by Walt Socha
Chapter 17
July 25
“These people rely on me. And it just gets deeper and deeper.” Larry blew out a long breath as he walked, a coil of rope slung over his uninjured shoulder. “And now Nanisu is dead. And Conal. At this rate, we’ll all be rotting in the ground by winter.”
“We chose to follow you. And you’ve kept most of us safe in circumstances where otherwise all would have perished.” Matuso shifted a shovel to lay a hand on Larry’s right shoulder. “We’d be lost without you.”
“I don’t know.” Larry stopped to look behind them. Liaden and her son walked a few paces back. Cian’s small hand was in her left hand as she led one of the horses. At their heels, Davnat carried a food bag on each shoulder. Behind her, Disunu, burdened with his own leather sack of food, led a second horse laden with folded sailcloth and extra weapons. Hunched under a leather pack filled with iron tools, Ivar led a third horse carrying Anya and a small anvil. Hallur brought up the rear, several coils of rope slung over his shoulder. In the far distance, a black plume of smoke betrayed the burning ship.
They had found a small bag of silver coins in the raiders’ ship. With these, they had bought three of the horses, blacksmithing supplies, and farm implements from Uaine, who acted reluctant to give up anything but seemed quite content to accept the coins. Ivar complained that she profited from the trade.
“We may want to come back for the iron in that ship if the raiders don’t salvage it first.” Larry turned south and resumed walking. “How many arrows did we recover?” he asked as Matuso moved to his side.
“About half,” Matuso said. “And most of the tips from the damaged ones. And all the raiders’ arrows I could find. We might be able to reuse the tips from those.”
After a couple hours of walking and with the sun descending into evening, Larry called a halt. They were all tired, and Anya was starting to bleed between her legs. They gathered in a small meadow cut by a meandering stream.
The animal trail they had been following meandered into the hills ahead, where a break in the forest canopy that hinted at the pass that led into the valley of Sanctuary. At their existing pace, they’d probably have to spend the night on the trail somewhere near that pass, probably at the base of Bald Hill.
Teltina appeared while they rested. She had disappeared as soon as they had started out.
“I don’t detect any threat in the forest,” she said, lowering herself to the ground next to Anya. They spoke in whispers for a few minutes before Teltina put her arm around the young woman.
“How do you know there aren’t any threats?” Larry asked after the two women ended their conversation. He didn’t want to offend this woman, but he needed to know.
“I listened to the birds.” She smiled, her green eyes always moving, watching everything. “Their calls vary. Telling each other their location, calling for mates, or broadcasting threats.” She shifted her foot close and adjusted the lacing on her leather shoes. “There's nothing except a fox.” Once she was satisfied with her shoe, she looked up. “But there’s going to be a problem when Uaine reaches the abbey. The devils who live there did not know that I was still in the area. You will be tainted by my presence.”
Larry met her eyes, feeling a hollowness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel these past years. What a powerful woman. He broke eye contact and gazed into the mountains over her shoulders. “Well, if we’re tainted already, maybe Garvan and Agnes could visit our camp. Play with the kids there?”
Teltina tilted her head a few degrees to the side. After several breaths, she smiled.
* * *
As the thrall set the tankard on the table, Ragnar grasped her wrist. “What is your name?” he asked in Eire.
“Orla.” The young woman kept her eyes down.
“Look at me.” He watched her raise her face, her eyes closed. “You need not fear me.” He nodded as she opened her eyes. “If you are nice to me.” Her mouth tightened into a thin line. He’d seen similar reactions in other women who hadn’t accepted their fate. Still, she was pretty enough.
“You will warm my bed again tonight.”
Orla lowered her head and he let go of her wrist. She turned and scurried back to the brewing barrel. As she covered the vessel with a sheet of leather, the light dimmed. A man blocked the door of the farmhouse.
“What do you want?” Ragnar asked in his own tongue. He sipped at the thin beer. Sour, but at least it was wet.
