The Songweaver's Vow

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Text copyright 2017 Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Cover design by Damonza

  Intertwining snake art copyright Rocich | Dreamstime.com, used by permission.

  ISBN 978-1-63165-005-5

  Æclipse Press

  www.Aeclipse-Press.com

  Indianapolis, IN

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations as in a book review.

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  DEDICATION

  To borrow a phrase: No writer is an island, and I am grateful for all the fantastic books I read growing up and as an adult which both inspired and taught me, and for my cadre of writing friends who critique and encourage and critique again.

  My monthly writing group, the Indy Scribes, is something I’ve looked forward to each and every month since our inception nearly five years ago. High fives all around to my valuable critique partners.

  And bonus shout-outs to my A-team readers, upon whom I can call to read a scene—or many—on short notice and occasionally at any hour. For this book, these were Stephanie Cain and K.T. Ivanrest, who boldly gave up hours of their lives to read and assist me with this story. Thanks, guys. I owe you a magnificent amount of sushi or chocolate or mead, whichever you prefer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I must express my gratitude to all the many academics, historians, curators, authors, and enthusiasts who made information available and accessible for research onsite, in books, and online. A complete list would be impractical, but I must especially acknowledge that being able to move among artifacts and recreations was a hugely different experience from my usual virtual research, and I found visiting the recreated villages at Trelleborg and Bork Vikingehavn extremely helpful; I took so many photos for reference! Museet Ribes Vikinger (the Ribes Viking Museum), Nationalmuseet (the National Museum of Denmark), and Vikingeskibs Museet (the Viking Ship Museum) in Roskilde provided a great deal of information into historic customs, travel, tools, and daily life, in a way I could not experience purely through reading or looking at photographs. Thank you to all the historians, curators and docents, and reenactors who obliged my questions and photography.

  Thank you also to Annitha Faurholt, who stayed late to welcome us into Den Gemle Arrest, a charming jail-turned-bed-and-breakfast in Ribe (the oldest extant town in Scandinavia and fiercely proud of their Viking heritage).

  And finally, an enormous and personal thank you to my enormously patient husband, who allowed me to drag him to “just one more” historic site or museum after another and waited uncomplainingly for Legoland. His generosity is much appreciated.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The attack came at dawn.

  Euthalia woke to the terse, worried voices of men, and she crawled into the dawn light. “What is it?” she asked, only half-expecting an answer.

  But Miloslav stopped mid-sentence to turn toward her. “Get back!” he snapped. “Hide yourself!”

  Euthalia swept her eyes across the camp, seeing men picking up weapons, and looked up the river, where she saw a dragon.

  Its head rose from the water and curled upward, glaring down upon the surface in disdain. The river barely rippled around its sinuous neck. Its body was long and narrow, and she saw now oars protruded from either side, launching it across the river. Behind it came other boats, also bearing beast heads, but somehow—because she had seen it first, or because it was the nearest, or because for just a moment it had been a real sea serpent in her mind—the first one seemed the most frightening.

  Pirates, she realized. Terrifying, horrific men who went a-viking to prey on traders.

  Traders like them.

  She shrank backward. “Do we run? Hide?”

  “Get out of sight,” repeated Miloslav. “They may wish to trade, not fight. They are traders themselves as often as pirates. They may wish only for news of Byzantium, or trade in southern goods.”

  But Euthalia, who had never been a warrior, yet looked at the ships and knew this was not the approach of a trading party. And the men with Miloslav knew it, by the way they gripped their weapons, and Miloslav knew it too, by the way his mouth stayed tight at the corners as he spoke. Her father knew it by the way he came to join Miloslav, weapon in hand and looking more worried than ever she had seen him, even on this trip when he had failed to marry her to a Byzantine merchant.

  Euthalia turned and scanned for a place to hide. She settled for a bundle of fabric, bright with southern dyes, and wriggled beneath it. Any part of her which remained exposed would look like spilled fabric and would not betray her.

