Chapter 3
SHE HEARD THE other man cursing in a furious whisper as he hugged his bloody hand against his chest. She stared up at the man who still held her by her throat, saying not a word, just staring. Then suddenly, she drove her fist into his belly and jerked up her knee to his groin.
That knee came up fast, too fast, and Merrik knew, even as the bony knee struck him, that he wouldn’t like what was going to happen. And he didn’t.
He sucked in his breath when the inevitable nausea struck, and clutched his belly as the pain washed through him.
Oleg cursed, then grabbed the damned boy by his neck before he could run, squeezing even harder than Merrik had because his hand hurt and was bleeding, and the damned little savage had kicked Merrik in his groin and sent him to his knees.
She saw blackness, and she cursed herself for not immediately running, but she’d stayed there, frozen, watching the man she’d struck, the man she’d recognized from the slave market, wondering what he was doing here.
In her hesitation, she missed her chance to escape.
The blackness filled her mind then until she saw nothing at all.
* * *
Merrik stood very still, breathing deeply, until he could finally stand straight once again. Oleg was looking down at the boy in an unconscious heap at his feet.
“I should have killed the little sod,” Oleg said. “He bit down to the bone.”
“Well, he kicked me down to the bone,” Merrik said.
Suddenly, with no warning, there was a fearsome growl and a man, a man both tall and slender, a man not a warrior, jumped on Merrik’s back.
Merrik, still dazed from the blow to his groin, didn’t react as quickly as he normally would have.
Oleg jerked his knife from its sheath at his waist and raised it to strike at their assailant.
In that instant, Oleg’s leg was jerked from under him.
He teetered, astounded, for he saw the boy staring up at him, and knew that the waif had done it to him yet again, and he just couldn’t believe it.
He was off balance when he felt the boy’s fist in his gut, and fell against the timbered wall and over into a bush.
No one said anything. There were no curses, no grunts, no yells. The fight was a silent one for no one wanted Thrasco or his men to come bursting from the house.
Merrik managed to jerk the man’s arms free of his throat. He lunged forward, pulling the man over his shoulder. He flung him to the ground at his feet, knocking the breath out of him. He drew his own knife and was on his knees in a moment, the knife tip at the man’s throat.
“No, don’t hurt him!”
The boy was scrambling to the fallen man who was trying to sit up, shaking his head.
The boy grabbed his arm and shook it. “By all the gods! Cleve, what do you here? You didn’t come after me, did you? Is Thrasco close? Cleve, answer me!”
“Hurt this ugly beggar?” Merrik said, his voice low, but filled with surprise and sarcasm. This was the strangest rescue he’d ever attempted. “Why would I want to hurt him when he would have killed me? Would kill me even now if he could. Surely that makes no sense.”
Cleve came to his knees slowly, shaking his head, and reached blindly for Merrik.
“No, Cleve,” the boy said, coming to his knees beside him, clutching at his arm. “Wait, there are two of them and they are both armed. They will kill you. No, don’t move. He is here and he has a knife.”
“I am not here to kill you,” Merrik said, staring at the two of them. “I am here, actually, to rescue you, boy. I have your brother, Taby.”
She stared up at him then, unable to believe her ears. “You what?”
“I am here to rescue you. I am Merrik Haraldsson, from Norway, and I’m here to take you away.”
Take her away? He had Taby? None of it made any sense to her. She was nothing but a slave, as was her little brother. She just looked at him stupidly. “But why?”
Merrik just shrugged. “Because I have suddenly become crazed. I looked at your little brother after Thrasco had taken you away at the slave pit, and lost what few wits I possessed.” He didn’t add that he’d lost his other wits when he’d looked at the boy and couldn’t look away.
“Come, boy, let’s get out of here before your owner comes howling from that door with a dozen armed men.
I would rescue you but I wouldn’t want to die for you. ”
“He’s too fat, but you’re right about his men.
There are many of them. They’re drinking in a chamber off the inside corridor.
” The boy rose slowly, but his hand remained on the ugly man’s shoulder.
“Cleve must come too. He must.” The boy stared at Merrik, then added, “Please.” It was a word Merrik suspected the boy didn’t often say.
“Why not?” Merrik said. “Oleg, are you alive or did the lad bring you low again?”
