Owned by the Vikings

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T
he rhythmic sound of long oars slapping
the water had grown so familiar to Edric that by now, he scarcely heard it. The
great dragon-beaked longboat of the Vikings cleaved the waves, rocking
endlessly, and yet, when he looked at the shore, it felt as though they were
making no progress at all. But they had to be, or Thorvald would have beached
the ship and called the rowers off.

It was hard, exhausting work, and the men
rowed in two shifts; after a thousand strokes of the oars, each shift was
relieved by the next.

There was little room for the exhausted,
sweaty rowers to recover in. The longboat had no hold or cabin, and the wooden
deck was crammed with sea-chests that also served as benches for the rowers.
Whatever items of plunder did not fit into the sea-chests were stowed in the
middle of the deck, covered with sails and made fast with ropes.

And Edric was one of those items of
plunder. He was tied to the main mast with a thick hemp rope that fastened
around his ankle, with enough slack that he could move a pace, but no more.

The Vikings had made two raids since
Edric had become their captive. They had captured a great number of thralls -
men who had been free, like Edric, men who had lived peaceful lives as fishermen
and farmers, until the Vikings raided them.

But those men had been sold at the Rouen
slave market, herded off the ship and driven like cattle, and Edric was still
here.

He had prayed that he would not be sold.
And yet, was his current uncertain fate so much better?

He did not know what Thorvald, the Viking
leader, intended for him. Once or twice, as the huge Viking walked past him,
Edric thought he saw a possessive look in his eyes. As if he wanted to keep
Edric for his own. But maybe that was wishful thinking

All he knew was that he had been kept
tied to the mast, and now they were taking him home with them, home to the cold
lands of the Norsemen, along with all the gold and treasure the Vikings had
captured in their raids.

Edric found it more and more difficult to
remember that he was a man, with a name, a history.

To the Vikings, he was nothing at all. A
slave, a thrall, just another piece of treasure to despoil.

When Edric first came on board, after
trying to ram the Viking ship with his little fishing boat, he quickly
succumbed to the might of the Vikings. He could not look away from Thorvald.
The giant Viking was like a man from ancient legend, and Edric felt the power
of him, his size, his muscles, his ice-blue eyes. He wanted him, even though
this man was his enemy.

Edric dared to offer to pleasure
Thorvald, in exchange for his freedom, but under pressure from his crew,
Thorvald amended that bargain. Edric ended up pleasuring not just Thorvald, but
half of the longboat’s crew, in exchange for being allowed to live out the rest
of that day.

Yet now, three weeks had passed by, and
still no one touched Edric since that first, fateful day.

After ripping his fisherman’s clothes
from him, the Vikings dressed him in a short, rough homespun shift that only
reached the tops of his thighs. The clothes of a thrall, a nameless slave. And
he wore the leather collar around his neck that Thorvald had placed there, to
mark him as a thrall for everyone to see.

The Vikings had raped everyone they came
across on their raids. It was no sin, to them; it was simple, lawful
retribution on a vanquished enemy. Or the wife of an enemy, or the son of an
enemy; they didn’t care.

Edric never saw any of it, but he heard
the bragging stories afterward, saw the smug grins on Viking faces as they came
back aboard, and the tears on the faces of the thralls being led toward the
ship.

They were strong men with huge appetites,
and yet no one touched him. He was bound to the mast, fed twice a day, and left
to his own devices. It was puzzling, and - if Edric were to be utterly,
pitilessly honest with himself - more than a little disappointing.

It was an uncomfortable thought. But
these men, these incredibly tall, muscular, burly men...he was surrounded by them
all day, smelling their musky sweat, watching their muscles ripple as they
rowed. And whenever one of them brushed close to Edric, his pulse jumped.

He wanted them to touch him. Even though
they were his enemies, his captors. He wanted to feel their cocks in his mouth
again, pounding up his arse, driving into him.

Most of all, he wanted Thorvald to own
him. He wanted to serve him, on his knees, on his back, forever.

It was easy to see why Thorvald was the
leader. Not only did he own the ship, but he was also the biggest of all the
Vikings aboard, a giant of a man with massive shoulders, with long braids so
blond that they looked white. He was the very image of a conquering Viking, and
Edric was powerless to resist him.

