Lord of Raven's Peak (6 page)

He'd now made three voyages to Kiev. There had been only one attack, and that one halfhearted, a brief testing of his strength. He'd lost only one man and killed twenty of the enemy. Another message to hostile tribes.

All prayed to Thor for dry weather and, more times than not, the god had listened to their pleas and given them heat and sun. He heard Roran asking Eller why he couldn't smell out rain. It was a near litany, for all could remember a portage when Thor hadn't heeded their prayers. It had rained so hard that it had taken them nearly eight days to drag the longboat through the slogging deep mud.

“I remember this,” she said, looking around her. “That is, I remember the doing of this but it was a different route.”

He tucked away that bit of information. “Do you now?”

She looked at him quickly, then away.

“So you came by way of Lake Ladoga and Novgorod.”

She shook her head. “It isn't important. Perhaps that was it, or perhaps it was just a dream that came to me from another's mind. I will see to Taby.”

“Stay close. These next four days will be dangerous.”

He looked at her a moment, wondering if she had
indeed been brought by way of the river Neva to Lake Ladoga and then to Lake Ilmen. That would mean that she'd been brought by way of the Baltic. But many more traders and merchants voyaged through the Baltic to take that route, all of them carrying slaves captured from every land imaginable. It was a route that took much longer, but it was less dangerous than this route. Merrik remembered his brother Rorik laughing at him, saying, “You would journey by way of the moon if one were to assure you that it would be more deadly. Your taste for danger will bring you low.” As much as he'd told his brother he didn't seek out danger, particularly when he had valuable furs and goods to trade, he wasn't believed. His brother remembered how easily heated his passions could become and how quickly his temper would erupt when he'd been younger. But growing into his manhood for five years had made him different.

He and his men steadied the longboat just off balance, not wanting to put all the weight on its keel for the portage. He looked around, then looked at Eller, who sniffed and shook his head. Oddly enough, now he was worried as he had never been before. Always before he felt anticipation, excitement, a vague longing that there would be a tribe to attack them, an enemy to test himself upon, particularly when they were on their way back from their trading ventures. He much preferred protecting silver than he did slaves or goods or furs.

But now he was worried and he knew why. It was Laren and Taby. He had to keep them safe. He didn't like it one bit. He enjoyed fighting, had never sought to avoid it, but since he'd gotten her away from Thrasco's house in Kiev, he'd done nothing but choose the safest route. Except now. But he didn't want to take the extra weeks just to avoid possible trouble.

He looked over at her. She still wasn't standing
straight because of the pulling pain in her back, but her chin was up. She stood like a princess—a very thin, a very ragged princess—staring as the men worked the longboat up onto the rough trail made by so many longboats before them. Taby moved away from Cleve to stand beside her. He saw the child smile up at her. It was just a simple smile yet it pulled at him. He looked quickly away before he saw her expression.

They pulled the longboat over the pitted path throughout the morning, stopping only briefly to eat and rest. The weather held hot and dry.

The men were exhausted by the evening, for Merrik had pushed them hard. They couldn't waste the good weather, he'd told them again and again. He himself was breathing heavily, his shoulders and arms cramping, his legs feeling like great weights dragged at them.

He looked over at her to see that she was also breathing hard, as if she'd been running a long distance, only she hadn't, she was still very weak, both from the bone-deep hunger that had gone on far, far too long, and the beating. He looked over at Taby, standing quietly beside her, saying nothing, merely staying close, nearly touching her, and suddenly he felt a new spurt of energy. His men went about their tasks, all very familiar with what they had to do.

Eller oversaw the gathering of wood for a small fire and built it up. Old Firren hooked the iron pot from a chain he attached to the three iron poles that were fastened at the top, and prepared to serve up the dried meat and cheesy curds and boil some vegetables.

Oleg set up the perimeter so that they could guard the longboat and themselves. Roran and three other men went hunting. As for Merrik, it was his job to oversee things, but now he didn't. He walked to her and said, “You are very tired. I have spread furs in the tent
for you and Taby. You will rest now, both of you. Cleve will bring you food when it is prepared.”

She looked at him, at his blond hair plastered to his head with sweat, at the rivulets of sweat streaking down his face, at his arms, still wet with sweat, the muscles still flexing. “Did we come as far as you wished to?”

