Beneath dark waters, p.16
Beneath Dark Waters, page 16
The woman picked up her basket, heavy with an assortment of foodstuffs: a slab of salted meat wrapped in paper, jars of honey and salt, and root vegetables, and led the way out of the marketplace. Torin stumbled, his consciousness wavering. The woman wrapped her arm around his middle and clung to him, keeping him steady.
“Hold on a bit longer, Jaeger. You’re too big for me to carry.”
The pair followed the seashore before turning onto a dirt path that cut through the woods leading to a hut overlooking the bay. The timber walls were grey with age, and some of the wooden roof shingles were loose. On the front and back of the house, two beams followed along the edge of the roof and crossed at the peak of the gables, the beams crowned with cat heads silently yowling into opposite sides of the sky. The paint had long since weathered away, but some remained, faded and flaking, on the geometric pattern carved into the roof’s bargeboards.
It was a simple house, small and rectangular, ornamented heavily with amulets and talismans, bones knotted together with leather thongs, wooden discs and sticks with runes carved into them. Animal skulls decorated elaborately carved posts or hung from nails on the exterior walls of the building with flowers slotted into eye sockets and nasal cavities or tied to horns in colourful threads. Inside the hut, wicker partitions separated the place into three rooms, a stone hearth smouldering in the centre.
“You’ll be safe here.” The woman assured Torin, dropping her basket and helping him through the doorway. “The Order are a dangerous kind, but they will not interfere with the seidkonur of Álfjoðr, especially not in Vastrune.”
“You’re a seidkona, huh?” Torin grunted, blinking away the sweat dripping into his eyes.
Seidkonur were magic women, practitioners of mystic arts, the daughters of Mor, wife of the king of the Álfjoðr gods. It was said they could commune with the spirits, and much like their favoured goddess, Mor, they could foretell the future. To Torin’s luck, they were known to be experts in healing, too.
“Get to the bed, Jaeger.”
Torin managed one turn of his head in search of the bed before he collapsed. He did not stir when the woman heaved him onto his side on the floor, or when she lifted his head to slip a pillow beneath it. He did not even twitch when she took a knife to his trouser leg and slit the fabric, revealing the festering wound, stinking, scarlet, and seeping with rancid yellow pus.
*
THE DRY, ACRID stench of smoke drifted up Torin’s nostrils. He woke with a start, bleary-eyed and panicked, looking for the cause of the smell. He’d dreamt of fire and burning, trapped in the centre of the blaze by lurching flames as tall as houses. To his relief, Torin was greeted by the sight of a blissfully smouldering fire in the stone hearth across the room.
Torin’s racing heart calmed. He released a deep sigh and settled back in the bed, nestled beneath the comforting weight of the blankets piled on top of him. Beside the hearth, he noticed a swarthy, raven-haired woman with forest green eyes huddled under a woollen shawl. She was carving runes into animal bones.
Her wide-sleeved black robe, hemmed with golden tablet-woven trim, was tied loosely at her waist, the deep V-neck shamelessly revealing the swell of her breasts and the plunge of smooth flesh between them, and a sliver of the blue-black tattoo inked to her ribs. A wide leather belt, decorated with the geometric knotwork animal motif designs that Vastrunians were so fond of, kept her robe from exposing her breasts entirely, a number of pouches, small knives and charms hanging from it.
Torin’s gaze caught on her curves. He swallowed and moved his sight from her, taking in his surroundings, his bright blue eyes travelling over the knickknacks and ornaments littering the timber walls. At the back of the home was an altar to the Álfjoðr gods and goddesses. Arranged on a narrow wooden table were wooden effigies of the Jordic pantheon, pouches undoubtedly filled with runestones or throwing bones, an elegant drinking horn, and a stone bowl for blood offerings. There were many candles of varying sizes, none of them lit at that moment, a dagger in a sheath, and a small collection of cat and raven skulls.
More than likely, this humble altar was a storage place. Jordic altars were great stone things, their worship usually taking place outside in nature no matter the weather.
