by Walt Socha
“They’ve blocked access to our water supply also,” Fergus said. “But we’ve enough for a couple of days.”
They stood on the south side of Bald Hill just a few strides away from the dueling grounds, looking down at the trail at the bottom of the hill that wound in and out of the trees. Instead of a few Northmen watchers, dozens of armed men stood or sat.
“I’ll check on the other directions.” Fergus turned to face uphill. “But I expect I'll find the same.” He paused. “Tomorrow, they’ll want to check on Gunnarr. Where do you want that to happen?”
Larry’s eyes followed the terrain below, moving along the slopes to the visible part of the summit. Even if Gunnarr was healed, they could still attack.
“I think we’ll move him there.” Larry pointed to the spot where the duels had taken place. “Set up a small lean-to. Keep everything out in the open. And out of sight of the summit.”
“We’ve burned almost all the wood we have.” Fergus snorted. “Or used it for hurling goals. Been chopping up turf to dry for fuel.”
Larry glanced at his son. The little shit was always bringing up facts. “There’s a solution to that.” He unbuckled his weapons belt, dropping it to the ground. Pulling the axe from its sheath, he turned downhill.
“Don’t,” Fergus said as Larry limped downhill.
The Northmen below backed up as Larry approached holding his axe by its head. They didn’t even draw their weapons. Curiosity rather than fear painted their faces. Or maybe amusement.
He moved directly to a broken oak. The ancient tree had toppled but still sent up shoots to the sky. A great metaphor for life on this island. As he chopped and trimmed several of the straighter branches, Fergus joined him. “You are one stubborn old fart,” he said.
“Once one has finished propagating, regardless of the quality of the offspring, death ain’t so frightening.” Larry limped around the tree and selected another branch. Surprised when he got no rebuttal, Larry turned. Fergus just stood there, shaking his head.
“Finished propagating? Your third leg does a good job of kicking when the young ladies bend over,” Fergus said. “Front or back view.”
Larry snorted. “The younger generation. No respect.”
Around them, the Northmen watched.
* * *
Standing with Jessie and Anya, Ivar watched Larry and Fergus descend the hill. “What are they doing?”
“With those two, one never knows,” Jessie said.
“Larry only has an axe. And Fergus is unarmed.” Ivar fingered the beads hanging around his neck. “May God protect him.”
“Praying for a heathen?”
“No, I am praying for a good man.” Ivar’s hand moved to the sling hanging from the right side of his belt. “If God even hears the prayers of one who has killed.”
“I have no words to comfort you,” Jessie said, laying a hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “But I appreciate your presence at my side.”
Ivar stared at his friend. Strange that one with no belief in God was so kind. He could not even summon any anger at Jessie’s influence on Anya, who had started but then stopped attending his daily prayers. He shifted his gaze to the young woman standing at Jessie’s side, only to avert his eyes. The sight of Anya burned his core. Why did God give man these temptations? It had to be a test from God because he could not believe that Anya was evil. And she had suffered so much. But why the test and why the suffering?
Ivar shook his head, clearing it of doubt.
“Are you okay?” Jessie asked.
“How is Gunnarr?” Ivar asked, diverting attention from himself.
“We just checked his bandages. The swelling is going down.” Jessie looked at the sky. “The cloud cover is breaking up. With the better light, I think I’ll add additional sutures and call it good. Get him ready to meet Ragnar tomorrow.”
“I will pray that your efforts are successful,” Ivar said, wondering again if God would even listen.
Chapter 42
September 2
“Show me the wound.” Ragnar looked down at Gunnarr, who held up a hand in greeting. One of the strangers knelt by his shipmaster and drew back the injured man’s shirt revealing layers of gray cloth. One by one he lifted each layer, placing it in a metal bowl.
Ragnar shifted his gaze. The bowl showed wear, covered with scrapes and dents. But it was well made of very thin metal. And no rust. From the strangers’ forges? Anger flared as he remembered his former captive telling Ragnar that his knife was poorly made. The stranger finished uncovering Gunnarr’s wound. Ragnar noted that, although the skin was red, there wasn’t any puss. There was some swelling, especially around the stitches, but not like the usual, and always fatal, gut wounds.