“The ship Raven has beached. Bringing Gunnarr. He approaches.” The man bowed.
“Any word about our Ur Neill brothers?” Ragnar said.
“Not yet.” The man looked over his shoulder. “I will send a runner to determine when they will arrive.”
Ragnar nodded his dismissal at the man and looked toward Orla. “Bring a second tankard.”
As she placed another tankard on the table, a second figure darkened the doorway.
Ragnar frowned at a bloody cloth wrapped around the man’s right forearm. “Come in, Gunnarr.”
“Shipmaster.” The man entered and bowed, a sharp breath escaping as his right arm moved.
“What news from our fat Abbot?” Ragnar narrowed his eyes at the captain of the coastal longship Water Witch.
“We were attacked.” Gunnarr straightened, his eyes locking on Ragnar’s. “Only I escaped.”
“Sit.” Face tight, Ragnar nodded to the full tankard. “Drink and explain.”
“We had moved to the first rapid. More than halfway up the Laune River at a bend in the river with a wide island to the south.” Gunnarr lifted the tankard to his lips and drank half of its contents, his eyes never leaving his oath master. “At that point, arrows flew. Well placed. Taking out the men on guard.” The injured man set down the tankard and untied a leather bag at his waist. With the trembling fingers of his left hand, he opened it and withdrew an arrow point. “This was cut from my arm.” He pushed it across the table.
Ragnar picked up the metal point and turned toward the cooking fire, where Orla stirred a copper pot. “Bring a candle,” he said in Eire.
He waited as Orla, using a burning twig pulled from the edge of the fire, lit a stubby candle supported in a clay cup and set it in front of Ragnar.
Ragnar held the worked metal behind the small flickering flame, turning it over and over. Although damaged, it was well made. A remaining sharp edge cut cleanly through the end of one of his fingernails.
“Continue.” He sat back and watched Gunnarr as the man described the ambush by unknown assailants, the ensuing battle, and his flight.
“After the strangers floated my ship downriver, I returned to the site of the ambush. The bodies of my men and the Ur Neill men were stripped of valuables. The attackers had retrieved all their arrows but I still had the one in my arm. I followed them. They stopped at the farmstead we had stripped earlier.” He shifted in his chair and met Ragnar’s eyes. “The next morning, they burned Water Witch and walked south into the mountains.”
“Describe them.”
“The men were foreigners. Several were dark skinned. One very dark.” Gunnarr’s eyes unfocused in thought. “One was an Eire woman.”
Ragnar leaned his left elbow on the table. He turned his head and raised his right hand toward Orla. “More beer.” After Orla had refilled their tankards, Ragnar raised an eyebrow to Gunnarr. “You had no orders to sard the locals.”
Lowering his eyes, Gunnarr placed both hands on the table. A twitch in his jaw muscles betrayed the pain in his injured arm.
Ragnar stared at the captain of his lost ship. Not the best man. But not the least. Good fighters were easy to recruit. But men who could command a ship were harder to find. After several breaths, Gunnarr looked up and Ragnar nodded.
“I walked back to our camp at the mouth of the Laune. The master of Raven brought me here after his smith cut the arrow tip out of my arm.”
Ragnar stared for tens of breaths at his subject. Then smiled. “You will live for now.” The smile faded. “Th
e penalty for losing one of my ships is death. But I give you back your life in exchange for the information you brought. But the attack on the farmstead will cost two knuckles. You may choose the finger.”
As Gunnarr took in a quick breath, Ragnar continued. “Go find the piss-taster and have him administer to your arm. I will need that arm in the future. See that you don’t lose any more fingers. Take the beer with you.”
After Gunnarr left, Ragnar looked at the arrow point on the table. Lifting a pouch from within his cloak, he withdrew two other points and placed them next to Gunnarr’s. The workmanship was similar. And all were made of hard iron.
