It was Domnall’s turn to speak up. “My son, Aiden, was taught the healing arts too. He may be skinny, but he is strong.”
Again, the monk glanced at her with a trace of confusion, but he didn’t hesitate to translate. The man that still held Eilish’s face in his grasp lifted his sword to her cheek. His hot breath touched her skin. “Lítill sveinn.”
He let go of her face to grab her wrist. Her father was secured too, and they were led toward the river where the screams still filled the morning air.
Chapter 2
Voices, seabirds and clanging, likely from the blacksmith at the end of the avenue, filled the air. Leif watched the busy tamped-down lane filled with people conducting business in doorways near the banks of the River Liffey.
Leif folded his arms while he waited for his father, who was standing, overhearing a conversation between a trader and wealthy traveler.
“—expecting many fine items from faraway places. My men will bring valuables from the Franks and other lands I bet you never heard of. They should arrive in the next few weeks if you will wait for their arrival.”
The wealthy man answered, “If they come by way of the north, it may take longer than you say. I cannot wait until next summer—”
“Oh, no,” the trader assured him. “It is a fine merchant ship sailing from the south. Unless Ægir takes them, they will be here by the change of season.”
Ragna bowed his head and wheeled away, continuing down the street with Leif’s uncle, Rúni, on his heels. This wasn’t the first time they’d been to Duiblinn. Three years had passed since their last visit. It seemed the town had grown busier. It was filled with a variety of travelers there to trade valuables from far and wide.
His father moved ahead with Ragna’s younger brother, Rúni, trailing behind. Leif let the distance grow between them as they turned onto the dirty avenue leading to the slave market. With his eyes on the point they’d disappeared, Leif stepped closer to a craftsman’s booth. His hand moved to touch the leather pouch strapped to his belt. He pulled out the carved whalebone, thinking of the woman who’d entrusted him with it. The one-piece comb had a decorative carved knot at its center with fine teeth sawed on either side. It was not a superior example of craftsmanship like his own comb, but it showed a certain amount of artistic skill.
Leif eyed the items on display. There were drinking horns, carved bone buckles, needles and dice, but it was the toy horse with wheels that drew his focus. It was just what Màiri had asked for, a toy for her son, Marcas. She’d given him the comb for barter, but he didn’t expect the man before him would be interested in an item he had no use for.
He held up the whalebone to the Northman, then pointed at the horse. “Would you trade that child’s toy for this?”
The craftsman shook his head and answered, “No, but if you have glass beads or silver, we can talk.”
Leif took a deep breath. As expected, the comb had little value to the bone carver. He thought of the little dark-haired boy and the parting expression on Màiri’s face, so he returned the unwanted comb into his pouch, and dropped a small piece of silver onto the man’s palm. The craftsman broke into a toothy smile while he handed Leif the child’s toy and wished him a happy and healthy life.
He reached around his back to tuck the bone horse under his belt, allowing his cloak to cover the secret item. Leif didn’t bother to thank the craftsman, for he was in a hurry. His father’s temper was a thing to be avoided, or at the very least, not provoked unless he could gain pleasure from it. Leif jogged down the street to follow his father to the slave market.
A crowd of thralls stood before their masters, each waiting to discover their fates. The question likely on all their minds—would they be sold to men sailing overseas to distant lands, or would they be traded to their kinsmen as farm help along the isles? Leif scanned the mass for his father’s familiar face and found him, stopped alongside a throng of traders come to buy themselves slaves. Just at that moment Ragna turned to search for his son. His eyes fell on Leif, and although it was likely his presence hadn’t yet been missed, the man’s face pinched into a scowl as he barked. “The winds will not stay at our backs forever! Look for thralls who can handle a boat!”
Leif nodded in response, not needing the reminder about why they needed more hands on board. It had been the same every summer. He watched his father amble away with his hands on his hips.
