|
Post by Jenny on Jul 7, 2014 3:05:13 GMT -5
Ulfr did not care for this sport, for he thought it quite a waste for a horse to be killed and nearly the other, but it was what the crowd wanted to see. His eyes moved over the crowd instead. His body leaned back, his elbows on the tier above him, looking relaxed and content to rest. He turned his face up at what remained of the rain, which had slowed to a drizzle. The clouds were breaking apart. Because of the movement and the noise, the horses did attract his attention, but he looked away, disgust for the sport clear on his face.
Thankfully, when one stallion had clearly dominated the other, they were separated, pushed back to the corner of the ring to their respective places, for several men had to corral them. But the horses were wounded and tired and their fire quickly faded. Toweling were thrown over their eyes so that they would be subdued before taken away. It was not known what was to be done with him, nor did Ulfr knew who had donated them for the games. He only hoped that there wouldn’t be a bear bating. He’d rather kill an animal in sport than to watch the dogs heckle and rip at a bear’s hide as it tried to defend himself, powerless to break away from the heavy chain that tethered it to a post driven into the ground. He was relieved that there was no word of one.
The crowd murmured to one another while weapons and shields were brought into the ring, in small piles. This was different as before, for the competitors that had fought before had brought in their own weapons. Guardsmen filed up along the fences, stopping some distance from one another, so that there were thirty guards in all surrounding the ring while they gate stood open. The murmurs rose to cries of delight as the crowd realized what was happening. Male slaves were being shoved into the ring, ten in all, some prodded forcefully, some walking forward with their eyes turned down upon the ground.
None of the slaves surrounding Eira were touched, these slaves wore nothing but long shirts made of sackcloth tied with rough ropes of jute. As they drew closer, one man was chained to another man by shackles, one of the left wrist of the first man linked to the right wrist of the other, in chains of good length that one of them was made to lift. They were ordered to pick up a sword and shield each and stand apart. Five pairs of men did as they were bid, and some quivered while upon the faces of others fierce looks dawned, as if the blood began to boil within them for they must fight each other to the death. These were males captured in war, bought and sold, given no grain of respect.
Ulfr sat forward in his seat, folding his arms across one another as he leaned into him, looking curiously at each of their faces. Some had been fighters, it was clear, although poor conditions and nutrition had withered much of their bodies, and he watched them carefully as they took their stance. One man was so afraid he wet himself, his urine splashing about his feet.
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 7, 2014 3:43:23 GMT -5
And one was looking directly at Ulfr and the Jarl. Even bad conditions hadn't destroyed the man's powerful form or his pride. Dark eyes stared with brutal intensity out of a long, weathered face that was swirled with blue tattoos, so many his features were almost obscured, and they continued down his arms and bare chest and back as well. On the Jarl's other side, Asger sat up straight with a bark of laughter. "Look at that! They finally caught the Celtic bastard." At the Jarl's look, he grinned. "He's a chieftain." He made a mockery of the word. "That one has been harrying our slave roads, darting in and out of the woods like cowards they were. Me and my men managed to get a good half of them at that ceremony but he escaped. They must have finally found their run down little straw pile of a village."
Below them, Riordan mab Aeslin's eyes were fixed on the necklace around the Jarl's neck. He knew it well; his own hands had crafted it years ago and had placed it around the neck of the most precious thing in the world to him not as long ago.
Eira
He didn't take up stance, pulling his gaze away from the Jarl and turning in a circle, those fierce eyes sweeping the area, ignoring the prodding of the guard. He couldn't hear anything over the roar of rage and fear in his head. Eira. Was she dead? Captured? Was she here?
The guard hit him hard in the back and he grunted as he fell to his knees. When he looked up, he found his own eyes staring back at him from the slave pens. For a long, endless moment, father and daughter stared at each other, Eira's face had gone white as a sheet.
The fierce rage that had not been beaten out of Riordan, that had started the moment he'd seen his people taken and his village burned, their sacred grove destroyed, billowed through him at the sight of his daughter in chains.
He picked himself up and set himself in a fighting stance obediently, though he had no intention of being obedient, no. His beloved Eira would not see him battling frightened slaves to his death. As people started cheering and howling and some of the slaves started to lurch at each other, Riordan tossed the shield aside and turned almost casually, spinning the sword in his hand in a strangely graceful gesture....and then throwing it in one hard sweep, aiming for a guard against the wall who was exchanging bets with his friend and not paying attention. The sword literally pinned his head to the wall, making his body jerk spasmodically, eyes wide.
There was a moment of stunned silence, slaves and spectators alike staring at him in shock and outrage. Riordan glanced over out of the corner of his eye and saw Eira had regained her composure, standing straight and tall, her lips pressed in a firm line to hide their trembling, her eyes swimming with tears.
But she didn't look away. Nor would she.
