Teeth (The Icefjord Saga #1)

by Zaya Feli

  “That's right.” Isa dropped the knife on the table, picking his bowl back up. “Someone carved magic into a Jera runestone a long time ago, and now it's apparently resurfaced. I'm not sure why Eskal is so bent on finding it. Runiks who can use forgotten runes are rarer than white ravens, and you can imagine how strong a Sjaelir needs to be to power a rune like that. Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if Eskal would kill Sjaelir for the sake of Jera's power. According to the stories, Helgrinn the Bloody drained two dozen Sjaelir to death on the battlefield to power Kauna.”

  “I think Karel might be trying to convince Eskal he'll be able to use it. I think that's why he tried to drain me,” Rakkian said.

  “He thinks you'll be strong enough to supply it.” Isa's expression grew dark, but then he sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Doesn't matter. Eskal's not strong enough even if you are.” They were both silent for a moment, then Isa cracked an eye open and looked at him. “You might want to head back to the Sjaelir hall before the skovkravl come creeping, unless you want to end up with bite marks all over your ankles.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course.” Rakkian stood, trying to rub the flush from his cheeks. He draped the blanket back on the bed. Skygge cawed at him and Rakkian stroked her head. “I'll see you tomorrow, Skygge.”

  “Wait,” Isa said as Rakkian reached the door. “Almost forgot.” Getting to his feet, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a stone, tossing it to Rakkian. When he turned it over, he saw Dagaz carved neatly into the front. Rakkian knew the little symbol by heart – it had kept him safe for the past six years. A soft hum of magic clung to the stone when Rakkian rubbed his thumb over its smooth surface. Like distant thunder.

  “It's obviously not going to fool anybody around here, but it'll keep you hidden if you come across any too-friendly Runiks in Jættedahl, at least so long as they're weaker than me. You know how people can get when they're drunk.”

  Rakkian closed his hand around the stone and held on tight, the gift sending a wave of gratitude and comfort through him. He slipped the cord over his head. “Thanks, Isa.”

  “Now get out of my house,” Isa said. He dropped onto his bed, watching Rakkian go from the corner of his eye.

  Outside, it was dark, but the nearly full moon lent enough light that Rakkian could half-run to the Sjaelir hall without being afraid of tripping over barrels or cart wheels. Running made him dizzy and his full stomach threatened to bring the nausea back full-force, but he didn't want to be caught outside with those skovkravl crawling around. The door was already locked when he arrived. Rakkian knocked, looking over his shoulder, and the guard on watch let him in straight away, although Rakkian thought he heard something just before the door closed behind him.

  He made his way to the sleeping area as silently as he could. Sten and the other three were fast asleep. Signy's bed was next to his own and she looked up when he entered. She was pale, but looked better than when Rakkian had last seen her.

  “You seem spooked,” she whispered as Rakkian toed off his boots and crawled into bed.

  “I was running from the skovkravl.”

  Signy muffled her laughter in the blanket. “You're afraid of the skovkravl?”

  “N-no,” Rakkian said, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “I just didn't want to get bit.”

  His response elicited another stifled laugh from Signy.

  “Goodnight,” Rakkian whispered, before he could find another way to embarrass himself.

  “Night.”

  A faint glow from the fire was visible around the edges of the curtain. When Rakkian closed his eyes, the quiet pitter-patter of feet made his heart skip a beat. They scraped against the walls and the roof. Rakkian thought he heard something try to dig its way under the wall. That, or it was simply the crackling of the fire. Next to him, Signy was already asleep. Rakkian doubted he'd get any rest, but he must have dozed off – the next thing he knew, he was dreaming of snapping teeth and bone-chilling howls.

  * * *

  The dark water of the fjord whisked itself into small waves, turning to foam against the pier and causing the twelve ships to bob gently. When Rakkian drew a breath, the wind tasted of salt. He'd only been outside for a few moments, but the morning cold already made his eyes water and his ears hurt. Even Signy had wrapped a woollen scarf around her neck when she came out to help Steinar load the ships with fresh water for the journey to Jættedahl. Torsten, as always, wore a sleeveless vest and hardly seemed bothered. Rakkian had no clue how he did it.

  “Hey, boy!”

