Chapter Fifty-One: Orka

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

ORKA

Orka woke to a rhythmic shaking, blinked and stared, trying to make sense of the world. The sound of water, fast-flowing, a timber wall, voices. A stabbing, thumping pain in her head, one side of her face wet. The iron scent of blood. She tried to move, but found that her hands and feet were bound. Then she realised she was slung across her horse Trúr’s back like a trussed deer.

She twisted her head and caught a glimpse of the blond-haired man who had struck her with his staff.

A Galdurman, she thought. He spoke words of power and his staff burst into flame. She could smell burned hair, and thought it was probably hers, where he had struck her.

Other shapes moved around her: warriors on horseback, and others walking. Hounds loped alongside them. Shouts and the creak of gates, then they were turning, hooves on hard-packed earth, and they passed through an open gateway and into a wide courtyard.

The Grimholt, Orka thought. This is not the most deep-cunning way of gaining entry within its walls.

They walked up a gentle slope, following the curve of a channel carved from the river. Two sleek snekkes were moored to a jetty, their hulls freshly painted in yellow and black, Queen Helka’s colours. Around the courtyard were a tangle of buildings. Barns, a forge, the clang of hammer on iron echoing. Stables, chicken coops, pigpens. Goats bleated and chickens ran clucking as the party rode through the courtyard. Then Trúr was stopping and Orka was being dragged from his back and slung on to the floor. She saw Mord, unconscious and bound, and Lif, still shivering and blue-veined from the frost-spider’s venom, though his eyes were open and aware.

“If I cut your bonds about your ankles, will you be a good prisoner and walk?” a voice said behind her. “You’re a big lump and I’m not getting any younger.” She twisted and saw an older man looking down at her, his thinning hair close-cropped, and a white beard, a scar running through a large, lumpy nose.

Orka nodded. She heard the rasp of a seax being drawn and the rope binding her feet was sawed. Arms pulled her upright.

She stretched, clicked her neck and looked around.

The Galdurman was dismounting, the warrior with him. A blonde-haired woman took the reins and rode on towards stables, leading another horse with an unconscious woman slung over its back and a chest tied to its saddle. Orka winced as she looked at them, the pain in her head throbbing harder.

“No time for sight-seeing,” the white-haired man said as he dragged on the rope about her wrists. Orka stumbled on, blood returning to her feet in a prickling, stabbing flood now the rope-binding was gone. Other warriors fell in about them as she was steered towards the wooden hall and tower, Mord and Lif carried between them. The hall had a roof of birch-bark and turf; the tower had wooden tiles pegged to the lathe-beams.

Men and women paused in their work, thralls and craftsmen, all staring at Orka and the two brothers. A sound rang out from a barn close to the river.

A child’s voice, a cry.

Orka stopped, staring at the barn.

“Breca,” she croaked, discovering that her throat was dry and cracked.

The white-haired man pulled her on; another warrior prodded her back.

“Breca?” Orka said, louder.

“Move on, you big bitch,” the warrior behind her snapped, and prodded her again.

There was the sound of a slap and a child’s voice rang out again.

Orka ripped her hands from white-hair’s grip and turned, headbutted the warrior behind her, his nose bursting with a crack. He dropped to the ground, a long-axe falling from his fingers. She kicked a woman in the knee as she stared at the fallen warrior, the woman doubling over with a yelp. Orka raised her bound hands and slammed them down on to the woman’s head, sending her sprawling.

A blow to Orka’s shoulder spun her, the white-haired man glaring at her, slamming his spear butt into her belly. She felt another blow across the back of her legs, dropping her to her knees, and heard thuds and grunts as warriors closed about her, beating her with spear butts, punching and kicking. A boot connected with her chin and white light exploded in her head.

Orka snapped awake, gasping, ice-cold water dripping from her face. She was hanging suspended: pain in her wrists that were tied tight and raised over her head, bound to an iron ring in a wall; her feet dragging on the floor. She took her weight and slowly stood, relieving the pressure on her wrists. Blinked and shook her head, water spraying.

