by Walt Socha
“Stay seated. We’ll take care of them.”
* * *
Fergus stepped off the faint trail and looked back. The column of people stretched several hundred strides. Havenites held positions among the new refugees with the two flintlocks at the rear. Larry staggered in the middle of the column, refusing any help as he carried Samatu’s body. He’d collapse in another hour or so. On the hillside above, one of the men scrambled over the uneven terrain of broken rock, stopping frequently to look around.
Ahead, the trail climbed into the pass. Beyond lay Sanctuary’s valley. Fergus had sent a runner ahead to get help and to set up an overnight camp. The refugees would not make it in one day.
Jessie stepped off the trail to stand next to Fergus. “Five men, eight women and three children. We’re expanding Sanctuary.”
“The four horses will help. Along with the forge supplies. Larry will be excited about that once he’s feeling better.” Fergus watched as Larry swayed and regained his balance. Maybe less than an hour.
“Still think it’s a good idea to evacuate the captives?”
“They wouldn’t be safe on their own. I figure eight to ten of the Wildlings got away. We’re probably lucky that we only lost Samatu.” A shudder passed through Fergus. “Once again, surprise saved our asses. How’s the arm?”
“Throbs a bit,” Jessie held up his right forearm. “Hey, we have company.” His right hand pointed up the trail.
Fergus turned to see Teltina running down the trail.
In minutes, she had dodged around one of the freed men and stood, panting, next to Fergus and Jessie. “Larry?”
Fergus pointed. “We lost Samatu,” he said, switching to Eire. “He is pretty broken up.”
Teltina drew in a deep breath, her face softening. “What can I do?”
“Larry will collapse soon,” Fergus said. “Maybe you could talk to him after that? He feels guilty for some half-ass reason.” For several long breaths he stared at his stumbling father. A father who had tempered Fergus like a steel blade and turned him into a warrior who had killed and survived. Yet his personal taskmaster took on more than anyone. He turned back to Teltina. “Until then, maybe you can help the women. They've all been raped by the Wildlings.”
“And the Wildlings?” Teltina asked.
“We killed over half of them. The rest ran.” Jessie shivered at the raw memory. He pointed to the hill above them. “We have scouts out just in case. And Disunu and Hallur are tracking the survivors.”
“They will consider their defeat a blood feud.”
“What does that mean?”
“In this land, almost all are bound together by oaths. Both to serve and to protect each other. The killing of one of those with whom one has exchanged these bonds requires blood.”
Chapter 26
August 14
“It will encompass the entire compound when done.” Ragnar swept his hand across the farmstead. “With corrals for the horses and huts for fodder.” He watched as Cormac turned in place, surveying the work being done by Ragnar’s men.
They were constructing log walls on the berm formed from the rocky earth removed from the ditch surrounding the farmstead’s central area. In a few days, it would be complete enough to slow any attackers who would first face a ditch then the sharp slope of the berm’s higher ground. Fighting platforms would eventually be built on the inside of log stockade erected at the top of the berm and Ragnar would be safe from attacks from the ocean. Or from his ally.
“Whom do you fear?” Cormac asked with a grin. His eyes locked onto Ragnar’s.
“You. And the other clans on this island.” Ragnar let his face relax into a matching grin. Someday, he would kill this animal. “And the strangers with weapons that spit iron.” He turned and faced the bay, eyes focused beyond. “I’ve heard there are bands of Wildlings in the mountains. Could they be part of our problem?”
“Not the Wildlings,” Cormac said. “They don’t have magic that can throw iron. The few I’ve run across are just old bandits and young men full of hot blood and hotter seed.”
“The strangers must be killed.”
“Only a few farmsteads remain untamed. But they will soon swear fealty. And supply food.” Cormac barked out a laugh. “It will be more enjoyable to hunt down these sarding strangers on a full stomach.”
“Come, let us wet our throats.” Ragnar turned toward the old farmhouse.
