Interception, Hallbjorn/Marisol , (11/11, early morning)

[Hallbjorn]

Hallbjorn looked down at the girl huddled under the cloak. Her eyes were huge – two liquid brown orbs staring up at him. The last fifteen minutes must have been terrifying for her, and the boy, although Hallbjorn felt no sympathy for them. They were pawns in this game. So were many others. They should consider themselves lucky to be alive. He was honestly quite surprised Arn had not ordered his men to slit their throats and toss them overboard when Hallbjorn’s long boats had first materialized out of the fog bank.

He glanced back over his shoulder briefly. Arn was still breathing, barely, his life’s blood still seeping out of him where he sat pinned to the foot of the mast, one of Hallbjorn’s men’s sword through his belly. His body was hacked and riven, and he bled from dozens of lesser wounds. Hallbjorn was content to let him die slowly, though. The trouble Arn’s actions would bring him – would bring all of them – in the coming weeks and months, could not be measured. Thank the gods Stoft lay where it did, rising out of the sea in a way that the hidden mass of its volcanoes created treacherous shoals and eddying rip currents that only the most skilled sailors completely conversant with the caprices of its waters could navigate. Thank the gods that the Forsilvran ships had not the shape and design to come closer than a half a league to their shoreline. And that was small enough comfort indeed.

The ravens that had reached Grimstone the day before had come just in time. Hallbjorn’s scribe had barely finished the last word of news of the attack near Chrysa, and who was being blamed for it, before Hallbjorn was ordering his men to ready the boats to sail within the hour. They had just enough time to intercept Arn’s five ships before they reached the relative safety of Falke. Laying in wait in the fog, they had come up behind Arn almost within sight of the southern tip of Skarr. Hallbjorn knew Arn was a captain of great skill. He knew he was better, though. His sixteen boats had borne down on Arn’s five and within the half hour, Hallbjorn’s men were tossing their grappling hooks and boarding. The combat had been fierce, brutal, and short lived. Now Hallbjorn’s men were tossing the last of the men of Falke’s bodies, dead or still dying, overboard – the traditional fate reserved for those on the losing end of things. His own dead would be taken back to Skarr so that their relatives could give them the proper last rites of fire. Arn’s boats would be towed back to Grimstone, part of the prize to be divvied up amongst his men.

All that remained was to decide what to do with Cesar Ayala’s sister and nephew.

That they would be returned to the Lord of Chrysa went without question. For Hallbjorn’s plans to go forward, this had to occur. It was simply a matter of figuring out the how – in a way that would clearly absolve Hallbjorn of the crime of their abduction. Otherwise . . .

Hallbjorn glanced back down at her, a spatter of blood tracing across her face. He gestured to one of his men, who stepped over and waited expectantly.

“Ask her if she is injured, does she need a healer. And where is the boy?” Hallbjorn instructed the reaver in Iselden. The man turned to the girl and translated the questions.

[Fiorildi]

The still of the night, previous broken only by the sounds of paddles, was shattered with the cries of battle that seemed to go on forever. Marisol had huddled down in the boat, trying to hold onto Felix, but sometime during the battle he’d slipped her grip and disappeared beneath her cloak. Marisol pulled her cloak tighter, trying to press herself into the bottom of the boat, as blood splattered her face and men fell splashing into the water around her, sprinkling her with the occasional spray of salty ocean water.

Her ears were still ringing well after the battle had ended. Two men were standing in front of her, one speaking to the other in the same languages as the reavers who had taken her. She sitll did not understand, ready to shake her head, when the second man began to speak.

“The Jarll would know if you are injured. And he wants to know where the boy is.”

Marisol’s gaze turned to the Jarll. His expression was serious, unmoving as stone, and Marisol sensed he would appreciate nothing short of a straight answer. “I am fine,” she replied, turning to move her cloak and a few blankets where she suspected Felix had buried himself. She found him wedged beneath a board, one of the seats the men sat upon to row the boats, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands wrapped tightly around his chest. “Felix, come. Hold onto me. It is over,” she whispered, leaning down to run her hands softly over his head. “Come with me. I will not leave you.”

Her head swiveled back to the Jarll and she locked her gaze with him. “We wish to be returned to Chrysa at once.”

[Hallbjorn]

The reaver translated the girl’s first reply and the two men watched as she rummaged around, uncovering the boy and speaking to him in their own language in a coaxing toe. The Skallding scowled at the girl’s next statement, though, and Hallbjorn looked at him questioningly. The man hesitated, and Hallbjorn gestured impatiently. “What did she say?”

