Prisoner of the Raven

by Kirby Crow

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2005 by Kirby Crow

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2005

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Chapter One

  861 A.D.

  The Northern coast of Ireland

  The pounding on the hatchway door rose to a final fury before the thick wood cracked and split asunder. The Dubhgall, the dark foreigners that some called Vikings, dropped down and flooded the small compartment below the deck, their bloodied axes gleaming wetly in the red sunset at their backs.

  Aleyn crouched against the bulkhead, holding his puny knife outward.

  The Vikings crowded in, their shouts dying down when they saw that no one confronted them. No one, that is, except Aleyn, just short of twenty summers and on his first voyage out.

  It's likely to be my last, he thought woefully. The rest of the crew was dead, he was certain. He had taken refuge here when it was apparent that the cog would be overrun by the Vikings that had spied them running south with the wind along the coast of Eire. He did not even have a proper knife to defend himself against these axes and swords. The knife he held now was good for little besides cutting cheese and apples at supper. Hiding had seemed the best course.

  One dark, bearded warrior raised his axe, and Aleyn took a deep breath and prepared to charge forward into death. Suddenly, the Northman's weapon was pushed aside by a large hand covered in studded leather. Aleyn looked up, startled, as the Viking chieftain shouldered his fellows aside and stood looking down at Aleyn with a flat expression of boredom.

  The Dane was bigger than any man Aleyn had ever seen. His face was all hard angles, with burning blue eyes above the sharply-defined shelf of his cheekbones, and he had the long blond beard and hair that all the Fingall, the pale Vikings, seemed to have. All, that is, that Aleyn had ever seen.

  This one would be the jarl, then. He had an air of command about him and was more richly dressed than the others, with costly chain mail over his leather jerkin and a round iron helmet which he swept off with a careless gesture. Freed from the helmet, his yellow-gold hair came nearly to his waist. The warrior whose axe he had so rudely seized backed down without a word.

  "Put the knife down, Irlander,” the jarl said in quiet, but very comprehensible, Gaelic. His voice was equally flat and bored, as if words were something that came to pester him and the only way he could be rid of them was to spit them out.

  "You speak my language,” Aleyn blurted in shock.

  The jarl nodded. “I do. They do not, so put the knife down before they spit you like a boar.” His mouth—full and curved beneath the bright gold beard—split in a grin. “A small boar."

  Aleyn could say nothing to the accusation of smallness. Put beside these folk, he was sure that was what he looked like. To his own people, though, he was no worse than average. He had straight brown hair that always seemed to stray into his eyes, a slender nose, and a body that spoke of long years of work and effort. He was muscular and lithe as a cat, even if he was yards shorter than these men.

  Maybe not yards, Aleyn thought dubiously as he reluctantly dropped the knife. The bearded jarl nodded again and spoke a few guttural sentences to his men, obviously questioning them. He turned back to Aleyn.

  "Where is the silver on this ship?” the jarl asked.

  Aleyn blinked. “Silver? We carry what you see."

  The jarl hawked and spat on the deck. “What, grain and wool? That's all?"

  Aleyn nodded. “Easier to carry grain by the coast than by wagon,” he said nervously. “And the wool is worth much."

  "Fah!” The jarl looked disgusted. He eyed Aleyn appraisingly. “Your people fought well. That is why we had to kill them all."

  "They were not my people,” Aleyn managed in a shaking voice. “They were from the Black Sea, eastern men. I only took ship with them a few weeks ago."

  The jarl's blue eyes raked Aleyn's body, and he felt a stone of dread drop into his belly. He had a sudden urge, which he resisted, to wrap his arms around his body as the jarl continued to inspect him. He suddenly felt naked and defenseless in front of these warriors, and thought longingly of his knife. Not that it would have done him any good.

  The jarl stepped closer and took Aleyn's chin in his gloved hand, turning his head this way and that to see the set of his features. “You have all your teeth?” He did not wait for an answer, but prodded Aleyn's mouth open with his thumb to peer inside.

