Chapter 12 Cenric #2
Ovrek waited just a moment to respond. It was barely noticeable, hardly even a breath. “He’s here, isn’t he?” The king gestured down the beach to a large ship with at least thirty oars and a boar on its sail.
Cenric vaguely recalled Ingmar. He had been seen by many as a rival to Ovrek when he had first made the claim to kingship. His twin brother had been the jarl before him, and they had fought bitterly against the new king.
But Ovrek had taken his twin’s head and Ingmar had taken oaths of allegiance.
“I see Halvdan’s ship,” Dagrún remarked.
Ovrek didn’t hesitate this time. “Halvdan has always been loyal.”
Dagrún grimaced at that.
Cenric wondered why. The Halvdan he had known was beyond question in his loyalty to Ovrek. Then again, Cenric himself had once been beyond question. There was a time when he would have sooner carved out his own eye than betray the Valdari king.
With Brynn missing in the forest and being hunted like an animal, the thought of stabbing Ovrek was more reasonable by the moment.
Cenric wouldn’t stab him in the chest or gut or anywhere fatal.
He’d stab Ovrek through the foot where it would take forever to heal and be a wretched inconvenience to a man about to lead an army.
As the king, the jarl, and the jarl’s son walked down the beach, through the forges and storehouses, they talked. Some of the questions were the same as those Cenric had asked. He heard names he remembered and some he didn’t.
Begrudgingly, Cenric had to admit to himself that Ovrek had put as much effort into awing him as he now put into awing this jarl and his son. Maybe Ovrek really did value Cenric as an ally. Or maybe a part of Cenric was just desperate to believe that was the case.
They made their way from the forges to the weaving house. They were still not permitted inside but stood back to watch as women carried out rolled sails for the dozens of newborn ships waiting along the beach.
“Impressive,” Dagrún said.
Cenric was beginning to wonder if Egill spoke at all. He’d seen the man’s lips move, but hadn’t yet heard his voice.
“My queen is excellent in all things.” Ovrek’s chest puffed out just a little at that. “Impeccable and above reproach.”
Cenric bit his tongue at that. Sifma was the one who had first accused Brynn. Like Ovrek, he’d wanted to believe the best of her. Vana thought the world of her, but Cenric’s own opinion was suffering at the moment.
The four men made their way from the women’s weaving house toward the animal pens.
Cenric appraised the sky. The morning was mostly gone. Why was there still no word of his cousin or his wife? Surely Hróarr should have at least returned to report a fruitless search?
Something was wrong.
“We will not take all the animals with us, of course,” Ovrek said to Egill. “The farms and shires of Hylden are rich with livestock and game.”
Cenric thought of his own shire with its farms and forests.
He expected that the Valdari would be helping themselves to his herds and flocks if he didn’t pledge allegiance to Ovrek soon.
It was a matter of time. He could feel Ovrek’s ambitions closing in on him like the wooden chutes they forced animals through during Blydmoth.
Ovrek led the jarl and his son to the edge of a wooden fence. Cenric could hear pigs on the other side, rooting through the leftover scraps that would be fed to them by the kitchen thralls.
Cenric had not seen this part of Istra yesterday. Perhaps they had run out of time. Rows of pens separated cattle, pigs, sheep, and a large pen with stocky horses. The fences were new, not yet weather-worn, and the animals probably only gathered here at night or when they were awaiting slaughter.
The king went on, his voice as animated and engaged as ever. For all his dourness, even Egill seemed enraptured. Ovrek had a way of doing that—captivating your attention, making you see his dreams as he did. Ovrek was saying something about cattle and horses now.
Cenric stared toward the forest and the distant mountains. Where was Brynn? Why hadn’t Morgi warned him about what a wretched business this trip would be?
The king led them away from the animal pens and back toward the shipyards. “I must show you my banner ship. I shall call it Sifma, after my queen. It is the largest ship we have ever built.”
The sight of the Sifma was not as shocking as it had been the first time, but it was still impressive. Cenric allowed himself just a moment of appreciation—perhaps even envy—at the sight of her more than forty oars. It was a magnificent ship that would loom like a beast over most vessels.
Egill and Dagrún appeared rightly impressed, staring in silence as they wandered quietly in the shadow of its mast.
Around them, workers continued at their labor. The ship was by no means finished and it would need to be if it was to sail to Hylden in a matter of weeks.
