Lord of Raven's Peak (5 page)

She winced. He didn't know whether it was from pain in her back or from the reminder of what she owed him.

She looked at him straight on and said, “I must relieve myself.”

He said matter-of-factly, “You have seen the men relieve themselves. It is more difficult for you, a female, but nonetheless, you must do it. I will stand in front of you to give you some privacy. Do you wish to do it now?”

She nodded.

Once she was finished, he helped her sit down beside him. “That wasn't so very bad, was it?”

“It was bad,” she said, not looking at him. “It's always been bad. At first I couldn't bear it, it was more humiliation than I thought one could endure. Then I realized that all regarded it with indifference, save for those who enjoyed shaming the slaves. They enjoyed watching closely and laughing. When I became a boy it was all the more difficult.” She sighed, then grinned. “I became quite good at aping the boys. I would turn my back, position my arms just so, and all would think it a boy relieving himself. It was an act, of course, to lull any suspicions.”

“How long were you a female before you changed to a boy's garb?”

“Not long, it was too dangerous. I didn't wish to be ravished. Being a boy was safer.”

“Not in Kiev and to the south,” he said.

“Then I was lucky not to be in the south,” she said, and her voice was cool and he wondered if she were lying. He couldn't tell.

He said, “If ever I intend to humiliate you, it will not be in that fashion. I gave you what privacy I could. I could do no more for you.”

“I know.”

“How do you feel?”

She looked surprised, then said, “Much better.”

She squared her skinny shoulders, winced, and let them relax again. “Perhaps not all that ready to kill your enemies,” he said.

“No, not quite.”

She was different, from her red hair and white flesh to the natural arrogance in her that should have been beaten out of her a long time ago. “How old are you?”

“I am eighteen.”

“How old is Taby?”

“He is nearly six now.”

“How long were both of you slaves?”

“Nearly two years—nay, I forget. It isn't important. There is no reason for you to know, no reason for you to be interested.”

“It matters not that you told me. Had it been longer than two years, you would probably be dead, at least Taby would. It is amazing that you managed to keep him alive for two years. He was naught but a baby. Where do you come from?”

She shook her head and said, “I am from a place much like the place you come from. It is a place I will return to, in my own time, when I am ready to return. And I meant it, Viking, I want to buy the three of us from you.” She drew a deep breath. “I will pay you for the clothes, I will pay you for what you paid for Taby, for—”

He wanted to cuff her. Instead he grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him. “My name is Merrik. You will use it. You will also learn to mind that tongue of yours. No wonder Thrasco beat you. How many other masters have flayed the hide off you for your insolence?”

She shook her head, looking at him straight in his eyes. “Only one, the first one. I kept quiet after that. But I did win, for she bought Taby as well.”

“And why has your learning failed you now? Do you believe me too soft to beat you?”

Her eyes shifted and she looked over his left shoulder, toward Cleve, who was holding Taby's hand, looking down at him and listening to him speak. “You aren't like the others,” she said. “You are not soft, but you are different. I don't fear you, at least I don't fear that you will beat me or Taby.”

“You should fear me only if you find obedience to me difficult.”

She shook away his words. “You are different, aren't you? You won't sell us or hurt us or give us to your friends? When I asked you before, you mocked me.”

“I will think about it. Perhaps one of those choices you named will suit me. I will eventually determine some gain the three of you will bring me, but I will have to think about it, perhaps discuss it with Oleg, whose hand you nearly chewed off. In any case, I must fatten you up first, for now no man would want to grind his body against a woman with more bones than soft flesh.”

She said matter-of-factly, “I have learned that men will grind themselves against any female who is not dead. I became a boy after I saw a man rape a girl. He cuffed her until there was blood streaming from her nose and mouth and then he tore off her clothes and raped her. I don't know if she lived. When he was finished with her, she was bloody everywhere. If I'd had a
knife I would have killed him. If you decide to sell me to a man who would do that, I would kill him.”

