Thorne glanced back over his shoulder and up into the massive tree behind them. He laughed quietly to himself and said, “Humph . . . very nice.”
“What?” asked Teach. “What did he say?”
Thorne looked at his new quartermaster. The Merchant had recommended Teach highly, but he was very young. Thorne wondered how he’d react. “The guard tells us to halt and return the way we came. If we are not of true blood, we will join the others.” Thorne pointed up into the tree. Everyone turned. Having looked at the torches, the men found their night vision impaired. It was impossible to discern any detail. But soon, dark masses began to materialize, hanging from all but the smallest of boughs. Most took them to be some kind of hanging lichen or moss, but as their vision cleared even more, they began to recognize vacant, scowling faces. Most of Thorne’s men gasped as they realized that the skeletal remains of dozens of men hung from the tree limbs like some morbid type of decoration.
Only Teach remained calm. He turned back to Thorne and said, “So that explains the smell.”
Thorne smiled. “Perhaps, Mister Teach, you’ll be worth keeping around after all.” Edward Teach turned his head and glanced sideways at his captain.
Thorne took the satchel from his quartermaster. From it, he withdrew a thick, leather-bound book. He held the volume aloft and answered in a halting version of the same language. Then, to the horror of his men, Thorne kicked aside the arrows in front of him and marched forward. He held the book open and gazed up at the tower as if daring some unseen archer to loose a shaft. Thorne disappeared into the shadows of the gatehouse. He waited in the darkness for several moments until, at last, a great grinding came from within, and one of the huge arched doors began to open.
Teach and the others watched the shadows and waited for some sign. At last their captain emerged and motioned for them to approach. As they neared the walls, they saw silhouettes between the torches, tall men, motionless and silent. Thorne met them beneath the gatehouse and . . . he was not alone.
Standing behind Captain Thorne, and yet a head taller, was a warrior bearing a long spear and a stout round shield. Clad in a jerkin of chain mail with massive bare shoulders that shone in the torchlight, he seemed a storybook character come to life. His conical helmet stretched down in a kind of mask. And his eyes were like Thorne’s, pale blue but merciless and cold.
“This is Guthrum,” said Thorne. “He is the door warden of the Raukar. We will follow him in silence and make no sudden movements.”
Some of Thorne’s men began untying their baldrics and removing their swords. Thorne shook his head. “Keep your weapons,” he chided them. “The Raukar have no fear of us.”
Guthrum led Thorne and his men down a stone hall and out again under the night sky into a compound of houses. These were tall, built of dark timber, and unadorned except for gilded geometric patterns on the eaves of their high roofs. Each building was as long as a galleon and looked to be able to house hundreds of warriors. Thorne was impressed. If these warriors sail as well as the Vikings of old, Thorne mused, then I shall command an unassailable fleet.
They passed eight such houses until they came to one grander than the rest. Guards were posted, one on either side of a pair of massive wooden doors. Each guard inclined his head as Guthrum led Thorne and the others inside. The smell of rich smoke hit them first. More like the smoke of a cooking fire, it was not unpleasant, but it was pervasive.
They passed through a small anteroom and then into a vast, vaulted chamber lit with a golden light from dozens of mounted torches and a crackling fire that burned in the center of the room. Many warriors like Guthrum, as well as tall women adorned with colorful, multilayered dresses and glistening jewelry, dwelled in this place. Some stood in clusters, some sat at long tables, and others reclined on the stone floor. But all of them turned to see the newcomers, and in their collective gaze, welcome could not be found.
Guthrum brought them through the crowd of suspicious eyes, past the loud fire, and to the far end of the building. Tapestries bordered with more intertwining geometric patterns hung there, each one depicting a myriad of images: Viking ships full of warriors landing on anonymous shores; fierce, curling serpents doing battle with a hammer-wielding hero; and even a strange scene where a mace-wielding champion had his hand caught in the mouth of a gigantic snarling wolf. Thorne recognized the figure as Tyr, the Norse god of war. Beneath this massive image rested three magnificent chairs on a raised platform. They were thronelike, made of dark red wood and gilded intricately with crisscrossing strands of gold.