“She said they should be returned to Chrysa immediately. Apparently she has no idea how badly we all want that.” The reaver said grimly. He looked at the Jarll, waiting for his next words.

When they came, they were obviously so unexpected that the reaver’s mouth fell open slightly and he stared point blank at his captain.

“Put her on my boat. The boy stays here. You will take him to the mainland. Take Arn’s boats and ten others. Any ships they have sent out so far will be making their way here. You should have no trouble avoiding them and getting close to shore under cover of darkness. That little village south of Vykra, where Dolf’s brother now lives, head there. I’ll send word ahead of you. The boy will be returned. I’ll make the arrangements. Just turn the child over to Dolf’s brother.”

The reaver looked skeptical. “And the girl?”

“She goes to Grimstone with me, for now. If I had to guess, I’d say Lord Ayala is more concerned with getting his son back, wouldn’t you? But the girl will be our reserve. Just in case the Forsilvrans are seriously thinking about descending upon us. Once things have cooled down, and they have seen who was really behind all this, then she can be returned.”

“Should I tell her all that?” the revaer asked, frowning.

Hallbjorn frowned back, irritated. “Hell, why would you do that? It’s not as if we’re asking for her approval. Now get her in my boat, and pick your men, quickly.” He turned and stepped up on the gunwale, moving with the grace of a cat. Leaping to his own boat, which was still tethered to what had been Arn’s with the grappling lines, he gave orders to prepare to get under way.

The reaver shrugged his shoulders and started calling out orders himself. At his command, two others came towards the girl, one stooping and lifting her up bodily, pinning her arms to her sides. Stepping lightly, he too jumped the short span between the vessels, set her down, and returned the way he had come. The other raider had Felix in his arms, holding the boy casually as he screamed for his aunt.

[Fiorildi]

“Aunt Marisol!”

The cry cut through the night as the reaver lifted Marisol from the first boat and carried her to the second. “Let me go!” she cried out, “Felix! Felix!” He set her down and she immediately turned, standing, reaching for the side of the boat. Rational had fled, and all she could think of was staying with her nephew. “Felix! Bring him back! Where are you taking him!”

Marisol eyed the distance between the two ships. One of the reavers was holding onto her nephew. She had to protect him, to keep him safe, even if she had no chance against the many men who wielded weapons and spoke in a language she did not understand.

She put one foot on the gunwale, and prepared to jump.

[Hallbjorn]

His back had been turned to her, and he heard her call out. But her distress barely registered with him as he spoke to the coxswain. It was only when he heard the simultaneous cries of men on both boats and then a splash, that he turned, frowning, knowing what had happened before he even looked. Stepping to the gunwale, he dropped down into the water, as his captain gave orders to the two crews to shove the boats further apart, getting smashed between the two hulls being more of a risk than drowning.

The girl’s head was just under the surface, as her arms flailed about wildly. Hallbjorn approached her with great caution, knowing full well the damage a woman’s nails could inflict, desired or otherwise. Her face broke the surface and he reached out and managed to grab one wrist, saying sternly, “Stop thrashing about. You’re in no danger.” Although he knew she wouldn’t understand the words, perhaps she’d understand the tone, he thought. But he would keep her at arm’s length, just in case.

[Fiorildi]

The boat shifted and Marisol slipped, tumbling into the water. She’d never learned how to properly swim, and panic took over quickly. She swung her arms wildly, as she bobbed up and down in the salty water, her eyes wide with fear even as the salt water sprayed them.

And then she felt the grip on her wrists. Marisol couldn’t understand the words, didn’t even know who was speaking them, but she closed her eyes and let her go. They were going to take Felix away from her, and who knew what would happen to her nephew if she could not protect him. Her brother would never recover. Her sister-in-law would be crushed. She’d spent the last few days bottling up her fears inside and finally she could not hold them in any longer.

Tears streaked her cheeks, but in the dark, mixed with salt water, only her soft sobs gave her away.

[Hallbjorn]

Within just a few moments of his grasping her wrist, the girl quieted, showing more good sense than Hallbjorn might have expected. He drew her closer, sliding an arm under her breasts and began to tow her through the waves. If he heard her sobbing, he didn’t react or give any indication that he had. His free arm moved methodically, pulling them both around the prow of his own vessel. Upon reaching the pegs that ascended upwards to the deck, he held her so that she could see them and said curtly, “Climb!” Above them, several crewmen stretched over, ready to haul her up. Hallbjorn’s hands slipped down, one on her waist, the other cupping her ass, ready to give her a helpful shove once she started climbing the pegs, as he tread water with his feet. To the men above, he called out, “Fetch Arn’s cloak from his boat. She’s already shivering.”

