A chill of apprehension chased its way slowly up Quarrie’s spine, leaving his whole body cold. What was this? Whatever it was, it could not be good.
*
Hulda lifted herchin and closed her ears to the protests all around her. From Ivor, she’d expected it. From the others, nay, though now they were all complaining.
They wanted to fight.
She—she wanted the man who’d killed her brother. She wanted him dead, ja. She would prefer to take him home to Avoldsborg in chains.
So she let her crew’s hard words wash over her the way waves washed the rocks of the shore. Those waves might do some damage, ja, but it would take a while.
A beautiful morning it proved to be, and the land beyond looked just as fair. The harshness of winter fast withdrew and the green of spring spread apace. In the distance, away toward the heart of the land, blue hills floated in the clear light. What mysteries awaited there?
The stories, as she knew, abounded. Her people had been taking captives, slaves, from these lands for generations. From them had she learned the Gaelic tongue. Having learned the tongue, she had listened to the stories.
They wove some fantastical ones.
Her faðir possessed a Celtic harper, taken from farther north. A talented man he was, who, after a few beatings and some threats to break his fingers, had settled in to entertain them.
Garan, for that was the man’s name, insisted his homeland had a spirit and a heart deep within those blue mountains, lying there as beneath a fair woman’s breasts. A mysterious heart.
Cursed if Hulda did not half believe him.
Did not such things also exist at home? There were the trolls who lived deep in the mountains, who—more—were made from the mountains. The elves who inhabited the forests and dales. The gods who oversaw all and whom one might encounter while out rambling.
Why, then, should she disbelieve Garan’s stories? Unreasonable, that would be.
She seldom felt happier than when listening to Garan’s music. If happy could be the proper word. His music called up something from within her and gave her…peace. Perhaps that was better than happiness. A kind of dreaming peace.
She needed that now.
The men were bored, she knew that. She had not chosen them—or Faðir had not—because they liked to sit on their asses and whittle. Another day spent hiding between the arms of the little island might well drive them over the edge.
Garik came up beside her, and she turned to gaze into his eyes. A very fine young man, was Garik, with that far-seeing blue gaze and a face to rival Baldur’s. Indeed, had she not sworn off men, she might well be interested.
She had sworn off men.
His eyes now held a rueful light. “Captain, are you looking for mutiny?”
“Nei, not in the least.”
He cocked his head, not having to ask the question.
“Ready thefæring,” she told him. “We are going ashore.”
Chapter Seven
By late afternoonwhen the call came, Quarrie knew what must be happening. Or hethoughthe knew.
Since dawn he had haunted the walls, up and down so many times he’d lost count. In between he had fielded questions. Everyone who could catch hold of him had asked, much as Norah had, whether they must prepare for attack.
Even his mother had drawn him aside. “Son, are there sails—”
“A glimpse only, Ma.”
“If we come under attack, can ye hold them off?”
Quarrie had met her gaze with his own. “I will do all I can.” Including spend his life if necessary.
