CONTACT

A CROSSOVER NOVEL

Walt Socha

Wyeast Press

Copyright © 2017 by Walt Socha

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by Silvia Frost Designs

Edited by Mary Rosenblum

Contact/Walt Socha - - 1st edition

ISBN 978-1-944753-06-1 (print)

ISBN 978-1-944753-07-8 (ePub)

ISBN 978-1-944753-08-5 (mobi/Kindle)

Created with Vellum

For all the dead people of history. Your struggles and accomplishments shaped the world in which we now live.

Author’s Note

This novel, Contact, is the second in the Crossover Series.

If you haven’t read the first novel, Conflict, you may want to pick up a copy at Amazon, Kobo, or Nook.

The eBook version is free!

Matuso’s Map

Relationships

Matuso…son of Joe and Alita

Fergus…son of Larry and Sesapa

Jessie…son of Kristi (and Nist)

Deidre…former landowner

Anya…former slave to Deidre

Conal…Anya’ son

Marcan and Sheeva’s family:

Keelin…grandmother

Fennore…daughter

Eamon…son

Naim…former slave

Fillen and Treasa’s family:

Garvan…son

Grania…daughter

Maeve…former slave

Teltina’s family:

Rory…son

Agnes…daughter

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 22

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

About the Author

More About The Crossover Series

Chapter 1

July 7, 1075

“Weapons, armor, and overnight packs,” Larry said as Stormchaser drifted alongside the old pier.

“Armor and packs?” one of the men asked.

“Yeah. Too damned quiet.” Larry looked at the shit pier. Should be swarming with curious locals.

“Trade items?” Samatu looked up from where he was helping one of the shore party strap on a metal breastplate.

“Just a dozen knives and axe heads for now. And maybe a couple pouches of seeds.” Larry frowned as the ship bumped into the crude catwalk of planks and upright logs. Old Ros had promised to rebuild it when they had made contact last year. Hopefully, he'd done better at collecting the sheep, wool, and bees they wanted. And cats. The breeding pair they’d taken back to Iceland had been a hit and had become quite fat from all the rodents.

He blew out a long breath. It had been a bit over two decades since he and the others had journeyed back to the eleventh century and founded Haven. Now they were expanding, following Potts’s notebooks, trusting his advice that trade was necessary for Haven to develop into a world power. But it wouldn’t be sufficient to just prosper. They had to both monitor emerging nations and influence their development. And, if trade was insufficient to influence them, take them out.

At least these trips got him away from Haven and the life he’d fucked up.

While the shore party assembled their equipment, the remaining six men secured Stormchaser. Larry turned to the men who were not donning armor. “No fretting. You’ll get a chance to stretch your legs after we secure the area and set up guards.”

He looked toward the small farmstead that occupied the location that would become the town of Dingle, Ireland—or Eire as it was know in this century—in his mother’s day. Built of wattle and daub with a timber frame, the large house was surrounded by several outbuildings to the east and green fields to the west. Beyond the farmstead, ancient, twisted trees hugged the slopes that led up into the mountains, the nearest peak maybe three or four miles away and bare in spite of only being a couple thousand feet high.

Maybe four hundred strides away, two men stood on the small rise midway between the water’s edge and Ros’s sprawling complex. Another man stood outside one of the many outbuildings. Larry squinted but didn’t recognize any of them.

He turned to Cassan. “Any thoughts?” Ros’s son had spent the last year in Iceland with Larry, teaching the Havenites and Icelanders the Eire language. He was the only member of the shore party not wearing armor.

“I don’t recognize those men.” The Eire youth’s brow furrowed as his eyes swept his home. “It’s too quiet. And where’s my family?”

“Yeah.” As he adjusted his chest plate, Larry glanced at Torben. “Stay here but be ready to cast off. And keep the sail ready to hoist.” The old Viking nodded but kept silent, his eyes flicking over the terrain.