  Aleyn had a passing thought to bite him, but thought better of it. Every other man on the cog was already dead. He had not known the crew very well, and he had no immediate wish to join them. Best to be smart, stay alive, watch and wait. If they did not kill him right off, perhaps there would be a chance for escape.

  The jarl hummed in approval when he saw that Aleyn's teeth were white and sound. Aleyn pressed his lips together and the Viking took a moment to trace the outline of Aleyn's mouth with his gloved finger. Supple leather glided warmly over his skin. Aleyn was paralyzed with outrage. He forced himself to attempt to pull away, but was held fast by an iron hand gripping his upper arm.

  "This has a sweet shape,” the jarl murmured for his ears alone, his thumb lingering on Aleyn's lower lip. He ducked his head to look searchingly into Aleyn's eyes. After another long moment, the Viking nodded to himself as if confirming some inner suspicion, and released him. “How old are you?"

  Aleyn rubbed his jaw and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. “Nineteen,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was born under the winter moon."

  It was spring now and the ship was laden with a heavy haul of wool from the spring shearing, bound for their far eastern lands, which had poorer grazing country where folks would pay well for such bounty. Aleyn had been looking forward to the long journey and the sight of new things, which he was now sure he would never see.

  The jarl gestured for his men to leave and they smirked and laughed and one of them slapped his companion on the back in some private joke. In a moment they had climbed the short ladder and were gone and Aleyn was alone with the hulking Viking.

  Although he fervently hoped he was wrong, Aleyn thought he might know what the jarl wanted. His hope of escaping unscathed vanished like a puff of air when the man stepped even closer to him and put his hands on Aleyn's shoulders. He dragged a hand through the softness of Aleyn's chestnut hair, and Aleyn flinched when his strands caught on the studs of the jarl's gloves and tugged painfully.

  "You,” he stammered. “What do you want from me?"

  The jarl just looked at him, and Aleyn noticed that he was even more handsome when very near, a thought which he quashed quickly.

  "My name is Ranulf."

  "Ranulf,” Aleyn repeated, but did not repeat his question. Ranulf had begun to massage his shoulder with his other hand, almost like a caress.

  "You're not very big,” Ranulf said “but you would fetch a good price on the block."

  Aleyn was puzzled for a second, then horrified. “Slave block?"

  Ranulf tilted his head. “There is another kind?"

  Aleyn felt like he was in a bad dream. Ambushed on his first sailing out, the ship taken, the crew killed, and now this big oaf of a Viking pawing at him and rating his value as a slave!

  He tried to push the man away. “Stop it. Let me go."

  "No."<
br />
  Aleyn glanced at his fallen knife on the deck and longed to have it in his hands. No brigand, no matter how comely, had a right to put hands on him.

  Ranulf saw the direction of his gaze. “What will you do, Irlanderman? You think you can reach that knife before I break your back? Death is no bargain, boy. I could make you a better one."

  His words made Aleyn pause. Bargain? Aleyn's own not-inconsiderable sense of self-preservation began to kick in. Perhaps it would not be necessary to die today. “What do you mean?"

  "You can refuse me, and I will sell you to the Saxons as a slave, or you can try to kill me, in which case I would have to kill you. Either way, you will lose."

  "So what does it matter if I die trying? Anything is better than being a slave!"

  Ranulf snorted in amusement. “True. Spoken like a Viking. You have hot blood in you, boy. Worthy blood. That is why I make you this offer. It may be two moons before we depart for my home in Ribe. There are still many settlements to raid, many witless tradesman sailing their goods on this witless coast."

  Aleyn ignored the insult. “What is it you want?"

  "Lay in my bed at night,” Ranulf said, his face very near to Aleyn's. Aleyn could see that his eyes were the color of the summer sky, and that his beard was like brushed gold. “Let me use your body when darkness covers us. In the daylight, you will work with the rest of my crew, and I will treat you fairly. On the day I set sail for Denmark, if you have done your part well and been agreeable in all ways, I will set you free on your own shores, and neither take you as my slave nor sell you to another."

