Preview: The North in Bondage

The wife and husband team of Susan and Clay Griffith created the fantastic VAMPIRE EMPIRE SERIES, the CROWN & KEY series, and have written tie-in fiction for The Flash and Arrow, and many other things. Wonderful people and wonderful writers, I’m thrilled to tease their entrance into Norrøngard. For today’s preview of Tales from Stolki’s Hall, we look at the sixth story, “The North in Bondage.”

Revna watched the boat slide from the mist shrouding the fjord.

Horns blared over the water to announce the arrival. Banners flapped from the mast. The drummer pounded the oar beat as the oars reversed and churned back the dark water. The boat shuddered in the foam. Heavy iron weights on thick cables went over the sides fore and aft. The oars lifted dripping and drew into the ports in the hull.

The boat dwarfed the sleek dragon-prow longboats in the harbor. She was wider and higher and had a blockish stern castle. This vessel was presumptuously built to mimic a galley of the once-great Gordion Empire. She reflected the haughtiness of the merchant who owned her.

Crewmen manhandled a small boat over the side and lowered it to the water. A stout man appeared at the rail dressed in a fine fur cloak and a cap that was likely silk. Clean-shaven and soft in a crowd of hard bearded men.

Erland Ulfsson, the master of this boat and the master of a good portion of the wealth that traveled this fjord from his up-country trading base. Usually just his wealth traveled; it was odd to see the man himself so far from the comforts of his home.

He carried a small wooden cask under one arm. At his side trudged a huge bodyguard fitted ostentatiously in full mail with a gleaming helmet and massive sword at his girdle. The cask was handed down to the small boat and then Erland Ulfsson was handed down too. The swordsman followed. When all were settled, the liveried crew rowed toward the dock. Even this little longboat had the merchant’s outlandishly long banner hanging limp from the prow.

Revna watched as the little boat banged against the quay where a retinue of fur-clad men waited. There was much hugging and arm clasping, laughing and good-natured shouts of camaraderie. The men made their boisterous way up the quay.

Revna lost sight of them as they moved onto the planked lanes between the rude wooden buildings. She could easily presume their destination. Singandr Sinrisson, the Jarl of Jarls, had his hall here in Korjengard. No doubt the ermine-draped Erland Ulfsson was bound for the longhouse of the High King carrying the cask filled with shiny gifts as the prelude to a night of mead-quaffing such as only the richest and most powerful could enjoy.

Revna had to move now that the merchant was ashore. The water was calm. The treacherous currents caused by the spring melts hadn’t started in earnest. She pushed herself to her feet and shook out her legs, trying to ignore the ache in her knees.

A small hand clutched at her tunic. A wharf rat, a child of the streets. Desperate hunger lanced his gaze. It had been a long cold winter. Pockets were empty and so were bellies. Revna reached into her pocket and pulled out her last coin. She tucked it into his pocket. His eyes widened and he fumbled for it. She jerked her head to the mead hall where the others had gone. He gave her one last long look of disbelief and scurried into the dark.

Revna held the simple pendant hanging around her neck. Silver with a glass center several inches across. The glass bulb contained a small tuft of blonde hair. Revna pressed the glass to her lips and secured the pendant back inside her tunic against her heart.

She sat on the edge of the quay and dropped her feet into the water. The cold shot up her legs. She slid into the frigid water. Her leather tunic and pants grew heavy against her flesh. She took several deep breaths, sending mist into the air, and started away from the dock with a measured stroke.

The strong current buffeted her legs and torso. Her chest constricted in the cold. She spat water through trembling lips. She forced her legs to kick despite the tingling in her muscles. Her shoulders burned. The water splashed over her entire face and she might have gone under. She struggled to maintain form even though she couldn’t feel her limbs. If she started thrashing, she’d be done and just surrender to the cold.

Over the rasping of her own breath, Revna heard a new sound. Water lapping against something hard. There just ahead of her was a line of foaming white and straight planks of glistening wood.

The boat.

