Lord of Raven's Peak (3 page)

“I'm sorry that you were used in that way. I cannot allow that to happen to Taby.”

“You are helpless to prevent it. You are a slave
yourself. It matters not if you have royal blood flowing through your veins. You're nothing now, less than nothing, a pawn in Thrasco's endless games.”

“You speak very well for a wretched slave, Cleve!”

He grinned at her. “The master who used me also educated me. It gave him pleasure to discuss philosophy with me whilst he raped me. Also, when he was done with me and well sated, he enjoyed lying there, toying with my hair, speaking of the ancient Greeks and their strange ways. Your spirit will get you beaten to death, if you do not measure your words. Keep your mouth closed, little girl, else this magical cream won't be able to heal you.”

She thought furiously, but gave it up, saying, her voice slurred with sleep, “Aye, you're right. I'll forget about him. What is one little boy? Naught to anyone.”

Cleve frowned at those words. Even after such a short time he recognized them as not sitting well on those thin, scrappy shoulders. Still, he said nothing. He rose and stared down at the girl's back. “There is no more bleeding. Thrasco said I could bathe you on the morrow and give you clean clothes. He will come and inspect you himself. You will mind your tongue.”

“Clean clothes would be nice,” she said, and nothing more.

Still frowning, Cleve said, “He won't think to demand you appear naked in front of him since he has no liking for boys, so you will be protected for a little while, but I cannot imagine that you will look much like a boy once you're clean.”

“I've been a boy for a very long time. No one has guessed. It was my only protection and it worked.”

“Then you have been in a land of stupid people.” Cleve turned to leave her, though he worried, and wondered why he did so. She was naught of anything, just
a slave, and she would be gone soon to Old Evta—that or Thrasco would discover her sex and she would probably be sold to a brothel or beaten to death.

“Thank you, Cleve,” he heard her call after him. Aye, if Thrasco discovered her sex, he just might kill her for ruining his plans. He knew the sister of Khagan-Rus, Old Evta, would never want a girl in her household. She had only female slaves who were older than the murky swamp that lay just to the west of the Dnieper.

It wasn't his problem. What would happen would happen. She had courage, but of course she was stupid to show it. Look what it had gotten her. Flat on her belly with a raw back. It just made him sad to think of that girl dead, or worse.

Although what could be worse than death? He could not even bring the image of his long-dead mother's face to his mind. Death was the last thing anyone could wish for.

 

It was dark, finally. From the single narrow window in the chamber, she could see only blackness. There was no moon and the stars were laced over with billowing dark clouds. Aye, it was very dark, thank the gods.

Laren had finished another bowl of broth, spoken only briefly to Cleve, for Thrasco needed him to serve at the evening meal. She begged him to leave her the basket of soft bread for the night. He'd left it, the fool. She wrapped it in a bit of torn cover from the bed. She wished she had something other than her rags, but she didn't. At least she'd wrapped the rest of the cover around her body beneath the rags. She looked like a boy now, no one would ever suspect. She was thin, her breasts weren't all that lavish and she'd flattened them to almost nothing with the cover, and her hair was short and ragged. Too, she was so dirty, smelled so
rancid, she doubted anyone would even notice what sex she was, or care. She wished her back didn't nearly send her to her knees with pain, but she locked it away from her, this pain that wouldn't stop, and gritted her teeth against any sound she wanted to make, any moans that would attract attention.

The door wasn't locked. If it had been, she would have managed to ease through that narrow window. She eased out into a dim narrow corridor like a dark shadow. Beneath her feet was a rough wooden floor, not packed earth, and overhead was a low ceiling of whitewashed beams. There were no furnishings in the corridor. She tried to remember being brought into the household. She pictured it in her mind and took a left turn when the corridor forked.

She heard men talking—surely they were guards—and pressed her back against the wall. It was rough and she gasped with the pain in her back. How many were there? The boards creaked beneath her feet.

“What was that?”

“What? You're hearing yourself eat, you fool, naught else.”

“I'd best go see. You know Thrasco.”

