The Viking’s Sacrifice

by Julia Knight

  Sigdir spat out more growls and Bebba translated again. “He says stand up straight so’s he can look at you.”

  Wilda pinched her lips together but stood up straighter. There was a time and place for fighting back, and this wasn’t it. Not with just her and Bebba against Sigdir, who stood a head taller than them, probably weighed the same as the two of them put together and had a bright sword at his waist. She had to bide her time.

  “He wants to know about Toki.”

  Wilda snatched a look at Bebba, but the older woman’s face was blank. “What about him?”

  “You know right well what.”

  “I don’t know, I told you. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell him.”

  Bebba translated and Sigdir’s face grew red as a beet. His hand flashed out and caught Wilda across the face again, the heavy ring on his forefinger cutting her lip. She staggered back but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of falling again. Silence was her only rebellion.

  “He says not to worry, it won’t matter soon. You belong to him, and you remember it. And you do what he says.”

  Sigdir leaned forward and pressed his face close to hers. His hand came up to grab her jaw and squeezed. If he was hoping for any sign of pain, she denied it to him, pinched her lips shut against the gasp, against the fear and the anger. He whispered some dread-sounding words then dropped his hand and stalked out of the door.

  “He said—he said you’d best learn more of their tongue by Winter Nights. He wants you to understand what he’s saying to you, even if you can’t reply much. If you don’t, we all gets it in the neck. You, me and Agnar.”

  Wilda sank down to a bench, her hands shaking more with anger than with fear.

  Bebba settled next to her, but her tone wasn’t her wise, patient one, it was the scold. “You got to do it, you understand? Whatever they asks, you got to do. You can’t go on behaving like you’re a lady, ’cause you ain’t, not anymore. You got to do as you’re told. And that means learning, if that’s what he wants. He’s a cruel bastard at times, and this is one of them times.”

  Do what you’re told. She always did, that was the problem, could hardly remember the girl she’d been who’d never listened, who ran her own path and laughed at those who didn’t. One fateful, bloody, flaming night had changed everything. Yet it seemed that was her lot in life, in most every woman’s life. Do what your man tells you whether he’s your father, your husband or your owner. She wasn’t sure she had it left in her to do anything else, too ground down with it to care anymore.

  No one was more surprised than Wilda when Toki chose that night to come again, his face resolute against Bebba’s glare, against what she’d told him. He saw Wilda’s swollen lip and cut cheek, scowled at Bebba and loomed over her till she babbled out some heathen words that didn’t calm him at all. Wilda could make out one or two words—Bebba had spent the afternoon drilling her as she ground—yet it was the “Sigdir” that seemed to affect Toki the most. His hands curled into fists and he turned away, but not before Wilda saw the look of impotent rage. He crouched down by the fire and stared into the flames for a time, but when he turned back, all the anger was gone from his face.

  He gestured at Bebba until she understood and made a fuss of getting warm water and sprinkling a few dried herbs in it. She brought it over with a cloth, but Toki took them from her with a reproachful glare that made her blush and waved her away. Bebba went, reluctantly, to busy herself in the brewing room. Toki crouched in front of Wilda and dipped the cloth in the bowl.

  He dabbed the damp cloth at the cut on her cheek, and she willed herself not to flinch, to stay cold and proud, a Christian among heathens. She managed it all right, until he dropped the cloth and traced his finger over the cut, so delicately she hardly felt it. She sat back, discomfort and fear stalking her thoughts. That this was one of the raiders who’d killed so many that day, that above all he was heathen, not Christian, had barbaric ways that made all the tales of devilry about them seem but child’s stories.

  Only Toki wasn’t of the Devil, she knew that, she’d always known that, and the knowledge confused her. It was ridiculous, he’d only ever said three words to her, and yet he was the closest thing she had to someone she could trust. There was a quiet sort of strength to him. Not like the other men she’d known who were hard and forceful to show that strength, but it was in Toki’s eyes, the steady way he’d looked at Agnar when he’d offered to buy her. That he was here now, even though Bebba had warned him it might cost his blood to come again. Coward, Bebba said they called him, and he was anything but that.

