Catan: The Order of Ravens, page 38
Fenrir looked at his grandson’s still boyish features. Hakon was a lad to his taste. He never complained, hung on his every word, and loved fishing and the sea.
Hakon’s demeanor and his facial expressions often reminded him of his eldest son, Einar, who lost his life many years ago in single combat over a woman. His death had left a wound in Fenrir that had never fully healed, and when he’d learned of the death of his other two sons, it was as if a knife had been twisted in this wound and caused it to bleed once more. He’d tried to find consolation in the fact that their murderess had been repaid, yet the pain over the loss of his sons had scarcely lessened.
When they reached the delta in the south and followed the course of the eastern main branch around a bend, they spied a rowboat about a hundred paces away. Two women and one man were standing in the shallow waters near the shore with buckets; evidently, they were gathering shellfish.
“Row for your life!” called Fenrir excitedly to his grandson. One of the women was Gudrun, one of his runaway servants.
Hakon put his back into it, rowing as if the Fenris wolf were after him.
Just then, the man looked up, gave a start, and shouted a warning at his companions. The shellfish gatherers leaped into their boat, and when Fenrir and Hakon were only about thirty paces away, they started to row frantically. Since they were rested and there were two of them rowing, they managed to grow the gap between the two boats steadily.
Fenrir cursed. By the time he’d have strung his bow and found his quiver with the arrows in his carry sack, the thralls would be out of range.
Never mind—let them flee and warn the others. Fenrir now knew where they were hiding! It would seem the two old men had lied and had helped the servants to hide.
“It’s all right, my boy, you can stop. We’ve got them. Let’s go back to Woodhaven.”
Jora was galloping on Bruni’s back among a herd of wild horses, trying to get close to a pregnant brown mare whose even build and straight back had caught Jora’s eye. When Jora drew almost level with her, she swung the loop of her rope, cheering when she managed to land it around the fleeing horse’s head on her first attempt.
Shifting her weight slightly, she signaled Bruni to slow down. The captured mare wanted to follow the fleeing herd, but the rope around her neck slowed her run.
Jora was holding sufficient rope in her left so that her right hand was able to balance out the powerful movements of the captured horse without Jora running in danger of being dragged off Bruni’s back, but she was still relieved when she saw Björni ride over from the other side. The sprightly old man swung the loop of his own rope and also successfully threw it around the mare’s neck. Once he’d slowed his horse to a walk, he slid to the ground and leaned back against the wild horse’s pull on the rope. Jora laughed when she saw Björni bounce on his backside across the bumpy grass and jumped off Bruni’s back. Together they managed to bring the mare to a halt, though they had not yet broken the animal’s spirit and need for freedom. Whinnying with panic, the mare kicked with her hind legs, reared, and jumped. Jora and Björni had to concentrate hard to keep her in check with their ropes, and it took longer than Jora expected before the mare gave up resisting and stood, visibly exhausted and her mouth dripping with foam, staring in her direction.
“Well done, Jora!” called out Björni.
She nodded at him happily. He no longer called her “girl” since she’d angrily placed the tip of Abena at his chest and shouted at him, “If you call me ‘girl’ one more time, instead of by my name, I’ll chop off your big old ears!”
Björni had gaped at her from big eyes, but he’d understood, as had Bjarni, who had stood beside him, startled.
Jora slowly stepped toward the mare, muttering soothingly to her. On account of the jagged blaze on the horse’s forehead and because of her spirited temper, Jora decided to call her Starfire. When Jora was just one step away from her, the mare put back her ears, swished her tail nervously, and bared her teeth—Starfire was scarcely older than four years.
Jora stopped, continued to talk gently to the horse, and repeatedly uttered her new name. The mare calmed down, and when Jora slowly lifted one hand and placed it on Starfire’s nose, the mare tilted up her ears and allowed it. Jora sensed strongly that these were the tender beginnings of a long friendship.
