Skeggi kicked an attacker back. “No. Sarcastic One, I meant how you are you doing with your defense. Do you need help?”
“Oh. Well, yes, help would be nice.”
Skeggi was fighting a particularly difficult foe. He drove her backwards toward Ragnarok, who ran her through with one of his swords.
Ragnarok swayed, slumped, then sank to one knee.
“Ragnarok!” Gefjun cried, and fiercely fought off an attacker who was making for him. “He’s wounded, you idiot, leave off him. He’s under my care and I’m the medic here.”
She smashed into her opponent with her shield, trying to bully him away, but he wouldn’t budge. Skeggi had his hands full with another attacker stabbing at him with a lance, and even from this distance Gefjun could smell the poison that the attacker had put on the tip. If he pierced Skeggi with it, he would be dead immediately.
Ragnarok collapsed on the deck.
No, not Ragnarok, not today.
She burst out in song magic against her attacker.
The sword cuts your muscles,
your hot guts spill in your hands,
and you can’t repair this,
and the pain is blinding you,
and your heart is alone because next you’re going to die.
And song magic worked on him. Her attacker’s face turned white and afraid. She shoved him back with her shield, and she jabbed at him. She nicked him, and he fell back.
Skeggi seemed to be holding his own against the poisoned lance man.
“Ragnarok, what am I going to do with you?” she grumbled, stooping quickly down at his side, holding her shield over them.
“Keep grumbling at me. I love to hear you grumble,” he said, his eyes wandering.
“Stop, you goofball. Get yourself back among the wounded. You know I can’t drag you there.”
“Well, if I must.”
Suddenly someone among the enemy let loose a powerful song spell, singing it out over the roar of battle. The music spell echoed in Gefjun’s head.
The next moment she was lying on the deck with her shield on top of her. Ragnarok lay unresponsive next to her.
Vikings fell all over the decks of the ship. All lay still.
Fighting and shouts and screams came from the other ships around, but on that ship, all was quiet as death.
2
Puffin Friend
Gefjun lay on the deck in the seawater mixed with blood, among the fallen men and women and the wreckage of clothing, broken lances, and stones. Eyes open. Heart pounding. This had never happened before. What kind of song spell was that? She didn’t recognize it—not the style of the music, nor the language it was sung in. And what it had done to her? She’d been immobilized like a fly when the spider bites it, forcing her to lie there alive, unmoving, waiting for a predator to bring her life to an end.
She couldn’t tell if anybody else was awake because she couldn’t move. She tried to speak, tried to groan, but her voice wasn’t working. The people that she could see, who were lying on the deck where they’d fallen, all seemed to have their eyes shut, as if they were asleep. But nobody else made a sound—no groans, or cries, or even sound of movement. The wounded warrior who had been screaming continuously from a sword that pierced his guts lay silent. Chills went down her spine.
Two grey figures walked slowly onto the ship, their robes trailing through the bloody seawater that had pooled at the bottom of the ship. The screams and clash of arms and the boom of shields from the other ships, where fighting continued, seemed very far away.
Gefjun tried to move a finger. Tried to twitch her nose. Tried to cross her eyes. Tried to blink. Nothing. Her arm hurt where it was trapped under her, and her leg was bruised from landing on the hilt of her sword. At least she didn’t land on the blade.
Then she panicked. Other people had fallen, badly wounded, when that spell was cast. They might have fallen on a sword, or a blade, or had received a life-threatening wound just before the spell had fallen on them. She fought to move. It killed her to think that people on this ship, whatever side they were on, could likely die from bleeding out, when all they needed were some cobwebs to staunch the bleeding, a tight bandage, and a little compression.
But there was nothing she could do.
The grey-robed people stopped on the other side of the rowing benches from her. She could see only their feet and blood-soaked robes and legs, but not their faces.
“Do you see her?” asked a deep man’s voice. “I thought this was Dyrfinna’s ship.”
“Look at the front of the fighting,” said the woman. “She’s usually there, showing off.”