She was in a room of the tower, judging by the view from a window through stretched and scraped animal skin. She glimpsed turfed roofs below, and the ice-glitter of the river. Mord and Lif were similarly restrained, tied to iron rings bolted into the wall. A fire burned in an iron brazier, and a long table was sat against a wall, all manner of sharp and unpleasant looking tools spread upon it. A pair of tongs was heating in the fire. White-hair was there, along with broken-nose. He was leaning against a wall and had his long-axe back in his hands, and the woman whose knee Orka had kicked was stood in front of her. She turned away and limped across the room with an empty bucket. Others were spread around the room: a bald man wearing a pitted leather apron with rolled up sleeves standing by the fire, and the blond-haired Galdurman sitting on a chair by a door.

“What were you doing lurking in the woods about the Grimholt?” the white-haired man asked Orka.

“Just… travelling through,” Orka muttered.

“Travelling through the Boneback Mountains, half a league from any road, in the middle of a frost-spider nest,” he said.

“Got… lost,” Orka grunted. She rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth and felt a loose tooth. Spat a glob of blood. “I’m a trader.”

“A trader,” white-hair said, smiling. “Dressed in a fine brynja, carrying a spear, axe and two seaxes, and that’s just you.” He held up her weapons belt and dangled it. “What is your trade? War?”

“Vigrið is a dangerous place,” Orka said. “Best to be prepared.”

White-hair laughed and looked her up and down. “I’ve seen your sort before, but never in a trader’s market. More often across the rim of my shield, in the battle-fray.”

Orka shrugged. “My father was a big man.”

“You killed one of my men,” white-hair said. “Well, not you. Him.” He pointed at Mord. “Haga, wake him up.”

“Aye, chief,” the woman said, refilling her bucket from a barrel in the corner and walking to Mord. She threw it in his face and he woke spluttering and gasping. He shook his head, looked around and saw Lif, who was barely conscious, heaped in the corner on trembling limbs. Lif coughed and spat up ice-rimed phlegm.

“Brother,” Mord said to him, worry in his eyes.

“He’ll live,” white-hair said. “Those pale spiders like their meat alive, just not kicking. Now,” he said, taking the tongs that had been heating in the fire and walking towards Lif. “I can burn the ice from your veins, if you like.” He held the tongs close to Lif, heat rippling in waves, then looked at Mord.

“So, who are you?” he asked Mord.

“Fishermen,” Mord said, still groggy.

“A-ha,” white-hair laughed, “so, the same question asked twice, with two different answers. Which is it? Fishermen, or traders?” He looked from Mord to Orka. “I think I’ll take this one’s eye, just to convince you I’m serious. And then I’ll ask you again: Who are you and why are you here?”

He moved the tongs towards Lif’s face, who pressed himself into the wall, whimpering through his chattering teeth.

Mord yelled and thrashed in his bonds.

“Drekr,” Orka said.

White-hair stopped and stared at Orka. Frowned.

“I’m hunting a man named Drekr,” Orka said. “He stole my son, and I want him back. I was told Drekr was coming here.”

A look passed between white-hair and the other guards.

The Galdurman sat up straighter.

“Never heard of no Drekr,” the white-haired man said.

“I heard a child cry out in the courtyard,” Orka said.

“Just one of Rog’s brats,” broken-nose blurted, too quickly, Orka thought and she saw his eyes flicker to the Galdurman.

“Drekr,” Orka repeated. “I tracked him to Darl, and then from Darl to here. My informer told me he trades in Tainted children, and that they pass through the Grimholt.”

“Shut up,” white hair snarled at her. “Shut her up,” he said, and the man with the rolled-up sleeves lifted a hammer from the table and walked towards Orka.

“I saw Drekr in an inn in Darl,” Orka continued, staring only at the Galdurman, now. “The Dead Drengr. He was meeting with Hakon Helkasson.”

The bald man raised his hammer.

“Hold,” the Galdurman said, and the hammer hovered in the air. “Skapti?” the Galdurman said, standing and frowning at the white-haired man.