  She could see nothing now. She curled up, trying to disappear beneath the pile, and listened through the muting of the fabric.

  Her father’s voice came first, calling down the river. “What do you carry to trade?”

  For a moment there was no answer, and she tried to imagine the dragon-boat sailing by, eyes forward and passing unseeing over their camp, the sea-serpent leaving them all untouched. But a moment later, there was the unmistakable scrape of a hull running aground, like massive claws against sandy rock, and she knew the dragon had landed.

  “What do you carry?” The voice was gruff, huge, the voice of a sea serpent or a man who rode a dragon. It wrapped about the words as if familiar with them but not quite comfortable, a second language.

  “Good sailing to you, and safe travels to you as to ourselves,” called her father Tikhomir. His voice held a note she had never heard before, not only the unexpected deference she had heard in Byzantium but an additional undertone of fear. Her father, a chief and a chief of warriors, feared these Northmen come down the river.

  Come down the river, she realized, through her father’s lands, or near enough to them. For it was impossible to reach the south and east from the north and west without passing through the middle, and certainly these boats had sailed this river down from their North home. She wavered between fierce indignation at the effrontery of sailing through her father’s lands without permission and horror that they might have sailed past her home, might have stopped, might have killed or taken her mother and her brothers and all the people she knew there.

  The man with the dragon voice did not return her father’s greeting. “You come from the city, I see. Tell us what you bring away.”

  “Spices,” said Tikhomir, “and silks, and dyes for fabrics. And iron ore, to be smelted into steel. It will make fine weapons.”

  “Hm.” The voice seemed to consider. “Their ore is better, no argument. It will make better weapons, that is true.” There was a slight sound of steps, and the voice faded and rose as it spoke; Euthalia guessed he was turning to take in all their men, Miloslav and the others. “We will take the ore and the dyes, and half the spices.”

  Tikhomir hesitated only just noticeably. “And will you pay in coin or barter?”

  A laugh arose from the dragon’s throat, and then from many, many more throats. Euthalia did not know how many men rode the dragon-ship and the other boats, but she knew she had seen many oars. How many? Twenty at a side? That was a fair guess, making forty per boat. And there had been three boats. That made one hundred twenty hostile men, warriors who rode dragons and spoke like sea serpents.

  One hundred twenty, to oppose her father’s band of sixteen.

  Euthalia could stand it no longer. She pressed herself against the ground, the weight of the fabric over her, and peered out with one eye from beneath the bales of cloth. Now she could see, though it was hardly enough to be helpful. She knew her father’s boots, and those were Miloslav’s beside him, and the big set of leather-wrapped feet facing them, visible between their
ankles, must belong to the man with the dragon’s voice.

  The laughter slowed, and the man with the dragon voice spoke again, a trace of levity still coloring his tone. “The ore, and the dyes, and half the spices, or all and as many slaves as survive the fight.”

  Her father did not answer immediately, and that was his mistake. There was a nearly-imperceptible movement in the third set of feet, simultaneous with a rub of oiled leather and a soft sound like a punch into a cow’s flank. Miloslav’s right foot took a step back, hesitated, and then he folded to his knees, clutching somewhere on the front of his torso.

  “He will not be one of the slaves,” said the dragon voice.

  Miloslav tipped forward into the sandy dirt, one arm splayed and the other trapped beneath him. He had not even struck a blow in his defense or his chieftain’s, a sad and pitiful death.

  “Now,” said the dragon voice, “will you fight, and die? Or will you surrender, and live as slaves?”

  “Wait,” urged her father. “I have another prize to offer. We are traders, and we would do business as men of trade.”

  “Oh?” The dragon voice was only faintly curious. “What can you offer that is worth your lives?”

  Her father’s feet turned away from Miloslav, bleeding his last on the sand, and came directly toward the pile of goods where Euthalia hid. She only just had time to wonder for one horrific instant if he meant her when he flung back the fabrics and seized her by the upper arm.

