Now that Nauma’s troops were gone, Gefjun’s shipmates began waking up, staggering to their feet, pushing away the groggy troops from King Varinn’s ships who had been on their ship when the sleeping spell had fallen over them.
And her own tongue was freed. Some of the crew stood up wounded, and Gefjun waved them over to her to get bandaged up so they could run back into the fray. “What happened? What happened?” they asked.
“Some idiots cast a spell over this ship and knocked everybody out,” she said.
“Who’s your puffin friend?” somebody asked. Gefjun looked down and there was the little guy with his mouthful of fish, back again, wandering through the legs of the warriors, looking at them with curiosity. Fine with her. She wrapped bandages around arms and legs with her puffin friend standing on her foot. It was very comfortable.
The fighting started up again as the other ships from King Varinn’s fleet caught up with them.
“Disaster closes in,” Gefjun muttered, tearing off a strip of her skirt to use as a bandage.
Her ship shook as one of King Varinn’s incoming ships rammed it, knocking her off her feet. Vikings from his ship leapt over the sides with their swords in hand and falling onto the crew of her ships.
Gefjun, alarmed at the press of the fight, grabbed her sword and shield again to defend her wounded, laying about left and right to keep the fighters back, shouting, “Get back from the wounded! I’m a medic, get back!”
Then a huge roar enveloped them from all over the water.
The whole ship went still—a lull fell over the fighters as they listened. Then one of the king’s fighters laughed.
The roar became louder from the ships. People cheered. Somebody had gained a victory.
“Oh no,” Gefjun groaned. Because that wasn’t their side doing the cheering.
A new roar. One of the red dragons—the queen’s dragons—hurtled in flames toward the water. The sky was clear of red dragons. Only black dragons, King Varinn’s dragons, remained, milling around and shooting fire in celebration.
“Retreat!” shouted Skeggi from his ship. “Retreat!”
Svala shouted, “Rowers, take your positions,” but the deck was awash in attackers, the King’s fighters, rejoicing at their victory and taking heart, whooping as they chased the ship’s crew and the warriors. Their blows fell harder now.
“Take the queen’s scum as prisoners,” a foreign voice shouted. One of King Varinn’s men flung nets through the air over Gefjun’s friends. Svala screamed, fighting an attacker. A gout of bright red blood gushed from her mouth the instant before she collapsed on the deck.
“No!” Gefjun screamed. Her strongest impulse was to run across the deck and deal bloody death to Svala’s attacker, but she needed to protect her patients at all costs.
With a horrid swish, a net wheeled through the air and fell over her—a net dipped in black tar so every strand stuck to her. She struggled against it to move, trying to work her sword arm free. The hateful tar clung to her face.
One of the women who threw it approached. “Easy prey,” she sneered.
And drew her sword.
“Wait,” said one of her comrades, placing a hand on her arm. “Look at that woman… her face.”
Gefjun wasn’t really caring. “Don’t throw nets on the wounded,” she cried. “I’m a medic. Don’t throw tarred nets on them. It would be too hard to clean the wounds. They’re suffering enough as it is. They can’t run, one of them is a burn victim. Spare them.”
The woman continued as if Gefjun hadn’t spoken. “She’s the spitting image, ain’t she? Claim this ship and all its occupants, quickly.”
They cast nets everywhere. Not one of the Dyrfinna’s old crew were able to escape.
“We claim this ship for King Varinn,” shouted one of the women.
From Skeggi’s ship, somebody else shouted the same thing.
“Secure everyone. Anybody who rebels we will cast into thralldom,” one of the fighters informed them. “All of you will work as slaves as part of our plunder, with no hope of seeing your homeland ever again.”
3
Thralls
Gefjun’s heart froze. No. No. Not that.
Similar shouts were rising from Skeggi’s ship. Not him too!
Svala, along with the rest of the dead, were flung overboard. Gefjun watched with tears in her eyes and hate in her heart. She and the other warriors that remained of Dyrfinna’s crew were all herded to the back of the ship. King Varinn’s warriors pulled the tarred nets from Queen Saehildr’s fighters, and bound them with ropes.
Every warrior that remained of Dyrfinna’s crew were herded to the rowing benches, where they were chained together and their weapons removed.
“If you don’t row, then we’ll cut your throat and throw you overboard,” said the leader of the King’s crew who had taken the whip.
“I must stay with the wounded,” Gefjun said as they came to add her to the rowers. “These are my charges. I am their medic.”
“If they can’t row, they can’t stay!” cried the new captain. “Throw them overboard!”
“No!” cried Gefjun and tried to fight free from her bonds. They laughed at her and threw her first patient overboard.
“Stop! They can row! They can row!”
“She can’t,” one of Varinn’s men said, standing over Rjupa. He leered. “A hot girl. Mmm.”
“You depraved monster!”
He stepped forward and struck her across the face so hard that she fell, unable to catch herself with her hands, and slammed against the deck.
She opened her mouth. A bubble of blood popped with her breath. “Rjupa,” she cried, struggling to get up. She spit out some blood. “Rjupa, Ragnarok. Leave them alone!”
