CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX ORKA

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ORKA

O rka sat on a barrel, swaying with the rise and swell of the sea as Jarl Orlyg's drakkar travelled along the coast of Vigrie. S?unn, Gunnar and Halja were bending their backs at an oar-bench, Orka steaming with drying sweat as she had just finished her shift. She rubbed her calloused hands together and took a sip from a cup of watered ale as she watched Breca and Lif sparring on the deck. Breca stabbed a spear at Lif, his spear-work fast, which pleased her. Lif defended and moved left and right, keeping Breca off balance, which also pleased her, and Orka could see the frustration building in Breca, bubbling and boiling, which did not please her. As she watched it spilled over and with a growl Breca threw himself at Lif, taking him by surprise, ramming his shoulder into Lif's shield and sending him stumbling back. Lif righted himself and set his feet as Breca came after him, a pivot on one foot and nudge of the shield and Breca was sent staggering past Lif. A stab of his spear that touched the back of Breca's neck and the contest was done. It took a moment for Breca to realise, but then his shoulders slumped and he lowered his shield and spear. He looked sheepishly at Orka and she beckoned him over to her.

"You have a warrior-heart," Orka said, "but it is usually your wits that will win or lose a fight, not the strength in your arms. Or shoulders."

"I know," Breca muttered. "Strategy, like tafl," he said.

"Aye," Orka said, then frowned at Breca. "Who told you that?"

"Biórr, he taught me how to play," Breca said.

"Huh," Orka grunted, not sure she liked the thought of Biórr the rat teaching her son anything.

But it sounds like good advice, although Breca hasn't taken it.

She offered Breca her cup of ale and he took it and drank thirstily. It felt dreamlike, sitting here, talking with him, almost as if he had never been taken from her. She remembered carrying Thorkel from their burning home, remembered the blood on his lips as he told her that Breca had been taken. Just the memory of it felt like a knife was twisting in her belly.

"What are you thinking?" Breca asked her. "You look … sad."

"Of your father," Orka said.

Breca's eyes filled with tears.

"I knew you would find me," he said, a tremor in his lips. A tear spilled and rolled down one cheek.

Orka wiped it away.

"No one will ever take you from me again," she breathed, and Breca put his head on her chest, hugged her tight.

After a while he stepped back and looked at the barrel that Orka was sitting upon.

"When will we go home to bury Spert?" he asked her.

Orka had wanted to give Spert a sea burial, but Breca had pleaded and sobbed that they take the vaesen's body back to their steading at Fellur village and bury him there.

Not a sensible idea , Orka had thought, knowing that the tide of war was rising in Vigrie and who knew where it would carry them. Or where it would drown them. She did not think it was likely that she would ever see Fellur again. They had sailed past the fjord inlet that led to Fellur village a day ago, and that was likely the closest they would come to seeing their homestead again. And also, carrying a corpse across Vigrie was not a practical idea. The body would begin to decay and rot soon. But part of her had softened at Breca's tear-stained face, and part of her hoped to go back to their homestead at Fellur, so that she could stand over Thorkel's grave and tell him that he had been avenged. And so, she had agreed, which meant they would have to store and preserve Spert's body. That had meant asking Jarl Orlyg for a barrel and enough salt to pack Spert's corpse with, to stop him from rotting.

" Ha ," Orlyg had said. " This will have to go on my tally stick. You are in my debt now, Farmer, salt is not cheap ," he had laughed. That had not pleased Orka, as since being captured by Rotta she had no silver or arm rings to trade with. But she had agreed because she had no choice.

"When this is done and Drekr is dead," Orka said.

"Yes," Breca snarled. He was fiercer than she remembered.

"Or perhaps, when you can survive sparring for longer than a slow count to ten."

She took his shoulder and turned him to face Lif.

"Again," she said and Breca walked back to Lif. They raised their shields and touched spears. Set their feet.

Footsteps, and Orka looked up to see Dagrun walking towards her. He was carrying a hemp sack over one shoulder.

"Slow going today," he said as he reached her. His face was flushed red from the wind, a strand of dark hair whipped out of his braids by sharp gusts.

"Aye. Slow going since the wind changed," she said. When they had left the river and rowed into the sea a north-easterly wind had filled their sail and swept them like a cast spear down the eastern coast of Vigrie, but while they had nestled in the shelter of an inlet overnight the wind had changed and now they were rowing into a south-westerly headwind that had slowed the drakkar down to a crawl. The sail had been furled and the oars dipped.

"Hard rowing," Dagrun agreed. Orka had seen him take an oar and sit a shift at the bench, which she liked. She had seen many jarl's sons and daughters think they were too good for the oar-bench.

"I have something for you," Dagrun said. He held up the sack from his shoulder and emptied it, a coat of mail and a nasal helm spilling to the deck at Orka's feet.