Larry joined the dozen armed men clambering out of the knarr. The large ocean going cargo ship barely rocked at the change in weight. But the dock creaked, shuddering under the increased load. From within Stormchaser, Samatu held out two long leather sheaths.

“No, best keep the flintlocks here. Guard the ship and that damned clock.” Larry turned once again to gaze at the farmstead. “I’ll be okay with the revolver.” And the last ten remaining cartridges. It would be another decade at least before the industrial base in Haven could machine the presses, dies, or bullet cases. At least they had the ability to produce the much simpler flintlocks.

“Signals?” Samatu asked.

“The usual three, but if you hear four then get the hell outta here.” Larry patted the whistle hanging from his neck as he turned to the other men. “Form up. Cassan with me. Matuso, keep an eye on the rear.” Still staring at the farmstead, Larry walked to the front of his men. Where were the dogs? They’d been barking and growling like crazy during their last visit. Had to kick a couple to prevent his ankles from getting chewed.

“Bows strung?” Matuso asked.

“No. Better not look too aggressive.” Larry looked over his men. “But I still want a show of strength.” He paused, turning back toward the buildings. This was supposed to be a trading visit. They’d been welcome when they made contact last year. Ros had been cautious but understandably so with armed men that arrived out of nowhere on boats. But he’d fed them and, when he'd been presented with the gifts of steel, he'd been more than friendly.

Yet the two men between the pier and the main building just stood there. “Just make sure your swords are loose in their scabbards. And keep your bowstrings handy.”

With his men behind him, Larry started up the rocky dirt track that weaved through open—but unoccupied—fields for a quarter mile to the haphazard collection of buildings that made up the farmstead. He could see what appeared to be onions, carrots, and possibly some stunted version of wheat. One of the more distant fields hinted at the potatoes and beans he had given Ros.

The two men standing halfway up the track nodded as Larry approached but, before he got within talking distance, they turned and walked to the bare area in front of the largest of the wattle and daub structures.

Larry hesitated then stopped, his men crowding up behind him. Except for the lack of people and dogs, all still appeared as normal. The track, not much more than a trail, meandered through the farmstead and up along a shallow valley beyond. Fields to the left of the central compound were also devoid of people. A shiver ran down his back.

“I’m thinking this ain’t…” he started to say before a scream ripped the unnatural quiet. A young woman burst from the main house followed by a man.

“Orla,” a voice choked from Larry’s side. He turned as Cassan’s hand grasped his forearm. “My sister. Trouble.”

As Cassan let loose of Larry’s arm and took a step toward the farmstead, Larry grabbed the youth’s shoulder. “Hold.”

At the farmstead, the man tackled the woman.

“Fuck this. Let’s go.” Larry said over his shoulder. “String those bows.” He broke into a run, hand still on Cassan. “Stay behind me.” Cassan tried to pull away but Larry tightened his grip.

As they charged up the path, a dozen men appeared from around the main building. Flashing short swords, the rough-clothed warriors wore dull plate metal armor over coarse jerkins and leather helmets and carried torso-length shields of a colorless metal. Another half dozen men with bows erupted from one of the outbuildings.

“Halt. Riders to the right along the shoreline.”

Larry stopped and turned to see Matuso pointing to a large group of mounted men breaking from the dark trees that backed the small trail that hugged the shoreline. “Where the fuck did they come from?”

“More men.” Matuso pointed toward one of the outbuildings.

“Back…” Larry started to say but a quick glance showed that the riders had them cut off from the ship. “Into a retreat wedge.” He lifted his whistle and blew four times. Then again. His head snapped back and forth as he surveyed options. Nowhere to go but the trees beyond the still empty fields. “Cassan, lead us the fuck out of here.” Larry pointed north, and then shoved the youngster. “You can’t help your family by getting killed.”

The riders continued toward the pier and the Stormchaser. Maybe twenty.

As the men jogged toward the safety of the thick trees, Larry slowed and drew his revolver.

