The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Grimor dropped him.

  Idorn’s head hit one of the rowing benches. He had no breath to howl, but at least he could suck air into his lungs, the sweetest air he’d ever tasted.

  Grimor bent down. He said, softly, “Hear me. You live. But if what you tell me is a lie, you will die as will your men, and not quickly.”

  If the world swum and swung, at least Idorn had not lost all sense. He managed a few words—“It is written”—and pointed at the scroll now lying in the bilges, gently moving back and forth on the water.

  “Edor,” Grimor growled, and the scroll was picked up and hastily wiped on his lieutenant’s tunic. Grimor said, without emphasis, “The ink had better not be smudged.” That sparked something of a panic as three men at once tried to unroll the stiff parchment to see if the text was damaged.

  Idorn, forgotten for the moment, managed to stand. He touched his throat carefully; he could feel the swelling wheals from Grimor’s thumbs. He beckoned one of the crew to him, and in a strangled whisper he asked, “Give the scroll to me. Please. Your lord must hear how his brother came to Portsol.”

  Edor claimed Grimor’s attention. He pointed at the clouds and the ocean. Spray was beginning to fly from wave crest to wave crest out in the sea road.

  Grimor nodded. He stared at Idorn. “You shall tell me what is written in your scroll, but out there.” He waved toward the sea. “South, Edor. We go south.”

  Edor cupped his hands and shouted to the nearest hull. “South—pass it on.” The word was bellowed from ship to ship as men began to push the hulls off the beach.

  Idorn looked pleased. But then he saw his crew hustled onto one of the hulls, and other raiders boarding his own ship. “But, Lord Grimor, I am an emissary. This is—”

  “The way it is, my friend. You are my hostage now. But I am looking forward to hearing more. Think well on what you will say.”

  It was only just the cool side of midsummer when the line of ships was sighted from Portsol.

  Solwaer had been thinking about this moment for a long time—much before, in fact, he’d sent Idorn out to search for trouble.

  “Bear?” He walked to the berserker’s hut at dawn, just after Fiachna had woken him with the news, but the stone shed was empty.

  Solwaer turned and surveyed the coast to the north. There they were, beating down the strait between the island and Portsol, the ships formed a flying V—brave sails taut, shields lining their sides—and they were making course for Portsol’s harbor. For a moment, even he quailed. Could he really do this?

  “What do you want?”

  Solwaer swiveled. His eyes widened. Bear had weapons slung around his body—ax, knife, sword, a spear in each hand. They jiggled and knocked as he walked out of the early mist.

  Solwaer stood his ground. “There is news, remarkable news.” He hoped it was—remarkable, not disastrous.

  Bear grunted. “I’ve seen them. Now we’ll find out how good Fiachna really is, and the rest of them.” He hefted the ax in his hand, feeling its balance, thumbing its edge. Ignoring Solwaer, he strode to the whetstone beside his door—more work to be done.

  “Listen to me, I know who commands these ships.”

  Bear turned.

  “And if I told you . . .” An artful pause.

  Bear did not ask the question. The battle to come was already inside his body—each of his muscles tight, getting tighter—but his mind was quiet, detached. Words were irrelevant now.

  Those wide, cold eyes made Solwaer nervous. “These ships belong to Grimor. Your brother.” He said it helpfully, as if Bear might not remember. “They have not come to fight us.”

  Bear sharpened his gaze; the focus changed from out on the water. “How can you know that?”

  “The ship at the end of the longer line, the trader. I sent that vessel out to find Grimor and bring him to Portsol. I wanted your brother to know you still live.”

  In Bear’s chest, something deep shifted, but he laughed, not a kind laugh. “And you think this is wise? You’re a Christian now, Solwaer. Did they tell you about the Devil?”

  The Lord of Portsol bent his head. Was he praying? No. He raised his eyes, and they were hard, gray pebbles. “I knew about the Devil long before I met you. More demons will not trouble me. Besides, the Devil loves a bargain.”

  Bear grunted. “Ah, but what do you have to trade with?”

  Solwaer became annoyed as Bear’s insolence worked its way under his skin. “You will stand at my back when they arrive to parlay. Remember your obligations.”

