Chapter Thirty-Five: Orka

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ORKA

Orka slipped into the courtyard of The Dead Drengr. Above her rainclouds shredded and blew across the sky like tattered banners. Shadows stretched and faded as dawn leaked into the world, a quiet stillness in the air. Behind her she heard the splash of oars dipping into water, the children she had freed rowing away. A horse looked out over its stable door at her and whinnied. Orka followed the curve of the wattle fence, one seax in her fist, the other still sheathed across the small of her back. There was one door to the tavern and Orka reached it, stood and listened a moment. She could hear the muffled sound of voices. Gently she lifted the latch and pulled the door open a little. Light bled out through the gap, voices louder: the general hum of conversation in a tavern, some drunken song. Orka could see a small room with cupboards, a clay oven glowing with fading heat, tables and shelves with cups, trenchers, eating boards. Knives and half-carved joints of meat. A door on the far side opened into the tavern. Orka glimpsed tables and chairs, people sitting and talking.

She stepped into the small room and pulled the door to behind her, taking care that the latch did not slip back into place. She took a look around and saw a set of wooden stairs leading up to a loft space. Another glance into the tavern. No one had heard her. She looked back to the steps.

I need to know if there is anyone in that loft, she thought. Don’t want an enemy at my back or blocking the only exit once I’m in the tavern.

She walked to the steps and slowly and carefully climbed them, testing each foot, letting her weight settle, until she was in the loft. It was empty and dark; there were no windows, only the glow from a recently extinguished torch of rushes still seeping into the room. Water dripped from thick thatch. She stood and sucked in a breath. It was a room the size of the tavern below, rafters crisscrossed, cobwebs draping them. A score of small reed mattresses filled the floor space, the smell of urine and faeces thick in the air. Orka was about to turn when something caught her eye: a thread of leather disappearing into the reeds of the mattress closest to her. She reached out and pulled it, and held in a gasp.

It was a small, wooden-carved sword dangling on a snapped leather cord.

Her heart pounded, feeling like a drum in her chest, and her stomach lurched.

She remembered seeing the carving around Breca’s neck, on their last night together in their home. A flood of memories tore through her thought-cage, of sitting and eating together, Breca angry about Virk’s death, wanting to learn sword craft. Thorkel was talking about the right path, about choices. She felt a savage rush of emotion, her throat constricting and tears prickling her eyes.

He was here. My Breca was here. Alive.

Hope flared.

Where is he now? Where have they taken him? What do they want with him?

She thought of what to do next, of the choices before her.

Sometimes there are no choices. We are swept along in a current not of our own choosing.

She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding.

I will be the current. I will be the course.

Muted laughter filtered through floorboards from the tavern below. Orka pushed back the swell of emotion in her chest. Blinked away the tears. Made a fist around the wooden pendant, her knuckles whitening.

Made a fist of her heart.

She looked down at the floorboards, light filtering through cracks from the room below, and heard voices, laughter.

Drekr. The ones who stole my boy: who murdered my husband.

I will be their death.

She pushed the pendant and cord into a pocket in her belt pouch. Then she turned and stepped carefully down the steps, back into the small room, and walked to the door that looked into the tavern.

A man stood behind a bar, grey-haired and balding, a bronze ring binding his beard. He was pouring ale into jugs. Most of the tables in the tavern were empty, one near the entrance beneath a shuttered window filled with six or seven people, men and women, all playing knucklebone. The burned man was sitting with them, smiling as he threw the bones. His face was thin and angular, his mouth wide, his upper teeth too long for his lips to cover them.