Planting his feet, he exhaled, and fired three times at the first group of attacking men. Two men dropped, and their companions scurried back behind the main building.

“Shields up,” someone shouted.

The advancing men from the two outbuildings had parted to allow bowmen to fire through them. Pulling Cassan close, Larry flipped his shield over his head and knelt behind it.

Through a flurry of arrows, Larry saw that they seemed to be directed by two individuals on horseback.

“Keep retreating to the trees and higher ground.” Larry’s mouth tightened into a thin line as he lifted his revolver. Two shots. One rider fell. Another shot and the second one fell. The advancing line of men halted. Another hail of arrows arced into the sky.

A cry of pain sounded behind Larry as a quick look to the pier showed Stormchaser being poled away from the pier, her partially raised sail fluttering in the light wind. A wind to the south and safety. More attackers on foot joined the riders on shore. Several shot arrows toward the fleeing vessel.

“Cassan, go.” Larry stood and pushed the youth behind him toward the north, away from the attackers.

Larry knelt behind his shield, loading his last four cartridges. “Form a retreating wedge and follow Cassan,” he said over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cartridges. “There’s too many of them. Get them bows strung.”

Larry fired again. One bowman fell. Another cry of pain came from behind Larry as the third wave of arrows hit the Havenites.

As Larry followed his men, Matuso slowed to join him at the rear.

“Where to?” Matuso asked, looking from the attacking warriors to the Havenites. “Fire at will.” Long, steel tipped arrows flew in a shallow arc. Screams rent the air from the attackers.

“Away,” Larry glanced at the bay where too few hands were raising Stormchaser’s sails. “Anywhere. Follow Cassan.”

Larry fired again and one of the enemy bowmen dropped. The attackers stepped back, several dragging bodies, into safety behind the outbuildings.

With Cassan in the lead, the Havenites fled north, skirting the tilled fields and breaking through fences. Larry maintained his position at the rear, hoarding his last two cartridges.

At the pier, the mounted warriors turned from the disappearing Stormchaser and kicked their mounts toward the Havenites.

“Keep moving.” Slowing, Larry waited until the lead horsemen were 40 strides away. He turned, exhaled, and fired twice. Two of the mounted men fell, and the remaining horsemen jerked their frightened mounts to a halt.

In minutes, with the attackers indecisive, the Havenites fled into the tree-covered hills behind the farmstead.

Through a break in the gnarled oaks, Larry watched the attackers spreading out in cautious pursuit. Beyond the fleeing Stormchaser, a ship appeared at the mouth of the bay.

Chapter 2

July 8

Larry paused to look back at his companions. Twelve men—including young Cassan—stretched out in a line behind him. Two wounded. And one less than when they’d left Stormchaser. He rubbed his face with one hand. They’d had to abandon Bonetu’s body.

Maybe he should tighten up the ranks and keep going. But if they were as tired as he was, a break would be better. They’d been fleeing for several hours and although the two wounded men were not critically injured, Hatimu’s leg wound was causing him a lot of pain.

He stood just below one of many rock-strewn summits that spread along an east-west mountain chain along this part of Ros’s peninsula. This southern-most peak overlooked the southern side of the peninsula and its bay that stretched from what looked like low marshes in the east to the open ocean in the west. A light breeze cooled the sweat on his face.

He shifted his gaze back in the direction of Ros’s farmstead. The shore should have been covered with curious kids and barking dogs, and he should have realized what their absence meant. The old jarl, Ros, was either in with the attackers or dead. Most likely dead. Larry shifted his gaze to Cassan, who sat on a protruding rock a few paces away, staring at nothing. The kid had held up well, given the uncertain state of his family. Especially his sister. An almost physical pain stabbed Larry at the thought of having left her with those men.

Larry hadn’t recognized the herald sported by a few of the invaders. Two lions facing each other, separated by an empty hand. At least it wasn’t the symbol of his mother’s clan, the Sullivans, with its robin riding a lizard. Or the three lions of the O’Brians, his foster father’s clan.

