The Half-Drowned King, page 1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Map
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Characters and Places
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Ragnvald danced on the oars, leaping from one to the next as the crew rowed. Some kept their oars steady to make it easier for him; some tried to jostle Ragnvald off when he landed on them. The wind from the mountains, a breath of lingering winter, swept down the fjord, whistling through the trees that lined the cliffs. But under the bright sun, Ragnvald was warm in his wool shirt and heavy hose. He had worn them during the whole journey back across the North Sea, through the storms and mists that separated Ireland from home.
He touched the bow post and hung on for a moment to catch his breath.
“Come back,” called Solvi. “You cling like a woman to that dragon.” Ragnvald took a deep breath and stepped out onto the first oar again. His friend Egil held this one, his bleached hair shining in the sun. Egil smiled up at Ragnvald; he would not let him fall. Ragnvald’s steps faltered as he leapt back the other way, against the direction of the oars’ motion, the sun shining in his eyes. He moved more quickly now, falling, slipping, each upstroke catching him and propelling him onto the next sweep, until he reached the stern again and swung over the gunwale onto the more stable deck.
Solvi had offered a golden arm ring to whoever could make it the length of the ship and back, stepping from oar to oar as the men rowed. Ragnvald was first to try, for Solvi valued daring. He thought after he stood on the deck again that his run might have been one of the best, hard to beat, and he grinned. A lucky star had lit his path on this journey, finally guiding him away from his dour stepfather. He had not succumbed to disease in Ireland, when so many others had died, and now he had earned a place on Solvi’s ship for another summer’s raiding. He had grown into his long limbs over the winter, no longer tripping over his feet with every step. Let any of the others match his run.
“Well done,” said Solvi, clapping him on the back. “Who will challenge Ragnvald Eysteinsson?”
Solvi’s forecastle man leapt out next. Ulfarr was a grown man, half again as wide as Ragnvald in the shoulder, with a long mane of hair, yellow from the lye he used to lighten it.
“This is a game for young men, Ulfarr,” Solvi called out. “You wear too much jewelry. The goddess Ran will want you for her own.”
Ulfarr only took a few steps on the oars before his shoes slipped and he fell into the water with a splash. He emerged breathing heavily from the cold, clinging onto one of the oars. Solvi threw his head back and laughed.
“Pull me up, damn it,” Ulfarr said.
Ragnvald reached over and hauled Ulfarr in. Ulfarr shook his head like a wet dog, covering Ragnvald with seawater.
Egil tried his luck next. He looked like a crane as he clambered over the gunwale, gangly and awkward where agility was needed. Ragnvald winced, watching him. Still, Egil almost reached the bow before losing his footing. He clung on and only wet his boots before Ragnvald helped him back in. Ragnvald settled on a pile of furs to watch his other competitors as they tripped and splashed.
The high walls of the fjord slipped by beside them. Snow from Norway’s great spine of mountains turned into the water that cascaded down the cliff faces in waterfalls where the spray caught the sunlight in a scattering of rainbows. Seals, plump and glossy, sunned themselves on rocks at a cliff’s base. They watched the ships go by curiously, without fear. Longships hunted men, not fur.
Solvi stood at the stern of the ship. He applauded good attempts and laughed at the poor ones. He only seemed to be giving the race half his attention, though; his eyes moved constantly, flicking over cliff and waterfall. He had shown the same careful watchfulness when they were on a raid, which had saved his men from the Irish warriors more than once. The Irish fought almost as well as Norsemen did.
Ragnvald had studied Solvi on this voyage, for he merited it: both clever and good at winning his men’s affections. Ragnvald had not thought to find those characteristics in one man—so often a boaster and a drinker won many friends but was too careless to live long as a warrior. Ragnvald’s father, Eystein, had been like that. On this journey all of Solvi’s men had tales of Eystein, and seemed disappointed that Ragnvald was not more like him, a man whose stories were still remembered a decade later, a man who abandoned his duty when it suited him.