Pride for her swelled through him as several of the guards came forward, snarling with outrage. Several of the slaves tried to get away from him, panicking. Riordan threw his head back and let out a wild call, one that any Viking warrior who had had to battle the Celts would remember floating out of mist filled woods. It was one meant to incite the sheer bloody love of battle and it stirred the soul of every slave who had been a fighter, Eira included.
Two things happened in that moment that kept it from being a simple slaughter. One was that a big Briton chained across from Riordan let out a wild whoop of his own and bounded across to join him, grinning wildly, practically dragging the other slaves behind him. The second was when Riordan jerked his legs apart to stand against the oncoming guards, Eira made a sharp gesture without thinking, calling on everything she knew everything she felt, every spirit she knew. Whether it was magic or coincidence, the chains binding Riordan's legs snapped, leaving him half free of the other slaves.
They were not going to win. Everyone knew it. They knew it. It didn't matter. Several of the other slaves, some unwillingly, came up to join the two but it was Riordan and the Briton that did the most damage that day, swinging chains and swords as the guards swarmed them. Five of them went down within the first minute. When one of the slaves tried to flee, Riordan swung him mercilessly into the oncoming guards, knocking several of them over in a flailing pile. All the while he howled to his gods, battle cry after battle cry, sounding eerily like the howl of a wolf. A sound of bloodlust, of battle, of the wild places deep in the woods. And of defiance.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 7, 2014 4:24:28 GMT -5
Ulfr half-listened to Asger’s account on the tattooed slave. He realized that this was likely one of his own slave’s kinsmen. Ulfr had locked eyes with the Celtic man slave as long as Riordan’s eyes looked upon him. Ulfr had a feeling that this one would be trouble and it set him on edge. His body went rigid as the slave stared hard at his father, not knowing that it was simply the necklace that he was starting at, and he found himself standing from his seat, his arm moving protectively against the Jarl’s chest, who looked up at him with confusion and was about to tug his son back down to his seat when the Celt dropped his shield, readied his sword, and threw it as if were a well-balanced spear into the head of one of the Jarl’s guardsmen.
A shocked hush rippled across the Nords, eyes wide and faces frozen in horror and disbelief. Then the crowd began to stir restlessly. Some of the noblewomen gathered up their skirts as they started towards the exits, their fathers or husbands or brothers putting their arms up around the women in a gesture of protection. They were afraid, and they were beginning to panic. When the Celt let out his war cry, commoners, nobles, and house slaves alike began to flee from the competition grounds to gain a good amount of distance, hoping that the Jarl’s men would quell this rebellion and keep them safe from harm.
It was the chains that Ulfr was counting on to help disable the Celtic warrior, but, by Odin, the thick chain had snapped as if it were a piece of twine. “Anliefr, get the Jarl to safety,” Ulfr snapped to the húscarl, who asked for his pardon while he half-tugged the old man away.
“Ulfr, my son…” Halldorr’s forehead was crinkled in anxiety. The games was a time for celebration… not this nightmare. He resigned himself to be led away, giving his son a last look before being escorted a sage distance away. The crowd had wheeled about when as close as they would dare, watching the uprising with mixed faces of fascination and horror. The remaining slaves, as well as Eira, were being herded away. When Eira resisted, wishing to watch her father, she was slapped hard against the face by a guardsmen, who was set on edge and was not thinking of the consequences. Ulfr’s attention was elsewhere, he had not seen.
He bounded down the tiered steps two at a time, grabbing a heavy sword in his hands and scooping up a shield in deft movements without breaking stride, slamming the shield on his arm and raising his sword in preparation to assist his kinsmen. The Celtic call sent ripples down his spine, but not borne out of fear…. It was the wildness of it, the call for blood and death. For revenge for whatever sins the Celt felt had been sent against him.
Ulfr cut the lesser slaves down easily as if they were reeds, he hopped over their bleeding bodies, running first for the Briton. His Norse tongue may hold no meaning to the Briton’s native language, but what Ulfr cried out was clearly a challenge.
“Bastard son of a whore, fight me!”
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 7, 2014 4:45:52 GMT -5
The Briton turned to meet him with a savage grin. He saw his own death bearing down on him in the form of Ulfr and didn't care. Better to die fighting with the sounds of unhappy Vikings then dying to entertain the bastards. He came charging to meet Ulfr with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, though neither were of the same kind of quality as Ulfr's weapons.
Ulfr didn't see the guardsman strike Eira. Riordan did. He stood with a sword in each hand, wielding them like they were a part of his own body, loosening himself enough he was still chained up but free of the other slaves.