As he dug his water skin out of his pack, he wondered if he should design a herald for the Havenites. He drank, watching his men sit, leaning against convenient boulders or outcroppings, all looking outwards. Nearby, Matuso redressed Hatimu’s leg.

After Matuso seemed satisfied with his bandaging, he joined Larry. He made a few marks on a piece of paper before before pulling out his own water skin for a drink.

“What’s your plan?”

“I’m thinking they’ll come after us.” Larry pulled out a piece of dried fruit. Apple? Chewed. “The revolver broke their assault, probably scared the shit outta ‘em. I think I took out two of their sergeants. Or whatevers.” Luckily only half of the attackers had been on horseback. And Larry’s men had responded as trained and, in spite of their loss, had retreated in good order.

“That won’t happen again. Used up the last of the ammunition.” He patted his holstered pistol. “Just forge metal now.”

He shifted in place, scanning their surroundings. They had climbed into what passed for mountains on the peninsula. Maybe a couple thousand feet high. The tips of the peaks were maybe a bit more. To the southwest, Ros’s farmstead disappeared into a localized mist rising from the marshes at the upper end of the bay.

He wasn’t lost. How could one be lost on an island? But he didn’t have a clue about a destination. He had maps, but they were back on Stormchaser. Another pang cut through his consciousness as he yet again wondered if Torben, Samatu, and the others had gotten away. He had heard gunshots as Stormchaser headed out of the harbor and straight toward the damn longship that had appeared out of nowhere. It looked like a Viking design.

“We need to find shelter, then we'll figure out where to go.” He knew only a little of the area. His mother had been raised in the small town of Dingle that would occupy the area of Ros’s homestead a thousand years or so in the future. In his previous life, he’d always hoped to visit it sometime. Just not in the eleventh century. “I only know the terrain on this peninsula. The main part of the island? All I know is that it’s a bit of a bowl, shallow in the middle with low mountains mostly ringing it. A major river flows from the interior to exit to the sea somewhere in the west. Maybe even not too far from where we’re at now.”

“At least we have good weather,” Matuso pointed south. “And a clear view of another finger of land. Something to add to the map I’m sketching.”

“Thanks for doing the map thing. What of boats?”

Matuso stood and gazed at the bay for several minutes. “Nothing now. I’m sure I saw two boats less than an hour ago outside of the entrance to Ros’s bay. Both larger than Stormchaser.”

“Shit. Well, your eyes are better than mine.” Larry slipped his water skin into his pack. “Let's just hope Stormchaser got away.” He paused. “Undermanned, their only option would be to head back to Iceland.”

“What’s your count on the number of attackers?”

“I’m thinking around 50. With maybe a couple dozen of ‘em on horseback.” Larry closed up his pack. “I figure we dropped a dozen or so.” He forced his jaw to unclench as he remembered their own loss.

“Plus a full longboat, maybe two,” Matuso said. “They appeared to be large ocean going ships.”

Larry stood, scanning the southern peninsula as he adjusted his sword sheath. “How are your eyes? Ain’t that a deep valley at the east end?”

“I have the binoculars. Had them stashed with my medical supplies.”

“How much?” Larry said. “The meds.”

“Salt. Half a bottle of alcohol; used a lot of it on Hatimu’s leg and Sigfus’ arm. Tinctures of poppy, cannabis, and herbs. Needles, forceps, and flax.” Matuso slipped his water skin back into his pack, dug around and pulled out a scratched and worn leather case. After removing the binoculars, he stood, focused, and peered southeast. “I would guess it's a valley. The mountains appear folded enough to contain one.” He turned to Larry. “You thinking of a defensive position?”

“Yeah, another Haven.” Shit, what had started out as a trading mission was slipping into killing and war. He was too old for this. But at least one of their main trade items was axe heads. The way the shit was flowing, they’d need them. “But first, shelter and food.” He looked around at the mountaintop landscape of grasses and low shrubs. The lack of trees hinted at harsh or windy weather.