Torin’s gaze returned to the seidkona, cast amber and gold in the dancing glow of the flames. In a land where most were fair-skinned and golden-haired, she stuck out like a sore thumb. She was swarthy with wild black tresses that tumbled down to her rear, a handful of slender plaits visible in the tangle, decorated with silver hair rings, cuffs, and spirals.
The seidkona’s green eyes made for a striking contrast to her deep olive complexion, emphasised by her thick ebony lashes. Silver hoops hung along the edge and lobes of her ears, two small ones hung from one of her nostrils, and one curled around the centre of her plump bottom lip. Piercings weren’t common anywhere but a handful of countries in Bara, the southernmost continent of Bodan. Perhaps her ancestors hailed from there?
“At last, you waken.” She smiled, her eyes catching Torin’s.
“Who are you?” He managed, his voice hoarse and strained.
“I am Valka Skellige.” She said, standing up and setting the knife and bone on her seat.
The seidkona glided about the house, hanging a pot of water on the tripod over the fire before taking a few pinches of various dried herbs and grinding them into a coarse powder.
“How long–” Torin cleared his scratchy throat. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Seven days now.” Valka said without moving her eyes from the pestle and mortar. “I don’t know what beasty chewed up your leg, but it was quite a state. I cleaned the wound, cut off the infected flesh and sewed it up. I’ve been cleaning and dressing it every day – it’s doing well, healing much faster than I expected.”
Valka Skellige ladled some of the hot water into the cup of ground leaves and mixed it thoroughly. She sauntered over to Torin and perched on the edge of the bed beside him.
“Sit up,” Valka ordered, setting the cup of dark liquid on the bedside table.
With the seidkona’s help, Torin shuffled into a sitting position, propped up by a mountain of pillows. Torin’s gaze travelled over Valka’s slender tattooed hands and wrists as she handed him the cup. He forced himself to look her in the eye when she began talking, encouraging him to breathe in the steam emitted from the drink before it cooled enough to drink. He nodded, answered by a small smile from the raven-haired woman before she rose to her feet and crossed the room to the altar.
“I was worried for a moment there. You didn’t even grunt when I stitched up the wound.” Valka said, picking up one of the pouches from the altar. “I had to cut your trousers to better access your wound, but I managed to get the rest of your clothes off without damaging them. Don’t worry – I left you in your briefs. You’ll want to bathe properly as soon as you’re able.”
Torin snickered, grinning at the mischievous wink she shot at him. He was enchanted by the seidkona, Valka Skellige, her low, gravelly voice, the effortlessly sultry way she moved, the black tattoos scattered across her body. On her right wrist, Torin could spy the tips of rolling hills and curling tree roots. He was curious to see the entire piece. Did Auðun tattoo her?
“Where are you from?” Torin asked, watching Valka shake the pouch before tipping the bones out on the floor in front of the altar, murmuring yet more indistinct words.
“Originally Eldvik. Do you know it? It’s the northernmost village in Vastrune, but I came to Freystad a year ago at the King’s behest.” Valka glanced at him from beneath the fan of her black lashes. “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
Valka turned back to the bones, chewing her bottom lip as she examined them, reading whatever meaning she found in the positions they had landed in. She stroked three of the bones before scooping them up and returning them to their bag.
“My mother was from Akaipor. My father, a Jord from Ravenscar, stole her and took her as his slave when he and his men were raiding. He got her pregnant with me, but a bastard is only worth keeping if it’s a son. I was lucky, my father left me on the doorstep of the House of Mor in Eldvik rather than in a forest for the wild things to devour. The maidens took me in and raised me to be a seidkona, dedicating my existence to Mor.”
“Forced into a profession of someone else’s choosing.” Torin murmured, though not quietly enough.
“You’re searching for a connection between us where there isn’t one.” Valka teased.
Torin’s cheeks flushed at Valka’s blunt statement.
“You might not enjoy your job, Jaeger, but being a seidkona is more than a profession to me. This was my calling. I do not begrudge my parents for giving me to the Álfjoðr – nor should you begrudge yours for pushing you onto your path. Everything happens for a reason. Now, drink up and give me your cup.”