Eira spun toward the guard with a snarl and brought her shackled hands together, bringing them up and slamming them against his temple hard enough to leave him reeling. A second guard stepped forward and hit her again throwing her back. She was still chained to the post and lost her balance when the chain jerked. Perhaps it would have been wiser for Riordan to stay where he was, but practicality played little part in a father's love. Neither of the guards noticed Riordan bearing down on them like the hounds of hell were on his heels. This time his bellow was one of pure rage. Panicked screams came from the slaves as the blood spattered specter burst into the slave pens. The guard barely had time to turn before the Celt was upon him, taking his head with one swift blow. The reeling guard stared at him with wide eyes. Riordan was covered in blood, both his enemies and his own, bleeding from a dozen wounds, including a sword blow that had nearly hamstrung him, but he was grinning, his face flushed with healthy vitality. He lunged forward and ran the guard through, leaving the sword buried in his chest.
Even as he turned away, he staggered, a wave of dizziness passing through him. He was dying. He knew he was dying. His life was running out of him with every drop of blood now. Riordan turned and limped back toward Eira, who had slowly climbed to her feet. Her face was bruised on both sides, her lip split and leaking blood but she stood straight. "Eira..."
"Athair..." It made him smile to hear the music of their language. He knew he didn't have much time, the brute of a warrior sent out would surely kill his brave companion soon. He handed Eira the sword pommel first and knelt in front of her, drawing the tip of the blade to his throat. Her lips trembled and she choked back a sob. He smiled at her, looking at her with dimming eyes. "My Eira...beloved. My pride and joy. I will wait for you in Tír Tairngire. We will all wait for you." Take my soul, he thought silently, take my strength, I'd rather die at your hands than be brought down in a second by the viking. It wasn't a bad way to die, giving his strength to his daughter.
Eira mac Riordan closed her eyes briefly and murmured that she loved him, loved all of them.
Then she took her father's head in one clean blow.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 8, 2014 19:57:43 GMT -5
The absence of fear on the face of the Briton may have earned Ulfr’s respect if it was a Viking, but to all rights this Briton, having been captured by Viking raiders, was stripped of all honor. The two clashed together, Ulfr letting out a growling shout. Both shields, especially the Briton’s, began to splinter under the forces of their strong-armed blows. Despite the weight of the sword, Ulfr’s strikes were swift and powerful. It was not certain if this Briton had kept himself fit even in captivity, but Ulfr’s routine kept his body primed. He was aware that the Celt could wheel upon him at any time, and expected the slave to be underhanded, so he slowly paced to the side so that the Celt’s body was in his view to keep aware of his movements. For now, the tattooed Celt seemed content to strike down at the guardsmen who desperately worked to bring the remaining slaves down so that they could harm no other.
Ulfr heard the scuffle between the slave woman and guardsman not far away. It was clear that she had resisted being led away with the others, even more so than usual. He had a thought that this Celtic man and the Celtic woman were indeed kinsmen of some kind, but he had to pay attention to the Briton else he would be severely wounded if he were to look away or even killed. He hoped that his people could subdue her, for this development was putting him into a red-eyed rage, which made him strike all the harder. But when the Celtic slave went to help her kinsmen, letting out a cry so angry and savage as he lopped off a man’s head, he could not help but quickly look to the side.
Too late did Ulfr block the Briton’s blow with his shield as he tried to tear away his eyes from the Celts. It glanced off his sheld, sliding down the surface, and although the blow of the Briton’s sword, chipped yet still sharp, had been muffled he got a good size cut just at the ribs. He cried out in surprise and pain. The Briton let out a short laugh in victory. If not for his ribs, if the blow had struck a softer part of him, he would likely have been killed right then and there. The searing pain that accompanied the sword wound, as well as the force of the blade, had temporarily knocked the wind out of him. He grimaced, his eyes narrowing, he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Enough. This ends now!” Ulfr brought up his leg, the movement causing him extreme pain as his chest shifted, and kicked the Briton as hard as he could to knock him off balance. As the Briton fell to the ground, losing grip on sword and shield, Ulfr lifted his sword and rammed the tip of the blade into the Briton’s throat. The slave gurgled as he bled out, chocking on his own blood, the life fading from his eyes. Ulfr threw down his shield and pressed a hand to his ribs where he was bleeding at an alarming rate. He spun about, sword in hand, trying to spot the Celtic man so that he could fight him.
What he saw stopped him short. His slave had cut the head off of her own kinsman! His jaw went slack with disbelief at what he had seen. Then he grit his teeth and growled under his breath. The Celt would rather have died than to be slain by a Viking, and he had wished to exact revenge for his own slain Viking men. The slave woman had taken that from him. Seeing a sword in her hands he began to jog towards her, prepared to fight her in his stead, for he would not have her murdering anyone, lest of all himself. He could demand that she drop the sword in value of her life, but he knew that she had been tempted to take her own life because she had been dishonored, just as her kinsman had desired that she take his. He would be forced to wrest the sword from her grip before she did something stupid.