Solvi laughed at another attempt, another fall, another one of his men who climbed, dripping, over the gunwale and flopped on the deck, chest heaving from the cold water. Solvi had a narrow, handsome face, with high cheekbones, red like ripe apples. In infancy his legs had been badly burned by a falling cauldron left to spill, rumor said, by one of King Hunthiof’s lesser wives, jealous of the regard he showed Solvi’s mother. Solvi’s legs had healed well—he was as deadly a fighter as any Ragnvald had ever seen—but they remained bowed and crooked, and shorter than they should be. Men called him Solvi Klofe, Solvi the Short-Legged, a name that made him grin with pride, at least when his friends said it.
On the other side of the ship another warrior leapt, and nearly fell. Solvi laughed and shook an oar to try to dislodge him. Few men remained to challenge Ragnvald’s feat. The pilot’s son, slim and sure-footed as a mountain goat, was the only other who had completed the challenge, dancing stern to bow and back to stern again.
Behind them sailed the five other ships that still remained in Solvi’s convoy. Here and there others had turned off, to return sons back to their farms and fishermen back to their boats. Before that, other ships had taken other paths to islands on the inner passage, where their captains called themselves sea kings, their kingdoms made of no more than rocks, narrow channels, and the men who would flock to their raiding cries. Solvi’s father called himself a sea king too, for though he demanded taxes from the farmers of Maer, he refused the other duties of kingship, and maintained no farm at Tafjord.
It was early in the year yet, time enough for another raid across the North Atlantic to winter over again, or a short summer trip to the unprotected shores of Frisia. Ragnvald was glad to be going home, though. His sister, Svanhild, and the rest of his family waited beyond the foothills of the Keel, as did his intended, Hilda Hrolfsdatter. He had won a pair of copper brooches for Hilda, worked by the Norse smiths of Dublin. The Norse king there had given them to Ragnvald as a reward for leading a daring raid against an Irish village. They would look well on Hilda, with her height and reddish hair. In time, she would oversee the hall he planned to build on the site where his father’s hall had burned. Ragnvald would be an experienced warrior by then, as thick with muscle as Ulfarr, and wear his wealth on his belt and armbands. Hilda would give him tall children, boys he would teach to fight.
Ragnvald planned to claim her at the ting this summer, when the families of the Sogn district gathered. His family had an understanding with hers, though they had not yet gone through the betrothal ceremony. He had proved himself raiding, won wealth to buy more thralls to work on the farm at Ardal. Now that he was twenty, and counted a man, he could marry Hilda and his stepfather would have no more reason to withhold his birthright, his father’s land, from him.
Over the winter he had also found a silver necklace that would suit Svanhild perfectly. She would laugh and pretend not to like it—what use had she for silver when she spent her days tending cows?—but her eyes would sparkle and she would wear it every day.
Solvi called Ragnvald and the pilot’s son to him. He touched the thick gold band circling his arm, forged by Dublin goldsmiths, set with carnelian and lapis. A king’s adornment. If he meant that for a gift, he was a generous lord indeed.
“I have rings enough for both of you, but I’d rather see one of you fall,” said Solvi. He grinned at the pilot’s son, seeming not to see Ragnvald. Well, Solvi would notice Ragnvald after this race, Ragnvald would make sure of that. “Whichever of you returns to the stern fastest gets the ring. Ragnvald, you take starboard.” Now his eyes met Ragnvald’s. A breeze shivered Ragnvald’s skin. He preferred larboard, and Solvi knew it. He had sensed this odd shift between them many times on this voyage; one moment Solvi seemed to value him, giving him advice and praise, and the next forgot he existed. In that way, he was like Ragnvald’s stepfather, Olaf. With Olaf it meant that Ragnvald must simply try harder to gain his notice, be perfect at every deed. He was not sure what it meant with Solvi.