Torin did as the seidkona bade, swallowing the bitter brew in just a few gulps. He winced as he handed her back the cup, heat radiating down his core from the hot liquid. To his surprise, Valka scrupulously eyed the dregs of tea leaves at the bottom of the cup, leaning closer to the fire for extra light. Tasseomancy was an Eastern method of divination, he’d never seen a seidkona or godi perform this act. Valka turned the cup this way and that, somehow making sense of the message written in the mush.
“Will I live a long life, get married, and have lots of children?”
“Your future is filled with suffering.” She shook her head.
“Don’t sugarcoat it, I can take it.”
“You were born in shadows and cold, and you’ll die that way, if you aren’t careful.” Valka set the cup down, eyeing him grimly.
“Then I should probably leave Vastrune quickly.” Torin jested, glancing through the smokehole at the falling snow.
“You mock me now, Jaeger, but you’ll understand one day, and by then it will be too late.” She admonished.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. “I shouldn’t have teased you.”
Valka glared at him suspiciously. After a few moments of silence, Valka relaxed, giving in to Torin’s pleading eyes. Perched on the edge of the bed beside him, she gently swept the hair out of his face before laying her hand on his forehead and cheeks in turn to check his temperature. Torin let his eyes flutter closed, enjoying the seidkona’s cool touch.
“Captain Tam Fraser came looking for you.”
Torin groaned.
“How did he know I was here?”
“Presumably he asked around the marketplace whether anyone had seen you. Hebiwan-descent people aren’t common here, so it isn’t difficult to believe that someone saw the huge, handsome, blue-eyed Hebiwan warrior walk off with the seidkona.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
“That’s what you’re focussing on?”
“Well, do you?”
“Hush now,” Valka barked, rising to her feet and tucking the blanket over Torin’s chest. “Rest while I make food.”
“What did Tam want?” Torin asked, watching Valka saunter towards the kitchen area of her home.
“Some crewmen took their own lives. Rumour has it, they marched straight into the sea and drowned themselves. Tam wanted to make sure you weren’t one of them.”
More crewman had committed suicide? First Hendry McFife, and now there were others? Were they comrades of McFife’s? Were they from the same crew? If they were, was it survivor’s guilt or grief of the loss of their friend that pushed them to do such a thing?
“Were the crewmen from The Kilbride? Her first mate killed himself recently.”
“You’ll have to ask Tam,” Valka shrugged. “I don’t know their names, nor the ships they belonged to, but I know they were all part of the fleet that hunted the kraken.”
*
AFTER EATING, TORIN fell into a fitful sleep, searing bolts sizzling up his leg from the draugr wound. He woke a while later to find Valka sitting on a fur covered settee by the hearth. Firelight glinted on the silver rings adorning her face. A small smile curled the corners of Torin’s mouth as he watched Valka fiddle with the piercing in the centre of her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue as she carved into a small disc. She spun the ring, pushed it left and right. It was an endearing habit, and briefly Torin wondered whether the thin, dainty metal ring felt cold or warm.
“You carve a lot.” Torin nodded at the item in Valka’s hands.
“Protection talismans.” Valka held up the small wooden disc. “I’m frazzled from the amount I’ve been making lately. It has been doing wonders for me financially, however.”
Torin smirked before pushing back the blankets and easing his legs over the side of the bed.
“Stay there and rest, Jaeger.”
“If I stay in that bed a moment longer, I’ll go mad.”
Only dressed in his briefs, Torin was grateful that the hut was filled with warmth from the fire. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders more for Valka’s sake than his own, before crossing the room and taking a seat beside her.
Torin was surprised to realise that his leg didn’t ache anymore. His body was stiff from lying down for a week straight, but the throbbing was almost entirely gone, just a whisper remaining.
“Not used to being the one on your back, eh?” Valka winked.
“Naughty,” Torin grinned. His gaze shifted to the pile of amulets. “Business is booming, I see.”
“There’s been trouble in the city.”
