"And you are that strong hand," Erik said, tapping his finger against his temple. "Well, you bore me. All of you bore me. I had expected more entertainment from you, after what I had heard about your crew. Someone had brained a man just before my men captured you. Where's that fighting spirit? You're just a groveling lump of shit that washed up on my shores. I've no need for that."
Bregthor snapped his head up, turning it side to side like a frightened pigeon. He had reached the limit of his ability and Yngvar resented him even more. The gall of this fool, to assume he could treat with kings. He was a liar and murderer, indeed a lump of shit. But he did not represent Yngvar and never would. If he had any chance to sway King Erik, now was his moment. He stood and every head turned to him.
"King Erik, this man is not my leader. I am the son of a mighty jarl, captive to this man. I--"
A bloom of cold pain sprouted across the back of his head and his eyesight turned white. He staggered forward, tripping on the man before him and sliding to the dirt packed floor. Echoing laughter bounced around his ears while he shook his head until his vision returned.
"You don't stand or speak without the king's leave," a man shouted from behind. A spear butt struck him on the shoulder, flattening him down to both knees.
"That is a small improvement," Erik said. At last he put his hand down and leaned forward on his chair. "This one may stand and speak to me."
Yngvar paused for someone to help him up, but realized no one would aid him. He slowly built up to his feet. The heavy blow left his head throbbing and his vision blurry, but after a moment he was composed enough to make his plea. King Erik's eyes search him as he smiled. He was like the alpha wolf with his pack at his back, leaning over its defeated prey.
"King Erik, I am Yngvar Hakonsson. I come from Frankia, where my father is jarl over forty farms and five ships." He paused to see what impression he had made on Erik. Nothing, of course, He had once been King of Norway where he would have had jarls with larger estates beholden to him. "Here is my cousin, Bjorn Arensson. His father is the right hand of Vilhjalmer Longsword, son of Hrolf the Strider. We are both grandsons of Ulfrik Ormsson."
He declared his grandfather's name with great pride, and it stung to see no change in anyone's expressions. King Erik raised his brow at the pause and Yngvar continued.
"The ship you captured belonged to my other uncle, Gunnar the Black, who was jarl of twelve farms in Frankia. He was killed on raid in Norway." Here Erik sat up straighter. He could not still be king of Norway, could he? "This man who claims to lead us has only recently grabbed power for himself. He does not represent me nor those who are still loyal to my family."
Erik pursed his lips and gave a slight tilt to his head. "Thank you for the family history. Those names mean nothing to me but for Vilhjalmer Longsword. Perhaps I've heard of your grandfather, Ulfrik, for it is an uncommon name. No matter. Why have you consumed the short time I've given you to tell me all of this?"
"You will either enslave or sell us," Yngvar said. Erik's smile widened. "But we are more valuable to you as hostages. Our fathers will pay well for the return of their sons and men. Do not waste your time haggling with slavers, who will only undersell our value. Send us back to Frankia for a greater reward."
Erik tilted his head back as if considering the possibilities. His smile deepened as he seemed to arrive at a conclusion. "You speak well, though with a horrible accent. No lying about where you hail from. But are you truly a jarl's son? You allow lesser men to abuse you?"
A chuckle circulated among Erik's men. Erik himself stared down Yngvar, a wicked smile quivering on his lip.
Whirling on the balls of his feet, Yngvar faced the man who had struck him. He was the same height, draped with a gray cloak and wearing a helmet and faceplate. Yngvar had time only to note the neatly trimmed, reddish beard of the man.
He struck the guard in the face, clipping the faceplate and skinning his knuckles. The hard bone of the man's cheek crunched against Yngvar's fist, and he staggered back in surprise. The hall erupted in laughter and applause.
Yngvar did not let the man recover, but followed up with a weak punch from his left to topple the man over those kneeling behind him. He crashed the floor, cloak fluttering over his head and his helmet falling off. Yngvar's hand throbbed and stung where blood raised from the broken skin of his knuckles. But he ignored it and hovered over the man.
"You will treat me with more respect from now on. Do not think to lay hands on me again unless you wish to lose both of them."