  She couldn’t see his eyes in the half-dark of the lamps, but the set of his mouth changed when she trembled, became twisted with sadness. He took his hand away and turned his head. Almost, she reached out for him. Almost. She couldn’t, not a heathen. She should pity him, yes, she should try and show him the light. But not that, not the touch she wanted to give, would have done once without a second thought, before practicality had shorn her of her heart, before piety had driven it from her. Yet part of her ached to throw all that off, to say to the Devil with the consequences, because the Devil was with her in her torment, and if God cared, why had he brought her here?

  Agnar banged through the door, his placid face twisted into a fierce scowl that was still tinged with sadness. A few short, sharp words got Toki to his feet but he didn’t leave, no matter that it was plain what Agnar said to him. Instead he stood for long heartbeats, standing tall before Agnar despite the knife the older man had pulled out, Toki’s look strong and steady even in the face of that. Agnar broke first and put away the knife, muttering about something, and Toki left with a last soft smile at Wilda.

  Agnar spent some time berating Bebba, his face flushed with a temper Wilda hadn’t seen on him before. Finally he slammed out of the house, leaving Wilda shaken and Bebba white and trembling.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it, girl. Both of you have.”

  “Done what?” Wilda tried to still her hands, which shook not just from Agnar’s anger, but from Toki and his feather-light touch.

  “Agnar’s taking him to Sigdir and Bausi, and he’s livid that you two made him do that. That meeting ain’t going to end well, mark my words. They’re brothers, the three of them, didn’t I say that? When brothers come to blows over a woman it never ends well, and it’ll be Toki taking the brunt.” Bebba smiled a little. “Part of me hopes he’ll stand before Bausi like he did to old Agnar there. And part of me knows, if he does, it’ll cost him more than blood. It’ll be everything he has—blood, bone and heart.”

  When Toki got outside Agnar’s, armed men were waiting for him, come to take him to Bausi, as Agnar had said. His visit had been marked, it seemed. He took a deep breath to steady his hand, and gave them no trouble; there was no trouble he could give them, halt and weaponless against their nimbleness and swords. They shoved him through the swirling snow.

  “A thrall all you can manage then, Toki? Can’t even get one of them, can you?”

  “Poor bastard,” the other said. “Not even Ingmar’s thrall, the one who lives with the pigs, would look at Toki twice.”

  The back of Toki’s neck burned, but he set his mouth shut, to keep his words in as he always did. Maybe they were right. No woman would look at him, not even a thrall. Except Wilda, who looked at him, made him think the courage he had in his dreams was real, made him stand tall.

  They reached Bausi’s hall and ducked though the doorway, shaking snow from cloaks and stamping it from boots before they went further. The hall was almost empty tonight except for Bausi in his high seat, Ragnhilda to one side. One of his men shoved Toki forward and onto his knees, needing no prompting but the blood-cursed rune in its bag on a leather thong round Bausi’s neck that sucked the will from him. Yet even on his knees, he kept his back straight and his eyes on Bausi. All the courage he could afford, but he took it.

  Bausi took his time before he spoke, time to study Toki intently with a puzzled frown, cuffed him till he
looked at the floor. Toki kept his hands curled into fists of impotent wishing. Agnar came in with a swish of cloak and a stomp of snowy boots. His face was hard with worry and anger. Sigdir came a pace behind with a curving sneer and it seemed that was the cue for Bausi to finally speak.

  “Sigdir tells me you’ve taken a liking to one of his thralls, that you keep pestering her. That you tried to buy her from Agnar. Is this true, half-wit? Look up!”

  Toki raised his eyes and wished he had not. Ragnhilda looked beautiful and spiteful, her face fair, her eyes narrowed in contempt. She’d been his once and had been as fair in her heart as she was in her face. Until Bausi persuaded her parents that she should marry him instead of his disgraced brother, and poisoned her until she was like him. Now there was nothing left of the girl who’d blushed when she saw her betrothed off on his first raid, who’d giggled at everything and saw good in everyone.