“I can row,” Ragnarok said. He was lying on the ground right next to her and met her eyes—or tried to for a moment, before his eyes wandered off again. A result of his head injury, she knew.
King Varinn’s men grunted as they picked someone else up, who said, “No, put me down, you horse lickers,” before they heaved. A huge splash followed their words.
“Get the burned girl.”
From the rowing benches, Skeggi cried “NO.”
“Watch out!”
“Stop him!”
Skeggi came running so fast across the ship it was almost as if he were flying, eyes wide, sword in hand, and he cut down people as he ran. Somehow he’d gotten his hands free.
A spear thudded into the side of the ship in front of Skeggi, grazing his face, and blood ran down onto his shoulder. He staggered only a little bit from the blow but even this didn’t make him move his eyes away from Rjupa.
“PUT HER DOWN,” he shouted, making his way forward again. He brought his sword down onto one of the people who were trying to pick up Rjupa to throw her overboard.
Rjupa fell out of the man’s arms with a thin scream that was lost in the yells of the warriors who piled onto Skeggi, shouting and yelling.
They dragged Skeggi back to his feet, head lolling, a spreading red patch on his chest. He weakly tried to tear away, stretching his arms out toward Rjupa.
“Let them go!” Gefjun cried, trying to fight her way to her feet.
A sudden pressure in the middle of her back. One of the King’s men stood with one of his feet on her spine, not letting her stand.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, laughing.
“You’re not throwing her overboard,” Skeggi cried, fighting weakly to pull away from the many hands that held him. Blood was running from his head into his tangled long hair.
“You can’t stop us,” one of the enemies laughed.
A big, burly man reached down, picked up Rjupa’s light form as she screamed in agony, and threw her over the side.
“NO,” Skeggi screamed.
In one move he was out of their arms and clambering over the side after her.
There was a great splash. Then more splashing. The sound of Rjupa choking on water.
G
efjun screamed until her voice gave out.
Then she wept into the bottom of the ship as her patients that she’d worked so hard to save, who’d been so patient with her, who’d borne their wounds and pain so bravely, were all cast overboard as if they were nothing.
They hauled her to her feet, she not caring whether she lived or died. The grunts and moans of her drowning patients, their splashes, were rising up from the water outside the ship.
They dragged her to the rowing benches and forced her to sit next to…
Ragnarok.
She placed her hand on his arm, unable to believe her eyes.
“I came to the benches before they could get me,” he said, his eyes wandering.
“They killed everybody,” she said, and the hot tears began to flow.
He was weeping too, and did a funny motion with his head like he was trying to nod. “Yes,” he said. “All my friends.”
One of King Varinn’s men who was passing by smacked Gefjun on the back of the head. They’d cut her out of her net, but she still had tar all over her. “Stop sniveling and start rowing.”
But when the taskmaster had moved on, a puffin peeked out from under the rowing bench at her. It looked around, then ducked out of sight. She felt its warm little body nestle down on her foot, felt its little purr.
They rowed all the rest of the day, moving south toward King Varinn’s keep. Other of the queen’s ships that had been captured drove south with them. Ragnarok swayed on the oars. Gefjun and the other rowers on the line were rowing for him—to hide that he was failing.
They made Gefjun and the rest of the crew row until a wind finally came up, and they raised the sail. The rowers collapsed along the sides of the ship, forced to watch the king’s people going through their sea-chests for their most precious items.
While they rested on the sides of the ship, she tended to Ragnorak, rewrapping his head and having him lie down, where he fell asleep at once.
After two and a half days, the wind carried them most of the way to King Varinn’s keep, but when they were within sight of the great keep, they brought down the sails and made the crew go back to the oars. Gefjun watched the imposing castle looming up with hate in her heart—a huge fortress made of stone that rose out of the high cliffs. Smoke rolled up from the back, probably where the dragons dwelled in the cliffs behind.
What happens to us now? she thought. Had these been the frightened thoughts that their thrall girl, Merry, had endured as she was taken into slavery? She’d never seen her home again. Gefjun had never thought about it. Well, she had a little, but it always disturbed her too much to think about very much. It was shallow of her. Now she would have to endure thralldom—too late for her to do anything to correct it. She could have sent Merry home at any time.
Gefjun took a deep breath. Her family’s sins were catching up to her.
The ships came sliding into the harbor. Everybody on board sat silent except for the members of the king’s crew, who were talking about a monastery they’d raided somewhere that had the most cunning little golden cups, but they wouldn’t hold more than a thimbleful of wine, so what was the point.
Gefjun and the other prisoners were forced off the ship. Two men let Ragnarok lean on them as they left the ship. From there they were marched, surrounded by Vikings with spears and swords, to a large underground room carved deep into the side of the mountain under the castle.
But somebody grabbed Gefjun and pulled her almost off her feet.
“Hey,” she shouted, trying to shake off the iron grip, trying to get her feet under her again.
“You’re coming with me,” a man said, leering.
The way he was dragging her away, it was obvious he had only one thing in mind.
She had her work knife for cutting bandages and treating wounds. She stumbled and unholstered the knife. “Help me,” she said as she pretended to steady herself by grabbing the man’s shoulder.