  Rakkian turned. He was starting to realise 'boy' almost always meant him. Isa, Signy, and a few of the others were nice enough to call him by name, but most of the Ulfheim inhabitants seemed to think a westerner didn't merit that kind of respect. Rakkian scanned the beach for Isa, but didn't spot him. He wondered if Isa's dreams had been full of snarling wolves like Rakkian's.

  A thin old man with fewer teeth than fingers and a bald head covered in tattoos came towards him. “Yeah, you. Don't stand there being useless. Go help Ingrid with the sacrifices.” He waved his hands at Rakkian like he was trying to shoo a fly. The pair of bearded axes dangling from his belt looked particularly sharp, so Rakkian hurried off along the beach in search of the healer.

  He found Ingrid near the foot of the southernmost pier with a chicken under each arm. Her grey hair was braided in an elaborate knot to keep it out of her face. She passed the chickens to one of the men loading the ships and turned to drag an unwilling goat forward by a rope around its neck.

  Rakkian approached her. “Ingrid?”

  She looked him up and down “The new Sjaelir, right? What's your name?”

  “Rakkian,” he said, thankful that she'd decided to ask. “Do you need a hand?”

  “You can help me with the ram,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. She handed the goat's rope off and Rakkian noticed swirling tattoos on the sides of her neck that he hadn't seen before.

  “I don't think our ram feels entirely ready to meet the gods,” she said, brushing a hand over her forehead. When she smiled, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepened. Rakkian decided he liked her.

  “Let's take a look.” Rakkian followed her to the sheep pen. The large ram was sectioned off in a smaller pen, although not small enough that it couldn't expertly twist out of Ingrid's reach when she stepped over the fence and went for its large, curved horns.

  Rakkian climbed over, boots sliding on the muddy ground. When the ram saw him, it bellowed and leapt backwards, right into Ingrid's arms.

  “Well done!” she said, using the rope dangling from her belt to bind the ram's legs.

  “I didn't really do anything.” Rakkian made his careful way to the gate and opened it for her. To his surprise, Ingrid grabbed the ram by the legs and heaved it up herself, carrying it out of the pen. Rakkian stared after her before realising he was standing in an empty sheep pen looking stupid. He closed the gate and ran to catch up with her. “I feel a little bad for them,” Rakkian said as she passed the ram to one of the ship loaders.

  “Don't. They'll be with the gods. We pay our own people the same honour.” She began passing Rakkian baskets of plants and herbs and showed him how to bind the lids closed.

  “What do you mean?” Rakkian asked, taking a seat on an empty crate.

  “We sacrifice people, too. One from each village,” she said, as easily as if she was talking about the chickens.

  Rakkian stared at her, searching her face for any sign that she might be trying to fool him. “Your own people?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “How long were you in Halafjell? You must have seen a great sacrifice before.”

  Rakkian shook his head and turned his attention to weaving the basket lids closed. “There was one, but I didn't get to go. I was just a servant; I wasn't invited.”

  It had been four years ago, after he'd surrendered to complacence to make things easier on himself. When he made the decision, he told himself it would only be temporary, that surrend
ering didn't mean he couldn't fight for his freedom later. And yet here he was, four years later, still following orders. Still stuck. He hardly remembered his home. Getting back to it was simply a way to achieve what still seemed so far from his reach. Freedom. No, not far, he reminded himself. Jættedahl was only a delay. So long as Eskal stayed keen on sailing west and Rakkian could get himself a place on one of those ships, freedom was very much within reach. He just had to hold on a little longer. Isa had promised he'd help.

  Loud, rasping barks shook Rakkian from his thoughts. Farther down the beach, Eskal walked two massive hounds on chain leashes. He wore a grey, fur-lined cloak long enough to drag along the sand. Across the front of his coat hung several thick gold necklaces with pendants as large as Rakkian's fist. More gold shone on his fingers and even his ears. Karel shadowed him, dressed considerably more modestly, and Rakkian frowned. Karel seemed like a decent man. He had saved Rakkian from the attacker in Tornlund and tried to defend him when Eskal bled him in the jarl's hall. Why would someone like Karel want to befriend a man like Eskal? Influence? Rakkian couldn't help but think there was more to it. Then again, Karel had sworn under the influence of a truth-telling rune that he wasn't here to harm them. Maybe Rakkian was simply too used to being wary of people.