The captured mare in tow, Björni and Jora returned to the village, and Jora could tell immediately that something was amiss. Groups of people who ought to have been at work stood gathered together behind the open gate, gesticulating wildly as they talked. She climbed off her horse and asked Björni to take Starfire and Bruni to the paddock.
Even before she arrived at the village square, Lars came toward her. The gaunt man’s face was flushed and his expression tense.
“They’ve found us!” he exclaimed agitatedly. “The cockle gatherers only just managed to evade them.”
“Evade whom? Spit it out!”
Lars rubbed his bald head nervously. “Gudrun says that, all of a sudden, a boat with two men appeared out of nowhere not far from them. Apparently, one of the men was Fenrir, her former master. She thinks the young man with him might have been the fisherman’s oldest grandson.”
This was terrible news. Jora counted feverishly: if the weather remained fair, Fenrir would reach Woodhaven in about eight days’ time. Thorolf would prepare for two or three days before setting out with his ships and armed men. Jora concluded that the men of Woodhaven could reach the delta in just under twenty days. That didn’t leave much time, but she would use it as best as she could.
“Call in the council,” she ordered Lars. She glanced up at the blue summer sky. No rain appeared in sight. “We meet at dusk out by the campfire.”
On the way to her hut, Jora came past the pillory. Pedro was sitting on the ground. His wrists were tied about two feet apart to a solid stick, which in turn was tied with short ropes to the stake. That way, he had some limited movement, though he couldn’t take more than one step away from the stake.
Bodo sat crouching in front of him, speaking softly to him, and Pedro nodded.
Did the miscreant see the wrongness of his actions? Curious, she called for Bodo.
Outside of Pedro’s earshot, she asked, “Is he remorseful?”
Bodo gave a thin smile. “Not at first. He kicked at me when I tried to come close to him, and he claimed again and again that Ethel secretly wanted it too but didn’t admit to it. He started to become a little more approachable when I helped him to relieve himself two days ago. Perhaps that’s also because I’m the only person bar his mother who speaks kindly to him, instead of abusing him and spitting at him, like some of the women do when they go past.”
“Which he deserves!” Jora said in a hard voice.
Bodo nodded. “I know. And yet I didn’t reproach him, only spoke to him about how I was raped as a boy and how miserable I felt each time afterward. Clearly, Pedro didn’t realize that men could be so cruel to children, because he looked at me as if he couldn’t believe it and said it wasn’t the same. I asked him how he would feel if I took him against his will there and then, just to claim afterward he secretly wanted it. That gave him pause, and yes, since then, I’ve noticed signs of remorse in him.”
“Let’s hope his remorse is true,” said Jora. “For if he lays hands on a girl ever again, I will personally brand the mark of shame onto his forehead and chase him into the wild with nothing but the clothes on his back. And there he can die. Tell him that!”
She made to leave but Bodo held her back. “Pedro has asked for something.”
“What?” she asked.
“When the warriors from Woodhaven come, he’d like us to untie him so he can fight alongside us.”
Jora didn’t need to think for long. Pedro had shown great talent with the spear, and they’d need every man and every woman to defend Ravenshold.
“Tell him he’ll be in the front line should my father’s warriors attack.”
“How many spears do we have?” asked Jora.
Lars sucked the roast juices from his fingers and thought for a moment before saying, “Fifteen. One for each man and woman who’s learned how to use one.”
She turned to Bjarni. “And how many bows?”
The old man grinned. “Björni and I have been busy.” He lifted a hand, stretched out his fingers and closed them again, then repeated it three times. Proudly he said, “Every archer we trained has their own bow.”
“I hope we also have enough arrows?”
This time, Bjarni used the fingers of both hands to indicate forty arrows. He gave an apologetic shrug. “Roughly, at least.”
That was not enough by far. Jora was angry with herself. She hadn’t reckoned with being discovered so soon, and in the name of peace among the Ravens, had opted to focus more on the repair of the old huts and the building of new ones instead of strengthening their defenses. Now she saw that that had been a mistake—one that might come back to haunt them.
