by Zaya Feli
Torsten stepped over the corpses of three men, face spattered with blood; he rolled his bear-like shoulders and cracked his neck audibly left and right. “The negotiations were a trick. The hostage was a servant boy.”
Eskal spat on the nearest corpse and shook his head. “Fucking liars. They got what they deserved.”
“They showed no signs of ill will at first,” Hjalmar said, face dark. “We'd feasted and we were getting ready to drink and negotiate. Out of nowhere, Jarl Orlan's Runik pulled his axe and in the next moment, this happened.” He threw his hands up.
Isa hummed in acknowledgement, taking a torch off a sconce on one of the support beams and walking deeper into the hall. Jarl Orlan's corpse lay a short distance from the high chair, face-down with Eskal's axe in the side of his neck. Their intervention could easily have gone wrong, but it seemed Tyr had favoured them this time.
Isa looked at the table, running the tips of his fingers along the edge of an untouched cup of ale. The runes on his fingers tingled. “Perhaps Eskal should have paid more attention to Steinar's rune lessons,” Isa said. He raised the cup to his nose and inhaled. “Looks like we interrupted the party just in time.”
“Poison? They must have abandoned that plan when they felt you coming through the ward.” Steinar came over and took the cup from Isa, growled, and tossed it towards the far wall so the contents splattered against the wood. “Cowards.”
Eskal shouldered past Steinar and shoved Isa so hard in the side that he hit the table, its legs screeching against the floor. “Shut your pig mouth, Isarin. I had your back!” He yanked his axe out of Orlan's corpse and tossed it to his other hand.
Isa growled, pushing away from the table. He squared off against Eskal, raising his chin. The light from the torch cast dancing shadows across Eskal's face. Isa contemplated whether to club him with it.
“Boys!” Steinar's voice cut the air like a blade. “In case it passed you by, we've won. Halafjell is ours.”
Isa stepped around Eskal and grinned, though the rush of the fight had left him sore. The cuts on his shoulder and stomach ached, but he refused to show weakness so long as Eskal was around. He tossed the torch onto the ashes of the central fire.
“We should celebrate,” Eskal said. He threw his arms wide and spun in a circle, the tip of his axe nearly grazing Isa's temple.
Isa glared at him.
“Tomorrow, we'll celebrate,” Hjalmar said, righting one of the fallen chairs and taking a seat with a grimace. “Torsten, you will stay behind at Halafjell tonight and keep this place under control. How many of their warriors are dead?”
“Looks like all of them,” Torsten answered. “Weren't many.”
“Their Runiks?”
“Only one. Dead,” Steinar said.
“Then it should be no problem for you,” Hjalmar continued. “Tonight, we'll rest. Tomorrow morning, we'll gather the people, and tomorrow night, we'll celebrate.” He took a heaving breath.
“I'll stay with Torsten,” Eskal said, shoving his axe through his belt. “I want to take a look at their ships. And there should be a competent Runik here while things settle down. I don't want to deal with a village-wide panic if they find out Curse Boy is walking around among them.” He gave Isa a pointed look.
“Then maybe you should lower your voice,” Isa said, and was preparing to deliver another sharp remark before a glare from Steinar silenced him. “Let's go, then,” he said instead, eager to leave Eskal's company and heal his cuts. Having no energy left and no Sjaelir within reach made him feel uneasy. Exposed.
“Torsten, go door-to-door and tell the people they have a new jarl but that they have nothing to fear,” Eskal said, patting Torsten on the shoulder.
Isa stepped into the darkness. The commotion had alerted the village inhabitants, and men and women came out of their homes brandishing tools or weapons. A little late for that, Isa thought with a huff. Torsten strode out behind Isa and approached the group.
Isa watched Torsten talk the villagers down. Once they lowered their weapons, Isa turned away and looked around at the place Rakkian had lived for the past six years. Halafjell was nothing but a collection of huts and halls taking shelter in the mud beneath the rise of Thorn Ridge to the west. They had ships and pigs, their main sources of trade and income, but not much else.
Failure was a sour ale to swallow.
The whisper of wings alerted Isa to Skygge's approach. She landed on his shoulder, left wing fanning the side of his head. “Hey, girl,” Isa murmured, stroking two fingers against the raven's soft chest. She bowed her head and cooed in greeting.