He turned back to King Erik, who smiled but did not laugh as hard as the rest of his men. The two hulking guards at his sides gave no reaction at all. Yngvar flexed his sore hand and stood straighter before Erik.
Bjorn's whisper was harsh over the laughter. "You should've gutted him with his own sword."
"I'm more convinced of your claim," Erik said. "But now you have done violence in my hall. I cannot abide that."
More laughter, and Yngvar's stomach burned. He hoped his fear and surprise remained hidden, but Erik now finally leaned back in wicked laughter. Nothing he had done made any difference. Perhaps it was as Thorfast had said, and they had no hope from the start. He had just been a toy for King Erik to paw and bite.
"Like I said before, you are all shit." Erik waved his hand in dismissal. "We'll sort out who's to be sold and who's to be kept. Get this rabble out of my hall."
A hand like iron clamped over Yngvar's arm and spun him around. The guard he had floored smirked at him, a trickle of blood running from his mouth.
Yngvar swallowed, meeting the man's cold eyes shadowed beneath his faceplate.
"What are you going to do if I lay hands on you again, oh mighty son of whore?" He smiled. "I think you're going to be too broken to sell. Such a pity."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Yngvar stared at the guard who gripped his arm. All around the brightly lit hall, helmeted guards laughed. They leveled their spears at Yngvar and his crew, and anyone who might have considered resistance blanched before the gleaming blades. Erik sat unmoving on his chair, hand once more supporting his head in boredom. His fierce eyes fixed on nothing, as if he had forgotten everyone assembled before him.
"Bjorn Arensson is no one's slave!"
Bjorn spun on the guard closest to him, too near for spears to be of any use. For all his rage and wildness, Bjorn was the best fighter of all three of them. King Erik's men had been overconfident in carrying their weapons into the hall. Bjorn tore away the guard's sax, which hung at his side without any peace straps to restrain it, and flicked off the sheath.
Yngvar leapt for his cousin, but pulled up short in the grip of his captor. Thorfast also tried to grab Bjorn, but was likewise already restrained.
The blade flashed, and Bjorn cut up with terrible if inaccurate force. He shaved a line of blood along the guard's arm, causing him to flail back with a scream.
Laughter turned to shouts of anger, and a cluster of spears converged on Bjorn. The rest of the crew either fell flat or danced away to avoid being skewered. But Bjorn was howling his rage, reversing his grip on the short sword to deliver a mortal strike even as a dozen spears would pierce his body in reply.
"Stop this!"
King Erik's voice was thunder in the hall. Everyone flinched, both Yngvar and his captor as well. Even Bjorn paused in his red-faced rage. But when he saw the spears ranged against him, he snarled.
"Get fucked, you whoresons!" He pulled back to strike the injured guard.
King Erik exploded through the throng, so fast and powerful that men bowled aside of his charge. Bjorn had only an instant to look up before the mighty king had driven his ring-crusted fist into Bjorn's jaw. As he doubled over with a grunt, Erik brought his knee up into Bjorn's ribs. Yngvar watched his cousin stagger and fall. King Erik stamped on Bjorn's sword hand, pinning it to the ground.
The room became as cold and silent as an ice cave at the top of the world. Erik had defeated Bjorn even without a weapon of
his own. Bjorn, now winded and pinned, panted like a red-faced dog. Yngvar's stomach knotted imagining Bjorn's demise.
Thorfast struggled to get before the king. "My lord, he--"
King Erik kicked Thorfast aside like an aged hen that had wandered into his path. The king retrieved the short sword from Bjorn's grip, never raising his pinning foot.
Rather than plunge the blade into Bjorn's throat as Yngvar expected, the king released him. A dozen spear points drove within a hair's breadth of Bjorn's face, and he remained still beneath them. King Erik rounded on the wounded man, holding up the blade.
"Cut with your own sword in my hall? You dishonor yourself and disgrace me. I've no place for a weakling like you, who would let a boy disarm and nearly kill him."
King Erik braced his palm to the pommel of the sword and with both hands drove it like a spike through the man's gut. He had not moved, and barely whimpered as he collapsed at his king's feet.