  Aleyn could barely breathe. Slave or whore, which was worse? He could hardly tell. He was also wary of tricks. “Alive on my own shores?” he specified, then was horrified at himself. Was he even considering this?

  Ranulf chuckled again. The air of boredom and detachment was gone from him, and Aleyn began to suspect that this Northman had many faces, and he was seeing one that the jarl rarely showed anyone.

  "Alive and unharmed and perhaps not even regretting. I am no green youth with fumbling hands. You will find much pleasure in my touch."

  Aleyn stared at Ranulf, aware that his breathing was quick and frightened as a rabbit's. He often thought longingly on the forbidden beauty of men, but he was vigilant to keep that secret buried inside him. How had this Viking seen it so easily?

  "How can I trust you? You murdered my shipmates. They were innocent—"

  "Not innocent,” Ranulf growled, his expression going dark. “Your king did not pay this year, so any ship on his coast is fair game. Your people knew of this. Why do you venture onto the water when you know we are out here, if not to challenge the rights of the strong, which Odin has granted us?"

  It was insane reasoning, or at least Viking reasoning, and Aleyn could make no sense of it. He knew nothing of policies or kings, other than one had just died and his name had been Maelseachlainn. Of the new monarch, he knew nothing. He was also aware in some primal way that there was no changing Ranulf's mind of the justness of his convictions. The Viking evidently believed that the victors deserved any spoils they could take and the weaker were born to endure it. How could he argue with logic like that, especially when he could not even defend himself?

  Aleyn swallowed hard, not knowing how to answer or proceed, so he merely waited. After a long moment, Ranulf put his hand under Aleyn's chin and tipped his face up.

  "It is yes, is it not?” he said gently. “You will do this?"

  Aleyn took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said in a faint whisper.

  "What is your name?"

  "Aleyn,” he answered.

  "A-leyn,” Ranulf repeated, but he said it strangely, pronouncing it as a Viking would.

  Ranulf released him and Aleyn's eyes flew open. The Northman stepped back and Aleyn watched him in dread, knowing what was about to happen. To his surprise, Ranulf bent down and picked up Aleyn's fallen knife and shoved it in his belt.

  "Take what things are yours from this place and come with me,” Ranulf commanded, then turned and made for the ladder, leaving Aleyn to stare after his broad, armored back in utter shock. The Viking ascended in three short strides and was gone.

  * * * *

  Ranulf strode down the deck of the vanquished cog with a smile on his lips. For all his scorn, the wool was a good find. It would be used to make the vathmal sails that all Vikings used on their longships, and would fetch a dear price. The grain was unspoiled and would feed them as they made their way up the coast. This was only their first raid of the season and more bounty would follow, but today, ah today!

  The young man was fine-looking: a full mouth, a firm jaw, dark hair the color of charred oak, green eyes like spring leaves. His body was slender and taut, and already he could feel that smooth skin under his hands. It would feel like rare cloth, rich and secret, and he would have many opportunities to enjoy it before he would be expected to keep his word.

  It was a promise he might even keep. If the boy displeased him, he would not harm him, just sell him and forget about it. If he did please him, he would consider going back on his word and keeping the boy for himself when they sailed for home. The winters were cold in Ribe, and he would appreciate such a body lying beside him at night, warming his bones and his prick at the same time. If Aleyn pleased him very well...

  Ranulf frowned. Best not to think about that. Best not to involve his heart in such matters. Aleyn was very good to look at, yes, but he knew nothing of his nature. It was one thing to enjoy a man's body, quite another to get to know his spirit. He had only known Aleyn for a few moments, but so far he had seen nothing to convince him that he was any different from any of the other little, stunted clans that peopled this coast. He had given in and meekly agreed to let an enemy use his body like a woman. Had he, Ranulf, been the one captured, he would have killed his captor for even suggesting such a thing.