He turned to leer at her. “Oh, you really want to—”
She sank her work knife deep into his side and pulled it up.
The very useful thing about being a healer was that she knew exactly where to put the knife so it would cut into his liver. He wasn’t going to recover from that wound. She could guarantee it.
“Hooaw,” he said as he collapsed.
She was running as fast as she could away from there.
There was no place for her to escape to, and she knew it. But she wasn’t just going to stand there and look stupid with that man kicking on the ground with blood running out.
“Catch her!” somebody shouted, and in a moment, it was done. They dragged her back, and wrested her work knife from her hand.
And now her little work knife was gone, the knife that her papa had made for her on her eleventh birthday when it was clear that she was going to follow in her mama’s footsteps. “I’m only making this knife for you,” he said, “because you can handle a knife with care and without cutting off all your fingers.” She’d been very proud that day. He trusted her to keep all her fingers – and she had, she thought now, the memory bringing just a ghost of a smile.
But now that little bit of home was gone.
She wept. Not only for the death of her friends, her capture, seeing poor Ragnarok dying but trying to stay alive, and for the little bit of home they’d taken from her.
She sobbed until one of King Varinn’s men said, “Stop your sniveling or I’ll give you something to snivel about,” and struck her so hard on the head that everything went black.
She woke up a moment later lying on the ground. She moaned, wracked with pain.
But suddenly a woman cried, “Get away from that prisoner or I’ll feed yer sorry arse to the dragons.”
Oh, no, Dyrfinna came back, Gefjun thought.
But no, thank goodness, this was some other person.
A Viking stood over Gefjun. With her bad eyesight, dimmed further with pain, all she could make out were the man’s leather boots, which were more like leather stockings, pulled over the feet. The man who wore them was a mess of dark pelts, and he stank.
But the woman who’d spoken, who wore what looked like a red kilt, stepped up and cracked the man in the nose. His head snapped back.
He roared and swung at the woman—then yelped. “You stabbed me!” he cried, aghast. “How dare you stab me!”
“I am second in command to King Varinn,” the woman said. “Be gone with ye, ya scoundrel. And dona show yer face again if ya ken what’s good for ye. Though I’d reckon ye dona ken,” she added in an undertone. “Knave.”
The woman stooped down, coming into Gefjun’s range of vision. Her jet-black hair was elaborately braided in the style of the Valkyries. She had frank brown eyes, dark brown freckles, and a baldric slung over her shoulder with five knives stuck in it, ready for throwing. She looked part Moorish, and her accent sounded like she was from Wessex or one of the kingdoms in East Anglia.
“Are ye hurt?” the woman asked, her eyes flicking over Gefjun’s face.
“No,” Gefjun said, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.
“Take my hand,” she said. Gefjun accepted and got to her feet with the help.
A deep imposing voice said, “Thank you, Hedgehog. Who else has been harming this girl?”
The man with the imposing voice stood over them, a Moorish man, a descendant of one of the great empires in Africa. The great cities of Ethiopia and Persia sent their ships all over the world with gold, roses, and fabulous riches. She had always longed to travel and see those lands, though she probably would have died from the heat. It would have been worth it.
The Moor was black as a raven, wearing an impressive shirt of chain mail. Gefjun wasn’t sure if it was her poor eyesight, but his chain mail had a strange, iridescent quality, reflecting light in soft purples and blues, which she had never seen chain mail do before. Or maybe that was from her being hit in the head.
He frowned at her attacker. “How dare you drag off this woman in thi
s way. You can cool your heels in the dungeon. If I decided your punishment now, it would go very badly for you. Guards, take him now.”
They hustled Gefjun’s attacker away. Thank goodness.
“Somebody help this woman up and send her on with the rest of the thralls,” he said, and several people came over, and helped her to her feet.
“Thank you,” Gefjun said, lifting her face to the man who’d helped her. Now she was close enough to see his face, and saw immediately that his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he’d been weeping. The lines in his forehead, the droop of his eyes, spoke of some great sorrow that he’d endured. Her heart went out to him.
But when he went to answer, his mouth opened, his eyes searched her face, and wonder came into his eyes. “Could it be?” he murmured. “But no….”
“What is it?” asked Gefjun.
He shook his head. “My apologies. You look almost exactly like somebody who was very dear to me. Guards, take this woman to….”
He began his command, then once again shook his head, looking puzzled. “No,” he said as if to himself, looking again at her face. “No. She will come upstairs.”
Gefjun started. “Wait, what?”
“You are to come with me. I want to talk to you.”
All the blood ran from her face, and she started to shake. “No. No. I need to stay here. With my people.”
He peered at her, but suddenly his face cleared. “I did not mean it like that. I simply want to speak with you. In private. I need to know where you are from, who you are.”
“Well, I can tell you that right now,” she snapped.
“Enough,” he said quietly. “I will speak to you at my leisure.”
“Who are you to be bossing me around like this?” Gefjun demanded.
The Moor looked at her for a long moment. Gefjun knew she should turn aside, but she held his eye, glaring the whole time.
“I am King Varinn,” he said quietly. “And you are, for all your bluster, still my prisoner.”
A Fire of Roses Page 3