“May I rebind the wound?” the stranger said.
“Yes.” Ragnar shifted his gaze to the man. Wiry and of medium height, his facial features were not unlike some of the Moorish traders in Dub Linn. “What is your name?”
“I am called Jessie.” He took a bottle out of a bag at his side.
Ragnar stared. Clear liquid sloshed inside. Glass. He had only seen glass in the trading ports and none there had been of this clarity.
The man called Jessie removed something from the bottle’s mouth and poured the liquid into the bowl with the cloths. Resealing the bottle, he set it aside and poured a small amount of the liquid from the bowl over one hand. Switching hands, he did the same for the other.
“This liquid helps kill that which causes the body to decay.” Squeezing the excess liquid from one of the cloths, Jessie placed it over the stitched wound in Gunnarr’s abdomen. Repeating his actions, he covered the wound with three more cloths before sitting back on his haunches. “Once they are dry, I will cover it with additional strips of clean dry cloth. Then I will hold them in place with longer pieces.”
“I will talk to Gunnarr alone.” Looking at Jessie, Ragnar knelt at Gunnarr’s side.
“The strangers say I killed my enemy. True?” Gunnarr asked after Jessie had moved several strides away.
“He is dead. The damage to your ship and the death of your men is avenged.” Ragnar allowed his eyes to roam. Gunnarr lay under a lean-to shelter about halfway up the hillside. Made from the wood collected yesterday. He had been surprised at the bravery of the strangers to march, unarmed except for one small axe, into the midst of his men. Then to honor Gunnarr by preparing this shelter.
Many strides uphill, the leader of the strangers waited.
Below, his men waited along with Birna.
“How did the strangers interrupt my journey to my ancestors?”
“They have powers greater than our healers,” Ragnar said. Maybe too much power. But the men had accepted his decision to talk if Gunnarr survived. And the hard iron would make fine weapons. Weapons to defend his kin and to boost his trading efforts.
“I don’t understand.” Pain twisted Gunnarr’s face as he tried to sit up.
Ragnar looked over to Jessie who shook his head. “Don’t move. You need to rest. I will send your wife to be at your side.” Standing, Ragnar waved Birna to join her husband. As she started up the hill, Ragnar turned to Jessie. “Show Birna how to attend to him.” Turning away from the lean-to and his healing ship captain, Ragnar faced uphill. The stranger named Larry stared back. Ragnar nodded and pointed to the trampled duel area. With Gunnarr healed, he would have no trouble from the men as they talked.
* * *
“We seek only trade.” Larry raised his bowl and sipped the weak beer. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable—and less rocky—patch of ground on which to sit.
“What can you offer us?” Ragnar sipped, his eyes peering at Larry over the lip of his own bowl.
“A better quality of iron,” Larry said. “And new edible plants.”
“We have iron and plants.”
Eyes on Ragnar, Larry leaned on his left side and slid his fingers into his right boot. The Northman’s pupils widened, but he didn’t move a muscle, as Larry withdrew a sm
all knife. The man had nerve.
“Ivar, please get me a large hunk of wood and a small hammer.” Larry set the knife in front of him, brought his right hand up in Ragnar’s direction, and turned it over.
With a small smile, Ragnar pulled a bone-handled knife from an inner tunic pocket and placed it on the ground. “A knifeless man is a lifeless man.”
As the men had approached the meeting area, they'd made a show of stripping off swords, axes, and shields. The area had been trampled flat and each group had sent one man to walk the area for hidden weapons, taking care with a pile of small firewood next to a small cook fire. Larry had arranged for this and had asked Keelin to prepare a venison stew, including the new vegetables such as small potatoes just harvested and dried peppers brought from Haven. Wooden bowls and spoons lay next to the firewood.
The two men stared at each other as they waited for Ivar to return. Ragnar had two of his men with him. Larry had kept to his decision to include the priest and Deirdre. No one yet had served himself or herself any of the stew.