"I've returned your sword," King Erik said. "Put it to better use in Niflheim, you shit."
King Erik turned back to Bjorn, his lip curled. He did not speak, but raised his hand to signal his men to pull Bjorn to his feet.
Yngvar again strained against at his captor, who despite his horrified expression had not relented. So Yngvar did the next best thing he could for his cousin. He shouted at King Erik.
"We are the sons of great jarls, whether we look it or not. Treat us well and you will be repaid for it. Sell us to slavery, hang us from your walls, or anything else, and you have squandered the prize your men have brought to you. Are you so rich as to throw away gold?"
King Erik remained silent, his back to Yngvar, and the blaze of hearth fire cutting him to a silhouette. His head imperceptibly turned to Yngvar.
"How wealthy are you, King Erik?" Yngvar squared his shoulders, knowing all his men were watching--even Bregthor. He had to be their example. If his words led to a cruel death, then he would accept it. Someone had to take action, and he was their leader.
Murmurs circulated among the crowd. The eyes of guards shifted behind their faceplates, each man seeking the reaction of his companions. Yngvar knew he had hit Erik in his ribs. He boasted wealth and strength because he lacked them. He had been King of Norway, and now he had lost it to become king of these lost islands of grass. Of course he was poor.
"Our fathers will pay all you ask," Yngvar said. "I guarantee it with my life."
Erik did not move, and his voice was full of threat. "Who is your father again?"
"Hakon Ulfriksson," Thorfast said. Erik closed his eyes and lowered his head.
"Hakon," he repeated. "Is there a name I hate more? Is there a name that better fits a man full of lies and guile. No, there is not."
Yngvar had no answer for Erik's sudden anger at his father's name. He sought to divert that anger before it ruined his chances.
"My grandfather should be better known to you. Ulfrik Ormsson was jarl of the islands not far to the north. He sailed with Hrolf the Strider to attack Paris."
"That is why I've heard his name," Erik said. He looked up now, seeming to shrug off his anger. "Have any of you heard of this man, Ulfrik Ormsson?"
Yngvar smiled as a dozen men nodded. Several confirmed what Yngvar had said. Erik seemed to relax, then faced Yngvar and Bjorn both.
"Perhaps it would do well to keep you on as hostages," Erik said. His smile had warmed, but it did not reach his eyes. Yngvar wondered if King Erik knew what a genuine smiled looked like. "Yet Frankia is far and I've no inclination to travel there myself or send men of my own. I can send word with traders, and your father can seek me out."
Yngvar gave Bjorn a hopeful look, but his cousin was shifting his jaw and prodding his tongue against his cheek.
"Not just us two," Yngvar said. "Our whole crew is to be ransomed. It will only bring you more gold."
Erik's warm smile faded. "And I'll be feeding them until I can reach a deal with your father. I must profit from this, and these men are of no account."
"We will work for you," Yngvar said, not letting his voice falter. In fact, he wanted to ball up beneath Erik's ferocious gaze and hide. "All of us can care for ourselves. In time, you will find us as good as your own men."
Erik turned his head in thought, and his eyes revealed his mental calculations. "Very well. You will all earn your keep. If you prove yourselves, you can have your weapons back. If any of you are fit enough, you might sail with me."
He waved at his guards and the corpse at his feet. "You men show them to the barracks until we can find a place for them. And someone clear away this fool and give his family whatever blood-price they ask. If they still have complaints, send them to me."
When Erik swept from the hall to his rooms in the rear, the tension in the air dissolved. Men who had moments ago leveled spears at their guts now treated them cordially. Bjorn received a number of scowls. Yet Yngvar had no chance to worry for it. His own crew converged on him.
Ander Red-Scar embraced him. "I owe you my life once again. I'm thrice beholden to you now."
"I was saving myself too," Yngvar said. "And this time it's not a lie to say so."
He cast a glance at Bregthor and his staunchest cronies. He still had Davin and five or six men standing with him, sullen and defeated. Did they prefer slavery to this? Some fools could never be saved, and he abandoned hope for them. Even those who had once sided with Bregthor now crowded Yngvar to pat his back.