Ragnvald rolled his shoulders and shook out his legs, which had grown stiff from sitting. He climbed over the side and glared a challenge at the pilot’s son across the ship. Oar-dancing required shifting his balance, always on the verge of falling before catching himself again, another oar ready to slide away beneath his feet. He mu st trust his body and the rhythm of the sweeps, pay attention to the variations between one man’s pull and the next, as one oar cut deeply into the water and another slipped shallowly in the trough of a wave. Agni, the pilot’s son, was smaller and fleeter than Ragnvald. He had grown up on ships, and would be tough to beat.
Solvi roared their start, and Ragnvald began. He would not have to touch every oar this time, now that he had the feel for it. He leapt in time with the strokes, letting the movement pitch him forward. The wind picked up, making the ship move stiffly over growing swells.
Ragnvald reached the bow again, ahead of the pilot’s son. He turned back and had almost reached the steering oar when Solvi called out, “That’s enough.”
Ragnvald put a hand out toward the ship’s gunwale, preparing to swing himself back onto the deck, so he could help with the heavy wool sail. Solvi would need every pair of hands to lash it into place and turn it against the wind.
“Not you,” said Solvi. He stood quite close to Ragnvald now. The words were meant for him alone. The oars that rowers had been holding disappeared from beneath Ragnvald’s feet. The water he had danced over so surely a moment earlier sucked at his legs and drew him in. Cold water seeped up his britches. He clung to the planking of the gunwale and looked at the men wielding these oars. Those who met his eyes quickly turned their faces away.
“Help me up,” said Ragnvald. He could not quite believe that Solvi meant to put him overboard. “Help me,” he called again, to the only friend he could still rely upon. “Egil, help me.” Egil looked confused for a moment and started forward. Solvi’s men put their shoulders together, blocking him at the narrow end of the boat.
The wooden edge of the gunwale dug into Ragnvald’s arms where he clung. He was still scrambling to find footing when he saw Solvi reach toward the dagger at his belt.
“I had rather not,” said Solvi, “but—”
“What?” Ragnvald cried. “Wait, don’t do this—pull me up.” Solvi’s face was set and hard, all good nature fled. Ragnvald froze as Solvi drew his dagger from its sheath and thrust it toward Ragnvald’s throat. Ragnvald angled his chin down to avoid Solvi’s stroke, and the blade bit into his cheek.
The pain broke his paralysis. Blood pounded in his temples. Egil was not going to break through the wall of Solvi’s warriors and help him. At least Ragnvald still had his sword—he was so used to wearing it now that he had kept it belted on for balance during the race. He let go of the ship with one hand and grabbed for it, but could not get the blade free, not at this angle. He took hold of the gunwale again and swung himself behind the stern post, trapping his sword between his body and the ship.
Solvi grabbed Ragnvald’s wrist and tried to haul him up for another blow, while Ragnvald’s feet churned, still looking for a place to stand. Solvi grunted and brought his dagger down again as Ragnvald went limp, hoping he was heavy enough that Solvi could not hold him and get in a killing stroke. He kicked against the side of the ship, now desperate to drive himself out of Solvi’s reach. Solvi leaned forward, clinging to Ragnvald, half his body out over the gunwale. Solvi managed another shallow cut on Ragnvald’s throat and then let go rather than be pulled overboard as well.
Ragnvald gasped when the icy water hit his face. He inhaled and choked. The saltwater stung his wounds, but distantly, the pain from them weaker than the searing knives of cold in his limbs and the shock of Solvi’s betrayal. The fjord’s current ran swiftly here, and would carry him away from Solvi’s ship if he let it. He stayed unmoving, head hardly breaking the surface, and counted through a hundred heartbeats before lifting his head and opening his eyes.
The current bore him almost under the oars of the next ship in the convoy. Laughter sounded from it, as it had from Solvi’s ship. Ragnvald raised his head and pulled a sodden arm out of the water. He had marched into battle with these men, held a shoreline fort over a long, cruel winter with them, and shared women with them after the hot flush of battle. They should help him.