“Let's go home.”
* * *
Isa didn't return that night. Daylight came and went. Just past morning, someone had arrived and dragged Rakkian, chair and all, from the jarl's hall to a dark, cramped back room in a different building. They'd stripped the gold from his fingers and clothes and left him there. No one had been to see him since. His stomach rumbled, his mouth was dry, and he needed to relieve himself. He'd called out a few times, but all it had earned him was a few hard thumps on the wall from the outside. Nearby, a raven cawed. Rakkian hadn't forgotten what Isa told him six years ago: if the Runiks caught him, they'd do bad things to him. The pendant Isa had given him still lay nestled safely against his chest, under his clothes. It had protected him so far. These people still didn't know what he was. Only Isa knew.
Where was Isa?
If only he could wiggle free from the ropes...
Loud voices outside the door made Rakkian freeze. Someone laughed and the voices grew fainter. The villagers had grown progressively rowdier the lower the sun sank. Rakkian had heard snippets of conversation. Suckling pig. Mead. Ale. Music. There'd be a feast. That had to mean Isa had reached Halafjell in time. What was left of Halafjell now that Ulfheim had taken it? It had been Rakkian's home for the past six years, but he felt little affection for its people. All it had been to him was hard work, cold, and boring nights by the fire listening to everybody else's tales of freedom and adventure. When he'd been younger, he'd dreamt of growing big and strong like a Norseman and fighting his way to freedom. But even now, he wasn't big and he'd never be as strong as them.
Not that being small didn't have its benefits. He wiggled his shoulders, yanking the ropes from side to side. The chair groaned. His wrists felt raw, like he was scraping bone, and he gasped with pain and let himself sink back. He closed his eyes, waiting for the burning, throbbing pain to subside. Damn ropes were too tight. The sun was going down. If only he could—
The door slammed open and Rakkian flinched, tugging on the ropes with the instinct to cover his head. The men in the doorway didn't swing at him, though. Instead, they drew their knives and cut the ropes binding him to the chair, then hauled him to his feet. Rakkian groaned when his stiff muscles stretched after such a long time in the same position. The men reeked of ale.
“Where are you taking me?” Rakkian asked.
The men only laughed. One of them bent down and wrapped both arms around Rakkian's legs. Everything tilted and Rakkian let out a yelp as he was thrown over the man's shoulder, knocking the wind from his lungs. His rune pendant swung out from beneath his shirt, and his heart skipped a beat as he wormed a hand free of the man's iron grip to stuff it back underneath his clothes.
Upside down in the dark, Rakkian couldn't see where they took him. They moved along a dark road, then light flooded from doors swung wide, accompanied by music, laughter, and cheers that drowned out the pounding in Rakkian's head.
The world tilted again and Rakkian's back hit a table, his head snapping against the wooden surface. He cried out, wrapping a hand around the back of his skull as laughter exploded around him. He waited for a punch or a stab, but nothing happened. Slowly, he dared to sit up.
At least two dozen men and women with axes at their hips and drinking horns in their hands stared down at him from all directions. He was in a new longhall, one lined with tables and benches. Compared to the cool air o
utside, the hall was scorching, and drops of sweat already beaded on his brow. Looking around, he thought he recognized a few people. The young man who'd teased him the day before. The tall, blonde woman, her curly hair now in an elaborate braid, who'd come to watch him after Isa left, but hadn't said a word to him. He couldn't see Isa anywhere. Behind the men and women watching him like vultures, carved dragon heads stared from the tops of massive support beams, judging him with angry, hollow eyes.
“Let's make him dance,” one man barked, raising a leg to nudge Rakkian with the toe of a dirty boot. He had a dragon tattooed on each cheek and wild hair that stood out from his head in all directions.
Rakkian scooted back, nearly slipping off the edge of the table. His hand brushed a fork and he curled his fingers around it, swinging it at the nearest man. “Leave me alone!”
“Oh! Listen to that! He's a western rat!” someone else said. The people laughed again and the man Rakkian had swiped at grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward, punching Rakkian in the face hard enough to send him tumbling to the floor.
Rakkian's ears rang and pain blossomed across the side of his face. For one awful moment, he thought his cheekbone might be broken. When he put a hand to his cheek, it was numb.