“Don’t know what she’s talking about, Lord Skalk,” Skapti said, though he could not hold the Galdurman’s gaze.

“You fought at Svelgarth, did you not?” Skalk said to Skapti.

“Aye, lord. With distinction. Was awarded this for my bravery,” he said, gesturing to a silver arm ring around his wrist.

“Who gave it to you? Who led your warband?”

Skapti looked away, at the other guards in the room.

“Prince Hakon,” he said.

A silence fell in the room: heavy. Broken-nose shifted, taking the weight of his long-axe.

Skalk saw. “Try anything foolish, and I will burn the flesh from your bones,” he growled at broken-nose. The warrior held his gaze a moment, shuffled his feet, then looked away. “Now,” Skalk said to Skapti, “tell me: What is Hakon up to behind his mother’s back?”

Another silence, then Skapti sucked in a deep breath.

“We just let Drekr bring his… goods here. Sometimes he… stores them here awhile, sometimes they go west, sometimes north. Orders from the prince were that we are supposed to let Drekr do as he pleases.”

“Hhmmm.” Skalk tugged on his blond beard, frowning.

“Is my son here?” Orka growled. She felt the need for him deep in her bones, the possibility that he was close stirring her blood like heat boils water.

“Shut up,” Skapti snarled at Orka.

The sound of shouts came from outside, the drum of hooves passing through the gates. Voices in the courtyard. Haga limped to the window and peered out.

“Riders,” she said. “Drengrs, some with Helka’s eagle.”

“Bring them up,” Skalk said, and a warrior close to the door left.

Orka knew who it was in the courtyard, or guessed who it was. She tested her bonds, the rope thick and tight about her wrists. If she stood on her toes, she could reach the knot with her teeth.

“Be still, bitch,” broken-nose said to her.

Footsteps sounded in the hall below, thudding up the stairs, and the door opened, the warrior who had left leading them. Behind him strode a drengr, a young man in mail with a sword at his hip, dark-haired with a pointed, dripping nose.

Mord made a sound in his throat: a growling snarl.

“Guðvarr,” Orka muttered. Arild stood in the doorway behind him, more drengrs behind her.

In the distance Orka heard a child scream.

“Is that my son?” she snarled. Her blood was bubbling in her veins, a red mist beginning to filter through her thought-cage.

Guðvarr stood and stared, taking all in the room in. His eyes settled on Mord and Lif and he smiled as he strode towards them, drawing his sword.

“Wait!” Skalk shouted, but Guðvarr was already in motion, drawing his arm back and stabbing his sword into Mord’s belly: deep, punching out of Mord’s back in a spray of blood. He twisted the blade. Mord screamed and writhed.

Lif screamed in horror, spraying chips of ice.

Guðvarr grabbed a fistful of Mord’s hair and lifted his head to stare into his eyes.

“A weasel-turd niðing, am I?” he said as he twisted his sword again, Mord’s screaming rising in pitch.

Lif yelled and thrashed in his bonds as Guðvarr ripped his sword from Mord, releasing a tide of blood, Mord slumping, whimpering and mewling.

Another child’s wail drifted up from the courtyard.

Something shifted, deep inside Orka, her consciousness and clarity sharpening between one heartbeat and the next. She felt her blood storming 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 sharper, senses keener. She lunged up and bit into the knotted rope that bound her wrists, her teeth suddenly sharp, ripping and tearing. The rope fell away.

All were staring at Guðvarr and Mord. Orka moved towards her weapons belt on the table.

Haga with the limp saw her first, dropped her bucket, reached for her spear propped against a wall and opened her mouth to shout a warning.

Orka let out a howl as she swept up her weapons belt and drew her seax and axe, leaped at Haga, kicked the spear shaft and stabbed her seax up into the woman’s belly, blood sluicing over Orka’s fist, then shoved her away and rose in a storm of iron, bellowing, a rush of rage and power consuming her.

All around her warriors were yelling, drawing weapons. Guðvarr was shouting, stumbling away from Mord and Lif, towards the open doorway where more warriors crowded. Orka buried her axe in the skull of the bald man and wrenched it free as he fell back into the brazier, flaming embers scattering, fire erupting. Warriors came at Orka and she ploughed into them, laughing and howling as they screamed and died, then she found herself close to Lif and sliced the rope binding his wrists.

