AN: Sorry I'm a little late updating, real life is kicking my butt... haven't gotten around to replying to reviews, I'm afraid, but they're very much appreciated :)!

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Chapter 8

When Maelcolm woke up at the break of dawn, Karl was gone. His sleeping blanket lay crumpled on the middle bench, as if he'd thrown it off before he had disappeared.

Maelcolm was wide awake in an instant. Maybe Johan had returned last night. Maybe the Norsemen's captain had risen from the depths to come for his last surviving crewman, and had... what? Grabbed him, dragged him over the side and down into the belly of the sea to be reunited with his comrades?

Maelcolm pushed his own blanket aside. Last night after his shift, he'd lain under his blanket seething, determined never to exchange another word with the heathen bastard. Stupid. Stupid and childish. And to top it all, he'd offended the Saints by invoking them just to annoy the other man.

"Karl!" Maelcolm called. "Karl, are you there?"

He recoiled when suddenly a head appeared over the side of the boat; wet, grinning, his hair plastered to his cheeks. "Morning."

Maelcolm stared. The man had obviously fallen into the water, a fact that didn't seem to disturb him in the slightest.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked carefully.

Karl seemed confused, and Maelcolm became convinced that the other man had taken temporary leave of his senses. "When you fell out of the boat?" he elaborated. "Why didn't you call for help?"

Karl began to laugh. "I didn't fall out. I jumped."

Maelcolm shook his head. "I don't..."

Karl let go of the boat and slipped back into the water. Maelcolm watched, astounded as the man began to move his arms and legs like a frog, and miraculously glided along as if carried by an invisible hand. Leofric had known stories about people who could wade into a river and cross it without a boat or a raft, but Maelcolm had always dismissed them as mere fairytales. Now, he had the living proof right in front of his eyes.

Karl turned around, swimming on his back now. "Can't you swim?"

"No," Maelcolm said. "I never met anyone who could." He paused, then asked: "Can all Norsemen swim?"

"Not all," Karl said. "It's safer, though, if you're chosen for a tour."

He turned back onto his front and swam over to the boat, making it sway as he pulled himself back in. Only now did Maelcolm notice the small pile of clothes on the planks. Obviously, swimming was done entirely in the nude.

Karl brushed the water off his arms and legs and shook his head like a dog coming in out of the rain. Maelcolm saw that the Norseman's skin was fairer on his chest, buttocks and thighs, where the sun hadn't left a golden brown hue. He also noticed the thatch of blond between Karl's legs, and quickly looked away. He'd never seen anyone with fair hair down there. Or, for that matter, anyone who would shed his clothes and jump into deep water as if it were a haystack. The morning was full of surprises, to be sure.

Karl didn't seem to have noticed Maelcolm's eyes on him, or maybe he didn't care. He slipped into his clothes and sat down on the middle bench, where he began to untangle his wet braid.

"There's a comb in there," he said with a glance at Maelcolm, indicating a small leather pouch under the front bench.

There was something about the casual order that didn't sit well with Maelcolm. He said nothing as he stood and went to fetch the pouch. Inside was a small wooden comb as well as a pair of scissors and an earspoon.

"You brought all that from the ship?" he asked, and Karl shrugged.

"It'll come in handy, I guess."

He turned and presented his back to Maelcolm, entirely at ease, as if this was a routine the two of them had established a long time ago. Maelcolm hesitated, then placed the pouch on the bench next to the Norseman and retreated to where he'd been sitting before.

Karl looked over his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Maelcolm began to fold up his blanket, mostly to have something to do with his hands. "Why?"

Karl sighed. "It's customary for slaves to assist their master's personal grooming." He glanced significantly at the pouch. "You know, combing and such."

Maelcolm chose his next words carefully. "And a dutiful slave would be honored by such trust, as would a free man who is asked for a favor by a friend."

Karl's back had stiffened. "Am I to assume, then," he answered in the same formal tone, "that there are no dutiful slaves in this boat?"

Maelcolm forced himself to look the man straight in the eyes as he answered. "There are no slaves in this boat, dutiful or otherwise."

This could go either way, and Maelcolm knew it. The Norseman had most of the advantages, the greatest one being that he could glide through water like a fish, whereas Maelcolm would only thrash for a while before he miserably drowned.

