SKALAGRIM
“Are we not going to a slave market?” Bone asked, once he and Yngvarr’s other prisoners were led beyond the town walls. In response he was swatted with a thick branch.
“Shut up,” said a foamreaver. “This isn’t some Oxiland Althing.”
“Of course,” Bone said, having no idea what that meant.
Fresh snow collected fast upon the ground. A bitter wind whipped the flakes in mad whorls as they ascended into the fjord’s high country, and Bone shivered. Upon a hilltop stood a great wooden hall, bright with red pillars and golden dragons, overlooking several farms below and the town beyond.
The foamreavers stopped the line beside a cliff opposite the great rune-carved doors.
The doors opened.
“Be honored, rogue,” Yngvarr told Bone in Roil, “for you are to be offered to the Gull-Jarl himself. Behold his son, Skalagrim the Bloody.”
The beefy man who approached, big as the astoundingly massive Yngvarr, had a fitting epithet. He wore a red beard, a red robe over his byrnie, and a spiked mace with hints of red on the points. He inspected the slaves with a grunt, pausing now and then to poke a man’s muscle or stroke a woman’s chin. At all times he bore himself with a casual disdain. Bone had grown accustomed to the body language of countries far to the East. He found Skalagrim’s studied insolence appalling in such an important personage. Insolence belonged to such as Imago Bone—greatest second-story man of the Spiral Sea!
As if sensing Bone’s thoughts, Skalagrim hesitated beside the thief. The look he gave Bone was at first as dismissive as that of a fisherman tossing back a minnow. Bone might have made a brave remark, but not chained, not in range of that mace.
Skalagrim said something Bone could not understand but that seemed to please the foamreavers. Brief haggling commenced, obviously tilted in Skalagrim’s favor. Soon Skalagrim handed over a bag and turned the slave-gang over to his men.
They were about to drag Bone past, but suddenly Skalagrim’s eyes narrowed and he raised his hand. Skalagrim said something quick and incomprehensible, and Yngvarr answered something in kind. Bone could do nothing but look at Skalagrim evenly, so he did.
Skalagrim squinted. “You have self-possession,” the warrior said in Roil.
“That,” Bone said, “is exactly what I lack in this situation.”
“But not much sense. I have a gift, you see. Ever since the dream of the shadows on the strait . . . never mind. All you need to know is, I can see into men’s spirits. There is something of age and winter in your sinew. And there is a great darkness within you.”
“Well, I personally wouldn’t claim it’s a great darkness,” Bone said, “more of a pretty good darkness—”
Skalagrim slapped him with a mailed hand. It would have never happened had Bone not been chained. But that was little consolation for the ringing in his head and his blood dripping onto the snow.
Skalagrim grabbed Bone by the throat and shoved him to the very edge of the cliff. As Bone was still roped to the other prisoners, three of the slaves joined him in dancing at the crumbling divide between survival and cold, bloody death. A couple of people on the line screamed. Bone might have joined them, but the grip silenced his throat.
“You amuse me,” Skalagrim said. “But only so much. We’ll see if you last on the farms, and then we can test your other skills. But save your jests for your equals, not your masters.”
They dragged Bone off.
I am a fool, he thought as they followed a winding path through the snow toward one of the farms below. Bone’s swelling face testified to it. His bravado would not serve him here. He must bury it like an ill-gotten gem. He was a thrall.
No, think the word in your own tongue. Savor the meaning. “Slave.”
I am not a slave! the thief in him rebelled. This is a ridiculous accident! I am a free man.
You are a man, said the husband and father in him. But your condition, now, is “slave.”
They reached a large farm, hidden from view of Gullvik by the Gull-Jarl’s hill. There a woman named Gunlaug greeted them and spoke for a time in Kantentongue. Then he and the others were led to a barn, where their bonds were loosened and they were offered porridge and cheese. The man next to him spoke in Roil, briefly dispersing the gloom of Bone’s thoughts. “You did not understand Gunlaug.”
Bone shook his head.
“We are to be well treated if we obey. If we do not, they may employ starvation, beating, isolation, and torture.”
Bone grunted.