Closer to Orka stood a woman, her back to Orka as she faced into the room. She was tall, wearing a quilted tunic, axe and seax hanging at her belt. Her gaze was fixed upon a table. Two figures sat there, heads close together, deep in conversation, and another man, a dark-haired warrior in mail with a shield upon his back, stood behind them. One of those sitting had a fine cloak pulled about them, a brooch fashioned as an eagle-wing, their face in shadow with a woollen hood pulled up high. The other man at the table was huge and hulking, his muscles bunched thick on his shoulders and back, looking like he had no neck. He wore a dark tunic, with knot-weave embroidery around the neck and chest, raven-hair pulled tight and braided down his back; his black beard had silver rings in it and his face was handsome, thick-browed and sharp-lined, or would have been but for the claw marks that scarred him. Four raking lines carved through him from forehead to chin, twisting his face and mouth. They were recent, judging by the rawness of the wounds, by the stitches and the scabbing.

Orka stepped into the room and grabbed the female guard by the hair, dragged her back. She stabbed her seax into the woman’s throat, sawing through cartilage and flesh to slice the blade free. The woman’s arms flailed as a hiss and gurgle escaped her mouth, an explosion of arterial blood.

The man at the bar saw Orka first, his mouth dropping open, ale pouring over the rim of a jug and pooling on the bar as he stood frozen, staring.

Chairs scraped and shouts erupted from the knucklebone table. The hiss of steel dragged from leather. At the closer table the hooded figure looked from Orka to the bleeding woman in Orka’s grasp and stood, stumbling back, their chair falling over, the hood falling clear to reveal a black-haired man, young and proud-faced.

Orka recognised him from the dockside.

Helka’s son, Hakon.

Behind him the drengr in mail stepped forwards, shrugged the shield off his back and into his fist, drew his sword and stood in front of Hakon.

“That’s her, that’s her: the one asking questions,” the burned man shouted, pointing at Orka. Those around him spread wide, drawn steel in their fists.

The scar-faced man still sat in his chair, turning to regard Orka with a scowl.

“That’s my friend you’ve just put a blade through,” he growled, his voice like gravel.

Orka held the dying woman up by her hair. She wiped her seax on the woman’s quilted tunic and let her drop, grabbing the axe from her belt as she slid to the ground.

“Do you recognise this?” Orka said, holding the seax for the scar-faced man to see.

He blinked and lifted a hand to his face. His mouth twisted in what once would have passed for a smile.

“You are Drekr, then,” Orka breathed.

“He was your man?” Drekr asked as he stood slowly, his eyes still on the seax. He was taller and wider than Orka, seemed big enough to blot out the sky in this dark tavern. An axe hung from his belt. “He fought well, your man. But he squealed like a pig when I stuck him.”

“Where is my son?” Orka growled as she strode forwards into the room, her rage a white-hot flare, burning through her limbs.

The drengr guarding Hakon tried to guide the prince backwards but Hakon pushed the warrior forwards, towards Orka.

“Kill her,” Hakon screeched. The drengr shrugged and stepped to meet Orka, shield raised, sword tip hovering over the rim, blocking Orka’s way to Drekr and Hakon.

Orka bent her knees and lifted her seax and axe, shuffling right as the drengr took a quick step forwards and stabbed at her, high over his shield rim like a striking adder, the sword blade hissing past her face. Her axe darted out, hooking the drengr’s shield and tugging the warrior forwards. He stumbled and swung his sword at Orka’s head but she ducked, stepped in and punched the seax into his side, hard enough to burst the iron riveted rings asunder, stabbing deep, blood sluicing over her fist. She twisted the blade and the drengr gasped and stiffened, and Orka shoved him away, sending him tumbling into a table that cracked and splintered, collapsing beneath him.

Hakon yelled.

Men and women from the knucklebone table came at Orka, six or seven of them, the burned man hovering behind them, shouting. The bartender leaped over the bar and drew a seax.

The door opened, the two guards from the street silhouetted by daylight, along with the other drengr.

Drekr had his axe in his fist, part snarl, part smile on his face. He stepped around a chair.