“How many men are you planning to house here?” Cormac asked, nodding to the large structure next to the farmhouse.
“Most will be on trading voyages.” Ragnar kept his voice even. The size of this trading center was none of this Eire-man’s business. “But I must have adequate room if all my crews are here at the same time.” He glanced toward the dock area. The original pier had been strengthened and expanded. Up to six ships could be loaded and unloaded at the same time. “I must also build storehouses.”
“You have much faith in the abilities of merchants.”
“I plan to be a very fat and very rich one.” Ragnar watched the edges of Cormac’s mouth lift. The fool thought a simple trading outpost was Ragnar’s only plan.
As they approached the old farmhouse, Ragnar motioned toward two stools to the right of the doorway. “Let us sit outside where I can watch the progress.” Leaving Cormac standing outside the door, Ragnar entered and, pointing to the beer barrel with his left hand, held up two fingers on his right. In spite of the dim light, Ragnar could see Orla’s wide eyes glance to the doorway before she turned to fill two tankards. As he took them from her, their fingers brushed.
“Thank you,” she said as she turned away.
He watched her retreating back for several breaths before he headed outside.
“Let us drink to the deaths of the strangers,” Ragnar said, handing one tankard to Cormac. They sat.
“What is your estimate of their numbers?” Cormac lifted his beer, peering at Ragnar across the lip of the tankard.
“Your men guessed that maybe ten or so men landed here originally.” Ragnar sipped and rolled the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. Orla’s latest batch of beer was good. “Possibly the same ones that killed Doalty. Plus the men on the two knarrs that are probably hiding behind a snag in the river across the bay.”
“Sixty men then.” Cormac stared into his beer. “We can field double that number.” His eyes shifted to Ragnar’s. “I suggest two approaches. I’ll attack from the east. From the abbey.”
“Agreed. My men from the west. Split into two groups. One going up the river and the second across the mountains from the coast.” Ragnar held up his tankard. “I suggest a wager. Count your kills. Winner gets Dub Linn gold pieces equal to the difference in kills.”
“I will be a rich man.”
“Maybe.” Ragnar matched Cormac’s grin. “When can you be in position?”
“In one week.”
* * *
As soon as Cormac disappeared from view, a movement in the doorway caught Ragnar’s attention. Orla stepped through the doorway and gathered up the empty tankards.
“Thank you,” Orla said. “He terrifies me.”
Ragnar reached out a hand. Slid it down the young woman’s back. “I will not let him hurt you again.”
“It is strange that he is Christian and cruel.” She froze, her body stiff under Ragnar’s touch as she gazed in the direction Cormac had disappeared. “And you are a pagan and less cruel.”
“Your religion is not for men,” Ragnar said. “The gods reward those who prove their worth in battle.”
“My God teaches love.”
Chapter 27
August 15
Tightening his groin muscles to ease the pressure on his bladder, Ivar pulled his wool blanket up over his eyes. He ached. Muscles and bruises. He squeezed his hands into fists, reveling in the pain. Yesterday, he’d swung one of Larry’s war axes into a bundle of branches and twigs until it had been reduced to kindling. Felt again the sting of Fergus’s ha
nd as the Havenite slapped Ivar on the back. Remembered Larry’s thanks for helping with sling training. A whistle blast froze the smile on his face. A second blast. Ivar sat upright, heart hammering. His eyes moved to the axe at his side.
No third whistle. His muscles relaxed. Then tightened. He really had to piss.
He rose, pulled on his trousers and shoes, and stepped outside the men’s common hut. Ignoring the people streaming toward Sanctuary’s center, he hobbled to the men’s shit area in the forest.
With his bladder empty and muscles less stiff after the short walk, he joined the last of the villagers queuing up at the cook fire. At the head of the line, Disunu and Hallur held empty bowls.
“Didn’t want to wake you all when Hallur and I got in last night,” Disunu said to the surrounding villagers as Hatimu ladled mush into his bowl. “Besides, I wanted some sleep.”