[Fiorildi]

Marisol let the man hold her as he swam them both back to the boat. She could feel her teeth begin to chatter as she followed his orders to climb up the side of the boat and she ignored the way he had no problem touching parts of her that were not meant to be touched. Her brother would have ordered him executed for even attempting such a thing, but Marisol had to admit that she needed his help as he pushed her from behind.

The other reavers pulled her up and sat her back down on the bench, while a third rested the cloak of the dying reaver upon her shoulders. Marisol pulled it around her wet clothing, her eyes down at floor, but on sudden impulse she turned to watch as the reaver who had saved her pulled himself over the gunwale.

“Where are you taking my nephew?” Marisol demanded, fixing her red-rimmed eyes on him. She was still shivering, even with the cloak, and fear iced her veins, but she had to be strong for Felix.

[Hallbjorn]

The feel of the girl's body under his hands was enough to remind Hallbjorn that this hostage was all female, but he shoved that thought away, concentrating on getting her aboard. Following her over the side, he leapt lightly down and accepted a woolen cloak offered him by one of his men. He was just about to give the order to push off from the other long boat, when he heard her voice. His head swiveled around to look at her, but scowling, he ignored her question. The reaver who had translated for him was on Arn's boat, and no-one else seemed inclined to address whatever it was she was asking. The men were busy casting off the grappling lines. The boats started moving apart and the boy could be heard yelling again. Hallbjorn was already deep in conversation with several of the sailors, paying no heed to the child's anguish.

[Fiorildi]

Felix’s cries broke her heart. Marisol wanted to hold him, to console him, to assure him that soon, very soon, they would be home. That this abduction was a nightmare coming soon to an end, even if the hundred times she’d whispered in his ear she hadn’t known one way or the other what their fate would be. But who would comfort him now? Certainly not the gruff reavers who handled them like property.

Marisol rose from her seat for a second time, climbing over benches and equipment to reach the man who had pulled her out of the water. She reached for his arm, tugging to get his attention. “Where are you taking Felix?”

[Hallbjorn]

Hallbjorn looked down at the petite, sodden girl, frowning as she spoke. She had the dark, exotic looks of the southern mainlanders, so different from the free women of Stoft. He wondered for a brief moment who she was, besides Cesar Ayala's sister. His information didn't mention a husband. With the strange practice of the Forsilvrans whereby they pledged girls off to men, sometimes as babies, it was anyone's guess what this girl's status was. He had no idea what she asking, but he wasn't bothered. Motioning to one of his men, he commanded, "Tie her up. See that she doesn't get up again." The man did as he was bid, and Hallbjorn's attention went back to the mess he was trying to clean up.

For the next hours, he bent his mind to what needed to be done, and as soon as they were in sight of the fjord which sheltered Grimstone from the brunt of the might of the ocean, he was preparing to set foot on the dock and set about his business. He had almost - almost but not quite - forgotten about her. But of course, that he could not really do.

As the long boat was rowed alongside the wooden dock, he leapt up. Looking down into the boat, he said, "Bring her up. She can come with us now. I might as well get her settled in. She isn't going anywhere, not soon anyway."

[Fiorildi]

Marisol waited for an answer, annoyed that he kept ignoring her, when another reaver grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the bench. “Let me go,” she spat as she struggled, the docile nature she’d shown to the other band of reavers substituted for struggle. She had no idea what she expected to accomplish, but the softer Felix’s cries became the more she wanted to be with him.

But that was not to be. Another reaver appeared with rope and her hands were tugged roughly behind her back and bound. One of the men seated himself next to her and spoke a few rough words she didn’t understand. She turned away, her eyes on the ocean and the retreating boats off on the distance, as their own boat began to glide along the water.

The trip was shorter than she expected, but Marisol could feel exhaustion creeping into her bones. She was still wet, but the reaver beside her had been nice enough to rearrange the cloak back over her hands and body, likely because the chatter of her teeth was irritating to his ears.

And they arrived, the boat pulling up to the docks. The reaver next to her stood, and motioned for her to do the same. Marisol rose and waited as he lifted her from the boat onto the docks, setting her down before jumping out himself. He spoke more words to her, and then pushed her lightly on the back in the direction everyone else was moving. What choice did she have but to follow now? Felix was gone to somewhere she might never know again, and she was still a prisoner. Marisol knew where she was -- one of the islands of Stoft, where the reavers made their homes amidst the volcanoes.