  The dogs' barks were followed by the sound of something crashing to the ground.

  Rakkian set the basket down and leaned forward to get a view of the northern pier. It was Isa, he realised – Rakkian hadn't noticed him before. Isa staggered to his feet, face bone-white as he stared at the dogs. Attracted by the commotion, the dogs veered towards him; Isa stumbled back, colliding with an older man who declared his displeasure loudly when Isa stepped on his foot. Eskal laughed, letting the dogs stretch towards Isa before finally tugging them away.

  Rakkian frowned.

  Eskal bent to pat the nearer dog on the head. It twisted around, snapping its jaws at his hand. Eskal stumbled backwards, dropping the leashes. The dogs took off and Eskal smoothed both hands down his coat, angling his chin up as if daring anyone around him to laugh.

  A sigh made Rakkian look over his shoulder. Ingrid was watching the scene too, lips pressed together.

  “I wish Eskal would stop bothering the poor lad. He's been deathly afraid of dogs since the incident with the Varg when he was a child, and who can blame him?” she said.

  Rakkian handed her the closed baskets, keeping an eye on Eskal. “Why does Eskal hate him so much?”

  “I don't know if he hates him,” Ingrid said, strapping the baskets together with lengths of rope. “Isa was meant to be jarl. Eskal's mother always gave Eskal a hard time when she was still alive. She once told him at a feast with all of us listening that she wished she'd had Isa for a son. He always outdid Eskal when they were younger, despite Eskal having six winters on him. Hjalmar never said anything about it. He was fond of Isa, too. I can't imagine Eskal felt good about that.”

  Eskal strode towards them and Rakkian swallowed, stepping backwards onto the pier. Dogs didn't scare him. Eskal, however...

  “How much longer?” Eskal asked.

  “We're nearly ready,” Ingrid said, handing the last few baskets to the loaders.

  Eskal raised his voice to address the gathered crowd. “Let's prepare to leave.”

  Rakkian tried to grab the last basket and carry it onto the ship in an effort to slip away unnoticed, but Eskal jabbed a finger in his direction and waved him closer. When Rakkian stepped off the pier, he felt like the ram, tied and carried out of the pen by Ingrid.

  “You. With me,” Eskal said, grabbing the back of Rakkian's neck and steering him in the direction of one of the larger ships.

  Rakkian stepped onto the deck of the ship. At first he couldn't see Isa anywhere, but then spotted him on a different ship. He sat near the prow, slumped against a bundle of blankets. His eyes were closed and his head kept dipping like he was on the verge of sleep. Isa struck Rakkian as ever alert, always on guard; this was unlike him. Maybe Eskal had drugged him or bled him again to keep him docile. If the curse on Isa's chest really was the cause of their ships' destruction, maybe that was a wise decision. Rakkian would hate for their ships to start sinking in the middle of the fjord, surrounded by kilometres of freezing water on all sides. Still, the thought made him feel guilty. Isa was his friend, and had come to his rescue many times already, yet here he was, glad that Isa was hurting. Most of the others feared the curse. Rakkian wasn't sure if he should, too.

  “Oars!” Eskal's voice startled Rakkian into motion and he moved to the other end of the ship where he could be furthest from the unpleasant jarl. Karel was with them, as were Kjartan and Jari and a few others Rakkian recognized but didn't know by name. Ingrid was on the sacrifice ship. Rakkian would have much preferred to be with her, despite all the doomed animals onboard.

  Rakkian sat on the bench nearest the prow and pulled his legs up, resting his back against the frame. The Ravsø ship wasn't as beautiful as Ulfheim's old ones. The gunwales weren't decorated, the sails were white instead of coloured, and there was no real figurehead. Instead, the front of the ship tapered into a point that curled back on itself like a fern shoot. And it was a ship stolen from men and women who hadn't asked for a fight. They hadn't deserved to die.

  Rakkian looked along the length of the ship at the dozen oars carving through the water, men and women rowing in perfect synchronization. It was painfully easy to imagine they were taking him away from Ulfheim, never to return. Sailing him off to a place where fate was his only master, where he could go where he wanted and wouldn't always have to look over his shoulder.