Laren forgot the pain in her back. She was as still as a stone. She saw the shadow of a man. She didn't move, didn't breathe. He took a step toward her, then paused, listening.

Another man called out, “You see, I told you there was naught. Be quiet and drink. Or give the ale to me. No one is there, no one is ever there.”

There was a grunt, followed by a deep belch. Another man laughed.

She slowly let out her breath. She waited and waited still longer. Then she walked as quietly as she could, skimming against the wall, always going left when she
had a choice. She heard many voices now, even Thrasco's, if she wasn't mistaken. If it was Thrasco, it had to be the dining quarters, the gluttonous heathen.

Finally she reached a narrow door. She turned the iron handle, and eased out into a foul-smelling alley. She smelled fetid water and wondered how Thrasco could have such a clean house and such filth at his doorstep. It didn't matter, she'd managed to escape. She nearly yelled with relief. She did let out a huge pent-up breath, jerking at the pain it brought her. She stopped a moment, just standing there, trying to gain control again. Her back burned and throbbed. She thought she felt damp stickiness and wondered if some of the slashes were bleeding again.

She was nearly free. It didn't matter. Her back would heal, only not here, not in Thrasco's house, not in Kiev. She would get Taby and they would travel north to Chernigov, a town just on the east bank of the Dnieper—she'd heard a slave speak of it. Surely it was not more than three days' walk from here. She would steal them clothes; she would become a widow, Taby her child. She would survive, and she would see that Taby survived. It was her first opportunity to escape and she intended to succeed. In the past she would never have managed to get this far. She supposed she had the beating to thank. Thrasco would never imagine that anyone would try to escape with a back in shreds.

Suddenly she heard men's voices. They were speaking quietly, from just down the way, to her right. They were sneaking toward her. They were thieves. Or they were Thrasco's men. It didn't matter. She closed her eyes a moment, wondering if every god of every country were against her, then she shrank back into the blackness, knowing she was trapped against the house. She couldn't run, she couldn't move, else she would run into
the men. She wouldn't go back into Thrasco's house.

They were silent now, but she could hear their soft footfalls. There were two of them. No more. Just two men. If they were thieves, surely they wouldn't be interested in her. She was nothing, less than nothing. Ah, but she would be there and thus they would probably kill her.

She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. She was trapped and any second now they would see her and that would be the end of her. And of Taby. She crouched down, trying desperately to press against the house, to become just one of the shadows that clung to the night.

She heard one of the men speak, his voice deep and quiet. He said, “We will go through this small door I was told about.”

The other man said, “Told, Merrik? You were told naught until you gave the weasel that silver armlet.”

“It matters not. The door should be close now. I understand the boy isn't being kept in the slave quarters but in a small chamber in the house—”

They were on her. She couldn't simply stand there, pretending they didn't exist, pretending they wouldn't see her. No, she would surprise them, she would attack, and then she would run, for surely she was smaller and faster and . . . She leapt upon the nearest man, striking his face with her fists.

“What in the name of all the gods—! 'Tis a boy and he's trying to kill me!” Oleg was big and strong, a warrior, and within seconds, he grabbed her arms, whirling her around, shouting in her face. “Hold still, you damned little sod! Stop fighting me!”

The other man whispered, “Keep him quiet, Oleg, and yourself! The last thing we need are Thrasco's guards on us.”

In the instant the man spoke, she broke one arm free
and struck her fist into the man's belly. He only grunted, then grabbed at her again. It was a silent struggle then, for Laren didn't want the guards any more than these men. But she had no chance. Her arms were finally pinned to her sides. She looked up to see the man's hand raised and fisted. He would strike her. She looked at that fist and knew that when it hit her, it would be over. His other hand still held her upper arm.

What did it matter now? She jerked down her head and bit down on his hand as hard as she could. He grunted in pain, but she knew he wanted to scream, for she tasted his blood in her mouth. She didn't let go.

The other man was on her then, and his hands were about her throat and he was squeezing, saying low in her ear, “Release his hand or I will strangle you.”

She let the man's hand go. He swore quietly, stepping back from her. The other man kept his hands around her throat and slowly turned her to face him.