Yet he also knew that he could only take so much before he lost his temper and said something really insulting. Better to draw the battle lines when he could still respond calmly to whatever Karl did now.

For a long moment, Karl did nothing whatsoever. He just sat there, and the thought crossed Maelcolm's mind that the Norseman, too, might be unsure how to deal with the situation.

"So..." Karl said finally. "You're telling me there are no slaves in this boat."

Maelcolm nodded. "That's right."

"What about the man I captured and took back to my ship? The laws of my people state that he's my slave."

"But the ship has sunk," Maelcolm replied. "Only two men are left, the only ones who escaped the storm and who have to find their way to the shore. I don't believe either of them has much use for a slave. But I do think they'd find their situation easier to bear if they each had a friend to rely on."

Karl gave him a long look. "A friend who took you from your home?"

"A friend who lost his own home and friends," Maelcolm said. "I'd be honored to have his trust and respect."

There was another lengthy pause, then Karl nodded. "Me too," he said softly.

Suddenly filled with the desire to end this, Maelcolm stood up and went over to where Karl was sitting.

"Hand me that comb," he ordered, nodding at the pouch. "And no complaining, or it will really hurt."

Karl laughed softly. "If you promise me something?"

"What?" Maelcolm asked as he reached into the thick blond hair and began to tease out the tangles.

"No more Saints," Karl said with feeling. "They're awful."

"No more Saints," Maelcolm agreed and smiled. Full of surprises, indeed.


The sun rose high that day, burning down on the calm sea. Maelcolm cut up one of the spare blankets and made two bandannas, but they provided only little protection. When it wasn't his turn at the oars, Karl kept jumping into the water to cool himself off. He would dive under the boat and emerge on the other side, delighted when he actually managed to startle Maelcolm the first few times.

Watching him, Maelcolm wished he could find the same kind of refreshment, but he wouldn't for the life of him have climbed over the side of the boat. After Karl had coaxed and cajoled him long enough, he finally agreed to stick his feet in the water, one at a time. The sudden cold was invigorating, and yet Maelcolm didn't trust the way the waves lapped at his ankles. That wasn't what he told Karl, of course. Godfearing Christians, he said, didn't jump into the water and swam like fish, because the Lord in his wisdom hadn't given them fins and gills. An admittedly weak argument, and Karl's grin said that the Norseman saw right through him.

Watching Karl's antics in the water, Maelcolm began to feel more and more like a dumb yokel who knew nothing of the world. His mood became accordingly sullen, and would have deteriorated even further if not for the incident with the fish.

It was Karl's turn at the oars, and Maelcolm was lazing at the other end of the boat, idly dragging one hand through the water when he noticed a shadow the length of his forearm close by.

He indicated Karl to stop rowing and reached for the pointed stick he'd prepared for this very purpose. He left his hand in the water. Presumably, the fish had approached the boat because it had mistaken his fingers for a likely-looking prey.

Maelcolm waited, and the shadow gradually drew closer to the boat. By now, he could make out the plump form and serrated fins of a sea bass. The fish took its time, inching closer so slowly that its movements were almost imperceptible. From the corners of his eyes, Maelcolm noticed Karl watching, his gaze flickering back and forth between Maelcolm and the fish.

When the bass was less than a sword's length away from his hand, Maelcolm raised his makeshift weapon, aimed and thrust it into the water. Luck was with him: when he lifted the spear out there was the fish impaled on it, dripping water and blood as it flapped wildly to escape.

Maelcolm pulled his catch off the spear and swung it hard against the side of the boat. A wet thud, and the fish's body grew limp. He dropped it on the planks. It was a large one, fattened by a life of stuffing itself on small fish and insects. Now, it would provide food for at least two days.

"You're good with the spear," Karl said. He'd pulled the oars into the boat and came over to have a closer look at Maelcolm's fish, picking it up and weighing it in his hands. "I didn't know the Saxons were hunters."

Maelcolm felt a momentary resentment at the remark. The Norsemen with their sharp swords and ferocious battle masks might think otherwise, but his people weren't just peasants who toiled in the fields all their lives. "Our children are taught to handle bow and spear from their fourth summer," he said stiffly.

Karl looked at him. "That's what I thought. Your clan fought bravely."

Maelcolm was surprised at the strong surge of emotions within him. He hadn't allowed himself to think about home much; not since that first night when his grief had overwhelmed him and he'd ended up weeping in the arms of the man who had abducted him.