The high flat stern with two torches on the rail rose some twenty feet above. Revna also saw a patch of discolored wood where a name had been painted – a practice unusual for Norrønian vessels – now sanded away. Still readable though. The name was Pernilla.

A swell slapped her against the planks. Numb fingers scrabbled for grip before the rebounding wave could drag her back out. She found herself clinging to the wood like the rough barnacles under her hands. The rudder was to Revna’s left, to her great relief. Three feet above was what she sought.

A rung. The bottom of four, a ladder fitted into the hull.

Revna worked numb fingertips up along the sodden wood. The water pulled at her without mercy. She knew if the waves plucked her from her tenuous hold on the boat, the cold water would not fail again to drown her.

Revna’s breath rose like a cloud. Her left arm quivered from the pressure of holding her body up. She gave a desperate surge and hooked her fingers around the rung. With the burst of excitement that brought renewed strength, she immediately stretched and grabbed the second rung. She forgot the exhaustion and climbed to the top.

Hanging off the precarious rungs on the swaying boat, Revna felt along the hull, seeking something she knew was there.

Click.

A small section of the timber popped out a few inches. Revna worked her fingers into the gap and swung open a hatch three feet square. She climbed in and pulled the hatch shut behind her, listening for the snap of the latch.

She slumped in the dark, breathing, letting her heartbeat slow. The back of her bowed head pressed against the roof of the narrow little box. Her knees crowded against her chest. Water dribbled off her face and hair. Her sodden clothes dripped. Arms and legs felt thick. She blew lukewarm breath on her raw fingers thinking about how dangerous this would’ve been even when she was young.

Revna shuddered in the blackness. Her eyes flew open. She didn’t remember where she was. Then she recalled the swim and climb. Had she fallen asleep inside the compartment? Had she just gone unconscious from the strain? How long had she been in here?

Revna put an ear to the interior wall. It was quiet. She flicked the second simple switch and an inside hatch opened. She quickly swung out, but her legs wouldn’t hold her and she crumpled to the deck.

She pressed her hands on the floor and sat up. Revna heard voices and noise from the deck outside. The cabin was empty as she suspected, although she didn’t know how long she had been asleep so she didn’t know when the merchant might return. She had to work fast. Revna rubbed her tingling legs, forcing the feeling back. She dragged herself onto her feet.

Several bottles sat in a corner. They no doubt held a private mead that Erland Ulfsson had made for him by special brewmasters. Revna would’ve welcomed a warming draught of mead, but she had eaten nothing since this morning. She needed her head for the business at hand.

Thick tapestries hung from the bulkhead for both warmth and ostentation. The drapes boasted intricate needlework depictions of hunting and war. A newer tapestry hanging behind the bed showed a couple making love.

Revna shook her head. How pathetically typical for a man his age.

Near the luxurious carved bed stood a rack draped by a mail shirt. It was a beautiful, intricate shirt with hints of gold thread woven through. A wide steel belt hung around the waist. Thick leather and fur bracers hung by hide strips. Balanced atop the mail shirt was a helmet, as bright as silver and worked with scenes of bloody battle. A fine sword leaned against the wall with a magnificent corded steel hand guard and a huge emerald in the pommel. All of this war gear was foreign in make, but not the less impressive for that. It wouldn’t look out of place on whatever god of war its creators worshipped. It was clear none of the armor had ever been worn and the sword likely had been drawn only for show.

At the foot of the bed lay a pile of furs. Revna tossed the pelts aside one by one revealing a large wooden chest. It wasn’t locked. Theft was an unusual event in Norrøngard, perpetuated by only the most depraved or the most desperate. Revna hefted the lid.

Gold. Silver. Necklaces. Broaches. Clasps. Chains. Rings. Goblets. Plates. Daggers. Raw gemstones. Faceted jewels. Delicate gold filigree and intricately carved whalebone.

Revna could carry a few items. A ring or two, perhaps a thin chain or a few gemstones. Despite her fatigued arms and legs, and the daunting swim back, she needed to take something valuable to make the trip worthwhile.

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