You want Finna? thought Gefjun, mentally firing the words at the speakers. Finna’s gone to play with dragons on a deserted isle. You want to go join her?
She immediately remembered when Dyrfinna had seen the isle and had wanted Gefjun to go with her to steal dragon eggs, and how they’d argued about it. How Gefjun told her, “Look. I have been saving your butt in every situation because you think it’s fun to have a little adventure. I’m not letting you do it this time,” and Dyrfinna had looked so shocked when she’d said that.
She wondered if the dragon had killed her yet.
And a confusing mixture of emotions swamped Gefjun before she stamped the whole thing down and kicked it out of mind.
Now the grey-robed people were walking through the ship. “How long will this magic hold?”
“Long enough for us to take these people where we need to go,” said the woman, sounding very pleased. “I’d heard a rumor that Dyrfinna isn’t on this ship, but she got dragged to some dragon isle. Let’s not waste any more time looking for her here. If she’s aboard, then good. If not, we’ll find her elsewhere.”
“Yes, but I wanted to make her the last sacrifice to the undead dragons.”
The what to the what? Gefjun longed to raise her head so she could hear better. Undead dragons?
“As soon as she hears that we’ve stolen her ship, as soon as she hears that we’re going to sacrifice her whole crew, one by one, to the undead, she’ll come running. You know she will.”
Gefjun tried to move. She would have been tempted to say these people were out of their minds, except they’d managed to use some kind of unknown magic. So she was taking everything that woman said very seriously.
She tried to move. Tried to twitch several large muscle groups. Tried to shiver. Tried to swallow. Tried to take a deep breath. But nothing happened.
The grey-robed woman whistled piercingly. At her signal, several other robed men and women climbed aboard. “Unhitch this boat from the other ship,” the grey-cloaked woman cried. “Take the oars on each ship and start rowing. Get this ships away from the fight as quickly as possible.”
A pair of feet in blood-spattered boots stepped carefully over Gefjun, and she longed to throw an arm in front of that woman’s feet and send her sprawling into the bloody water.
Was everybody on the ship in this state, awake but not able to react to their new … captors? Were they taken to be sacrificed? Was that their deal with the gray robes? And their stupid cowls?
The ships pulled away from the battle, and the battle noises faded behind them. But nobody was pursuing them, no red dragons flew over to help them. No outcry from the other ships in the queen’s fleet.
Is that it? Gefjun thought, angry. I know you’re a terrible commander, but how do you not notice that two of your ships just abruptly left the fleet!
She craned her ears. Just a buzz of talk elsewhere in the ship from those gray-robed people. No other sound.
Another pair of feet walked over Gefjun.
But then they stopped, one of the feet directly in front of her face.
The person knelt.
A young Scots woman, peering into Gefjun’s face. “What is this?”
Then she shouted, “Illyia, come here.”
A pair of ragged shoes stormed over. “What is it?”
“I think she’s still conscious.
” The woman’s voice was rich, resonant. “But you tell me.”
The ragged shoes stopped in front of her. “Conscious?” he said. “Interesting. Leave her to me.”
The shoes of the Scots woman hesitated, but slowly moved away. “Hold on, I’ll help you with that,” she said to somebody else.
The ragged shoes were silent, unmoving until her footsteps faded though the deck, as Gefjun had her ear pressed against the wood and could hear every step, until they faded into the general footstep sounds of everybody on the ship.
But now that the young woman was gone, raggedy shoes stooped down close.
Gefjun’s eyes were bad for distant things. But this man was close enough to be more than clear. An angry bulldog face with droopy jowls. Red hair.
He crouched down and stared into her face.
Scowled into her face.
“I think I know you,” he said softly and with evident satisfaction.
And then he rolled her on her back, wrapped his hands around her neck, and pressed down hard on her windpipe.
Stars burst in her vision, and intense pain from his hand crushing her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her body didn’t respond, though all she wanted to do was thrash herself free to get her throat out from under his hand. Who is he? What the hell did I do to him? she thought frantically.
