Maidensong (2 page)

Her mind refused to make sense of what she saw.
Magnus lay face down on the ground, his skull cleaved
open. The soggy gray porridge of his brain oozed out,
a thousand nights’ stories spilling into the straw-covered dirt.

“Oh, Father.” Rika dropped to her knees beside him,
clutching at her chest. A sob constricted her throat and stung her eyes. She had to remind herself to breathe.

She’d only been a small girl the first time she’d heard Magnus Silver-Throat tell the tale of
Ragnarok,
the Doom of the Gods. The death of Odin and his cohorts of Asgard had always seemed the most horrific, the most obscene thing she could imagine.

Until now.

Ketil turned Magnus over gently. “All will be well,” he kept repeating, trying to ease Magnus’s brains back
into his skull. “I didn’t dream it, so all will be well.”

“No, Ketil.” Rika roused herself and pulled him
away from Magnus’s body. “All will never be well
again.”

Ketil’s simple face crumpled. He howled his grief
like one of the damned in
Niflheim.
In a harsh world,
only Magnus had seen a reason for Ketil’s gentle soul
to live. And now Magnus was gone.

Rika wrapped her arms around her brother and
rocked him, letting him cry. It didn’t matter who heard
him. Nothing mattered anymore.

A shadow fell across the stable doorway, sending a
chill rippling over her. She looked up, the heaviness in her limbs making even that simple movement difficult.

A tall man blocked the way, his drawn blade still
dripping red. His sword arm was bared and leather
leggings were cinched to his muscular thighs. The mail hanging over his short tunic proclaimed him a raider of
substance. Rika felt sure the dark stains on the man’s
clothing were not his own blood.

His gaze raked over her slowly, and he flashed his teeth at her. A predator’s smile.

“What have we here?” His strong-boned face was
clean-shaven, as much a rarity among Northmen as his dark eyes. “A little mud-hen with an overgrown chick.”

Ketil roared, got to his feet and plowed toward the man, arms flailing. The raider stepped aside and tripped Ketil, sending him sprawling into the mud out
side the stable. Then he whacked Ketil’s bottom with
the flat of his long broadsword as a light reprimand.

Rika scrambled to cover her brother with her own
body. With every bit of the skaldic art Magnus had
taught her, she willed the man to obey her.

“No! You will not hurt this boy.” Even though Ketil
was nine years her senior, to Rika he would always
seem the younger and in need of her protection.

“Looks like I'm wrong.” The man drove the point of
his sword into the ground and leaned on the pommel.
“Not a mud-hen. You're more like a she-wolf, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m a skald.” Rika straightened to her full
height. She considered herself tall for a woman. She’d
been able to look Magnus eye to eye for some time,
but she still had to look up to meet this man’s mock
ing gaze.

“And you are a murderer,” she said with a boldness
that surprised even herself. “You’ve killed the finest
skald ever to grace a hall. Behind you lies Magnus
Silver-Throat, the bravest and best—” Her voice crackled with grief.

An emotion that might have been regret flickered
across the man’s angular face and he glanced over his
shoulder at Magnus’s corpse. “That’s the Silver-Throat?” His lips tightened into a hard line. “I’ve heard of him.”

“And thanks to you, no one will ever hear him
again.” Rika spat the words, swiping at her eyes. Only
the need to keep Ketil safe stopped her from flying at
this dark barbarian in a shrieking rage.

“I didn’t kill him.” The raider eyed the old skald ly
ing on the stable floor. “But one of my men surely did.”

When he tugged off his leather helm, a shock of raven hair fell to the man’s shoulders, a sharp contrast
to his pale Nordic skin. He pulled a horn-handled knife
from the sheath at his waist and placed it in Magnus’s hand, wrapping the cooling fingers around the
hilt.

“Here, friend, a gift to help you after,” he said softly. “Drain a horn for me
in the Hall of the Slain.” Then he strode to the neighboring house, already ablaze, and plucked out a firebrand. The raider tossed it into the open stable door
and waited for a few moments to be sure the flames
caught.

Ketil dissolved into sobs again and Rika stooped to
comfort him. She felt numb and heavy, as though the air she moved through was thick as water.

“It can’t be real,” Ketil insisted. “I would’ve dreamed
it if it were real. I’d tell Father and we’d go away.”

A furrow appeared between the man’s dark brows. “
What’s the matter with him?” He narrowed his eyes at Ketil. “Is he soft-headed?”

“It’s better than being hard-hearted.” Heat rose in
Rika's cheeks. Anger,
ja.
That was something she could let herself feel.

“Can he work?”

“He’s strong, if that’s what you mean.” She fisted her hands at her waist. “If someone shows him what to
do, he’ll work the likes of you down to the ground.”

“Good,” the raider said. “We’ve no room for useless eaters. Come then, both of you.”

“
We’re not going anywhere with you.” She crossed
her arms over her chest, determined to stand her ground, however shaky she felt inside. “We are a troupe of skalds, lately come from the King of the
Danes and are not subject to capture. We’ve only been
here in Hordaland for a week.”

“Then it’s too bad you left the Danes. Maybe you are
what you say, but I only have your word for that, don’t
I?” The man’s face hardened like an oak in winter. “
Whatever you were before, you are now thralls. You belong to the
Jarl
of Sogna.”

“And I suppose you are the
jarl
,” she sneered.

“No, that would be my brother, Gunnar Haralds
son.” One corner of his mouth jinked up in a grim half-smile. “I’m Bjorn the Black. The second son.”

He raised the tip of his sword toward Rika and
Ketil, motioning for them to march to the quay. Bjorn’s
eyes glinted at her, unfathomable as obsidian and just
as hard.

