After the raid, Sigurd led the crew of both longships to a small inlet, commanding them to land ashore.
Eivor listened to him barking orders with a distracted ear. Exhilaration still flowed through her veins, her blood singing with glorious vitality. She had fought before, of course, in sparring bouts but also in defence of Fornburg whenever rival bands of raiders had attacked the village. Still, this was her first raid on an enemy outpost—and she had loved every second of it. The thrill of battle, the threat of impending doom, the thought of fighting alongside seasoned warriors with many deeds to their names… yes, Kjotve's mutts had not stood a chance against the sharpened claws of the Ravens—and today, Eivor had proved herself in combat, earned their respect and shown that she deserved a place on her brother's crew.
Now Sigurd's raiders were making camp for the night, some treating their wounds, others making a fire to cook a fine meal in celebration. While they bustled about, Dag was helping Sigurd divvy up the loot—weapons, jewels, even a crate full of finely made fabric. Eivor was uneasy whenever she glanced in their direction, however.
Standing beside them, their hands cuffed, were four grey-faced thralls, also taken as spoils of war.
There were two men who had the lean build of ones used to farmwork. One older woman kept babbling at first, bowing to Sigurd, beseeching him, until Dag had told her to shut up, raising a hand in a threatening manner. Since then, she had remained quiet, eyes fixed on the ground.
The fourth slave was a young woman, of age with Eivor.
This one had not uttered a sound, even when they had dragged the others kicking and screaming to the ships. Her dress was well worn and dirty, while a bruise marred her cheek. Despite this, Eivor could not deny her loveliness; her hair was black as a crow's wings, and her eyes were dark and large, deep as the bottom of a well.
Eivor's cheeks were burning. She did not understand why she felt so ill at ease. There were many thralls in Fornburg working on domestic chores and farmwork. In fact, Styrbjorn was known to be rather kind and patient with his servants. Growing up in Heillboer, Eivor had even befriended a few slaves working in her father's household: Torstein, for one, who had just been about to buy his freedom before he had been slaughtered alongside the rest of the clan.
The slave slightly raised her eyes, meeting Eivor's gaze. The latter immediately looked away, mouth going sour. There had been nothing to be found within those black depths; the other girl seemed half-dead already. What horrors had she suffered at the hands of those raiders? That could have been me, Eivor realized, feeling cold. Sigurd had saved her from the wolves that fateful night—but someone else could have found her before he had. Someone like Kjotve. The thought made her want to vomit.
Sigurd raised his voice, and Eivor snapped out of these dark musings. He was now distributing the spoils to his best warriors. The two men went to Ragnarr, who would surely use them as workers on his farm; his children were still too young to help their mother, after all. Sigurd kept the old woman for himself, telling her she would be a servant in the Jarl's house. She wept and reached to grab his hands in thanks, but Sigurd ignored her completely. A tall and handsome warrior came up next: Steinarr, a cheerful fellow, beloved of many a maiden in Fornburg.
Sigurd smiled at him, clapping the man on the back. "For your bravery and your loyalty, brother," he said, motioning over to the young woman. "Only the best for my best warrior."
Steinarr bowed to him. "I am honoured, my prince. But we would not have prevailed without your guidance. You led us to victory—and brought glory to all of us today!"
That was met with ferocious roars from Sigurd's warriors. Yet Eivor could not share their merriment; the girl had only glanced at Steinarr, but Eivor had seen the flicker of fear that had momentarily appeared in her eyes. Steinarr himself looked at her as one would appraise a cow. He laughed. "My wife will be glad for another pair of hands to help with her whelps. As for me…" He smacked his lips, prompting a few chuckles from some of the raiders. "I've never had such an exotic-looking beauty. That nose, that hair, that skin… From Hispania, perhaps? Or perhaps Mikla—"
"Sigurd!" Eivor exclaimed, cutting him off. While the eyes of every raider came to rest on her, she marched over to her brother, squaring her shoulders and putting her fists on her hips. "You promised me some spoils of war as well. I demand to have my due."
Nearly the whole of Sigurd's crew laughed at that. Eivor ignored them; braying asses, the lot of them. They professed to respect her, but it was only because of Styrbjorn's protection. It was time to show them why it was a mistake to look down on her.
"Of course you shall have it, Eivor," Sigurd answered, sounding amused and bewildered in equal measure. "What would you like to—"
Eivor pointed at the girl. "I want her."
All the smiles disappeared—save for Steinarr's, who kept grinning from ear to ear. "Did I hear right?" he said, turning to Sigurd. "My prince, you should remind your sister how these matters are done. We are not play-fighting with wooden swords. This is life, with all the unpleasantness that it entails."
"I can answer for myself," Eivor said, prompting a few angry mutters from the onlookers. "I fought well, and my axe fed on many enemies today. I deserved to be compensated—and I want this woman as my prize." Steinarr laughed in response, but Eivor jutted her chin at him, crossing her arms and growling, "I'm willing to fight you for her."
