AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Gwyneth nodded. “I know. There is nothing to be done. I will go and stay at Bjorn's place while you are away. Not much will be done on our farm."

  "I will do what I can before . . . Ah, Gwyneth, don't cry!"

  "It's just that . . . I was so happy. I thought my life would go well."

  Colm seized her. “We will be happy again. I swear it! Your life will go as well as I can make it."

  Gwyneth nodded but tears ran down her face. “Just come back to me. Whatever happens, whatever you have to do, come back here."

  "Of course I'll come back. Don't worry, Gwyneth, I'll come back because you are here.” Then he took her hand and they walked on slowly back to their ramshackle farm.

  The ship slid along the channel through the fog. Brush and thick weeds scraped the hull on both sides. Then the bow raised slightly as it pushed up onto a sandbar. Men jumped out and dragged the vessel up through the brush past the tidemark. Bjorn and a few others stayed behind to guard the ship. Colm moved forward with the rest, silent in the mist, swords drawn. As they worked their way uphill, the fog thinned.

  A man suddenly appeared before them, a woodcutter carrying an axe. He opened his mouth to shout, but Eystein brought his sword down in a blow that split the man open from his shoulder halfway down his chest. Eystein yanked his sword free from the body and, without a sound, led them forward again.

  The village began to be visible now, about a dozen small thatch-roofed houses and some outbuildings. Not much livestock, Colm judged, these were fisherfolk. The townspeople could be seen now, here and there. A man mending a net, two women having an animated, arm-waving conversation, children playing . . . Someone saw the raiders and shouted. Everyone looked their way. Then Eystein yelled and charged in, the others following.

  Colm ran forward, sword in his hand. People ran screaming, some into the brush, some into the water. He saw a man cut down, and a woman. An old man suddenly popped up in front of him, swinging a club. Without thinking, Colm swung back at the man. His sword bit through the man's leg above the knee. Blood gushed from the cut, the man looked down at his collapsing leg and Colm saw the expression on his face, a look of loss and sorrow, as he realized he was going to die. The man collapsed, blood still pumping from his leg, then the blood slowed, then it stopped flowing altogether.

  Colm looked up. The village was almost clear. Most of the people had run off. A few women had run into their houses, perhaps to grab an infant; now they were trapped inside. Grani Lopear stood over a man whose head was bleeding, poking him with a knife, trying to get the man to reveal where hoards of valuables might be hidden. Eystein gestured at Colm and some others, pointing to the area around the village. Colm nodded. He walked past the houses, looking for villagers hiding in the brush. He saw a man running about forty yards away. A raider chased him and brought him down with a swing of his sword.

  Directly before him, Colm noticed a slight movement in the thick undergrowth. Carefully he parted the weeds with his sword. A boy looked defiantly back at him. He was about ten, and held a little girl close, his sister perhaps. She was white and shaking with fear. The boy met Colm's gaze without blinking, jaw set. Slaves, thought Colm, they would be sold as slaves. All at once he recalled himself grabbed by an arm and hauled from his hiding place by a raider whose hand was sticky with blood. The terror of that moment flooded his mind so that his vision went white and his heart thudded. When the memory diminished, he did not know for a little time where he was. Then his eyes cleared and Colm found himself gazing into the faces of the Frisian children. He raised a finger to his lips and closed the grass back over them.

  Colm stumbled back into the village. Bodies lay here and there on the ground, among them the man Grani had been torturing. The iron smell of blood was in the air. Women were screaming in some of the houses. Eystein, grinning, directed some of the young men into one of them. Other men were going house to house and looting them.

  Colm walked into one of the thatched huts. The floor was packed earth but it was covered with clean straw. Some bedding was rolled up in a corner, but a few covers still lay as if their occupant had just risen. There was one low stool. The master's chair, thought Colm. There was no other furniture. A pot hung from an iron tripod over the small fire pit. Colm lifted the lid. Porridge. A small wooden chest sat against one wall. Flowers and birds were carved in a band around the top. They had been painted once but now the colors were faded. This belonged to the woman of the house who had brought it, filled with cloth and women's tools, to her wedding and the hopes of her new life. Ah, well, thought Colm, we all may hope. He lifted the lid and rummaged inside.

