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“Aye, it’s just like a bone Mama’s chewed on,” Aglida said. “I’ll sew you another shirt, Papa. It will be as beautiful as Mama’s, mayhap better.”
“Mama’s what, sweeting?”
“Rorik, be quiet. Come, Aglida, ’tis time you slept.”
All had watched the play between the master and mistress. All heard the laughter, saw the smiles. All knew they were doing it apurpose, to ease everyone. It worked. A woman giggled when her husband patted her buttocks. A child yelled at another to throw her the leather ball. Conversation became louder. The children began playing again. Their parents began speaking of sleep.
Rain crashed against the sod and wood-shingled roof, making the big wooden beams creak and moan, sounding, Old Firren said, like a battle between the gods, and it would be men who would lose.
It went on and on, lessening for long periods of time, then beginning again. It was near midnight, all the Hawkfell people still awake, the children at last asleep, waiting and listening.
The door burst open and Hafter ran in. “A ship,” he shouted. “There’s a ship in the harbor and it’s breaking up against the shore.”
The men were out of the longhouse in moments, running through the wide palisade doors and down the narrow path that led to the beach.
Rorik ran out onto the dock, the rain slashing against his face, so much of it, he felt he would drown if he opened his mouth. Great slashes of lightning rent the sky. The warship was heaving to its side, the great sea serpent’s head dipping beneath the huge waves.
He heard men shouting, saw them desperately trying to row the ship to shore, but it sent them spinning. Then it seemed as if the sea, in a furious spurt, shoved the ship onto the shore so hard that several men were flung overboard. Rorik shouted to his men. They were at the ship in moments, pulling the men from the water, watching others gathering their chests before they realized that they were ashore and would remain there. For a moment, several of the men simply stood on the swaying ship, just staring at Rorik and his people, disbelieving that they had survived. Very soon they would fear they’d only survived the storm to be killed here. He strode forward, shouting above the noise of the rain and thunder, “I am Rorik and this is Hawkfell Island. We won’t harm you. Come, you’re safe now.”
Still the men hung back. They could be easily butchered. They had knives at their belts, swords, helmets, and shields in their sea chests.
“Come,” Rorik said again, knowing well their thoughts, knowing he would distrust any unknown man who didn’t try to kill him on a strange island in the middle of a storm.
The men were looking at each other and he knew they realized they were helpless. Suddenly, a woman jumped from the ship onto the beach. A woman! Rorik dashed the rain from his face only to hear her call out, “Lord Rorik, it is you, isn’t it? Thank you for your welcome. We believed ourselves lost but the gods brought us to you.”
Then another man jumped after her, shouting, “Don’t listen to her, she lies, she’s my prisoner. I am marrying her, don’t listen to her.”
This was surely strange, Rorik thought, wondering what the gods had vomited onto his island’s shore. He reached the woman, realized she was very young, and said, “I have no idea what is happening here, but don’t be afraid.”
“Don’t touch her!”
Rorik looked at the man, who would have looked ready to kill him if he hadn’t been so pathetic and frightened. “Who are you?”
The man drew himself up as if suddenly remembering that he wasn’t a drowned rat. “I am Ragnor of York, son of Olric.” He even tried for a swagger. “I will take over now.”
Rorik could have taken the man’s neck between his hands and choked the life out of him in moments. “You are in no condition to make demands or give orders. Get your people together and we will go to the longhouse.”
“Aye, my lord,” another man said to Ragnor. “We are safe now and we owe this man our thanks.”
“I’ll cut out your damned tongue, Kerek,” Ragnor said. “As for you,” he yelled after Chessa, who’d walked to stand beside this Rorik, “you will do nothing that angers me, do you understand? You will tell this man no lies. You will remain silent and meek.”
Chessa said nothing at all. She pulled sodden strands of hair from her face and looked up at the rain-soaked man who towered above her. She stood close enough so that he blocked some of the rain from her face. “The captain, Torric, is injured. I believe his leg is broken from the mast falling on him. He is a good man. Please help him.”
Rorik turned and said, “Hafter, take two men and get Captain Torric. Mirana will see to him. Now, you appear to know me. What is your name?”
“I am Chessa, and you’re Lord Rorik of Hawkfell Island?”
“Aye.”
She gave him a brilliant wet smile. “Do you remember a young girl named Eze, daughter of Hormuze, the greatest sorcerer of all time?”
Rorik stared down at her, looking closely at her, studying her. The last time he’d seen Eze she’d been only ten years old, a serious child who’d shown no fear of him or of his men. He’d used her to free his wife, Mirana, from Hormuze. Now she was grown and by some miracle she’d been thrown onto Hawkfell Island. He said slowly, “By all the gods, this storm will go down in memory.”
“You are a beautiful man, my lord, but still you are not as beautiful as my papa.”
Rorik threw back his head and laughed deeply and nearly choked on the water that swept into his mouth. “And just how is your beautiful papa?” Hormuze had disguised himself as an old graybeard, looking every bit as old as the king of Ireland. He’d killed Sitric and taken his place. He’d wanted Mirana simply because she’d looked so much like his long-dead wife, Naphta. But he’d had to settle for Sira, Rorik’s cousin. He’d made his own prophecy come true—that Hormuze the magician had wrought magic to make the old king young again. It was now a favorite tale in many countries. All believed it, for the young Sitric was proof.
“He has four sons and he still loves Sira, more’s the pity.”
