Teeth (The Icefjord Saga #1)

by Zaya Feli

  Rakkian and Isa exchanged a look and Isa gave a cocky twitch of his eyebrow. Rakkian blew out a breath. It seemed they had both escaped with their lives this time.

  * * *

  Rakkian sat on the deck of the fisherman's shed with his face tilted towards the sun to soak up its weak rays, a wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

  Signy sat watching him, clearly amused. “Doesn't it get cold on the Western Isles?”

  “It does, but not like this.” Rakkian shivered and drew his legs under the blanket. “I'm surprised more of you haven't lost your fingers and toes to frostbite.”

  “It's not that bad,” Signy said, shrugging as she leaned back on her hands. “You get used to it.”

  Rakkian looked at her. She wore a double-layered dress and a pair of tall boots with fur inlays, but her neck and throat were bare to the fjord winds and she wore no gloves. Rakkian had no idea how she could look so comfortable. Even under the blanket, he had to will his muscles not to tremble when a particularly strong gust threatened to tug his protective cocoon from his grasp.

  Grey clouds blocked the sun again, robbing Rakkian of the brief glimpse of it he'd gotten. The sun set early and rose late at this time of year.

  A yelp drew Rakkian's gaze from the clouds. Torsten had gathered the young warriors on the beach for training. Three of them were children: Runik twins whose names Rakkian didn't know and Jari, the older boy with a permanently mean look in his eyes who'd teased Rakkian with a knife the night he'd come to Ulfheim. Jari shoved one of the twins, making the boy's sister grab a fistful of sand and throw it at his face. Torsten grabbed her and pulled her out of the way in time to avoid a swing of Jari's fist.

  Signy shook his head. “I hope Jari doesn't keep taking after his brother. He's already a menace.”

  “Brother?”

  “Jari is Eskal's half-brother,” Signy said, smiling at the way Torsten struggled to keep the two young ones from tearing out each others' hair. “I suppose Hjalmar was lonely after his wife died. It was a brief fling at a harvest feast, as far as I remember. Nine months later, Jari's mother showed up in Hjalmar's hall and demanded he take the kid because she didn't want him.”

  “Poor Jari,” Rakkian said.

  Signy huffed. “I wouldn't feel too bad for him. From what I heard, he nearly cost you a few fingers.”

  Rakkian let his gaze wander from the children to the two figures sparring farther along the beach. Isa was easy to recognize. He had the body of a fighter, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was training with Alma, both of them holding shields and spears with shining metal tips.

  Steinar, the Runik master, watched them from a short distance, arms crossed over his chest and a stern look on his face. He was Isa's magic teacher, from what Rakkian understood. He struck Rakkian as permanently serious, just like Isa. At least he hadn't made any attempts to drain Rakkian, and Rakkian was thankful for that. Two people, a man and a woman, watched them from the pier. They were Sjaelir. Rakkian had seen them in the Sjaelir hall, but he hadn't spoken to them and they didn't seem interested in introducing themselves.

  “I'm surprised Eskal lets him walk around free,” Signy said, angling her chin at Isa. “They had Ingrid bleed him, but they don't know how the curse works. Maybe it has no effect.”

  Rakkian raised an eyebrow. There was no sign in Isa's performance that he was weaker than normal. He rained strikes down on Alma, the two of them driving each other around the circle they'd made in the sand. Skygge watched from a nearby fence pole.

  “It's beautiful to watch. Excellent footwork,” Signy commented.

  Rakkian nodded. “He's a good warrior.”

  “Hmm? I was talking about her.” Signy cast a sideways glance at him. “But I suppose you’re right.”

  Rakkian turned his attention to Alma, whose distinctive blonde braid was tied out of the way. She stepped back, feinted an opening, and caught Isa's spear between her own spear and her side, nearly twisting it out of his grip before Isa pulled himself around, freeing his weapon from her grasp. She was tall, with an impressive reach.

  “She's so strong,” Signy continued, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hands and her elbows on her knees. “I bet she could lift me over her head.”

  Rakkian smiled. “So when are you getting married?”

  Signy slapped him over the head faster than Rakkian could blink.

  He rubbed the back of his head, giving her a smile. “Ow. I'm serious.”

