‘Reckon I’ll leave them maids to your fumbling hands.’ Garik’s mouth twitched with the last of his grins. ‘May luck keep you longer than she did me.’
Garik closed his eyes, slipping down the hull till he lay flat and still. Hakan watched the outline of his comrades, shivering with the cold, until at last he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was light and he knew they were dead.
He reached out and touched Garik’s shoulder. Hard as rock. A tide of blood had congealed around the two comrades, the last of their life mingling in death.
He heard a footfall. He looked up to see his father’s silhouette against the grey sky.
‘They’re gone.’
His father smiled wanly.
‘So many. Gone, I mean.’
Haldan nodded and held out his hand. Hakan let himself be pulled to his feet. ‘Come.’ His father picked his way to the prow.
The wind flicked Haldan’s tar-black hair around his ugly stub of an ear: gift of an Amunding axe twenty years before.
Old scars.
Hakan fingered the clusters of gristle under his hair. He had old scars of his own. If they don’t kill you, they bring you luck. So his father said. He should know. But there was something about his father’s shoulders that spoke of more than luck, something unshakeable. A challenge to the world: Cut me down if you dare.
So far, it hadn’t.
For a while, Haldan stared out over the grey waves. His father never wasted words, but they weren’t always quick in coming. ‘The Spear-God taught me something new back there.’
‘What?’
‘A new kind of fear.’ Haldan looked down at his son, an awkward flicker of tenderness in his eyes. ‘That I was going to lose you.’
‘Not this time.’
‘No, not this time.’ He gazed off to the horizon. ‘The blood of our line rests with you, Hakan.’
‘I know, Father.’ He’d known it since he was soiling his breeches and his father was never like to let him forget it.
‘I thought of this day. A long time, I’ve thought of it – the day you would stand in line with me. To fight.’ He turned to his son. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to keep you clear away from it. Many times.’ He chuckled. ‘But the truth is – you did well.’
Hakan’s heart swelled with pride. Hadn’t every drop of sweat he’d ever shed, every bruise he’d ever taken, been to hear those words from his father?
‘I survived,’ was all he answered.
‘Aye, you survived! And that’s bloody well!’ cried Haldan. ‘This world is red with blood. It’s a killing world. One man takes whatever he can from another. Even if that’s only a glorious death.’
‘Like your father?’
‘Your grandsire was a man made for this world, sure. A killer. He left it far bloodier than he found it.’ He scowled. ‘Stirred up a heap of trouble for all of us.’ He took Hakan by the shoulder. ‘But that’s not the only way to live. You understand?’
‘I think so.’
His father’s bright blue eyes wandered out onto the ocean. ‘Your mother taught me the truth of that.’
‘You still mourn her?’
Haldan shook his head. ‘A man cannot mourn for ever. But he can remember.’
Hakan watched him askance. He wanted to reach out, to lay his hand on those broad shoulders that seemed like they must bear the world. To say something that could fill the silence. But what words could answer his father’s long-dead love?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Haldan, eventually. ‘I wasn’t ready for the risk of losing you. It was suddenly so close. So. . . possible. Everything I’ve done these eighteen years has been for you. To see you secure. . . ready to lead our people.’
‘I’ve done all I can to be ready.’ It felt like his life had been meant for little else.
‘In the midst of that slaughter, all I could think was: if you were killed, it was all worth nothing. My life. Your life. Your mother’s. . . Nothing.’
Once again, his father’s expectations weighed on him, heavy as iron. The weight was long familiar, but now he felt different. Felt strong enough to bear the load. He was a man now. He had Inga. Yet his father was talking like everything was about to end. For him, everything was just beginning.
The Vendlings would live on, as his father had always wanted. Perhaps he could tell his father about Inga. Perhaps he would even be pleased. Sure, according to the old ways, his father would give Inga to another man in some dreary exchange for an acre or two, or a few marks of silver. But it didn’t have to be that way. He was his father’s sworn man now. He had killed for him. Didn’t he deserve the woman he wanted? This way, the Vendling blood would be secure. Better than that, it would be strong.