[Hallbjorn]

There were horses on Skarr, but in Grimstone they were only seen pulling carts and wagons. The people went on foot, regardless of their rank or status. But the town was small and compact, people squeezing in at the feet of the mountains. Hallbjorn strode along quickly, intent upon getting to his house which served as his headquarters, as it were. There were no buildings reserved for official business or officers. The great hall served as the focal point for those activities which involved the running of the town and the island. So the Stormhold compound was where Hallbjorn spent those days which found him not out on the water.

It was a walk of only ten minutes or so and they had reached the wooden gates giving onto the yard of the house. Armed men were everywhere, not paid guards, but freemen who made their living raiding and spent their off time loitering about and planning the next attack. Mixed in was an ever moving tide of men, women and children, some wearing finer clothing, others in more worn garments, but none looking destitute or ill fed. Many wore leather or metal bands about their necks which did not have the appearance of jewelry. Others did sport torques and wristlets, arm bands and chains, of fine gold and silver. There were small shops everywhere, elbow to elbow with the squat, wooden houses. The cobbled streets were fairly clean and looked well maintained. To all this, Hallbjorn was blinded by a lifetime of familiarity. As they had walked along, people were constantly speaking to him respectfully, making greetings, smiling. But it was not as if they feared him or looked upon him as some superior being. When they were at the gates, they were opened promptly and closed again as soon as the party was through, a great wooden beam securing them. Hallbjorn did not slow his step, and though his men fell off in twos and threes to go about their business, the two who played bookends to the girl followed closely in his wake.

They crossed a wide yard, climbed an exterior set of stone steps and entered through a modest enough door. Still without pause, Hallbjorn made his way directly to a room at the far back of the big common room, a small solar which served as his daily room for conducting his business. Waving away several people who had noted his entry and followed him to its door, he signaled his men to bring the girl in, then to leave them.

He unbound her hands then crossed to a chest, where he rummaged about. Withdrawing a length of leather, something like a belt but shorter and not as wide, he returned to her. His hands went around her neck and he fastened the collar about it, pulling the buckle snug but not tight. Pointing at her chest, he said the word in Iselden, “Slave.” She might as well begin learning the language, he thought. He pointed again. “Slave.” Then he pointed to himself. “Master”

[Fiorildi]

The city was so different from anything Marisol had ever seen, but she could not find it her heart to appreciate it. These people were not her people, their ways not her ways. Their words were incomprehensible to her, a jumble of sounds that made little to no sense. Reavers had not bothered Chrysa in so long there had been no reason to think they’d ever need to know the language. Still, she held her head high as she walked, her bound hands hidden beneath the long cloak. They would all know she wasn’t one of them, that she was a captive, a prisoner, but that did not change her true self, a lady of House Ayala.

Marisol was lead through a gate and into a strangely built house, to a room where she was left alone with the same man who had jumped into the water to save her. Somehow she found it difficult to feel appreciative. A death to Mhare might have been preferable to whatever future awaited her here.

She tensed as he pulled the leather around her neck, but the strap didn’t hurt. She reached up to run her fingers along it, at first failing to understand the purpose behind it. But then she remembered the people who had walked alongside their group, the ones with collars to match the adornment around her neck. People who looked like her. People who looked like Forsilvrans. Marisol shook her head. She didn’t understand his words.. or maybe she didn’t want to understand them. She knew the culture of Stoft, knew why they took people from the mainland, and she did not want to believe that such would be her future.

Marisol brought her hand to her chest. “Marisol,” she told him. Whatever he’d called her before... was not appropriate for a woman of her status. “Lady Marisol. Of House Ayala.”

[Hallbjorn]

Hallbjorn understood well enough what she was attempting to convey. He had heard her name often enough in the past day or so to recognize it when she herself said it, indicating herself with her hand. Pushing her hand away, he shook his head in the negative. “No. You are a slave now. Slave.” He emphasized, actually tapping her chest with two fingers. “You’ll be given a new name, if I choose to give you one. But you are no longer Mar – i – sol.” He pronounced her name carefully. Touching her collar, he repeated again, slowly, “Slave.”

A knock on the door interrupted this first impromptu lesson, and he called out, “Enter.” without taking his eyes off her. The door opened and three men stepped into the room, followed by a woman.