  Bear stared at the ships as they flew on toward the harbor, a morning wind behind the sails. “Fiachna won’t like it.”

  Solwaer shrugged testily. He furled the mantle around his shoulders. It wasn’t his best cloak, he would wear that for the meeting with Grimor, but time was passing and there was much to do. “Think of Findnar, Bear, think of your little nun. It’s all getting so much closer.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Bear!” It was a tricky moment; would his demon follow?

  Bear did not respond. The vessel that led the pack, was that his brother’s hull? Blood surged, and a chaos of images filled his skull; he ran a finger along the edge of his ax. Solwaer might be wrong.

  CHAPTER 36

  THEY’D HAD a successful journey down the coast, the ships in Grimor’s band. Reimer might have thought the uttermost East and North were less populated—and less valuable to harvest—but unseasonably warm weather in the last few years had changed much. A long growing season is a great inducement, and clans and family groups in search of land had wandered farther north than they might have in less fortunate times.

  Farming communities were good sources of slaves, but for luxury goods, and slaves of higher quality, the spreading canker of Christian religious houses were always worth paying attention to. Only three sailing days before they’d sacked one isolated monastery quite easily, and now there was Findnar, temptingly close. First, though, there was Portsol.

  The morning wind had dropped as the crews rowed Grimor’s ships through the entrance to the settlement’s new breakwater. Led by Fenrir, they drove those not laden with slaves onto the beach. Whatever transpired in this place, the raiding band would need to return to winter quarters soon to off-load what they’d gathered; space was at a premium in the hulls, and they did not wish to miss the autumn slave markets.

  Grimor was first ashore. He’d braced himself in readiness just before Fenrir’s keel bottomed on the sloping cove, and now he jumped into the cold shallows. From the shingle he cupped his hands and shouted to Edor as Wave Biter followed him in. “Everyone out of the hulls except those with slaves. Stand those off the beach. Six from each ship left to guard in relays; gather the rest here.” He pointed at the beach. “This is not a raid until I say it is. Tell them that.”

  Edor waved; he’d heard. As Wave Biter slid up the shingle, he shouted instructions to the next ship’s captain, who bellowed to the captain of the vessel beside his until the orders were relayed down the entire line, even to the late-arriving vessel that Idorn had once commanded.

  Grimor shouted again. “Bring me the hostage.” As a precaution on the run down the coast, Idorn had been tied to Fenrir’s mast. Bear’s brother was a pragmatist; he’d not wanted the hostage jumping overboard in despair once home was in sight—that’s what he would have done in the same circumstances rather than face the shame of such an arrival. But Idorn did not think like Grimor. All the youth cared about was survival—and turning what had happened to his advantage. He, too, was a pragmatist, but of a different kind.

  The organized chaos of arrival proceeded. The wide, sandy cove was quickly filled to capacity, most of the vessels lying beached, with five standing off behind the breaker line; these were the ships with human cargo.

  “Welcome party.” Edor nudged his leader.

  Grimor turned from watching his fighters gather. He could see their confusion—normally they’d have been into the town by now.

  A silent group of m
en was watching the arrival. They were massed at the beginning of a wooden trackway, which led toward the buildings set back from the shore. All were slung about with weapons, and most carried shields; one was taller than the rest, and he stepped forward.

  “Solwaer, Lord of Portsol, greets you through me. He is glad you have accepted his invitation, Lord Grimor. I am Fiachna, son of Fianor, chief housecarl of the Lord Solwaer. He now requests your presence in his hall, where a feast has been prepared in your honor.” A certain nervousness betrayed itself in Fiachna’s voice.

  Grimor turned to Edor. “What does he say?”

  Edor shrugged. He turned back to the men waiting silently on the beach. “Form up! No pushing. No shoving!”

  Fiachna watched the men from the hulls shuffle into a compact, ordered mass behind their leaders. Each fighter carried at least a sword and a leather-covered shield. Formidable, and silent. Fiachna’s fingers convulsed, and the haft of his ax grew slippery with sweat. He tried again, louder; mercifully, his voice did not crack.

  “Join us in peace as our welcome guests.”

  Grimor’s men were restless. Thud, thud, thud, spear shaft on shield, softly at first, then louder, quicker.