Thorvald had more than the looks of a
leader; he was scrupulously fair, yet also possessed an air of complete
mastery. His orders were obeyed, even by this rowdy crew, even when they were
drunk. It was impossible not to feel that aura of complete command. Edric
certainly felt it. It raised chills all over his body whenever Thorvald looked
at him, or strode past him on his long legs.

Thorvald was quite close to him now, but
seemed to be ignoring him. He was bent over one of the rowers, who looked to be
having some difficulty recovering his breath. All the men were tired, after
days of rowing; there was very little wind, and the great sail over their heads
barely fluttered.

“Rest for a while, Leif,” Thorvald was
saying. “I’ll take your place.”

The men cheered as Thorvald sat down on
Leif’s bench and began to row with huge strokes of the long, narrow oar.

Leif stood bent over, breathing hard, his
face as red as his hair. He was not as wide-shouldered as most of the other
men, and he did not look like the long hours of rowing were agreeing with him.

Leif seemed to sense Edric’s eyes upon
him, for when he finally straightened up, he glared in Edric’s direction.

“Why don’t the thrall row with us,
Thorvald?” Leif asked in a hoarse voice, still breathing fast. “He’s no good to
us tied to the mast like a hog. Or are we planning to eat him like a hog?”

Some of the men laughed, and Edric
shuddered.

“Not enough meat on him,” someone called
out. “Fatten him up a bit first.”

Thorvald shook back his long white braids
and answered Leif seriously, ignoring the laughter. “Thrall’s got soft hands,
and he’s not used to rowing for days on end. He’s better where he is.”

“What, as an ornament? In that case,
let’s strip him and make him bend over,” Leif leered. “I wouldn’t mind another
look at that pink little arse.”

There was a sudden silence.

All over the ship, heads turned to Leif,
then towards Thorvald.

Edric watched Thorvald, all his attention
focused on the big man. He saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, just a bit; saw
the tiny frown of his blond eyebrows.

It might not be obvious to everyone, but
it was obvious to Edric, after weeks of being around these men, observing them.
Thorvald did not like what Leif was saying. Not at all. And yet he felt that
Leif’s complaint had some grounds, even though Leif was known to be a
troublemaker, and that it was just to let him speak.

Another man, a bear of a fellow named
Arik, broke the expectant silence. “It’s been three days of hard rowing,
Thorvald, and our raids are long behind us. Will you not share your bounty with
us, now that we have but one thrall left, and he the prettiest of them all?”

Thorvald stroked his white-blond braid
pensively, and did not answer. No one else spoke.

“We all know the thrall is yours,” Leif
said persuasively. “No one will touch him without your permission.”

Soundlessly, Edric exhaled. So that
possessive look of Thorvald’s was not just his imagination. Thorvald had
claimed him for his own, as a personal slave for himself and his household. A
warm glow settled in his belly at that realization, and he felt blood rush to
his cheeks.

“No one would dare claim him,” Leif was
saying. “But will you not lend him to us one more time? Would you not enjoy
seeing him on his knees, being used? Broken in a little more?”

The other men’s silence was now almost a
physical pressure. They were all looking at Thorvald, though some of them stole
glances at Edric, too.

Edric swallowed heavily, goose-pimples
rising on his bare arms and legs. He tried not to show his consternation.
Whatever Thorvald planned for him, he could only accept it. He had no rights,
no recourse as a thrall. But he was still alive, and he would survive this,
too.

Thorvald’s fierce eyes focused on Edric,
and every man on board held his breath. They all knew the look of Thorvald when
he was making a hard decision.

Edric stared back, not daring to speak.
He tried to communicate without words that he belonged to Thorvald, and
whatever Thorvald did was all right with him.

“Leif and Arik have spoken fair,”
Thorvald said, raising his voice so everyone could hear him clearly. “We have
been becalmed three days, and I will offer compensation for your hardships. In
another thousand strokes, we will bench the thrall, and each man may take his
fill.”

A huge cheer rang out, the men’s deep
voices deafening Edric, who stood there uncomprehending.
Bench the thrall?
What did that
mean
?