Ivar approached with Jessie. As Ragnar scowled and his men tensed, Jessie dropped a stride-long, hand-width section of wood and retreated. Ivar handed Larry his heavy forge hammer and dragged the thick branch closer.
Holding the hammer in his right hand, Larry picked up his knife with his left and, ignoring the aching pain in his upper arm, pushed the tip into the section of wood. Tapping at first to set the tip, Larry drove the knife deep. Looking up at Ragnar, Larry nodded once and hit the side of the knife, cracking the wood handle and bending the knife.
Raising his eyes, Larry noted that Ragnar’s eyes had widened in surprise. Reaching around the fire, Larry picked up the Northman’s knife and abused it the same way. The iron cracked.
“I’m hungry.” Taking a bowl and spoon, Larry leaned forward and ladled out a portion of stew. Sitting back on the ground, he ate a spoonful.
Eyebrows narrowed, Ragnar reached forward and served himself. Ivar and Deirdre took portions for themselves. Ragnar’s two companions followed their example.
“Are the vegetables you offered to trade in this meal?” Ragnar asked, raising one eyebrow as he chewed.
“We call them potatoes and peppers.”
“What items do you seek?”
* * *
“You’re still alive after that stunt with the knives?” Fergus’s incredulous voice greeted Larry as he passed the sentries at the summit of their hill.
“You don’t hafta sound so disappointed.” Larry clapped his son on the shoulder. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Would have much rather buried my knife in that fuck’s gut.”
Fergus placed his hand on Larry’s shoulder. The warmth demanded truth. “Actually, it was the second hardest.” Larry forced himself to maintain eye contact. “The hardest was burying your mother.”
“She would have been proud of you.” Fergus squeezed harder. “As am I.”
“Proud?” Larry snorted. “She died because of me.”
“She died because, in the end, life is pain and loss.” Fergus drew him into an embrace. “But you gave her years of pleasure and joy. And that’s not just me talking. She would have said the same.”
“But…”
Fergus’s arms tightened. “Deal with truth.“
Larry took a deep breath as dizziness threatened.
After several long breaths, Fergus loosened his hold.
“See anything from up here?” Larry asked, his voice husky from the unexpected closeness.
“The Northmen around the base of the hill just stood or sat. It looked like several were playing some sort of wagering game.” Fergus pointed east. “The last report from above our water source is that our friends have backed away. I’ll send a couple of men down to get water.”
“Before then, let’s meet,” Larry said. “Change the guards first.”
They walked to their hilltop cook fire where all Havenites and Eirefolk not on sentry duty joined them.
* * *
“It appears we will not be fighting,” Larry said after everyone had made himself or herself comfortable and conversation had halted. “It also appears that the Northmen have plans centered on trade.” He went on to tell them that the Northmen would confine their activities to the peninsula to the north. Sanctuary and its surrounding lands were theirs to control.
“The only point of conflict is slaves. Thralls as you call them.” Larry noted several of the former slaves shifted in position, their eyes darting from him to one another. “If you are here, you do not have to fear. But I would suggest that you stay away from the peninsula to the north.” Several of the restless listeners relaxed, one nodded his head. “Ragnar stated that he would free two slaves in celebration of our pact. But I’ll believe that when it happens.”
“Trade items?” a voice asked.
“They want Haven’s steel. They call it hard iron.” Larry met Fergus’s gaze. “Probably not good in the short term. Long term it probably doesn’t matter. For us, I asked about copper, tin, honey and honey bees, and sheep.”
“The Seabird?” a voice asked.
“Lots of talk about it and the ship we burned at Brocc’s,” Larry said. “A real sore spot with them. They call our Seabird the River Serpent.” He sighed. “We agreed to drag it down to the estuary. They’ll take it there.”
“Any talk of gunpowder?” Fergus asked.
“I lied.” Larry snorted. “Said it was secret knowledge, of which I had no understanding. I doubt that he believed me. But he wants our steel.”
The Eirefolk looked puzzled and the Havenites frowned.
“It will probably be a point of contention in the future. But for now, we live.” Larry smiled. “And they live. I think Ragnar knew we were too evenly matched.”