‘Father.’
Haldan turned to him, but as Hakan was about to speak a cry came from the stern. ‘My lord!’ They both turned.
Eskel hung over the tiller, pointing northeast. ‘The wind’s come around some. Won’t be long before that lot is on us.’
A wall of darkness was fast approaching under roiling skies. Lightning suddenly crackled to the water, the storm sweeping towards them, engulfing everything in gloom. The wind rose in pitch.
‘Tie everything down,’ his father bellowed. Around the ship, heaps of furs and cloaks stirred into life. But not Garik and Gunnar. They lay stiff and still.
The Spear-God had let Hakan go. Perhaps the father of the seas wanted him instead. He took his place, gripping the gunwale as the rollers turned white.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Inga shivered.
She loved the Juten Belt’s cool waters, but getting in was always a shock.
This morning, a shock was just what she needed.
Her mouth still tasted sour with ale, and her eyes felt bulgy – too big for her head.
They’ll feel better underwater. . . Everything will.
It was early. The morning light sparkled off the sea to the east. She could never sleep long after daybreak, even in late summer. She had slipped out without stirring a soul. The others would sleep a while yet.
The water lapped at her thighs. Most days she felt fresh, breathing in the wild smell of the sea, shading her eyes from the dawn light. But now she felt sick. She hadn’t drunk that much last night, had she? And she wasn’t like some girls who could barely take a few cups of ale. Besides, she’d been ale-sick before. This was different.
The wind was gentle, the waves little more than humps of green water gliding past, almost courteously, before flattening onto the strand. She let the next swell rise over her head, taking a few strokes underwater until the blood began to warm her limbs.
She emerged in a burst of spray. Her head felt better already. Her stomach, not at all.
Had she said too much last night? Did it even matter? Konur seemed determined to like her, whatever she said. If she had somehow encouraged him, she hadn’t meant to.
Had she been disloyal to Hakan? Certainly, he wouldn’t have been happy that Konur had tried to kiss her. Again! But was that her fault?
Suddenly she felt annoyed, hitting the water with a splash. Why did Konur come here, the love-struck fool? If he was in love. More likely, he’d come to make another conquest. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. He would have to leave today – this very morning. Then she could stop worrying.
Everything will be fine when they return, she assured herself, then realized she had stumbled into the same awful dread. The same question: will they return?
What would happen to her if they didn’t come back? Would she have to give herself up to Konur then? Or someone like him?
She shook her head. NEVER! Anyway, Konur was stupid. What was he thinking, declaring himself like that? And with no encouragement from her at all! Or hardly any. . . She’d only been friendly. Shouldn’t a host be friendly to a guest? She remembered his imploring face, the childish desperation in his voice.
Her stomach suddenly tightened. She touched her belly, a bitter taste in her throat. What is this?
She groaned and took a gulp of air, then slid under the surface. It felt good sitting underwater like that. Safe. Her mind was always running too fast. Galloping this way, then that. Here, it was calm.
She came up for a breath, ready to sink below again. But she stopped, something catching her eye.
A figure had appeared from the trees beyond the dunes. In an instant, she recognized Konur, making his way down to the beach.
How did he know I would be here?
It irritated her that anyone should interrupt her solitary time, let alone him. She watched him approach, wondering if he could see her, suddenly very aware of her nudity. Pulling out the long pin holding her hair, she slicked back her curls, coiled them up, then re-fastened the pin.
Of course he can see me.
He stood over her dress and other things, dumped in a heap on the sand. ‘Good morning!’ he called.
She didn’t reply. She had nothing to say to him. She only peered at him, standing there with his hands on his hips, looking like he owned the wide world. He couldn’t have been awake long – he hadn’t even bothered with his shoes, or anything more than breeches and a tunic.
