She Wolf

by Dan Smith

  ‘We saw your fire.’ The three-fingered man finished her sentence. ‘You made things easy for us in the end.’ He fixed Ylva with his ice-blue eyes.

  Ylva ignored him and glanced around for something to use as a weapon, but there wasn’t much in the stable other than straw. The only useful things were Bron’s bow leaning against the door, and her own axe lying across the three-fingered man’s lap. But even if she were fast enough to take them – which she wasn’t – she’d never manage it while tied like an animal.

  She would find a way to survive, though, she was determined. The rope would not be around her neck for long.

  The three-fingered man put his hand back on the axe, and while the woman finished settling her own horse and started on his, he drummed the two fingers of his right hand on the broadest part of the axe blade. His nails tapped the iron as he studied Ylva.

  Ting-ting. Ting-ting . . . He stopped. ‘Who are you? From the way you talk, I’d say you’re a Dane, but what are you doing with this boy? Are you a slave?’

  ‘I’m not a slave. My father is a jarl from Jorvik. He’s a berserker with an army of a hundred men, so you should let me go now or—’

  ‘You’re a bad liar.’ The woman came to stand beside the three-fingered man. ‘And you are a slave. Those marks on your neck are from a collar. Who do you belong to?’

  ‘I’m not a slave.’ Ylva stared at her, unable to hide her hatred. The last time Ylva had seen this woman, she was putting Mother’s locket around her neck. And now Ylva could see the locket again, hanging against the woman’s tunic; the same locket she had stolen from Mother’s body.

  In that moment, Ylva’s need for revenge was like a fist of ice crushing her heart. She had never felt anything like it – not even when she had found Mother lying dead in the trader’s hut – and she wanted to leap at the woman like a wild animal, to tear the locket from her, and make her pay for what she had done. She wanted to—

  Stay calm.

  The voice echoed in her head and, just when she needed him, Geri was there, sitting by the door with his ears pricked up and his nose in her direction.

  Stay calm and survive. Don’t let them know who you are.

  She dug her nails harder into her skin and bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself thinking straight. Geri was right; she had to be calm. She had to survive. ‘If you do anything to hurt me, my father will find you and kill you.’ Her teeth were clamped together so tight that her mouth barely moved.

  ‘Like you want to kill me?’ the three-fingered man asked. ‘I heard you say that outside. Why do you want to kill me?’

  The words were in her mouth, but Ylva stopped herself from saying them. If she told him about Mother and Geri, about her revenge, he might kill her right now where she sat. The three-fingered man was a Dane – a Viking – he would understand the importance of revenge. He would know what it meant to Ylva, and how far she would go to get it.

  When she said nothing, the three-fingered man narrowed his eyes. ‘Tell me then – if you’re not a slave, what are you doing with this boy?’ He nodded his head at Bron.

  ‘He helped me. Your men in the forest were going to kill me.’

  The three-fingered man leant forward. ‘You’re talking about Halvor and his brothers? You think they were going to kill you?’ He widened his eyes and tilted his head. ‘And then I suppose they were going to eat you? Arvid would have liked that. Did you see his teeth?’ He opened his mouth and ran the tip of his tongue over his own teeth. ‘He said all those sharp points were perfect for gnawing on the bones of small children.’ He snapped his jaws at Ylva, making her recoil in horror.

  The three-fingered man smiled and shook his head at her. ‘Vikings don’t eat children – you’re too valuable. Selling you is much better than eating you.’

  ‘We might even sell him instead of just killing him.’ The flame-haired woman pointed at Bron. ‘It might make up for all the silver we’ve lost and the time we’ve wasted. We’ve been hunting them for weeks.’

  ‘Weeks?’ Ylva tried to make sense of that. The three-fingered man had been hunting them for weeks? She let it sink in as she realized what it meant.

  You were wrong, Geri said. The half-skulls weren’t hunting you. They were hunting Cathryn and Bron. They had been hunting them long before we even arrived at the trader’s hut.