“Aye, a bit farther even. I don't trust those clouds building to the east of us. Rest now, both of you.”

“I know how to cook.”

Merrik stared at her as if she'd said instead that she practiced some sort of old Celtic magic. Old Firren usually cooked and what he prepared was edible, but no more. “Do you really?”

“Aye, I cook very well.”

Still he just looked at her.

“I learned from a woman just last year. She said I was apt, for a slave. She cuffed me every time I prepared something not to her liking. I learned quickly. It was either that or go deaf from the blows to my head.”

“Very well. You will speak to Old Firren. We have vegetables from Kiev—cabbage, peas, some apples, rice, and onions. Roran is hunting. Mayhap he will bring in a pheasant or a quail.”

“I will make a stew.”

She made, with Old Firren's nominal help, a rabbit stew, with Cleve and Taby also helping her. She stood over the huge iron pot, stirring the stew with a long-handled wooden spoon. The men sat about the fire, cleaning their weapons, or paced the perimeter, always on the lookout for enemies. The sky darkened and Merrik worried, but kept silent about it. Soon his mouth was watering at the smell of the stew. His men looked ready to do battle for it. They were all moving closer to the pot, all staring at it intently.

His first bite made Merrik close his eyes in absolute wonder. His second made him grunt with pleasure.

There was no talk from the men, just the sounds of chewing and swallowing, and the sighs of satisfaction.

She looked at them and smiled. She filled her belly quickly, too quickly, and she looked sadly at the rest of the stew in her wooden bowl. She had made more stew than ever before and yet it was eaten, all of it, not a bit left. Old Firren looked at her and grinned, showing a wide space between his teeth.

“I hate the taste of my cooking,” he said. He heard laughter and agreement from the men. “My belly is singing.”

“Your belly sings a simple tune,” Oleg shouted. “My belly believes it's gained Valhalla and is being caressed by the Valkyrie.”

The men laughed, and each one of them thanked her. When Merrik told her it was the best meal any of them had eaten since leaving Norway, Taby said, “Before she didn't know anything. All the servants did that, but then when we were—”

She clamped her hand over his mouth, hissing, “ Merrik isn't interested in that, Taby. Say nothing more.”

The child looked at her, frowning, but he slowly nodded.

Merrik merely smiled. He held out his hand to Taby. The child looked at his hand, then very slowly, tentatively, he placed his own small one in Merrik's. Merrik said easily, “My mother cooks well. Travelers and kin hate to leave just because of her cooking. Now there is pain in her fingers and it is a chore for her, but Sarla, my brother's wife, is learning.” He paused a moment, then added with a slight frown, “You cook as well as my mother.” He said nothing more, just lifted Taby into his arms and carried him to the campfire. The men were
talking low, sporadically, for the most part just content to sit there before the fire, their bellies satisfied.

“I would hear a story,” Merrik said. “Deglin, have you a new one to tell us?”

Deglin smiled up at Merrik, a sly smile that made his cat's chin even more pointed. He looked at Taby and said, “Have you heard tell of the great warrior Grunlige the Dane? No? Then sit with Merrik and I will tell you of him before you sleep.”

All the men settled back, for all loved the tales they'd heard since their own childhood.

Deglin had been the Haraldsson skald for nearly four years. He knew well his audience. He spoke slowly, emphasis on the words he deemed most important, his eyes on the men to see their reaction. His voice was deep and low as he said, “Ah, listen all of you to this tale. It is of Grunlige the Dane, a man who could break the neck of a cow with one hand. He was so strong that he wrestled with four bulls and then slaughtered them all for the winter solstice feast. Even with his mighty strength, he knew honor and never did he hurt those who did not deserve it. When he and his men were voyaging back to Denmark, they were caught in huge ice floes that threatened to crush their vessels to sticks of wood. Grunlige leapt upon the first ice floe and began to tear it to little pieces with his bare hands. His men pleaded with him to wrap his hands in skins and furs, but he didn't heed them. He broke up the ice floe, then leapt to the second and then to the third. When all the ice floes were but shards of ice in the sea, as harmless as grits of sand on a shore, he swam back to his longboat. He looked at his hands, those hands that had strangled a ferocious bear in Iceland, and saw that they were blue as the frigid water from the cold. And he said to his men, ‘I cannot feel my hands.'