He said, staring down at her, “Look who we have here, Oleg. We are blessed or cursed, depending on the pain in your hand. Ah, I'm not mistaken, for there is a bit of light coming over my left shoulder. Aye, Oleg, it is the boy we were coming to fetch. He came to welcome us. Well, boy, how did you get out of the compound?”

Laren didn't move. She felt the other man's blood trickling from the side of her mouth. She just stared up at the man. He was the one she'd seen at the slave market.

S
HE HEARD THE
other man cursing in a furious whisper as he hugged his bloody hand against his chest. She stared up at the man who still held her by her throat, saying not a word, just staring. Then suddenly, she drove her fist into his belly and jerked up her knee to his groin.

That knee came up fast, too fast, and Merrik knew, even as the bony knee struck him, that he wouldn't like what was going to happen. And he didn't.

He sucked in his breath when the inevitable nausea struck, and clutched his belly as the pain washed through him.

Oleg cursed, then grabbed the damned boy by his neck before he could run, squeezing even harder than Merrik had because his hand hurt and was bleeding, and the damned little savage had kicked Merrik in his groin and sent him to his knees.

She saw blackness, and she cursed herself for not immediately running, but she'd stayed there, frozen, watching the man she'd struck, the man she'd recognized from the slave market, wondering what he was doing here. In her hesitation, she missed her chance to escape. The blackness filled her mind then until she saw nothing at all.

* * *

Merrik stood very still, breathing deeply, until he could finally stand straight once again. Oleg was looking down at the boy in an unconscious heap at his feet.

“I should have killed the little sod,” Oleg said. “He bit down to the bone.”

“Well, he kicked me down to the bone,” Merrik said.

Suddenly, with no warning, there was a fearsome growl and a man, a man both tall and slender, a man not a warrior, jumped on Merrik's back.

Merrik, still dazed from the blow to his groin, didn't react as quickly as he normally would have. Oleg jerked his knife from its sheath at his waist and raised it to strike at their assailant. In that instant, Oleg's leg was jerked from under him. He teetered, astounded, for he saw the boy staring up at him, and knew that the waif had done it to him yet again, and he just couldn't believe it. He was off balance when he felt the boy's fist in his gut, and fell against the timbered wall and over into a bush.

No one said anything. There were no curses, no grunts, no yells. The fight was a silent one for no one wanted Thrasco or his men to come bursting from the house.

Merrik managed to jerk the man's arms free of his throat. He lunged forward, pulling the man over his shoulder. He flung him to the ground at his feet, knocking the breath out of him. He drew his own knife and was on his knees in a moment, the knife tip at the man's throat.

“No, don't hurt him!”

The boy was scrambling to the fallen man who was trying to sit up, shaking his head.

The boy grabbed his arm and shook it. “By all the gods! Cleve, what do you here? You didn't come after me, did you? Is Thrasco close? Cleve, answer me!”

“Hurt this ugly beggar?” Merrik said, his voice low, but filled with surprise and sarcasm. This was the strangest rescue he'd ever attempted. “Why would I want to hurt him when he would have killed me? Would kill me even now if he could. Surely that makes no sense.”

Cleve came to his knees slowly, shaking his head, and reached blindly for Merrik.

“No, Cleve,” the boy said, coming to his knees beside him, clutching at his arm. “Wait, there are two of them and they are both armed. They will kill you. No, don't move. He is here and he has a knife.”

“I am not here to kill you,” Merrik said, staring at the two of them. “I am here, actually, to rescue you, boy. I have your brother, Taby.”

She stared up at him then, unable to believe her ears. “You what?”

“I am here to rescue you. I am Merrik Haraldsson, from Norway, and I'm here to take you away.”

Take her away? He had Taby? None of it made any sense to her. She was nothing but a slave, as was her little brother. She just looked at him stupidly. “But why?”