  Ylva looked up at the three-fingered man. ‘You were already hunting them? Before they killed those men at the camp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they stole from me.’ The three-fingered man spat the words at Ylva. ‘They stole my slaves.’

  ‘Your slaves?’ It was almost too much for Ylva to think about.

  ‘One last raid outside Jorvik and we would have had enough.’ The woman glared at Bron. ‘But he and that woman stole them.’

  ‘Your slaves?’ Ylva said again. Everything was upside down and muddled in her head, and she couldn’t quite grasp it. ‘I don’t . . . Why would they steal your slaves?’

  ‘To sell, of course. What else would they do with them? They’re slavers, like me. They probably planned to sell you too.’

  40

  Murderous Thieves

  Ylva didn’t know what to think any more. Could she really have been so wrong about Cathryn?

  It can’t be true. I don’t believe it.

  Ylva looked into the shadow at the corner of the stable and saw Geri sitting in the darkness, eyes shining as he watched her.

  It can’t be true.

  Ylva had never seen him more clearly. Never wanted so much for him to be there with her.

  ‘I don’t believe it either,’ she said to him before looking at Bron lying beside her. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Ylva hadn’t known Cathryn and Bron for long, but she couldn’t imagine they would steal and sell slaves. It didn’t make sense. ‘Cathryn said slavery was wrong.’ She turned to the three-fingered man. ‘Bron cut off my collar.’

  ‘Tricks to make you trust them.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Make you do as they said.’

  ‘They helped me.’

  ‘They fooled you.’ The three-fingered man raised his voice. ‘Accept it.’ He fixed his eyes on Ylva as if they might cut right through her. ‘Now, go and make us something to eat. I’m starving and it’s going to be a long night. There’s food in there.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand and pointed to a bundle by the wall. ‘Make something hot.’

  Ylva stared at him, unable to think. Unable to move. She was numb inside. Could she really have been so wrong? Had she come all this way just to be a slave for a new owner?

  ‘Do it now!’ The three-fingered man growled.

  It was difficult to manage with her wrists tied to the short rope around her neck, but Ylva struggled to her feet. She glanced at Bron, still lying on the straw. He hadn’t moved and she wondered if he was going to die, but for a second his eyes flickered and he looked at her. It was almost too fast to see, but long enough to let her know he was awake.

  And now Geri was sitting right beside him. You have to think clearly. Trust Bron. Get them to untie you.

  ‘I can’t cook anything like this.’ Ylva held her hands up as much as she could. ‘You’ll have to untie me.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the flame-haired woman said.

  ‘Do it,’ the three-fingered man told her. ‘I haven’t eaten all day, and what harm can she do? You think she’ll try to kill us? She’s a child, what does she know about killing?’

  ‘There isn’t a Dane that doesn’t know about killing,’ the woman said.

  The three-fingered man snorted. ‘But she’s so small. Untie her.’

  The flame-haired woman hesitated, then came forward and loosened the rope. She wound it into a coil and threw it down on the floor close to the three-fingered man. ‘You cook; I’ll make a fire. But as soon as you’re done, the rope goes back on.’

  Ylva went to the bundle by the wall. She lifted a cloak to reveal a basket made from woven beech rods. It h
ad loops on each side so a person could carry it over their back. When she opened the top, she saw among other things: an iron cooking pot, chunks of fresh wild boar wrapped in cloth and an assortment of vegetables. While she took out what she needed, the woman scraped a shallow pit in the centre of the stable and filled it with coals collected from the smouldering remains of the workshop outside.

  Ylva banged the pot down directly on to the fire so that sparks flew up around it. She splashed water into it and threw in the meat and the vegetables. The three-fingered man wouldn’t allow her a knife to cut them, so she snapped the parsnips and carrots, imagining they were his bones. She tore the cabbage to shreds, vowing that this would be the last meal she would ever cook as a slave.