Rúni caught up to Leif, out of breath and carrying a horn filled with ale. His reddish hair lifted in tufts around his head, something that happened no matter how often he tried brushing it down. Although he was younger than Ragna, he was the only one who looked his forty-plus years. “Try this. It has a flavor I have not tasted before—like the lips of the maiden I took it from.”
“How did you find a woman and ale already? We stepped ashore but moments ago.” His uncle thrust the drinking horn toward him, but Leif pushed it away. “I do not need a drink. I only need to find someone who can handle the sails so we can leave this place.”
“Always in a bad mood. I know just the thing that would put a smile on your face, and she’s just down that way. True, if you sneeze you could blow her over, but I found she is eager to work for food.”
Rúni took a sip of his ale and winked at Leif. His uncle’s appetite for women often led him astray, but Ragna always looked the other way. When Leif didn’t respond, he said, “At least be happy for the gold that will line your pockets in a few more weeks. Your father looks out for his kin—he is a great man who only wishes to gain his place beside our forebears.”
Leif didn’t share his uncle’s sentiment. Only ten paces away, Ragna had begun to walk the line of available thralls. Leif watched his father scrutinize the array of men and women lined up on display. He’d inherited his father’s brown hair, green eyes and rugged build, and that wasn’t all. Nothing grieved him as much as his body-changing ability did. Maybe his father would have let him go off on his own if he were a common man.
“Já, it is he who covets sitting amongst the gods,” Leif admitted. His uncle had that right. But he knew Ragna didn’t care about him or the rest of his kin. They were only the tools he used to get what he wanted, no matter the cost.
Thinking about another season on the sea made Leif restless. Every time they went out, he felt ill to his stomach. And it wasn’t the waves’ fault. He resented being held against his will and being used in such a dishonorable way.
“Your words do not match the sour expression on your sour face.” Rúni retorted under his breath. “Well, then. Go on and find us some good ones, since you know their way of speech.”
Leif walked away from his uncle to join his father before the selection of thralls. Men and woman of dark skin and hair stood in one area, their owners calling out, “Foreigners that do not speak Gaelic or Norse. Beautiful women and men of strength from across the sea.” Near them was another grouping of thralls with pale skin and dark hair. Their masters shouted, “Gaels of fine stock. Healers, craftsman, and women of beauty with many talents. Come and see!”
He stepped closer to observe the people who were standing, some with chins held high, others with their heads hanging in defeat. Slave markets like this were something Leif had seen since his first expedition at seventeen and over the last eight years. While his father refused to degrade himself by learning the languages of their thralls, Leif found it useful. It was far easier to communicate when you knew their native tongue. It was also beneficial to have a conversation his father couldn’t understand.
A tall, dark-haired man dressed in silk surrounded by an entourage of followers spoke to the tradesman standing by his flock of Gaels. The buyer’s clothing was more impressive than Leif’s blue woolen tunic. Amber beads adorned his clothing, which was a rarity this far west. Based on the man’s accent and his precious golden beads, Leif suspected he was Aesti, another name he’d heard for the Brus. Their territory was to the east of Swerike, across Austmarr, or the Eastern Lake—a place he hadn’t yet t
raveled but that he’d heard much about.
He leaned in to overhear their negotiation. The thrall trader spoke with pride and waved at a man with dark braided hair, a mustache and beard. “This one is a healer—he can keep you healthy during your conquests. And his son has learned his trade, too. Both worth the twelve silver I ask for them.”
The foreign buyer shook his head. “Twenty for both.”
Laughter filled the air as the slave trader threw his head back in amusement. “You must think yourself a great negotiator. Sadly, you are mistaken. Twenty-four silver for both, or twelve for one. No less.”
The wealthy buyer rubbed his jaw and answered, “We have a long expedition back to Kaup, and I only need one healer.”
The thralls in question stood beside each other. The son’s black hair fell over his face, although Leif could see his alert eyes peering out from beneath the shaggy curtain. His father was watching just as alertly, clearly unsure of what was being discussed before them, sensing another change in their fates.