  “Here!” he said, pulling her upward. “Here, what do you think of this?”

  Euthalia stared at him, unable to look even to the river pirate standing just beyond Miloslav’s fallen body. He could not—he would not—

  But her father was not looking at her. “She will certainly be a prettier prize to bring home,” he said, and he was using his merchant’s voice. “A woman is useful in ways a man is not.”

  “Father!” she gasped, pulling weakly away from him. “You can’t do this!”

  Now he turned on her. “I said I would get you a husband on this trip,” he snarled. “You knew it would not be one of your choosing.”

  “Father?” repeated the dragon voice. Euthalia looked at the raider, tall and armored in mail and carrying an axe worn with experience. His helmet wrapped about his eyes, shielding them and hiding half his expression. What was visible, however, showed a curious blend of emotions: pride, at having driven a chieftain to offer his own daughter in payment for his life, and disgust, that such a man could be so driven.

  “It is not a husband you ask for her, I think,” said the man with the dragon voice. “Nor is she, even a pretty and, as you say, useful girl, worth the price of sixteen male slaves.” He glanced down. “Fifteen.”

  Now her father straightened. “You will not have fifteen slaves, not from us. I will die before I am taken, and I have other fine fighters who will not be taken easily, and you will need to kill them. You have enough men to overrun us, but not without losses of your own.”

  “My men are not afraid to die in battle. They would be pleased, in fact, and would consider it honorable.” The helmeted man frowned as he looked over the remaining warriors of Tikhomir’s party. “Though perhaps it would be less of an honor to die facing so few, and so disreputable, it is true.”

  “Whether they are pleased to die or not, it leaves you with fewer men to make your next raid,” pressed Euthalia’s father. “You may take our goods without risk by accepting the girl, to your profit, or you may fight us and take only what remains.” He put a knife to Euthalia’s throat. “To your loss.”

  What was he saying? Euthalia reeled. He was bartering her like an ingot of ore or a bag of spice!

  The helmeted man quirked one corner of his mouth upward in a smile. “We will take the girl,” he said, “and I will go one better for you, since you are such a reasonable man of trade. I will make her a dragon’s bride, a sacrifice to purchase your life.” He shook his head. “But even so fine a bride is not worth fifteen male slaves, and not after an insult to my men’s valor. You will send thralls as her dowry.”

  And then everything happened at once. The men behind the man with the dragon’s voice rushed forward, raising axes and hammers and swords, and Tikhomir’s band clustered together about their chief, or at least some of them. Tikhomir flung her down and stepped back.

  Euthalia hit the ground hard and saw, between the ankles of the surrounding men, that a half-dozen had run for the woods, leaving their chieftain and their comrades. Leather-armored warriors followed hard after, disappearing with them into the trees. On the beach, a warrior called Daniil charged the pirates, shouting for others to follow, and was cut down mid-cry.

  Tikhomir’s voice barked out orders. “Stand down, men! Those who fled are given as slaves. A man who lacks faith in his chieftain deserves none. And those who remain—take Kazimir, and hold him for the ropes. He defied me thrice last year, and I’ll not fight for him now.”

  Kazimir blinked once at his treacherous chief and then lunged desperately with his axe, swinging at both pirate and tribal comrade. But he could not face all directions at once, and the men from the beast-headed boats seized him from behind, dragging him backward and down and disarming him. Euthalia saw several men taking his sword and knife and other gear, but none of Kazimir’s comrades protested. They were glad to be rid of him, as her father was, or glad he had been chosen rather than them, or simply afraid to upset the fragile equilibrium by challenging the pirates’ assumption.