He reached for a fallen weapon.

“No,” Orka growled. “Stay behind me,” she snarled at him, a warning, and then she was moving again, throwing herself into the warriors that crowded the room, though they hesitated now.

“Eldur logar björt,” a voice cried out. It was the Galdurman, Skalk, and flames crackled into life on his staff. Orka hurled her axe at him, the blade spinning and slamming into his shoulder, sending him falling back into the warriors in the doorway, losing his grip on his staff.

Warriors lined up against Orka, sword, axe, spears, all pointing at her. Seven, eight men and women in the room, more in the doorway and corridor beyond. She paused, set her feet, even the wolf in her blood knowing that there was no defeating these odds.

She smiled at them, a blood-flecked leer.

A sound came from above: a ripping, tearing, cracking sound. Shouts and yells erupted from the warriors in the room, looking up.

Daylight flooded in as a portion of the roof disappeared, ripped away in the talons of a huge raven, wings beating, a storm of wind in the room, fanning the scattered flames. Beams erupted in fire, crackling, smoke billowing.

“FAVOUR FOR A FAVOUR,” the raven squawked, and then a second raven swooped down, ripped more of the roof free and grabbed a warrior running at Orka in its talons, lifted him high and threw him, spinning and screaming, from the tower.

“FOUND YOUR FRIENDS LOOKING FOR YOU,” the first raven cawed as it rose higher on beating wings, and two small shapes swept close, buzzing into the room in a blur of wings.

One landed upon a woman’s shoulder, a chitinous, segmented body and a too-human face, bulbous eyes under grey-sagging skin, and a mouth full of too many sharp-spiked teeth. A tail curled up over its back, tapering to a needle-thin sting, which whipped forwards and stabbed the woman in the cheek.

“Finally, Spert found you, mistress,” Spert said as the woman staggered and choked and dropped her sword, hands grasping for her face. Her veins were turning black, spreading from the sting in her cheek across her face like a diseased spiderweb, down her neck. She tried to speak, to scream, but her tongue was already black and swelling. She collapsed and Spert’s wings buzzed, hovering and darting after his next victim.

Another small figure sped around the room on parchment-thin wings: sharp-clawed Vesli, with Breca’s spear in her fist, stabbing it into faces as she flew.

Orka smiled and growled, looking for new people to kill.

Broken-nose came at her, shrugging his shoulders, hefting his long-axe, warriors parting to give him room. He swung a great looping blow at Orka, but she ducked beneath it and leaped close, stabbed her seax up under his chin and thrust with savage strength until the blade scraped on the bowl of his skull. He collapsed, twitching, dropping his long-axe. Orka left her seax lodged in his skull and caught the long-axe in both hands as it fell, felt its familiar and long-missed presence shudder through her body, like the touch of an old lover.

She kicked broken-nose’s body away and stood before the warriors crowded in the doorway, Spert and Vesli hovering over her.

A silence fell. All that could be heard was the crackle of flame, groans of the dying, heavy breaths of the living as a dozen warriors stared at her.

They turned and ran.

Orka swept after them, swinging the long-axe, chopping, explosions of blood. Bodies fell tumbling down the tower’s stairs, Orka still hacking at them, her axe rising and falling in a torrent of blows as she carved into them. When she blinked and looked up, shaking her head to clear the blood from her eyes, she found she was on the feast hall’s steps, staring out into the courtyard, not knowing how she got there, and she was standing over corpses, gore-drenched, panting, snarling, wanting only to kill.

More people were here: warriors, some running at her, more running from her, others leaping into the boats on the jetty, cutting frantically at mooring ropes. She glimpsed Skalk and Guðvarr there.

A fresh pulse of rage and strength swept her as she glowered at them all, both the dead and the living. At these people who would keep her from her child.

Cut them, tear them, rend them, she thought.

She broke into a run, snarling, slavering, her long-axe rising.