Catan: The Order of Ravens, page 34
“Is this where we carry on searching?” she asked.
Yngvi rose, his eye following the western main branch north toward the woods. “Yes, I think we should row up this one until the spot where the river forks for the first time. Then let’s follow the eastern main branch south. Maybe we’ll find the Ravens’ camp somewhere along there.” Something gave him pause. “Look, there. Aren’t those roofs?”
“Where?”
He pointed at a tall plant a few paces away. “Just left of that. Can you see them?”
Jora squinted. “No. I don’t see that well in the distance.” She called for Ethel, who was helping Edvina restart last night’s fire.
Once Yngvi had explained to the young woman where to look, she exclaimed excitedly, “Yes, those are houses. One of them is bigger and seems to have some kind of tower on its roof.”
Intrigued, Edvina joined them. “All I can see are some speckles among the green. But Ethel has keen eyesight. If my daughter says there are houses, then there are houses.”
Yngvi felt himself wax excited. Finally, after more than two weeks of searching the huge area of the delta they had spotted human settlement!
“That must be the village of the two old men Olaf met during his search for the Ravens,” said Yngvi.
He thought of Haflad, the Shieldmaiden’s loquacious skipper, who liked to share news from Woodhaven in the tavern and whose most recent tale of two survivors of a Nordic fleet that had washed up on the southern shore decades ago had spread like wildfire through Ryansville.
While Yngvi, Jora, and Edvina pulled the oars through the calm waters in a steady rhythm, Ethel sat proudly at the tiller, steering the Hope along a narrow canal. Soon they reached the river’s middle main branch and turned north.
“Stop rowing!” Yngvi shouted suddenly. “Listen!”
Low sounds rang in the distance: two long ones followed by two shorter ones.
“What was that?” Edvina asked, worried.
“A horn,” Yngvi said, thinking. “I’m guessing someone spotted us and gave the signal to warn others . . .” He gestured for Ethel to steer the boat to the bank. “Let’s get our bearings.”
The island they disembarked upon scarcely protruded from the water, and not even at its highest point could they see the houses they’d sighted that morning.
“Come,” Yngvi said to Ethel. “I’ll take you on my shoulders.”
Once Yngvi had lifted her up, she exclaimed excitedly, “I can see the top of the tower! It’s on the right-hand bank of the river branch we’re on, quite close to the edge of the woods. I think someone’s standing up there, watching us.”
Yngvi crouched down, letting Ethel climb off. Squinting, he gazed north. The banks of the river gently rose toward the woods. The land where Ethel made out the tower probably lay about seven feet higher than the low island they were standing on. That’s why they couldn’t see the houses from here—that and because of the lush vegetation. Presumably, the grassland near the forest’s edge rarely flooded, if at all.
“Whoever lives there,” said Yngvi, “we will find out.”
Yngvi couldn’t stifle a smile when two old men with bent legs and half-rotten shields armed with blunt swords came trudging toward them. They looked incredibly alike, aside from details in their threadbare warrior outfits. Their clothing seemed no less run down than most of the huts surrounding them.
Once Yngvi gave them his name and those of his companions, the old men introduced themselves as Björni and Bjarni.
Björni studied Jora and Ethel, saying, “You have pretty daughters.”
Bjarni gave a cackling laugh, asking with mischief in his eye, “Or could those young things be your second wives?”
“Neither nor,” replied Yngvi. “Jora is my niece. Edvina and her daughter, Ethel, are our friends.”
“I see,” said Björni. “Never mind. What really matters is the question of what you’re doing here.”
“We’re on the search for a group of escapee thralls calling themselves Ravens,” replied Yngvi. “Their leader is called Caven. Have you seen them?”
Björni frowned and gave his brother a questioning look. “Caven? What a strange name. You ever heard it before?”
Bjarni shook his head. “Your friends from Woodhaven asked us the same silly questions two moons ago. One more time: we neither have a Caven here nor any kind of people calling themselves Ravens.”
“We’re not from Woodhaven but from Ryansville, a community of former slaves,” Yngvi explained to the two old men. “We’re friends of Caven and the Ravens.”