Hallbjorn motioned the woman forward with his head. “Take her. Bathe her. Find her some clothes. Fix her hair. Feed her. Let her rest. Go.” The last he said impatiently, as the old woman had been nodding at each instruction and apparently was of a mind to stand there all day waiting for more. She bowed slightly and shuffled off, taking the girl by the arm with a surprisingly strong grip. Hallbjorn nodded at one of the men, who said rapidly in fluent Forsilvran, “Go with this woman, child. She will see that you have all that you need.” He glanced sideways at Hallbjorn, knowing the Jarll would not have condoned that exact summation of the way things stood. But he also felt fairly safe that, in this instance, what his chief didn’t know would not necessarily hurt him.

When the two women had left, the door being closed behind them, Hallbjorn indicated that his men should sit. The did so on simple leather stools, while Hallbjorn threw himself down into the one actual chair in the room, a large one carved out of wood, upon which the pelt of a huge brown bear had been thrown.

“Speak.” Hallbjorn said. “I know you have something to say. Say it.”

The three men shifted in their seats, not uncomfortably, but in preparation for saying something which they knew would not be welcomed by their Jarll. The one who had translated a moment before cleared his throat. “Stjori, where is the boy?” He was an older man, his bald head a shining half globe, his large moustaches a grizzled mix of mostly grey with a few strands of red showing here and there. His huge ham-like hands rested comfortably on his knees and he was visibly relaxed, awaiting a reply.

“I sent him back to his father.” Hallbjorn said simply. “Have you penned the letter to Dolf?”

Kolli, the bald, nodded. “Of course, Stjori. I have it here.” He patted his sheepskin vest. “That’s unexpected. May I ask what prompted this?” The other two men shifted again. They too were looking for some explanation of this unanticipated development. “He could have been ransomed for a handsome sum. An heir to one of their houses – you could have retired on his honor-price.” And Hallbjorn’s followers stood to have profited greatly as well, and now would not. That bore some explanation as well.

Hallbjorn returned their inquiring and ever so slightly doubtful gazes with a look of steel. “The Falkelanders attempt to pin the blame for this raid on me. They’ve broken the peace I’ve promised the Forsilvran Jarll.” He resorted to the use of their own Iselden term for leader, as neither their language not their culture contained a word or concept encompassing the idea of kingship. “I send the boy back to his father as a show of good faith. We can not afford the Forsilvrans to decide finally to sweep us from the oceans. You know this. I will prove to them that I can be trusted.”

Kolli nodded his head in understanding of what Hallbjorn intended, if not necessarily in agreement with his chances of succeeding by these means. The man to his right spoke up. “What about the girl then? Why not send her back as well?”

Hallbjorn did not look at the burly, middle aged reaver. Alfr’s biceps rippled as he moved, even slightly, his long brown hair laying in a mantle over his shoulders. His parents had surely been wildly mistaken when they sought a name for him from the spell caster. There was little of the elf about a man who stood at 6’5” with legs like birch trunks. Instead, the Jarll’s eyes went to the square of sky showing through the open window. There was one answer to Alfr’s question, the one which made sense. Then there was the other answer, one which made really no sense at all, but which still was every bit as much a part of Hallbjorn’s motivation as the first answer. Well, let them hear the first answer first.

“She is our shield. Hopefully her brother will be content with the return of his son. She’s only his sister. What man would go to war over a woman?” His gaze returned to his advisors, compelling them to see his plan. “But if he does value her so highly, as we know for some reason the Forsilvrans sometimes do, then he may think twice about attacking Stoft if he knows she’ll be dead before ever he had any hope of setting one Forsilvran foot upon our islands.”

It was a continuing puzzle to the Skalldings how the Forslivrans seemed to treat their women as something less than human, with no legal rights and a variable, shifting status; yet, at the same time, they made such a fuss over anyone else treating their women in a similar way. On Stoft, every relationship was delineated. Women and men had varying statuses which could change, but only according to strictly proscribed rules. And every person had an honor price, even a child or a slave. Every offense had a proscribed consequence, usually one of making restitution to the wronged party. Amongst the Skalldings, a kidnapped woman could be ransomed. If the guilty parties were caught, restitution was made to the injured family, and that would be the end of it. If the family didn’t value the girl, they could choose not to ransom, and she became the property of her kidnappers.

But the Forsilvrans were so touchy about these things. They spoke of honor, as if men who sometimes married their own cousins could have any sense of honor. They knew from their two centuries of interactions with the mainlanders that, a man could beat his wife, or his child, kill them even, and that was accorded as his right. But let a Skallding come along and take that same woman or child back to Stoft, well, for some reason that really pissed the Forsilvrans off. They had no slaves, yet in effect, their women were slaves. Just slaves with no status and no rights. So it was anyone’s guess how Lord Ayala might react to his sister’s continued captivity. It was a gamble, one Hallbjorn hoped would pay off.