“Then perhaps you should consider more gentleness of word and manner toward me.” He supposed it pleased him that she didn't consider the possibility that he would rape her. But he could if he wished to, surely she knew that. Surely she knew he could do whatever he wished to her. On past trading voyages, he'd been given slave girls to pleasure him, thus making him more apt to spend his silver and trade his goods with the men providing the girls. Would she believe he had raped the girls? They'd never fought him or cried out. He'd never raised his fist to any one of them. He'd never hurt any of them. Or had he? And hadn't he simply left that merchant's house in Kiev when he'd seen Thrasco plowing that girl? Aye, he'd left, disgusted with what he'd seen. Still, a female slave was for the use of her masters, wasn't she? He frowned, disliking the way of his thoughts. He dragged his hand through the fresh, cool water, wondering yet again why he had rescued these three from Kiev. Surely he had been struck by a madness, a strange sort of malady that would leave him soon enough. His hand fisted in the water, spewing a light rain upward to his chest and throat.

“Why did you stare at me at the slave market?”

H
E DIDN
'
T LOOK
at her, rather at the huge sail that was flapping wildly overhead. He held his hand up to dry and to feel the exact direction of the wind. He said with complete indifference, “Why do you think I would stare at you?”

“You did. I remember feeling that someone was staring at me and that's why I looked up. There you were, standing there as if you'd been frozen and you were looking hard at me.”

He shrugged. “It's true, no need to quibble about it. I don't know why. I simply saw you and I couldn't look away. Then you looked at me and I thought you defeated, utterly, then just as suddenly, your eyes held such anger, such bitterness, that still I couldn't look away from you. I didn't understand you. You intrigued me.”

She said nothing.

“Then there was Taby. That is truly odd. I have no particular liking for children. But these feelings for him went deeply within me the moment I saw him. I did not understand them then nor do I now, but I will keep Taby safe.”

“That is why you came to save me, then, isn't it? This feeling you have for Taby, you wanted only him but you
had to save me, too, in order to make him happy.”

“Aye, that's more the way of it than not, though you did interest me as well.”

“You will get over these odd feelings for my little brother. You're a man; men don't love children, not as women do. They are proud of them if they show prowess in something a man admires, but to have love for them, to give them attention, it's more a thing of words for men, not of action, as it is for women.”

“You appear to be knowledgeable beyond your years,” he said, sarcasm thick as he looked toward the shoreline and not at her. “Your words are perhaps true for the men in your country but I doubt it. Men are men. My father loves me and my brothers. His affection for us isn't to be questioned. He also cuffed us and praised us in equal amounts, and taught us endlessly when we were boys. As to my feelings for Taby, you have no idea what kind of man I am or what I will or will not feel for him in a year or in five years.”

“He is no kin to you. He doesn't carry your blood. I know this is important to men. You will easily forget Taby once you are home again. What will your wife think of a child you bring back to her?”

“I have no wife.”

“Men must have wives to have heirs. You will have a wife soon enough. You are still young, but not that young. Men must breed when they are young else their seed loses its potency. Aye, you will have a wife and then will you expect her to care for Taby? What if she were cruel to him? It isn't fair, Merrik. This is why you must let me buy him back from you, before you come to care nothing more for him, before your wife hurts him, before you come to sell him.”

“You spin better tales than a skald, and none of it has a footing in truth. Also, you will stop asking that
question. You have no silver, you have nothing to buy anything, much less three people.”

“I can get silver, a lot of it, more than a man like you could possibly trade for or ever steal.”

“Do I scent a ransom in your insult? Do you have rich parents, relatives? Is that the silver you speak of?”

“Perhaps.”

“
Perhaps
is a word for weasels. Truth slithers about on your agile tongue like a toad through swamp grass. If there is someone who would ransom you, tell me. I will consider it. At least I can send a man to this person and ask him if he still wants you back, if he still even remembers you or the child. Since he is a man, perhaps he will have forgotten you since he would have no particular love or affection for you.”

