Teeth (The Icefjord Saga #1)

by Zaya Feli

  “At least it's better to be known for taking an axe to the face than for fearing puppies,” Kjartan said from behind Isa.

  Isa glared over his shoulder. “Watch your tongue or I might not wait for you to axe yourself in the face.” He hopped off the hay bales, glancing down the road to make sure no more dogs would come barrelling out of nowhere. He could still hear them barking in the distance.

  Isa glanced at the funeral ship as he passed it. Steinar and Torsten were filling the bow and stern with bundles of twigs that'd burst easily into flame. Jari flitted about with a serious expression on his face, overseeing the delivery of all the items Hjalmar would be taking with him on his journey: his axe and sword, his shield, his engraved drinking horn, and the five decorative gold belt-buckles he'd received in a peace meeting with Rosvik's jarl.

  Isa needed something to drink if he was to spend an entire night watching his uncle's corpse burn in the distance with Eskal's voice in his ear talking about glory and power. As far as Isa had heard, Eskal had spent his hours of mourning consulting stolen Fenrisborg maps of the Western Isles. Eskal might well be right about the riches that awaited them on the other side of the sea, but for Isa, if he abandoned the hope of finding a cure in Ravsø, the Western Isles would only bring his death. He was sure of it. He could feel the dark, twisting tar of the Varg's curse spreading from his shoulder a little more every day. How many years did he have left? How many months?

  A man with broad shoulders and a long black beard walked by with an entire keg of mead under his arm and a drinking horn in his other hand.

  “Hey.” Isa stopped him and tilted his chin at the keg, snatching the horn from the man's hand. Isa got no response besides the man tugging the cork from the keg. He held the horn out, its rich, golden contents spilling over his hand as he filled it. Without a word, the man pushed the cork back in place and went on his way. Isa watched him carry the keg onto the sand and set it down by the funeral ship.

  Against the growing chill of the air, the mead felt like a blanket of fire settling in Isa's stomach and he closed his eyes, listening to the sound of flapping wings growing closer. Not a messenger pigeon – Lena had had a nearly a week to try and find some kind of cure with the blood he had given her. The fact that it was taking time, that he hadn't received an immediate message of failure, could only be good news. It wouldn't be long now.

  Skygge's large wing slapped the back of Isa's head, sharp claws digging into his shoulder when she landed. She leaned towards the horn in his hand, clicking her beak.

  “No,” Isa scolded, moving it out of her reach before downing another gulp. “It's mine.” When he looked back towards the funeral ship, the torches had been lit, flickering to life despite the fjord gusts. People gathered on the sand. Isa's eyes paused on a slender figure. Rakkian stood there, arms wrapped around himself against the cold. His hair shone like spun gold in the light of the torches. Isa narrowed his eyes. Rakkian should never have returned. Whatever strange power he possessed, it had only made the mark on Isa's shoulder ache worse. Isa took another, larger gulp of mead, determined to be as unfeeling as possible by the time they lit the funeral ship on fire.

  * * *

  The fire raged in the darkness, burning a bright spot onto Rakkian's eyes that lingered when he closed them. The flames grew as the gentle current carried the ship away, consuming the mast, sail, flowers, and its precious cargo. It was so dark that the horizon and the sky flowed into one, their borders marked only by the orange light.

  Eskal stood near the front, the torch he'd used to light the fire still in his hand. The flames ate their way towards his hand, but he didn't seem to notice. There was a sadness in his eyes that Rakkian wasn't sure whether to believe, given what he'd learned about Eskal so far.

  Isa stood behind Eskal in the crowd. His eyes weren't on the fire but on the new jarl. He held a drinking horn, and as Rakkian watched, he raised it to his lips and took a drink, eyes half-closing. The tension in the air felt palpable, although Rakkian wasn't sure anyone else felt it. It was broken when Torsten stepped forward, the braids in his beard swinging as he raised his horn above his head and turned towards the crowd. “Enough standing around freezing our asses off. Let's drink! For Jarl Hjalmar, and for Jarl Eskal!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers and a young woman picked up a nyckelharpa and began to play, another woman's haunting voice matching the rhythm of the strange northern instrument. Someone shoved a full drinking horn against Rakkian's chest and he caught it before it could fall, droplets splattering onto his clothes.

