The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Men from the boats and Solwaer’s followers stood back. Red-faced from the heat, they stared somberly into the heart of the fire. They’d been promised beer, but not until the pyre burned down, and without ale or war blood, it was sobering to watch this roaring beast consume a comrade’s body. The smell reminded far too many of pork meat roasting.

  “Solwaer?” Idorn approached his leader warily. “Here is the girl.”

  Men were turning to look; some smirked as they approached.

  The Lord of Portsol swung around. To honor the dead, he was wearing the torque Bear had made and a wolf-trimmed cloak, because the full pelt—head, tail, and claws—made him seem broader, more substantial. But so close to the fire, the heavy garment was a burden. Sweat dripped down his neck, and irritation was the result, especially when Edor asked him something and Idorn was not there to translate.

  But Solwaer forgot bad humor when he saw the Shaman’s daughter. When he’d last seen her, Signy had been dressed in blood-stiffened rags—she was very different now. Face impassive, right hand on the hilt of his sword, he beckoned her to approach.

  Signy was the sole woman in this gathering of men and, since he was her master, Solwaer had expected she would bow to him, at least. Another woman might have knelt humbly at his feet.

  But Signy did neither of these things. Unblinking, she stared into his eyes as she advanced, and surprise made him look away. He covered the moment with a laugh, turning toward the men. “A spirited slave. Is that a good thing?” There was a ripple of laughter from the men. Some things crossed all language barriers.

  Edor watched for what would happen next.

  “Show me.” Solwaer waved a languid hand—he might have been inspecting livestock. “Turn.” There was an edge in his voice. Men had gathered behind him. “Do it, slave.”

  Signy’s eyes widened. She lifted her head proudly and turned in a circle.

  Solwaer grunted. “Again. Slower. Hands above your head. Now!” His voice was a lash.

  Signy flinched.

  The men laughed, not unkindly. It was to the girl’s credit that she was embarrassed—a harlot might have enjoyed displaying herself.

  Signy’s breathing slowed, and she closed her eyes. From long training, she took her spirit away to the place that prayer provided. But who would hear her prayers in this moment? Bear.

  She raised her arms high and trancelike, solemnly, turned as stiffly as a statue might. Bear, protect me.

  Solwaer frowned, but he had made his point. He commanded, she obeyed. “Idorn!”

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “I am displeased by this girl. Take her back to my tent.” He did not call her Signy—slaves had no personal possessions, not even names.

  Signy shouted at Solwaer, “Idorn said I could witness the ceremonies. You told him.” This loss, a final sight of Bear’s face, was too much.

  Solwaer turned his back on Signy. He would not dignify her defiance with a response. “Translator, Lord Edor asked me a question.”

  Idorn was harried. He clamped his hand across Signy’s mouth, muttering, “Be still. Please.” He raised his voice as the girl struggled. “Yes, Lord.”

  Edor threw the last of his mead in the grass. “I was asking, is the girl a virgin?”

  Solwaer laughed uproariously. “Is she a virgin? I have yet to find out. It is a meaningless state for a slave.”

  “But not for a shaman’s daughter.” A voice spoke up beyond the fire.

  There was no answering laughter from the Portsol men this time, only a muttering silence. All knew it was dangerous to challenge the power of a shaman, even a dead one. Especially a dead one. To damage a shaman’s kin was to invite reprisal.

  Solwaer glowered at the crowd—it had to be a Portsol man. Who else would have known?

  He spoke loudly. “Come, Edor. We have beer, and there is good Portsol mead. To your fighters! To their journey!” No translation was required.

  Hastily, a full horn was passed to him. Solwaer held it high so all could see. With a sweep of his arm, he threw the contents into the white heart of the fire. There was enough liquid to create an impressive hiss.

  That lifted the spirits of the gathering, and a rain of ale followed, so much that smoke lifted toward the faint stars.

  Idorn used the moment. He dragged Signy away and, when she would not walk, he slung her over his shoulder. Good-humored laughter followed. Who had not had trouble with women refusing to obey?