  There was a cape and a woman's good dress and a pair of leather shoes. Colm thought of taking the dress for Gwyneth, but decided not. He pulled the chest toward the fire to look inside more closely. Something about the floor under the chest caught his eye. Everywhere else the floor was packed down but here, Colm thought, was some loose earth. He began digging at it with his sword, then became aware that someone was behind him.

  "Found something?” Grani Lopear dropped onto his knees next to Colm and began scrabbling in the dirt. A piece of cloth came into view. “Ha!"

  Grani pulled the cloth out of the hole and unfolded it. There were coins wrapped in the cloth: a few bits of copper—some more or less round, some shapeless scraps—a single silver English penny, and a halfpenny and a quarter that had been clipped from silver coins.

  Grani looked up at Colm and grinned. “I knew you were a fellow worth watching!” He grabbed the coins up in his hand. “I'll add these to the lot for sharing out.” He gestured toward the chest. “Bring that outside. And the pot. Someone might want breakfast. Then we'll take the pot and that tripod it hangs on."

  I am quite the fellow, I am, thought Colm. Oh yes, I can find all the treasure a poor man can hide. He stopped himself thinking and grabbed the cooking gear. The hot metal tripod burned his hand but he only gripped it tighter as he dragged it from the hut.

  Outside the sun was high and men had begun to sweat as they piled up the Frisians’ belongings. Eystein started sending men back to the ship with armloads of loot. Grani walked about, gathering the coins and small valuables that had been discovered. A sense of urgency began to build and men began looking over their shoulders. They were afraid, thought Colm, afraid that the men out fishing might return, or that local forces might turn up, someone who could put up a fight. He hoisted the small chest onto his shoulder and headed back to the ship.

  The deck was heaped with stuff—household goods, stools, bloody clothing—when they shoved off and set sail for a safe place to share out the loot. They had taken only four slaves: three women and a boy of thirteen or fourteen. A slack expression and confused smile signalled that the boy was feeble minded, probably the reason he was not out on the boats with the others. The women had ceased to weep and now stared at nothing with hollow eyes. One had a dress front stained with milk. Her baby had not been taken. Colm thought that there would not be a high price on these slaves.

  Some of the crew began casting sideways glances at the takings. There were few very valuable things and most would not want to be burdened with piles of cheap cloth and much-mended furniture.

  Eystein caught the mood and made his way back to the tiller. Facing forward, he addressed his crew. “There's a place a few hours from here—we could make it before dark—where we can sell these goods. Then we'll add the money to the coins we already have and share them out. What do you say? Or should we sort out this stuff among us?” The men shouted “No!” They preferred the cash. “Good!” said Eystein, “That will leave us more room to take on loot from the next place.” The men cheered.

  * * * *

  A wooden palisade surrounded the trading place. Armed men stood behind it and stared at the ship. The ship's crew, led by Grani Lopear, kept their hands on their weapons and watched the guards behind the palisade. The slaves had been sold—less than a half-ounce of silver for the four of them—and led away. Along the
beach, Eystein and Bjorn and some other men dickered over the rest of the loot with a trader who was voyaging back to Norway. After a time, they returned to the ship with a small sack of coins.

  Eystein had the largest share, of course, since he owned the ship. Then others were called forward. Bjorn had invested in the voyage; he got a larger share than some others. Colm's name was called. Grani pointed him out to the rest of the crew. Colm had found money and killed a man to boot! There was a murmur of approval. Then Eystein gave Colm his share.

  There were three silver pennies in his hand. Colm could not read the writing on them but one that bore a man's head and a cross was English. Another, with no picture and odd-looking runes, was a dirham from the East by way of Russia. These were full-weight coins, good silver. They were creased in the middle where they had been bent by men checking their quality. The third coin was probably a Frankish penny. It was too thick to be anything but poor metal, but Colm made no complaint.

  After the sharing-out, they built a fire. Night was falling and there was a chill in the air. Eystein bought a barrel of beer and the men began to drink and brag over the deeds they had done that day.