* * *
At the sound of voices, Ragnar stood and walked to the doorway, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. A large group of armed men strode into the open area between the farmstead buildings. Seeing that several of his men accompanied them, he let his hand drop. The newcomers stopped in the middle of the buildings. One man, dressed in chainmail over leather, broke from the group and walked several paces toward Ragnar. Ragnar, hands held slightly away from this torso, stepped from the doorway and matched the man’s number of paces. “Welcome Cormac, son of Neill,” he said in Eire.
“Greetings to Ragnar of the Northmen.” Cormac bowed a few inches, his eyes never breaking Ragnar’s gaze.
“Please release your men to drink and sup.” Ragnar swept his hand around the farmstead. “And join me for the same.”
As Cormac signaled his men, Ragnar re-entered the farmhouse. “Orla, bring beer and prepare food,” he said as the thrall turned from the cook fire. “For two.”
Orla set two tankards on the table as Cormac entered. She looked up and gasped, hands going to her mouth.
“Have you been enjoying my gift?” Cormac grinned at the young woman who now stood on the other side of the cook fire. “Ironic that she now serves you in her father’s former home.”
“She amuses me.” Ragnar’s gaze flicked between Cormac and Orla, remembering the bruises she had worn when the Ur Neill man had gifted her.
“If she starts to bore you, I will take her back for my men.”
“Her cooking pleases me.”
“Then I’m glad she didn’t die along with the rest of her family.” Cormac followed her movements with his eyes. “Doalty saved her for me.” He laughed. “After he enjoyed her.”
“Wasn’t he one of those killed by the strangers?” Ragnar watched Orla as she wiped two platters with a cloth. Her hands shook.
“Yes.” Cormac’s attention shifted from the woman to his tankard and he scowled. “And I will find the men who did it.” He grabbed it with a scarred hand and took a long drink. “We brew better beer in the north.” He looked at Ragnar as he returned the tankard to the table. “I hear you also lost some men?”
Ragnar pointed to the three arrow points in the middle of the table. “I believe two of these are from the attack on your men at this farmstead by strangers over two weeks ago. They are from arrows my men found buried in the walls. The third was given to me by the only survivor of a recent attack on one of my ships, where four of your men died along with over a dozen of mine.”
Pushing the three points around with a finger, Cormac furrowed his brow. “They are identical.” He looked up. “Who are these strangers?”
“I don’t know. The last attack occurred during a joint trip to collect tribute from the abbey on Lake Leane.” Ragnar met Cormac’s gaze. “Has your Abbot switched allegiances? Hired outsiders?”
Cormac snorted, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. “Not possible. The Abbot much prefers gold, beer, and young girls to blood and iron. I control him.”
“Yet someone killed our joint crew and burned my ship. That is not part of our plan.”
“Our pact stands. You get a trading port and enough land to sustain it. I get the rest of southern Munster.” Cormac picked up one of the points, scraping an undamaged edge across the tabletop. It left a finger-width of shaved wood. “But these points suggest that the killers of Doalty are also responsible for the loss of your ship. And for the loss of more of my men.”
“And maybe for the loss of another of my coastal ships. It disappeared the day after the strangers attacked your men here.” River Serpent was one of his smaller vessels but important for the local rivers. Ragnar’s fingers tightened around the tankard.
“If my Abbot is involved in this trouble, then perhaps he needs to be reminded of his place. What is the price of your ship and men?”
“The weight of his head in gold.”
“I won’t stand in your way if you wish to collect.” Cormac flicked the point to the center of the table with a finger. “Just don’t kill the fat fool. He is a kinsman through his mother. He remains useful to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “And to us.”
“There is another issue to resolve before I visit your Abbot,” Ragnar said. “We must move to this side of the peninsula. The northern side is exposed to the winds. The harbor here will protect us from the weather and is more easily defended.”
Cormac nodded. “Agreed. The few farmsteads to the north have been stripped of food and fodder. Even the small monastery is now empty. But this side will also soon be barren unless we obtain more thralls to work the land.”
“Send your men into the interior. We’ll forage along the coast. Both for food and for thralls.” Ragnar gestured for Orla to serve the food and refill the tankards.