  Grimor called out, “Idorn!”

  The hostage was pushed forward, and though his bowels jolted in time with the thumps of the spears, hope flickered. Here was salvation; he understood both languages, and no one else, except perhaps Bear, would have that skill.

  “Lord Grimor, Solwaer of Portsol thanks you for accepting his invitation, conveyed by me.” Idorn raised his voice proudly. “And bids you welcome to his hall, where a noble feast awaits all.”

  Edor flashed Grimor a glance. He of all the captains understood best how important finding his lost brother was to their leader, but all they had was the word of the hostage that this Bear was who he was supposed to be. Was it a trap? Overall, they’d noticed the settlements of this coast had become more professional, better at defending themselves—possibly better at attack also—since the last raids. Portsol could be one of those places. Including Idorn’s, there were fifteen valuable ships at stake here, not to mention reputations.

  Grimor hefted his ax; he ran a finger along the edge, staring at Fiachna. “Tell them we accept the invitation of your lord, but be very careful, Idorn. Remember we are behind you, all of us.”

  Idorn gulped. He moved out from behind Grimor and walked to a point midway between the two groups of silent men. Waving vigorously, he shouted, “Lord Grimor asks me to say that he is your friend, and that he comes in peace. He accepts Lord Solwaer’s invitation; he and his men will eat in the noble hall of Portsol’s Chieftain.”

  Fiachna frowned as the hostage was recognized. “Idorn? We thought you were dead.”

  The hostage felt the stares of the men behind him boring into his back. And I might be soon, idiot! There were more than two hundred Norse on the beach. His smile was tight. “As you see, Fiachna, I’ve done what Solwaer asked of me. I’ve brought Bear’s brother to Portsol. I think we should go to the hall now, before everyone gets too excited. Don’t you?” Fear made him emphatic.

  Fiachna’s eyes widened. Fear, by its nature, is contagious.

  Pivoting, Idorn beckoned to the Norsemen. “Fiachna, Chief Thane of Lord Solwaer, is honored by your acceptance of his lord’s invitation. Your brother will be impatient to see you, Lord Grimor, after all these many years.”

  “Therefore, I will not keep Magni waiting longer.” The Norse leader strode toward the trackway, sword unsheathed in his hand. His men, led by Edor, poured after him, a surging human river.

  Ah well, thought Edor, scanning Fiachna and his men. If it’s all a load of bollocks, this lot don’t look too difficult.

  He cheered up. Easy pickings were good, but the closer they got to this town, the more prosperous it seemed, even if it was well defended. You couldn’t have it easy all the time.

  How do you eat safely with the Devil? You smile and invite him to sit where you can see his hands.

  So thought Solwaer as Grimor moved toward the honor seat. Behind him, the raiding band strode forward, three abreast. Tough and young, wild-haired, they were well clothed and well fed, and light caught the blue-honed edges of sword and ax. The smell of male sweat was suddenly sharp in the hall, stronger than smoke.

  The Lord of Portsol swallowed. Grimor was enormous, just as his brother was. To avoid the light wheels hanging from the roof, he had to duck his head, and he moved easily, with the grace of a predator.

  “Welcome, Lord Grimor, and we welcome, also, your men.” Solwaer stood, hands raised high—an honorable greeting and also a demonstration that he held no weapons. Some in the hall thought their lord rose out of respect for the visitors; they were wrong. With the advantage of the dais, Solwaer stood so he’d be taller than Grimor.

  “Magni, son of Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Ironhand, brother to Grimor, step forward.” Solwaer himself pronounced the invitation.

  Bear moved into the light. He’d been standing in the shadows behind Solwaer’s seat, watching unseen as the Norsemen strode the length of the hall.

  “Magni, do you see this man before me? Do you know him for your brother?” A rhetorical question.

  Gazing at Grimor, Bear said nothing. The Norseman’s eyes were locked to his.

  Fiachna, standing in front of the dais, flushed a congested puce. He’d only just seen that Bear had usurped his accustomed place.

  Solwaer lowered his arms. “Come, Magni, let all hear your greeting.”

  An age of silence stretched. None moved in the hall, or scratched or, even, spat.