  It was one of the few things Rakkian still hadn't adapted to. His own father's funeral had been held in a dark temple. The women had worn black veils and his mother had cried when she'd draped herself across her husband's coffin. Men from the village had to carry her home because she refused to walk. She hadn't wanted to leave her bed for weeks.

  A woman bumped into Rakkian in her eagerness to dance, dragging her protesting husband out onto the sand. Norse funerals were celebrations. The dead were envied the honour of dining at Odin's table in Valhalla.

  Rakkian took a sip of mead and regretted the decision, eyes watering.

  The only person still standing unmoving at the edge of the torchlight was Isa. He didn't have his drinking horn anymore, but when he turned to walk away, he swung out an arm for balance, making Rakkian think he'd finished his drink rather than misplaced it. Rakkian followed, passing his own horn to the nearest seated person, who took it from him without question.

  Rakkian followed Isa into the darkness beyond the torches. Everything was pitch black until his vision adjusted, revealing Isa stumbling down the trail ahead of him.

  Where was he going?

  Rakkian followed at a safe distance, along the edge of the ward and across the bridge over the stream. Isa paused on the bridge and spat into the water, nearly losing his balance, but he righted himself at the last second and continued ahead.

  A sharp caw made Rakkian jump. Isa's raven, Skygge, sat on a branch above the trail. She watched him, head tilted to the side, then soared after Isa, landing in a different tree as she followed him like a shadow.

  Isa rounded a corner and Rakkian lost sight of him. Rakkian ran to catch up, then stopped and looked around, wondering if Isa might have slipped away. He spotted him crouching in front of a grassy mound in a pocket-like clearing between the trees. Isa held his clasped hands in front of his face. On the mound, three rocks supported a larger one balanced on top. Something was carved onto its surface and when Rakkian stepped closer, he saw that it was dragons, sentences of runes running along their twisting, interlocking bodies. When he looked back down, Isa's eyes were locked on him. Despite the amount of mead Isa had clearly drunk, his gaze was piercing. Isa didn't say anything, waiting for him to come closer. He went, crouching beside Isa and resting his elbows on his knees.

  Skygge flew onto the ground and hopped over to them. Isa rubbed her head, making her coo. He swiped out his other hand in direction of the mound, something shining in his palm. “Allow me to introduce you to my father, Jarl Eirik, and my mother, Helga, descendant of the warrior god Tyr. They apologize for not getting up. They're a little held up. Or rather, held down.” He sniggered, patting Skygge's head like a dog's, which made her squawk and side-step away.

  A small smile tugged at the sides of Rakkian's mouth. “Tyr, huh? I didn't know the gods married humans.”

  “Eh, I don't know if they were married,” Isa said, leaning back onto the grass. “Who says sleeping around is exclusive to us mortals? For all we know, god cock is fantastic.”

  Rakkian stared at Isa in disbelief, a laugh bubbling up inside him. “If your father was a jarl of Ulfheim, why aren't you the new jarl?” he asked curiously.

  “Hah!” Isa barked, so loud it startled Rakkian. “I was still a babe shitting myself when my parents died. Would have made a fine jarl. Hjalmar, my father's brother, took the high seat. He always liked me better. I thought I was going to be jarl still, until my thi
rteenth winter.”

  Rakkian counted in his head. He'd been eleven when he'd met Isa in the woods. Isa had been around his age. He glanced at Isa's shoulder, but a thick, fur-lined coat hid what was underneath.

  Isa got up, taking a few steps up onto the grassy mound. “Can you guess what killed them?” he asked, spreading his arms.

  Rakkian stood up. “What?”

  “No, no.” Isa wagged a finger in the air. “Guess. Come on, it's not a trick question.”

  Rakkian parted his lips, eyes narrowing. “The Varg?”

  Isa leapt forward and clapped Rakkian's shoulder with enough force to make him stumble sideways. “Smart boy! A good head on you. I like it.” Isa leaned in close, their faces centimetres apart. “Burying my hunting knife between that monster's ribs was the best thing I ever did.” Rakkian could smell the mead on his breath. “If only the beast would leave me alone. He's in my head. All the fucking time. I can't sleep.” He staggered. “Wanna see something ironic?” Isa held up his hand, displaying a golden medallion. “Take a look. Closer,” he said, when Rakkian wasn't fast enough.