“So what?” Björni replied flippantly. “Then why don’t you keep on rowing and look for your friends?”
Yngvi decided to change tack. “You’re no longer the youngest. I find it astonishing how busy you are.”
“How do you mean?” Bjarni asked suspiciously.
Yngvi pointed to the fields at the forest’s edge, where grain was maturing, nearly ready for harvest. “I can scarcely believe you plowed all those fields. And then there are the pigs and horses in the paddocks. You care for those too?” Yngvi nodded at a hut to his left. The walls had been partially repaired with fresh logs, and the roof had obviously recently been thatched with fresh reeds. “And in your spare time, you fix up an old house!” He lifted his arms in mock admiration. “You must possess truly divine powers.”
The twins’ faces darkened. Obviously, they hadn’t failed to notice the irony in his words.
Jora took a step toward the old men and slowly drew her sword. “Caven forged this weapon. Take it to him and tell him Jora’s waiting for him. Believe me, he’ll come. It was I, after all, who made the Ravens’ escape possible.”
Björni took the sword, studied the pattern on the blade, and swung it through the air. Then he passed it to his brother. “This sword is a masterpiece,” he said admiringly.
Once Bjarni, too, had inspected the sword, he asked, “How come a woman like you is carrying such a weapon?”
“Because a woman like me can handle it,” Jora replied curtly.
“Better than most men,” added Yngvi. He turned serious. “Stop treating us like idiots already. I know you’re not alone here. Who else, if not the Ravens, were you warning with your horn when you spotted us? And who’s going to eat all the bread that can be baked from the grain on your fields? Surely not just the two of you!” Crossing his arms at his chest, he said in a tone that left no room for doubt, “We’re staying right here until you lead us to the Ravens.”
The twins exchanged a look before nodding at each other. “Very well, you didn’t want it any other way,” Bjarni said, while Björni stuck two fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly.
Yngvi counted five archers that had been hiding behind the huts and who were now emerging. Each of them was holding a drawn bow with an arrow pointing at them.
“If you’re not who you say you are, you’ll be the first to die,” Björni said seriously while Bjarni headed toward the woods with Jora’s sword.
One of the archers, a young woman, called out, “That’s Jora, the jarl’s daughter. We owe our escape to her.” She lowered her bow, and the other archers followed her example.
Björni’s dark face softened. “Well, it seems you spoke the truth. Then it won’t be long before Caven will pay us a visit.”
That was what happened. A long line of people, men and women, some carrying a child in their arms and holding one by the hand, emerged from the woods and walked toward the small village. At the head of the procession walked Bjarni and Caven, the latter carrying Jora’s sword.
Yngvi glanced at his niece, whose face betrayed a struggle of joy, suspicion, and doubt as she looked toward her beloved. He knew Caven as a bright young lad who used to visit Carla regularly back when they’d still lived in Woodhaven to let her introduce him and other children to the mysterious world of letters. The man walking toward him now was handsome, of average height, with skin the color of bronze, black curls, and dark eyes. This man certainly wouldn’t find it difficult to conquer the heart of any woman.
Caven stopped in front of Jora, handed the sword to her, and looked at her uncertainly, as if he didn’t know how to act around her. Awkwardly, he asked, “Why are you here? I thought you wanted to stay in Woodhaven.”
Jora’s face fell. Clearly, she was deeply disappointed that Caven hadn’t greeted her more warmly and hugged her. Her brows knitted, and her voice filled with annoyance, she answered with a question: “Says who?”
“Shea.” He turned and called, “Shea, where are you?”
A young woman with a voluptuous figure beneath a tight gray tunic stepped out from among the Ravens, who had formed a semicircle around Caven and Jora. She wore her thick red hair plaited into braids and was looking at the ground with embarrassment.
Caven said to Jora, “Shea told me you decided at the last moment to stay with your family.”
“Then she lied to you. Would you like to tell us the truth, Shea?” Jora asked cuttingly. “Or shall I?”