Kolli looked a bit puzzled at Hallbjorn’s answer, although all four of them knew his confusion was feigned. “So then, Stjori . . . the collar – this I don’t understand.” Kolli looked directly at Hallbjorn, already knowing what his Jarll was going to say. “She is our captive, for the time being. Then she can not truly be a slave. Is this a ruse of some sort? If so, I don’t see the point.”

Hallbjorn shook his head once. “No, it’s no ruse. I’ve claimed her.”

The three men shifted once again, this time definitely uneasy at their leader’s words. Alfr actually stood, walking to a table where a bottle of Forsilvren wine stood ready for when it might be wanted. He ripped the wax seal off and put it to his lips, taking a swig then returning to stand beside Hallbjorn. “Here, take this. I think you need it. I think we all may need it.”

Kolli did not look away from his leader and lifelong friend. He had been Baldur’s advisor when Hallbjorn saw his first raid. He had stood beside the son as he had stood beside the father. He too shook his head. “Hallbjorn” he said quietly. “What can you be thinking?”

Ah, now it was time for the second answer to Alfr’s question. “I’ve claimed her because I want her. It’s my right. She won’t be returned.”

The third man who had yet to speak now rose as well, taking the bottle from Alfr’s hand and taking a long swallow. “Well, no, she can’t be returned, not now that you’ve put a collar on her. But do you think you might just possibly tell us what was going through that thick head of yours when you made such a fucking stupid decision?”

There was only one man on Skarr that could, or would, speak to the Jarll in such a manner. Grimr was short for a Skallding, thin to the point of being skinny, with a shock of white blonde hair that seemed always to be standing straight up like new mown hay stubble. He was of an age with Hallbjorn. They had grown up together, though Grimr had chosen to follow the path of the Brehon, the learned men of the Skalldings – their scribes and historians, and counselors to Jarlls. Not that Hallbjorn ever heeded much that Grimr had to say – at least that’s the way Grimr viewed things.


“What’s done is done.” Hallbjorn said simply. “I’ve claimed her and any one of you, or anyone on this island, who doesn’t like it, can go fuck themselves, and then leave. Or wait for me to see that they do.” Neither his look nor his tone was challenging, at least not here with his three closest friends. In the days to come, in the town and in the Great Hall, well, he might have to ramp things up a bit. But he was prepared to do just that. He had wanted her from the moment he first set eyes on her. Mar – i – sol Ayala was one of the most gorgeous women he had ever seen. What was the point of being Jarll if he was afraid to claim what was legally his already? A man should take what he wanted, when he wanted it, not wait and ask permission and explain and cajole and hesitate, like some whiny child or an old doddering fool. Hallbjorn had thought about it, not over long, and made his decision. They knew the moment they walked in the door, and saw the collar on her. And they knew they would get no long explanations from him. They were free men, like all the raiders on Skarr. They were each of them free to think and act as they saw fit, just as he was.

He had claimed her. Damn the consequences.

Grimr passed the bottle to Kolli, saying to Hallbjorn, “Well, as what’s done is done, perhaps we might think about doing a little damage control.”

[Fiorildi]

Marisol frowned at the man’s reaction. The shaking of the head, the pushing away of her hand, the emphasizing of that same word over and over again... the word that matched the collar. He said her name, but not in the way she’d expected of someone interested in using it. There were too many words, none of which made sense to her. But the one, ‘slave’ struck a chord with her. She shook her head in return, wishing she could explain to him that he should send her home, that he needed to send her home, but before she could answer the door opened and others, three men and a woman, walked in. Marisol did not even turn as the men spoke more words in their strange gruff language. Not until the one spoke Forsilvran, as some old woman dragged her from the room did she have any indication of what was coming.

The old woman dragged her down the hallway into the recesses of the compound and into a back room. “Sit,” she ordered, pushing Marisol toward a bench placed against the back wall. A large steel tub sat in the middle of the room. The woman left for a brief moment and then returned, standing in the doorway watching her.

“Where am I?” Marisol asked softly. She had forced herself to be brave for so long, to confront the reavers, the man, all of them with a face of confidence, of a woman who should be returned to her family immediately. But none of that had worked, and now she was here in a strange place amongst strange people, with no idea what would happen to her next.

“Grimstone,” The old woman replied, her accent heavy enough that Marisol struggled to make out the syllables of the word.

