With Dragons She Walks

by Darby, Brit

  “Yes,” Cailin echoed softly. “I must seek the truth.”

  The last marking lay at the furthest edge and Hulda picked it up and clutched it to her breast. “The World Tree gives you protection through magickal workings. Your Sight will show you the way.”

  “JANUS, I WOULD SPEAK with you.”

  “Mistress.” The gray-haired little man made a respectful gesture as Cailin ducked into the storage hut. Although he was probably no older than her father, a lifetime spent in backbreaking labor left him haggard and frail-looking. Thorvald freed Janus a decade or so ago at Cailin’s plea, and in truth, he was treated like one of the family. But Cailin had never been able to break him of the habit of addressing her formally. Years of slavery had left their mark emotionally and physically.

  She saw Janus was soaked with sweat, having paused in the process of stacking piles of furs and skins. They were heavy, and the labor was taking a toll due to his age and poor health.

  “The ship is delayed, Janus,” she said. “A storm is brewing, and I’m afraid the crew will not be back in time to help you finish moving the last cargo into storage.”

  He nodded, rubbing his lower back as he spoke. “Then I must work faster, Mistress.”

  “I am sure you will, but that will not be enough. There are too many crates and barrels. Hulda and I are of no aid with the heavier items. More help is needed.”

  Janus waddled closer to peer at her. He reminded her of a puffin with his angular features and red-rimmed, faded blue eyes. “What do you propose, Mistress?”

  “We cannot lose this cargo, Janus. The only option is buying a strong young thrall. If we work him hard for a few days, then resell him, there will be no real expenditure.”

  “A strange request, Mistress. I know how you feel about slavery.”

  “Yes, but there is little choice with the storm bearing down.” Cailin felt herself flush under Janus’ scrutiny. She saw puzzlement in his eyes. “I want you to come with me to the docks. Ichbar has some fresh … stock.”

  “When?”

  “Now.” Cailin shook the purse tied to her waist and the coins jingled. “I have enough for one thrall.” She pushed down the nausea that the notion of purchasing human flesh brought. She waited until Janus joined her and together they went down to the docks.

  The pillory where she had seen the Pict punished was empty, but she heard shouts and curses coming from the long house where the slaves were kept. It sounded like fighting.

  “Mistress?” She wasn’t aware she had stopped until Janus spoke. He sounded worried. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”

  Cailin nodded without speaking. She forced herself to continue down the path, clutching her cloak at her throat as it whipped in the wind. The clamor grew with each step and then suddenly, they were inside the long house and part of the crowd gathered there.

  In the center of the place was a large pit, a great fire blazing even in midday. For that reason, many of the men were shirtless and Cailin found herself surrounded by slick, gleaming flesh and the acrid stench of sweat. As far as she could tell, she was the only woman present. She grabbed Janus’ arm and was glad for the support as the rough crowd jostled them about.

  They were pushed to the front of the melee by the ebb and sway of bodies as the shouts and screams rang in Cailin’s head. Suddenly the crowd parted and she saw the source of the furor.

  Drake Talorcan crouched low, bare-chested and barefoot, circling about a second man. Both of them were wary, tense. The Pict’s rival was larger and bulkily built, with arms like tree-trunks, thick and strong. The bigger man’s barrel chest was bare too, but a heavy mat of black hair nearly covered his body. Even his back sprouted a coarse pelt over the wide expanse of dark skin. He snarled, vicious and mean in look and manner. His eyes, glittering little black spheres that caused Cailin’s heartbeat to quicken, brought to mind an evil giant, like those who lived in the mountains across the ocean from Midgard. His howl, however, was more that of an animal gone mad. A rabid bear.

  Suddenly, the two men rushed together, muscled bodies slamming into each other in mortal combat. Locked in a life and death struggle, they grunted and growled, each trying to gain a better hold on the other. Cailin held her breath, the macabre scene unlike anything she had ever witnessed before.

  Drake broke free and his fist connected with the bear-man’s nose, the bone splintering beneath his assault. With a grunt the hairy man shook his head vigorously, as if he could rid himself of the intense pain, and those standing too close got sprayed with the crimson ooze.