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 9, 2014 0:56:48 GMT -5
There turned out to be no need for it. Eira never even glanced in Ulfr's direction. She used the sword to cut off a lock of her hair and then dropped it, kneeling to lay the lock of hair on the Celtic man's body. She remained kneeling, her knees soaked in blood, more of it spattering the front of her dress, her face pale and still.
Asger arrived then, coming through a doorway into the slave pens from another direction, a sword in his hand, panting wildly and looking around for Ulfr. He sighed in relief when he saw the boy was unharmed, but felt red haze his vision when he took in the wound. A slave had hurt the Jarl's son. Even as he thought it, he took in the sight of Riordan dead on the floor with Eira kneeling beside him. His gaze zeroed in on Eira. That girl. That damned girl. Right then, she seemed to be the focus of everything that was wrong. Before he thought, he was striding a quick couple of paces across the slave pens and struck her a savage blow, knocking her back into the pillar. He hit her again, then again, bellowing with each strike.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 9, 2014 19:00:50 GMT -5
At first, Ulf thought he was too late, seeing the sword in the Eira’s hands make a quick movement. But no, she did no harm to herself other than cut off a lock of her hair, curiously setting it atop her kinsman’s slain body. He was relieved to see that she had rid herself of the weapon, and a small smile spread across his face. That smile quickly faded to a look of alarm when Asger, who had rushed upon the girl not long after his arrival through the slave pen’s rear gate, began to strike her repeatedly with such force as to send her reeling, her hands reflexively to try to void some of the blows for she was innocent of doing any harm to himself. Ulfr threw aside his sword and pressed one hand on railing, then vaulted over the pen fence completely. As soon as his feet landed on the well-trod earth he hastened forward and reached up to grasp the arm that Asger was using to hit her.
“Nay, stay your hand!”
Asger would step back, eyes narrowed and his mouth agape, indignant that Ulfr would protect the Celtic slave. “Stay my hand, are you mad?”
Ulfr frowned deeply. “She did no harm to any but her kinsman. Though she took the victory from my grasp, she has her reasons.”
He looked down at the headless body. The face was frozen with a look of utter peace. Then a movement caught his eye and his gaze shifted to look upon the Jarl. His father was livid, though it was not clear if it had been because his son had stopped the beating or that he was angry with himself for the situation or that the slaves had led a revolt. Pitting male slaves was a tradition during the games, often to the amusement of the guests, eager to see blood spilt or to witness the terror in the slaves eyes as they were forced to fight to the death. A lesson was to be learned here, to use slaves with a defeated look in their eyes and never again those that lived for violence.
The spectators dare not approach any slave and murmured uneasily amongst themselves. They even avoided the house slaves, eying them with suspicion, as if even those broken might have an inkling to act out and turn even a table knife onto their masters. The Jarl let out a great sigh, turned to his guests, and bid them to leave for the feasting hall. The commoners would not be included in the Jarl’s feast, themselves having made arrangements of their own to share a table with one another in the village below. Needless to say, the games would then be halted until further notice, though the games had been planned to continue until the week’s end, the highlights today having been mid-week. No one would question the Jarl’s instructions, numbly filing away in clustered groups, relying on one another for reassurance of safety.
The Jarl gave the Celtic slave a dark look, then turned his eyes upon his son. “Keep your slave out of my sight, for if I see her again I will kill her, do you understand?”
Ulfr bowed his head and nodded in affirmation. The time of her death was close at hand, for in only five weeks time the harvest would be gathered, for already the cold of autumn crept into Norway’s nights. The Jarl would only be too happy to shorten the sentence if he had the mind to. With that, the Jarl was escorted away by his húscarl, three guardsmen at the rear. The slaves were being herded away and watched with suspicion. They nervously complied, eyeing the noblemen’s swords uneasily.
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 9, 2014 21:14:53 GMT -5
Asger was shaking with anger, if there was anyone who was more furious than the Jarl was at the moment, it was he. Hearing Ulfr speak only made him angrier. It was clear now the little bitch had enchanted Ulfr. The boy was young, after all. As the Jarl turned away, Asger's hand shot out and wrapped through that silky black hair, dragging Eira up by it, drawing a dagger from his boot and pressing it against her cheek. "I knew it. What did I tell you? I'll break your spell on him, witch. Let's see you bewitch men without that pretty face of yours." He'd thought surely even a Celtic woman would fear losing her beauty above all else, that she would at least show the hint of alarm at the idea he would scar her but no...not her, gods curse her. Those dark eyes locked with his defiantly even then.
Old Audun the Slavemaster was a boon to them, for he knew better than any how to get slaves back under control. Most of the slaves were too nervous to risk the swords aimed at them but a few of them had been inspired enough by what they had seen they might have risked it. More than one Viking noble found a slave meeting their eyes with eyes so black with hatred they were glassy with it. Hate and savage glee, their voices not hoarse from shouting but cheering the slave on for doing what so many of them would have gladly done.