The members of the council could obviously tell that she was frustrated, gazing at her with worry.
“We need more of everything: more spears, arrows, bows, and more people who know how to use them.”
Bjarni complained that he had no sinews for more bows, and Lars shook his head decidedly. “We don’t have the iron to make spears and arrowheads on top of all the nails we need.”
“I know that. Which is why we’ll stop working on the buildings as of now. We’ll also pause the clearing of the woods. You and Aldwyn will forge exclusively spears and arrowheads—use the iron from worn-down axes.”
“What about the nails we’ve already made?” asked Lars.
Jora took a sip of ale, and a brief smile darted across her face. “I’m glad you’ve still got some. We’ll need them to raise the viewing platform on the barn. We mustn’t miss approaching boats a second time. Bodo, will you see to it?”
Bodo tossed a clean bone into the fire and nodded.
Jora knew she could rely on him. Next, she addressed Alma, “If we fall under siege, we need provisions. Slaughter all the pigs except for one boar, the pregnant sows, and any small piglets. Butcher the rest and smoke the meat.”
“Why?” Alma asked doubtfully. “We can still slaughter them when we’re under siege,”
“Firstly, so that Bjarni and Björni get their sinews for new bows,” Jora replied, which earned her an approving nod from Bjarni, “and secondly, we won’t be able to feed all the pigs if we’re besieged. We’ll need the grain for ourselves.” Lastly, she asked Edvina, “Take Ethel and the youths to the Tajo and wash gold and tin ore.”
“What do we want with the stuff?” grumbled Bjarni. Jora patiently explained her plan to him and the others.
“I see,” the old man said. “Well, if you think it’ll work . . .”
The next morning, Jora called together all the Ravens in the small village square. She was standing on a crate between the well and the pillory, from whence Pedro was watching her intently. As was her father’s habit at assemblies, Jora was clad in her best clothing. Over the gray linen pants that were wrapped tightly against her calves below the knees, she wore a beige tunic. The leather cuirass reaching down to her hips and her belted sword designated her as a warrior.
Her voice carried far when she spoke to the assembled women and men, “When I joined you, you told me you’d rather die than return to servitude. As a consequence, I ensured many of you learned how to use a spear and bow. I thought we would have plenty of time to train still more of you in the art of handling those weapons.” She looked into the serious, tense faces of the people who had placed their fate in her hands. “But now we have no more than three weeks left. Before I tell you how we’re going to prepare ourselves, I want to know if you’re still ready to defend yourselves against your former masters and their warriors. If that is what you want, raise your hands now!”
The result was overwhelming. Many held up their hands with determination, and when someone shouted “Death over servitude,” others picked up the battle cry. Soon almost everyone was shouting in unison, even those who’d been reluctant at first and who’d only raised their hands once their neighbors signaled their encouragement.
Jora waved both arms up and down in an appeasing gesture, and the crowd fell silent, gazing at her expectantly. Jora explained to them how they were going to prepare for the arrival of the Woodhaven warriors during the remaining three weeks. No one complained or objected; everyone seemed to consider Jora’s plan wise, recognizing it as perhaps their only chance to preserve their freedom.
That night, Jora struggled to fall asleep. Again and again, she went over every possible scenario in her mind, trying to work out what she might have missed. Before her eyes fell closed, she thought of Sven, imagined he was holding her in his arms and she was sharing her concerns with him.
The weather was typical for summer on Catan’s northern coast. Dark-gray clouds that gathered above the sea and unloaded their wet burden in squally showers over the land took turns with brief sunny intervals, and like now, they occasionally created a colorful rainbow.
Sven paused his work and lowered his axe. He couldn’t get enough of gazing at the stunning play of colors that shone in front of the ominous blue-gray clouds as if they were of magical origin, not of this world.