  Away from the fire, Signy kicked herself free, and they both tumbled into the grass. Idorn, after a difficult day, was sorely tempted to lie beside her, if only for a moment—it might be dark enough. A foolish thought, and he knew it. He stood and reached down to help the girl. She ignored him.

  “Come on, Signy. This is silly.”

  She would not look at him.

  Idorn grew angry. He raised a fist. Perhaps he should hit her. She might obey him then.

  But Idorn sighed. Brutalizing girls was Solwaer’s style, not his. “Be reasonable, Signy. Get up. Please. You’ll just bring me more trouble.”

  “I would rather die tonight than let that man have me.”

  Idorn said nothing. Signy might say such a thing but, in the end, she would have to acquiesce. Women were tough creatures, in his observation—tougher than men, he sometimes thought.

  He bent down. “Here.”

  Signy hesitated, but she grasped his hand.

  “That’s better.” Idorn pulled her toward the makeshift camp. “You must be there when he arrives. Welcome your master properly, and he will treat you well.”

  This was good advice, and he, Idorn, had a job to do. That should have been enough. But seeing the abject slump of Signy’s shoulders, he experienced complex regret. He knew what Solwaer did to women who displeased him.

  Midsummer nights in the North are strange. An eerie half-darkness lies across the sky, and the stars are faint and weary, the color of milk, when they can be seen. So it was on this night. The world hovered between light and dark as they wheeled, faint and cold, above the face of the earth.

  But the comet was larger than any of the stars. Close to the end of its journey, it approached the size of half the moon, and soon it would be swallowed by black eternity as it was slung out once more, beyond the bowl of Earth’s blue sky.

  Some hours had passed, and the pyre had burned to ash.

  At Edor’s signal, men lit torches from the embers, and soon a double line of flaring light showed where the path, beaten out by the naked feet of the monks, led down from the meadow to the entrance of the tomb.

  Somewhere, in the distance, a slow thudding began. A single beat, it was joined by others as the procession began to form at the top of the cliff. The ash shafts of spears, the leather-covered shields, these were the drums.

  But there were other noises, a creaking, grinding rumble, and the sound of men running and shouting to each other.

  Solwaer waited, standing beside Edor. He knew what was coming. They both did.

  “There.” Edor pointed at the dark shape.

  At first it was hard to make out the detail; then a dragon’s head reared up and cut its shape from the material of the sky. The dragon’s body came after as the ship, rolling on logs laid under the keel by the Norsemen, slid down her carefully managed path. They’d cut a road from the meadow to the cliff terrace at a gentle gradient, but it was not enough. The fighters barely held her as the vessel gathered speed on the downhill run.

  “She’s running off the logs!” In the prow, Idorn screamed the warning.

  Only because the ropes and the men were very strong did they arrest the momentum of the ship, turning her at last in a wide curve toward the grave mouth.

  Fewer men, less strength, fewer logs, and she would have veered away, ripped the ropes from their hands and tipped over the cliff. But they managed it.

  Edor and Solwaer stood like rocks. They’d both seen the near disaster, but neither moved—that would not have been dignified.

  N
ow the mastless hull, stripped of her oars though with shields still lining the sides, rested before them as men braced her on either flank, breathless from the effort.

  Edor and Solwaer bowed their heads in respect for the ship and her passengers. The drumming ceased.

  In a loud voice, Edor spoke. Idorn translated from beside the dragon’s head; height was an advantage—his voice carried well to the waiting men.

  “Tonight, Midsummer Night, we honor Grimor and Magni, sons of Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Iron-hand. Their deaths in this place have brought us much grief and, here, they lie before us as they begin their voyage into eternity.”

  Tears were coursing down Edor’s face, and Solwaer had trouble controlling his own rush of feeling. Funerals—they were always hard.

  “Brothers in life, reunited only to be torn apart again, they are our brothers, our kin. Their last earthly dwelling place is this great ship.” Edor waved at the hull that had been wrestled by the Norse across the meadow.

