When he tugged off his leather helm, a shock of raven hair fell to the man’s shoulders, a sharp contrast to his pale Nordic skin. He pulled a horn-handled knife from the sheath at his waist and placed it in Magnus’s hand, wrapping the cooling fingers around the hilt.
“Here, friend, a gift to help you after,” he said softly. “Drain a horn for me in the Hall of the Slain.” Then he strode to the neighboring house, already ablaze, and plucked out a firebrand. The raider tossed it into the open stable door and waited for a few moments to be sure the flames caught.
Ketil dissolved into sobs again and Rika stooped to comfort him. She felt numb and heavy, as though the air she moved through was thick as water.
“It can’t be real,” Ketil insisted. “I would’ve dreamed it if it were real. I’d tell Father and we’d go away.”
A furrow appeared between the man’s dark brows. “What’s the matter with him?” He narrowed his eyes at Ketil. “Is he soft-headed?”
“It’s better than being hard-hearted.” Heat rose in Rika's cheeks. Anger, ja. That was something she could let herself feel.
“Can he work?”
“He’s strong, if that’s what you mean.” She fisted her hands at her waist. “If someone shows him what to do, he’ll work the likes of you down to the ground.”
“Good,” the raider said. “We’ve no room for useless eaters. Come then, both of you.”
“We’re not going anywhere with you.” She crossed her arms over her chest, determined to stand her ground, however shaky she felt inside. “We are a troupe of skalds, lately come from the King of the Danes and are not subject to capture. We’ve only been here in Hordaland for a week.”
“Then it’s too bad you left the Danes. Maybe you are what you say, but I only have your word for that, don’t I?” The man’s face hardened like an oak in winter. “Whatever you were before, you are now thralls. You belong to the Jarl of Sogna.”
“And I suppose you are the jarl,” she sneered.
“No, that would be my brother, Gunnar Haraldsson.” One corner of his mouth jinked up in a grim half-smile. “I’m Bjorn the Black. The second son.”
He raised the tip of his sword toward Rika and Ketil, motioning for them to march to the quay. Bjorn’s eyes glinted at her, unfathomable as obsidian and just as hard.
“We’re done talking, little she-wolf. You’ll walk willingly or I’ll drag you, but either way, you're coming with me.”
Blood pounded behind her eyes. Rika grabbed Ketil’s hand and led him toward the waiting longships. She nearly retched at the scent of searing flesh in the smoke-filled air, but she strode with her head high. The daughter of Magnus Silver-Throat would not show weakness before this blood-soaked raider.
For the first time in her life, Rika wished that she’d been born a man. So she could kill Bjorn the Black.
“I suppose you call yourself a hero and imagine a saga will be composed about your exploits. All you are is a murderer and a thief,” Rika railed at Bjorn, hoping to shame him.
She knew baiting the man was foolhardy, but only her focused hatred of Bjorn the Black kept her on her feet. She couldn’t be silent. Words had always been her only weapon. White-hot rage boiled out of her, whether it was wise or not.
“Are there no more monasteries on the Isle of the Angles?” Her voice bordered on shrill. "No more fat Frankish towns for you to plunder that you must stoop to murder of your own kind?”
“If I were a murderer, your big friend here would be joining Magnus on his pyre,” Bjorn said with icy calm. “I’ve done no murder. I did what had to be done. I lift my hand only against those who oppose me. And as for being a thief, it’s no theft to take back your own.”
When they reached the ship, Bjorn turned to face the smoldering village. The survivors huddled in miserable clumps.
“People of Hordaland! We’ve fallen upon you because of your raid on Sognefjord last month.” His deep voice reverberated on the mountainside. “The Jarl of Sogna has a long arm. In his name, we’ve taken back the livestock that was stolen and punished the guilty. Don’t make the mistake of trying us again. The men of Sogna will not stand for it.”
Bjorn thrust his sword into its scabbard and bound a sniffling Ketil’s hands together with a leather strap. When he turned to tie Rika, she jerked away from him.
“Fine sentiments, Bjorn the Black.” She fired the words at him like arrows. “And what of the innocents you punished with the guilty?”
“I advise you to give me your hands, girl.” He met her frosty stare with one of his own. “And see you give me no further cause to bind your mouth as well.”
Rika clamped her lips together, giving him no excuse to gag her. She submitted to the leather strap Bjorn knotted around her wrists, glowering at him when he pulled it tight. Then Rika climbed into the swaying longship and hunkered near the prow. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and that dark-eyed fiend.
His crew bent to the work and hauled away. Once the vessel was far enough from land, they shipped the oars, locked the mast into place and hoisted the big square sail. A stiff breeze filled the woolen cloth and the ship came alive, lifting in the water despite its full load. The keel of the dragonship sliced through the gray swells, the waves dividing like the wings of an eagle on each side of the craft. It rode lightly on the sea, as though at any moment it might rise and take flight.