Audun used every trick at his disposal and quickly got things settled while Ulfr had taken care of the rebellion within. He'd known better than anyone how dangerous it was when a slave decided they had nothing in the world to lose. And when a bunch of them decided it...blood flowed like a river. Now he watched the Jarl from the door of the slave pens, a smile of ice cold amusement on his lips. He alone had felt no surprise whatsoever when the Celt had suddenly attacked. "And that, Jarl, is what happens when you treat men with absolutely nothing to lose like dogs for amusement. And somehow you're surprised when they turn and bite you." He chuckled and the genuine, if bitter, humor in the sound echoed through the cooling air, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the world in general, laughing at fate, laughing at all of them...himself included.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 9, 2014 21:59:39 GMT -5
The Jarl paused, having heard Audun address him. He slowly turned around, his face still red with wrath that had not been quelled. Audun’s sly reprimand had not escaped his notice. Anleifr, the húscarl pleaded with him to continue on to the manor, but the Jarl shrugged off the arm that had so tentatively touched him.
“Audun,” the Jarl said frostily, his jaw set firm, obviously irritated by Audun’s mocking laugh of them all. “Take care. Foreigners are all dogs in any wise Nord’s opinion, no matter how well you dress them. These men are suffered only as long as it amuses me. I would kill any man who turns their teeth upon me, especially wretches who have been stripped of their honor not fit to lick my boots. I have teeth too, and I will not hesitate to use them, even upon those I would call friends. Think upon that.”
----
Ulfr let out a long sigh as Asger threatened to mark his slave with his dagger. He stopped and tried to see this from Asger’s point of view. Did he not, only weeks before, think of the Celtic woman, of whose name he had not asked to know, as nothing but an expendable amusement. He had sworn that he would break her and he was failing miserably. But it would be a shame, marking up that lovely skin. And despite this threat it would shame her not. Nay, she even then defied her Norse masters. He too had suspected that the Celtic woman was a witch, and he had fallen for her wiles. Without a word he gave Asger a wave that he could do as he wished.
The wound pulsed in pain as he walked away, not giving the slave a second glance, making his way to a doctor to examine it. He was sure that the sword held by his attacker had gone so far as to mark the bone beneath the meat of his body, and though they may be fractured from the blow they were still sound enough. He untucked his bloody shirt and ripped off the end of it, balling the torn cloth up and pressing it to the wound, a hiss coming out of a grimace. That would stop the blood at least. He did not look forward to the stitching that would likely occur.
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 9, 2014 22:16:53 GMT -5
Audun shrugged, unimpressed. "Aye, and you can get another master of slaves easily. We're all of us replaceable in the grand scheme of things. Beasts and men, masters and slaves...slavemasters and Jarls alike. World will move on without all of us."
Asger grinned and drew the dagger up the line of her cheek slowly, pressing deep into flesh already bruised and mottled from blows. She couldn't stop the pain from flashing through her eyes but she didn't scream. "You thought you'd preserve his soul to haunt us, didn't you, you filthy little slut? I know your beastly ways. I'll take his head and burn it." He hissed it, digging the tip of the blade in and twisting it, carving a chunk out of her cheek. "I asked the man who brought that Celtic bastard in and confirmed it." He smiled slowly. "He and a few others were the only ones they bothered to take. Your village is gone. Your family is dead. They burned down your precious grove and pulled the sacred tree down. They'll probably use it to make arrows they can use to kill more of your people." Vicious glee pulsed through him when her eyes flickered, grief finally making a crack in her composure. "You're alone. You're nothing. You've always been nothing." He pressed the blade against her other cheek and brought it in a slashing line upward to her hairline. He barely missed her eye and blood sheeted down in a stinging wave. "Ah, no, you get to keep your sight so you can see the look on people's faces when they look at you. Even other slaves will have to struggle to keep from vomiting by the time I'm through with you."
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 9, 2014 22:45:54 GMT -5
The doctor patched him thoroughly, and the wound was indeed so deep it did need stitching up. The doctor’s practiced hand was deft and quick and it was over soon enough. The wound was disinfected with the best the Nords could manage, usually some type of alcohol to stave off bacteria. His chest was bound before he slipped on a fresh shirt. However, the doctor advised against exercise, which meant he needed to stay from tipping the cups, for there would be no way from burning away the grain. Ulfr did not respond well to these prospects, putting him into an even fouler mood. Having the mind to assisting his son’s state, the Jarl had sent a loyal, and docile servant with a horse. Ulfr allowed assistance to mount the horse, and the movements aggravated further the pain against the side of his chest. Still, he had not looked forward to the trek to the Jarl’s manor and was grateful, even thanking the servant for this service.