“Do you speak Forsilvran?” Marisol asked.

“Little. Some words. Hear it,” The woman replied, her eyes returning to the doorway as a number of men and women, each wearing a collar to match Marisol’s, carried buckets of water into the room and dumped them into the tub. Marisol watched as she spouted commands, those receiving them moving faster to dump the water and get out of the room. Marisol reached up to finger the collar again, the way it rested around her throat, not uncomfortably, but enough for her to always feel it there. She wondered if the others ever did the same.

“No off,” the woman spat. “Die.” She made a motion across her throat with one finger, the message the clearest one Marisol had yet to receiver. Her eyes shifted to the water bearers again, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was tumbling from her status as a lady to that of a.... slave.

“The word, ‘slave’,” Marisol asked, her eyes meeting the woman’s. “What does it mean?”

The woman paused, her expression thoughtful, as though she was trying to sift through old memories to find the one she needed. Finally, as the last of the water bearers left the room, she spoke. “Slave. You belong to Jarll Hallbjorn. Come.” She motioned to the bath, steam drifting up from the hot tub. “Wash.”

“Slave? But I am a Lady! A Lady of House Ayala!” Marisol pushed herself to her feet, her eyes darting for the door. She reached behind her, fingers brushing the buckle that held the collar on. There must have been some mistake. Noble women were not made slaves on Stoft, or so she’d been taught. They took peasants and merchants, women and children, sailors and farmers for slaves, but not the nobility! Those captured were ransomed, often for a gold or jewels or weapons or food, but they were never made into common slaves. She could not stay here and scrub the man’s floors or carry his water or whatever it was that reaver slaves were forced to do.

The buckle was not difficult to undo, but before she could slip the leather strap through the metal clasp, her head whipped back and she tumbled to the floor.

“No off! You slave. Wear collar. Bath!” The woman spoke, her hand held posed from the swing of her slap. She began jabbering on in the other language, her eyes rolling in irritation as though Marisol was ignorant and stupid. Marisol’s cheek burned, and she sat on the floor unmoving. “Or Jarll Hallbjorn....” And then the gesture again. She pointed to the bath, then reached down to grip Marisol’s wrist and tug her back up. Marisol glanced at the steaming water, and sighed softly. She pulled her shift, the only thing she’d worn in the last few days, over her head and dropped it to the floor, then climbed into the tub, the hot water scalding her skin as she lowered herself into the bath.

The woman scrubbed her hair with a strange smelling soap and washed her with a well made cloth. She was left to soak for a few hands of time, while woman conversed with others who came into and out of the room. Marisol made no more effort to speak, her mind too distracted by her fate, by the knowledge of what she now was, of what might happen to her. She ignored the other people. They were either harsh reminders of her own future, their collars always visible, always obvious, or they spoke the strange language and were therefore reavers, horrid men who pillaged and plundered and kidnapped as though they had a right to take whatever they wanted. Marisol hated them all, one big collective of people she wanted nothing to do with.

And the man, Hallbjorn, who thought he could just own her? Marisol was not property, and yet, she realized, here her name meant nothing. The person she was in Chrysa had no birthright on Stoft, no family, no sworn shields. And those who loved her would never be able to navigate the waters around the island to reach her. That was why the stolen never came home unless they were ransomed. And if Hallbjorn was not going to send her home...

Tears came then. Marisol hated feeling weak, but resignation was hard to swallow, especially on top of exhaustion. Her eyes were closed and the water was up to her chin. She half considered sinking down into the tub and letting the water fill her mouth and nose, saving herself from whatever fate these men thought to inflict upon her. But she couldn’t, not with the small shred of hope that her brother would find a way to bring her home, that he would not stop until she was back in Forsilvra. And what of her betrothed? Would he search for her as well? Would he lead a party her to save her? Would he fight for her? So many questions, none of which she and any answer for.

She felt a hand touch her head, and Marisol opened her eyes to see the old woman sitting next to her. “Is never easy. You... learn. Out now.” She rose and motioned again, her hand rising up and then swinging away from the tub. Marisol stood, soap and water dripping off her body as she stepped from the tub. The woman had a towel ready to wrap around her. Set out on the bench was a set of clean clothing, in the style worn by woman on Stoft. Marisol pulled the loose shirt over her head, then put on the skirt. Both pieces were plain, brown cloth without adornments. The rough material felt foreign to her skin, itchy in some places and irritating in others. But it was clean and dry and for that she couldn’t complain. Anything was better than the wet and dirty shift, one she didn’t think she could ever stomach to look at again. The woman motioned for her to sit again, then brushed out her long dark hair, until the tangles were gone.