A shout, and running feet made the boards she lay upon vibrate. “Here! What are you doing to her!” somebody shouted, and arms yanked him off her.
“What the hell are you doing!”
“Hands off her.”
“Throw him overboard!”
Somebody sang out a short phrase of music, and Gefjun sucked in air with a rattle, eyes wide.
“She’s awake,” somebody cried, and they all stared with disgust or astonishment.
Her spell, or whatever was holding her body still without her consent, had broken, and she sat up, coughing, her hands on her throat, and turned a sharp glare upon the man.
He stood there, his hands pinioned behind him, his nose elevated, smirking.
Gefjun was pulled roughly to her feet and she staggered, trying to get her legs back. Now she was face to face with the woman.
It was Nauma, the captain of the ship with the child-killers.
She threw back her hood, revealing her intricately braided long blonde hair.
And she smiled.
“I remember you,” she said. “You’re one of Dyrfinna’s special friends. She was trying to get strength from you, just before she had to fight me.”
Gefjun tried to pull herself free from the hands that held her. “She’s. Not. My. Friend.”
“Uh-huh. Very convenient.”
“She killed my betrothed!”
Nauma gave her a look of fake sympathy. “How sad. How very, very sad. You’ll be our hostage. I’m sure she’ll be wanting to save you most of all.”
Gefjun rolled her eyes. “Didn’t I just tell you that she killed my betrothed? What part about that screams ‘best friends’ to you? Oh wait, you guys are the child killers—I suppose that should tell me about the state of your friendships, because nobody wants to be friends with child killers.”
Nauma punched her in the face.
Gefjun fell to the floor of the ship and for a moment her eyes couldn’t see.
Addled, stars in her vision, she sang a little song into the floor of the ship.
Come here, all you puffins
Puffins come here
I want to be your special friend
“Shut up!” Nauma gave her a boot in the ribs, then sang a phrase, very quickly. Now Gefjun couldn’t sing at all.
But she still could speak. “What are you talking about, sacrificing us to the undead dragons? Are you just making stuff up, talking to hear your head rattle?”
Nauma raised an eyebrow at her, but said, “You’ll see.” Then she sang a short phrase and then Gefjun couldn’t speak, either.
“That’s what you get for not keeping your mouth shut,” she sneered. “Take her to the back of the ship. With the rest of her wounded.”
Gefjun swore to herself. She’d wasted her chance to get the wounded up and bandaged while they were still out.
But there were plenty of wounded back there for her to work on, and she found her bag and got to work. Her guard watched for a while, and then he kneeled down and started assisting her, especially when he saw her working on somebody from King Varinn’s side. She wasn’t going to ignore their wounded.
She wondered why she was trying to save the lives of these people if they were going to be sacrificed to an undead dragon, whatever that was. But that didn’t even sound like a real thing, whereas people dying on her watch was a very real thing, which she found unbearable. And of course, the more people she could get into good shape, the better they could fight back. She was not going to go down without a fight.
“Stop fixing people!” Nauma shouted at the guard, and he crossed his arms and frowned.
“We’re being pursued!” one of Nauma’s crew shouted.
Nauma rolled her eyes. “Outrow them, obviously.”
The crew heaved on the oars. The ship leapt forward, knocking Gefjun off her feet.
Nauma laughed. “A pretty sacrifice you and your shipmates will make when we raise the dragons from the dead.”
Gefjun stared at her in disgust.
“You’ll be among the first to die for our cause,” Nauma assured her, crossing her arms and leaning against the side of the ship. “And we’re on our way to doing it. Right now.”
“Something’s in the water ahead of us,” somebody called from the front of the ship.
“Then go around it. Or through it,” Nauma shouted.
“We… don’t know what it is,” they said.
Gefjun squinted but couldn’t see. Bad eyesight. And she couldn’t even sing her bit of song that helped her see at a distance.