"A fine brynja ," she said, looking down at it. She could see the half-sleeves and hem were edged with brass rings, the sign of a wealthy warrior, and the nasal helm had a curtain of mail to protect the wearer's neck, that too edged with brass rings.

"Aye, and they are yours," Dagrun said. "The brynja should fit you. Brynjolf was built like a plough-ox." He looked her up and down.

"It is not mine," Orka said.

"Well, it is if I give it to you," Dagrun said with a smile. "Brynjolf is no longer needing it. He died in the night, and as my oathsworn man it is my brynja and helm now. My coat and helm to keep, or to give away, and I do not need them, my ring mail is good enough, and I have a fine helm. And besides, this brynja would not fit me, it is too big." He nudged the mail with his toe, then looked at Orka and her sweat-stained tunic. "A fine tunic," he said, "but it will not take care of you in the steel-storm of battle like this will. A good friend, this war gear could be to you."

"True enough," Orka said. "But I have no coin or hacksilver to buy them, and I am already indebted to your father for a barrel of salt." She scowled at him. "I do not like to be in debt."

"But it is me who is indebted to you," Dagrun assured her. "You saved my life, and to my thinking that is worth more than a helm and a coat of mail. Think of this as a down payment."

She looked at the helm and brynja , knowing that it was a good offer, knowing that she would need them.

"Your father is already paying me back for saving your life," she said. "Giving me, my son and my … friends safe passage."

The word friends felt and sounded strange coming out of her mouth.

"Aye, well, that is his payment for a son, as a father is like to give. But I pay my own debts, not just let my father pay them for me." He gave her a quizzical look. "Do you not think you will need it? I do not think you have seen your last days of battle, Farmer," he said, calling her by the by-name Jarl Orlyg had given her.

She looked at the coat again, then stood, unbuckled her weapons belt, upon which hung the two seaxes that she had taken from Myrk's corpse, then bent and lifted the mail up. It was heavy and she grunted as she raised it, slipped her arms in and found the sleeves, then lifted the coat overhead and let gravity help it slip down her arms, over her head. She shook and wriggled to stop it from bunching and then her head was through the opening, the skirt slithering over her hips and hanging above her knees. She adjusted the weight, then buckled the weapons belt back up, moving the seaxes so that one hung across her front and one across her back. Rolled her shoulders. The weight of the brynja felt good.

"A fine fit," Dagrun said.

"Heya," Orka said, agreeing as she took up the helm and put it on, buckled it under her chin. It was a little loose, but it needed a wool cap for padding, anyway.

"I have a spare n?lbinding cap you can have," Dagrun said. "A gift." He smiled.

"My thanks," Orka said, still uncomfortable.

"You do not have to thank me, it is part of my debt to you paid," he said. "The other part is this …" Then he leaned forwards, his lips close to her ear.

"I know what you are," he whispered.

A tremor shivered through her and the world seemed to slow, hairs standing on end like hackles.

Dagrun leaned back, looked her in the eye.

"Your secret is safe with me," he said, and before she could answer him he was turning and walking away.

A horn rang out, signalling the changeover at the oar-benches.

She was still staring after Dagrun when a hand touched her elbow and she spun around, one hand reaching for a seax. It was Gunnar and he stepped back quickly, hands raised in surrender.

"Easy, chief," he said. He was dripping with sweat from the oar-bench, Halja and S?unn behind him. "Is all well?" He looked her up and down.

"Aye," she grunted, Dagrun's words still echoing through her thought-cage. She shivered, like a horse shaking off flies, and lifted a jug of watered ale to Gunnar. He took it, filled a cup and passed it on to Halja and S?unn. Halja took her cup and walked away, leaned on the top-rail, the wind whipping her red hair and dragging strands out from her tight braiding. She looked up at the sky where gulls whirled and floated.

"A new brynja ," Gunnar observed.

"Aye," Orka muttered.

"It fits you well," he said.

The clack of spear shafts drew their attention, Orka looking to see Breca launching another furious attack at Lif, who used his shield well, fending off Breca and swivelling around him, stabbing low and high with his spear, forcing Breca to leap backwards.

Well, he is surviving longer, at least , thought Orka.

"Chief," Halja called out and Orka walked to her, enjoying the weight of her new coat of mail. She stood and put one hand on the rail, steadying herself from the heave and roll of the drakkar through the waves. Halja was staring up at the grey sky, and her eyes flickered with gold flecks.

"What do you see?" Orka asked her.

"Above us there are two birds high in the sky."

"Aye, what of them," Orka said, looking up and seeing gulls and clouds.

"They are large. Unnaturally large," Halja said, "and they are black, not gulls."

Orka smiled.

"And there is something else, out to sea, that way," Halja said, pointing to the south.

"What?" Orka asked, again, seeing nothing but the horizon.

"Sails," Halja said. "And I think one of them is the Sea-Wolf ."