He could see her mind squirreling about madly, see the myriad shifting expressions on her face. He waited to see what she would say. He awaited lies. He was a bit surprised when she let out her breath in a gasp, saying, “I cannot tell you anything. There is someone, but I'm not certain. Perhaps that someone is no longer there. But, heed me, I buried silver long ago. Aye, that is it. I have a buried treasure.”

Ah, at last the lie, but not at first, no, that was truth of a sort. He raised an eyebrow. “For just this emergency?”

“You mock me, Viking. A man like you could never understand.”

“A man like me? I thought you said I was different.”

“You're still a Viking. You are a warrior even though you are a trader as well, and you kill without hesitation, if killing would gain you something you want. I accept the manner of man you are. I know more of your practices than you could imagine. Also, during the past two years I have learned to recognize the way of things. I
have learned that if you don't at least pretend acceptance, you will rot in a ditch quickly enough or be beaten to death.”

“So you do have people who would ransom you if you could but get a message to them, people who would want you back.” He stared thoughtfully at his feet, big feet, as brown and strong as his hands. He leaned down and scratched his toe. None of the men, she'd noticed, wore boots or shoes whilst in the longboat. All their belongings and clothes were in the chests upon which they sat. He said slowly, not looking up at her, “This is curious. You don't wish to tell me anything because you're afraid any message I sent would reach the wrong people.” He looked up then to see her face whiten, if such a thing were possible. Perhaps getting her to tell him the truth would present something of a challenge, but if he guessed the truth, it was as apparent as a maiden's blush in her expression.

He said nothing more, merely leaned over to speak to Old Firren. It was a long time before he spoke to her again, and when he did, it made her start, so deep and strangled was she into her own thoughts.

“Your name—Laren—it is odd. Where do you come from?”

She was wary now, very wary, and said only, “Far away from Kiev.”

“But not that far away from Norway? From England? From Ireland?”

“It is not of concern to you.”

He chose to let the arrogance of her amuse him. It was either that or wring her neck. “Your eyes have more gray than blue in this bright light.”

“Not all that common a color in my land, is that what you want to know? It is common enough. As for your eyes, Merrik, the blue is like the clear summer sky
overhead, too clear and pure to be guileless. Aye, they could hide deceit in their depths, they could lie cleanly to the one looking at you. Your eyes are just like those of every other man from your country. Just look at Oleg yon. His eyes are darker, but nonetheless, enough the same.”

“Roran has black eyes.”

“The man with one ear? He looks like an Arab. Surely he is not a Viking.”

An Arab, he thought. Where had she come from before she'd reached Kiev? Miklagard? The Caliphate? Perhaps as far away as Bulgar?

“Surely he isn't one of your countrymen.”

“He's from the Danelaw, near to York. His mother is a Saxon, but his father a Viking merchant.”

She nodded.

She knows the Danelaw, then, he thought, or at least she has heard of it.

Oleg called out, “Merrik, Eller smells something.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Eller's nose is magical. Sit still beside me, for we must get into the center of the river quickly.”

“I don't see anyone on shore. No one, nothing.”

“It doesn't matter. Once I ignored Eller's nose to my great cost. Never again. Be quiet and keep your head down.”

The men were silent now, once again concentrating all their energy on getting the longboat back into the strong current and moving swiftly away from the scent that reached Eller's nose. The wind picked up as they reached the middle of the river and they tightened the huge wadmal sail, its squares of black, green, and gold vivid in the afternoon sun. Four men held the lines, making them taut when they sailed too close into the
wind, and slacking off when the sail flapped too wildly away from the wind.

She looked back and saw men now lining the shore, waving spears and rocks at them, yelling. They didn't look friendly. Still, how could they have harmed the Viking longboat?

She leaned back her head and breathed in the clean air. She felt he was toying with her, and doubtless he was, but she wouldn't tell him more, she couldn't afford to. He was too close to the truth and she was too afraid. No, what would happen in the future would be what she would make happen. She would be responsible, she alone. Still, as she felt the river breeze cool her forehead and make her eyelids droop, she knew again something of the taste of freedom. Perhaps, at last, she was free. Both she and Taby.

