Land of the Silver Dragon

by Alys Clare

  I began to feel cold. Either the sun was going down, or we were somewhere in deep shade. I rather thought the former; I seemed to have been on the boat for ages. Someone put a cover over me. I explored it with my fingertips. It was heavy, and it felt like stiff, coarse wool. It stank, but nevertheless I was grateful for its warmth.

  Then I sensed a change in the boat’s movement. Our progress over the water had been smooth and not very fast, accompanied by the sound of the oars, but now the boat was rocking, and whoever had been rowing had stopped. It was hard to be sure under the sacking hood, but I sensed that there had been a great change in our surroundings. It felt very much as if a small, contained waterway had given way to something altogether bigger ...

  After quite a long time, someone approached me and I sensed him crouch down by my side. Then the hood was removed. I took a deep breath of fresh, moist, salty air, and turned to look at my abductor.

  He was huge.

  He was staring at me intently, his light eyes unblinking. His hair was long, thick and reddish-fair, reaching down below his shoulders. On either side of his face, two plaits hung down, braided with leather thongs. A broad band, consisting of precisely woven strands of different-coloured leather, was bound around his brow. His beard was luxurious, and redder in colour than his hair. He was dressed in a deep blue, sleeveless tunic, bordered at the neck, hem and cuffs with bands of embroidery in a copper colour. Beneath it he wore close-fitting breeches. His feet were bare.

  I was very much afraid that I knew who he was.

  His face was expressionless, giving me no clue as to what he was thinking. Or what he wanted with me, although I was trying hard not to speculate on that. He drew my eyes and all my attention, and it was with an effort that I looked away from him to see where I was.

  I was on a ship, just as I’d thought. It was long and extremely graceful, its narrow prow and stern flaring out to a broader mid-section. I was lying in the stern – above me and to my right, I could see a big man holding the end of what I assumed was the steering oar; and in front of him, on the gunwale, I made out the rowlocks. But nobody sat at the oars now; there was no need.

  From a tall mast in the middle of the ship billowed out a huge, rectangular sail, which effectively blocked my view of the front of the craft. A steady wind filled it. With a gasp of horror I pushed myself up so that I could see over the side of the ship.

  We were out on the open sea, and the distant land was no more than a low, dark line. Beyond it, the sun had set, going down in a spectacular display of red, pink and gold.

  I forced my shocked brain to concentrate. The land was to my left, with the sun going down behind it, so that was west. And that meant we were sailing north. Sailing very fast, in fact, for a strong south-westerly wind was blowing hard and, with the sail angled to receive it, our craft was flying over the waves, sending silvery-white plumes of spray high in the air.

  Shocked into protest, I turned back to the bearded giant and screamed, ‘What do you want with me?’ I paused for breath. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  His lips spread in a grin, revealing white, even teeth. ‘You will find out,’ he said. His voice was rich and deep, and he spoke with a heavy accent. I knew that my language was not his mother tongue.

  He leaned towards me and I shrank from him, terrified. Instantly he put up his hands in the universal gesture of peace, pulling back again. He began to speak, in words I didn’t understand, then stopped, frowning in thought. He tried again. ‘I will untie,’ he said, indicating with a nod of his head the ropes still wound around my upper arms. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. I was totally bemused. He had clearly seen that I was frightened, and he seemed to be asking my permission to approach me. Yet he and his crew had abducted me! It made no sense.

  Unless – I shivered as the ghastly thought took hold and became the truth – unless they needed me alive and well. Because this red-bearded giant who had come among my kin to search and to kill had not given up at all. Instead, having failed to find whatever he was after by direct means, he now intended to force the location of the thing he sought out of a family member.

  That family member being me, and I had absolutely no idea how I was going to answer him.

  He was close to me now, reaching his long, powerfully muscled arms around me to untie the knot that secured the rope. His hair brushed my face, and the dying sun set alight the thick red highlights among the blond. I could see individual strands of hair, like fine, bright copper wires.

  My mind appeared to have collapsed beneath the strain. Here I was, alone on a speeding ship heading the good Lord above knew where, with four – no, five, six – big, burly men. One or more of whom was about to inflict some awful sort of pain on me in order to make me tell them something I didn’t even know, and all I could think about was hair.

