FOURTEEN

  Incredible warmth filled what looked much like a regular room, if small. It was filled with barrels and netting on the walls. Lanterns stood on the floor, burning with actual fire.

  "Isn't that dangerous on a boat?" Vidar asked, pointing.

  "Ae, maen's gut tho keep vaerm," the sailor said, pointing him to a narrow set of stairs leading down into the belly of the ship.

  Vidar walked, swaying a little. The floor moved with the sea. It was not a pleasant sensation.

  "Why not use runes? They are much less likely to burn down your ship."

  The sailor scoffed. "Denl?nders duh nuht laike rouns."

  "On ships, or don't the dennerish use runes at all?"

  The sailor continued through the room but looked back to reply. "Sailors. Bed luhck."

  Vidar didn't pry further, knowing that different people had different superstitions. So why not allow them theirs? He wasn't the one who had to sail this hunk of wood out onto the open sea.

  Descending a set of stairs, he shivered. He'd walked into a wall of colder air. Looking at the wall, which had to be the hull of the ship, he figured they must've just crossed beneath the surface. Water could break through that thin wall at any time and come rushing in, drowning him. He gave the sailor a nervous glance, but the man only laughed.

  "Aur langskib es saefe. She only spreung leak a feuw taimes."

  "A few times?" Vidar asked.

  The sailor pointed through an open door. More lanterns lit up the place beyond and provided warmth, and a stove in the middle of the large space added even more. These were living quarters, Vidar surmised, with row upon row of fabrics stretched across so a man could lie and sleep in them. Those with people in them swayed with the rhythm of the ship.

  Someone was cooking on the stove, spreading an earthy aroma that wasn't altogether unpleasant. Another smell of what Vidar thought was tar permeated the room, but even that wasn't too bad. Somewhere along the lines of men lounging, someone played the accordion, slow, ponderous tunes coming from what was usually a shrill instrument.

  The sound of feet stomping across wood and the heavy-sounding thuds of cargo being loaded reached down from above, along with faint laughter and shouting, like whispers in a dream, far away and ethereal. The sailor took a sniff in the cauldron, where an old bent-backed man stooped, stirring with a large wooden spoon.

  Vidar was brought to the man he'd come to see. Even older than the cook, with bare arms and a chest so thin he was little more than skin and bones. Thin, stripy hair fell across a face covered in tattoos, just like every other visible inch of skin.

  The sailor spoke to the old man in a low, respectful tone, using only the words of their language, meaning Vidar couldn't understand a thing.

  The old man looked up at Vidar and gave a brief nod, and a few of his coins changed hands from the sailor to the old man. Most of it stayed with the sailor, though, Vidar noticed. Then the large, thick-muscled man grabbed Vidar's hand.

  "Einjoy dis, leettle maen. Ju mey be de feirst svielander whoe's dun dis een a haendred yeaers. Don't bae tu laenng. Wae're leaeveing tamurroew."

  "Back to dennerland?" Vidar asked, squeezing back.

  The sailor's face fell. Vidar thought he looked uncomfortable when he next spoke.

  "Nei, wei aer headeing nurth aelang de coast tee Noriland. Dennerland es nut saafei reit naew."

  "Not safe?"

  "Streif," the sailor said. "Streif end ull teidings. Beaueteifol countrie, beit neit one ju shud veiset neow, leettle maen."

  "Strife and ill tidings? The name is Vidar, not little man."

  "Sivbjorn," the sailor said, pointing to himself. "Gued leck to ye, leettle maen."

  With Sivbjorn having left, Vidar sat down next to the ancient tattooist and brought out the papers he'd prepared, to show what he wanted done and where. The old man watched him bring them out without a word, but then his eyes widened when he saw the designs.

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  He muttered something in Vidar's language. "Devil marks."

  "Sorry?" Vidar asked, but the old man did not repeat himself. His neutral, almost half-asleep expression returned as he leafed through the papers with a trembling hand. Vidar couldn’t take his eyes off the tattooist’s fingers shaking like leaves in the wind. Perhaps he was not the best person to hire.

  The tattooist then reached behind him for a satchel full of tools of the trade, bringing out small bottles, cloth, metal contraptions, and a considerable bottle of some clear liquid, which smelled like fire accelerant when he uncorked it. To Vidar's surprise, the old man lifted the bottle to his mouth and got his fill, swallowing several times like he was drinking water.

  "No thanks," Vidar said when the old man held it out to him, offering.

  The old man insisted, not taking no for an answer, so Vidar shrugged and took a gentle sip. His mouth and throat burned, and he coughed as his body tried to reject the liquid. Raucous laughter broke out behind him.

  When Vidar looked back and saw many sets of eyes peering up over the rim of their strange sleeping arrangements. Even the cook was looking at him, mirth written all over his warm, sweating face. Vidar glared at him and took a bigger swig, fighting back against the reflex cough, proud of himself for having managed it. He handed the bottle back to the old man, who put the cork back in and placed it between them so both had easy access. His fingers no longer trembled.