“What of the Ur Neill?” Jessie asked.
Larry scanned his audience. Found Ivar’s blank face. Probably deep in thought. “Ivar brought that up. Care to tell them?”
Moving slowly, Ivar stood and looked around. “I believe that the Abbot has broken his vows to God by working with the Ur Neill. Ragnar has no further need to ally with them or the Abbot. He will work with us.” Ivar paused, taking several breaths. “I asked if I could take over the abbey. The Northman leader just laughed.” Ivar smiled. “He cares not.” Ivar’s hand crept to his beads, fingers running over their smooth surface, before moving to the sling on his left side.
“You need help?” Fergus asked. Several other warriors voiced their support.
Ivar blinked a few times and nodded.
“There is another issue,” Larry said. “Ragnar indicated that the Ur Neill activity in this part of Eire will likely trigger a response by the Ur Brian clan. We need to prepare for their appearance. But I would guess that they would be more concerned with the presence of the Northmen than us.”
“I suggested that when they appear,” Deirdre said, “we send an emissary to let them know that we defeated the Ur Neill.”
“How would they regard the Northmen?” Jessie asked.
“Just call them traders,” Deirdre said. “Traders can be good for a clan.”
Larry sat down as individual conversations arose. As he looked around, he spied Teltina standing at the outskirts of the crowd, holding her daughter’s hand. She did not look his way.
Chapter 43
September 8
Other than those on guard duty, the Hurley match had the entire population of Sanctuary out in a misting rain. The white bands were ahead of the black bands by four to three and the spectators were screaming their throats hoarse. The game provided a needed break from the rebuilding of Sanctuary, scavenging food and crops, and refloating the boats. Larry puffed out a breath. He’d miss the Seabird.
The game—and the feast afterwards—also celebrated the start of the fall run of salmon and the beginning of what was looking like a massive acorn crop; both providing a much-needed supply of food. More than enough to get them through the winter. He snorted. At least he liked fis
h. The damned pigs could have the acorns.
Keeping to the edge of the crowd of supporters, Larry plodded toward the south end of the field. He stepped with exaggerated care, minimizing his limp in respect to those who still couldn’t walk. Most of the viewers were intent on the game. A few waved to Larry, but the two newly freed slaves held his gaze as he passed.
Larry acknowledged them with a nod. Elias and Ibrahim were both elderly, most likely released so that Ragnar wouldn’t have to feed them. Both were originally from Al-Andalus. Each had been caught up in some political or religious dispute and sold into slavery. Already, under Jessie’s tutelage, they spoke enough Eire to get along, which was not surprising given that each was a scholar in his respective culture. Eyes flicking back to the players, Larry continued his way around the cheering crowd and headed toward the south end. There, a dozen strides from the corner of the field, rose a stone cairn.
He paused when he saw a woman and girl watching the game in silence from the other side of the cairn. Although guards had reported that they visited the grave late in the evenings, Larry hadn’t seen them for almost a week. Teltina had disappeared after the talks with Ragnar on Bald Hill. Maybe she didn’t want to see him? Did she blame him for her son’s death?
As he reached the cairn, Teltina looked up and nodded, her face blank. Ignoring his surging heart rate, he nodded back and lifted a toppled stone from the ground. And froze, his hand in the air. A wooden recorder lay along the cairn’s top. He blew out a sharp breath. He placed the stone next to the instrument and brushed the fingers of his right hand along its length. With his left, he pulled out the small copper disk from under his tunic, his thumb and forefinger rubbing the ancient symbol.
He was surrounded by death. To the southwest, Samatu lay on the shallow rocky outcrop that defined Teltina’s valley. To the northwest, Fergus’s crewman occupied a cairn below Sui Finn. He didn’t even remember the man’s name. Only that he was in his late teens and had joined the rescue effort. Across the bay, Pondusu’s body lay in the mountain above Ros’s farmstead. Another young man who had followed the wrong leader. And as for Bonetu’s body, lost during the fight at Ros’s, the Northmen had no information.