“What about Samatu’s remembrances?” Hallur asked. “We want to add ours.”
“We said our words yesterday. Jessie has the book. He’ll add yours.” Larry said in a strained voice from one of the benches surrounding the cooking area. “What did you find?”
“We followed the Wildlings’ tracks northeast to a village on a large lake on the east side of the mountains.” Disunu’s eyes swept the growing crowd, settling on Ivar. “Hard to tell with the people milling around but we’re guessing they took a boat to a small island.”
Ivar left the breakfast line to stand in front of Disunu. “That’s where the abbey is located.”
“Ivar, can the Wildlings be connected to the abbey?” Larry stood up, eyebrows narrowed together.
Ivar shifted his weight from one foot to another. Here, he was accepted as a man, not a priest. At the abbey—where he had sworn loyalty—he’d just been another servant of the Abbot. “It is not uncommon for younger sons to join bands of Wildlings. And rejoin their family and kin after the freedom of no laws wears thin.”
“Even after killing and sarding?” Larry’s eyes swept the gathering crowd, apparently seeking out the new arrivals. About half of the newcomers stood around the cook fire, the rest were still recovering from various injuries and the trip through the mountains.
“It is thought that getting the wild out somewhere else is better than an unruly son at home.” Ivar watched the expressions of his new neighbors. Several had tight lips but nodded their heads. “It is also possible that some of the surviving Wildlings had kin at the abbey. With a suitable penance, they would be welcome.”
“What kind of penance?”
“I suspect it might be joining the Abbot’s personal guards.”
* * *
Forcing a smile, Fergus joined the cleaning line for the dishes. Another one of his father’s crazy ideas—a table with three leaking tubs of water, one soapy and two rinses. But he had to give the old fart credit. Even while deep in today’s shit, Larry still had time for next year’s crises. Or, in the case of cleanliness and epidemics, for crises that may or may not occur a few centuries from now.
Scrubbing out his bowl, Fergus let his eyes wander. The villagers—it was getting hard to differentiate Havenites, Icelanders, and refugees anymore—stood around talking about the day’s chores. And the news that the Wildlings had probably joined the abbey’s forces. That was a total fuckup. Now their Ur Neill friends had another ten or so pissed off warriors in their ranks. Deirdre’s eyes locked on his for a moment, quickening his heartbeat. Then she turned away to talk with one of the new women—Brona? Deirdre placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. The lady was showing, maybe six month’s pregnant. All but one of the women rescued from the Wildlings were pregnant. That one was nursing a newborn.
Deirdre dropped her hand and, with a smile at the new woman, turned in the direction of the vegetable plots.
With his bowl rinsed and stacked, Fergus slipped through the dispersing villagers and angled to pass near Deirdre. Maybe if he could approach her privately, they could talk without her getting her hackles up.
Fergus slowed as Anya joined Deirdre, but Anya veered off to the southern most of the three fenced vegetable plots. He broke into a trot.
Deirdre swung the center plot's gate open as Fergus caught up to her. “Good morning.”
She turned, eyes widening for a heartbeat before her face blanked. “A good day to you.”
“I just wanted your opinion on how the women’s training is progressing.”
“I do not think that most women can stand against a warrior.” She bit her lip against a slight upturn to her lips. “Against most warriors.” Her face turned blank again. “But what do you care? You are planning to leave us.”
“This is not our home.” Fergus’s pulse quickened. This woman was insufferable. “Our original intention was to establish trade. We lost good men to your people.”
“Not my clan.” She cocked her head slightly and raised her eyebrows.
Fergus blew out a breath. Did she know how cute she looked? But still insufferable. “Look, forget that for now.” He looked around. He could hear Anya in the other vegetable plot. Or hear her hoe digging into the ground at least. A similar sound carried from the third plot.
He stepped closer. “Could I talk to you about Anya?” he said in a low voice.
Deirdre’s eyebrows narrowed and a frown appeared. “Are you wanting to add to her pain?”