Then he remembered the men who had blocked Egil’s way. More than Solvi were involved in this. Yesterday he would have vouched that these warriors would risk their lives to save his, as he would for theirs, but if Solvi could not be trusted, how could he know about the others? He let the current carry him past the ship, and did not cry out.
The cold shuddered his limbs. His teeth chattered together. Any anger at Solvi seemed far away, lost in the water along with Ragnvald’s warmth. The cold took him away from himself. He tongued his cheek, the one that Solvi had cut, and tasted the iron saltiness of blood, mixed with the brackish water in the fjord. Solvi had cut clean through the flesh in places, although Ragnvald’s mouth was still whole. He thanked the gods for that small mercy.
He had seen a wound like that, cheek and mouth opened by a monk’s ax, fester and rot until the warrior’s face was half gone and he was screaming from the pain and fever dreams. Ragnvald would seek Solvi out and let Solvi kill him outright before succumbing to that fate. At least then he would find Valhalla in death, rather than one of the cold, stinking hells of fallen cowards.
The sun fell fast below the line of cliffs, and the air on his face, which had seemed warm against the cold of the water, grew chilly. His limbs were heavy and numb now, his body passing quickly through cold to the empty doorway that waited beyond. He could slip easily here into death, and none would know where his body lay. It would be almost as shameful a death as that from fever. He could have fought back on the ship, but instead he had taken the craven way, and played dead rather than face that uneven contest. His stepfather, Olaf, had been right; Ragnvald was not ready to stand among warriors, and now he never would be.
His wool tunic weighed him down, dragging him deeper under the water. He tried to swim toward the shore, but the current in the middle of the fjord flowed swift and strong and resisted the movements of his arms. Something tugged on his ankle, the cold and grasping fingers of Ran, goddess of sea and shipwreck, pulling him down to her chilly feasting hall.
It would not be a terrible death, it seemed, perhaps better than lying forever alone, a cold body in a barrow, for Ran’s hall was filled with sailors and fishermen. He saw them, raising horns of seawater slowly in a silent toast. Every sunken ship sacrificed its treasure to the sea goddess, and her warriors ranged far and wide to retrieve it. Beams of light reflected from the gold that adorned her hall, filtering up to where Ragnvald floated.
He looked in wonder at the shifting shapes below, forms of dark and light. Nets of gold decorated the high ceiling of the hall. A sea maiden took Ragnvald’s arm and guided him into that cold feast. Is this my place? he asked. Will I eat fish every day? Will I drown sailors in my turn?
The gills on her neck fluttered. She bade Ragnvald sit at a bench in front of a long fire that gave no heat, and burned with a blue and green flame. He did not know how long he stayed there, among that silent host. The sea maidens brought food and drink, but all tasted of salt, all smelled of fish. And he was cold, so cold.
Then the great doors flew open, and in strode a great wolf, golden-furred and blue-eyed. Sparks flew from the ends of its fur. It stalked slowly down the length of the hall. Where it touched its muzzle, some men burned, but others grew burnished, losing the green cast of seawater. Ragnvald watched as it weaved between the men, wondering if it brought him ashy death or shining glory. When it came near Ragnvald, he saw that its fur was matted and dull in places. He reached out for its pelt, and where he touched became bright, shining like fresh forged metal. Its eyes were the blue of a summer sky, and its fur was so warm on Ragnvald’s hands that he hardly noticed the flames crawling up his fingers, his forearms, only warming him where, elsewhere in the hall, they had consumed flesh and wood. He reached forward, embracing the wolf. Its tongue of fire licked at his throat, filling his vision with blue flames. He could be destroyed here, he knew, in this wolf’s embrace, and yet he could not do other than meet this death.
This could not be a shameful death, here with this wolf sent by the gods. He wanted to give himself up to it, but something pulled at his ankle. Not the chilly fingers of Ran’s handmaidens now, for he was already in her domain. He thrashed against the pull, crying out in protest, as strong hands grasped him and drew him from the water.