Rika had always loved sailing with Ketil and Magnus in their little coracle, the sharp scent of the sea and the cries of gulls wheeling overhead. Her whole life had been one long voyage, interspersed with pleasurable stays as welcome guests. At Magnus’s side, she was greeted with something akin to awe. The old skald’s mantle was broad, easily covering his little family of foundlings. Even the lack-witted Ketil was sheltered under its protection.
Now that part of her life was at an end. In the prow of the dragonship where the sea spray would obscure them, she wept silent tears for the only father she’d ever known.
A few tears fell on her own behalf as well. Rika had tumbled from the high status position of the old skald’s daughter to the hopeless condition of a thrall. She was now the property of some faceless jarl and might expect even worse treatment than the captured livestock.
Ketil curled up beside her to sleep, as he often did in a rolling ship. His pale eyelashes quivered against his ruddy cheeks. Rika’s chest tightened. Ketil was so big and strong, though he had but a child’s heart and mind, easily hurt and confused. How could she hope to protect him in their new and bewildering circumstances? She had no idea, but she knew she must try. Right alongside her father’s tutelage in the lore and legends of the Norse people, Magnus had taught her loyalty.
Oh, Father! Why had she argued with him that morning? And over so trivial a thing. Magnus had insisted she try harder to memorize the Havamal, the sayings of Odin. The sagas of heroes were more to her taste than the homilies of the One-Eyed All-Father. Now she’d happily learn a thousand of them if she could only take back her harsh words.
A prickle started at the nape of her neck and tingled down her spine. She turned to seek the source of her unease. At the far end of the dragonship, Bjorn the Black stared at her from his seat at the steering oar. She’d felt his eyes, hot and intrusive on her skin. They were darker than a bog and more menacing. She was forced to look away.
Rika was usually good at reading people. As a performer, she had to be. She’d seen desire in men’s eyes before, but this was different. She couldn’t decipher the meaning of his intense gaze. The dead stare of Bjorn the Black was more like the look of a wolf stalking a hapless kid who’d strayed too far from the rest of the flock. In spite of the sun on her shoulders, she shivered.
Surely someone in the settlement where they were bound would’ve heard Magnus perform. Perhaps they might also recognize her and Ketil. This whole misunderstanding could be laid to rest. She shot a glance from under her lashes at Bjorn, who now strained to keep his ship out of the pounding surf. Perhaps she’d even be able to charge him with murder before the Lawspeaker and demand a wergild for the life of her father. Someone must be held accountable for the death of so great a personage as Magnus, and Bjorn was clearly in charge of this murderous raid. With any luck, she’d even see the blackguard banished.
She swiped away her tears. Her lips flattened into a hard line, along with her resolve. Her dream of being recognized as a skald in her own right suddenly seemed a small matter indeed. But seeing justice done to the man responsible for her father’s death was the best reason she could think of to keep breathing.
The setting sun slid beyond the curve of the water. Before the brief twilight deepened into the short Scandinavian spring night, Bjorn ordered the flotilla to pull up as close to the land as the sailors dared. The cliffs were too steep to beach the armada for the night.
Bjorn grappled with the heavy anchor stone and heaved it overboard. “Break out the nattmal, Jorand,” he said to the flaxen-haired youngest man on board.
As Jorand passed out the spartan meal of flat barley bread, dried fish and wrinkled cloudberries, Bjorn stepped around the crew to check on his captives.
“Hold up your hands and I’ll free you to eat,” he said to Rika.
Scowling, she lifted her hands to him, but said nothing. “What? No cutting remarks?” Bjorn cocked his head at her. “Out of insults already, I see. You must not be much of a skald after all.” He ignored Rika’s uplifted wrists and freed Ketil’s hands instead.
“Anything I might say would stir your wrath, Bjorn the Hero, vanquisher of defenseless women and unarmed old men.” Rika’s tone was smooth as butter, making her words all the more biting. “However, if it pleases the great jarl’s brother, I’ll compose a saga about his restoration of livestock to be remembered for the ages. You’ll be known as Bjorn the Boar-bringer, savior of lost pigs everywhere.”
When a couple of his crew chuckled, he silenced them with a frown.
She slid her gaze toward the sailors, who had erased the grins from their faces. “Ah! I see it is not only bound captives who must be careful with their mouths around you."
“Seems you’re giving no heed to yours, girl.” Bjorn knelt beside her and lowered his voice. “I don’t know why I should bother explaining it to you, but this was a matter of honor. What a man has, he must hold. If he won’t protect what’s his, he deserves to lose it. We couldn’t let the raid on our farmsteads stand. More would be lost than livestock the next time.”
“Ja,” she answered, dry-eyed and staring, the image of her father face down in the straw swimming before her. "More was definitely lost."
Bjorn seemed to see the same grotesque vision. “It’s a sad day that sees Magnus Silver-Throat dead, if that’s indeed who he was. But you know as well as I that it’s something that couldn't be undone. We all wear our fates around our necks like you wear that little hammer.”