Alys Clare - Land of the Silver Dragon

‘Drink,’ a deep voice said. I raised my head a tiny fraction and looked into the face of a stubble-headed, bronze-bearded crewman whose bare upper arms were encircled by beautiful, intricate tattoos. He mimed taking a sip of water, swishing it around and then spitting it out, and I understood. I did as he suggested, aiming into the bucket. Someone had emptied it. To my surprise, the water felt good, and I risked swallowing a little.

The tattooed man nodded his encouragement, and said something in a tongue that sounded a bit like singing. From behind me, the red-haired giant spoke; I hadn’t realized he was there.

‘Thorben says it is good to drink,’ he translated, ‘for always it is easier to be sick when there is something to bring up.’

It was not a particularly cheerful thought.

It was almost dark now, I noticed. A pair of lanterns had been lit, well below the level of the gunwales. The moon was rising. Were we going to sail all night? Oh, dear Lord, was that safe ? Supposing we ran into something?

The red-haired giant had brought more covers: a thick, soft wool blanket and another skin. He lifted me up, as if I weighed no more than a child, and, taking hold of the sheepskin that I had been lying on — rumpled up now from my twisting and turning — shook it out and spread it out on the boards of the deck. When I lay back down on it, it was warm from my body. Then he tucked me up in the thick blanket, putting the skin on top. The stinking, stiff cover he rolled up and thrust under one brawny arm. He sniffed at it, miming disgusted recoil, and, despite everything, I grinned.

He stood looking down at me. Then he said, ‘Go to sleep.’

It was as if he had spoken a powerful charm. My eyelids were suddenly heavy, and I felt myself drifting. I was snug in my wrappings; the pillow under my head and the sheepskin on which I lay were soft and comfortable; the luxurious woolly blanket was wonderfully warm. My last thought, before I fell asleep, was that the ship’s motion that before had made me so sick now felt like a mother’s gentle rocking of her baby’s crib.

It was a combination of light and hunger that woke me.

The rising sun was shining directly into my face and, when I raised myself on one elbow to look out at the sea flying past, it was as if tiny, golden fires had been lit on the top of every wave.

I was so hungry that my stomach was growling like an angry wolf.

A different crewman stood at the steering oar, and I did not like to disturb him. Other mariners were visible, all looking preoccupied with whatever they were doing, and I could hear sounds of activity from the fore part of the ship. Maybe that was where they ate? Hopefully, I stood up, intending to go and find out. They had taken care of me so far, I reasoned, and so it didn’t seem likely that they were planning to starve me to death.

My legs felt like feathers. Staggering, I grasped hold of the top of the gunwale, standing quite still. Fully expecting the dreadful sickness to start again, I looked round for the bucket. It was there, just by where my head had lain all night, and, again, someone had rinsed it out. These men, whoever they were, kept a clean ship.

I waited. Nothing happened, except that, after a while, I sensed that my legs were actually going to hold me up. I risked a step. Two steps. To my amazement, I realized that, as if utilizing some latent skill I hadn’t known I possessed, my body was reacting to the ship’s motion. I have, on rare occasions, ridden a horse, and this new sensation felt in some ways similar. The beautiful ship beneath me was galloping over the waves, responding to every nuance of the sea’s powerful restlessness. And I, standing on her narrow deck, was responding to her , my legs bending automatically to compensate for her movement, my body — my spirit, perhaps — in tune with that of the ship.

It was in that instant that I fell in love with her.

Buoyed up, exhilarated by my new confidence, I moved on along the deck, beneath the huge, full sail. In front of it, I spotted a small rowing boat, upturned and lashed to a thwart. It was, I guessed, the means by which the abductors had transported me from the narrow fenland waterways out to the ship. I went on towards the front of the ship. There were, indeed, crewmen up there, and they were sharing out food.

It was probably my hunger that made me take in that fact first. Then, in the same instant, I saw what reared up behind them and screamed.

The long, spiked neck of a dragon rose into the clear morning sky, soaring up, up, to the high, proud head, reddish in colour, the fierce mouth spouting a blaze of flame, the pale, wide eye staring out intently over the sea …

Somebody laughed, and as I unfroze from my terror, I saw what I should have seen instantly: this was not a real dragon, but a beautifully carved figurehead, up there above and in front of the ship, bravely leading the way through whatever perils the sea cast at it. At him , I corrected myself instantly. While the ship was undoubtedly she , the dragon could be nothing else but he .

The red-haired giant was beside me. The morning sun shone on his bare head, and in that bright, early light, he looked more fair than auburn. He was smiling. ‘Behold, Nidhoggr,’ he said, pointing up at the dragon. Then, frowning in thought, he added, ‘In your tongue, Malice-striker.’

A deep shudder went through me. Malice-striker. The name of the ship I had twice seen in my visions. And now here I was, on board the very same vessel.

I tried desperately to ground myself, absorbing the good, solid wood of the deck planks beneath my feet; the feel of the fresh salt-tasting wind on my face. As the dream world receded, and I saw with the eye of reason, I understood that the craft on to which my abductors had brought me was subtly different from the vision ship. Lean and graceful though she was, the vision ship had been shaped like an arrow, and shields had been positioned along both gunwales. My vision ship was, without doubt, a war ship. Whereas this craft was …

I spun round to the giant. ‘What do you call this ship?’ I demanded.

‘Malice-striker,’ he repeated, grinning again, as if in amusement that I appeared to have lost my wits.

‘No, I mean, what sort of ship is she?’

‘Ah.’ He nodded in understanding. ‘This is what we call a knarr. A ship for carrying goods, people, horses, cattle — anything that has to be ferried over the sea.’ He reached out a big hand and patted the gunwale behind him. ‘Broad and strong, high-sided and robust, the knarr is built to be reliably seaworthy.’

A knarr, I repeated silently. This Malice-striker was a cargo ship. In that case, there must have been a predecessor that shared her name. In a flash of intuition, I knew I was right. Gathering all my courage, I forced myself to look the giant straight in the eye and said softly, for I wanted only him to hear, ‘She is not the first ship to bear the name.’

His expression of astonishment gave me a brief but intoxicating moment of proud joy. He had captured me, bound me, made me his prisoner and was now speeding away with me on his ship, to God only knew what destination and for a purpose I didn’t even dare guess at. It was high time I struck a return blow, if only the feeble, pointless one of taking him by surprise.

He recovered very quickly. Grabbing my arm, he led me a few paces away from the avid eyes and ears of his crew. Leaning down to speak right into my ear, he hissed, ‘How do you know that?’

I pulled my arm out of his grasp, rubbing at it. There would be five little bruises there later. ‘Because I saw her predecessor,’ I said, forcing a calmness I was far from feeling.