  * * * *

  Colm sat on a rock near the shore. The moon was huge on the horizon and the water shone and sparkled. Colm could see the thief in the moon quite clearly. He was bent over and carried a stick; the firewood that he had stolen was slung over his back. “Thief above, thieves below,” thought Colm. He gripped the silver pennies in his fist and thought, for a moment, of pitching them into the sea. A sound made him turn his head and he saw Bjorn walking slowly toward him.

  Bjorn sat heavily on a rock beside Colm and stared at the moon. For a time the men were silent. Then Bjorn said, “The thief rises."

  Colm nodded. “We think the same thought."

  Bjorn said, “Perhaps this will be a different thought: I am leaving off raiding and going back to Iceland."

  "Oh! I would go with you!” Colm caught himself. “I want to go home.” Home! And so it was, that run-down farm on the faraway island, that was home!

  "Yes,” said Bjorn, “Home.” He shook his head. “I am a farmer, not a raider. I need to tend my farm."

  "Yes!” Colm nodded.

  Bjorn looked over the water and sighed. “Thorolf offered me his daughter in marriage. This was a little after Aud died."

  "I would have thought he'd look to Eystein for that.” Gerda had been betrothed to Eystein's brother who was murdered.

  "Thorolf doesn't like raiders. And, I think, it may be he has thoughts that Magnus's family is not one to be close to. Anyway, linked by marriage or not, Magnus is committed to him since Thorolf represented him in the action at Althing."

  Colm nodded. This was a lot of information. He resolved to keep Bjorn's opinions to himself.

  Bjorn went on. “I didn't want to marry again. I have grown children. I grieved for Aud. I was ready to become old. Then Eystein asked me to go raiding. I thought . . . I thought, perhaps I will be killed! And that seemed all right to me then."

  The two men sat silently, watching the moon rise. Bjorn said suddenly, “I have never killed a man."

  "That makes you no less,” said Colm. He thought of Gunnlaug who had sneered before he was killed and he thought of the old man in the village and the terrible look of sorrow on his face.

  "No,” Bjorn nodded, “I see it now for what it is. Thorolf has wisdom.” He sat quietly for a while. “I am going back to marry Gerda. She is young and foolish, but perhaps I can manage to get her pregnant and that will cause her to grow up some."

  "I want to go back too,” said Colm again.

  "All right. That trader who bought the goods, we can get passage with him. I kept back an iron kettle and tripod to use on the trip and a small sack of grain, mostly oats. We can eat porridge all the way home."

  "Here,” said Colm, “I'll pay the rest when I can.” He held out the silver pennies to Bjorn, who nodded absently. Colm said, “I need to return Eystein's sword."

  "Why?” Bjorn was surprised. “You used it, you did your share. No, Eystein will be insulted if you return his gift."

  "I don't want to be in his debt."

  "You owe him nothing. Anyway, sooner or later, he's going to charge into some place and get a spear in his guts. Then we'll hear no more of him.” Bjorn considered. “Let me do the talking. I'll tell Eystein that I need you as a traveling companion.” Bjorn looked at him, “And I do, Colm. I need someone to help me home. Anyway, I'll tell Eystein you have no option, that way no one will think the less of you."

  "I care nothing for what people think.” A freed slave has no reputation to lose.

  Bjorn smiled. “Even so, let me speak. Now,” he said, rising, “We should go talk to Eystein before he gets too drunk to listen. Here,” Bjorn held out his hand. “You'd best hang onto these. We'll have other expenses, no doubt.” He dropped the silver pennies back into Colm's hand. Then the two men walked back to the fire where the others were shouting and laughing.

  Copyright © 2010 Mike Culpepper

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  Black Orchid Novella Award: STRANGLEHOLD by Steve Liskow

  The winner of our third annual Black Orchid Novella Award, which is co-sponsored by AHMM and The Wolf Pack (www.nerowolfe.org), submerges his classical-style detective into the hard-living world of rock ‘n’ roll. In the tradition of the master, Rex Stout, Mr. Liskow has provided us with an engaging mystery novella.

