The Island House (49 page)

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

T
HEY’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 men 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.