Twelve
Once, when Iza was very small, foreign Vikings from another settlement came to the village. She remembers the fighting and the screaming and the salty, coppery scent in the air that didn't seem to fade for days. The only reason the brutal raid was not more devastating was because the warriors of Forks were more skilled – but only just. If not for a certain killing blow made by the Chieftain that day, then Forks would be no more.
That raid made many children into orphans. Like Edvard.
Iza remembers the raid. But mostly she remembers the empty expressions on the living and the dead alike in the wake of the raid. She still does not know what is worse – to die, or to survive.
She does know that her trepidation as she rushes through the village is justified. There's a heavy clench in her stomach as her feet slide down the small hill leading toward the docks on the fjord. Several of the Forks fishermen are already waiting with weary expressions on their sun-tanned faces; beside them, men and younger boys from the village mill around with poorly-concealed anxiety, their sides weighed down by longswords. Some women are present as well, although they are few and far between. As Iza arrives - hair still dripping, face flushed, and her skirts heavily damp against her legs – she catches sight of the stern but exquisite face of Różyczka, who is standing beside her brother Jaspar with her eyes leveled coldly on the longboats tying themselves to harbor.
By the time Iza comes to a stop at the front of the crowd, the foreign Vikings have already begun to disembark from their longboats. They take their time, seemingly unbothered by the weight of a few dozen eyes watching them suspiciously, but it does not escape Iza's notice that these Vikings also carry their weapons.
Iza's gaze cuts away from the foreign Vikings to quickly pass over the crowd of villagers, her brow tightly furrowed as she searches for Mik – who has, for reasons beyond Iza's comprehension, chosen to tuck himself between the fishermen and lingering warriors. She gives him a hard look, moving quickly to grasp him by the elbow and tug him to stand at the front of the crowd. Carefully, she makes sure that she stands at his side, rather than a step behind him.
Mik, she already knows, cannot handle this himself.
Iza ignores the burn of a familiar stare, having already made a note of how close Edvard has placed himself to the front of the crowd. She does not know why he wastes his time staring at her when he should be assessing these foreign Vikings – Iza certainly does not hesitate to give her full attention to the large, blond-haired men who amble toward them in a concentrated droves.
Are they amiable? Will they attack? There is no way of knowing. Wariness settles around Iza like a cloak.
Iza leans toward Mik, allowing her hair to fall forward to conceal the side of her face as she speaks. "Make the introductions, but do not tell them that the Chieftain is away from the village," she instructs lowly. "Imply that he is assisting with the planting season."
To his credit – and by the grace of Odin – Mik does not allow his nerves to betray him as he addresses the foreign Vikings. He follows Iza's directions exactly, which thankfully gives the impression that their village does not have much time to entertain guests. At the mention of planting season, a few of the foreign Vikings make a face and nod gravely. The importance of growing food is understood by all and it takes priority over any unnecessary mingling.
Not that these Vikings seem intent on lingering any more than they have to. In fact, they seem to be in a hurry. Iza does not understand why that is until she overhears a too-loud whisper about the Forks village being "the one that is besieged by dragons".
Iza stifles a smile, allowing herself to relax minutely. No wonder these Vikings brought their weapons with them – not to raid and pillage, but for their own protection in the case that dragons showed up out of the blue. She has to wonder, though, how large their dragon problem is if they have become infamous as being a dragon-besieged village. She had not thought their troubles had spread beyond their own borders. And she has to wonder – do other villages not contend with dragons?
Evidently not.
Iza tunes back into the stilted conversation between Mik and the head of the foreigners when there is a scuffle as a short, thin blond man is pushed into the space between the two groups. Her eyes fall on the heavy iron chains around the man's wrists and feet before she tries to see the pale face hiding behind a scraggly, unkempt blond beard. Although underfed and swallowed up by rags of clothing, she can tell that there is something soft about this slave. His light coloring throws for her a moment, but since it is incredibly unlikely that Vikings would make one of their own a slave, Iza can only conclude that this man is a Saxon.
By Yggdrasil's roots, how did a Saxon become a slave to Vikings? How is this Saxon still alive? As Iza is well aware, a dead Saxon is the only kind of Saxon a Viking will tolerate. Yet this one is alive and standing, if only just barely.
"We been looking to trade this one," says the foreign Viking, prodding at the Saxon's back roughly. "Might have killed him, but he's actually worth something. Saved Gorg's leg from rotting off, he did. Calls himself a healer or some such. Could be useful to you, yeah?"