It was well beyond dark when at last he dismounted, gritting his teeth and walking slowly into the manor. The servants were willing to give their assistance but he brushed any further aside, wishing only to go to his room after ordering supper to be taken there so he may eat privately without other’s eyes upon him. He disliked being in such a vulnerable state, especially due to current events, where many Nords were paranoid that slaves and servants alike would turn upon them, though likely not quite so aggressively as the Briton and Celt slaves that had been slain that day.
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 9, 2014 23:26:57 GMT -5
The weather would not make any of them feel better. Another storm rumbled through the air, the rain starting to slash down, icy and cutting. People whispered above the thunder and cracking lightning that it was Thor, displeased by the day's events. Others weren't so sure, shivering on the wind, unnaturally cold even for the late season. One woman had to be led out of the feasthall by her husband when she started screaming hysterically that she saw the face of a hideous hag in the clouds hovering over the stadium. An old woman whispered fearfully to her son that the winter would kill her...would kill all of them, she was sure of it.
One of the other slaves came up beside Brittney, her face pale as she looked out the window. "The skies are weeping for her..." she whispered. She didn't need to say Eira's name, they both knew who she was talking about.
"Stop! Before Asger could even register a woman's voice, he found hands wrapped around his wrist, dragging him away. Moera wrestled the knife from his hand while he was too stunned to react, tears coursing down her cheeks. "Stop!" She backed away, clutching the knife.
Asger narrowed his eyes and grabbed her arm. Moera was a free woman, not a slave, but she still had no right to disobey him, much less force herself on his person. He gripped her wrist hard, and when she wouldn't relinquish the blade, he twisted it and threw her roughly to the side.
"No!" Eira, through some miracle, managed to struggle to her feet, spitting blood out, her eyes burning.
"Shut up." He glared at her, dragging the knife out of Moera's hand.
"She's pregnant!"
That was the only thing that could have cracked through Asger's rage. He looked at Moera, who climbed to her feet, meeting his gaze and nodding slowly in confirmation. She walked, much to Asger's astonishment, and stepped in front of Eira, her head held high. Eira tried to tug her aside, whispering something, but she didn't budge. Asger looked at the knife in his hand. He couldn't harm a pregnant woman, if he killed the life inside her, he would surely be cursed. He looked at Eira and decided since no one would care about sending someone to take care of her, between his knife and the blows she'd received she'd be ugly enough. Especially if her wounds became infected. Cheered by that thought, he scowled at Moera. "Consider yourself dismissed from my service."
Moera just nodded. Asger grunted angrily and snatched up Riordan's head, holding it by the hair and stomping out of the slave pens. Audun was still there, watching the storm with a serene expression, ignoring the glares from Asger's men. Asger started to say something cutting when agony lanced through his ankle. He looked down to see a snake withdrawing itself, having struck him when his foot came too close. He sliced it in two with his sword before it got away but it had already bitten him. Audun glanced over at him and smiled suddenly. "Snakes are one of Brighid's animals, you know." He glanced back toward the slave pens.
Asger refused to acknowledge the chill that went through him or the sudden flash of the tattoo of a snake that coiled around Eira's right arm, the tip of the tail at her shoulder and the snake's head on her hand, the coils wrapped around the length of her arm amidst the other designs. Ridiculous, ridiculous. None of the Celts' fanciful spirits of nature or weak gods would dare come into Norse territory, how could they stand up to the Viking's gods? Even if Eira was a druid, she had no power here. His men, frightened, drew him onto a horse and raced him to the manor since the doctor had already left. He insisted on carrying Riordan's head and wouldn't allow himself to be taken in until he could throw the cursed thing in the fire. "When it's burned away, crush the skull to ash," he gasped. His men quickly agreed, they would have agreed to anything as long as he would let them take him in to have the venom drawn and the wound seen to, which was already an angry red color.
Eira slumped against the post and Moera turned to her, crying quietly when she took in the state se was in. "Eira..."
"They're all gone...everything..." Eira's voice was a broken whisper. Even the tears tracing down from her eyes and over her cheeks hurt. Moera put her arms around her gently and that almost broke Eira in a way nothing the men had done so far could possibly have. She allowed Moera to hold her up, shaking with grief. Moera helped her sit. A shuffling footstep revealed Audun coming in, his gaze solemn. He shook his head slowly and produced a key that he used to undo her shackles and chains before moving out to let his own servants bundle him into a wagon. "I hope you survive, child...you're turning out to be much more interesting than I ever thought."
Moera shook her head at the strange old man. They were alone now, she supposed she should wait out the storm before taking her back. She didn't know what else to do. If she thought Eira would survive it, she would have taken her back to her family's farmstead. She doubted Ulfr would try and find her, it was obvious he didn't care.
