He would die, that much was certain. If Da gave himself over to Hulda in a misguided attempt to ransom him, likely they would both die. The only uncertainty was what would come ahead of death.
He hoped he had the strength and courage to face it bravely. If she brought Da, and these savages made Da watch him die—well, he must then die bravely for his father’s sake. At the end of it all, Da should be proud of him.
If they made him watch Da die—
Nay, not that. Please.
The deck of the ship was narrow and he was positioned prominently so he had to endure the stares, the curses—identifiable even in a foreign tongue—and kicks from all who passed. He had no way to evade any of it, and as the time passed, he could feel his endurance wane.
What if his men killed Hulda there on the shore? What would happen then?
He did not doubt that the fellow with the brown hair and the vicious eyes would take control of the boat. Quarrie’s death would be hard and long and terrible.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and a deep shudder took him. Would he pass beyond prayers then? Did a man who hung on the very breath of pain forget how to pray?
The crew aboard the longboat grew impatient. They went repeatedly to the rail and looked out. At last there came a shout.
Did Hulda return?
Quarrie’s heart struggled in his chest and began to beat hard. No chance for escape. They had left his hands bound behind him and also lashed him round with stout line.
He heard excited calls from the crew and the hull of the smaller boat scraped alongside. He strained to see over his shoulder. If they hauled Da aboard…
They did not. Hulda Elvarsdottir came clambering up first, and then one of her men. The other likely secured the boat.
A fast and furious bout of question-and-answer followed. The voices of the crew integrated with Hulda’s lighter tones. Anger. Still another argument broke out.
They argued much, these Norse. Quarrie barely noticed, so strong was his relief that Da had not come.
Da had not come.
Thanks be to whatever powers ruled the heavens and the earth. The whole point of this was for Da to perish, if perish he must, in his own bed with Ma at his side.
Then why should Quarrie, for just a moment, feel like a small, abandoned lad?
Because he was going to die here. Most terribly. And even though it was a choice—a sacrifice—he’d made, he had thought in the back of his mind that his father might want to save him.
Foolishness, that. There was no sense in both of them dying.
Feet padded across the deck and Hulda moved into Quarrie’s field of vision. As might be expected, her men followed, still arguing in their own tongue. A fiery argument it was.
The brown-haired man railed at Hulda, no doubt for coming back empty-handed. She answered in a tone that shouted,I am in command here. Others of the men joined in, or tried to. The two of them were locked in on one another.
Until, that was, Hulda glanced at Quarrie.
They were beginning to lose the light by then and clouds lowered, but she could not fail to see the damage he carried.
A swift demand.What happened here?
Volatile answers from her men.
What did you do to him?
The brown-haired man answered.
Hulda came to Quarrie swiftly and hunkered down. Her gaze, pale even in the dying light, inspected him swiftly. She spoke in Norse and then said, “I told them not to harm you.”
He believed her. The harm would come later. Soon.