  Bausi looked dread and imposing on his high seat. Always broad of shoulder, he’d filled out to his prime now, a force of nature and personality that dwarfed any other. “What makes you think you have any rights to thralls? You have rights only where I bestow them, and a nithing like you gets few indeed. You’re lucky I’m benevolent enough to give you land to feed yourself and shelter against the snow. Other jarls would not be so forgiving, and you repay my and Sigdir’s kindness with this?”

  Bausi stood and descended from the dais, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Sigdir shifted to Toki’s other side. The day had come when Bausi would kill him, as Toki had always known it would come eventually. Bausi kept him alive only as long as he was no inconvenience, as long as he was amusement, as long as he stayed properly cowed. As long as he did not speak, and he’d spoken.

  “What is it about this thrall, eh, little brother? Why this one? Why tell her to escape, when the snows are deep and she has nowhere to escape to? Why spend your first words in all this time on that? Why try to buy her? Come, now. We know you can speak. So, speak. Tell me why you disrespect your brother so.”

  They crowded in on him, one either side, swords out now, flickering in the dim light.

  “Now, that’s not—” Agnar began.

  Bausi stopped him with a slashing motion of his hand. “He tried to buy this thrall from behind his brother’s back. He speaks, to her and no one else. He gives her a Mjollnir that was a gift from our father, a gift he shouldn’t be handing to just anyone, let alone a thrall. Then a fine cloak. He encourages her to escape.” Bausi’s sword came up under Toki’s chin and raised it further. “Tell me, brother. Why this thrall?”

  Sweat slicked Toki’s brow as he struggled to think what to say. It had been so long since he’d had cause to, and that it should be about this… “I didn’t know she was Sigdir’s. And—and it’s been a long time and lonely.” Not a lie—a man of Odin wouldn’t lie before their jarl, no matter how twisted he might be. Yet not the whole truth. Just enough so Bausi wouldn’t guess his secret. Toki watched Ragnhilda as he spoke, thinking of the few kisses he’d stolen before his shame, and the utter lack of any kind touch since.

  “And you liked the look of her, did you?” That was Sigdir, from the other side. “A thrall like that is not for the likes of you.”

  Bausi threw him a questioning look and Sigdir smiled, smug as any cat.

  “A surprise. But no thrall is for the likes of this nithing. What’s your ruling?”

  Bausi pinched his eyebrows together in a frown, considering, and slid the blade further along Toki’s throat. Toki wondered how it would be if he stood now, if now his silence was broken and he spoke Bausi’s deeds. If he reached up and twisted Bausi as Bausi had twisted the wyrd of the fjord, twisted Sigdir and Gudrun against him. His heart thumped loudly at the wanting of it, of being able to show them, all of them, he wasn’t the coward they thought. Silence, keep still. Keep lives, not make deaths. Bear it, so they will live.

  Bausi smiled as Toki turned his face away at that thought. “You keep yourself away from her, from any thrall. You have no right to own one, remember that. Keep to your hut, away from decent men and women. If Sigdir should catch you pestering her again, he’ll be within his rights to take you to task for it, as he sees fit. But, Sigdir, I’d like to see this thrall, see what it is about her that has our brother so brazen.”

  “And you will. I intend her for a surprise at Winter Nights.”

  Bausi kicked at Toki’s shoulder, sent him sprawling, and jerked his head at his men. “Take him home. And you, Toki, remember your place in this world. Remember that you are nothing, and you stay in that hut. For good.” He touched the rune at his throat, nestled under the silver jarl-torc, and Toki’s throat dried up.

  Then Bausi’s men bundled him up and out into the snow.

  Chapter Ten

  Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing.

  Proverbs 18:22

  Wilda hesitated behind Agnar as they entered Sigdir’s house. Bebba had warned her of him too well and she’d seen what he was like with Myldrith on board the ship, felt the sting of his hand herself, knew too much for her to feel anything other than dread.

  Sigdir got up from the bench where he was taking his night meal, waited on by three thralls including Myldrith. Agnar spoke swiftly to him, and one of the thralls gave Wilda a quick, furtive glance of alarm before Sigdir barked an order and led the men out, save one armed warrior.