“What?” Every conversation he’d tried to have with this woman went to shit. “No. I am thinking of Jessie and Anya.”
Deirdre’s face softened. “Jessie will not have anything to do with Anya. I assume it is because of her…” She looked down, hands on her hips and her weight on her right leg. “Unfortunate history.”
Fergus blew out another breath. This was an unexpected turn. “No. No. Jessie is just shy. And he has his own history.”
“Please explain,” Deirdre said, shifting her weight to her left foot.
“Jessie is the first son of Kristi, one of the Far Ones who founded Haven. Our home.” Fergus scanned the area around the garden plot, confirming that no one listened. “He is the son of rape. To me, he is a great friend and warrior. But he feels ashamed of his heritage.”
Deirdre just stared at him.
“I think he fears that Anya would consider him to be like his father.”
“What happened to his father?” Deirdre’s expression was unreadable but her eyes bored into Fergus’s.
“Jessie’s mother, Kristi, killed him.”
Deirdre cocked her head again slightly, eyebrows again up. Fergus fought to keep his breathing even.
“I like this Kristi,” Deirdre said.
“Well, Jessie is her son.” Fergus shifted back a step. “Perhaps you will ask Anya to reconsider her opinion of Jessie?”
“I must think on this.” Deirdre turned, grabbed a hoe leaning against a fence post, and cut into an errant weed.
Fergus stared at her backside for several breaths before he caught himself. He turned and retreated.
Chapter 28
August 17
Ivar rolled over, shifting the heavy wool blanket over his back. Low snores competed with the occasional croak of a frog outside. He rolled onto his back, seeing nothing in the dark hut except the faint outline of the door that framed the risen moon.
The Havenites said that the moon revolved around the earth and that the earth—they called it a planet—revolved around the sun. How could that be? The Church taught that the earth occupied the center of creation. The Church also kept slaves and the Havenites freed them. And Larry and his men treated Ivar with respect. Something that the Abbot did not.
Yet the Abbot had taken Ivar in, fed him, and educated him in the mysteries of the Lord.
And then let the other boys beat him.
If he stayed here with these pagans, he would go to hell. But here was comfort. Belonging. Even Fergus, whom Ivar found to be more intimidating than Larry, smiled at Ivar as he worked with the women and young ones on the sling. And who now wanted all the men to have slings, too. He rose an
d rolled up his blanket, careful not to wake the men. Or the remaining men, as some had built huts of their own. And did not sleep alone as Ivar did.
He must seek advice.
* * *
“Now what?” Larry raised his eyes from his steaming porridge to Fergus’s scowling face.
“Our little priest is missing.” Fergus straightened and glanced around the cook fire area. In spite of the light drizzle, several villagers sat on the open logs, spooning up their breakfast. “His blanket and kit are gone from the men’s hut.”
“Did he build his own?” Larry looked past Fergus. Others had stopped talking to listen in, their breakfast forgotten.
“He didn't have time,” Fergus said. “I kept him busy with weeding or slinging.” He blew out a breath. “I had really hoped that he'd pull his head out of his ass.”
“It’s only a couple days walk to the abbey.” Larry glanced at his bowl, no longer hungry. “If that’s where he headed, it won’t be hard for the Ur Neill or the Northmen to get our numbers and weaponry outta him.”
“I sent men out to look for tracks in that direction.” Fergus shook his head. “But if the little shit sticks to the trails, they won’t be able to separate his prints. I've got a couple running the most direct route to the abbey. But that’s a long shot. Once in the mountains, he’d only have to look over his shoulder to detect pursuit.”
“Suggestions?”
“We’re already in a world of shit.” Fergus snorted. “Or on an island of shit. I haven't told you yet, but this morning’s report from Sui Finn mentions several longboats in the estuary. Can’t tell if they’re moving up the river Laune. So we must assume that both the Northmen and Ur Neill have men at the abbey.”
“So we’re fucked whether he went to the abbey or not.”
“Good summary.”
“Ideas?”