She started when Eira pulled herself up, shuffling toward the door of the slave pens. "Eira, you shouldn't move..."
"I need...to see...the storm," Eira gasped. Moera followed and hovered in the doorway, watching her silently as she padded out into the evening, darkened considerably by the storm. She turned her face into that ice cold shower, the drops slicing through her and making her shiver, washing the blood and tears from her face. She wondered if Cailleach the Winter Queen was up there in the clouds. She hoped She was. Bring your winter early. Starve them all, kill them all, let the Jarl know the bite of pain in his joints nothing can relieve... Oh, she didn't think it was possible, but wish gave her comfort nonetheless. She raised her arms, letting the rain beat down on her, ignoring the pain in her split lips as she opened her mouth and sang to the winds with a song that was as chilling and savage as her father's battle cry.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 9, 2014 23:58:12 GMT -5
It was not long before Asger stumbled inside before his legs gave out, falling heavily and ungracefully to the floor as a fever from the venom took him. Beads of sweat were dripping from his brow and staining the shirt on his chest. “That bitch called the snake to come out of its nest…” he said as his vision began to haze in and out of clarity. He grunted as he tried to stand up again, and it took several to pull him to his feet, looking at one another uneasily at Asger’s remark, while another told the servant to fetch the doctor. They helped him to the closest place that he could be seated, for even now his legs were all but useless to him completely. As the venom took over completely, he shivered violently, feeling like he would never be warm again. “The Winter is cold…” Asger murmured aloud. The men thought he had gone mad, due to the fever.
Having eaten as much as he dared to, for he had his girth to worry about, Ulfr was walking slowly down the stairs, the movements favoring his wound. He heard the commotion in the foyer and hastened as quick as he could manage. Asger was being half-carried into the mead-hall where he could be lain upon a table, the contents upon which they brushed aside to clear it. Stunned at his friends condition he followed the men and stood aside while the men arranged him to be as comfortable as possible. Another fetched a blanket to lay upon him as he babbled on about snakes and the cold.
“Steady now, my old friend,” Ulfr said comfortingly, laying a hand upon Asger’s moist brow, hoping that through the haze Asger would identify him.
The doctor bustled in, carrying his satchel, and set it down at Asger’s feet. The doctor lifted the blanket to look at the wound after a witness told him that a snake had bit him, red and ugly, and frowned at the signs of what could be thought of as bruising, but he knew better than that. “The poison’s set in far too deep for me to draw out. It’s already in the blood…”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Ulfr demanded hotly. “You can do nothing?”
The doctor mournfully shook his head, looking grave.
|
|
|
Post by KD on Jul 10, 2014 0:37:30 GMT -5
The doctor cut the wounds open to drain them and attempt to draw as much poison as possible out. One of Asger's head servants, overhearing, remembered something she'd heard from the kitchen servants in the hall and hurried there. A while later, she returned with an odd concoction of strong alcohol infused with herbs. The doctor allowed her to slowly pour it down Asger's throat as there was little else he could do. Asger gasped and wheezed. "By Hel..."
She shrugged and relentlessly continued to make him drink. "One of the kitchen servant's child had a terrible infection and she swore this helped to kill it." She poured some of it directly onto the wound as well, which brought Asger out of his haze a little bit finally because of the sheer unrelenting pain, he would have liked to bellow but he couldn't, lapsing back into a dazed state with a gasp.
The doctor was frowning. "I've never heard of that..."
Asger's woman shrugged again. "She said she got it from a kitchen slave." More specifically, although Asger's servant didn't know it, she had gotten it from Brittney, who had in turn gotten it from Eira. Only the slaves knew that enough to appreciate the irony. One of them standing in attendance had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking.
There was enough commotion that no one noticed the figures sneaking out into the night. Slaves of the Jarl, all of them, not missed among so many at the moment. They carried baskets with them, stealing through the cold rain and making the long trek up the hill to where a single candle in the slave pens burned. Eira had gone back inside when the bulk of the storm was over, too weak to hold herself up. Moera was sitting beside her, trying to warm her hands. The slaves stole in and bobbed their heads shyly, creeping forward. The baskets had bandages made from old towels and blankets and homemade remedies and salves, many of them Eira's own. They brought wine, not fine wine but heavy enough with alcohol, that was passed among the servants for her to sip. No magic, no great skills of the doctor who tended first to Ulfr and now to Asger, but it was all they could give. It brought tears to Eira's eyes and she bowed her head, humbled, as they tended to her wounds. Some of the women clucked sadly over the scars on her face. It seemed to Moera not even pain and wounding could completely mar her beauty. Even if the cuts would scar, they only seemed to add an edge to it, a warrior glamor, like a Valkyrie. Maybe if Asger had continued as he'd meant to, he would have succeeded, but Moera had stopped him.