She looked at her little brother, sitting on Cleve's knee, pressed against his chest. She looked at the hideous scar on Cleve's face and wondered what vicious mistress had ordered this done to him and why. What offense could warrant this? Ah, but without the scar, he would be a handsome man, with his thick golden hair and bronze flesh. And his smile was full and laughing, his teeth as straight and white as the Viking's.

She frowned and looked at Merrik's back. The wind had slackened and the men were rowing again. He was big and obviously he was very strong. He was bare to his waist, his tunic lying over his legs, his flesh deeply tanned, and the muscles in his back and arms worked with the strength of youth and health, deep firm muscles that glistened with sweat beneath the sun. She'd seen many men in the past two years—men old enough to die, men too young for the power they held, men who were broken in their spirits and bodies, men who were
so fat like Thrasco they wheezed just getting a spoon to their mouths.

This Merrik was a beautiful man, she would give him that. His body was splendid in its vigor and shape, his very leanness purifying the lines of him. His face was well looking, strong in its features, his jaw showing his boldness and determination. He could be as stubborn as a pig, she didn't doubt that, not a bad thing if one wanted to survive.

But he was a Viking, like all other Vikings, and she didn't know the sort of man Norway bred. She'd told him he was different and so he was. She'd never met a man like him, but that didn't mean she could trust him. That was something the past two years had taught her well. She'd quickly come to know perfidy and treachery and the smell of lies. Her nose was as good as Eller's when it came to recognizing the cruelty and selfishness of people, and thus she now well understood the need for caution. Trust was something for fools. She was no longer a fool.

Ah, but he had saved her and Taby and Cleve. But he wouldn't say what it was he intended to do with them.

He was a trader before he was a warrior. He now had three human beings to trade. Surely he didn't intend to keep them for himself, and if he did, what would that mean? His reasons for saving her and Taby sounded true to her, but still she couldn't credit it—just this look at Taby and he'd been compelled to save both of them? Men didn't behave like that. Vikings would impale a child on their swords before they'd consider saving them, being burdened with them.

She was shaking her head even as she watched him quit the oars, rise and stretch, and walk back to where she sat, the crooked cloth-covered wooden bowl on her
head. He was wearing only a loincloth, and it rode low on his lean belly. The hair on his chest and belly was golden, crisp, and thick. She looked away from him. He was too big, too intimidating.

He sat down beside her as he pulled his tunic over his head and she smelled his sweat and the scent of him that was dark and pleasant. He said something to Old Firren, who just spat into the river, and then turned to her. He just looked at her for a very long time, at the exhaustion that still blurred her eyes, lining them beneath with faint purple shadows. He said nothing, just patted his thighs.

She fell asleep with her face on his thigh, her hands pillowed beneath her cheek. Merrik moved slightly to give her more protection from the afternoon sun.

 

They pulled the longboat out of the river at dusk. There were many marks and blurred footprints on the ground from other boats that had left the river at this point, for it was the shortest land route to the river Dvina. It would take them nearly four days to reach the river Dvina, longer if it rained, untold nightmare days if it rained heavily. It was backbreaking work and there was always danger from tribes who hid between the two mighty rivers, waiting for unwary traders to come along.

Merrik didn't use rollers for the simple reason that the longboat wasn't large enough to carry the rollers and trade goods and men, not without making any voyage more miserable than need be. No, they used brute strength. They were young. They had a lot of it.

The first time Merrik had voyaged to Kiev, he'd made it a point to search out a tribe during the portage and to kill every man he captured. He didn't kill any of the women or children nor did he take them as slaves,
though he could have made something of a profit in Kiev. No, he let them remain in their village and he made certain that all the women and children knew his name before he and his men were on their way again. He showed them all the silver raven carved in rich walnut that stood high on the prow. No other longboat, he told them several times, had this same figurehead. He hoped this would gain him a reputation and cause other tribes to stay away from him. On a trading voyage the last thing he wanted was to lose any men.