“Sure as shit ain’t gonna have a fire at this elevation. Even if we dared, there ain’t no wood.” He slipped on his pack, signaling the men to do the same. “And we need to stay high for the view.”

He glanced west along the Dingle peninsula, frowning at the mid-afternoon sun. “We'll at least find someplace out of any wind for the night.” He turned toward Cassan still sitting alone with head down. “Hey, Cassan.”

The youth looked up and at Larry’s wave, stood, and jogged over to join them.

“This peak have a name?” Larry said.

“We call it Croaghskearda.” Cassan looked up at the mass of broken rock interspersed with stubby heather that formed the peak. “It means pile of stone.” He shifted his gaze back toward his former home. And stiffened. “The invaders are coming.”

Larry followed his gaze and, after a few heartbeats, made out a swarm of moving black dots, maybe a couple miles below them. “Good eyes. Looks like our friends got their nerve back.” He shifted his eyes to the falling sun. “They’ll be here before dusk.”

He turned to his young language teacher. “Any narrow ravines or steep trails nearby?”

Cassan’s eyes unfocused for several heartbeats. Then he smiled, his first since they had entered the bay.

* * *

The backs of two limping men disappeared to the north as Doalty climbed the last few strides to the saddle between the peaks of the wind-stripped mountains. He turned and urged his men on with sharp swings of his arm.

He’d left half of his ground force at the farmstead, taking the remaining twenty men to run down and kill the strangers. He had also ordered his horsemen to scour the lowlands for any stragglers and had sent a runner to the boat people to search the shoreline.

“Move it.” His men avoided his eyes as they passed. “They’re cutting down that side valley.”

After a half-dozen men passed, Doalty jogged to catch up to the head of the column. Those curs had gotten lucky when Ros’s daughter slipped out while he had been distracted with her mother. That alerted the strangers, but it would not happen again. And as for the daughter, he would decide about her after a bit of fun.

His men swore one of the strangers was a black devil who killed with an outstretched arm. Trickery worked on them; it wouldn’t work on him. Thanks to a few coins of silver and the local Abbot—a distant relative on his mother’s side—he was a priest of the man-god Jesus and had no need to fear devils.

He easily followed the tracks of the strangers through the low brush and broken rock. He grinned at a discarded, bloodstained piece of cloth. Devils don’t bleed.

After a few hundred strides, the tracks passed between two small ponds and veered north, toward a small valley that led down to the north side of the peninsula. Doalty smiled in spite of his labored breath. All the paths on the north side of these mountains lead down to a large bay that the Ur Neill presently held with their boat allies. Even if he didn’t catch the sarding strangers, he’d be praised for herding them in the direction of the main Ur Neill and Northmen forces.

Climbing the small rise to the lip at the beginning of the valley, Doalty paused for a breath. Below, the forested, lower end of the valley was partially blocked, forming a long jagged lake, which spilled through a small ravine. A steep cliff flanked the west side of the small valley, while the upper end of the other side consisted of a hillside of grasses, stunted shrubs, and misshaped boulders. The low sun cast a shadow that stretched halfway up the eastern slope.

Two men caught his attention as they ran along the rocky side of the water. No, they staggered.

“Get them,” Doalty screamed at his men. “A silver for the first kill.”

Smiling, he urged his panting men down the rough terrain after the fleeing strangers. They ran then slowed as they stumbled on the treacherous footing of the narrow valley.

As he followed the last of his men, his eyes narrowed. The boulders on the west side of the valley were strange, almost a uniform grey or brown. And similar in size. As he slowed his steps, his curiosity turned to dread.

“Stop,” he managed to croak out as the boulders stood, throwing off grey-brown blankets, to become a half-dozen bowmen firing arrows.

From the tree line at the bottom of the valley, other men appeared brandishing swords, blocking the path.

Doalty watched as his men, swords sheathed and bows unstrung for running, were slaughtered. He turned to run, only to find a giant black man standing in his path.