She wished he’d just go away. This was her secret time. She slid sullenly under the surface again, blowing out tiny bubbles, one by one. If she stayed under long enough, perhaps he would have vanished when she came up – caught by the wind and carried far beyond the farthest horizon.
She waited till her lungs were near bursting, but when she bobbed up he was still there.
‘There you are!’ he laughed. ‘I thought you’d turned into a seal and swum away. How’s the water?’
‘Cold.’ As cold as my voice. Can’t you hear it, stupid?
‘Good – I like it fresh.’ He tugged his tunic out of his belt.
‘No – don’t!’ She sounded a little too anxious. ‘I mean, wait – I’m coming out.’
But she didn’t move. He stood watching her, grinning. ‘Well? I thought you were getting out.’
‘Turn your back. Didn’t your father teach you any manners?’
‘He taught me exactly what I need to know.’ His voice sounded different from last night. A trace of conceit seemed to have crept into it. She didn’t like it. ‘Still, if it makes you feel better. . .’ He looked north along the strand.
‘Promise you won’t look?’
‘Of course!’
She didn’t know whether she trusted him. But she had to get out sometime, and her clothes were twenty strides up the beach. Covering herself, she rose out of the water. Her skin prickled in the brisk air as she waded the last yards to dry sand.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ He was still looking away. ‘Too many thoughts in my head.’
‘Ale troubles a simple mind,’ she said, skipping through the shallows. ‘If you can’t take it, you shouldn’t drink so much.’
‘It wasn’t the ale.’ He turned around. ‘It was you.’
‘Hey!’ she squealed, covering the dark triangle between her legs. ‘You promised!’
But he seemed oblivious to any promise. Instead he came at her, all eager. ‘I was going crazy – imagining what it’d be like to kiss you.’
Abashed, she made a scramble for her clothes, desperate to cover up.
But he sprang into her path. She stopped, clutching herself, looking everywhere but his face. ‘Let me past!’ She hated that she sounded more afraid than angry. He was smirking, but made no move out of her way. ‘Please! Just let me by.’
‘I will. In return for a kiss.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Just one. I promise I’ll let you pass.’ His eyes sparkled with mischief. He had already broken one promise. But despite everything, Inga couldn’t deny he looked handsome in a wicked kind of a way.
Perhaps seeing something in her soften, he took a tentative step towards her. ‘It’ll be over in a moment. You may even like it.’
‘One. That’s it.’ Maybe then he would leave her alone.
He reached out and took her head in his hands, delicate as if she were a sparrow. She watched him come closer, saw the little curls of triumph on his mouth, smelled the musk of his body. And then his lips were on hers, light as the dew.
But then he slipped his tongue in her mouth. She started, trying to pull away, but he only held her tighter, his hand closing over her breast. His touch was cold, alien. The effect was like a lightning bolt. What was she doing? What a fool! Hakan!
Panic flooded her brain and she shoved Konur hard, twisting her head away. ‘There’s your kiss. Now let me go!’
But he only growled something incoherent, tightening his grip, thumbs digging into her flesh. She screeched in pain and, hardly knowing what she was doing, lashed out at his face. She felt her knuckles crunch against his temple, saw the surprise in his eyes. He reeled away, staggering.
‘Bitch!’
But she didn’t waste a moment, tearing loose and slipping past him, feeling a thrill of elation that she was free.
Hel take my clothes!
She was fast, and was sure she’d reach the hall before he could catch her. But she hadn’t gone two yards when something tripped her. She fell sprawling, sand filling her mouth.
Konur dived for her. She twisted, frantic, but strong hands held her, clawing their way up her legs. She tried to kick him off, screaming a wretched sound like a gull’s cry, but it was lost in the empty sky. He was crawling up her, horribly relentless. She wriggled desperately, punching at his leering face, but her blows wouldn’t tell. A hand closed round her throat, squeezing so tight she feared he’d crush her neck like a dry reed.