"Eivor," said Sigurd, "you don't know what you're—"
The smirk had gone from Steinarr's face. Good. Sigurd cursed, looking at Eivor with murder in his eyes. Not so good—but Eivor would deal with him later, after she'd pummelled Steinarr into the ground.
Sigurd himself made the square with bits of driftwood in place of the hazel. As Eivor took place across Steinarr, her brother hissed into her ear, "I hope you know what you're doing."
Eivor shrugged; she was not afraid of death. If she fell under Steinarr's axe, the gods would have proof of her courage and integrity, granting her a place among Odin's glorious dead. Steinarr paced like a lion in a cage, all levity gone from his face. Eivor met his wrathful gaze head-on; she even raised her chin a little, goading him, fuelling his fury.
Then Sigurd was giving the call, and Steinarr came upon her, roaring in rage. Eivor gritted her teeth as she blocked his attack with her shield, feeling the intensity of the blow down to her very bones. She dug in her feet in the wet sand under her, strengthening her stance; he was stronger than she had expected her, and she could not let him knock her off balance.
Eivor tried to push him away, but he did not budge, swinging his axe in another assault. Eivor evaded the bite of his blade by a mere hair's breadth. She panted, blood surging in her veins. A little voice at the back of her head was screaming, you are outmatched, you are weak, you are but a stupid little girl who is out of her depth. He was taller and bulkier, a warrior who had lived through many raiding seasons, while she was but a scrappy, skinny thing, an idiot child who had just seen her sixteenth winter.
Their blades clashed—and Steinarr grinned, blue eyes flashing. The effect was immediate; Eivor's fear dissipated like mist under a harsh sun, replaced by sheer spite. She screamed, pushing at him with all of her core muscles, the strength of her shield against his own.
Finally, blessedly, he stumbled backward—and Eivor took her chance, knocking the axe out of his hand with a swing of her shield. Steinarr stood, dazed, for many precious seconds, while Eivor lunged at him, aiming for his head—with the blunt end of her axe.
Steinarr fell like a stone, and Eivor jumped atop him, pushing at his neck with her haft. "Do you yield?" she screamed, his eyes fixing weakly on her. His mouth moved to form the syllables of a curse, then he spat a gob of blood at her. She pressed even harder on his throat. "DO YOU YIELD?!"
She had no answer; Steinarr slackened under her, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Eivor screamed again, enraged and humiliated, but there was nothing else she could do. Already, she was being pulled away from him by two strong pairs of hands.
"That's enough, Eivor!" Sigurd said, grabbing Eivor's chin and forcing her to look at him. "You made your point. The girl is yours."
The two drengir let go of Eivor, and she bared bloodied teeth at them. A thick silence had fallen over the camp. Another pair of warriors were tending to Steinarr; was he dead? Simply unconscious? Eivor did not know. Did she even care? She was not sure either. Later she would deal with the consequences of her actions. Right now…
Right now, she only wanted to know if all of this had been worth it in the end.
Eivor guided the young woman away from the camp, the slave girl following her mutely. She ignored Eivor when the latter gestured at a log where she could sit. For her part, Eivor let herself fall to her rear with a pained sigh, before looking through her pack, handing the girl a bit of bread.
"Here," Eivor told her, "you must be famished."
The young woman was silent as ever. She kept looking at her feet.
"I get it. This is a lot to take in." It suddenly struck Eivor that the girl might not even understand the Norse language. She motioned at her chest. "I'm Eivor. Eivor. That's my name. What's yours?"
No answer. Eivor sighed again.
"I don't really need a slave, you know?" she admitted. "Once we get back in Fornburg, I'll… well, you can go home if you—"
Eivor stopped speaking. The girl was staring at her now—and her eyes were burning with pure hatred. Eivor knew fury, oh, she knew sorrow—but Gods, her own feelings were nothing compared to the wrath that must have been blazing inside this girl's battered body.
Eivor hung down her head, unable to endure that gaze. Where was this girl's home? How could she even get back there? This had been utterly pointless. She had fought for her own pride, not for the sake of this poor wretched thing. This girl would never have her life back—all Eivor had given her was a hollow gift, the illusion of a choice.
I don't want this to happen again, Eivor thought as she lay down on her furs, watching the girl sleep not far away, wrapped in a thick blanket. One day, Eivor would lead her own raiding band, yes, she vowed it on the Allfather's name—and she would run things differently from her brother. She would—Eivor groaned, rubbing both hands over her face. She did not know what she would do. Not now, at least.
Later, she vowed. Later she would be strong enough to protect others as well as herself. This vow she could keep. The thought did not put her mind at ease, not fully, but at least it lulled her back to sleep, where she was finally free of the girl's judgmental stare.