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He looked from Taby to his brother to the man, Cleve, with his magnificent golden hair and his scarred face, who was rowing clumsily, obviously unused to the task. He was young, not more than twenty, Merrik thought, but he was strong, just untrained in fighting.
What was he going to do with the three of them?
The boy accepted the water skin from Merrik and drank deeply. Then he began to shake uncontrollably, and he dropped the water skin. Merrik reached out his hand to the boy’s forehead. He was hot to the touch. He had the fever. Merrik frowned. Because he was hungry? Because he’d kicked Merrik in the groin and belly and bitten Oleg’s hand to the bone? It made no sense. Merrik cursed, knowing he could do little, save soak the boy with cold water to bring the heat down. It seemed a strange thing to do since the heat was on the inside, but it sometimes worked. It was something his mother always did. He prayed the boy wasn’t sickening of something that could kill all of them.
“Taby,” he said quietly to get the child’s attention without frightening him. “Tear off a bit of the cover your brother has wrapped around him. Hand it to me so I can wet it in the river.”
The child did as he was told.
Merrik slipped his hands beneath the boy’s armpits and lifted him over his legs, saying, as he looked down into the vague pain-blurred eyes, “Don’t move. For some reason you have the fever. I must soak the heat out of you.”
The boy said nothing. Merrik could feel him trembling and shuddering and wondered at it. It was more than that, he knew, but he refused to let that fear, or whatever it was, into his mind.
The night was cool. There were cloud-covered stars above the smooth dark waters of the Dnieper, gleaming dully off the opaque surface. The wind was still naught but a whisper of a breeze scarce rippling the surface of the water. The men were bent low over the oars, pulling, pulling, their motion smooth and powerful. He could see the boy clearly in the sudden shifting of the clouds that showed a quarter moon. He could see Taby’s face just as clearly.
He yelled to Cleve, “Do you know what could be wrong with the boy? He has the fever. He’s shuddering like a virgin.”
The boy began to struggle. Merrik merely tightened his hold around the boy’s back. He moaned and jerked. Merrik felt something wet and sticky against his arm. Frowning, he slowly lifted the boy on his legs, bending him over his left arm. He jerked off the filthy sealskin, then pulled away the ragged and torn tunic. Beneath was a clean linen sheet. When his hands closed over it, the boy jerked. Then he tried to scuttle away from him, but this time Merrik was ready for him. He pressed his hand against the boy’s back to hold him still. The boy keened deep in his throat. It was then Merrik saw the dark wet shadows on the white linen, felt the stickiness against his hand. He lifted his hand in the star-dim light and saw the blood on his palm.
He winced. By all the gods, no. He was careful not to touch the boy’s back again, saying close to his ear, “Hold still or I will hurt you without intending to. He beat you.”
“Aye,” the boy said between gasping breaths. “Thrasco beat me.”
“For striking him at the slave market.”
“Aye, for that, and to teach me obedience.”
“Hold still,” Merrik said again. “I have to see how bad it is. You have the fever and now I know the cause.”
He slowly peeled down the sheet, much of it sticking to the bloody welts. He knew the pain must be very bad, but the boy didn’t move now, didn’t make a sound. He had guts.
He finally managed to get the linen sheet down to the boy’s waist. He looked at the narrow white back covered with bloody welts. He cursed softly. Taby was standing beside him now, his face bloodless, tears streaming down his face.
“Nay, Taby, he will be all right. I promise you. Sit down, I do not want you to fall overboard.”
Merrik looked down again at the narrow back, at the flesh scored with the long raw whip slashes. It was a very narrow, very white back that curved to a waist. Something wasn’t right here. He looked at the thin arms, at the shoulders, at the slender neck, at the filthy tangled hair. Very gently, he laid the boy on his belly over his thighs. Slowly, he pulled at the ragged breeches, drawing them down the boy’s hips. The boy tried to rear up again, striking Merrik’s legs with his fists, but it did no good. Merrik just pressed him back down, holding him still with his palm against his waist. He pulled the breeches down further, baring the boy’s backside.
These weren’t boy’s hips. This wasn’t a boy’s backside.
Merrik closed his eyes a moment. He didn’t need this. By all the gods, this was too much, more than too much.
He heard Cleve call out, “Nay, lord. Don’t strip the lad. He needs his clothes. He must have his clothes!”
Merrik said for both Cleve and the girl over his legs, “I understand. I’ll keep the boy covered.”
He jerked the breeches back up to the girl’s waist. He leaned down and said close to her ear, “Hold still. Now that I know what I’ve got here, I’ll try to keep you covered.” And then he cursed and cursed some more until he saw the fear in Taby’s eyes, and he stopped.
“I won’t hurt her,” he said low to the child. “I won’t. Keep seated. I don’t want to have to worry about you as well.”
What he would do with her, he had no idea.
He cleaned her back as best he could. The river water was clean, ah, but the pain of it against the welts, the harshness of it, and she was naught but a girl. He’d never been beaten in his life. He’d never whipped a slave. He’d cuffed shoulders and heads when he’d needed to gain obedience, particularly when a slave was newly captured, but not the whip, not to flay the flesh from a back.
He gently pressed the wet cloth against her back, holding it there, hoping to leach out some of the pain, to cool the fever. The longboat rocked with a sudden shift in the current sending a wave to slap against the starboard side, and she nearly slid off his legs.
He called out to Oleg, “Find a good place on shore for us to remain the rest of the night. The boy here needs to have his back tended. Thrasco beat him badly.”
Roran, one-eared and black-eyed, an unlikely looking Viking in his darkness, said, “This is all very strange, Merrik.”