"We did," was all he said as he crouched down on the planks to gut his fish. He didn't want to think about that first night, either.

Karl sat down next to him. "Do the Saxons offer sacrifice for the dead?"

"Sometimes," Maelcolm admitted. "When our priest, Father Benedictus, is away to meet with his abbot."

Karl frowned. "Why does your priest have to be away?"

"He doesn't approve of such practices," Maelcolm shrugged.

"Why not? Doesn't he care about his forebears?"

Maelcolm shrugged again. He had asked himself the same thing, but hadn't dared to bring it up with the priest. "He says they're with God and the Saints."

Karl didn't look convinced. "Yes, but what do they eat? How do they clothe themselves?"

"I'm not sure," Maelcolm said, annoyed with himself for never inquiring into these matters. Karl must think he was quite the half-wit. "I can't ask him now, can I?"

Karl didn't react to the hostile tone. He traced one finger across the scales of the dead bass, leaving an iridescent line behind. "A proud catch," he said. "And an offer that wouldn't be rejected."

"All of it?" Maelcolm knew he shouldn't be thinking of his stomach, but he'd been looking forward to something other than dried meat and corn.

As if he had read his thoughts, Karl offered a crooked smile. "The spirits aren't greedy. I'm sure they won't begrudge us half the fish."

Maelcolm nodded. No, the spirits weren't greedy. And if sacrificing half of his catch would keep Johan from following them, he was more than happy to go without it.

He cleaned one of the knives on his shirt and began to cut up the fish, accompanying each stroke of the blade with sacred words to consecrate the meat. He whispered the names of the Old Gods; that was how it had to be done. His father's father had sometimes spoken of the time before the monks had come, when those names had been shouted aloud over the fires of summer solstice. They'd often had to shush the old man when Father Benedictus was in hearing range.

When Maelcolm was done, he'd sliced off a large piece of fatty belly meat and the head; the best parts of the fish. They wrapped them in oilskin and laid them out of a piece of wooden board – a poor offering, but the spirits would understand that they couldn't burn the meat or sprinkle it with herbs.

As he set the board afloat, Maelcolm asked Wade, the God of the Sea, and Hel, the Goddess of Death, to deliver their sacrifice to those it had been intended for. Karl's eyes were closed, his lips moving as he mouthed his own prayers.

They watched in silence as the water carried their gift away. It had shrunk to a pebble-sized spot in the distance when suddenly a wave washed over it, sweeping the board clean. Wade and Hel had accepted their offer. The spirits would leave them in peace.

They cut up the rest of the bass into bite-shaped pieces, keeping a companionable silence. Karl had grabbed a knife and helped prepare the food, something he wouldn't have done on the previous day.

Before they began to eat, the Norseman quickly bowed his head. "Thank you for sharing your fish."

Maelcolm nodded. "It is yours, too."

He'd have to pray at least ten paternosters for this, Maelcolm thought as he watched Karl partake with gusto of the fresh fish. But it was a small price to pay for the spirits' peace and the respect he'd seen in the Norseman's eyes.


"You speak my language well," Maelcolm said. They'd both abandoned the oars for the day; the spirits, appeased by the sacrifice, wouldn't let the winds carry them far off course.

Karl was watching the darkening sky as if waiting for something. "Yes. I knew the Saxon tongue even as a child."

"Who taught you?" Maelcolm asked. If Karl didn't want to tell him, he wouldn't.

The Norseman sat up. "My mother," he said. "She taught us children her language. My father didn't think it would do any harm as long as we didn't speak it outside the house, so he let her."

"She was a Saxon."

"Yes," Karl said. "She was a young girl when my uncles captured her. A few years later, my father took her as his wife."

"Your laws allow a free man to marry a slave?" Back home, such a union would have been unthinkable.

"He made my uncle free her," Karl replied with a touch of pride, and Maelcolm wondered if there had been one uncle less at the wedding. He didn't ask.

"She was lucky."

Karl nodded. "But there are more like her. Some of us have Saxons for their wives. Or husbands," he added, which made Maelcolm look up.

"Your women may choose a prisoner as their mate?"

Karl shrugged. "Who would stop them? Not me." He raised his hands as if to demonstrate surrender.