“There’s always trouble in cities.” Torin watched Valka slip a skinny leather thong through a hole she’d chiselled through the top of the amulet and tie the ends together in a tight knot.
“The suicides, Jaeger.” Valka reminded him. “People are afraid. They want talismans to ward away the negative feelings that might lead to suicide.”
“Do they work? The amulets, I mean.”
“I’d never knowingly sell a defective item.” Valka said, sharply.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Torin said, sheepishly. “I mean how do you do it? I’m sincerely interested.”
The seidkona’s expression softened. She stroked her thumb along the lines she’d carved into the bone.
“I’m sure you know about mana?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Seidkonur, warlocks, thaumaturgists, shamans, witches – we all share one thing in common: we can weave the threads of mana that flow through the world, draw mana from elements or from the natural reserves inside ourselves, and shape it into that which no one else can. Only those select few born with the affinity or touched by the gods can weave, read, or wield mana – like your Lord Riften of Hebiwa.”
“Lord Riften isn’t a mage.”
“No, but he has natural aptitude. His flesh and muscle are laced with mana that he inherited from his father’s blood.”
“You actually believe he’s the son of the Hebiwan god of war?” Torin cocked a brow.
“Scoff all you like, Jaeger.” Valka rolled her eyes.
“It’s his sword that saps mana, not Lord Riften himself.”
“Because Lord Riften is a wielder and the sword is his tool. With it he can channel the mana from his foes’ blood and absorb it.” Valka paused, thoughtfully. “Lord Riften is possibly the most powerful man in all of Bodan. Not to suggest he’s invincible, he is still a man, he’ll still bleed to death from a sliced artery, perforated liver, stab in the heart or what have you, but he has much more improved skills to defend off warriors seeking to inflict those types of wounds… If he abandoned ruling to study mana, he could become powerful beyond imagination.”
“Being strong and quick doesn’t make him a mage or a demi-god.” Torin said, flatly.
“You would know that, wouldn’t you?” She retorted.
Torin flushed. Despite his unusual strength and speed, he didn’t have any mana abilities. He couldn’t wield or absorb mana like Lord Riften could with his meteoric sword, and he certainly couldn’t weave it like witches, seidkonur and sorcerers could.
“Regarding your original question: as I carve the runes, I channel threads of ambient mana into the amulet. As I work, I ask the gods to imbue the amulet with their blessing. The amulets function on raw mana alone, but divine favour can deepen the effect – turn protection into providence, chance into guidance, and so on.”
“How often do the gods grant their blessings?” Sarcasm edged Torin’s words.
“Admittedly, not often, but mortals cannot expect the gods to bend the world for every cut, quarrel, or storm. In exceptional circumstances, the gods may lend a hand.”
“So, they decide who is worthy,” Torin muttered. “And the rest of us settle for magical trinkets.”
“Not every struggle warrants divine interference.” Valka was unfazed, she didn’t rise to Torin’s bate. “Some struggles are meant for mortal hands, which is why wielders and weavers exist: to act where the gods do not.”
“And the gods decide which struggles we must endure?” Torin’s tone sharpened.
“Of course! They are the gods, after all.”
“Fishermen drown in storms – hunters are ripped apart by grotesqueries – women are beaten bloody by their husbands – children are born into hunger and sickness – the gods call these, what? Necessary hardships? Life lessons?”
“The gods purpose is not always ours, Jaeger.”
“That’s just a poetic way of saying the gods only help when they feel like it! They’re apathetic to mortal suffering – they show up only when it serves their whims!”
“You cannot expect the gods to intervene in every injustice, Jaeger!”
“Yeah, I know – that’s why seidkonur and thaumaturges and mages exist, right? To use mana to act in their stead.”
“As much as the limits of our abilities allow, yes!” Valka’s patience was wearing thin. “However, we cannot replace the will of the divine or the laws of nature. Mana is energy, not omnipotence! It doesn’t conjure fireballs and lightning bolts out of thin air – it cannot calm the sea or end famine!”
“But surely the gods can! How can you worship them when they do nothing unless their interventions serve their own capricious self-interest?”
