Maidensong by Mia Marlowe Page A

over the fallen tree like bees around an upturned hive. Rika slid off her horse and ran to Ketil, afraid to look lest she see Bjorn's crushed body under the pile of shattered timber. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
      Shock , she told herself. Relief that Ketil was safe, surely. The choking knot at the back of her throat couldn’t be for Bjorn the Black, the man who’d en slaved her and altered the course of her life forever.
      Ketil’s friend Surt slithered in among the boughs of the fallen pine. After a few moments, he crawled back out from beneath the mess of limbs, rubbing a hand across his grimy neck. “He still lives, but ...”
      Rika didn’t wait to hear more. “Why are you just standing around?” Her voice held all the commanding power of her art. “Cut him out. Surt, show the others where he is so they don’t damage Bjorn further.”
      Rika took charge of the recovery, encouraging here, railing at them there, until finally the last section of the trunk pinning Bjorn to the spongy ground was lifted.
      His eyes were half-closed and an egg-sized lump swelled one temple. Bjorn’s arms and chest were laced with countless small punctures and slashes. A limb as thick as Rika’s wrist stood upright in the heavy muscle of Bjorn’s thigh, quivering like the shaft of a gi ant’s arrow.
      Surt grasped the limb and started to pull it out.
      “ No, wait!” a young man commanded. Rika recog nized him as Jorand, the fellow with an easy smile she’d met on Bjorn's dragonship. Now his face was drawn with concern. “The limb is stopping the flo w of blood. If you pull it out now, he’ll bleed to death be fore we get him down the mountain.”
      Jorand stripped the leather sweatband from his head and cinched it around Bjorn’s thigh above the wound. “ I need some cloth.”
      Rika picked at the hem of her soft new tunic. She started it unraveling and then ripped a long section of fabric from the garment.
      Jorand nodded his thanks and motioned to Surt to remove the limb. Black blood surged from the deep wound, followed by a flow of bright red, proof that Bjorn’s heart still pounded in his chest. Jorand packed the wound with Rika’s cloth and bound it tightly. Through it all, Bjorn never moved so much as an eye lash.
      As the men loaded Bjorn onto a waiting travois, a feeling of dread settled on Rika. In the short time she’d been there, she’d learned from the serving girl Evja that the Jarl of Sogna was not known for his mercy. Thralls had no rights, even if they hadn’t done wrong. What might Gunnar Haraldsson do to the thrall responsible for his brother’s death?
      She pulled Surt to the side.
      “Take Ketil and hide him until. . .” She couldn’t fin ish the thought. Her throat tightened at the possibility that Bjorn might die. “Just hide him until I send word.”
      Surt nodded and slipped away from the main body of men with Ketil in tow as Rika and the others started back down the mountain. She trudged beside the travois, watching the color drain from Bjorn’s face with each step.
      Runners fled ahead of them to announce the accident and make what preparations they could. By the time the travois pulled into the grassy area in front of the longhouse, Astryd was ready and waiting, doctor ing being the province of the lady of the house. Bjorn was carried to his airless little room and Rika tried to follow, but Astryd blocked her way.
      “Stay out of here,” she ordered, her lip curling. “He no longer needs your services, perhaps for good.”
      “But I want to help,” Rika said.
      The Lady of Sogna slapped her across the cheek with a stinging blow.
      “ Thralls do not talk back to me. Do as you’re told or it will be the whip for you next time,” Astryd said. “ Now fetch me some raw spirits. Then help Evja boil water.”
      Face burning, Rika ran to the brewing shed for the alcohol Astryd needed. She delivered it to Bjorn’s room but still wasn’t allowed