  If that had been testing, the journey of the vessel up the narrow cliff path had been blood-sweatingly difficult. Just as well one of the smaller, narrow vessels had been chosen.

  “They died for us, and we will never forget our deathless heroes.” Edor paused, overcome.

  Around him, torchlight shone on wet cheeks, damp beards. From a man of few words, this was a moving speech. Even Idorn had to blink tears away, nodding.

  But Edor did not care. Howling a battle cry, he ran forward and clambered up the side of the ship, hoisted on willing shoulders.

  Before him, beneath a pall of crimson wool—one of the hangings brought over from Solwaer’s hall—lay the corpses of the brothers. Side by side on a thick bed of meadow herbs and grasses, they had been raised on a platform constructed where the mast was usually stepped. Both bodies had been washed in sour wine, to preserve them as long as possible, and dressed in the finest tunics that could be found. In the stern of the ship, Fiachna’s body lay at their feet.

  Edor prostrated himself and knocked his head against the edge of the wooden bier. “We ask that your journey is swift. We ask that the joy of the afterlife is greater than any happiness you experienced in this life. We honor you.”

  Screaming the last words, he leaped from the ship, his fall broken by willing arms, and, like a man possessed by the Gods, he ran with a lighted torch to the gaping entrance of the tomb. “Bring them!”

  Tough arms and broad shoulders, strong legs and backs slabbed with muscle, all were pressed into service as, slowly, the ship traveled into the dark of the chamber beneath the hill.

  Solwaer stood back, holding his torch high as grunting, heaving men strained to roll the vessel along the passage toward the inner tomb. It was a long passage, but there was enough room, just.

  Edor and Solwaer both breathed in—it was purely a reflex action—and as Grimor’s corpse passed by, the Lord of Portsol stood back against the rock wall. He grasped the cross he wore around his neck; he had Thor’s golden hammer on a thong too—extra protection and in honor of his new partners, the Norse. It was as well to have such things to ward off danger, especially as, sometimes, a corpse sat up in the presence of its killer.

  There was still a faint glow in the sky as the vessel, with its cargo, was positioned. The monks had been forced to gather stones from the burned buildings to brace the hull and then, lit only by flame, they would build a wall between the chamber and the passageway.

  In Solwaer’s judgment, the Gods of the Norse had overcome the Trinity. It was fitting, then, that part of the substance of the destroyed Abbey should hold up the vessel that would carry the brothers to Walhal.

  His thoughts wandered under the waning influence of the beer. Too much and he always felt sad and, these days, old. Drinking all night was something he’d once done with impunity—not anymore. Now he needed a soft bed and the girl who waited for him. The last would provide something he’d long delayed claiming—and the first would send him to oblivion, when he was ready, if only for an hour or so.

  Peering into the milky gloom, Solwaer held the torch higher. What was keeping them? His mind drifted to the first time he’d seen Signy. That surprising display in the church. He’d not known who she was then, for Signy had not been born when he’d run away from her clan. But he remembered her father. The Shaman had been good to his slaves. A sign of weakness.

  A shout, and he jerked back to the present. A cart creaked down the slope, pulled by the strongest of the monks, Cuillin among them.

  Solwaer was not without pity. As the sweating men pulled the heavy vehicle toward the entrance, he acknowledged—but only to himself—that this must indeed be a bitter moment. The monks had been forced to load this vehicle with grave goods for Bear and his brother—including a silver cross from the Abbey’s altar that lay, glinting, on the top of the hoard.

  That cross had caused another dispute with Edor. Solwaer had wanted it for his church, but he’d given it up—making much of the goodwill. In return he’d kept the great manuscript of Revelation that had survived the burning of the church. He’d decided not to sell the book; tomorrow it would go with him to Portsol to adorn the altar of the church he would eventually build.

  Now he watched the wagon roll toward them with some regret. Bear, I hope you know what I’m doing for you.

