Our captors untied us from the mast and marched us from the beach up a trail that wound through stalls, huddles of traders, and lounging warriors drinking near their tents. It was a bewildering place and for a moment I was lost in my fascination, for there were things there I had never seen before. Men with dark hair and dark skin dressed in foreign garb haggling with Northmen in a language I did not understand. Pots filled with colorful powders that I would later learn were spices from the south. Furs of more shapes, sizes, and colors than I thought imaginable. Weapons and shields and armor and axe-heads and tools and jewelry and pottery and even raw iron on sale. This last item, the iron, caught my eye not for the bars that lay on a mat outside a stall, but for the man who sold them — a man with rough-hewn features who stopped his haggling long enough to make me uneasy with his staring. And that is when I understood. In the midst of all of these strange sights and smells and sounds, we were just another item to be sold.
That horrid fact became even more clear as we left the stalls and trudged over a small rise behind the market. On the opposite side of that rise lay a field of tall grass and fetid pools in the midst of which sat two large wooden cages with mud for floors. Females stood in one cage. Males stood in the other. Crows called from a nearby tree. Rats scurried between the cages and around the feet of those within, seeking food where there was none to have. As we arrived, the captured thralls crowded the cage walls, begging for food scraps with outstretched arms from our escorts but receiving only curses or a wad of spit in the face for their troubles.
Our captors cast us into our pens, and I stared at those within mine: a young man and three small boys. All were wide-eyed creatures with mud-caked hair and a layer of dirt for skin. All wore ripped and soiled clothes. Two of the boys were shoeless. Another boy was there, but he ignored us, choosing instead to focus on the oozing mud that he dug with his hands. He found a writhing worm, which he held up victoriously for us to see before plopping it into his mouth. He smiled even as he spit tiny globs of mud on the ground from the carcass that writhed between his teeth. I grimaced, thinking then that I had reached the living version of the underworld called Hel.
Olaf appeared unbothered by the disheveled group. “I am Olaf,” said my friend. “Who are you?”
The young man cocked his head.
Olaf tapped his chest. “Olaf.” He then pointed to the man.
Understanding, the young man tapped his chest in reply. “Herkus.”
“Herkus,” Olaf repeated and nodded. He then pointed to me. “Torgil.”
The man repeated my name, then pointed to the children. He shrugged his shoulder as if to say he did not know their names. Olaf introduced himself to all of them, but I did not. We would soon be sold or dead, so to me, knowing their names was a useless distraction. Instead, I turned away and gazed at the women. Their conditions were no better than ours and, in one way, far worse. For no sooner had we settled in our cages than the leader of the Estlanders, whose name we learned was Klerkon, appeared and entered the female cage. The women cowered before him. All, that is, save Astrid, who stood before him as if to say that he might have captured her but he had not broken her.
I admired her courage, but in the end, it was folly. He grabbed her by her wrist and tried to pull her from the pen. She punched him in his wounded shoulder, and he roared his fury, backhanding her so hard that she slammed against the wall of the cage and collapsed, unconscious. The big man then lifted her onto his shoulder, closed the pen, and walked away.
“Bastard!” Olaf yelled after him. “I will kill you!”
There was a hiss behind us and we turned. Herkus had his index finger to his lips, urging Olaf to silence. Do not yell at them, he seemed to be saying.
Olaf scowled and turned back to the sight of his mother being carried away. I spat at Herkus and his weakness. The man took no offense. Instead, he smiled, his eyes telling me that I too would learn. Beside him, the other boys merely stared at us or let their gaze travel to the departing figure of Klerkon and the woman bobbing on his shoulder. Their indifference sickened me.