The foreigner muttered something to a man by his side, who lifted up a satchel. It was opened and silver was emptied into his awaiting palm. The trader produced a scale and twelve marks were balanced and exchanged. A kinsman of the foreigner grabbed hold of the healer’s iron neck cuff and began to lead him away.
At this, the young man called out, “No, Father!”
He tried to run after him, but the slave trader swatted the young man on the shoulder and kicked him over. “You were not paid for. If you give me too much trouble, I will kill you before you meet your next master.”
One of the other thralls, a monk, dressed in a black cassock, took a careful step forward to help up the young man. Before he could reach him, the trader turned, placing his fists on his hips. “A man worth his weight can get up on his own.”
The monk paused, gave a regretful glance to the man on the ground and said in Leif’s native tongue, “All men have value.”
Grumbling, the trader caught Leif’s eye and laughed. “They are not all so headstrong! What sort are you looking for—young and untrained, big and strong, or possibly an unsullied female?”
He shot warning glares at the thrall getting up and the monk standing nearby. The young man was now on his feet again, but staring at the point in the crowd where his father had been led away. Leif observed the scene, trying to remain detached. This wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed families split apart. It was commonplace in trading ports like this. He thought of his friend’s injured arm, cleared his throat and glanced at his father who was manhandling a thrall five paces away. “We are looking for men who have sea legs and can handle a sail.”
“There are many here that are not so weak as this one—” The trader kicked the young man again, sending him stumbling into the row of thralls. The monk caught him. “Those at the end might make good sailors.”
“Use the rope, boy! Get to it!” Leif’s father called over at him. “Must I do everything?”
He clenched his jaw tight, trying to ignore Ragna’s scorn. There was no part of this he enjoyed. Every summer new thralls joined their ranks, and every year lives were sacrificed in tribute to Ægir. Maybe he would have been more like the man scowling at him if it hadn’t been for his mother, who’d taught him of honor, truth and perseverance.
Leif uncoiled the rope that hung from his forearm. The trader looked at him and gave a warning. “You damage any of them, you will pay.”
“Calm yourself,” Leif growled back. “Our test is toga honk.”
Many of the thralls looked at Leif with wide eyes when the trader began to laugh. “You will beat them all at that game!”
A large man with long blond hair came up beside Leif to look at the thralls on display. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed in more than a week, and he gripped the hilt of his sword with dirty fingers. The slave trader walked up to him with a grin. “I have many to choose from. What do you look for?”
Leif walked to the end of the row of thralls to study the broad-shouldered men the trader had suggested he look at while he overheard the nearby conversation.
“My last thrall was no good—kept trying to run off, so I buried him with the others. I need a boy who can be made to listen.”
“I have a few young ones here that will respect a master’s sword.” The trader hooked his finger under the chin of the young healer he’d pushed around. “This one can be taught a lesson still.”
“There is fun to be had in that.” His customer laughed.
Too many times had Leif nearly died from his own father’s lessons. The words struck a nerve, and without realizing, Leif had drifted back along the line of thralls until he was near the trader and the object of their attention. A foul stench wafted off the men. They’d likely not bathed since before their capture.
Leif handed the end of the rope to the shaggy-haired thrall, motioning to the ground. He sat in the dirt, putting his feet out before him, waiting for the young man to mirror him. The young man was not as large as the others. In fact, he was thin-framed and didn’t seem to have the strength to plow a field or raise a sail.
The young healer, still holding onto the end of the rope, looked around cautiously before joining Leif on the ground. Leif reached over, grabbed hold of the young man’s feet and placed them against his. He held up the rope and said, “Tarraingt.”
From under the shaggy veil of dark hair that covered the thrall’s face, eyes studied him carefully. The young man nodded, clearly understanding the instruction to pull, and curled his fingers around the rope, bracing his shoulders. Leif did the same before beginning to pull. He didn’t use his full strength, because he wanted to test the muscle at the other end. Leif guessed he would be able to tug the boy until his chest folded against his legs, but he was curious if there was something more than might in this thrall’s body.