Shea couldn’t bring herself to look at Jora. A sob escaped her, and she quietly said, “I’m sorry.”
Jora raised her eyebrows as if the answer surprised her. She looked around at the Ravens’ puzzled faces. Her voice carried clearly across the village square. “She’s sorry says the hussy.” A sarcastic smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “She’s sorry that she struck me down from behind just when the knarrs were about to set off.” She pointed at Caven. “Because she wanted this man to herself.” A murmur of disbelief went through the ranks of the Ravens. “In doing so, the treacherous wench accepted the possibility that the heads of families in Woodhaven would drown me in the Saltmarsh for betraying them. For that is what they demanded. I have my father to thank for averting my death sentence by turning it into a seven-year banishment.”
The murmuring grew louder, some people cursed Shea, shouting “Shame!” or “Traitor!”
Caven seemed unable to believe what he was hearing, but suddenly he came to life. He grabbed Shea hard by her arms and shook her, roaring, “You devious bitch! How could you do such a thing?” He slapped her face and raised his arm to strike her again.
Then, everything happened very fast. Writhing in his grip, Shea cried, “Stop! I’m carrying your child.”
In the same instant, a lanky young blond man with a flushed face leaped at Caven and threw him to the ground. While the two men rolled on the ground fighting, Yngvi watched the twins. The old men were grinning, nudging each other, seemingly enjoying the spectacle. No wonder, thought Yngvi. There wouldn’t have been much diversion in all those years of loneliness.
After a while, Caven had a firm choke hold on his attacker, but the latter kicked his legs wildly and desperately clutched a fistful of Caven’s curls, yanking him forward with a powerful tug. Caven gave a suppressed cry and slackened his hold around the blond man’s throat, who used the newfound wriggle room to bite Caven’s forearm hard. Caven groaned with pain, but the pain also seemed to revitalize him. Furiously he squeezed his arm tightly around his opponent’s throat while pommeling his face with his free hand.
Two men eventually managed to pull the fighting pair apart.
A gaunt and bald man in his middle years stepped between Caven and the other man, who were both breathing hard and glowering at each other resentfully. The baldhead spoke invokingly, “Aldwyn! Caven! Stop it! Fighting leads to nothing.”
While Caven held his bleeding arm, casting furtive glances at Jora, his opponent walked over to Shea and placed himself protectively in front of the sobbing woman.
This Aldwyn must have rather sharp teeth, thought Yngvi. The wound on Caven’s arm looked nasty.
Jora, looking at Caven evenly, jeered, “Did I hear right? While I had to run from Fenrir’s henchmen, almost losing my life twice, you had nothing better to do than to put a child in the lying whore’s belly? That’s how quickly you forgot me?”
Yngvi thought it could almost be Asla’s sharp tongue speaking, when she argued with Thorolf.
Caven appeared guilt-ridden. “I like you, Jora. Please believe me—I never wanted you to come to any harm.”
“But the love you swore to me was a sham, was it not?”
After a moment, Caven nodded reluctantly.
Venomously, she said, “You used me to achieve your goals. To you, I was nothing more than a dumb sheep in the struggle for your freedom.” She spat at his feet, and with her head held high, she strutted down to the boat. Edvina and Ethel followed her.
Yngvi could understand his niece’s harsh reaction. He, too, condemned Caven’s pretense. But at least her faithless lover had been honest in the end.
“Let her sleep on it for a night,” he advised the shamefaced young man. “Tomorrow, when she’s calmed down, you should apologize to her and try to talk it over. Try to make up.” He almost felt like a fortune-telling sage when he said in conclusion, “Without Jora at your side, you and your Ravens will have no future.”
That night, Jora found little rest. Her thoughts spun in circles around Shea, Caven, and her future with the Ravens. The voices in her head—asking questions, doubting, thirsting for revenge—finally fell silent very late, granting her a little sleep.
She awoke the next morning drenched in sweat. She’d had a confounding dream. She was forced to knot threads into a pattern, but every time she came close to finishing, the pattern turned to dust and she had to begin again.