“Eat now. Sleep,” The woman told her. Marisol realized she didn’t even know the woman’s names, and then decided for now she didn’t care. No one here had been particularly polite to her, and with the leather strap around her neck, she figured no one would ever feel the need to be. She turned to the small table, where a platter of food containing a bowl of soup, a piece of bread, and a pot of tea sat . There were no chairs at the table, only a stool. Marisol had spent nearly six days in a boat. Standing would be a treat. She walked to the table and reached for the bread, caring little whether or not it even tasted good. She was starving, and hunger was her spice.

When she finished, she realized the woman was gone. The door was shut, and Marisol tugged at it to find it was locked. The bed in the corner was small, but she didn’t stop to compare it to her lavish mattress back home. She laid down, pulling the one wool blanket over herself and touched the collar one last time. She wanted nothing more than to rip it off, to throw it the ground, to declare to this Hallbjorn that was not his ‘slave’. But the image of the woman and her finger slashing her throat came to mind, and in the end, Marisol fell asleep with the leather strap still around her neck.

[Hallbjorn]

The day had passed quickly. Hallbjorn and his advisors, later joined by other influential men of Grimstone, prepared to face what would undoubtedly be a quite vocal display of displeasure over this whole mess. There were many who would throw their lot in with the Night Fury no matter how arbitrary or insane his actions seemed. They had followed him for six years, and most had followed his father before that. They understood at least the premise that the woman was his to claim, and they could respect his decision to do so. It was these men Hallbjorn, Kolli, Grimr, and Alfr sought out first, mapping out a verbal flow chart of which of the men of Skarr who were not necessarily of this mindset should be approached next. Throughout the course of the day, Grimr kept close track of those who were reported back as being supportive, those who were on the fence, and those who were adamantly, though still discretely, insisting that the wittan be assembled. Kolli had left quite early to make his way to Laketown, and meet with the Jarll there. By evening, it was apparent there was still a sizeable knot of freemen, most of them traders, who were still calling for the witan.

Hallbjorn had passed most of the days in various houses, or by the harbor, or in certain taverns. By late evening, he was returned to his own home, staring at a trencher of mostly untouched food, listening to yet another update from Grimr, while Alfr devoured the remnants of a cod which had been enough to feed all three men, and more. “It will be touch and go” Grimr was saying. “I think by morning, though, we will have enough persuaded, or bribed, to forestall this talk. The trade guild isn’t as strong as it might like to think.”

Hallbjorn nodded, his face a study in concentration. “Have you heard from Kolli?” The older reaver had been sent off with a homing pigeon, useful for sending messages back and forth amongst the four towns of Stoft, unless a random arrow brought it down – the arrows of hunters or of those simply wanting to cause trouble.

Grimr shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll have to wait til morning.”

Hallbjorn nodded again, then looked at Alfr. “You’re ready?”

Alfr grunted around the huge wad of food in his mouth. In a muffled voice he said, “My men are on the boats, Stjori. All they lack is me.” So saying he put a wooden cup to his mouth and poured its contents in around the food, some of it spilling down his chin. At the glare this brought from Hallbjorn, Alfr raised his hand, rising, and saying, “I’m gone, I’m gone.” Picking up the huge double headed axe he had casually leaned against the table earlier, he waved one huge paw at Grimr in an offhand way. “And I know – go to Spoli first, yes. I know.” A night crossing to Falke was nothing out of the ordinary for the skilled sailors of Stoft. Under the circumstances, it might not make Alfr’s mission that much more ‘secret’. But in any case, Hallbjorn had wanted to have some sense of the way things lay on Skarr before sending Alfr to test the waters in Hengill. The Jarlle had a tenuous hold on Falke at best. This transparent manouver might well be her undoing. They could only hope.

Once Grimr was alone with Hallbjorn, his usual skeptical demeanor relaxed. Finally sitting down in front of his own stone cold meal, he shoved the food aside, crossed his arms on the table, and looked at his friend. “We may put this off to another day. But that won’t be the last of it, you do know that.”

Hallbjorn looked back at Grimr, and nodded a third time. “Well, a man makes his own fate, does he not? One more decision amongst thousands in a lifetime. For good or bad, it’s done. We are at a turning point, my friend. This one girl may prove to be the beginning of the end – but whether that will be my end, or the Jarlle’s, or of Stoft, who can say? In any event, I accept it. Whatever comes, comes.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Now leave me. And have them send the girl to my room.”