“And his men wrapped his hands in furs and skins, but it was too late. His hands were frozen. When they thawed with the coming of spring, they were withered and looked like small animal claws, the fingernails still the blue of the sea, and there was no more strength in them. All grieved for Grunlige's plight, save his enemies who rejoiced in secret and feasted and plotted against him.” Deglin paused, then smiled toward Taby. “And that is all I will tell you tonight.”

Taby, as well as all the men, were sitting still as stones, bent forward, toward Deglin. There was a collective sigh and moans, for all knew he couldn't be cajoled or bribed to finish the tale until he wanted to.

“'Tis a new tale just for you, Taby,” Merrik said to the child, who was lying in his arms, his cheek against Merrik's chest. “Thank you, Deglin. You will tell us more soon?”

“Aye, Merrik. The boy needs to sleep now. I did not wish to waste my words on these sods when Taby is so sleepy he can't appreciate my greatness.”

Laren slipped back into the tent, her heart pounding with excitement at the story she'd just heard, and with words and ideas of her own that jostled and tumbled about, words that wanted to spew out of her mouth. She hugged them to her as she eased down between two thick wolf hides to sleep. What a wondrous tale, but it was important that it continue with . . .

“Taby will sleep with us,” Merrik said, easing the child down beside her. He said nothing more, merely arranged himself to his own comfort and was soon asleep.

When she screamed, he had his sword in his right hand and his knife in his left hand within seconds.

H
E WAS LEANING
over her, so close to her that she could feel his breath hot on her face and smell the stale wine he'd drunk.

She wasn't afraid at first, no, just confused, for it was the dead of night, and she'd been sleeping soundly and who would want to come into her chamber in the dead of night to see her? His face was very close now, she could hear his breathing, and she forced her eyes to open to stare up at him, and in the dim light. She saw him clearly, and what she saw sent bile into her throat. For an instant she was frozen with fear. She wanted to scream, but there was naught but desert dryness in her throat. His hands were on her then, rough hands, and it jolted her. She reared up, trying to jerk away from him, to run, but his hands were hard around her arms now, holding her down, his fingers digging so deeply into her flesh she felt the pain to her bones. He was grinning at her, and she realized this wasn't a dream or someone's jest and that this man was here to hurt her.

Taby!

He'd been lying beside her, his child's restless nature having sent him into her chamber, and she'd held him close and soothed him and sung to him of the valiant
deeds of his uncle and his father until he'd fallen asleep again.

“Aye,” the man said, “I've got her.”

Fighting him now would gain her nothing. It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she forced herself to go limp. To her unspeakable relief, the man's hands eased and he grunted, “I think the little girl fainted from fright.”

Another man said, “She saw your ugly face. It's good she fainted. I was told she's wild as a wolf. I have the child. He's no larger than a loaf of flatbread. Tie her arms and legs, then bring her. There are too many guards about for my liking, more than promised. Not close, but still, I want to finish this quickly.”

She waited another moment, forcing herself to be utterly slack, just for a brief instant. She counted slowly, each second, feeling the terror cramp her muscles, feeling her throat close, wanting to suck in air, but she didn't dare, not yet. Finally the other man had moved off with Taby. She grabbed the bronze candle holder beside her bed, lifted it, and smashed it against the man's head. He yowled, hurtling away from her. She was on her feet then, and she was kicking him in his belly and his legs, striking him again and again, sending him to his knees. She saw blood gush from a blow against the side of his head. Then the other man whirled about, stared in astonishment at the scene, and came running back and she knew she had no chance against the two of them. He dropped Taby on the bed, then turned to her, his hands out toward her. She leapt back away from both of them, hurled back her head and screamed as loud as she could, screamed and screamed . . .

But they were both on her now, their hands digging into her flesh, making her screams real cries of pain,
and it wouldn't stop for they were violent with anger and still she screamed and screamed. The man struck her hard in the jaw, but still she cried out until the blackness covered her mind, and she wondered even as all thought slipped away from her:
Why hasn't anyone come to help us?

“Damnation, wake up!”

The scream broke off, dissolving into a deep moan. Merrik dropped his sword and knife and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Wake up!” he shouted in her face.

“Don't you hurt my sister!”