“Lay out the hot coals!” another man shouted. “Let's make the piggy dance!”
A new, rhythmic melody started up, heavy drums pounding out of sync with the inside of Rakkian's skull, but the music faded nearly as fast as it had begun as a new voice cut through the noise.
“Enough! The fake jarlsson needs to die.”
The crowd parted and a man strode forward, nudging Rakkian's head up with the toe of his boot. Icy blue eyes stared down at Rakkian from a frame of dark hair, and Rakkian's heart nearly stopped when he recognized Isa.
No. Not Isa. Rakkian blinked to sharpen his blurry vision. The man's eyes were smaller, his nose hooked, and his lips thinner. He was older. What the man said next made Rakkian forget his throbbing head and cramping stomach.
“Tie him to a beam and bring me my skinning knife.”
“No, no! Stop!” Rakkian gasped as two men pulled him to his feet and pushed him against one of the dragon beams. They twisted his arms back around it and when Rakkian opened his mouth to cry out, someone stuffed a nasty-smelling piece of cloth inside. His head spun. He tried to catch the eye of anyone who might have sympathy for him, but all he got in return were grins and laughter.
“Eskal!”
The man who looked like Isa turned at the shout of his name and caught a knife tossed from somewhere in the crowd. The blade glinted as he turned it over in his hand and moved closer. He smiled at Rakkian. His canines were filed into unnatural points.
Rakkian squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away, fear threatening to bring up what little bile was in his stomach.
A flutter of wings and a loud caw pierced the sounds of the crowd. The man, Eskal, cried out. Rakkian dared to open his eyes. A large raven stood on the ground between them, its sharp beak parted. There was a fresh cut on Eskal's cheek where the bird had struck.
“That fucking little—” Eskal spluttered.
“Skygge!”
The bird looked up, and so did Rakkian. He knew that voice. The raven cawed again and took to the air, flapping over the heads of the crowd to land on the shoulder of a young man: Isa. Relief welled up in Rakkian. Isa had promised he wouldn't kill him.
“Leave him alone.” Isa's voice was suddenly the only sound in the massive hall. Rakkian hadn't even noticed when the music had stopped.
Eskal hissed and pointed the knife at Isa. “He's a dirty little liar and he needs to die. We all want to see him squirm. Don't we?” Eskal raised his hands to the crowd. They all cheered, except for Isa.
“He's a servant boy. He can work. It's a waste of life.” Isa stepped into the small open space in front of Rakkian. He looked Rakkian up and down. A drinking horn was balanced between his fingers and Rakkian could smell ale on his breath, but his pale blue eyes were clear.
“Then we'll sacrifice him to the gods,” Eskal said, stepping up to Isa. When the raven lunged for him from its perch on Isa's shoulder, he danced back, eyeing it cautiously. “Then he'll still be useful.”
The crowd muttered their approval. Isa glared at them, stepping sideways to place himself deliberately between Rakkian and Eskal. Rakkian stared at the black runes tattooed on the back of Isa's neck as something stirred in his mind. Isa was a Runik, one of the people he'd told Rakkian to avoid. Rakkian had seen enough magic in Halafjell to know Isa had been right to warn him.
“He will not be sacrificed! He's the one who alerted me to Halafjell's plans. Is that how we repay the people who help us?” Isa asked.
“What's the issue?” A man mowed his way through the crowd. He was tall, muscular arms covered in winding tattoos, with brown hair and a trimmed beard shot with grey. When he stepped into the light, Rakkian could see scars nearly as numerous as the tattoos.
“The servant saved Eskal's life and now Eskal wants to kill him,” Isa said.
Eskal spat on the floor.
The newcomer looked at Rakkian, then sighed. He looked like a man who'd never learned how to smile. “Let Eskal have what he wants for once. I'm tired of breaking up fights between you two.”
“But, Steinar!” Isa protested, grabbing the man's wrist. “He could be of use!”
Steinar frowned. “Since when do you care who we kill? We just gained an entire village of people who could be of use, Isa. Let Eskal sacrifice one of them to the gods if it pleases him.”
Rakkian flinched when hands grabbed his arms and cut the ropes tying him to the beam. Once again, he was dragged from the dining hall and outside. The cold was biting after the warmth of the hall and he slipped and stumbled on the muddy ground. He tried to look back, but couldn't see Isa in the dark.