  All the grave goods had come either from Grimor’s ships—objects acquired in the earlier raids of this summer—or from among Solwaer’s possessions. The large silver platter, for instance, and the massive bronze bowl with a frieze of horses running around the lip—they’d both been his. The bowl he’d traded years ago for six slaves, but he still thought he’d had the best of the bargain. Its previous owner, a man with a face the color of copper, had told him it was made in a place where the sun was hotter than fire and all the people black as bog water.

  Solwaer was proud of the riches they’d put together. As the cart finally passed by, firelight played across the treasures piled high above the sides. This generosity would be spoken of long after he and his children were gone. Men flocked to a leader lavish with favors; this investment would return to him many times in the years to come.

  Soon, now, all would be in place, and then he could snatch an hour or so with the girl. She was one treasure he intended to have a little use from.

  CHAPTER 46

  YOU KNOW what will happen, don’t you?”

  “What?” Freya blinked sweat from her eyes. She’d got over being exhausted hours ago.

  Dan pointed at the opening—it was big enough to squeeze through now. He glanced at Katherine. They were all so covered with dust-bloom they might have been stone themselves. “Once we enter, there’s no going back.”

  Freya stared into the passage. “What time is it?”

  “Past midnight.”

  “Give me a minute before we go through.” She picked up the camera. “Just a bit more documentation.”

  Without proper lights, she had to improvise. “Dan, can you shine your lamp from over there, please?” She pointed to the top of the opening. “And, Katherine, from the other side? Thanks.” Minutes slid by as Freya shot angle after angle.

  Dan said, “It’s moments like this I wish I smoked.”

  Adrenaline kept Freya moving. “Nearly there.” She took a last photo and put the camera down very carefully. She wasn’t frightened anymore. “Ready?”

  “After you.” Dan swept the girl a bow. The atmosphere was lighter—perhaps they’d reached the silly side of tired.

  Freya pointed a flashlight, and the beam played over the edges of the opening before she ducked and disappeared into the dark. Her footsteps become fainter until they stopped.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Dan and Katherine shared a look. She said, “You go.”

  The opening was tight. Energetic wriggling, and Dan was through.

  Reverse birth, thought Katherine, that’s what it looks like.

  As Dan limped toward Freya, he took in the massive
structure of this passageway, so wide his hands could not touch either side. So high . . .

  He stopped. His face dropped. “No.”

  Freya nodded. “Yes. Katherine, bring the picks!”

  In front of them, blocking the way, was another wall.

  Time evaporated. Freya blinked away the grit—her eyes felt raw. “Maybe we should stop, get some sleep. We’re working like slaves.” Part of her so, so wanted to give up and just lie down.

  Katherine was breathing hard, but she mustered a smile. “Slaves don’t have a choice.”

  Dan leaned on his pick. “We’re closer than you think. We can do it.”

  “You wild, crazy, optimistic kid. I love you for that.”

  He grinned, white face, white teeth. “Promise?”

  They’d started at the top of the wall this time. Though the blocks had been laid without mortar, rubble had been rammed in against the ceiling; it wasn’t hard to shift, but there was a lot of it, and the wall proper was proving stubborn.

  Dan tapped against a big block of stone a little above his head. The sound was dead. “But listen here . . .” He knocked the pick head close by. “It’s not all uniformly thick. Thrown up in haste, is what I think.”

  Freya straightened her back. She stretched like a bow. “Similar to the other wall. Okay. Another half hour—that’s it.”

  Dan nodded. “One last go?”

  She nodded, hefting the pick. “Yep.”

  The two picks swung, almost in unison. And again. Toward the top, a gap began to open as rubble came down, more and more of it.

  Freya stood back. “Careful, Dan. Don’t want to do more damage than we have to.”

  Dan offered a crowbar. “Your turn, then.” Eyes dark in a white face.

  For one last time, adrenaline obliterated exhaustion. Freya chipped away with the point of the metal bar, opening the gap, making it wider, deeper. It was exhausting work, and she spat grit as she dug, her biceps aching fiercely.