Later that night, Klerkon's men returned, pulling an unconscious Astrid between them. In the torchlight that illuminated our cages, I barely recognized the former queen. Her eyes were mere slits in the purple mass of bruises and welts that was her face. Blood trickled from a wound in her head and her lip. Her legs were too weak to support her, and so she collapsed into the mud when they threw her into her cage. Turid rushed to her side as Olaf kicked the wood slats of our pen, yelling at the men with curses and obscenities I had never heard before heard him utter. The Estlanders called to Olaf, mocking him as they staggered away into the night. I could do nothing but smolder in silence at my helplessness.
For two days we rotted in those cages. The Estlanders fed us some sour gruel in the morning — which Olaf and I refused to eat and our cellmates devoured — and nothing else. If it pleased them, they came for the women in the afternoon, pulling a different one each time. They left Astrid alone. I suppose she was too weak and battered for them now. Turid, too, remained unscathed, though I am not sure why. Mayhap it was her young age. Or mayhap, her slenderness did not appeal to them.
I slept little, for anger consumed my thoughts and I could think of nothing but escape and revenge. Of how I might find Klerkon and avenge my father. Of how I might find Holger and destroy him. Olaf paced, his eyes flitting from the female cage where his mother recovered to his feet and back again. Herkus tried to make conversation, but neither of us would speak with him. The worm eater tried to share some of his catches with us. I stared at him as if he were sick in the head and hoped that I would never lower myself to his mud-hunting level. Looking back, I know now that it was pride holding me back and that, between us, the worm eater was probably far smarter than me. Of all of us, he was the only one staying somewhat nourished. The rest of us were slowly starving.
On the third day, the Estlanders came to our cages, bound us, and led us like sheep to the marketplace, where a small group of men had gathered. Klerkon stood before them, speaking in his tongue, pointing to us. The men raked their eyes over us as we appeared, then turned back to Klerkon.
“Stand straight,” Astrid slurred to Olaf. She stood two places behind Olaf, with me between, all of us tied together by the rope at our waists. Ropes bound our wrists, too. “You are a king's son and an heir to the High Seat of the North. Remember that.”
“I was a king's son,” Olaf hissed back at her.
“You are a king's son still and always. Trygvi's blood runs in your veins. Do not forget that. Do not lose hope. We are to be sold now and it is unlikely that you and I will be sold together. It is more likely that I will never see you again. No matter what, Olaf, you must never forget who you are or from whence you came. You must survive and avenge us.”
“I will try, Mother,” he said, and I could tell he was trying to hold back his tears.
“You must, Olaf. Whatever the cost. And you will help him, Torgil.”
Here we were, bound for the blocks. We may as well have been standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to be kicked over its edge, yet Astrid was beseeching us not only to survive but to avenge the wrong done to us. It was ludicrous, yet I could not help but feel inspired by her hope and her mettle. “I will,” I said solemnly, though I am not sure I wholly believed it.
“Thank you, Torgil,” she responded, quieter now. I could not see her face and so I will never know, but it seemed like relief I heard in her voice. That all she wanted from her son — from someone. A glimmer of light in a world whose light was fading. I hoped then, as I hope now, that I gave it to her.
No sooner had she thanked me than the girl at the front of our line was untied and led to Klerkon's side. She could not have been much older than me — a girl on the verge of womanhood with an entire life before her — and I wondered from whence she had come. It mattered not to the men. To them, she was merchandise, a thing over which to barter. With a practiced hand, Klerkon untied her
wrists, lifted her arms, and pulled her muddy shift over her head so that she stood naked before the men. She tried to cover herself from the leering eyes that appraised her, but Klerkon pulled her arms back and held them firm so that her skinny, naked body stood there for the entire group to see. As the bidding started and her head fell in shame, I looked away.
One by one, Klerkon paraded us before the buyers. Like the females, we males were stripped. Klerkon held up our arms and made us tighten our muscles for everyone to see. My cheeks burned with the humiliation of it, but I could do nothing to stop it. I wanted to scream at the haggling men, but I knew to do so would only result in more misery, and so I bit my lip and focused my attention on the mud at my feet.