  He had unwound the rope and now he sat back on his heels, coiling it neatly. He was staring at me, and I felt he was concentrating as hard on me as I was on him.

  I took a quick look at the darkening water stretching out on either side of us. The black line of the land seemed further away now. Then I returned my eyes to him. ‘Where are we going?’ I repeated, this time in a whisper.

  Something was happening to me. I was feeling dizzy, and the first stirrings of nausea were beginning, as if I’d eaten a bad piece of fish. I swallowed, and that made it worse.

  ‘Look at the horizon,’ he said.

  I must have appeared confused. He pointed one huge arm out over the vast, empty sea to the east. ‘Set – put your eyes to a – a steady point that does not move,’ he said, halting here and there as if searching for words that I would understand.

  I twisted my head to look out beyond the tall figure of the man at the steering oar. Too fast: vertigo hit me hard, and it seemed as if the whole world was spinning around me. I felt the first rush of vomit come burning up my throat and into my mouth.

  Perhaps he guessed it would happen. Perhaps it always did, when people were out on the open sea for the first time. Anyway, he was ready. Even as I retched, he had a leather bucket held ready under my mouth. As the convulsions continued, I felt a strong, warm hand placed firmly on my forehead. With the other hand, he pulled my hair back and out of the way.

  Presumably, I thought, before the suicidal misery of seasickness drove everything else out of my head, he preferred his prisoners not to stink of vomit when he interrogated and tortured them ...

  Someone gave me a cup of cool, refreshing water when I’d finished. I batted away the big hand that held it – I could not tolerate the thought of swallowing even a drop of water, since I knew I’d bring it straight up again – but the hand was insistent.

  ‘Drink,’ a deep voice said. I raised my head a tiny fraction and looked into the face of a stubble-headed, bronze-bearded crewman whose bare upper arms were encircled by beautiful, intricate tattoos. He mimed taking a sip of water, swishing it around and then spitting it out, and I understood. I did as he suggested, aiming into the bucket. Someone had emptied it. To my surprise, the water felt good, and I risked swallowing a little.

  The tattooed man nodded his encouragement, and said something in a tongue that sounded a bit like singing. From behind me, the red-haired giant spoke; I hadn’t realized he was there.

  ‘Thorben says it is good to drink,’ he translated, ‘for always it is easier to be sick when there is something to bring up.’

  It was not a particularly cheerful thought.

  It was almost dark now, I noticed. A pair of lanterns had been lit, well below the level of the gunwales. The moon was rising. Were we going to sail all night? Oh, dear Lord, was that safe? Supposing we ran into something?

  The red-haired giant had brought more covers: a thick, soft wool blanket and another skin. He lifted me up, as if I weighed no more than a child, and, taking hold of the sheepskin that I had been lying on – rumpled up now from my twisting and turning – shook it out and spread it out on the boards of the deck. When I lay
back down on it, it was warm from my body. Then he tucked me up in the thick blanket, putting the skin on top. The stinking, stiff cover he rolled up and thrust under one brawny arm. He sniffed at it, miming disgusted recoil, and, despite everything, I grinned.

  He stood looking down at me. Then he said, ‘Go to sleep.’

  It was as if he had spoken a powerful charm. My eyelids were suddenly heavy, and I felt myself drifting. I was snug in my wrappings; the pillow under my head and the sheepskin on which I lay were soft and comfortable; the luxurious woolly blanket was wonderfully warm. My last thought, before I fell asleep, was that the ship’s motion that before had made me so sick now felt like a mother’s gentle rocking of her baby’s crib.

  SEVEN

  It was a combination of light and hunger that woke me.

  The rising sun was shining directly into my face and, when I raised myself on one elbow to look out at the sea flying past, it was as if tiny, golden fires had been lit on the top of every wave.

  I was so hungry that my stomach was growling like an angry wolf.