Orka ran at him and ducked his axe swing, her shoulder crashing into his chest, lifting him from the ground and throwing him into an empty table, shattering it, splinters flying. She stumbled after him, chopping her axe at his face, but he rolled away, the axe crunching into wood. Movement to her left: a woman rushing in. Orka ripped her axe free, spun and sliced with her seax, cutting into the woman’s arm as she chopped down at Orka. A scream rang out, followed by another as Orka hacked her axe into the woman’s torso, felt ribs break and spun again, dragging the woman with her. There was a crunch as someone’s seax slammed into the woman’s head, the blow intended for Orka, a spurt of blood and bone in her face. Orka grabbed the collapsing woman, heaved her up with both hands and hurled her through the air into those behind her, sending them hurtling backwards into the shuttered window, wood splintering and light pouring in as they fell out into the street beyond.

A blow to Orka’s back, the sound of links from her brynja splintering, a line of hot fire, and she staggered forwards, tripped over a chair, twisted as she fell, feeling air hiss where her head should be, Drekr looming behind her swinging his axe. The bartender was there, slashing at her with his seax, and Orka rolled, chopped with her axe, felt it bite into an ankle, heard a scream and the bartender fell. She kicked out with her legs, sending a ruined table crashing into Drekr’s shins. He snarled and hacked it to splinters with his axe, strode after her.

Orka scrambled away, pulled herself up on the bar, threw herself backwards under the hissing arc of Drekr’s axe, twisting and slashing with her seax, and felt it bite, slicing through wool and flesh.

A cry from Drekr and then she crashed into him, the two of them stumbling back, Drekr tripping over a table and both of them falling out through the smashed window. People yelled and leaped out of the way as Orka and Drekr rolled together in the muddy street, Orka ending up on top, her axe arm pinned beneath Drekr, her seax pulling back to stab him. They were close, spitting and snarling in each other’s faces.

“Where is my son?” Orka grunted, her seax hovering.

Drekr headbutted her. There was a burst of white light in her head, her strength leaking away, her limbs abruptly loose, and he heaved her off him, sent her rolling across the street. Spitting blood, she pushed up on to all fours and saw him rise, blood staining a cut across his torso as he strode towards her. A line of pain from the wound across her back as she staggered to her feet, swept up the axe and seax where she’d dropped them, set her feet and snarled at him.

Drekr smiled and hefted his axe in his fist. It was not a long-axe, as Thorkel had favoured, but the haft was still long enough for Drekr to grip it two-handed, like a long club.

Figures burst out of the tavern, rushing at Orka, including the burned man.

“She’s mine,” Drekr snarled.

They slowed and formed a rough ring around Orka and Drekr instead, others in the street joining them. People emerged from other buildings, swelling the crowd. Orka heard shouts, bets of coin. She glimpsed Hakon in the gathering crowd, his drengr at his side.

“Where is my son?” Orka grunted as Drekr drew near.

“He is gone,” Drekr said with a shrug.

Orka moved on him and feinted left with her axe, a side-step and stab with the seax. There was a clang of steel as Drekr’s axe blade deflected it. She stepped out of his range before he could counter. They circled each other a few moments, gauging, assessing. Drekr’s footwork and balance were good: impressive for such a big man. But he had one weapon where Orka had two, and he was wearing wool while Orka wore a coat of mail.

He will tell me where Breca is, if I have to carve the answer from his flesh.

Then she was moving in again, her two weapons a blur, striking in flurries. Sparks rang out, Drekr retreating, using his axe like a short staff, blocking, slicing, Orka swaying, stabbing, chopping, eyes fixed on his as she sought his life. An exchange of blows, strikes, parries and counters, and then they were stepping away from each other, both of them breathing hard. Orka felt a pain across her leg, below the knee, and glanced down to see blood soaking into her leg wrap. The pain arrived a few moments later, throbbing, burning.

She ignored it.

Drekr scowled at her, a red line across his torso, another wound across his shoulder, his tunic torn and hanging. Orka glimpsed a tattoo across his shoulder and chest, a serpent with jaws open and fangs bared, its body all writhing knotwork.