  Kazimir was bound and held on his knees in the sand, heavy hands on his shoulders to keep him in place. His hands were bound behind his back, but his mouth was unhindered, and he cursed Tikhomir freely and fiercely, swearing to return and wreak his vengeance upon Tikhomir and his family and all their village. He had threats for his former brothers-in-arms, too, and vile words for their treachery in allowing him to be taken, listening to such an untrustworthy lord. “It will come!” he warned. “Your turn will come, when he will toss you like a half-gnawed bone to a stray dog! And pray that day of betrayal comes before I return to avenge myself, for no treachery can stand against the weight of the revenge I will take upon you all!”

  The man in the helmet was utterly unimpressed by these continuous threats, and he turned his back on Kazimir and spoke, his dragon’s voice carrying easily over Kazimir’s insistent invective. “Let us wait here a short time, to see how many of your men have been brought back to their new fate.”

  And so they waited, uneasy in the knowledge that if not enough tribesmen were brought back to thralldom, the number would be made up from those standing upon the sandy bar. Euthalia looked up at the familiar faces around her, reading their conflict as they hoped for their friends to escape and yet hoped they would be caught.

  No one spoke.

  Warriors are not accustomed to fleeing, and these woods were not familiar to Tikhomir’s men. Within fifteen minutes, the first captive emerged, bound and pushed ahead by three river pirates. A few moments later, another appeared, and then another. With each appearance, a painful throb of unhappy relief went through the little band about Euthalia, surrounded by countless mailed and leather-clad men.

  Someone had gone to the beast-headed boats and brought back iron shackles, which were fitted upon Kazimir and the new captives.

  “And now,” said the man with the dragon’s voice, “the girl.”

  Euthalia couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She looked up, and her father grasped her roughly under the arm and hauled her to her feet. “Don’t be difficult now,” he warned. “Be a good bride. You knew you’d take a husband on this trip.”

  Euthalia stared at the men on their knees, their shackled hands hanging before them. She was not going as a wife, no matter what her father might say.

  Her throat seized, and she could not decide what to say even if she could speak. Should she plead for mercy from her father? Useless. Threaten vengeance, like Kazimir? Her revenge was even less likely than his, and threats were unbecoming in a woman. S
hould she weep, as she saw one young captive doing quietly on his knees? That would only please her captors, she thought, for they were vicious and cruel men. Quietly and stoically accept her fate, as other captives were doing? It seemed unthinkable.

  But one of the beast-boat men was reaching for her, and she had to say something, had to act now or she would forever lose the opportunity. She gulped, choked on the first word, and then spat at her father, “I hope the sale of your daughter and your warriors’ respect was worth your cowardly life.”

  A laugh and a whoop went up from a few of the beast-boat men who understood her, or at least her tone, and the dragon’s-voice laugh boomed over them all. It surprised her. Euthalia had not meant to amuse them, had only meant to shame the father exposed as a lying and weak man despite his position, and she was a little afraid of their response.

  She did not have the opportunity to see her father’s reaction, for she was already being drawn away, but she imagined—she hoped—he flushed hot with shame, and she hoped his remaining warriors turned baleful eyes on him. Perhaps, when they reached home again, her father’s stories would not be the only ones told. Perhaps others would explain that they had not lost comrades in a fearful and honorable battle, but that husbands and sons and fathers had been traded away for the life of a chieftain who would not fight, who hid behind the sale of his eldest child and daughter.

  She could hope that would be how it ended.

  Euthalia was guided into the boat with the dragon’s head. She was not bound, not like the men, but she knew that was a mere formality. She was just as much a prisoner—more, because she did not know how to fight as they did. She could not fight, she could not flee; she was a thrall, just as they were. Helpless, just as they were.

  Afraid, just like they were.

  The other captives were shared out among the boats, two or three each. The crying boy went to another boat, which pained Euthalia for some reason. Maybe she wanted someone who expressed what she could not yet. Kazimir came to her boat, still snarling between his teeth, and was pushed into the belly of the boat. The trade goods, already sorted as they waited for the captives to be brought, were loaded onto the boats.