“If we try to escape and fail, we will be maimed. If we try to escape and succeed, we will be branded outlaws.”
Bone shrugged.
“You may not understand the Kantentongue flavor of that word. If one is outlaw, one loses even the meager protections a thrall can enjoy. We will be in the same class as murderers. Any person can, and probably should, claim the life of an outlaw, in any manner that suits them. The Gold-Jarl might offer a reward. But in the Bladed Isles, bloodshed is its own reward.”
Bone smirked.
“Now I have helped you as much as I can,” the man concluded. “You have spirit, and I wished to honor that.” He spoke no more.
Bone lowered his head, the mists closing once again about his brain. It was all too much.
No, it is not too much, a hard, stony voice said deep within him. You will carry on. For fate is fickle and it can tire even of horror.
At sunset Bone and his work gang staggered back into the barn, escorted by three armored men with axes. A haggard, straw-haired slave with a Kantening accent showed them to patches of straw and brought them stew that made Muninn Crowbeard’s seem a royal feast. “The first days are the hardest,” the man said. “They want to make you tired. And to see how futile escape would be. They want to make you grateful for the few comforts you get. When they’re more sure of you, they’ll ease up. It’s not so bad after that.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, Bone thought, though what he said was, “Thank you.”
As night fell, Bone tried to gauge the number of warriors who guarded this part of the Gull-Jarl’s domain. His ears were sharp, and he tried to catch their tread, their grunts, their snatches of conversation.
But the slave-holders’ methods, though simple, were effective. His skills did not matter if his body was too exhausted to employ them. Oblivion dragged him under.
He dreamed of horses. Not the fjord ponies of the farm but huge wild beasts of the Forbidden Steppe, magnificent animals of many hues, whose galloping feet never seemed to touch the grass. They had names that could be rendered as Dawnracer Windneigh Maneshake Laughswish or Springjumper Wildgroan Headtoss Backkick, though such names could only touch the shape of the horses’ natures, as a cloud is only approximated by its shadow upon the steppe.
He awoke from visions of free horses of the grasslands to a reality of old straw in a smelly barn.
Bone and his gang saw to the livestock. Bone learned more about cows, chickens, geese, and pigs than he’d ever known possible. Later they were engaged in gutting, cleaning, and salting fish, and in carrying the family wash. None of it was terrible, but all of it was wearying, and none of it was chosen.
After a lunch of dry salted fish they broke stones for a new path up the hill to the Gull-Jarl’s hall. This was the toughest work yet, and perversely unnecessary, as two perfectly good paths already led there.
One of the new thralls said as much, and a guard rushed to tell Gunlaug. Soon she could be seen ascending one of those perfectly good paths. The thralls were uncomfortably silent. The man who’d spoken up, a garrulous Swanislander named Alder, kept looking toward the great hall.
Presently Skalagrim descended. “One of you has questioned your betters’ choice to build a new path,” he said in Roil. “Let me explain the matter. Nine Wolves walk the world, men unafraid to mete out gifts and pain. Men fit for the coming Fimbulwinter, not the simpering womanish cowards who hide under the wing of the White Swan. Nine will come—I have seen
it in a vision. For I am one, and you have met Yngvarr, another. The future is ours. And so there will be nine paths. But you—Alder, is it? You see the paths as unnecessary. You are a discerning fellow who likes simplicity. I will honor your thinking. You surely don’t need the little fingers on each hand. They are unnecessary!”
Men seized Alder, who struggled and kicked, but they held him down, spread out his right hand as Skalagrim readied an axe.
“No!” shouted Bone. “Is this Kantening courage? This man is no outlaw! He grouses as workers grouse everywhere!”
“I was correct,” Skalagrim said. “You are possessed of spirit. We will speak again, you and I. But interrupt me again and you will die for it. Alder, my hand is sure, but if you continue struggling you may lose all of yours. Ah, good.”
Skalagrim’s hand was sure. Twice.
When Bone returned to the barn, the darkness in his mind made the darkness in the sky superfluous. Alder was moaning under a blanket, hands wrapped in red-stained cloth. Bone gave Alder some of his share of food and water, and checked the bandages. Gunlaug had wrapped the maimed hands adequately, but Alder would need watching.