Iza's gut reaction is to turn down the offer. She holds no love or trust for Saxons and if this were any other day, she would subtly prod Mik into waving the trade away as diplomatically as possible. But this isn't any other day, because Iza has Alise's voice in the back of her mind – urging her to make a trade. This trade, apparently, although it is difficult to wrap her head around the fact that Alise wants her to trade for ownership of a slave.
Which is why she finds herself speaking up, chin lifted as she stares skeptically at the Saxon. "What do you want for him?"
Iza ignores the shocked shuffling rippling behind her as the warriors and fishermen react to her interest.
The head foreigner shifts his attention to her without so much as a blink of an eye. "He's pretty useful for a Saxon. A sack of gold and all the furs and grains you can spare," he offers.
"We do not have much gold," Iza says levelly. "Besides, the slave seems sickly. He might not survive the night for all I know."
"No gold, no trade."
"A few coins, our best whetstones, and enough waybread to send you on your way," Iza barters coolly.
"Rather have furs than whetstones, so long as the food is good."
"That sounds like a deal."
The Viking grunts. "Aye, a deal."
"Allow us time to gather your supplies," Mik says after Iza elbows him. He casts a wide-eyed look to the villagers behind him until two of the fishermen hustle off to the village to collect what Iza had promised to trade the slave for.
All the while, Iza watches the Saxon and wonders why Alise thought that this man was important enough to trade for – wonders why this man is useful enough to still be alive among Vikings. He must be intelligent, since he seems to understand that he is being used to bargain supplies. He must be able to understand some of their language, which means he must have been travelling with these Vikings for a while. And oddly, the Saxon doesn't seem to be as broken as other slaves Iza has seen. She suspects he stands hunched only because of weakness, not for a lack of pride.
Interesting. He had better be worth all the trouble, though. Iza already dreads trying to explain – through Mik – why she had traded for this Saxon slave to the Elders.
Soon enough, the fishermen shuffle back with enough food for a dozen warriors, what Iza knows to be furs that are maybe a year or two old, and a leather sack of coins that she suspects is more iron than anything else. The foreign Vikings take the trade with glee, shoving the Saxon toward Forks with a jeer or two.
"Don't suppose you'd let us stay the night, yeah?" the head Viking asks, directing the question to Iza rather than Mik.
Iza offers a serene smile. "Would you risk dragonfire for one night on land?" she wonders slyly.
The Viking bellows out a laugh, directing the rest of his men back onto the longboats without a backward glance. Iza and the rest of them watch as the boats pull away from the docks, silence settling over the crowd.
It is not until the noise of the foreign Vikings fades that Mik looks to Iza with wonder. "Why did you do that?" Based on the whispers and grunts of agreement, he is not alone in wondering. Their village does not often take slaves and they have never taken a Saxon. Added to the fact that Iza had outright usurped Mik's position – however for show it is – and Iza can do little else but offer an explanation.
"Alise," she says simply, and that is enough to send curiosity rippling through the crowd. The entire village knows about Alise and her connection to the Norns, of course. Even if Alise is not openly embraced, neither is she completely ostracized. This lends Iza enough credence that not too many will continue to ask questions.
For now, the only one with a question is Iza, which she directs to the Saxon with an ashen face and shaking legs. "What are you called?" she asks, looking for any sign of comprehension on the slave's face. "Your name?"
The Saxon's deep blue eyes flicker with something like recognition. She was right to think he must be intelligent, since he has picked out the most important word. "Name," he repeats, giving her a searching look.
Iza nods. "Name. What is your name?" she asks again. She is interested to see that the Saxon mouths her words back to himself a few times, as if to remember the phrase and how it is used. She wonders how many other phrases he has tucked away behind the dirty, greasy, overgrown mess of his hair, and if he will be speaking as easily as Wilhelm any time soon.
For now, the Saxon looks at Iza steadily. "Name," he repeats. "Carlisle. Name…Carlisle."
A/N: Remember that time when I made Carlisle a Saxon slave that Iza essentially owns? Ah. Good times.
Viking stuff for this chapter! First - not all Vikings were friendly with other settlements. A good portion of Vikings regularly pillaged neighboring settlements, sometimes not understanding that they were killing other Vikings until the deed had already been done. Vikings could also squabble with each other over territory, especially if a settlement was on fertile ground. Survival, y'all. Second - the Vikings were not friendly with Saxons, like, at all. There's a whole to-do about how not-nice Vikings and Saxons were and how one English king in particular put an end to Viking raids once and for all, at least in Saxon territory. Saxons really were sometimes salves to Vikings, especially if they had useful skills. Trading for slaves, however, might have been a lot different than depicted in this story. You might think that a useful slave would be kept, but sometimes it was more important to have food or lighten the load on a longboat - hence why Carlisle was traded.
As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.
~Rae