  The old man gestured for Vidar to remove his coat and shirt. Once they were in a pile on the floor, Vidar sat with his right arm toward the old man, who grabbed it, twisting it this way and that to get a better look. Consulting the paper, the tattooist then withdrew a stick of charcoal-like material that smelled of oils and chemicals, using it to paint on Vidar's skin.

  The material crumbled with each raspy line, and when the tattooist was satisfied, he blew on Vidar's arm, scattering small bits onto the wooden planks before producing a mirror.

  Vidar nodded at the accurate depiction of an algiz rune. "Yes, just like that."

  For this occasion, he'd taken designs from Alvarn. A permanent solution like this was no time for stubborn pride. The runic symbols Vidar crafted were competent enough for most applications, but this time he wanted the best.

  Seeing the next tool withdrawn from the satchel was not a good time. A long needle, which the tattooist dipped in a bottle before bringing it to Vidar's skin. On the tip of the implement hung a dark blue, almost black drop of color. The tattooist paused for a moment for another swig of the strong booze before grabbing Vidar's arm in an iron vise.

  The many snickers coming from behind him told Vidar this would not be a pleasant experience. He was surprised at the relative gentleness of the tattooist’s fingers as the needle punched through his skin and into his flesh. It stung a little, yes, but nothing so bad. The second was more like a pinch. By the tenth, Vidar was breathing a little more heavily. By the hundredth, Vidar took the bottle, drinking to dull the throbbing. He was turning into a human pincushion, feeling like the little pillow his mother used to keep track of needles when she sewed. That one had been blue and velvet, rather than made of blood and pain, however, so Vidar felt at a disadvantage.

  The alcohol felt good going down. It still burned just as much, but focusing on that sensation made the pinprick torture a little easier to bear. By the ten-thousandth needle prick, or somewhere around that number, he'd long since lost count. The bottle of spirits was almost empty. It was the tattooist who drank most of it, as he worked tirelessly, turning Vidar's skin into art and a weapon both. Vidar himself sat in a daze, no longer all present. He'd retreated inward to the massive heartwell in his center. It had grown so much from the experience with the dragon, and even when he gifted some essence to rend, it had not shrunk back down. Now he watched it fill back up with dragon's essence, regenerating drip by tiny drip. Focusing on anything other than the pain, he found staring at the heartwell soothing. The knowledge it was not a finite resource calmed him.

  By then, several encircled runic symbols adorned his skin. Even in the state he was in, he felt the wound healing, the dye being pushed out. Dimly aware, he rejuvenated the first rune, placed right below his shoulder. Algiz. The act stabilized the runic symbol and its circle. This allowed the rune to coexist with Vidar, to become part of him.

  The tattooist made his way down the arm. Once completed, he started in on the other. Then, the legs, and this was still just the beginning. Some places on Vidar's body came with a renewed, excruciating pain, like when the needle struck bone, sinew, or nerves. Initiating the tattooing process on his upper arm had been a blessing, he later understood. It was a pain-free location compared to the head, feet, or palms of his hands.

  A new sound, the rustling of the tattooist's bag, made Vidar raise his head to see the man withdraw the needle and put it back into his satchel, after wiping it with a dirty rag. Vidar closed his eyes and felt the many new wounds about his person. Kenaz, algiz, stakra, styrka, and logiz. Now Vidar would never again be disarmed.

  The laughter and snickers were long gone. Either he had earned the sailors' respect, or they'd just stopped watching out of boredom.

  Vidar remained seated somewhere between sleep and waking. He toyed with the dragon's essence, moving it around his body and back into the heartwell, rejuvenating the new runes, and then pulling the essence back, marveling at his connection to the runic symbols. Using the essence in his heartwell, there was no numbness, no loss of movement. Pain, however, was plentiful.

  An hour or two later, or maybe ten, the tattooist returned with a small masonry jar and began working some ointment into the tattoos. The old man knocked on the jar a few times with his nail to get Vidar’s attention, saying a few words in dennerish. Vidar blinked, coming to, then nodded as if he understood and gave a nod of gratitude to the old man before resuming his almost catatonic state, withdrawing to deal with the searing pain. He sat like that for a time, how long, he could not say.

  Then, the old man and the cook helped dress him, put his coat back on, and then got Vidar to his feet. Pain shot up his legs as he put weight on his feet, but after a few steps, it wasn't so bad. The sailors half-guided, half-carried him out through the room, up the narrow stairs, and over the churning water that looked even less inviting in the dark of night.

  It had still been morning when he arrived, and the dark night surprised Vidar back to full consciousness. With it came the pain, unhindered and burning hot. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out in front of the many dennermen still on the pier. Instead, he flared the many warmth runes all around his body and tried to set a confident stride as he headed back into the city, away from the sea.