"It's just another kind of slavery," Bregthor said, pushing forward into the group. "We will all be made to work for nothing, own nothing, and have no freedom at all."
"You ungrateful pig," Ander said. "You'd rather have your head shaved and a slave collar fastened to your throat? Better yet, how would you enjoy a slave brand? You think we'd fare better being sold in Dublin? You're a fool."
Yngvar smiled, unable imagine any finer rebuttal. Thorfast, true to his reputation, had the better twist.
"Slavery suits Bregthor and his ilk. For they have ever been slaves to greed and lies. That slave collar is fast around their necks, even if we cannot see it. A slave cares little how many collars he wears."
Bregthor sneered, but rather than fight, he gave himself over the guards to be led out of the hall with his small band.
Thorfast slipped his arms around Yngvar's shoulders. He then reached out to Bjorn, who was still working his jaw, and pulled him close.
"We're together still," Yngvar said. "That's something to be grateful for."
They had no more time for celebration, for Erik's men were impatient to end their night. They herded them off toward the barracks they had occupied earlier. Someone had the wise idea to divide them, and astutely kept Yngvar and Bregthor apart.
As the night wore on, Yngvar's jubilation soured. Bregthor had been right, and it pained him to accept it. He took up a pallet with Thorfast, who had already spread himself across his side. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in time with his breath. The barracks were dark, and men were mumbling off to sleep.
They had believed in him. It had felt incredible. Today he had become their leader. He had never experienced such a weight. These men actually thought he knew what he was doing, but he did not. Would they discover this? Would they go over to Bregthor when they did? Would they shame him? Probably all of that and worse. Yet no one else would lead. Bjorn was also Ulfrik's descendant, and his father Aren was renowned for his sharp mind. But Bjorn had inherited only stubbornness, loyalty, and fighting prowess from his ancestors. He was not a leader. Yngvar had to be that man.
So what now? The thought gnawed at him. He had managed to make them all hostages. But what was the next step? His philosophical patience from the earlier night had vanished. He had not time to wait and see how things developed. He had to agitate for a swift return to Frankia, otherwise they might all be absorbed into King Erik's ranks and never see home again. Not seeing home again had seemed an adventurous, daring choice to his foolish mind only a few months ago. How much he had learned
since.
He lay down on the hard pallet. Thorfast was already lightly snoring next to him. Yngvar tucked his hands behind his head and searched the gloom before his eyes. He had no choice but to see what developed and exploit any chance he uncovered. He hated to believe it, but he was well and truly out of choices.
He and everyone else were, in all ways that mattered, slaves to King Erik Blood-Axe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Yngvar wiped sweat from his eyes as it rolled off his brow. His back and knees ached from crouching in the hull of his ship for hours on end. He enjoyed standing on the beach, letting the cool air wash over his naked torso. Their ship was not far from the shore, where gentle waves lapped the rocks on this sunny day. The ship rested on a frame that held it straight while Yngvar and others repaired and improved it. He drew a deep breath, letting the salt air scour out the scent of pine pitch that had clogged his nose
Three other ships were laid out on the beach, the last of these being carried into place by a crew of two dozen men. Their shouts were distant as they lowered their burden onto its frame.
"Here's more pitch," Thorfast said from behind. Yngvar had smelled the heavy pine scent of it. Thorfast set one bucket beside his foot, and carried the other past him to where Bjorn and two other men waited against the hull.
"And wool," said Alasdair. The young, smooth-faced slave dropped a basket of wool beside the pitch.
"So my rest ends," Yngvar said. "We've got all these ships to caulk yet. Look at my hands. They're like wool mittens."
"Mine as well, lord." Alasdair held his hand up to Yngvar's. Both were covered in spilled pitch and errant wool, so that they looked more like lamb legs than human hands.
Erik had put them all to work on various tasks over the last several weeks. Yesterday he announced that ships need to be re-caulked and assigned Yngvar and a dozen other men to the task. Yngvar's former ship was the first one to receive the honors. He had spent all morning pulling up the deck boards and crab-crawling through the hull with a bucket of pine pitch and wool to fit between the strakes. It was tiresome work.
Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) Page 15