Merrik just shrugged. “Because I have suddenly become crazed. I looked at your little brother after Thrasco had taken you away at the slave pit, and lost what few wits I possessed.” He didn't add that he'd lost his other wits when he'd looked at the boy and couldn't look away. “Come, boy, let's get out of here before your owner comes howling from that door with a dozen armed men. I would rescue you but I wouldn't want to die for you.”

“He's too fat, but you're right about his men. There are many of them. They're drinking in a chamber off the inside corridor.” The boy rose slowly, but his hand
remained on the ugly man's shoulder. “Cleve must come too. He must.” The boy stared at Merrik, then added, “Please.” It was a word Merrik suspected the boy didn't often say.

“Why not?” Merrik said. “Oleg, are you alive or did the lad bring you low again?”

“If you weren't bent on rescuing the little beggar, I would kill him.”

“I'm bent on it,” Merrik said. He stared at the man with the hideous jagged scar on his face and his long golden hair tied at the back of his neck. The man stood quietly beside the boy, his arms at his sides. He was slight, but lean and fit. He obviously knew nothing about fighting, thank the gods for something. Merrik sighed and said, “Come along. We're sailing the moment we get back to my longboat.”

Oleg looked at the filthy boy, stared down at his bloody hand, and said, “I should beat you.”

“No need,” the boy said. “Truly, there is no need.” He weaved where he stood, looked helplessly toward Cleve, then crumpled to the ground.

Cleve tried to catch her, but Merrik was faster. He lifted the boy in his arms. “By all the gods, the lad is naught more than a few bones held together with filthy flesh and filthier rags. This sealskin smells as if it's rotted in the sun for years.”

“Aye,” Cleve said. “Thrasco let me feed him broth, but he wouldn't let me give him a bath or clean clothes. Here, my lord, I'll take the boy.”

“No need.” Merrik lifted the boy onto his shoulder. He felt his pelvic bones grinding against his chest, and wondered if the lad would live long enough to see his little brother. And if he died, what would Merrik do with Taby?

Cleve wondered at the sudden turn of fate. He'd crept
through the huge compound hoping to find Laren before the guards caught her, for he knew she would never make good her escape; she was too weak from the beating and from the lack of food. Thrasco, of course, had believed the same thing, and thus, she hadn't been guarded. But she had escaped, at least she'd made the good beginnings of an escape. Cleve looked at Merrik. This man had come to save her? To save
him
—a boy, actually. He shook his head. He refused to believe that any good could come of this. The man was probably a savage out to capture slaves from others to save himself silver. This Norway, a place Cleve had heard daunting tales about, was a savage land, much farther to the north of Kiev, and thus it had to be savage and violent and barbaric. It bred not only men who explored, traded, and stayed to build settlements, but it also bred warriors who raided and plundered and killed without mercy. And now one of these Vikings had three new slaves and all without paying out a pinch of silver. Surely the man had lied. Rescue a boy because he'd felt sorry for the boy's little brother? It was ridiculous. Cleve wondered what the man really wanted. And he wondered how long it would be before Merrik discovered the boy was a girl.

 

The Silver Raven
moved swiftly and silently in the dark smooth waters of the Dnieper. It was Merrik's pride. He'd had the sixty-foot craft built three years before by Torren, a builder in Kaupang, whose renown had reached even to York in the Danelaw. The longboat was a good fourteen feet across, nearly flat bottomed, not made for extended travel, but rather for sailing on rivers, and held a deep cargo hold for goods. The sides of the boat came out of the water only six feet, curving gracefully. Loose pine planks lay across the
crossbeams. In rough water they could be raised easily to bail out the bilgewater, or now, as the longboat glided under sail through the calm waters of the Dnieper, beneath those planks lay silver, gold, and jewelry and other goods they'd traded for here in Kiev, as well as tents, cooking utensils, and food for their journey home. The rudder was large and worked smoothly, Old Firren moving it tenderly and gently, as knowingly as a mother would her child. The water was deep so the rudder held its eighteen inches below the keel line. The sail was hoisted high on the yard, for the breeze was sharp, and would carry them northward in good time; still the men remained seated on their sea chests, their hands near the oars as they spoke in low voices to each other. They were too close to Kiev, too close to men who would kill them without a whisper of regret, and if the wind died, they would be rowing within seconds. There were twenty-two oar holes, but on this trip Merrik had brought but twenty men.