Maelcolm grinned, about to let loose a jibe about Norsemen who wore the pants in the house – under their aprons. Then he remembered Ealdgyth, and quickly closed his mouth. If she had her mind set on something... indeed, who would stop her. Not her young husband, that was for sure.

"Do you have a wife?" he asked, unwilling to let the thoughts of Ealdgyth take hold.

Karl sighed. "I was betrothed this winter."

"You don't seem happy about it," Maelcolm observed.

"She'll just have turned nine when I return," Karl said. "I won't have children before my thirtieth winter."

"She was chosen for you?" Having just learned that Norsewomen were free to choose their mates, this seemed strange to Maelcolm.

Karl nodded. "She's the daughter of a chieftain my uncles were at feud with. Our betrothal was part of the peace treaty."

Maelcolm nodded. Such arrangements weren't uncommon. His own marriage had been negotiated and settled while he was away on a hunting trip. "I was married to Ealdgyth, the High Reeve's sister. She was sixteen years older than me. She was a good wife, though," he added quickly. It was the truth, and there was always the possibility that her spirit was listening.

"She was killed?" Karl asked, turning back to watch the sky.

"Yes," Maelcolm said quietly. "She was with me at the fence."

Karl looked at him. "So your women join you in fighting?"

"Who would stop them?" Maelcolm raised his hands. "Not me."

Karl smiled, and Maelcolm felt some of the heaviness lift from his soul. Saying the name of his late wife, recalling her bravery in death honored her memory. So far, the image of her dying had only reminded him that he'd been unable to protect her... protect anyone.

"It looks like neither of us is going to have children before their thirtieth winter." Or ever. But he didn't say that.

"You don't know that," Karl said. "I'm confident that there'll be another Karl Karlsson one day."

"Your son's name will be Karl, too?"

Karl nodded. "As was my father's before me."

"And if it's a daughter?" The words had already left his mouth when Maelcolm realized that they might be taken as an offence. Some men considered female offspring an unnecessary burden at best.

But Karl didn't look offended. "Then she'll be a Karlsdottir," he replied cheerfully. "Aelfgifu Karlsdottir."

"A Saxon name?"

"Oh yes," Karl smiled. "My mother would be after my hide if I didn't name my firstborn after her."

Suddenly his smile fell, and Maelcolm knew what was going through his mind. It would be a long time until he saw his home again, his family. If they ever reached any land, they wouldn't step onto the Norsemen's shore.

At least he has somewhere to return to. Maelcolm leaned back and watched the stars as, one by one, they took over the sky. The sun had almost set, and a pale red line was all that remained of its forceful presence. Where will I go?

To the Norsemen's land, to become one of those Saxon husbands?

Back home to live out his life in Father Benedictus' monastery, tending to the monks' crops and stables?

He stood up. "I'll take the next shift," he said.

Karl only nodded, lost in his own thoughts as he watched the nightly sky.


"Maelcolm, look!"

Maelcolm wanted to brush off the hand that had shaken him awake and go back to sleep, but Karl was persistent.

"You have to see this!"

Maelcolm pushed his blanket aside. It couldn't be another dead body. There was no reason why the spirits should send one of their own after the faering; not after they'd accepted the sacrifice.

"What is it?"

"There!" Karl pointed upwards.

Streaks of fire – for something so bright could only be aflame – raced across the sky, each of them followed by a blazing trail that faded quickly into the darkness. There had to be dozens of them, crossing paths and setting each other afire as they flared up and disappeared.

Awed, Maelcolm knelt on his blanket. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Karl said in a hushed voice. "Some say they're dragons. The Gods order them to fight for their entertainment."

Portents. Flashes of lightning and fiery dragons.

"Bad omens?" Maelcolm asked. Maybe he should cover his eyes, pray a few paternosters.

"Some say they're omens." Karl shielded his face, watching the fiery spectacle. "Not necessarily bad, though. They say that if a sky dragon hits you with his tail, your life changes forever."

Maelcolm nodded slowly, and looked back up at the sky. He no longer felt the need to cover his eyes. His life had already changed forever, so he needn't fear the brush of a dragon's tail.

"They're beautiful," he said quietly, and felt a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"They are," Karl said.

Together, they watched as the dragons played their boisterous games, brightening the sky before they disappeared again into the darkness.

TBC...

Phew, quite a long chapter... please let me know what you think!