  Bloodsport created renewed fervor among the onlookers. Their shouts were deafening, and the mob’s movements tore Janus from Cailin’s side, and threatened to push her into the tight ring where the two fought. She struggled to keep her position; animalistic rage surrounded her, the frustration and fury of thralls and freedmen alike.

  “Kill him!” someone yelled.

  “Rip his head off,” shouted another.

  Cailin felt the air grow tight, thin. She swallowed hard to ease the fear that restricted her throat. The mad Bear would kill the Dragon. She could not let that happen.

  But what could she do against so many?

  Uncertainty made her hesitate, froze her tongue and feet into place.

  The two men fell hard onto the dirt floor and the air rushed from their lungs on impact, their groans heard above the mind-numbing din. They rolled; first Drake on top, then the bottom. Over and over, each punching, hitting, kicking, gouging. The bigger man broke away and scrambled to his feet. Drake followed, but not fast enough.

  Large, meaty arms grabbed Drake from behind, wrapped tightly about his waist, lifting him from the ground. Steely fingers locked over his other wrist, sealing the Dragon in a death grip, squeezing the breath, the life from him.

  Drake struggled, but to no avail. Pain twisted his face as his opponent’s arms tightened, like a serpent with its prey caught in its coils. The burly man cried out like an animal, his howls like an unworldly baying.

  Leaning forward, Drake brought his head back, butting the back of his head on an already broken and tender nose. Screams intensified now, tinged with unbearable pain. The bear-man released his victim and stumbled back.

  The Dragon made his move, kicking high into the air with his foot, landing squarely in the middle of the broad expanse of hairy chest.

  As if Yggdrasil, the World Tree itself were felled, the bigger man toppled and crashed to the ground in a swirl of dust and blood. Drake straddled him, striking him again and again, the sound of flesh and bone crumbling beneath his assault.

  The shouting grew louder, a clamor for Drake to kill the defeated beast. But, as quickly as he had attacked, gaining the advantage, Drake stopped. He pushed away disgusted, rose and staggered away from the beaten pulp of a man. Cailin gasped as she saw the lash wounds on Drake’s back had broken open during the struggle, blood running down his skin, scarlet slashes of ichor against the paler flesh.

  Ichbar the slaver rushed in and grabbed Drake’s arm, yelling at him to finish his opponent off. Cailin knew this crowd wanted death. They tasted it in the air and would not be satisfied with anything less. Sickened by the thought, she watched with admiration as Drake stood firm with his decision — shaking his head; the fight was over.

  Ichbar looked furious, gesturing wildly at the Pict. Cailin imagined what the slaver threatened. Another beating, perhaps a branding if Drake did not kill his opponent as commanded. The two men stood toe to toe, eye to eye, each glaring at the other. Someone tossed a knife into the ring; the implication was clear, but the defeated still lay mindless to his fate.

  Both Drake and the slaver stared at the knife and then each other, tension taut as a bowstring, making the air hum. The crowd went silent, waiting, anticipating.

  “No,” Cailin shouted, stepping past the invisible boundary that seemed to hold them all at bay. “Stop this.”

  All heads turned and a murmur swept through the throng. Janus rejoined her, grippe
d her arm and whispered, “Mistress, this is dangerous. We must go.”

  Cailin ignored him, addressing Ichbar directly. “I am here to buy a thrall. A man to help Janus move cargo.”

  At once Ichbar was again the groveling merchant, the obsequious purveyor of flesh and bone. “Of course, Mistress. I have several strong young bucks.” He gestured to a motley array of men on the sidelines. Cailin’s gaze moved to Drake instead. He stared back at her, his expression unreadable.

  She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and shook her head. “I choose the Pict.”

  “This one?” Ichbar’s amazement was only exceeded by his scorn. He gestured contemptuously at Drake. “He is dangerous, a mad animal. Beatings do nothing and he is useless in a fight, refusing to obey his master’s orders as you saw. He will defy you, if he does not kill you first.”

  “He looks strong.”

  “Bah. He is half dead, and may be by the time I get him gelded. Eunuchs bring better prices anyway.”

  Cailin glanced at Drake to see his reaction, and thought he paled ever so slightly. Before she spoke up again though, he shook his head. Was he warning her not to buy him?