  Sitting on her haunches to work, Ylva glanced over her shoulder. The three-fingered man was still on the stool, but he had put Ylva’s axe on the floor beside the bone flute. He was facing the flame-haired woman, who was perched on an upturned wooden bucket. Deep in conversation, both of them had taken the weapons from their belts and leant them against the wall. They were out of Ylva’s reach but as she stirred the wooden spoon and looked down into the blackened pot, an idea began to form.

  When she was sure the Vikings weren’t watching her, Ylva nudged Bron to get his attention. He opened his eyes just enough to acknowledge her, and she used her hands to tell him what she planned to do. She didn’t know the hand-speak he used with Cathryn, but she did her best, and eventually he nodded and closed his eyes.

  As soon as he did, Ylva took the wooden spoon out of the pot and placed the handle into the fire. She shuffled round to make sure the three-fingered man and the flame-haired woman couldn’t see the spoon handle begin to burn.

  Ylva stared into the pot, watching the meat and vegetables turning, rising, falling in the water. It was like her mind – all those thoughts muddling together.

  ‘. . . ready?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Hm?’ Ylva looked back at her. ‘What?’

  ‘I said is the food ready? My stomach’s as empty as a poor man’s treasure chest.’

  ‘Almost.’ Ylva pushed the cluttered thoughts from her mind and focused on one thing. This was her best chance, her only chance, to avenge Mother. She held the burning wooden spoon by the wide end and took it from the fire. Blowing out the flame, she turned her body so the Vikings couldn’t see her press the glowing end of the spoon to the rope binding Bron’s hands. It took only a few seconds to burn through the hemp and free him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said as she tossed the spoon into the fire. ‘It’s done.’ She picked up the cloth that had been wrapped around the boar meat, and glanced across at Bron. He nodded just enough to show that he was ready.

  ‘Well, bring it over here, child. I’m itching to find out if your stew is as bitter as your personality,’ said the three-fingered man.

  ‘As long as it’s better than your flute playing.’ Ylva used the cloth to protect her hands as she lifted the pot from the fire and, moving as quickly as she could, she turned and took three paces towards the Vikings. And when she was directly in front of them, Ylva hurled the scalding stew into their faces.

  Bron was on his feet as the Vikings flinched away, turning their heads and raising their hands, but they were too late to protect themselves. Ylva had never heard a grown man scream until the moment red-hot stew splashed into the three-fingered man’s eyes, and she was quick to take advantage of his pain.

  41

  Sharp Iron

  Ylva was on him like a wolf on its prey. She threw all her weight against him, pushing him backwards off the stool. Any difficulty she had being close to other people was forgotten as she grabbed his head with both hands and hit it once, twice, against the floor.

  Everything inside the stable was in chaos. The horses huffed and stamped their hooves, Bron struggled with the flame-haired woman, and by the stalls, Freki leapt up to strain at his leash, and bark as best as he could.

  The whites of the three-fingered man’s eyes were now red, burnt by the boiling stew, and they rolled in confusion and pain. But he was as strong as a bear, and no stranger to battle. Ylva was no match for his strength. When she turned to stretch for her axe lying close by, he came to his senses and reached up with both hands to grab her around the neck. He pushed her back with all his strength, squeezing his hands together, trying to crush the life from her.

  Ylva twisted from side to side, hammering one fist against the three-fingered man, hitting his chest, scratching at his face and eyes as she scrabbled blindly with her other hand, trying to lay her fingers on the axe. But the three-fingered man had a grip like Fenrir’s jaws. With his hands still around her neck, he lifted her off his chest and threw her sideways to land on her back with a bone-jarring thump.

  The impact knocked the breath out of her, but she reached out again, desperate as her fingertips brushed against the leather binding on the lower part of the handle. There it was. Her axe. The same axe she had used to defeat the bear. She would use it now, to split the three-fingered man’s skull. All she had to do was take hold of it and—

  The three-fingered man sat up and grabbed Ylva by the arm, dragging her towards him, out of reach of the axe. As soon as she was close, he got to his knees and lifted her so she was sitting with her back against his chest, then he wrapped both arms around her neck. ‘I’ll break it if I have to,’ he said in her ear. ‘But don’t make me kill you. You’re a brave one, and I’ll get a good price for you.’