  Ranulf sighed as he came out on deck and surveyed the carnage they had wrought. His men were busy loading the wool and grain onto the longship where the banner of the raven flew, and he stepped around a fallen body to reach his second, a huscarl who had been with him several years. He called to him; “Oskell!"

  Oskell lifted his head and came at once like a dog to his master, yet the huscarl carried himself proudly across the deck. Although Vikings were fiercely independent, Ranulf was one jarl who demanded to be obeyed without question. Ranulf had earned his title when he was twenty-one, through his acts of courage and intelligence in battle. Following the Viking tradition, a jarl kept the loyalty of his men only as long as they felt he deserved it, and Ranulf intended to keep his title. He was now thirty-seven, still hale and strong, and any man who challenged his command had better be holding a sword when he did it.

  Oskell was ten years younger and almost as tall as Ranulf, but pale-haired as a Frost Giant, with eyes that were lashed in white and almost colorless. He looked at his jarl with respect and nodded. “Já?"

  "Get the rest of it aboard. Get the grain. Fire their ship. We sail south by night."

  Oskell glanced over Ranulf's shoulder to the hatch that led below deck. “And the little Irlander?"

  "He is coming with us.” Ranulf saw Oskell's dubious look and his eyes narrowed. “You do not approve."

  Oskell shrugged. “What is there to approve? You have taken what is your right."

  "But there is something."

  Oskell shrugged again. “If you just want a bedwarmer, take Gamelin. He would not mind."

  Ranulf saw Gamelin from the corner of his eye, helping Haakon load a tightly-bound bale of wool onto the longship. The young Viking had bright, curling gold hair and a somber smile, when he smiled at all. He was Oskell's constant companion. “You might."

  Oskell shook his head, waiting for Ranulf to speak.

  "Well, this is a thing.” Ranulf put his hands on his hips and spaced his feet a few paces apart. “Are you tired of Gamelin, or do you just not want the Irlander on my ship?"

&nb
sp; "The second,” Oskell said shortly. “Bad luck. We killed his shipmates. Their fortune rides with us so long as we have him."

  Ranulf snorted. “Luck! Do you believe in magic now, too? The boy is powerless and his crewmates weaklings."

  "Not that weak,” Oskell pointed out. “We wanted slaves, remember? None of them would be taken. Perhaps this boy has some of their spirit in him."

  "He backed down quick enough when we were alone,” Ranulf said meaningfully.

  Oskell's expression turned droll. “You were not down there long enough for that."

  Ranulf gave him a ghost of a smile. “It has been a long time. Perhaps I have already had him."

  Oskell hung on to his point for a moment longer, and then he laughed. “You have not,” he chuckled. “But you are jarl. Take the boy. Throw him overboard when you are done with him, or sell him to the Britons or the Saxons."

  "I may keep him, and take him back with us on the long crossing” Ranulf stated, holding Oskell's eye. “As you said, I am jarl. I may do as I wish."

  Oskell paused, his merriment dying. “The crossing is hazardous,” was all he would say.

  And bad luck is not welcome, Ranulf finished for him silently. Well, so now he knew his crew's mind on it. They did not want to see this particular Irlander sail away with them when they left these shores: the Irlander whose entire crew had been so determined to avoid capture, they all had to be killed. Ranulf ground his teeth. Not that he had been seriously thinking of it anyway, but if he wanted to take him, by Odin, he would!

  "Get back to work,” he growled, and watched sourly as Oskell went immediately to help Gamelin load the wool, never once looking back or casting him a resentful eye. Raiding was a profession for young men. The older Ranulf got, the less patience he had for the petty arguments and frictions that sprang up between crewmen and the endless discipline he must impose on himself to maintain control of what was basically a pack of barely-tamed wolves on a crowded ship. Lately, he had begun to miss the comforts of his home and the sounds of earth and land rather than sea and shore.