him slowly. He stood there in front of him, saying nothing, merely stared down at him. Deglin stopped struggling. He said, “I did not mean to harm her, just to punish her. She deserved the blow to her face, but she tripped into the fire, it wasn’t my fault. She is a slave, my lord, there can be no retribution.”
Cleve snarled behind Merrik, his hands fisted, his body tensed, ready to leap. The men were all on their feet, their shock at what had happened quickly changed to fury. But they were willing to wait to see what Merrik would do. It was his decision, not theirs.
Merrik heard Taby crying and turned to see the child crawling toward his sister.
He said calmly, “Cleve, take the child to his sister. Oleg, bring our skald here, to the fire. He is doubtless cold, at least he’s proved his brain is cold and without reason or sense. I will warm him, as he did Laren.”
Oleg smiled and dragged Deglin to the fire. The men all drew near, making a circle about them, saying nothing now, waiting.
“Give him to me,” Merrik said. Oleg shoved Deglin to Merrik. Merrik grabbed him about his neck and forced him to the ground. Without warning, he grabbed Deglin’s right leg and shoved it into the flames, holding it there.
Deglin stared in horror at the flames lashing upward around and through his leg. He felt the awful scalding heat, felt the material burn from his leg, felt the flames go into his flesh. He screamed and thrashed, struggling wildly against Merrik.
Merrik released him only after the cloth had burst into flames and turned to ashes. He watched him dispassionately as he scrambled away, rolling in the dirt, screaming, gasping for breath, choking.
He just looked at him, then said, “You have less sense than a snail, Deglin. Your lack of control is offensive. I won’t kill you this time. But heed me, never again harm another without my permission. Do you understand me?”
Deglin was filled with pain, filled with the shock of the pain, the disbelief of what had happened, of what Merrik had done to him simply because he’d struck a slave. He smelled his own burned flesh. His craw filled with vomit and loathing. He said on a gasp, “Aye, my lord, I understand you.”
“Good,” Merrik said, then turned away from him. He saw that Laren was sitting up now and staring down at her burned leg. Her fingers were hovering above the reddened flesh. She was afraid to touch herself. Cleve was beside her, holding Taby, who was gulping down tears, speaking quietly to both of them. Merrik said to Eller, “Fetch me the healing cream my mother sent along in the herb pouch in my tent. Quickly.”
Merrik came down on his haunches. He grasped her chin between his fingers and lifted her face. “The cream will leach out the heat and pain. It is the same cream I put on your back, and it eased you, did it not?”
She nodded, words stuck in her craw. She couldn’t keep from staring at her burned leg.
“You are doing well.”
And he expected her to continue doing well, she thought, and knew that she would. She smiled again, more difficult than she would have thought, and said, “I should have been faster. During the past two years I’ve learned to duck quick as a flea and dodge blows with the spryness of a horse about to be gelded.” She sighed, and he saw color come back into her face, too much color on her cheek.
It was now turning a pale purple. He knew that she was calming, that her mind would tell her quickly enough that there was a goodly amount of pain to come.
It wasn’t fair. She’d suffered too much already, and now this.
Eller handed him the cream. “I have only one other pair of trousers, Merrik.”
“Bring them. She cannot be naked around an army of men.”
Merrik saw that she was just staring at that cream and she was afraid of his touching her burned flesh, afraid of the pain, and he didn’t blame her. When he’d rubbed it into her back, it had hurt, and she remembered that, too well.
He said nothing, merely took the cream in one hand and grasped her beneath her arm with the other. He half carried her to the tent. When he laid her onto her back, he said, “I’m going to pull these trousers off you.”
She didn’t want him to for she was naked beneath the trousers. But her leg was hurting now, throbbing, the pain deep and becoming deeper and stronger by the moment. What did it matter? He’d already seen her body, already tended to her back, bathed her. She said nothing, merely turned her head away. He was kneeling over her now, his expression intent. She couldn’t look at him. She closed her eyes as she felt his hands at her waist, unknotting the rope that was holding up Eller’s trousers. She felt the cool night air on her bare flesh as he pulled them down. He was very careful, she’d give him that, but when a bit of charred wool clung to her leg, she lurched up, crying out with the sharp pain of it.
“I know it hurts. I’m sorry. Lie down.” He pressed her back down, his fingers splayed on her bare stomach.
She lay there, feeling pain, feeling helpless, and she hated it. He laid a blanket over her, leaving only her leg bare. She wanted to thank him for that, but she couldn’t. It took all her resolve to keep cries buried in her throat, not to moan or whine, not to let him see that she was weak.
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