She was glad to escape from the torturous dream, but reality hardly seemed any less oppressive. She longed to return to Ryansville or Woodhaven, but both those roads were barred to her.
When she left her tent, she nearly tripped over Grimm, who had settled down outside the entrance. She patted her loyal dog’s head, and he lovingly licked her hand in return.
Yngvi and Edvina had set up the tent the previous evening near the little village, which was already getting busy. A young woman drove squealing pigs from the stables while two strong men worked on repairing a derelict hut. In the village square, Bjarni and Björni were loudly instructing a handful of men and women on how to use a bow. One of the twins gave a cackling laugh when one of the budding archers made a terrible shot. Above them on the viewing platform on the barn, a woman was keeping watch.
Edvina, sitting in the grass with Ethel and Winnie not far from the tent, waved to her. Yawning deeply, Jora sat down beside her friends, took the bowl of porridge Ethel was handing her, and inquired about Yngvi.
“He went to the river,” replied Ethel. “He said he badly needed a bath.”
Jora grinned. She knew how important a groomed appearance was to her uncle.
He loathed greasy hair and unwashed, stinking bodies.
Edvina, untangling her long red hair with her fingers, regarded her from her ice-blue eyes. “What will you do now?”
Jora shrugged. “Stay here. What else?”
Edvina shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. Will you punish Shea in some way? And Caven? Will you forgive him?”
“I feel like grabbing the slut by her hair and dragging her into the wild. Let her cope by herself,” she said coldly. “Let her go through what I went through.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” said Edvina gently. “Unlike you, Shea doesn’t know how to use a bow or the sword or defend herself with knives. If she gets banished, it would be her death sentence.”
“And that of her child,” Jora said thoughtfully. “The little worm growing inside her isn’t to blame for his mother’s sins, and it’s the only reason why I’m letting her live.” Stroking her belly, which was still flat, she thought of her own child.
Ethel scraped the last bit of her porridge from her bowl with a finger, saying softly, “But Shea said she was sorry. If she genuinely regrets her actions, then don’t you have to forgive her, as a Christian?”
Jora gave a bitter laugh. “God cannot ask that of me. Not slitting her throat will have to be enough for him.”
Unnoticed by the women, Yngvi had walked over. High in spirits, he sat down next to Jora. “Whose throat is my niece not going to slit? Shea’s?” Answering his own question, he carried on, “She’d undoubtedly deserve it, but you’re doing well not to give in to your lust for revenge.” He grinned and winked at Ethel. “Does your little pot have any porridge left for a hungry skipper?”
Ethel nodded and filled a bowl, handing it to him with a warm smile.
Jora suspected her young friend had a small crush on Yngvi—and she wouldn’t be the only one. It wasn’t just his handsome and well-kempt appearance that attracted women but also his friendly manner and his sense of humor, which he knew how to charm people with. But then again, thought Jora, perhaps Ethel merely saw a fatherly friend in him, seeking to replace the father she’d lost too soon.
“Look who’s coming,” said Yngvi with his mouth full.
Jora’s eye followed the direction her uncle had indicated with his chin and spotted Caven heading straight toward them.
The leader of the Ravens looked serious and a little nervous when he nodded at everyone before addressing Jora with an uncertain smile. “I’d like to show you the Ravens’ nest in the woods, and I want to talk with you.”
Jora would have liked to tell him to go to hell, but that wouldn’t lead anywhere. She had no choice but to come to terms with him. But she certainly wouldn’t walk with him dressed in nothing but her shift. She wanted everyone to see who she was.
“Wait here,” she replied coolly. “I need to dress.”
She slipped into the tent as a woman in her plain undergarment, but she reemerged as a warrior. She wore wide pants that she’d wrapped with strips of linen from her boots to below her knees. Over her gray tunic, she wore her leather cuirass, reaching to her hips. A wide belt adorned her waist, and attached to the belt were her scabbard and the bag holding her knives. On her back, she carried her strung bow and a quiver holding a handful of arrows. She enjoyed her friends’ admiring looks and the surprised expression on Caven’s face. He’d never seen her in her full attire before.