The dim light given off by the few rush torches along the fortress perimeter in Kiev grew faint in the distance. The thick black smoke given off by the torches could still be seen, curling into the clear summer sky.

The men began to row steadily now, for the wind had died as suddenly as a man's lust caught in a sudden belly cramp. Merrik spoke to each of them, encouraging each to pull hard on his oars until they were well beyond the reach of all other warships and trading vessels. He wanted no trouble, no confrontations. There was wealth on the longboat, and thus they were a mark for pirates, though Merrik sincerely doubted anyone would be fool enough to attempt an attack with twenty armed Vikings.

Merrik made his way back to the stern and sat next to Old Firren, whose hand never left the rudder. He
looked down at the boy huddled at his feet, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, then nodded toward Cleve, who had just taken his place at the oars. He sat on a wooden bench near Old Firren, who said naught, merely let his hands guide the longboat, his rheumy eyes taking in their current speed, the shadowing of the dark clouds overhead, the set of the few visible stars, the landmarks on the stern side of the longboat. Merrik would kill for Old Firren, not really all that old, but at least forty, an age to be respected. He had no family, but was wont to say that Merrik would do if he needed a son in a hurry.

The boy groaned, then tried to fling himself over onto his back. Merrik gently held the thin arm, keeping him on his stomach. Taby, his little brother, was crouched next to him, saying nothing, merely stroking his small dirty hand over his brother's shoulder.

“He will be all right, Taby, I promise you. He's just very weak from hunger and from a lot of exertion. We'll row to shore in a few hours and camp until dawn. I'll see that he's fed then and that he continues to rest until he gets his strength back. You too, lad.”

“It's very dark,” Taby said. He raised dark blue eyes to Merrik's face and once again, Merrik felt that twisting and burning deep inside him. “I'm afraid of the dark.”

“No need to be afraid now,” Merrik said, feeling that damnable pain in his gut at the child's words. He forced himself not to reach out to the little boy and bring him against his chest. No, it would frighten the child, but he wanted to hold him, very much, and Merrik didn't understand it. He said only, “I'll keep the dark at bay. It's important that we put a goodly distance between us and Kiev before we stop. You're safe now. So is your brother. Trust me.”

The child nodded, very slowly, and Merrik doubted
that he believed his words. He doubted he would believe them himself if he were Taby. He stared at the small dirty hand on his brother's shoulder.

Now he had three slaves and hadn't paid a gram of silver for two of them. He hadn't gotten his mother a female slave, but no matter.

Slaves.

He looked from Taby to his brother to the man, Cleve, with his magnificent golden hair and his scarred face, who was rowing clumsily, obviously unused to the task. He was young, not more than twenty, Merrik thought, but he was strong, just untrained in fighting.

What was he going to do with the three of them?

 

The boy accepted the water skin from Merrik and drank deeply. Then he began to shake uncontrollably, and he dropped the water skin. Merrik reached out his hand to the boy's forehead. He was hot to the touch. He had the fever. Merrik frowned. Because he was hungry? Because he'd kicked Merrik in the groin and belly and bitten Oleg's hand to the bone? It made no sense. Merrik cursed, knowing he could do little, save soak the boy with cold water to bring the heat down. It seemed a strange thing to do since the heat was on the inside, but it sometimes worked. It was something his mother always did. He prayed the boy wasn't sickening of something that could kill all of them.

“Taby,” he said quietly to get the child's attention without frightening him. “Tear off a bit of the cover your brother has wrapped around him. Hand it to me so I can wet it in the river.”

The child did as he was told.

Merrik slipped his hands beneath the boy's armpits and lifted him over his legs, saying, as he looked down into the vague pain-blurred eyes, “Don't move. For
some reason you have the fever. I must soak the heat out of you.”

The boy said nothing. Merrik could feel him trembling and shuddering and wondered at it. It was more than that, he knew, but he refused to let that fear, or whatever it was, into his mind.