  Walking slowly, as if in pain, Bear stopped at the edge of the dais. Grimor stood, still as rock. Breath was sucked back, collectively, like wind in the eaves.

  “Brother?” It was a whisper.

  Bear tried again, louder. “Brother?” He used the Norse word.

  Idorn was shocked. Drops of water were falling into the beard of the raider Chieftain. Grimor was crying.

  “He has the look of my father. This is truly my brother. Magni, my brother, is alive!” The bellow filled the hall—one man’s voice, answered by a roar from many throats.

  Bear jumped down into Grimor’s arms, and the two men embraced, both crying.

  Solwaer’s people did not know what was being said, but they understood the emotion. Man turned to wife, friend to friend, comrade to comrade, even the children squealed with infected glee and punched each other among the babble of guffaws and yells of happiness. They were all sentimental people, and in a hard world, seeing such a reunion was like being in the tales of the Gods.

  Meanwhile the ale girls filled the skins with new beer and mead as fast as they possibly could, for the drinking was about to start.

  “Lord Grimor—and you, Magni—join me here.” To demonstrate his superior power in this moment of joy—after all, it was he who had engineered it—Solwaer pointed to the stools now placed on either side of the honor seat. Ostentatiously draped with the finest of winter pelts, they were as large as his, and as high.

  The hall was transformed as willing hands hauled trestles and boards to be set along the walls on each side of the central fire pit. The most important men of Portsol and the captains and lieutenants of Grimor’s ships would all sit and eat. Women, children, and the men of lesser importance would watch the grandees at the board, though there would certainly be drink for all. As a gracious gesture, those who were seated would also send platters of food around the lesser men—though not the women or children—from which they could help themselves.

  It was a miracle, this feast—not least because the women of Portsol had conjured up so many provisions so quickly. It was true Solwaer had been planning for some months, but much of the food had to be prepared very quickly when Grimor and his men actually showed themselves in the strait. And Solwaer’s people gave the best of what they had to the men who should have been their enemies.

  Roasted lamb and kid and even chi
ckens—luxury food—and fresh fish seethed in milk and fennel were brought to the tables in large vessels of earthenware and iron. There was a cauldron of savory, thick porridge made from oats, wild greens, and bacon; and comfrey and onion fritters piled high on wooden platters next to soft, white cheeses of sheep’s milk. And everywhere there were mounds of flat barley bread baked on the stones of the fire pits in houses all around the settlement. These were used to scoop the food to the mouth.

  On the dais, as Idorn waited to translate for Solwaer, Grimor and Bear stared at each other and smiled. There was so much to ask, so much to say, and neither knew how to begin the conversation. Bear’s Norse, too, was halting, though hearing Grimor shout happily to his men brought words into his head, words he’d not said since he was a cub.

  Grimor waved to Idorn. “Ask him, does his face cause him pain?”

  Idorn began, “Lord Grimor asks if your face . . .” Bear grinned at his brother—who grinned back—they both had good teeth.

  “I understood—enough. Tell him nothing pains me now because he’s here.”

  Grimor, leaning across Solwaer, embraced Bear with a delighted guffaw. “Tell him this was a good answer.”

  “And tell him that I am a skald in his presence.”

  The brothers beamed—at each other, at the hall, at the men, the women, the ale girls, even at the children. And the people of Portsol wondered why they’d ever been frightened of Bear, or called him a demon. Plainly, he could be quite nice, provided he liked you.

  As the roar of the feast grew louder and the faces of all present flushed scarlet with the good ale and heat, Solwaer began to relax. He signaled to Fiachna, now back in his accustomed place behind the Chieftain’s right shoulder.

  “Tell the women to keep the beer flowing—not one horn is to empty without being refilled. And food—tell them to keep cooking.”

  Solwaer gazed around his hall with pride. The Norse seemed impressed by his community of well-fed, well-dressed people; even the children were free from rickets—that was testimony to the prosperity of Portsol and to his own wealth. Business was yet to be transacted, but that would come, for now he could only pray that the goodwill exchanged in endless toasts would hold until at least tomorrow. “And, Fiachna, I want you to remain alert. Let there be no fights; keep your best men sober.”