  Rakkian narrowed his eyes at the gold surface, trying to make out the engraving in the dim light. A long nose, pointed ears, spiky fur. He'd seen it before. In the woods, six years ago. “It's a wolf,” he said.

  “Ulfheim,” Isa said. “Village of the wolves.” He laughed, the sound devoid of happiness. “A gift from my mother before the very same creature tore her to pieces.” He slipped the cord over his head, hiding the medallion under his shirt. “A lovely memory, don't you think? It's all I have from her. The only thing that survived the fire. Aside from me.”

  “Did the celebrations in my father's honour bore you that much?” A loud voice made Rakkian turn. It was Eskal, head lowered as he stalked towards them. “I thought you were his good little boy. That senile old troll, dead. Finally!” Eskal shouted the last word. Rakkian guessed he'd had as much to drink as Isa.

  “Don't talk about him like that.” Isa's eyes grew dark and he came forward.

  “Isa.” Rakkian tried to stop him with a hand against his chest, but Isa shoved him out of the way like Rakkian weighed no more than a bag of feathers.

  Rakkian looked around, unease spiking. They were alone. What would he do if it came to a fight? What if they tried to kill each other? They were both Runiks and they were drunk. Isa had been kind to him, but Eskal could take him across the western sea. Getting on the new jarl's bad side wouldn't be wise.

  “You vomit-eating maggot! He gave you everything you have, yet you couldn't wait for him to die,” Isa spat. He raised his fists.

  Eskal barked out a laugh. “Boo-hoo, little Isa. Too bad you're stuck with me, now, huh? Because guess what? I'm not gonna fucking carry your cursed ass like my father did.”

  Rakkian stepped back, eyes darting to the axes they both wore at their hips. Drunk people made bad decisions, especially angry drunk people carrying sharp weapons. They circled each other. In the near-total darkness, they looked so alike that they could have been brothers, not cousins.

  Eskal drew his axe and lunged forward, swinging wildly. Isa leapt back, but the mead had made him clumsy. His heel hit the slope of the mound and he fell back against it.

  Before Eskal could attack again, a shadow burst out of the darkness. Skygge cawed and aimed her claws at Eskal's face, diving at him. Eskal growled and swung his arm in her direction. He hit her in the chest and she tumbled to the ground, flapping her wings to right herself.

  “Don't you dare hurt her, you rotten piece of—” Isa shoved himself away from the mound and lunged straight at Eskal, shoulder colliding with Eskal's chest. They fell onto the pebbled trail, tearing at each other.

  Skygge cawed loudly and tried to attack again, but Rakkian moved quickly, wrapping his hands around her sleek body to restrain her. She shrieked and twisted in his grip, pecking Rakkian's hands. She broke skin, but he didn't let go, pulling her close against his chest.

  “Hey!” Rakkian shouted, looking around for any sign of people, heart racing. “Hey! Help!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eskal's free hand curled around Isa's throat, squeezing so tightly the muscles in his arm bulged. Isa was on top gripping Eskal's wrist, yanking to force him to let go. Before Rakkian could decide what to do, Eskal released his grasp and a static vibration trembled through the air. Eskal's fist collided with the side of Isa's head and Isa hit the ground hard, the mead in his blood making him slow to rise. Eskal rolled on top of him, the waves of energy around them making Rakkian shiver. Eskal swung, but Isa stopped the punch, sparks of warring power snapping in the darkness. Isa's magic was overpowering, filling the air with a sense of rage.

  “Stop it!” Rakkian darted forward when Eskal raised his other hand. Rakkian grabbed his wrist and yanked, but Eskal shook Rakkian off without looking. Several pendants dangled from leather cords around his neck. Pertho – full of Sjaelir energy.

  Rakkian let go of Skygge and wrapped both hands around the leather cords, tugging hard. The thin leather snapped and the pendants fell to the ground.

  Eskal's face twisted with anger. “You!”

  Rakkian gasped, twisting out of Eskal's reach as he grappled for him. The sound of approaching footsteps and men shouting sent relief rushing through him. Someone – he thought it might be Steinar – grabbed Eskal's arms and twisted them behind his back.

  Rakkian stepped back. He sank down at the base of the mound, his whole body shaking. Isa rose to his feet unsteadily, bleeding from a cut in his eyebrow. As Rakkian watched, he laid a hand over the spot, a tickle of energy dancing in the air. When Isa lowered his hand, the cut was a scar.