He strode at her and she moved to meet him, axe high, seax low. He caught an overhand swing of her axe on his own axe shaft, wood clacking, a twist of his wrist and his axe blade sliced her forearm, her axe spinning from her grip. At the same time, she was stabbing her seax at his belly, but somehow he was twisting to the side, her seax stabbing into air, just nicking his tunic. He gave a short, stamping kick to her wounded leg and she staggered, dropped to one knee and then he was behind her, his axe shaft around her throat, squeezing.

She grabbed the shaft with her free hand and swung her seax behind her, wildly trying to find Drekr’s flesh but slicing only air. Black dots floated in front of her eyes.

“A good scrap,” Drekr grunted behind her, the muscles in his arms straining and bulging like eels in a sack, “but you are finished now. Know this as you take the soul road: your son will change the world.”

He gave a savage wrench on the axe shaft, Orka feeling muscle and tendon tear in her neck, her vision greying, like a curtain of fog rising up all around her. Strength was draining from her limbs, her breath a ragged, burning gasp.

Dimly she heard distant sounds: the blowing of a horn, the thumping of hooves, all of it fading, falling away.

Thorkel. Breca. Their faces floated in her thought-cage, both of them staring at her, sombre-eyed, accusing.

“Avenge me,” Thorkel whispered.

“Find me,” Breca pleaded.

Something shifted, deep inside Orka, her consciousness and clarity returning with a snap. She felt her blood churn through her veins, the heat of anger changing, abruptly cold, primal, sweeping her body, fire and ice mingled. A flush of strength flooded her muscles, her vision returning in a rush, sharper, senses keener.

The horn was blaring louder, voices shouting commands, the tramp of many feet.

She let go of the axe shaft crushing her throat and grabbed Drekr’s fist that was gripping the shaft, tore at it and felt the crackle of bone: a finger or thumb breaking.

A snarl came from behind her as Drekr’s grip loosened, and in a snapping, snarling burst Orka ripped herself free, threw herself forwards, twisting and turning, slashing with her seax. Drekr stumbled away, blood blossoming across one thigh, holding his axe clumsily, the knuckle around his thumb purpling and swelling.

Orka found her axe in the mud and stood.

“You will tell me where my son is,” she snarled, a savage hate pulsing through her. She wanted to tear, rip, kill, to shred Drekr’s flesh and pound his skull into the ground.

Shouts and screams sounded among the crowd, one man running between Orka and Drekr, then others. Orka saw Hakon in the crowd, pulling his hood up, turning and running, his drengr guard shielding him from the crush. She glanced away and saw a company of drengrs marching down the street, thirty or forty warriors with shields ready, spears pounding a steady rhythm on their shields as they advanced. A warrior rode at their rear, blowing on a horn.

“Can’t have you getting out of this,” Drekr said. “My thought-cage tells me you will be a pain in the arse.” He gestured and men stepped out of the crowd, those from inside the tavern, and the two that had stood guard outside. They moved in on Orka, a tightening circle of axes, cudgels, seaxes, all pointed at her.

Orka set her feet and growled at them, turning slowly.

“Who wants to die first?” she snarled.

There was a pounding of hooves and a horse appeared in the crowd, hurling people away. It rode closer, neighing and stamping, its rider stabbing down at one of the guards in the circle around Orka. The man fell away with a scream, a red gash down his chest and the horse pressed into the ring, the other guard raising his cudgel to swing at the rider, but a second horse and rider appeared, crashing into him, sending him flying.

“Come on,” the first rider shouted, a man leaning in their saddle and waving a hand at Orka.

She blinked, the red haze in her head fading a fraction, melting enough to realise who it was.

“Come on!” Lif yelled again. He grabbed the neck of Orka’s mail coat, his horse pounding on, dragging her with it, and together they crashed through the circle around her, sending the burned man reeling. Orka gripped Lif’s forearm and jumped, heaving herself into the saddle behind him, Mord riding hard behind them.

They rode down the mud-slick street, people leaping out of their way, and then Lif was dragging on his reins and they were veering right into an alley. Orka looked back and caught a glimpse of Drekr standing and staring at her. He lifted his axe in a salute, a promise, and then Orka was plunging into the shadows.