  Behind them, six ships fanned out in an arrowhead formation like geese flying south.

  Rakkian felt the moment the wind caught the sail and pulled the ship onward. The sound of wood scraping wood followed as the oars were pulled up and lain against the belly of the ship. Rakkian closed his eyes, but opened them again at the sound of approaching footsteps. Luckily, it was Kjartan, not Eskal. He crawled onto the bench opposite Rakkian and crouched there, looking up at where the figurehead would have been.

  “A disappointing view, isn't it?” Kjartan asked.

  Rakkian hummed in agreement. “A swirl definitely isn't going to intimidate your enemies as much as a snarling dragon.”

  “Isa must be upset,” Kjartan said, sinking fully onto the bench.

  Rakkian raised an eyebrow. “Isa?”

  “Isa carved all the figureheads of our ships. Made the first one when he was eight winters old.”

  Rakkian's lips parted and he twisted around to locate Isa on the ship behind theirs. He was so bundled up in blankets that Rakkian could only make out a tuft of black hair. Rakkian worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Isa couldn't have been responsible for the sunken ships, could he? Maybe the curse had a mind of its own. What else could it have been? Eskal wouldn't sabotage his own plan. Steinar and Torsten both seemed loyal. Kjartan too, and he was too weak-looking besides, to destroy so many ships by himself. It had to be the curse. Once again, Rakkian found himself with a sting of sympathy for Isa. Cursed by an evil creature, without any close family, distrusted by his village, and hated by his own jarl.

  “What happened to Isa's family?” Rakkian asked, curiosity getting the better of him. “Isa told me the Varg killed them. That there was a fire. Eskal said it was his parents' fault.”

  Kjartan looked uncomfortable, glancing in Isa's direction like Isa would hear him spilling his secrets from three ship-lengths away.

  “You don't have to tell me,” Rakkian said, but he could see the story burning on Kjartan's tongue. He could scarcely control himself when it came to a good tale.

  “Isa's parents were the original jarls of Ulfheim. Their hall stood where their graves are now,” Kjartan began, lowering his voice to the same story-teller whisper he had used when he told Rakkian the story of Balder. “When Isa was only a babe, wolves came to Ulfheim and ate the sheep in Jarl Eirik's pen. On the first night, it was only one sheep. The next n
ight, it was two. The next night, ten of his thirteen sheep were dead. It was a hard winter and we all needed those sheep.” He looked around, then scooted closer to Rakkian.

  Rakkian pulled his coat closer.

  “The next night, the wolves came again, but this time, Eirik and Helga were prepared. They shot two wolves with arrows to the hearts and displayed their severed heads on pikes to deter more from attacking.”

  “Did it work?” Rakkian asked, mimicking Kjartan's whisper.

  “It did. For five nights, no wolves touched the jarl's sheep. On the sixth night...” He held a dramatic pause; a seagull soaring above cried. “Under a bright full moon, the Varg, parent of all wolves, came for revenge.”

  Rakkian's eyes widened.

  “The Varg broke into the jarl's hall and killed Eirik in his sleep. Isa's mother, Helga, was woken by the sound of the Varg tearing into her husband's guts and drew her axe. She did everything she could to protect herself and her child, but the Varg killed her, too.”

  A horn sounded and Kjartan paused to poke his head up like a squirrel checking its surroundings. From the stern, Eskal signalled for the boats to form up tighter.

  “What happened then?” Rakkian urged.

  “The Varg went for Isa next,” Kjartan continued. “But Eirik's brother, Hjalmar, had heard the commotion and rushed to the jarl's defence. He took a flaming stick from the fireplace in his bare hands and held the Varg off long enough to grab baby Isa and escape. The hall burned to the ground and everyone thought the Varg was gone forever, until it returned twelve years later to claim what had been denied it.”

  “Isa?” Rakkian whispered, barely louder than the sound of the waves and the groaning wood.

  Kjartan smiled ominously and pulled his cloak closer, hiding his face. Rakkian waited for him to say more, but soon realised Kjartan had fallen asleep.

  Rakkian could only imagine how horrible it must feel to be cursed by the creature who'd slaughtered one's parents. To carry a part of it on his body – to know that it was killing him, too. No wonder Isa never smiled.