  Signy sighed, flopping back against the planks of the deck. “My grandfather really wants grandchildren. He's old, and I'm waiting for him to die so he won't be disappointed when I tell him I won't be breeding any. Oh, and...well...”

  “What?” Rakkian asked, leaning back on his elbows next to her.

  “I should also tell Alma I'm planning on marrying her. You know, for formality's sake.”

  Rakkian burst out laughing and started to get up. “Why don't we tell her right now?”

  “What?” Signy shot up and wrapped both arms around Rakkian's in a surprisingly strong grip. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Don't worry,” he said, leaning back again. “I won't embarrass you.”

  She pushed out her bottom lip. “You'd better not.”

  “Signy.”

  They looked up. Steinar walked towards them, greeting Signy with a nod and taking a seat beside her. “Care to help an old man out?” He held out a handful of runes.

  Rakkian leaned forward. He recognized Pertho carved on each stone. Energy runes.

  “That's a lot,” Signy said, apprehension clear in her voice. “Aren't we going to Jættedahl? That's a sacred place. How much fighting does Eskal think we'll be doing?”

  Steinar shook his head. “I suppose he wants to be prepared.”

  She sighed. “All right, then. One at a time.”

  Steinar nodded, picking out a rune from the bundle. “Let me know when you've had enough,” he said, the gentleness in his tone contrasting with Rakkian's impression of him.

  Signy braced herself. Rakkian saw the moment Steinar's drain took effect, a full-body shiver rolling through her. She clenched her arms over her chest and hung her head, eyes squeezed closed. The hairs on Rakkian's arms rose from the charge in the air. If he concentrated, he could sense the way Steinar's magic was different from the other Runiks': strong and steady, a wash of salt water against rocks.

  Steinar filled another rune, and another. When he brought up the fourth rune, Signy made a pained sound. She was pale and trembling so hard her teeth chattered. A strained sigh left her and she began to overbalance, leaning forward. Rakkian caught her by the shoulders.

  “All done,” Steinar said, putting the empty runes back in his pocket. “Are you well, girl?”

  Slowly, Signy lifted her head and nodded. She looked sick, lips pressed into a thin line.

  Steinar stood up and whistled sharply, waving his hand at someone Rakkian couldn't see. Kjartan appeared from around the shed a moment later, looking expectantly at Steinar.

  “Get Signy something to eat and drink, will you?” Steinar said.

  Kjartan nodded and rushed off.

  “Are you sure you're all right?” Rakkian asked once Steinar was out of earshot.

  Signy nodded again, running a hand through her hair. “I'm fine. Just starving. And cold.”

  Judging by her pallor and the way she was shaking, it would take more than a meal for her to recover, but Rakkian kept quiet. He slipped the blanket off his shoulders and draped it around her.

  Kjartan returned a few moments later with a steaming bowl of pork stew and a cup of water. Signy thanked Kjartan and he sat on Rakkian's other side, uncomfortably near and inspecting him like a pig for sale. The dragon-like creatures tattooed below his eyes were even more unsettling up close.

  Rakkian hadn't spent much time in Kjartan's company, but he'd heard people speak of him as someone to take with a grain of salt. Allegedly, Kjartan danced naked around a turkey carcass at every full moo
n to gain favour from the gods, but Rakkian didn't know whether to believe that.

  Kjartan pointed at Rakkian's face. “Do you know who you remind me of?”

  “Who?” Rakkian asked.

  “Balder.” Kjartan drew a sack from over his shoulder and proceeded to dump a pile of knives of varying lengths and shapes in Rakkian's lap. Rakkian jumped, bracing himself for the unpleasant slice of a blade through his skin, but miraculously, nothing happened. Kjartan picked a knife from the pile, drew out a sharpening stone, and got to work. “Pretty face. Golden curls. Just like Balder,” he continued.

  Rakkian searched his somewhat lacking knowledge of the Norse gods. “Balder...Odin's son?”

  Kjartan gave him a look like he'd asked if grass was green. “Of course. Who else?” He returned his attention to the knife, but seemed unable to keep to himself, leaning close to Rakkian instead. “Do you know the story of Balder, western pup?”

  “No,” Rakkian said, taking care to sit very still.

  “Of course not.” Kjartan let out a sigh that seemed to set his whole body into motion before he placed the knife on the deck and picked another from the pile. “Then listen closely.”