Taby was suddenly on Merrik's back, beating his fists against his shoulders, jerking at his hair. Laren awoke fully, saw the man over her and screamed again. She raised her fists to strike at him. No, no, wait, wait . . . It was Merrik and Taby was on his back, yelling at him, hitting him, all the while sobbing, tears streaming down his thin cheeks, sounds so ragged she wanted to howl with the pain it brought her.

Now she'd terrified him with her stupid screams, illusion screams that had no meaning, that had naught to do with anything save her fear from that long-ago night. She felt the humiliation of it go deep inside her, that and her anger at herself for succumbing and crying out like a fool. It had been months since she'd dreamed of that night, but it had come again, more intense this time, but still she was used to it, should be used to it enough that she wouldn't squeal like a stoat. Aye, she should be used to the terror it brought her, terror still as fresh in her mind as the night it had been real. Only this time she'd awakened Merrik and frightened her little brother. She drew a deep breath, tried to make her voice calm, and said, “Taby, it's all right, sweeting. No, don't hit Merrik. He was trying to wake me up. I
had a nightmare and it was so very real, but it's over now. Come on, Taby, it's all right. Come to me.”

Merrik hadn't moved. He simply waited until she had the child in her arms, unaware until that moment that he had been straddling her, his bare thighs locked against her sides. No wonder Taby thought he was attacking his sister.

Slowly he eased off her and came down on his side to look at her in the dim light of dawn. She was facing him, holding Taby against her, rocking him, and singing to him, her face buried in the child's neck. She sensed him looking at her, and gazed over at him.

“Tell me,” he said.

She ducked her head down and continued to rock Taby. The child pulled away from her, and came up on his knees beside her. He leaned down and touched his fingers to her face. “Was it the bad men again?”

“Aye, but still just a dream, Taby, just a dream.”

“What bad men?” Merrik said.

“It was only a dream, a dream that comes to me when I'm very tired. I'm sorry I woke you. I'm a fool. But it was just a silly dream, nothing more, Merrik.”

“I see,” he said, and stood. He looked down at her in the pale light, saw that chin of hers go up so high that by all rights she should be forced to stare at the top of the tent, then left her.

She heard the men grumble when Merrik shouted at them to wake up. She hugged Taby tightly against her, then said, “You mustn't say anything to Merrik about that other time. Besides, you don't remember it very well. He wouldn't understand. It was a long time ago, Taby, a very long time ago.”

“Why do you still have bad dreams about it?”

A child, she thought as she kissed his cheek, always went directly to the hidden core. “It was a bad time,”
she said honestly. “A very bad time, but we are safe now.”

“Merrik will take care of us.”

She hated the confidence in his voice, his child's utter certainty. She also hated having to rely on a man, particularly this man who was a Viking, surely one of the most ruthless and vicious of men on this benighted earth. Aye, she didn't want to rely on him, not for her safety, not for all her needs and Taby's needs. During the past two years, she'd learned men were vicious and brutal, not to be trusted, taking what they wanted, feeling no remorse, having no conscience. Also she'd learned that to trust in anything or in anyone could leave one dead or worse, though at the moment she couldn't think of anything worse than death. She remembered Thrasco's beating. That had been close. She unconsciously flexed her shoulders as she stood, and leaned first to the right and then to the left. There was only a little pulling, nothing to draw her down into that choking pain.

She said to Taby, “I don't want him to take care of us.” Her voice was too sharp and Taby flinched back from her. “Nay, sweeting, it isn't Merrik's responsibility to care for us. He is a man and men don't feel comfortable about caring for those who aren't part of their blood family. He's caring for us just for now, that's all. Then I will take care of both of us. We are still a long way from home, but soon, perhaps very soon, we will return.”

She wondered if she believed it herself. How could she return when she didn't know the face of her enemy? She wondered, as she had countless times during the past two years, what home was like now.

* * *

With loud cheers and equally loud prayers of thanksgiving to Thor, the men finally shoved the longboat into the Gulf of Riga six days later. They'd been slowed by a violent storm that had shredded the men's tempers and tested their strength, but it had only lasted a day and a half, nothing all that dreadful, but dreadful enough. When the longboat slid smoothly into the clear blue water of the gulf, she and all of the men breathed a deep sigh of relief.

No one had attacked them.

Thor had given them a safe portage, they'd earned a lot of silver from their trading, and all were thankful. When they camped that evening, she decided she would make them a delicious dinner.