As he clutched the cross hanging around his neck, Doalty’s final vision was the black devil’s cold grin.

Chapter 3

July 9

Larry rolled over and heard a grunt as he bumped into something soft. He shifted his weight away from the sound and opened his eyes. A dark boulder appeared and, in a few moments, transformed into a blanket-covered man. In the pre-dawn light, the slow rhythmic movement of the shape matched low thrumming snores.

Images flickered through his head as Larry stared at the soiled blanket. Scenes of yesterday’s fights vied with hours-old nightmare reenactments. His jaw muscles tensed as he struggled to determine if the images were real or imaginary. After failing, he shook his head clear of both sets of visions and struggled to his feet. Stepping slowly over sleeping bodies, he left the small gulley that served as a sleeping shelter for his men.

Over the dark masses of the surrounding mountains, the eastern sky showed the promise of a new day. Larry wondered if it would be his last or, looking back at his still sleeping companions, their last. His now empty revolver had won the fight at the farmstead. And last night’s slaughter had been just luck. His stomach lurched as he looked west to the shallow cairn. Another dead man. And another wounded.

They needed shelter and a place to recuperate. And to mourn their losses.

He stumbled out of the shallow bowl formed in the broken mountain ridges, stopping at one of the small lakes to drink. A half-mile climb brought him to a small saddle overlooking the fog-covered bay between their peninsula and the one to the south.

“How’s the arm?” Larry asked the figure who stood staring south.

“Painful, but it will heal.” Matuso turned, holding his left arm with his right. A bloodied cloth bound his forearm.

Larry nodded. Matuso was Kristi’s best field healer, with knowledge beyond Larry’s medic skills from his old life. Matuso had Joe’s frame and Alita’s eyes, and Larry would die for him. But he hadn’t been able to prevent Matuso from catching one of the invaders’ arrows last evening. The jerks may have been totally surprised but they were skilled fighters and had recovered quickly enough to kill Pondusu and wound Matuso before being cut down.

Matuso’s eyes shifted to the mountains behind Larry. “Been quiet. Too quiet for the damage we’ve caused.”

“I’ll rouse the men. I’m still thinking about that valley at the west end of that peninsula.” Larry pointed south at a hazy landscape across the bay.

“About 30 or 40 miles,” Matuso said. “Sigfus’ shoulder wound should heal easily, but movement will be painful. But Hatimu’s leg wound is going to slow us down.”

Larry gazed south. “I’ll carry him if I hafta. But we’ll need food first.”

“I think there’s another homestead below and to the east. Maybe four or five miles. Longer on foot.” Lowering his left arm to dangle, Matuso pointed with his right to the flat land between the mountains and the low hills that border the bay’s shore. “Take the binos, you can just make out tilled fields and maybe a building.”

Larry stepped to Matuso’s side, taking the binoculars and directing his gaze along the younger warriors outstretched arm. “Looks like there’s a cut through those hills along the coast. Maybe that farmstead’s got a boat.”

“I thought I saw a sail disappear behind them. But it could have been a wave reflecting the sunrise.”

“Well, we got stuff to trade for food or a boat,” Larry said. “Plus a few coins and the weapons stripped from those dead fucks last night. Almost more than we can carry.”

“Their metal isn’t as good as yours.”

“Thanks, but their edges still kill.” Larry turned and handed the binoculars back to Matuso. “Let’s get the guys up. Time for a talk.”

* * *

Larry stood in the middle of the eleven men. He forced his shoulders back and his spine straight. Two men lost and three wounded. Men he’d known since their childhood. He’d have to face their families when he got back. He exhaled through his nose. If he got back.

“We’re in a world of shit.” He looked around. “But you know that. Stormchaser will return for us.” If Samatu and the others survived. “But until then, we need a plan.” He looked at Matuso, who nodded. In spite of his youth, the men looked to him as second in command. Even Gatanu, who was over a decade older.