“My father has heard tales of this ship,” Dagrún broached the topic in a lilting, oddly cautious tone. “
“And what might those be?” Ovrek smiled, but there was a hardness to the set of his jaw that seemed out of place.
“Did you use yew for the ribs and mast?” Dagrún gestured to the great vessel.
Cenric studied the ship more closely. He couldn’t see the ribs from the outside, but now that Dagrún mentioned it, the mast was of darker wood than the oaken strakes.
Ovrek’s smile wavered for just a moment. “It’s good wood.” He tensed, as if bracing himself.
Dagrún took several heartbeats to respond, almost as if he had been waiting for Ovrek to deny it. “I see.”
Ovrek bristled. “I honor the First of Fathers as much as any Valdari.” That seemed a strange response.
“And you honor our holy sites?”
“Of course.” Ovrek’s tone brooked no argument. “Like all Valdari.”
Dagrún went silent at that. The young man was hard to read, but his father’s stony glower never moved from Ovrek.
There had to be something Cenric wasn’t understanding.
Ovrek’s motley assemblage of shipwrights and builders toiled with their backs bent, their focus on their work. Cenric trailed behind Ovrek and his guests, wondering how far he could fall behind before the king prompted him to join them. Could he simply slip away?
His gaze was drawn back to the lurking forest, the mountains. Brynn survived the night. He had to believe she had.
From here, he could see Hróarr’s ship again. Vana came into view, speaking with one of his cousin’s men. There was still no sign of Hróarr.
Cenric didn’t like it. Worry for Hróarr began to wheedle its way in alongside worry for Brynn.
A flicker of motion caught his eye to the left, a figure ducking out of sight. Cenric glanced that way, then away. Another flicker caught his eye to the right. It shouldn’t have alarmed him. There were people crawling all over Istra. He was sure it was nothing, but the back of his neck tingled.
Ovrek finished showing his ship to Egill and Dagrún, then headed off back toward his hall and its outbuildings. He took the men along a different route than the one he had taken Cenric. This one was winding through the edges of the town.
Women, girls, and young boys moved past and around them, heads down.
For just an instant, Cenric thought one of the girls was Esa, then remembered she was back on the beach with Vana and Kalen.
These people were thralls, most taken from Hylden if he had to guess.
They were everywhere in Valdar, especially on large farms and in the households of great jarls, though some smaller farms had them, too.
Thralls had never bothered Cenric before, but that had been before he had retaken Ombra. Cenric was as Hyldish as he was Valdari. If he was a kinsman to Ovrek, then he was kin to these thralls, too.
What exactly would make him better than them when the Valdari took Hylden?
“We have over two hundred thralls in my household.” Ovrek’s voice was thick with pride.
“These Hyldish make good workers, and they learn quickly.” He gestured toward the smoking ovens where the evening’s meal was already being prepared.
“Just think with free access to the Hyldish, what we could do?”
Cenric remembered Brynn, hands tied and neck locked in that wicked collar, so much like a thrall’s, that her mother had used to bind her magic.
Thralls had always been an unremarkable fact of life in Valdar, much like the buckets of water they carried and the dung they spread over the gardens.
Now he kept envisioning his wife in their place and anger smoldered deep in his gut like molten lead.
As the four men made their way between two large huts, Cenric glared at the back of Ovrek’s head.
They rounded the huts, heading back toward the complex that Ovrek had built around his hall. He did not have the ancient glory of Ungamot, but he had built something impressive enough here.
“Good timber, better fields.” Ovrek shook his head. “Think of the treasure we could bring home.”
Cenric caught a flicker of motion to his left again. A prickle along his scalp told him they were being followed.
Speeding up, Cenric came to walk close behind Ovrek. The man insisted he could walk about unguarded, but perhaps he did not think enough like a king just yet.
Cenric glanced to the side, pretending to inspect one of the nearby thrall huts, but he kept the two guests in his line of sight. Egill walked closest to Ovrek on the king’s right with Dagrún on the far side.
“Is that going to be a granary?” Dagrún asked, pointing to some partially built structure near the treeline to their left.
“That?” Ovrek shifted, squinting as he partially turned his back. “No, that’s—”
Egill reached for his belt and Cenric caught the glint of steel.
Cenric shoved Ovrek full force in the back, sending him straight into a line of firewood. Ovrek smashed into it, knocking over the stack and sprawling on the ground as the logs tumbled under his weight. Ovrek overbalanced and rolled, skidding on the logs like a pig on ice.