Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(34)

“You deserved worse,” she whispered.

The warriors howled. It was a bestial exaltation, putting Aelfhild in mind of the King’s hounds baying at the moons.

It made her feel like prey.

She dropped back into the hold, where Ceolwen and Bercthun had managed to shift Sigfus’ bulk.

Aelfhild put her back to her mistress, and Bercthun did the same. They all turned their eyes to the platforms above.





17

The dark-painted Northman was the first one down into the hold. Faceplate and helmet still obscured most of his features, so he appeared an inhuman apparition, silver-faced and splattered with gore. He gave Sigfus’ corpse a resounding kick before removing his mask.

Aelfhild blinked, worried her eyes had played a trick. She had been wrong about the warpaint; it was lines of white overtop his skin, which was dark as polished walnut. His hair was deep brown to match, a mass of curls. This was not the snow-skinned Thrym she had expected.

The battleaxe in his hands, still dripping blood, clashed with the broad smile on his face. Bercthun’s shoulder pressed against Aelfhild’s as they edged in front of their mistress.

Gesturing toward Bercthun, the raider spoke in the northern tongue. He sounded friendly enough, but the axe blade held Aelfhild’s gaze.

Bercthun raised his palms and shook his head. “We want no trouble, friend, we are not your enemy,” he said.

The Northman, or Southman, as it were—Aelfhild was still reeling—spread his wrists apart.

Broken chains, she thought, and said so to Bercthun. The young warrior spread his manacles against the hull. A mighty blow of the axe and his arms were free again.

“Jarngrim,” their new friend pointed at himself. He repeated the word slowly and carefully for them, as though teaching an obstinate child her first words. “Jarngrim.”

Bercthun introduced himself as well, and was pulled into a bearhug for his efforts. Aelfhild could hear his spine crackling beneath the embrace.

Jarngrim laughed as he thumped the young Earnfolding on the back, then threw back his head.

“Eyvind! Rolf!” he shouted.

Two new men appeared atop the aft platform. Aelfhild recognized the spearman who had slain Leofstan, taller and lean, beside a squat, grey-bearded companion. The tall man dropped down into the blood-spattered hay.

Rings of silver and iron jangled about his arms as he moved. Jarngrim only had one ring on each arm, these others both had a greater collection. It seemed a mark of rank amongst them.

Jarngrim and the spearman whispered briefly in Thrym before the newcomer removed his helmet and tossed it back to his waiting companion. Sweat had slicked down his short hair and stained a face that might once have been handsome, but it was hard to tell. A nose broken on more than one occasion and a scar from temple to jaw dominated the man’s features. His skin was starkly pale next to Jarngrim’s.

Shouldering Aelfhild and Bercthun aside, he grabbed Ceolwen’s hand and ran his fingers across her palm. He pushed a knuckle under her chin to lift her head, examining her eyes and face.

Aelfhild’s breath caught in her throat, and she could feel Bercthun’s muscles tensing beside her. We traded one set of slavers for another, she thought. There was no escape, so she looked around for a weapon; Sigfus’ staff had rolled into the hold during the fight, but Jarngrim stood overtop of it.

The man finally stepped back, releasing his grip on Ceolwen’s arm.

“The others on this ship are poor fishermen and peasants,” he began without preamble. His Earnfolding was accented but understandable, and his tone suggested that obedience was the wisest course. “You are not. Who are you?”

Ceolwen made as if to speak, but Bercthun broke in before she could say a word. “We are members of the king’s court in Cynestead, taken captive by these curs in Haernmuth,” he said.

Aelfhild nodded along. He bent the truth without breaking it, which was wise in dealing with these unknown men.

Bercthun continued, “We thank you for saving us, lord, and beg your mercy.” He bowed his head, a gesture Aelfhild and Ceolwen imitated.

The tall man threw back his head, the barking laugh ringing out once more. “I am no lord. Eyvind, I am called, and you will have mercy only if you give me truth. Who are you? And who is she?” He pointed a finger sternly at Ceolwen, eyes hard. “And why would a slave fight armed men to save her?”

This Thrym is no fool, thought Aelfhild; he saw how we acted. We will have to tread carefully indeed.

Bercthun paused for a moment, doubtless mustering the right words.

But Ceolwen chose to speak for herself, squaring her shoulders and raising herself up to full height. She mustered all of the haughty force of her royal training, belied though it was by her unwashed face, knotted hair, and ragged clothing. “I am Ceolwen, daughter of Osred, King of Earnfold. These are my servants, Bercthun and Aelfhild,” she nodded to either side. “We seek passage to Jarl Harald, my cousin, in Jarlstad.”

There was silence in the hold.

Eyvind stared. Bercthun stared.

The words echoed, deafening, in Aelfhild’s ears. She has rolled the dice, Aelfhild thought, but if she rolled them wrong, then the damn fool girl has killed us.

The other warriors awaited orders without hint of boredom. Jarngrim and Rolf stood poised, hands on weapons.

Then Eyvind spoke. “Then you go with me to Jarlstad, under my guard. You are not slaves, but you are not yet free. The Jarl will judge you.” He spoke to his underlings in their native tongue.