A broad warrior sat in the leftmost chair. This man wore a studded silver helmet and had long black hair that draped over his shoulders. He was lordly and fierce and wore a triple necklace of sharp, curving white talons . . . or perhaps, teeth. Thorne took this monstrous man to be the chieftain of the Raukar.
Guthrum spoke to the man, and he glanced down at Thorne and laughed. Thorne understood the insult, but kept his tongue for the moment. The dark-haired man stroked his beard and then stood at last. He walked behind the tapestries and disappeared. A few moments later he reappeared with two others, a man and a woman. Thorne knew immediately that he had been mistaken about the chieftain, for surely this new man was he, and the lady his wife. The lord wore no helmet, but a golden circlet rested on his brow. He had large, deep-set green eyes and a mane of hair both blond and white. Upon his massive chest lay a dark corselet of mail whose rings were so small and intricate that none could see where one began or ended. His golden beard was forked and the two ends were braided. A silver pendant shaped like a hammer hung from his neck. He looked like he’d weathered many years, but his muscular build and the great axe he carried suggested that age had not diminished him in the least.
The woman at his side had the same ageless quality. Her face was smooth and serene. A silver circlet rested on her forehead above her deep blue eyes, and her hair was woven into a long braid that wound down her neck and over her shoulder. She seemed queenly and wise and placed her hand lightly on the forearm of her husband.
Once the lord and lady were seated, the dark-haired warrior with the tooth necklace took his place at their right hand. He turned to the lord and spoke gruffly. Thorne had had enough of his coarse humor, so he spoke in their language, “Ni skamtar pa egen risk—”
“I speak your tongue, outlander, . . . far better than you speak mine,” said the chieftain. “Perhaps Bjorn’s humor is lost on you, but it is a joy to me. And in the abode of the Raukar, I assure you, peril lies most heavily upon you.” His stare burned like coals and lingered on Thorne for several moments. Thorne did not look away. “I am Hrothgar, steward of this people, and this is my wife, Fleur, who answers to no man but me. You are fortunate to gain audience here. Guthrum believes you have a claim. If that is so, then state your claim now, for my patience is fleeting.”
Thorne had strangled the last man who spoke to him with such impudence, but greater diplomacy was called for here. “Lord Hrothgar,” Thorne began, “it is indeed a rare honor to stand before you, but forgive me if I do not quake in fear or bow my head as one of lesser standing. I am Bartholomew Thorne, or the name your people might more readily understand: Bartholomew Gunnarson Thorne.”
Hrothgar raised an eyebrow, out of amusement or interest, Thorne could not tell, so he continued. “I am descended in an unbroken line from Eiríkr Thorvaldsson, and I have come to the Raukar, not to beg, but to lead them.” An angry murmur surrounded Thorne and his men. Apparently many of the Raukar could understand English.
Hrothgar was unmoved. He motioned to Guthrum, who took Thorne’s book and laid it in his chieftain’s lap. Hrothgar traced the border of the thick volume with his finger and then gently opened the book. He smiled as he slowly looked over the account of Erik the Red’s many voyages. Then he found the diagram in the back, the family tree. Thorne watched Hrothgar’s finger descend to the bottom, watched him pause, and watched his face grow taut. The chieftain whispered something to Bjorn, who pract
ically leaped from his chair. He once again disappeared behind the tapestry and returned with another book, which he handed to his leader. Hrothgar opened the second volume to a well-worn page and began to look back and forth between the two books. He grunted something unintelligible and handed the second book back to Bjorn.
“Bartholomew Gunnarson is a name of pure lineage,” Hrothgar said. “It is a high name and demands authority, but if you are indeed he, you must know that Hrothgar is the lord of the Raukar!” The room exploded with noise as swords smacked upon shields and the blunt ends of spears were bounced hard on the ground. Lady Fleur’s heavy gaze roamed over Thorne thoughtfully.
“I don’t wish to be called king or prince,” shouted Thorne. “Only captain. I want to lead you by the seas to battle, lead you to the grandeur that harsh ice and the outlanders took away from you hundreds of years ago.”
The crowd went silent, and Hrothgar’s face reddened as he stood. “Our former kinsmen in the north have forsaken our gods, but the Raukar have endured. The Raukar serve the mighty Tyr!” Hrothgar slammed the flat of his axe against the tapestry behind him. The warriors bellowed their cheers.