  Whatever the message, Janus agreed with it. He murmured in her ear, “Picts are notoriously difficult, Mistress. Some say they cannot be broken, that the woad has poisoned their brains.”

  “Nonsense,” Cailin said. Her hands shook slightly as she untied the purse at her waist and pushed it into Janus’ hand. “Here, see to it.” She had to get away from this place. She could not bear another minute amidst the stink and ruckus, nor suffer the penetrating stare of Drake Talorcan a moment more.

  DRAKE GAZED AFTER THE red-gold head bobbing through the throng until she vanished. Behind him, he sensed Leo’s silent gloating. He didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. He certainly didn’t want to be gelded, but he was offended that this Cailin woman, whoever she was, decided to saunter in and buy him, like a bauble or a goat.

  Ichbar seemed even more astounded. Yet his shrewd mind did not hesitate at opportunity. “Twenty-four,” he said, holding out his palm to the older man who had come in with the woman.

  Drake first assumed Janus was the woman’s father or even grandfather, but now he saw the old man’s garb consisted of a simple homespun tunic and trousers. On closer inspection he saw faint scars on the man’s throat and wrists, evidence of prior slavery. His belly tightened with dismay. This would be him in a few years, if he did not get himself killed first.

  “Four,” the old man said, folding his arms and ignoring Ichbar’s open palm. They haggled in Arabic. “If he is half dead as you say, then he is only worth half the usual price of a healthy male slave.”

  “Insolent graybeard,” Ichbar muttered under his breath, but countered, “twenty, and not an ounce less.”

  Janus walked around Drake, looking him over with a scowl, and made a disgusted sound. “His back is an open wound, beginning to fester. Mistress Cailin will be lucky if he lasts a day. Five, and you come fetch his body when he drops.”

  Ichbar bristled. “I only deal in healthy stock, Janus. Someone bribed me to take these worthless Picts off their hands. I got the short end of the bargain. Fifteen fidda.”

  “No,” Drake said.

  Both men looked at him; one astonished, one outraged.

  “I am not for sale, not alone anyway. It is a package deal.” Drake reached back behind him, grabbed Leo by the upper arm and dragged him stumbling forward. “Both of us go, or neither.”

  “Son-of-a-shoe,” Ichbar swore.

  “What is this?” Confused, Janus looked from the slaver to Drake. “Who is in charge here?”

  Furious, Ichbar fumbled for the whip coiled at his waist. Drake pushed Leo behind him, squaring off with the slaver. Caught in the middle literally and otherwise, Janus spoke quickly.

  “Ten. Ten ounces of silver for both, and you are well rid of two troublemakers in one sale,” he said.

  Ichbar hesitated, fondling the whip handle as he might a lover. “They will bring more as eunuchs,” he said slyly.

  “If they survived. Less than half do,” Janus grimly responded. “The gods do not favor those odds.”

  Ichbar appeared to sulk, but at heart he was a practical man. Again, his hand opened, palm flat. “Quickly then, pay me before I change my mind.”

  CAILIN HEARD JANUS AND her heartbeat quickened. He was headed towards the main house, speaking to someone. She could not make out the words, but she knew that second voice.

  “Dragon,” she whispered, rising from her loom to face the doorway. Flustered, she pushed wisps of hair off her face just as Janus knocked. She bade him enter and her eyes widened when he came in with not one man, but two.

  “Mistress Cailin, apologies for the delay,” Janus said. “Ichbar drives a hard bargain.”

  “Yet it seems you prevailed,” she said. Aware of Drake’s scrutiny and that of the younger man she saw with him at the pillory, she tried to maintain an air of calm authority. “I know I only gave you enough silver for one, Janus.”

  “That is true. But the taller one is damaged goods now, so his worth has fallen. I had to agree to take both, Mistress. But two young men will help me move things even faster.”

  Cailin nodded, feeling uncomfortable. Though they spoke in Norse now, she knew Drake understood by the expression on his face. He scowled when Janus said he was damaged goods.