  A different crewman stood at the steering oar, and I did not like to disturb him. Other mariners were visible, all looking preoccupied with whatever they were doing, and I could hear sounds of activity from the fore part of the ship. Maybe that was where they ate? Hopefully, I stood up, intending to go and find out. They had taken care of me so far, I reasoned, and so it didn’t seem likely that they were planning to starve me to death.

  My legs felt like feathers. Staggering, I grasped hold of the top of the gunwale, standing quite still. Fully expecting the dreadful sickness to start again, I looked round for the bucket. It was there, just by where my head had lain all night, and, again, someone had rinsed it out. These men, whoever they were, kept a clean ship.

  I waited. Nothing happened, except that, after a while, I sensed that my legs were actually going to hold me up. I risked a step. Two steps. To my amazement, I realized that, as if utilizing some latent skill I hadn’t known I possessed, my body was reacting to the ship’s motion. I have, on rare occasions, ridden a horse, and this new sensation felt in some ways similar. The beautiful ship beneath me was galloping over the waves, responding to every nuance of the sea’s powerful restlessness. And I, standing on her narrow deck, was responding to her, my legs bending automatically to compensate for her movement, my body – my spirit, perhaps – in tune with that of the ship.

  It was in that instant that I fell in love with her.

  Buoyed up, exhilarated by my new confidence, I moved on along the deck, beneath the huge, full sail. In front of it, I spotted a small rowing boat, upturned and lashed to a thwart. It was, I guessed, the means by which the abductors had transported me from the narrow fenland waterways out to the ship. I went on towards the front of the ship. There were, indeed, crewmen up there, and they were sharing out food.

  It was probably my hunger that made me take in that fact first. Then, in the same instant, I saw what reared up behind them and screamed.

  The long, spiked neck of a dragon rose into the clear morning sky, soaring up, up, to the high, proud head, reddish in colour, the fierce mouth spouting a blaze of flame, the pale, wide eye staring out intently over the sea ...

  Somebody laughed, and as I unfroze from my terror, I saw what I should have seen instantly: this was not a real dragon, but a beautifully carved figurehead, up there above and in front of the ship, bravely leading the way through whatever perils the sea cast at it. At him, I corrected myself instantly. While the ship was undoubtedly she, the dragon could be nothing else but he.

  The red-haired giant was beside me. The morning sun shone on his bare head, and in that bright, early light, he looked more fair than auburn. He was smiling. ‘Behold, Nidhöggr,’ he said, pointing up at the dragon. Then, frowning in thought, he added, ‘In your tongue, Malice-striker.’

  A deep shudder went through me. Malice-striker. The name of the ship I had twice seen in my visions. And now here I was, on board the very same vessel.

  I tried desperately to ground myself, absorbing the good, solid wood of the deck planks beneath my feet; the feel of the fresh salt-tasting wind on my face. As the dream world receded, and I saw with the eye of reason, I understood that the craft on to which my abductors had brought me was subtly different from the vision ship. Lean and graceful though she was, the vision ship had been shaped like an arrow, and shields had been positioned along both gunwales. My vision ship was, without doubt, a war ship. Whereas this craft was ...

  I spun round to the giant. ‘What do you call this ship?’ I demanded.

  ‘Malice-striker,’ he repeated, grinning again, as if in amusement that I appeared to have lost my wits.

  ‘No, I mean, what sort of ship is she?’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded in understanding. ‘This is what we call a knarr. A ship for carrying goods, people, horses, cattle – anything that has to be ferried over the sea.’ He reached out a big hand and patted the gunwale behind him. ‘Broad and strong, high-sided and robust, the knarr is built to be reliably seaworthy.’

  A knarr, I repeated silently. This Malice-striker was a cargo ship. In that case, there must have been a predecessor that shared her name. In a flash of intuition, I knew I was right. Gathering all my courage, I forced myself to look the giant straight in the eye and said softly, for I wanted only him to hear, ‘She is not the first ship to bear the name.’

  His expression of astonishment gave me a brief but intoxicating moment of proud joy. He had captured me, bound me, made me his prisoner and was now speeding away with me on his ship, to God only knew what destination and for a purpose I didn’t even dare guess at. It was high time I struck a return blow, if only the feeble, pointless one of taking him by surprise.