  Rakkian glanced at Signy, who gestured that she was going to go inside. Rakkian wasn't sure if it was for the sake of rest and recovery as much as escaping one of Kjartan's stories of the gods. Rakkian wasn't about to try to excuse himself, however, not when Kjartan was so expertly flipping knives back and forth in his hands like it was the first thing he'd done out of his mother's womb. Instead, Rakkian settled gingerly with his back against the wall.

  “Balder was the most beautiful of all the gods,” Kjartan said, voice lowered like he was sharing a secret. “Admired by all for his kindness and grace. One night, Balder had terrible dreams of death and despair, so Odin journeyed out on his horse, Sleipnir, to Hel's kingdom where he resurrected a seer.”

  Kjartan held the knife up, inspecting its edge before placing it beside the other and picking a new one from the pile. “The seer told Odin that Hel was preparing for Balder's death. When Odin told his wife Frigg of this, Frigg immediately set out on a quest to make everything under the sun swear never to harm Balder. Gods, Jotun, animals and plants, fire and water, even the smallest grain of sand, she made to swear. But Frigg forewent the mistletoe that grows on the trunk of Yggdrasil, for it seemed so innocent and harmless. Once she returned, the gods amused themselves throwing weapons at Balder, for everything they threw at him turned away at the last second, having sworn never to harm him. But Loki was watching them from a distance.”

  Kjartan held another pause, inspecting the third knife.

  Rakkian leaned forward. “What happened then?”

  “Loki disguised himself as an old woman and asked Frigg if she had truly made all things swear. 'Yes,' she told him. 'All things except the mistletoe, since it's harmless and would never hurt my son.' Upon hearing this, Loki journeyed out, found the mistletoe, and carved an arrow from its branches. When he returned, he handed the mistletoe arrow to the blind god Høder and told him to shoot, directing his arrow. Høder shot, and Balder died.”

  Kjartan paused again, this time pulling his sleeve over his hand to rub a spot on the blade before flipping it over.

  “Well?” Rakkian prompted.

  “What?” Kjartan asked, feigning confusion, but his sly smile betrayed him.

  “What happened next?”

  “The gods built a funeral ship for Balder and sent him on his way to Hel,” Kjartan continued. “But Balder's brother, Hermod, refused to accept his brother's death and rode for nine days and nine nights to Hel's kingdom and asked for Balder's release. Hel took mercy on him and told Hermod that if all things in the nine realms wept for Balder, he would be released. Hermod returned to Asgard with Hel's message and the gods delivered it throughout the worlds. And indeed, all things wept for Balder, save one giantess, Tøk, who refused to weep.”

  Rakkian frowned. “Who is Tøk?”

  Kjartan put the knife down and leaned towards Rakkian, close enough that Rakkian could smell the ale on his breath. “She was Loki in disguise.”

  “So Balder has to stay in Hel?”

  “Mm-hmm, until Ragnarok. But it was Loki's downfall also.”

  “What do you mean?” Something unpleasant prickled at the back of Rakkian's neck. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered that Kjartan likened him to a god, or worried that the god was dead.

  “Eventually, the gods discovered that it was Loki who had caused Balder's death. They chained Loki to three large rocks using his son's intestines and hung a venomous snake to drip venom onto his head. Loki's wife, Sigyn, holds a bowl over his head to catch the snake's venom, but when the bowl is full and she must empty it, the venom drips onto Loki's head and he writhes in pain so that all the earth trembles.”

  “Let me guess,” Rakkian said, shifting against the wall. “He'll be set free come Ragnarok?”

  “Yes,” Kjartan said, picking out another knife. “Loki will break free alongside his son, the Fenris wolf, father of the Varg. The mighty wolf will run with its jaws open wide and swallow everything between earth and sky.” Kjartan held the newly sharpened knife in front of Rakkian's face and Rakkian flinched, expecting pain. Instead, Kjartan waved the knife in the air. “Go on, take it. This one's for you.”

  “Um. Thank you.” Rakkian reached for the knife, but the sound of boots against wood nearby made him pause.

  A young woman stood on the deck of the fisherman's shed, staring at Rakkian with her hands on her hips. “You're that western boy.”