  The pressure on her neck constricted her throat and made her head pound. She heard the blood thumping in her veins and her face grew numb as everything darkened. He was squeezing the breath out of her, but all she could think of was avenging Mother. Of killing the three-fingered man. Of killing the woman and taking back the locket. She had a duty. The gods expected it of her. And if she were to fail, she would die trying. It was too late to give up now.

  As her vision began to fade, Ylva frantically reached out sideways with both hands, running her fingers through the straw, searching for a weapon. Searching and hoping and searching until her fingers brushed against something hard and she shifted her eyes to see one of Bron’s arrows lying in the dirt. Without thinking, she took it in her fist and thrust it backwards with all the strength she had left in her, driving it hard into the three-fingered man’s side.

  The three-fingered man cried out in pain and let go, giving Ylva the chance to shuffle forward and turn around to face him.

  His was on his knees looking down in confusion at the arrow sticking out beneath his ribs. ‘How did you—?’

  Ylva put both hands around the shaft of the arrow and pushed as hard as she could.

  42

  Revenge

  The three-fingered man looked up at Ylva standing over him with her axe. He tried to move, but he was weak and couldn’t do anything more than turn his head. ‘The gods are playing with me.’ There was blood on his teeth. ‘Beaten by a child.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ Ylva said. ‘And I’ll tell you what I know about killing. I know that you killed my mother . . . and my dog. So now I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘Your mother?’ The three-fingered man closed his eyes and took a deep, wheezing breath.

  ‘You murdered her.’ Ylva’s voice caught in her throat. ‘You and that woman.’ Ylva was here now. At last. After all this time and struggle, she was finally bringing her promise to the three-fingered man. Bringing her revenge. And now she longed for the expected feelings of relief and satisfaction, a sense of justice being done. But she felt none of those things. She felt only grief and exhaustion and emptiness. Here he was, lying at her feet, ready to die, but Mother and Geri were still dead, and nothing she could do – not even killing this man – would bring them back. Nothing was different.

  ‘You killed them.’ Ylva’s voice came as a shouted whisper. ‘You killed them.’ She tried to make her muscles work, to strike him dead, but something deep inside wouldn’t let her do it. She couldn’t kill him. She had come all this wa
y, struggled so hard, and now she couldn’t even do what she had come here to do.

  She relaxed her arm and let the weapon hang by her side. ‘I hate you. Why can’t I kill you?’

  ‘You already have. You put this arrow in me.’

  ‘It feels different.’

  ‘Because you were fighting. Protecting yourself. Killing a man in cold blood is different. It shouldn’t be easy. The gods don’t like it.’

  ‘Even if it’s revenge?’ Ylva looked down at him. When she had first seen him, he was a monster, but now he was just a man; crippled and dying.

  His breath came in shallow sips, his chest hitching with each one. ‘I’ve killed my share of men, but I’ve never killed a woman. Not once.’

  Ylva stared at him.

  ‘I swear an oath to the All-Father,’ he whispered.

  ‘That trader’s hut,’ Ylva said. ‘You left a dead woman and . . . and a dog . . .’

  The three-fingered man frowned and coughed flecks of blood into his beard.

  ‘And she stole Mother’s locket.’ Ylva looked over at the flame-haired woman lying on her back, with one arm stretched out, and the other twisted beneath her. Two arrow shafts protruded from the centre of her chest.

  Bron sat beside her, with his bow still in his hands. He was slumped in exhaustion, eyes half-closed as he watched Ylva standing over the Viking.

  The three-fingered man took a long, laboured breath and nodded his head. ‘Oh. That.’ There was sadness in his eyes as he looked at the woman lying in the straw, her hair splayed out as Mother’s had been. ‘I told Astrid to leave it.’ He sighed. ‘But you should know I didn’t kill your mother. The owner of the hut did that.’

  ‘What? Don’t lie.’

  ‘Your mother went into that hut to steal blankets and food.’