  He recovered very quickly. Grabbing my arm, he led me a few paces away from the avid eyes and ears of his crew. Leaning down to speak right into my ear, he hissed, ‘How do you know that?’

  I pulled my arm out of his grasp, rubbing at it. There would be five little bruises there later. ‘Because I saw her predecessor,’ I said, forcing a calmness I was far from feeling.

  Violently he shook his head, as if by so doing he could negate my statement. ‘It is not possible,’ he whispered.

  I shrugged. ‘Possible or not, I did.’ I wondered fleetingly whether to go on, or to leave him guessing. I decided to tell him. ‘I saw a vision,’ I said. ‘From the past. A long, slender ship, sailing very fast along a wild shore. The figurehead was a dragon, just like yours.’ A little devil was prompting me to go on, and, dangerous though I knew it was, I did. ‘That ship was no knarr,’ I whispered. ‘No cargo boat.’ I emphasized the words, putting scorn into my voice. ‘She was a warship, and she carried fierce, brave warriors frantic for the fight.’

  Dangerous did not begin to describe it. I saw the fury ignite in his light eyes, and the fist that caught the side of my head was so fast that it appeared to come out of nowhere. I fell, awkwardly, collapsing in the angle between the deck and the ship’s side. I felt something wet and warm on my head: my own blood. Then my view of the deck, the giant, the crew and the sky was invaded by darkness, and my head fell with a painful thump on to the deck.

  It was night when I woke up. The moon rode high in the sky, but she was partly obscured by cloud. I was back in my place to the left of the steering oar, in the stern of the ship. Once again, I was lying on sheepskin, my head – bound in a bandage – on a pillow, blankets covering me. I had a terrible headache. I tried to look round for my leather satchel – it must be here, since I’d been carrying it slung across my body when they took me – but I couldn’t see it.

  My movement alerted the broad figure sitting beside me, visible as little more than a black shape. I caught a glint of light from his bald head, and a deep voice said, ‘Einar regrets that he hit you so hard.’

  Einar. The giant’s name was Einar. ‘He certainly did,’ I muttered.

  ‘You should not have provoked him. He is very aware that the glory days are
no more, and he does not sail a longship as did his ancestors.’

  Yes, I thought, that’s precisely why I said what I did.

  I wriggled round to try to get a better look at the man beside me. He was older than the other crewmen, with a wrinkled, weatherbeaten face that told of years out in the rough elements. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  He made a sort of bow, as much as anyone can when they’re sitting down. ‘I am Olaf,’ he said. ‘I am, among other jobs, the ship’s cook.’

  Cook. Food. Oh, I’d been hungry this morning, and had been hoping to be fed when I’d gone exploring up to the prow. Now, a whole day seemed to have gone by. My belly felt concave. ‘Please could you find me something to eat?’ I pleaded.

  He leaned forward and put a spark to the wick of a lantern, lowering the flame so that the light was small. Then he waved a hand, and I saw a rough wooden platter loaded with bread, strips of dried meat, some sort of pie, and an apple. Beside it there was a stone jar.

  Olaf handed me the jar. ‘Drink first,’ he said. ‘Not too fast, or it will come back again.’

  The water in the flask was cold, and only tasted faintly of the inside of the jar. I took some slow sips. My head throbbed even more now that I was sitting up. ‘I always carry a satchel with me,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

  Olaf reached behind him. ‘Here.’

  I took it from him. To hold something from home, something from my normal life that belonged to me, was incredibly comforting. I unfastened the satchel’s straps – tucked inside, where I had stowed it before I left Gurdyman’s house, was my beloved shawl – and felt around for the remedy I sought: a strong painkiller made up of white willow, feverfew, valerian and just a touch of the powerful medicines that we extract from monkshood and poppy; the ones that are deadly if you are too heavy-handed. I put the bitter powder on my tongue, washing it down with a mouthful of water.

  Olaf was watching me with interest. ‘You travel well-prepared,’ he remarked. Peering into my satchel, he added with a smile, ‘You appear to anticipate many injuries and much sickness.’