“W-wait,” he begged. His foot caught on an edge and he hit his knee on the steps of a raised platform. They were at the edge of the village, surrounded by statues of people. No, not people. It was a gods’ circle.
“Isa's right,” Rakkian gasped, hands forcing him onto an ice cold stone surface. “I can work. And cook. I can drive cattle and steer ploughs. Listen!” Tears burned in the corners of his eyes and he gasped for breath. It seemed cruel to be nearly saved from death only to be condemned again. He closed his eyes, tried to console himself that having his throat slit was at least a quicker death than being skinned alive.
“You really shouldn't do that.” Isa's voice carried over the cheers of the crowd once more, earning him scattered hisses and insults.
Rakkian opened his eyes. Isa strode up the steps, body tense like a cornered wolf. They looked at each other and Rakkian saw something like sadness in Isa's eyes before he turned to the others.
“He's a Sjaelir,” Isa said. “A strong one, too.”
Rakkian raised his head.
Steinar's eyes narrowed. He stepped around Isa and leaned over Rakkian. “I touched him when they brought him here. I felt no energy in him.”
“He's wearing Dagaz under his clothes.” Isa sounded tired. His eyes were downcast.
Steinar's frown grew deeper. He tugged on Rakkian's shirt, exposing the small stone that lay over his heart, the one Isa had carved for him six years ago. Steinar yanked it off and Rakkian gasped, wanting to reach for it despite the strong hands holding him down. He didn't want to lose it. Its absence made him feel naked.
“How did you know?” Steinar asked, turning to Isa.
Isa didn't look up. “I saw it when he told me about the Halafjell attack.”
“Why didn't you say sooner?” Steinar grabbed Isa by the shoulder and shook him. “We nearly sacrificed a Sjaelir! Way to make things exciting, Isa.” Steinar waved his hands at the men holding Rakkian. “Get him up. Let's see what he can do. What's your name, boy?”
It took Rakkian a second to find his voice, his throat was so tight. “Rakkian.”
“I'll do it.” Eskal came forward and Rakkian didn
't miss the sneer Eskal gave Isa as he shoved him aside.
“Control yourself, Eskal,” Steinar warned, but stepped back to give him space, folding his arms over his chest.
Rakkian looked at Isa with the creeping feeling that this wasn't the rescue he'd been hoping for. He had never seen a Runik drain a Sjaelir, but he'd heard their cries of agony when the Runiks went to battle, years ago, before he'd really understood what it meant. Eskal seemed like the last person he'd want digging around inside his soul.
Eskal approached him, eyeing him like a fox with a rabbit. He raised his hands towards the crowd; they were tattooed with runes like Isa's. Rakkian had heard people talk about the Ulfheim Runiks. There were more of them here than in other towns and villages, except maybe for Fenrisborg. Rakkian had heard the saying, ‘the gods favour the wolves’ muttered both with respect and contempt.
Eskal put a hand under his shirt, choosing one of several pendants dangling around his neck. He reached out, and Rakkian tensed when Eskal placed a palm against his forehead, the tips of Eskal's fingers digging into his temples. Rakkian's head throbbed. The backs of his legs hit the stone table and the men tightened their grip on him to keep him in place. Eskal's eyes narrowed, and at first, nothing happened. Relief sprouted in Rakkian. Isa had been wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't a Sjaelir at all. Maybe he had nothing to fear.
A wave of revulsion washed through Rakkian and he gasped. Fire blossomed behind his eyes. He smelled rot and decay and he twisted and thrashed in the men's grasp, throat closing. He was choking. No. Stop!
Eskal let out a cry and staggered back, holding his hand against his chest. Blood seeped from between his fingers and he swayed before Steinar caught his arm, preventing him from falling. He tore his arm from Steinar's grip and lunged forward, backhanding Rakkian across the face. A hysterical part of Rakkian's mind was pleased that it hardly hurt with the way his entire head was already throbbing. His vision darkened at the edges and he welcomed it. Perhaps if he blacked out, he would be spared the rest of what these people were going to do to him. But his eyes cleared and one of the men holding him pushed him upright with a hand at the back of his neck.