When Sven was little, he’d asked his mother who made the rainbow, and she had answered with the tale of the wondrous coloring: Streaming from the beak of this shy bird weren’t songs but glimmering colors that united to form the rainbow, which was said to bring luck to the humans.
With a pang of longing, Sven thought back to all those imaginative stories Diara had used to explain the world to him. He used to love her tales—so much more than Högni’s bloody depictions of the deeds of Nordic heroes and gods. He was already grown when he’d asked her where she knew all those stories from. With a sad smile, she’d replied that her dear grandmother back in the Hot Land had passed them down to her when Diara had been a little girl.
When the rainbow faded, Sven focused on the log he intended to split into four even planks with his axe. A few steps over, his brother Tjure was working on the hull of a fishing boat with an apprentice and several servants.
The hammering, axe blows, and shouts of the men didn’t appear to bother Högni, who sat slumped on a bench under the verandah of his house, snoring. But when Tjure suddenly roared at one of his servants because of a mistake, Högni opened his eyes with a start, blinked a few times, and soon went back to sleep.
His father’s condition pained Sven. Högni wasn’t getting over Diara’s death.
When she was still alive, he used to proudly visit his roofed wharf each morning, where he’d inspect his sons’ work, sometimes praising, sometimes scolding them. Then he would pick up his axe and begin his day’s work with enthusiasm. Since they’d burned Diara’s body according to the Nordic custom, Högni had become increasingly apathetic. At some point, he had stopped picking up his axe, and since then, all he did was sit on his bench, sleeping or watching without interest the goings-on in the workshop. In his thoughts, he seemed to dwell in a past where Diara was still alive and lovingly cared for him.
Sven empathized with his father’s grief. When Sven had learned of Jora’s death, the pain that had grasped hold of him seemed unbearable. Over and over, he had asked himself what else he could have done to protect her life. He had gone about his work in silence, and nothing had had the power to draw a smile to his lips or make him laugh. His brother, Tjure, wasn’t the only one who noticed his grief and melancholy, and one day, Asla gently took him aside and—after swearing him to secrecy—revealed to him that she was firmly convinced Jora was still alive. Her reasons seemed plausible to him. Since then, the darkness had left him, and he’d begun and concluded each new day with the hope of seeing Jora again someday.
Once again, rain pelted down on the reed roof of the workshop, which was open on the sides. One of Fenrir’s many grandsons, who didn’t seem to mind the heavy downpour, came bouncing toward them from the harbor, soaking wet, and shouted in his high-pitched voice, “Grandfather and my brother are back! They’ve found them!”
Sven set down his axe, and Tjure also stopped what he was doing.
“Found them where?” asked Sven.
The boy came to a halt and wiped the wet hair from his face. “In the delta in the south!” he declared self-importantly. Clearly, he relished the attention the men were paying him. “My grandfather says the old men lied.” Then he ran off toward Woodhaven, clearly eager to share his news everywhere.
Sven looked at his brother. Tjure’s skin was light brown like his own, and he possessed the same dark eyes as Sven. But that was where their likeness ended. While Sven had inherited Diara’s tall, slim stature and her curly hair, Tjure had inherited Högni’s muscular, stocky build, and he also possessed his father’s coarse features and hair that stuck out in all directions—except that Tjure’s was still pitch-black while Högni’s had gone gray.
“Thorolf will gather his men and set out to fetch back the thralls,” said Sven. “Will you sail with him?”
“Why should I?” Tjure replied, shaking his head. “Did our servants run off?”
“No. We always treated them well.”
Sven thought again of his mother. As a girl and young woman, Diara had experienced the sufferings of a slave firsthand and, later, those of a maid without rights. She often used to preach to Högni and her sons about treating servants like humans and not like animals.
“And that’s not going to change,” Tjure said, who, like Högni, believed in the order designed by the Nordic gods, an order that divided people into lords, free farmers, and unfree thralls, but who in spite of his easily kindled temper never laid a hand on any servants or maids; instead, if they committed a grievous mistake, he cut their food rations as a form of punishment.