“Agreed. I will move my men and cattle here. It will only take a few days.” Cormac’s eyes followed the woman as she placed platters of roasted meat and bread on the table.
“Good. Then I’ll notify my other ships to sail here.” As he drank the rest of his beer, Ragnar watched his ally over the rim of the tankard. He needed this man from the north to secure the countryside while he built up a fortified port. After that, only the gods knew.
Chapter 18
July 31
As Matuso chewed sinew, he positioned the sections of split feather on the shaft of ash. The repetitive actions left his mind open. Open to the images he’d been avoiding since the battle on the Laune River. A shudder rippled through his body. He had attended the injured during the fight at Ros’s and had been wounded early on at the mountain, but the ambush of the Northmen raiders had been his first kills.
He could still feel the jolt as his sword cracked through one raider’s rib cage, the smoothness as it slipped into the belly of another. Other images crowded into his mind as he tied the sinew around the ends of the feathers. Nanisu floating face down in the Laune. Pondusu falling during the fight in the mountains. Bonetu’s death at the Ros farmstead. He’d known two of them since childhood. The third for the past several years. All good men. Now gone.
“I see something,” Garvan said.
Matuso looked up, his hand frozen in the task of wrapping a thin strand of sinew around the fletching. “Be right there.” He wound the saliva-wetted thread another couple of times, looped it to form a single knot and set the arrow on a rock. If his left arm was still too weak to hold a long bow, at least he could still make arrows. He rose, stretched and strode to Garvan’s side at the northwest edge of the stone windbreak at the top of Sui Finn Mountain. The boy pointed west, over the bay, toward the small inlet that led to Ros’s farmstead and the large harbor. Matuso squinted, trying to see movement in the light mist floating on the water. “Your eyes are better than mine. What are you seeing?”
“Just a half finger-width to the left of Ros’s entrance. A sail.” The boy held out his hand.
Matuso stood, peering west. In spite of the sun, a shiver rolled down his back. In the past couple of days, they had seen several ships. But those had hugged the shoreline and sailed directly into Ros’ harbor. This new ship was sailing down the middle of the bay. “If it’s one of ours, it’ll run into the Ur Neill camped at Ros’s.” Matuso turned toward the cook fire in the middle of the windbreak then shifted his view to the pile of firewood and damp weeds. Larry had insisted that the whistle codes could be use
d for smoke signals.
“I’ll build up the fire,” Matuso said.
* * *
“The contours look correct.” Fergus’s eyes flicked from the chart to the break in the shoreline. “That’s the entrance to Ros’s. No mistaking the cleaved cliff.”
“Do we go in?” Brynjar said as he shifted position, the steering oar under his arm.
Fergus turned his gaze to the steersman. “Let’s sail past the entrance. See what we stir up. Any sight of Waverider?” They had lost sight of Jessie’s ship as Dreamcatcher maneuvered through the islands off the Peninsula.
“They’re still working their way through the islands at the end of the peninsula.” Brynjar looked over his shoulder before returning his eyes to Ros’s harbor entrance.
“Be ready to load the flintlocks,” Fergus said to the crew. He faced the narrow opening to the right of the broken cliff that led to the still hidden harbor. The distinctive cleaved rock face of the cliff matched the simple line drawing copied from Stormchaser’s logbook.
“Fergus.” The voice was low but insistent.
Fergus turned to follow the steersman’s pointing finger. Bracketed by two mountain-ribbed peninsulas, the bay merged into low flat lands far to the east. Brynjar’s finger pointed to a mountain at the far eastern part of the southern peninsula. A puff of smoke grew from one of the peaks. As they watched two others followed.
“Could just be coincidence,” Brynjar said.
“Could be.” Fergus forced himself to breathe as the first wisp of white faded into the blue sky. In minutes, all three disappeared. Grabbing a mast line, he stepped on the gunwale and looked to the west. Sails billowing in the light east wind, Waverider was now visible, only a mile astern.