“We’re done talking, little she-wolf. You’ll walk will
ingly or
I’ll
drag you, but either way, you're coming
with me.”

Blood pounded behind her eyes. Rika grabbed
Ketil’s hand and led him toward the waiting longships.
She nearly retched at the scent of searing flesh in the
smoke-filled air, but she strode with her head high. The daughter of Magnus Silver-Throat would not
show weakness before this blood-soaked raider.

For the first time in her life, Rika wished that she’d been born a man. So she could kill Bjorn the Black.

“I suppose you call yourself a hero and imagine a
saga will be composed about your exploits. All you are
is a murderer and a thief,” Rika railed at Bjorn, hoping
to shame him.

She knew baiting the man was foolhardy, but only
her focused hatred of Bjorn the Black kept her on her feet. She couldn’t be silent. Words had always been
her only weapon. White-hot rage boiled out of
her, whether it was wise or not.

“Are there no more monasteries on the Isle of the
Angles?” Her voice bordered on shrill. "No more fat Frankish towns for you to plunder that you must stoop to murder of your own kind?”

“If I were a murderer, your big friend here would be joining Magnus on his pyre,” Bjorn said with icy calm. “
I’ve done no murder. I did what had to be done. I lift
my hand only against those who oppose me. And as
for being a thief, it’s no theft to take back your own.”

When they reached the ship, Bjorn turned to face
the smoldering village. The survivors huddled in mis
erable clumps.

“People of Hordaland! We’ve fallen upon you be
cause of your raid on Sognefjord last month.” His deep
voice reverberated on the mountainside. “The
Jarl
of
Sogna has a long arm. In his name, we’ve taken back
the livestock that was stolen and punished the guilty.
Don’t make the mistake of trying us again. The men of
Sogna will not stand for it.”

Bjorn thrust his sword into its scabbard and bound a sniffling Ketil’s hands together with a leather strap.
When he turned to tie Rika, she jerked away from him.

“Fine sentiments, Bjorn the Black.” She fired the
words at him like arrows. “And what of the innocents you punished with the guilty?”

“I advise you to give me your hands, girl.” He met
her frosty stare with one of his own. “And see you give
me no further cause to bind your mouth as well.”

Rika clamped her lips together, giving him no ex
cuse to gag her. She submitted to the leather strap Bjorn knotted around her wrists, glowering at him
when he pulled it tight. Then Rika climbed into the
swaying longship and hunkered near the prow. She
wanted to put as much distance as possible between
herself and that dark-eyed fiend.

His crew bent to the work and hauled away. Once
the vessel was far enough from land, they shipped the
oars, locked the mast into place and hoisted the big
square sail. A stiff breeze filled the woolen cloth and the ship came alive, lifting in the water despite its full
load. The keel of the dragonship sliced through the
gray swells, the waves dividing like the wings of an ea
gle on each side of the craft. It rode lightly on the sea, as though at any moment it might rise and take flight.

Rika had always loved sailing with Ketil and Magnus in their little coracle, the sharp scent of the sea
and the cries of gulls wheeling overhead. Her whole
life had been one long voyage, interspersed with pleas
urable stays as welcome guests. At Magnus’s side, she was greeted with something akin to awe. The old
skald’s mantle was broad, easily covering his little family of foundlings. Even the lack-witted Ketil was shel
tered under its protection.

Now that part of her life was at an end. In the prow of the dragonship where the sea spray would obscure
them, she wept silent tears for the only fa
ther she’d ever known.

A few tears fell on her own behalf as well. Rika had tumbled from the high status position of the old
skald’s daughter to the hopeless condition of a thrall.
She was now the property of some faceless
jarl
and
might expect even worse treatment than the captured
livestock.

Ketil curled up beside her to sleep, as he often did in
a rolling ship. His pale eyelashes quivered against his
ruddy cheeks. Rika’s chest tightened. Ketil was so big
and strong, though he had but a child’s heart and
mind, easily hurt and confused. How could she hope
to protect him in their new and bewildering circumstances? She had no idea, but she knew she must try. Right alongside her father’s tutelage in the lore and legends of the Norse people, Magnus had taught her loyalty.

Oh, Father!
Why had she argued with him that
morning? And over so trivial a thing. Magnus had in
sisted she try harder to memorize the
Havamal,
the
sayings of Odin. The sagas of heroes were more to her
taste than the homilies of the One-Eyed All-Father.
Now she’d happily learn a thousand of them if she could only take back her harsh words.

A prickle started at the nape of her neck and tingled
down her spine. She turned to seek the source of her unease. At the far end of the dragonship, Bjorn the Black stared at her from his seat at the steering oar.
She’d felt his eyes, hot and intrusive on her skin. They were darker than a bog and more menacing. She was
forced to look away.

Rika was usually good at reading people. As a per
former, she had to be. She’d seen desire in men’s eyes
before, but this was different. She couldn’t decipher the meaning of his intense gaze. The dead stare of Bjorn the Black was more like the look of a wolf stalk
ing a hapless kid who’d strayed too far from the rest of
the flock. In spite of the sun on her shoulders, she
shivered.

Surely someone in the settlement where they were
bound would’ve heard Magnus perform. Perhaps they might also recognize her and Ketil. This whole misunderstanding could be laid to rest. She shot a glance
from under her lashes at Bjorn, who now strained to
keep his ship out of the pounding surf. Perhaps she’d even be able to charge him with murder before the
Lawspeaker and demand a
wergild
for the life of her father. Someone must be held accountable for the death of so great a personage as Magnus, and Bjorn was clearly in charge of this murderous raid. With any
luck, she’d even see the blackguard banished.