  Steinar let go of Eskal, placed himself between Eskal and Isa, and pushed his chest out like a cockerel. “Are you children done now?” he shouted. “You've had your fight. I'm not going to let two of my best Runiks kill each other over a family dispute. You've settled this!”

  “Tomorrow we prepare to sail west,” Eskal drawled, spitting on the ground before stabbing a finger in Isa's direction. “I'm the jarl and you have to follow my orders or piss out of my village.” With that, he walked away before Steinar could scold him a second time.

  Steinar turned to Isa, looking him up and down with disapproval. “Think you can walk all the way to bed, you sorry excuse?”

  Isa waved a hand in the air. “Oh, leave me alone, old man.” He slumped, hair ruffled and clothes covered in dirt.

  “I'll take him,” Rakkian said, standing.

  He walked with Isa back along the trail, going slowly because Isa was possibly even more unsteady after the fight. Rakkian held a hand towards Isa in case his legs gave out, but didn't touch him. The strange energy seemed to cling to Isa's skin even when he wasn't using magic. Rakkian hadn't forgotten the way he'd pulled his arm back when Rakkian had tried to touch him, like he'd nearly gotten burned.

  Skygge hopped after them, then flew onto Rakkian's shoulder to hitch a ride. He glanced at her. Having her razor-sharp beak within centimetres of his eyes was a bit worrying. The little peck-marks on his hands still hurt. Perhaps she deemed Isa too drunk to be a reliable perch for the walk home.

  “Why are you with me and not Eskal?” Isa asked as they crossed the village centre. Their destination was a hut that sat apart from the other buildings and looked nearly small enough to be a hen house. When they got closer, Rakkian noticed runes carved onto the door frame and the door itself, some so old they were almost invisible, some fresh.

  Isa fumbled with the handle and opted for kicking it open instead.

  Rakkian caught him by the elbow before he could crack his head against the frame, then let go. “What do you mean?”

  “Eskal plans to sail west. Isn't that where you want to go?” Isa stepped inside and swore when he bumped into something in the dark.

  Rakkian found his way to a small table and lit the candle there. The hut was tiny, with just the table, a stool, a chest, a bed, and a small stone fireplace against the opposite wall. Was this
Isa's home? “Eskal is also a swine, in case it slipped by you,” Rakkian said.

  Isa laughed. “Good one, friend.” He fumbled with the laces of his vest and then his belt, dropping it on the floor. “I'm flattered you'd pick the cursed village drunk over the jarl himself. Or maybe you just have terrible survival skills.”

  Rakkian leaned against the table, not sure if he should leave. Isa hadn't actually protested his presence yet, so he continued. “I'd like you to come to the Western Isles, even though you don't want to. You're the only person I feel like I can trust not to throw me overboard in a fit of boredom.”

  “You want to go back home,” Isa said, pouring himself a cup of water from a jug on the table. “Suppose it would be the ideal chance for you.” He sat the cup down hard so the contents sloshed out. “What makes you think Eskal will bring you along?”

  “You said I was strong. Eskal wants strong Sjaelir, right?”

  “Only if he can use them.”

  “But you can use me,” Rakkian said. “So you can bring me.”

  “You call that explosive chasm of destruction 'use'?” He snorted. “At this point, we'd be lucky if the curse didn't kill us both before we made land.”

  Rakkian grimaced. This definitely wasn't a conversation he'd have chosen to have while Isa was so drunk he could barely stand, but he continued anyway. “When we make land...would you help me get away?”

  Isa regarded him with narrowed eyes, then shrugged. “Sure, why not. Sounds exciting.” He turned his back and shed his undershirt and Rakkian's eyes darted to the stretch of bare skin. In the cramped hut, he could take a closer look. Isa had runes on his back, along his spine, on his shoulders and arms. Isa turned his side to him. A large scar Rakkian hadn't noticed before continued past the waistband of his trousers.

  When Rakkian raised his gaze, Isa was watching him back, head tilted like a dog's.

  Heat spread across Rakkian's face. “Get some sleep. You're wasted,” he said, turning away before Isa could shed the rest of his clothes. Skygge hopped off Rakkian's shoulder to stay behind.