He watched the young man brace against the pull of the rope. His feet pressed against Leif’s, and the thrall’s buttocks slid toward him as he leaned his whole body back, leveraging away. The young man’s lips pinched into a hardened grimace, and he groaned in effort. Leif hadn’t used all of his muscle, but he saw determination in the thrall’s face and felt more strength than he’d expected. A proper ship’s crew needed to work together to stay afloat. Something that went beyond the size of one’s shoulders was vigor of spirit.
Leif eased back. “Stad.”
The young man straightened and stopped pulling. The slave trader, who’d watched the game, spoke up. “See, he has strength in him, even if he is scrawny and his whiskers have not come in. He might even keep you healthy while you are at sea. He is worth twelve silver.”
“I will give you ten for him,” the other buyer offered with his arms folded before him.
Leif stood up and stared at the young thrall in plaid trousers. Although he’d heard whispers of slavery finding an end in other lands, it hadn’t reached them yet, or this unfortunate thrall. There was something about the young man that he liked, which should have made Leif walk away to keep the unfortunate healer from more trouble, but he didn’t. The thrall was the right sort of man for the sea: determined and fearless. At least, Leif hoped he was, or Ragna would cast the thrall into the ocean without another thought, which was likely anyway.
“Twelve silver,” Leif said and reached for the satchel hanging from his belt.
The trader’s eyes gleamed when he saw the shine of metal in Leif’s palm. The exchange was quick, leaving neither the time to change their minds. Before the young thrall could stand upright again, the deal was done.
Leif spoke the foreign words he knew the thrall would understand, “Tar liom.”
The young man glanced at the monk before stepping toward Leif. To follow blindly, to go with his new master, must have been unsettling to someone who had likely always lived a simple life on a farm. He remembered his seventeenth spring when his father had sailed the warship home that he’d stolen from his ally in the night, telling Leif it was time to meet their destiny—th
e fate he had trained him for had come. Everything had changed in that moment for the worse, and Leif squarely placed the blame on Ragna’s shoulders.
He gestured to his chest and said in the thrall’s language, “I am Leif. What are you called?”
“Ai-aiden,” the thrall stumbled in answering.
“What is this?” Leif’s father shouted. Ragna had come up behind him and was staring at the thrall he’d just bought, then gestured at the slaves that were standing with Rúni. “Those are good, strong thralls. What have you wasted silver on? A man whose only use is handling a bailer? If I wanted a pet, I would have sent you to get a dog!”
This wasn’t anything Leif hadn’t heard before. He didn’t care what his father said, he knew how far he could stray from his wishes before he’d regret it. Ragna needed him, and Leif knew it. This allowed him a certain amount of freedom, but not enough to break away from his father’s hold.
“The thrall is a healer. Agnar’s injured, so I thought—”
“Leave the thinking to me, boy,” his father growled.
Leif didn’t respond while he gritted his teeth. He avoided looking at Ragna, knowing he’d be eager to set sail with clear skies and strong winds and wouldn’t want to waste any more time at port. His father’s sights never strayed from the wealth and glory at the end of every viking season. It was what mattered most to him. It wasn’t an uncommon priority, but there was nothing common about his father or how he got what he wanted.
Ragna’s narrowed green eyes swept past his son before he led his pack of thralls forward. Rúni shook his head at his nephew and emptied the horn of ale into his mouth before following after his brother.
Leif watched them march along the street, heading back toward the river. He cast a quick glance at Aiden and grabbed hold of his arm. He didn’t want to fall behind. Nothing made his father angrier than when he felt he was being kept from his destiny. Ragna was always eager to place blame on Leif. He might have been his father’s closest blood relation, but he was Ragna’s least favored crewmember.
Tides (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 3) Page 2