The one tending Alder should not be an exhausted thief.
Many things should not be.
Bone lay himself next to a whistling gap in one of the barn’s floorboards. He could hear the guards converse outside and could make out the words nithing, troll, frykt. Then sleep took him like a falling axe.
He dreamed of horses.
A rooster crowed somewhere on the steppe. No, this wasn’t the steppe, and the mouse-gap beside Bone’s ear was cold, but it had done its duty and forced his eyes open early.
He pissed at the midden the slaves were instructed to use, then walked to the farmhouse in the gray half-light. Of the guard he demanded fresh bandages and water. When the nonplussed man had gone, Bone nonchalantly surveyed the steading, slowly pivoting. For once his mind was clear, and he committed every detail to his memory. This was a heist, really. It differed from the usual only in that he was stealing himself.
The guard returned with Gunlaug, who carried cloth and a kettle.
“She wanted to see,” the guard said, “this thrall who worries so over other thralls.”
They tended to Alder, cleaning his wounds and changing his bandages. Alder did not seem grateful to be woken and washed, but he slipped back into sleep soon enough.
Gunlaug spoke.
The young guard said, “Since you are seeing to him, you will do two shares of work. Since you have stolen Gunlaug’s time, you will assist her today.”
This proved to be hard work, especially as Gunlaug slapped him for failure to comprehend her mimed instructions or her Kantentongue words. Spoken. Very. Slowly. And. Loudly. But compared to breaking rocks it was bearable. He stoked the hearth-fires, fetched water, milked cows, fed animals, cleaned stables. In the evening he returned sore to the barn, bearing fresh cloth and water for Alder. There was an extra helping of stew and bread; the other slaves explained it was Santa Kringa’s feast day, and although the Gull-Jarl did not celebrate it, Gunlaug was a Swanling and made this small gesture.
Alder was playing a game with the old Kantening slave who brought in the food. With them sat the man who’d translated Gunlaug’s words when Bone first arrived. Other games were being played in other corners. The barn almost seemed festive.
“Thank you,” Alder said to Bone as the thief changed the dressings. “I know you’ve been helping me.”
“I just want to make the world less boring. There are so many more interesting ways to die, than taking fever after maiming.”
“I’m not bored,” Alder muttered. “Nevertheless, thanks.”
“Join us if you wish,” the old Kantening told Bone. “This game is winding down. Do you know it?”
“It looks a little bit like chess. Or weiqi.”
“I don’t know your weiqi, but this is perhaps the opposite of chess. The game is hnefatafl.”
“Bless you.”
“Ha, ha. One piece is the king. He is ringed by enemies and must escape.”
“How appropriate.”
“Fortunately he has friends.” The old man paused, extended a hand. “The name’s Havtor.”
“Mine is Imago Bone.” He took Havtor’s hand and bowed a little also, in the Eastern manner. “I am surprised . . . well, you’re a Kantening . . .”
“Ah. How does a Kantening come to be a thrall? My family’s fortunes diminished when my father’s ship floundered in the Draugmaw, the great maelstrom, taking him, most of his war band, and all his treasures to the deep. My mother was obliged to sell some of her children into thralldom.”
“That’s horrible.”
Havtor shrugged. “We might have starved otherwise. The Gull-Jarl took me on, and I have never wanted. He is not so bad. His son, now . . . well, we all have things that are best not talked about.” He moved a wooden warrior upon a grid, saying, “Like you and your horses.”
“What?”
The big man beside them laughed. “Twice now, Imago Bone, you’ve cried out in the night, rambling about horses. And yet you don’t remember?”
Bone scratched his chin. “I have had dreams. . . .”
“So I assumed,” said the big man, “as I saw no horses in here! And I do know my horses.” As if to apologize for teasing, the man shook Bone’s hand. “Vuk’s the name.”
“You’re not a Bladelander,” Bone said.
“I was captured in a raid on the Mirrored Sea. My people are Wagonlords of the Wheelgreen.”
“My sympathies. You must miss home.”