  Rakkian wasn't sure if it was a question, but he nodded anyway.

  “Come,” she said, already turning to leave. “Eskal wants you in the jarl's hall.”

  * * *

  Eskal was an ambitious man, that much was clear. Karel liked ambitious men. He considered himself one, after all. He listened to Eskal tell of his plans to raid the Western Isles, remove King Torvald's men and claim the best land for himself, take the western god's temples and kill the westerners who refused to work for a Norse king. Oh yes, Eskal would be the new king of the Western Isles. He'd be king of the north, too, apparently, after he'd used all his gold from the Isles to gather an army so large he'd kick Torvald right out of Fenrisborg. He said this with a turkey leg in one hand and a near-empty horn of ale in the other, and Karel nodded along, smiling and providing enthusiastic agreement at all the right times.

  “With the power of Jera, no one would be able to stop you, that's certain,” Karel said, trailing his fingers along the edge of the oak table. He slid down to lounge in his seat with one leg rested on the other. “You would be like the gods themselves.”

  “Tell me more of what you know,” Eskal demanded, slamming his hand with the horn against the table so the cutlery clattered.

  Karel took his time, reaching for his cup to take a sip, enjoying a selfish moment of suspense. “You know the Jera rune requires a powerful Runik,” he said slowly. He could feel the way Eskal's attention clung to his every word. “I watched you fight the Ravsøs with magic. I'm impressed.” He tilted his cup at Eskal in salute before drinking again. He'd asked for his ale to be watered, but it was still strong. He paced himself.

  “And?” Eskal asked. “You think I can control it?”

  “Perhaps you can.”

  The compliment sparked visible pride in Eskal. “Won't it take a lot of Sjaelir to power it? I have many – I wouldn't mind killing one or two.”

  The corner of Karel's mouth twitched. He took a moment to compose himself, but thankfully, Eskal's eyes weren't on him, but on the turkey leg he was biting.

  “You won't need to kill any if you have one or two especially strong,” Karel said dismissively.

  “Hmm.” Eskal tossed the stripped turkey bone to the floor where a pair of scraggy dogs rushed to fight over the scrap. “Now that you mention it...”

  Karel looked up and saw pleasure in Eskal's eyes when he saw he'd managed to pique Karel's interest. “Y
ou think one of your Sjaelir can supply Jera?”

  Eskal leaned back and whistled, the sound sharp enough to hurt Karel's ears. “Fetch the western dog. Rakkian,” he said when a servant girl appeared in the doorway.

  “A western Sjaelir, stronger than northern blood?” Karel asked sceptically.

  Eskal simply raised his horn in response. A few moments later, the servant returned with a young man behind her. He stepped into the firelight. He was small and unassuming, with a slender body, brown curls, and freckles. The boy he'd saved with an arrow in Tornlund. “This is him?” Karel scrunched up his nose, looking back at Eskal. He nodded.

  “I'm guessing there's more to him than meets the eye.” Karel placed his horn on the table.

  Eskal waved at the young man, who stepped forward hesitantly. He looked like a frightened animal that might bite at any moment, eyes wide and fearful. Karel kept an eye on him as he stepped past his chair, just in case.

  Eskal drained his horn and put it down, wrapping a hand around Rakkian's wrist and pulling him closer. He pushed up the Sjaelir's sleeve and drew a knife from his belt, placing the tip against his skin.

  “What are you doing?” Karel asked, alarmed. “You'll weaken him.”

  “He needs to be weakened,” Eskal said. “Last time I tried to drain him, his power got me hurt. I won't let that happen again.”

  Rakkian tried to back away, but Eskal tightened his grip, yanking his arm so he stumbled closer. Karel watched with a growing sense of dread. Eskal was drunk. Did he even know what he was doing? Rakkian was terrified, all colour draining from his face. Their eyes met and Karel forced himself to look away. No, he couldn't let himself feel sympathy. Nothing was more important now than gaining Eskal's trust.

  The knife sliced skin and the boy yelped, gasping as blood welled to the surface and spilled onto the floor in a steady trickle. Karel kept his eyes trained on his ale. The smell of the remaining turkey on the table suddenly made him nauseous.

  “What are you doing?” Rakkian asked. Karel could hear him panting like a chased rabbit even from two metres away.