  “You must be hungry,” she said, stating the obvious. It was hard to ignore the fact both men were painfully thin for their height, despite musculature built up from hard labor. She knew Ichbar fed his slaves mostly hardtack and rancid gruel. He was the worst sort of taskmaster, both cheap and cruel, and she wished she had enough silver to buy all his thralls. What she used today was her own money, earned from selling her woven goods. She saw Drake eyeing the pieces hung around the room, and was vain enough to wonder what he thought of her weaving skills. Yet his eyes were shuttered, unreadable to her.

  “Thank you, we’re starving.” The younger man piped up with a ready grin, but his smile faltered when Drake elbowed him. “Oww. What’s that for? It’s true; we’re famished.”

  Drake looked exasperated but Cailin found herself smiling at the lad’s honesty. “What is your name?”

  “Leo. I’m Drake’s cousin.”

  This cheerfully volunteered information confirmed Cailin’s suspicion these men were related; the resemblance was there, though Drake was tattooed and Leo was not.

  “I’m Cailin. Janus, take Leo to the larder and feed him well before you set him to labor.”

  “And this one, Mistress?” Janus jangled a second heavy chain in his hands, the chain leading to Drake’s iron collar.

  “He is injured as you said. I must tend his wounds first.”

  Janus frowned. “It is not safe for you to be alone with him, Mistress. Picts are unpredictable at best.”

  “As are women,” Drake said in a voice laden with scorn. “Perhaps I am in more danger from your lady, Janus.”

  Cailin chuckled at Janus’ surprise. “I will be all right. Go.” She held out her hands, and reluctantly Janus turned over the chain. He looked worried as he led Leo off to the larder.

  The weight of the chain in her hands reminded Cailin of the unpleasant fact of slavery. It must have reflected on her face for she saw Drake’s quizzical look.

  “Are you taking your new dog for a walk?”

  “No.” She refused to be baited and pointed to a pile of cushions. “Sit down. I must fetch some supplies.” His eyebrows shot up when she stepped close and dumped the chain in his own hands. A madman might strike or strangle her with it; she saw in his eyes that he thought the gesture either incredibly naive or simply stupid. Cailin did not care. She shrugged. “Sit or do not sit, I will be back,” she said. She left before she could decipher the next emotion that crossed his face. She went to her bedchamber, shut and leaned against the door to regather her composure. For some reason that had nothing to do with fear, she was trembling.r />
  DRAKE STOOD FEELING BOTH awkward and idiotic after Cailin left, holding the hated symbol of slavery in his own hands. What the hell was the woman up to? It reminded him only too clearly of Zoe’s cruel games; tease a man with freedom one moment, then string him up by the balls the next. The closed door only made him more suspicious.

  He ignored her invitation to sit and paced instead, thoughts whirling. Should he make a break for it? The chance was suddenly here. He was a fool not to take advantage and prove Janus’ words true. Normally he would not hesitate to seize such a moment. Yet, he lingered. Why?

  Leo, of course. He couldn’t bolt without the lad in tow. He wasn’t sure where Janus had taken Leo. Drake convinced himself this was the reason as he walked into an adjoining room and stared at a half-finished project on the loom there. The yarns wove a colorful blend of sophisticated scrolls and swirls. He took a closer look. Suddenly those symbols were no longer random, but morphed into some sort of creature. A horse with a wild flying mane? A mighty serpent? He squinted. No, a Dragon …

  A prickle of unease stirred the hairs on his arms. He remembered the woman’s words back at the docks when he stated the meaning of his name. “Yes, I know.”

  It seemed she spoke meaningfully, although it must be his imagination. Just as he imagined the creature on the loom was a Dragon very much like those embracing his flesh.

  As he walked back into the main room, the door opened, startling him. Cailin came in carrying a basin of water and a kidskin bag. Drake regarded both woman and bag with equal suspicion. As if reading his mind, she said, “Those wounds must be tended before you can work.”

  He knew it was true, yet the quiet confidence with which she spoke grated on his nerves. “Aye, I would not wish you to waste money on damaged goods.”

  She looked amused, as if she saw through his attempt to rile her. “This will go far easier if you sit.”

  Disgruntled, he sat. The weight of the collar and chain felt like a lodestone now. He thought he had gotten used to it, but never had he felt the loss of freedom so keenly as when the chain clanked and pooled beside him there on the cushions.