‘Time for more than a kiss now, sweetling.’ Konur laughed in her face and his breath was foul. He squeezed tighter, pinning her body to the ground, while he shoved down his breeches. She couldn’t breathe. Panic filled her chest. Her vision was fading. She had a dim sense of Konur’s member, swollen, grotesque, slapping against her belly. She kicked her thighs, muscles burning, but he was determined to get between them.
Suddenly he had them apart. She sobbed, frantically sucking in air, still thrashing, but he was too powerful. Her secret parts exploded in pain, as his monstrous shaft bashed against them. She heaved her hips, refusing to give up.
‘Hold still, you little whore,’ he snarled, jamming back her head even harder. Something pricked her scalp. Something sharp and hard. Through fading vision, she remembered the hairpin.
Grabbing the handle, ignoring the pain, she tore it free from her tangled hair, and with all the savagery she had in her, brought it down over his head. The spike plunged deep into his back. He screamed.
She ripped the pin free and stabbed again, still harder, half-burying it under his shoulder blade. Konur reeled off her, squealing like a swine, scrabbling for the spike sticking out of his back.
Inga gulped at the air flooding back into her lungs, rolled onto her belly and staggered up, lurching towards her clothes. Her belt was there. And on it, her knife.
Reaching them, she flung aside her dress, tugging the knife from its sheath. It was no match for a sword, or any kind of battle-blade. But it was still six inches long with an edge cruel as winter.
She’d gutted many wild animals with the thing. I’ll gut this one too if I must.
Konur was writhing about spitting curses, trying to lay hold of the spike. Inga steadied herself. Hakan called her brave once. That time, she’d faced a grey-whiskered killer with cruel, yellow eyes in the forest. She must be as brave now.
‘Gaaaaaaah!’ yelled Konur, pulling the spike free finally.
‘You pig-fucking son of a whore!’ she screamed, brandishing her blade, her beautiful features twisted in rage. Konur got to his feet, stooped, pawing at his wound. His face was white, but he still mustered a sneer.
‘What do you imagine you’ll do with that, slut?’
‘I’ll shred that pretty face into a thousand bloody ribbons if you come near me.’
His expression soured. ‘You couldn’t cut me.’ A
rash challenge from a man with no blade and his cock hanging out.
‘You want to find out?’ She shook the knife, oblivious to the hair plastered about her face, her naked body taut as a bowstring. Wasn’t she the blood of the Vendling, like her warrior forefathers? Perhaps I’m already the last of them! ‘Go back to the shitheap you crawled off of – else I’ll gut you like a hog!’
With a sudden snort, he held up his hands. ‘All right then. I’ll leave. I was tiring of your hospitality anyhow. Fucking shrew.’ He spat. ‘But mark this: you will be my wife. And when you are, I’ll enjoy whipping some sense into you.’
‘I swear to you – if the gods are ever that cruel, you’ll wake on your marriage morn with that fucking thing shoved down your throat.’
She jabbed the knife at his crotch. Konur looked down at his now-limp manhood and began putting himself away. ‘You’ll learn, sweet Inga.’ His grin seemed so greasy now. She wondered how she’d ever thought otherwise. ‘Soon, you’ll learn.’
‘Just go.’
He gave her a last bitter look, and left her.
She watched him clamber up the dunes, still nursing his wound. Only when he had disappeared under the trees did her heart begin to beat slower.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The storm blew for three days.
They ran before it on waves high as halls. Most were sick. All were miserable; each man fingering amber charms, carving runes into the gunwales, or muttering prayers to gods whose ears seemed far off through those shrieking winds.
Hakan clung on, his fear of the deep a stone in the pit of his stomach. Sleep came in scraps and his dream was always the same: the wave engulfing him, the sudden terror, his childish hands losing their grip, his scream smothered by cold salt water filling his lungs. His father had saved him then. Who would save him now?
The abyss writhed around them, as if far below the World Serpent was stirring in the bowels of the earth. But eventually the storm abated. They came about and began the long pull to the east and home.
Four days later, someone cried ‘Land!’
A Mighty Dawn Page 9