“Yes!” Thorne exclaimed, his raspy voice rising above the din. “The god of war who alone of all the gods would place his hand in the jaws of Fenris—it is this courage that I seek. The courage to go to war against the enemy who surrounds you. You say the Raukar have not forsaken Tyr and yet,” Thorne paused to choose his words carefully, “and yet, here you are hidden away. A proud race, yes, but strangely dormant as those who do not follow Tyr own the seas and grow stronger.”
The tumult grew loud behind them again, but this time there was more confusion as not all were in agreement. Finally, Lady Fleur raised a hand. The crowd went silent. “I do not trust this man,” said the Lady of the Raukar, “. . . whatever the books of lineage may say. His words ring true but appeal only to emotion, bringing dissent even into the hall of Hrothgar. I say he is a fraud. This book proves nothing.”
“My lady is wise,” said Hrothgar. “The Raukar have survived, nay flourished, these many years out of devotion to our beliefs. What did you think, Bartholomew Thorne . . . that we would blindly welcome you and give you a place of honor?”
Thorne stared evenly at the chieftain, but he was not worried. Teach was. The quartermaster admired his captain but began to think that it was a grand mistake intruding on these proud Vikings. Teach scanned the room for a quick exit. He had several ceramic grenades in a pouch at his side and wondered if he’d have time to light one before one of the Raukar ran him through with a long spear.
“Look around you, Thorne,” Hrothgar continued. “Each warrior in my hall has earned his honor, not with his mouth, but by his own sweat and blood. Eiríkr Thorvaldsson is a high lineage, but Lady Fleur is right to question your words, for any man may utter such. You must prove your worth.”
“I am willing,” said Thorne.
Hrothgar nodded. “We have a saying among the Raukar: True blood will be proved when it is spilled. If you are truly a descendant of Eiríkr Thorvaldsson, then you will prove it in the Bearpit.” A roar of agreement went up from the Raukar crowd. Teach lowered his hand toward the grenades, but a look from Thorne froze the quartermaster in place.
Hrothgar silenced the room as he stood. “In the Bearpit, you will be tested in single combat by a warrior of my choosing.” Again the crowds became frenzied, but this time it was warriors volunteering to do battle. Hrothgar said, “Nay, my valiant Raukar, if this test is to ring true, if we are to discover whether Eiríkr Thorvaldsson lives in this man’s blood, he must face an ultimate challenge. For his opponent, I therefore choose: Bjorn Ingalad!”
The crowd became ominously quiet. Bjorn stood up from his chair by Hrothgar’s side and glared at Thorne.
“As is our custom,” said Hrothgar, reaching into a black pouch at his side, “the winner will receive this!” He held aloft a slim, curved spike. “This bear tooth belongs to the man who emerges from the Bearpit alive!”
Bartholomew Thorne noted once more the necklace worn by his opponent. Three rows of bear teeth—that was how many men Bjorn had slain in the Bearpit. But rather than fear welling up inside of him, Thorne felt the lust for blood. He turned to Hrothgar and said, “Bjorn seems a useful man. Are you sure you want me to kill him?”
9
THE BEARPIT
With just a sharp sliver of the moon visible overhead, Hrothgar and Fleur led their champion, his opponent, and all the others from Hrothgar’s hall. Horns sounded, and people began to stream out of their long houses and funnel into many paths. Like spokes attached to a hub, all paths led to a massive building at the center of their land. Unlike the other structures, this building was round and had a stone foundation. As the procession approached, two dark iron doors loomed before them. Hrothgar removed a long bronze key from his belt, turned it in the lock, and threw open the heavy doors. “May the courage of Tyr course in the veins of all who enter this place!” Hrothgar shouted.
Raukar warriors kindled torches all around the circumference of this vast round chamber. The ceiling was very high and vaulted, like the dome of a cathedral, but made entirely of wood. Except for a wide outer hall, sections of cunningly wrought grandstands filled the round building, rising up to within a dozen feet of its high ceiling. And as Hrothgar led Thorne and the others into the center, the Raukar poured into the stands and stood waiting.