Leif grinned wide, showing gleaming
teeth. “I’ll be waiting, thrall,” he whispered. Staring at Edric, he slowly ran
his tongue over his teeth.

Edric shuddered, but did not look away.
He raised his chin defiantly.

The longboat was picking up speed, but
not from the wind. It was because the men were rowing harder now, cheering each
other on with loud cries.

The second shift began singing a rowing
song, something loud and rhythmic that Edric could not understand a word of,
but it had a driving cadence that spurred the rowers on even further. The oar
strokes were coming faster, yet still perfectly synchronized, each man’s oar
moving parallel to the next.

Edric waited for what was to come. He did
not even try to count the strokes of the long oars.

The sun was coming out from behind thick
cloud cover, and the air grew almost balmy. Many of the rowers threw off their
sheepskins or cloaks and shouldered out of their embroidered linen tunics,
baring their muscular shoulders to the sun. Edric watched them avidly, trying
not to be obvious about it.

Someone in the stern of the boat had
started to drum a beat on an empty beer barrel. The rowers kept time to the
beat, and the second shift changed their song’s cadence to match it. The entire
longboat seemed to rock to the driving rhythm.

Then at last Thorvald threw down his oar.
“A thousand strokes!” he cried, and the ship erupted in cheers.

The rowers left their benches, the
waiting second shift taking their places at the oars so smoothly that they did
not lose a single stroke, and the driving rhythm of the oars moving to the
drumbeat continued.

The exhausted rowers breathed hard,
wiping sweat from their foreheads, shaking out their trembling arms. They drank
long draughts of watered-down beer from a barrel that stood near the stern,
letting it trickle down their bare chests.

Thorvald strode forward. “Ogleif,” he
ordered, “Set up the bench.”

Ogleif stepped out of the cluster of
rowers. He was a burly man, broad-shouldered, and he seemed to be Thorvald’s
second-in-command.

He walked past where Edric stood tied to
the mast, and returned dragging a wooden bench. Not a rower’s sea-chest, but an
actual bench, with thick wooden legs and a heavily scarred surface.

With a grimace, Edric recognized it; the
Vikings used this bench as a butcher block, to slaughter captured hogs and
sheep for their meals. It bore the scars of axes and butcher knives, and it was
heavy enough that even Ogleif could not lift it by himself.

Ogleif dragged the bench in front of
Edric. Over his shoulder, he carried a large coil of hemp rope, which he put
down near the bench.

The other rowers were beginning to
recover from their toils. They crowded around the bench, watching every move
Ogleif made, muttering eagerly to each other.

“Untie him,” Ogleif said gruffly,
pointing at Edric. One of the rowers hurried to obey him, kneeling by Edric’s
feet to untie the rope from around his ankle.

Edric did not move, not even when the
rope fell away and he was free. There was no point in trying to escape; the
only place to go was overboard, and they were hours away from land. He could
not swim or even drift that long. And he had promised to himself that he would
live through this and prove himself to Thorvald; prove that Thorvald wasn’t
wrong in claiming him. The Vikings loved courage more than anything else,
though he did not know if that applied to captives.

“Raise your arms,” Ogleif ordered,
speaking to him for the first time, and Edric obeyed, raising his arms above
his head.

Strong hands tugged at his homespun
shift, dragging it over his head with rough efficiency, and then he stood
naked.

Someone whooped, and there was a general
air of intense interest as many eyes focused on Edric’s bare skin.

Ogleif motioned to the bench, grim-faced.
“Lie down.”

Edric swallowed as a sudden, horrific
thought flashed across his mind. Were they going to slaughter him, like Leif
had said? He had thought it a joke, but maybe it wasn’t. He hadn’t thought they
were running out of provisions, but -

“Are you deaf? Lie
down
,” Ogleif
growled. He grabbed Edric by the neck, pushing hard. “Down on your belly,
thrall.”

Edric obeyed, shaking. He knelt on the
deck, then laid himself down awkwardly on top of the bench, his arms dangling,
his bare stomach and chest pressed against the rough, scarred surface of the
bench. There was not enough room to rest his head, so he let his head dangle
down too, his neck aching. He felt very exposed like this, and utterly
helpless.