“If you weren’t bent on rescuing the little beggar, I would kill him.”
“I’m bent on it,” Merrik said. He stared at the man with the hideous jagged scar on his face and his long golden hair tied at the back of his neck.
The man stood quietly beside the boy, his arms at his sides.
He was slight, but lean and fit. He obviously knew nothing about fighting, thank the gods for something.
Merrik sighed and said, “Come along. We’re sailing the moment we get back to my longboat. ”
Oleg looked at the filthy boy, stared down at his bloody hand, and said, “I should beat you.”
“No need,” the boy said. “Truly, there is no need.” He weaved where he stood, looked helplessly toward Cleve, then crumpled to the ground.
Cleve tried to catch her, but Merrik was faster. He lifted the boy in his arms. “By all the gods, the lad is naught more than a few bones held together with filthy flesh and filthier rags. This sealskin smells as if it’s rotted in the sun for years.”
“Aye,” Cleve said. “Thrasco let me feed him broth, but he wouldn’t let me give him a bath or clean clothes. Here, my lord, I’ll take the boy.”
“No need.” Merrik lifted the boy onto his shoulder. He felt his pelvic bones grinding against his chest, and wondered if the lad would live long enough to see his little brother. And if he died, what would Merrik do with Taby?
Cleve wondered at the sudden turn of fate.
He’d crept through the huge compound hoping to find Laren before the guards caught her, for he knew she would never make good her escape; she was too weak from the beating and from the lack of food.
Thrasco, of course, had believed the same thing, and thus, she hadn’t been guarded.
But she had escaped, at least she’d made the good beginnings of an escape.
Cleve looked at Merrik. This man had come to save her?
To save him—a boy, actually. He shook his head.
He refused to believe that any good could come of this.
The man was probably a savage out to capture slaves from others to save himself silver.
This Norway, a place Cleve had heard daunting tales about, was a savage land, much farther to the north of Kiev, and thus it had to be savage and violent and barbaric.
It bred not only men who explored, traded, and stayed to build settlements, but it also bred warriors who raided and plundered and killed without mercy.
And now one of these Vikings had three new slaves and all without paying out a pinch of silver.
Surely the man had lied. Rescue a boy because he’d felt sorry for the boy’s little brother?
It was ridiculous. Cleve wondered what the man really wanted.
And he wondered how long it would be before Merrik discovered the boy was a girl.
The Silver Raven moved swiftly and silently in the dark smooth waters of the Dnieper.
It was Merrik’s pride. He’d had the sixty-foot craft built three years before by Torren, a builder in Kaupang, whose renown had reached even to York in the Danelaw.
The longboat was a good fourteen feet across, nearly flat bottomed, not made for extended travel, but rather for sailing on rivers, and held a deep cargo hold for goods.
The sides of the boat came out of the water only six feet, curving gracefully.
Loose pine planks lay across the crossbeams. In rough water they could be raised easily to bail out the bilgewater, or now, as the longboat glided under sail through the calm waters of the Dnieper, beneath those planks lay silver, gold, and jewelry and other goods they’d traded for here in Kiev, as well as tents, cooking utensils, and food for their journey home.
The rudder was large and worked smoothly, Old Firren moving it tenderly and gently, as knowingly as a mother would her child.
The water was deep so the rudder held its eighteen inches below the keel line.
The sail was hoisted high on the yard, for the breeze was sharp, and would carry them northward in good time; still the men remained seated on their sea chests, their hands near the oars as they spoke in low voices to each other.
They were too close to Kiev, too close to men who would kill them without a whisper of regret, and if the wind died, they would be rowing within seconds.
There were twenty-two oar holes, but on this trip Merrik had brought but twenty men.
The dim light given off by the few rush torches along the fortress perimeter in Kiev grew faint in the distance. The thick black smoke given off by the torches could still be seen, curling into the clear summer sky.
The men began to row steadily now, for the wind had died as suddenly as a man’s lust caught in a sudden belly cramp.
Merrik spoke to each of them, encouraging each to pull hard on his oars until they were well beyond the reach of all other warships and trading vessels.
He wanted no trouble, no confrontations.
There was wealth on the longboat, and thus they were a mark for pirates, though Merrik sincerely doubted anyone would be fool enough to attempt an attack with twenty armed Vikings.