When they had tended to her wounds and wrapped a cloak around her, Eira bade them to leave as quick as they could before they were missed. She made Moera go too. Moera had enough money to stay at the inn for a few days until the father of her child could come for her, and journey back to her parents' farmstead to have her baby. She couldn't keep Eira with her, that was simply too dangerous. If Ulfr or the Jarl sent people out for an escaped slave, her whole family could be put in danger. Eira stood in the doorway as they all hurried out into the night. The rain had slowed and warmed a bit. Eira started to step out and paused, glancing back over her shoulder. The place where they kept weapons was still open and she found a halfway descent bow and a quiver of simple arrows, walking off with them into the night. She wouldn't be able to go far and she had no doubt if Ulfr bothered he would be able to track her down, she was too slow with her wounds and it would take her a long time to recover...it was also likely she would be unable to survive the winter as she was. But until then, she would go into the woods where Ulfr exercised and hunted (although she didn't know that). There were berries and nuts and with the bow she could hunt. And wait and see what came next.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Jul 10, 2014 18:29:40 GMT -5
Ulfr grinned when Asger swore to Hel, pleased that he had become lucid again, hoping to hold a conversation with him. He had heard Asger’s men murmuring amongst each other about how the Celtic woman had made a snake bite him, which made Ulfr uneasy. If he was to speak with his friend, now was the time.
“Tell me what happened,” Ulfr fervently spoke, leaning close to Asger’s face, squatting and placing his hands on his thighs.
Asger squinted and tried to focus on Ulfr, his vision still warped and fuzzy, swiveling his head to get a better look. “After giving the Celtic bitch not nearly enough punishment… carved up her pretty face with my dagger…” He chuckled a bit at that. “I grabbed the disembodied head of her kinsman to throw it into the fire, so that his soul would be denied peace, and I told that wench I would do so too.” He chuckled again but he began to cough violently, gulping for air. When he had managed it, he continued. “By Hel, it’s only a snake bite! I’ve had worse…”
Ulfr looked towards the blood-seeping wound gravely as his friend gasped for air. His ankle had swelled to twice its size and the area around it had grown black. Pus was running out with the blood. He wasn’t certain if the bleeding was doing any good, but he remained silent, putting his faith into the doctor’s knowledge. He had not forbidden the servant for pouring the concoction into his gullet, nor of dousing the wound, because at this point nothing else could do more harm than what he already suffered.
“Aye, you’ll pull through this, you always do…” Ulfr agreed, hoping that his voice managed to sound encouraging. Asger coughed again, turned his head aside and spat up blood, flecked with the herbs from the draught. The doctor wiped away blood from Asger’s cheek, shaking his head. It was only a matter of time.
“Though I tried to make her suffer, she had the victory in the end. I swear by Odin that those ungodly tattoos across her arm began to crawl as if a living thing, and I saw a snake coil about her wrist at the same time the adder struck my ankle.”
Ulfr’s brow knit as he listened. He brushed aside the harming of his thrall, for her beauty had done him more harm than good, and focused instead on this account that the witch had used her magic for revenge. “She will not see the sunlight again, by Odin. She will not cause harm to another soul.” With that promise, he stood up and motioned to a guardsman, whose eyes widened as he shook his head.
“My Lord, please… she will strike at me as well. I do not wish to suffer the same fate…” the guardsman trembled and the others shrunk back as well. Ulfr looked around at them in disgust.
“You would bow to your fear instead of obeying my orders?” He was indignant with budding wrath.
“Yes my Lord, forgive us,” another chimed in.
“By Thor’s hammer, I’ll do it myself! My sword, then… and a bow.”
“Ulfr!” Asger tried to sit up, reaching up to clutch Asger’s jerkin. “Watch yourself, see that she does not get her claws into you.”
He reached out expectantly as his fetched sword was placed in his hands. He wrapped the belt around his waist and latched it securely, then looped a quiver of arrows over his shoulder, the bow sliding into a notch at the back of the straps. “I will take her head and bring it to you in victory. Strength, my friend.” He turned and barked orders that a horse be fetched to him. He stalked off as quickly as he could, not wishing to show his weakness though he was wounded.
The horse was waiting for him by the time he walked down the steps that led onto the grounds. His wound seared in pain, and blood had seeped through the bandages, staining a bit of his shirt, but it was hidden beneath a deep green jerkin so eyes would not catch on so quickly. He managed to mount the horse and clucked to it to get moving. He kicked it into a canter, moving back down to the fairgrounds. He had not been told of the slave’s return and suspected foul play.
“Thor light my way…” he prayed to the god as the storm rumbled menacingly. As if in response to his prayer, lightning streaked across the sky followed by terrible peals of thunder, and in those moments the night was lit up as day. The horse knew the way and did not need much guidance.
|
|