“It haunts my dreams, like your horses. And you? Where were you taken?”
“About half a mile from here, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re joking!” Alder said.
“I wish that very much,” Bone said. “My fortunes have plummeted. I made a critical mistake, one that has torn me from my wife.”
“A raid gone awry?” Havtor said.
“A bad gamble?” Vuk said.
“A dalliance?” Alder said.
“I made an error of judgment in a fight. I should not have been taken.”
“Ah,” Vuk said. “That is indeed bitter. Well, battle has its fortunes.”
“But to lose everything because of one lapse . . . I might have won that fight, at my best. But cares cloud my sight. I’m aging, it seems.”
“It’s said that no man can defeat Old Age,” said Havtor, “if he should live long enough to face her. Even the god Torden, when he wrestled her once, found himself evenly matched.”
Bone thought of Muninn Crowbeard and how he’d feared the thews of Old Age.
“I may not defeat her,” Alder said, “but my hnefatafl king’s escaped.”
“Ah!” Havtor said. “You are not as weak as you seem!”
“Nor as defeated,” Alder murmured, as Havtor set up the board for Vuk and Bone.
Vuk remarked, “Be aware the game is lopsided. It is harder to win as the king.”
“I’ll play that part,” Bone said. “Escape suits me.”
“Does it now?” Vuk said.
Bone was not as tired this night, and the sky was clear, stars and moon glittering above the snow’s silver sheen. So when he woke around midnight and relieved himself at the midden, he took his time, listening. By now he was sure the standard number of guards was five.
Snow crushed behind him: a sixth. The newcomer said nothing. It was a looming sort of nothing. Someone wanted Bone afraid.
Vapor emerged from Bone in the moonlight, from above and below. “You know,” he said, forcing his voice to be nonchalant, “I’d wet myself, Skalagrim, but you’re just a little late.” He concluded his business, hiked up his pants, and turned.
Skalagrim the Bloody stood there with his mace glinting in the moonlight. “I’ve had dreams of horses,” said the Kantening. “They are not my dreams. I have traced them to this barn, waiting for their source to emerge. It does not wholly surprise me tha
t it’s you. I’ve sensed you are more than you seem.”
“What am I then?”
“You’re haunted by a strange wyrd, as am I. It’s said my father’s hall is built on the shores of the Straits of Tid. As long as I can remember I’ve roamed the world in my dreams, contending with others who dream as I do. One night, many of us met in dreams at the Great Chain of Unbeing, though to us it seemed as day. There we contested for the power of the Runemark. But we were surprised by new opponents that were not human . . . nine of us were forever changed. Three from Svardmark. Three from Spydbanen. Three from Oxiland. We were already strong men, but a grim power made us mighty as legends. And our eyes were opened to deeper truths of existence.”
“What deeper truths?”
“Our world is a semblance, a transitory illusion. Only one thing within it is truly real.”
It was strange, to hear this barbarian speaking as the warrior-priest Katta might. “Compassion?”
“Power.”
“Thank you for your edifying speech. I won’t criticize, as I like having pinkies. May I go?”
“Don’t think you have fooled me. You are a sorcerer, or one touched by the gods. Sooner or later I’ll know the truth. I have sensed her, skulking around you.”
“What?”
“There is one who has an interest in you. She thinks she is obscured, but I have seen. And on the day she comes to your aid, I will claim her. Think of that, enchanter. The one who would rescue you will be mine.”
Bone’s hands clenched. Skalagrim was alone, and though the Kantening was gigantic, and armored, Bone was quick. . . .
“Yes,” said Skalagrim. “I sense your hate. Rush upon me, slave. Reveal your true power, enchanter. I am ready.”
“You have me mistaken for someone else.”
“As you wish.” Skalagrim backed away and gestured grandly toward the barn. “Maintain your ruse if you wish. Know that I watch you always.”
Bone returned nonchalantly to the barn, whistling a tavern song from Amberhorn.
When he lay down, he heard Vuk’s voice in the darkness. “When I was last outside,” the Wagonlord said quietly, “I counted five bright stars among the Sisters, bunched together like a war band.”
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