“There’s a bunch of little black things in the water,” the guard who had been helping her said, seeing her squinting. “And the air.”
“It looks like… um,” somebody said.
“It looks like puffins,” somebody added.
The ship ran right into a mess of puffins that were swimming toward them, who squawked and grunted, and the ship slowed. Small black birds filled the air, a swarm of puffins, blackening the air.
“What is going on here?” Nauma shouted. “Row through them! Why aren’t you still rowing?”
They weren’t rowing, Gefjun noted, because all the oarsmen were covered with puffins. The birds hopped down on the deck and ran to Gefjun, looking all around them, sitting on the fallen Vikings, eyeing all the stuff on the floor of the ship, walking up to Nauma’s crew and checking them out. Gefjun moved to the middle of the ship as the puffins kept climbing in, more and more and more, covering the floor of the ship in a thick black and orange wave. Puffins on the side of the ship stretched and fluttered their wings, then shut them with a waggle of their tailfeathers. Some were busy preening with their big orange bills.
Gefjun sat on the floor of the ship with a puffin on each knee, five in her lap, four on her arms, three on her shoulders, and one on her head. A puffin next to her hand was trying to offer her a beakful of sand eels. She felt a lot calmer already.
Nauma yelled from the front of the ship, trying to make her way to Gefjun through all the puffins. She had three on her shoulders as well, and one was trying to land on her head, but she kept pushing it aside. “What stupid magic trick is this?”
Gefjun shrugged carefully so she wouldn’t knock off any puffins. To be honest, it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing when she was addled from her earlier hit.
“You wench,” Nauma hissed, and cracked her across the face.
Gefjun was knocked sideways, but she tried to catch herself before she hurt any puffins. Some of her puffin friends tumbled off her shoulders and legs, and she burned in anger for these little ones.
The puffins around Gefjun squawked. Then more around the ship began squawking. In
a moment, all the puffins were squawking, an earsplittling noise, and the ones next to Nauma began biting her legs with their heavy bills. Her puffin with all the sand eels dropped his catch and valiantly began snapping his beak on her toes.
Nauma kicked at the black birds, but they kept going after her.
Gefjun looked toward the back of the ship and could see the rest of King Varinn’s forces in hot pursuit. They’re going to follow us wherever we go, and then we’ll be tracked to where we’re going and killed.
Nothing for me to lose right now, is there?
So she jumped to her feet, knocking down the rest of her puffins. Sorry! She thought to them, and pulled out her sword, and slashed down at Nauma.
Nauma dodged the blow by falling backwards hard. She pulled out the sword and fought a fierce attack against Gefjun. But she couldn’t get her feet under her to make those hard strikes.
Part of swordfighting, as with most fighting, is footwork—that is, having a solid stance so the most powerful strikes you make don’t come from your arms or even your torso, but from the very bottoms of your feet. And when you have that ability to leap forward and keep that momentum up, you can drive your opponent before you like autumn leaves before the gale.
But Nauma could not fight against Gefjun, because she was being swarmed by angry puffins biting her legs. She tripped over them, and tried to kick them out of the way, but it was hard to kick puffins and fight effectively at the same time.
Gefjun shoved her back, and Nauma went tumbling. The puffins were staying clear of Gefjun, to her relief. She rushed at Nauma to finish the job, but her henchman jumped in to protect her. Though, as soon as he jumped in, he was swarmed by puffins as well.
By now, King Varinn’s other ships had caught up with them and had pulled alongside Gefjun’s ship.
Nauma clambered to her feet and spit at Gefjun. Then she and her whole crew were running and leaping overboard off the puffin-infested ship. The puffins raced after them, making angry bird noises, and flew over the side of the ship after the runaways. A black ship pulled up, swooped them aboard, and zipped away—a sleek vessel that moved faster than any boat she’d seen in her life. The puffins chased after it, but the ship outran them, and they set off for shore. Gefjun watched them sadly as they left.
A Fire of Roses Page 2