Her back was healed now, but still, she tired too quickly, and it angered her, this weakness, this continued betrayal by her body. Merrik had merely laughed at her that morning when she'd cursed her weariness in language as colorful as the brightly plumed birds they saw in the forest. As for Taby, she could now look at him without pain. His cheeks were no longer sunken, but were rounding out again. He walked upright, no longer bowed down with hunger. There was light in his eyes, not the dull blank acceptance, or silent questions to her that she couldn't answer. And his laughter, that was the best of it all. Just a few moments ago when the men were cheering their safe portage, Merrik had suddenly lifted Taby high in the air, swinging him over his head. Taby had shrieked with laughter. Laren had simply stood there, watching them and listening to her little brother's joy.

They brought her venison for supper. She cut the meat into thick steaks and seasoned them with snow berries and juniper roots, then wrapped them in wide maple leaves rubbed with venison fat.

After the meal, the men, their bellies full and content, shouted for Deglin to finish his tale of Grunlige the Dane.

But Deglin was sulking. Merrik had told him earlier that he would be in charge of keeping the furs brushed and clean, and most importantly, to make certain they were kept dry in the hold of the longboat. Deglin had thought himself above such a chore, but Merrik had held firm, and Deglin had grumbled endlessly as he'd done it, making the men want to yell at him and Merrik want to break his neck.

So Deglin refused to do anything now, telling Merrik and the men that it was his genius that enabled him to tell them stories and that the genius had been overworked by brushing and cleaning the furs, a task that didn't merit his skills and talent. He was a skald and was to be revered, not worked like a slave, and he'd looked at Laren, who was busy adding vegetables to the buck the men had killed and said she was a slave, she should have tended the furs. Merrik said, “There are few furs, only those we are taking back to our families as gifts. Your tasks were light, Deglin, and the furs important.”

But Deglin sniffed and said his bowels weren't happy with the foul offal
she
had made them eat. He took himself off into the pine trees and relieved himself for an hour. The venison steaks had been delicious, but she didn't say anything. The men grumbled at Deglin's perversity. Several began throwing pebbles in a test of their accuracy. After a while, though, they were bored.

It was then she said, “I have thought about Grunlige the Dane. Perhaps I can continue the story in Deglin's stead.”

The men looked at her as if she'd lost her wits. She could cook. She was a woman. They stared at her.

She merely looked back at them gravely, saying nothing more.

It was Taby, sitting between Merrik's legs, leaning back against his chest, who said, “Do tell us, Laren, your stories are wonderful.”

“Aye,” Oleg said, with no real conviction. “We've naught else to do. Tell us what you can.”

“I'm full with venison and care not what comes to my ears,” Old Firren said. “Go ahead, girl.”

Merrik said nothing. He held Taby. But she knew that he, like all the other men, believed that no woman could spin a tale to hold a man's interest, for all knew women had no talent for it. The skalds were men, only men, and all knew . . .

Laren pitched her voice low and smooth and leaned slightly toward the men to gain their full attention, something she'd seen her uncle's skald do many, many times. “When Grunlige said, ‘I cannot feel my hands,' and all his men were saddened at the sight of the hideous shrunken claws his hands had become, it seemed that all his mighty strength, his miraculous courage, would be no more. It took not many months for him to grow shorter, for his shoulders and head were always bent, his eyes on the ground, since there was no hope in his heart to look to heaven.

“All his friends fell silent when he was near. Not long thereafter, Grunlige went off by himself and many believed that he had gone off to die, for what reason was there for him to continue? He had no more strength and, thus, no more pride, and therein lay his own knowledge of his worth and his sense of his own greatness. But after three days he returned, blank-faced and silent.

“His enemies rejoiced, but in private, for they knew that Grunlige was popular with many people, far and
near, and it wasn't wise to speak happily of what had befallen him. Some of them began to make their plans. Evil men they were, and they knew not honor. They weren't Vikings, not valiant warriors, but rather Saxon raiders, mean-spirited and petty, and they knew only betrayal and treachery. They decided to raid his holdings.

“Thus in the months that followed, they seized his warships, stole his slaves, his silver and gold. They would kill his people and steal cattle and sheep. One even wanted to kidnap Grunlige's beautiful wife, Selina.