In the middle of the grandstands, a great circle of the floor, at least forty feet in diameter, was cut away, revealing a vast black hollow. It yawned like the mouth of a gigantic beast and, in the dark, seemed bottomless. Hrothgar took a torch from one of his men and lit six fire pits that surrounded the great opening. Angry orange light flooded into the chamber below. Thorne and his men stepped to the edge and looked down. They saw walls made with layers of stone as if the chamber were a wide well. But between the stones, protruding from the mortar in irregular patterns, were dozens of long spikes, sharp as dagger blades and white as if made of ivory or bone.
“The Bearpit!” announced Hrothgar with his arms outstretched. He lowered his hands, and the hundreds of Raukar who stood in the stands took their seat. “Ever has this chamber purified our race. For two men may enter, but only one man, the strongest, most cunning man emerges.” Hrothgar summoned Bartholomew Thorne and his opponent to approach. Then he said to them, “Bjorn Ingalad, you know well the rigors of the Bearpit.” Bjorn fingered the bear teeth around his neck and grinned at his inexperienced opponent.
Hrothgar continued. “But for you, outlander, know this: Once you enter the Bearpit, you will not leave until one of you is dead. There is no surrender, no submission, no change of heart. So I offer you now this last mercy: Bartholomew Thorne, admit you are a liar or worse—a coward—and I will allow you and your men to depart with your lives. Should you fail, your men will die with you.”
“I am neither a liar nor a coward,” said Thorne. “I pronounce again my claim to lead the Raukar to their rightful place in the world. I accept the terms of the Bearpit—and my fate.”
Teach and the other pirates shifted uneasily where they stood. Their lives now depended on Bartholomew Thorne.
“Very well,” said Hrothgar grimly. Then he pointed past Thorne into the pit. “At the base of the walls you will find all manner of weapon: sword, axe, spear, bludgeon—these you may use at any time in the course of combat. But you may not use your firearms.”
“I have the only weapon I need,” said Thorne, opening his coat to reveal his bleeding stick. Bjorn examined Thorne’s weapon curiously and shrugged. Thorne removed three pistols from his belt and handed them to Guthrum. He gave his outer jacket to Mr. Teach.
Hrothgar loosed a blast from his war horn, and six Raukar warriors wheeled in a strange device. It was mostly made of wood, but had a pulley system of some sort running along a lengthy arm that reached out from a locking hinge. Hrothgar stared into Bjorn’s eyes and then to Thorne. “Die well,” he said.
&n
bsp; The six warriors maneuvered the pulley device to the edge of the Bearpit. A looped rope dangled high from its long, wooden arm. Bjorn approached, and once the others lowered the wooden arm, he put a foot into the loop and grasped the rope. Two men turned iron cranks and, in so doing, lifted Bjorn into the air. Then they swung him out over the hole in the ground and lowered their champion gently into the Bearpit.
The Raukar repeated the process for Thorne—though with much less care. Bartholomew Thorne stepped awkwardly out of the rope loop and watched as it was withdrawn. Thorne loosed his bleeding stick from its holster and looked at the spikes all around. They were longer than they had first appeared, each one more than a foot in length and sharpened to a fine point. Where each spike inserted into the mortar, there was a ring of dark red.
Excitement buzzed from the stands above, and Thorne looked up to see the eager faces of this people. Men, women, and children, descended from the most efficient warriors the world had ever known, all looked down with great anticipation. Then Thorne looked up and saw a mural of a fearsome warrior-god on the domed ceiling above the pit. This being had greatly exaggerated musculature and swung his mighty ball and chain weapon, toppling a massive tower. But the most unusual feature of this deity was that he had but one hand. Thorne thought back to the tapestry of Tyr, the god of war, with his hand in the great wolf’s mouth.
Chanting began overhead, and Hrothgar sounded his horn once more. Bjorn charged. He lashed out with the axe. Thorne ducked, and the axe whooshed above his head. Thorne knew the axe would return low, so he snapped a sharp kick into the side of Bjorn’s knee. The huge warrior crumpled for a moment, one hand clutching his knee. The crowd above gasped. Thorne swung the bleeding stick at the side of Bjorn’s head. But he only caught Bjorn’s helmet, sending it clattering across the stone floor.
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