Every thrall sold that day. Astrid went to an older man who had come by boat to the market and did not seem to mind her battered face and bruised body. As she was led away, she glanced over at Olaf and mouthed the words be strong to him. He nodded back and wiped the tears from his cheeks with his bound hands. At that moment, I felt the weight of my father's words on me like a stone and knew not how to carry that shame. I had failed to keep my promise to him and Astrid's departure from us was living proof of that failure.
Herkus and several of the younger thralls, including Olaf, Turid, and me, sold to the man who had stared at us when we arrived: the iron merchant. As he appraised us, I was struck by his rich cape and fine boots and how neither could distract me from his short stature, his thick black hair, his wobbling girth, or the mallet-sized hands that protruded from his sleeves. Simply put, he was a walking contradiction, like the iron he sold. Crude in appearance yet notable. Thick, yet gelatinous. Powerful, yet soft.
“Swedish?” he asked me when he completed his appraisal.
“Norse,” I responded softly.
“You are kin to the man who killed my sons.” His statement took me by surprise.
“I do not know your sons.”
“They fought for Klerkon. They were his guards. On the ship, there was a man who killed many men before Klerkon killed him. This man was your kin?”
I knew not where this man was venturing with his questions, but it felt perilous nonetheless. Still, I would not disavow my father, whatever the consequences. “He was my father.”
The iron merchant stepped closer so that I could smell his wretched breath. “He was a lord?” he asked.
I do not know why, but I held my tongue. I suppose I thought that if I told him the truth, he would use it as leverage, though just how he might use that leverage was beyond me.
“You will answer,” said the man, his fleshy cheeks flushing with his command.
We held each other's eyes for a long time before he finally grinned and patted my cheek. “Smart boy,” he said. “Still, I plan to repay you for your father's sword work, for he took my sons from me. Do not worry — I will not kill you. I need you. That is why I purchased you.” He turned his back to me and walked several paces away, then turned back again. “Come. Stand here.”
I stepped to the spot he indicated and stood there, waiting. Inside, my stomach twisted as my mind conjured one possibility after another. Sensing something was amiss, other merchants and warriors began to gather about us. I glanced at them and as I did, the iron merchant struck.
His first blow hammered my cheek. Bright lights shot across my vision as my head jerked to the right. I do not remember falling to the ground, but that is where I found myself when my head finally stopped spinning. I pushed myself to my knees and tried to rise. The second blow came, this one on my other cheek. I spun and landed hard on my shoulder. A third strike came from a shoe as it connected with my nose, breaking it with a loud crack. I felt the warmth of blood gushing over my lips, and still I tried to rise. A fourth blow slammed into my ribs — another foot — and I felt rather than heard a snap where the foot connected. I gasped and rolled onto my back, and for a long, panicked moment, I sucked desperately at the air, trying to breathe.
The air returned just as rough hands pulled me to my feet and held me there. I tried to lift my head to see what was to come. Somewhere a shriek, then a fist connecting with my stomach. I tried to double over but the hands held me firm. A shoe connected with my groin, and I felt I would vomit from the pain of it. The hands released me then and I doubled over. As I did, something collided with my chin. For a moment, I was light. Weightless. And then I landed hard on my back and what little air I had in my chest shot from me again.
I had lost count of the blows now. My reality was a fog of pain that seemed to envelop my entire body. I must have tried to rise again because another fist crashed into my face. There was no pain this time — only a flash of light, then nothing.
Chapter 19
I remember little of the ensuing days save for sweat and shivers. Someone kept a blanket over me that I cast aside as soon as the fever in my body rose. My dreams were frantic and filled equally with visions of pleasure and pain. Of welcome times spent in my father's hall. Of laughter with friends. But also of fire and bloodshed and chaotic fear from which there was no escape. Often, I would lurch from sleep to wakefulness to find someone by my side, shushing me back to my dreams with a gentle stroke on my brow or a drip of water on my tongue or a calming hand on my shoulder. Days and nights blended together like stew in a pot, swirling ceaselessly. I lost track of time and knew only the pain and heat that held me in its grip.