  When they were gone, Myldrith hurried over and threw her arms round Wilda. It hadn’t been long, but Myldrith looked like a different girl. Her face was pinched and gaunt, her eyes haunted and her skin pale and blotchy. Wilda hugged her back, glad more than she could say that she was back with someone she knew, some reference to her former life.

  The other thralls gathered round, watching Wilda carefully as though afraid, or maybe resentful. Then one smiled a little and handed her a bowl of gruel. Not much, but it was hot and Wilda was famished. She took it gratefully and they all settled on the benches under the half-asleep eye of the remaining warrior laid out on a bench against the far wall.

  “He always leaves at least one to guard us,” Myldrith whispered. “These girls say he’s had too many run from him before, and—and—I would run, Wilda, no matter the snow or any of it. Lord help me, I would run to the Devil himself rather than stay.”

  The other girls nodded, and in the stronger light by the fire Wilda could see the purple shadows across one’s face, the marks of a hand on Myldrith’s arm. And this devil was her master. The gruel turned to ash in her mouth.

  She took Myldrith’s cold hand in hers. “We’ll get away. I promise you, as soon as we can.”

  “There’s no getting away in this weather. Not for months, not till spring. Only way in or out is by the fjord, they say, and it’s a long, hard row to anywhere. Besides, once anyone sees your collar, they’d bring you right back.”

  The two other thralls nodded. “One girl tried it, last winter,” the younger one said. “They found her body in the thaw. Even in summer, it’s a long way to anywhere else. The pass over the mountains is hard, and Sigdir—he sends his men after them, and when they catch them it’s worse. Some of these other heathens, they aren’t so bad. We talk to the other thralls sometimes, when he lets us, and some of them, well, they get to make money to try to buy themselves out. They aren’t beaten, or anything else, or not so much, so bad. They have to work hard is all. Sigdir isn’t like that, nor that devil Bausi. But running is hard, and just as likely to get you killed, or make things worse.”

  Myldrith hugged herself, looking pitifully frail. “I don’t know how he can be worse.”

  Wilda had to get away. This would be her soon, she had no doubt. Thin and afraid and hopeless. Maybe she could get Myldrith away too. “I might be able to—”

  The door opened with a whirl of frigid air and a flurry of snow. The warrior on the far bench sat up as Sigdir came in and sat next to him. Myldrith ran to help him with his boots.

  Sigdir watched Wilda, his eyes darting over her, lingering here and there until Wilda�
��s flesh began to creep with it, but she didn’t flinch. He spoke, his voice deep and brutal-sounding, with a hint of smugness. The older thrall, Rowena, translated for him in a halting, stumbling voice.

  “He—he says that you are a noble lady, the thane’s wife, yes?”

  “I was, until he killed my husband.”

  Sigdir laughed at that and clapped his hands.

  “He says, yes, and he got a fine death. But that this thane, he willed his estate to his wife—oh, my lady.” Rowena’s mouth dropped open.

  The sheaves of vellum that one of Sigdir’s men had gathered in the hall, while Bayen lay dead upon the floor. The making sure she was his wife before they killed him…

  “He says that your husband warned him of Saxon law, that a widow can’t be made to marry for a year after her husband’s death. That’s why he brought you here, because they’ve no such law.”

  “Tell him that’s true, but because he’s taken me, the lands will be given to someone else. A relative of Bayen’s, or my brother perhaps.” God would forgive her the lie, she hoped.

  Rowena translated and Sigdir stood up with a snarl. Wilda did flinch this time—her face still stung from his slap, her lip was still swollen. He was a big man, a warrior who’d shown no indication that he was shy of any kind of violence and every indication that it was his first recourse in any situation.

  “Then he’ll kill them too, and install you as the rightful heir,” Rowena translated when Sigdir spoke. “And as his wife. He will protect your lands from other raiders, other Norsemen. A deal, a trade to benefit you both.”

  Wilda’s hands fluttered by her side and her pulse throbbed in her throat, at both the words and at the look on Sigdir’s face. He reached out with one hand to cup her chin. She jerked away from his touch, but he gripped harder until she had to face him. His smile was hard, lips pulled back against his teeth like a snarling dog.