  * * * *

  STRANGLEHOLD

  Zach Barnes felt the first suspicion that maybe he was getting old. Most days he didn't quite feel grown up, but now, sitting in the third row at the Promise concert, he wondered how much more volume he could take before his brain turned to sawdust. He played guitar himself but never well enough to join a band, and never through several Marshall Stacks cranked up to the volume of a natural disaster.

  Debra Yearning, her slim body encased in black leather, rubbed her crotch against her mic stand, and Barnes swore he heard five thousand strong men whimper. The woman's eyes were closed and her red lips spread wide to unleash a voice too big for her, even without the amplifiers.

  You make me feel bright as a rainbow

  I want to wrap you up in all my colors

  I've known lots of men before you, pretty baby,

  But when I'm with you, I forget all the others.

  Debra's lips kissed the foam ball over the mic. Her three-octave range showed no break in register in the hour she'd been belting out songs. In spite of Krakatau erupting behind her, Barnes could hear enough closing consonants and clear vowels to know that she had terrific diction, maybe even serious training.

  To Barnes's left, Megan Traine's long fingers tapped the back of the seat in front of her. A former session keyboard player herself, she seemed to find the music as she heard it, almost playing along. Her head bobbed with the rhythm, and Barnes glanced down to see that she still wore her heels. Normally, she played barefoot.

  She pressed her mouth against his ear. “If they keep up this volume much longer, I'm not going to hear you talking dirty to me tonight."

  Behind Debra Yearning, “Sugar” Crisp, wearing black silk that made him look like a rock and roll genie, played seven-string guitar without any of the grimacing and posturing of the metal kids. Barnes owned every record he knew Crisp played on—mostly session work—and tried to watch the man's fingers to understand what he did with that extra string.

  Crisp stepped forward into the spotlight and let his fingers slide up the neck of his guitar. Notes poured out, clear as diamonds on a necklace, and as tightly connected. Barnes wished he had binoculars to see more clearly, but most of his surveillance equipment was too expensive to bring in here with all the rock and roll maniacs moshing around. He didn't want to replace a camera or nightscope just because some moron with a brain full of designer chemicals waved his arms and tried to fly.

  Crisp closed his eyes and bobbed his head in time with the music. His lips moved, too,
and Barnes understood that the man was singing the guitar line to himself as he played it. Well, sure, his fills were variations on Debra's vocal lines. Crisp ambled out of the spotlight again, but his last notes hung in the air, solid enough to leave a shadow. Debra's voice carried the crowd toward her own big finish.

  "All right, Detroit.” Her voice swept over the seats. “We've got one more, and it comes from my main man again. Are you ready for Quince?"

  The crowd screamed. Quince Peters, who alternated between keyboards and second guitar, moved to the other mic stand. He looked only slightly taller than Debra, and not much thicker than the neck of his Fender Telecaster. Barnes couldn't quite make out what Crisp was playing, but he approved of his only playing one guitar through the whole concert. He suspected that many guitar players who changed instruments between songs didn't really use different tunings; they just couldn't decide which ax went with their clothes.

  "Thank you.” Peters glanced over his shoulder at the drummer for a count-off, then sang the opening note as Crisp doubled it an octave lower on guitar. Peters had a good voice, too, not as good as Debra's, but they blended well. This concert kicked off the tour to support their first CD, due on the shelves the next day.

  Peters pivoted toward Crisp and the two played a guitar duet that left Barnes with his mouth hanging open. He saw several younger men in the audience looking the way he felt and knew they were rock and roll wannabes too.

  Debra Yearning joined Peters for the last chorus, and the concert ended with a barrage of flash pots and laser beams. The enormous screen overhead captured the band's group bow before they all vanished backstage.

  "Whew,” Meg said. “The miracles of digital technology. I must be getting old."

  "That's good.” Barnes's words rang in his ears. “I find that mature women appreciate me more. They're less demanding."

  "Don't you believe it.” When Meg stood, her Hershey Kiss eyes were even with his upper lip. “We just know what we like. And we like a man who listens when we tell him."