Until one morning when I suddenly woke.
I wish I had not, so great was my agony. My entire body throbbed. Through the slits of my swollen eyes, my vision swam, as if I were on the deck of a ship in a rough sea. I could make little sense of my surroundings — it seemed just varying shades of darkness. There was someone by my side, though I knew not who. There were other voices too — whispers, really — but I knew not whether my mind had manufactured those or whether they truly existed.
“Do not move,” came a voice I recognized as Turid's. “You are still badly hurt. We set your nose, but your other ailments are internal. You must remain still.”
Of course, I turned my head to the voice and nearly shouted with the explosion of pain in my head and ribs. A wave of nausea rolled over me, and I moved my head back to a spot where the throbbing settled somewhat.
“I told you not to move,” she scolded me. She lifted my head gently and brought a cup to my lips. I sipped at the water within, then coughed painfully as the cold liquid slid down my dry throat a bit too quickly.
Her hand came to my forehead, and I knew then that it was Turid who had been by my side all along. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” The silence stretched until I could bear it no longer. “It was you, was it not?”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“It was you by my side. Here,” I said, though I knew not where “here” was.
“Aye,” she whispered.
“Where am I?”
“The thrall quarters in the home of our new master,” she whispered. “A pit-house.” She made no attempt to conceal her displeasure. A pit-house was a shelter partially dug into the ground. It was normally used to store things. In this case, it was us being stored.
I cast aside that sorry thought and latched onto the next. “New master?”
“Aye. The man who beat you. His name is Heres.”
“Heres,” I repeated, though my muddled memory could not conjure a picture of him. “Has he other thralls besides you and me?”
She looked at me strangely. “You do not remember?”
“No,” I admitted. “Is Olaf with us?”
“Aye. We came with several others besides.”
I lay silently, trying not to agitate my ailments as my eyes adjusted to my murky surroundings. Around me were stone walls through which sunlight snuck, catching dust mites in its rays. Above me were decrepit wooden beams supporting a roof of old thatch, all held aloft by posts. My head lay on a pillow of straw that poked my scalp. I sensed movement and guessed that there were others
in the hall as well.
“Tell me more of Heres,” I asked.
“He is a property owner who smelts iron that he sells in the market,” she said. “We dig the iron from the nearby bog and he and his men smelt it down. He is married to a woman named Rekon and has one son named Reas who helps him make his iron. His other two sons died fighting us.”
“Iron,” I repeated.
“Aye. All day long we search the bogs for it. It is hard work.”
So that was to be our fate, helping our master find bog iron. I knew little of the work or the process of creating it but imagined it would not be easy work. Not like weeding a field or building a bed. “Tell me more of Heres. What sort of man is he?”
She bent closer to my head. “He is a cruel man, Torgil. A man not to be crossed. He and his men beat us for the meagerest infraction.”
I shifted the subject before my bitterness took hold of me. “Where is Olaf?”
“He is here. Asleep. All the new thralls are sleeping. They are not yet used to the work. I sense that Heres is eager for you to heal so that you can also help. They have tasked me with seeing to it. I suppose I will be working in the bogs with you when you are better. Here. I have made some pea soup,” she said, grabbing something by her side and holding a spoon to my lips.
I slurped from the spoon and swallowed. Its warmth coated my throat and soothed my hollow gut. “I have never had soup so good,” I said, and it was not a lie.
Turid's cheeks lifted with her small grin. I smiled despite the pain in my head, for I had not seen a smile on her face since we had lived in Haakon the Old's home. It felt like ages ago. She shifted her eyes to the bowl in her hands and slipped the spoon into my mouth again. I swallowed dutifully, luxuriating in the earthy taste and the warmth in my stomach.
After several more spoonsful, she set the bowl aside and gently brushed my forehead once again. “You must not eat too much. It will upset your stomach. Rest now, Torgil. I will be back soon.”
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