“One idea is to head for a valley in the peninsula to the south,” Larry said. “It's bounded by mountains. We can’t see any settlement on the nearby shore. Or ships.” He forced himself to stare a few seconds into each man’s eyes. “I don’t have a better plan. This peninsula is overrun. And we’ve been lucky, if that’s what it can be called, so far. Thoughts?” Larry sat down.

“What about the north side of this peninsula?” one man asked.

“Probably where those attackers came from,” Larry said. “That trail we crossed likely connected the two sides. It had plenty of recent tracks, human and horse.”

“I saw smoke,” Matuso said. “And several longboats.”

“Inland?” Hatimu said. He sat, leg splayed out, face lined with pain.

“My history isn’t very good,” Larry said from his sitting position. “But Eire had a lot of infighting between tribes about this time. I’m guessing it was one of those factions that we ran in to yesterday. These outer peninsulas are probably safer and easier to defend than anywhere in the interior.” His mouth tightened. “Except here.”

“Those ships?” another voice said.

“Again, my history is a bit foggy. But besides raiding, the Vikings—they called them Northmen in these times—set up their own territories and sometimes allied with the locals.”

“Torben’s people?” one of the men asked.

“Unlikely. Lots of different Northmen groups. An it’s been over twenty years since he’s been in this part of the world.”

“How will Stormchaser find us?” the first man asked.

“There are peaks around that valley,” Matuso said. “We will need to set up watches. Have smoke fires ready.”

“You must go.” Hatimu’s voice quivered. “Leave me.”

“Fuck that.” Larry forced a smile. “I don’t leave anyone behind.” He looked beyond his men and frowned, thinking of the body they’d left in the forest near Ros’s and the one buried beneath rocks nearby. “As soon as we get down to tree level, we’ll make a litter. Until then, we’ll switch off carrying you.”

Chapter 4

July 9

Grunting, Larry squatted to allow the injured Hatimu to slide off his back. He grunted again as he stood and enjoyed an unencumbered breath. Hatimu wasn’t big, but he wasn’t light either. Larry stretched out his back as two of the men helped the injured warrior start down a steep section of the narrow valley that led to the flatlands below.

The sun was high in the sky, maybe 45 degrees. About as high as it would ever get at this latitude. Below, a lake formed at the lower end of the valley. The valley sides curved, cutting off any view of the farmstead and, hopefully, hiding their descent from any watchers. Beyond the valley and the low hills along the coast, the bay shimmered in the sun. No ships broke its surface. Where was Stormchaser? Had they escaped the longship? They had the flintlocks but were undermanned. Not knowing where the shore crew had fled and with one, maybe two, warships in the bay, they should have gone back to Iceland. That was a ten-day journey at best. Probably longer.

If they got past whatever longships had been out there.

Sighing, Larry started down the faint deer trail after his men. Piles of small round pellets confirmed local fauna. And maybe dinner. Thoughts of dire scenarios clouded his concentration and he slipped, falling on his ass, armor clanking.

Swearing and shifting onto a more comfortable patch of rock-free dirt, Larry allowed himself the luxury of watching his men descend for several minutes. The land folded into small drainage ravines, which fed into a broken stream that disappeared into the lake. The men at the head of the column stopped at the lake’s upper end, probably to fill water skins or check weapons. Larry clenched his teeth. These men trusted him to get them out of this mess. Heaving himself to his feet, Larry followed, mind diverted from further dark thoughts by the uncertain footing.

After a few minutes the trail flattened out and followed the now babbling stream. In another quarter mile, Larry joined his resting men and checked on the injured. Hatimu’s pale face forced a smile. Strips of flax cloth and leather immobilized Sigfus’s left arm. Matuso started to speak but turned as a runner joined them from the south.

“The farmstead is being attacked.” The runner, Hallur, bent over and gasped for air.

“I sent scouts to check it out,” Matuso said to Larry before he turned back to the runner. “Gatanu?”

“He stayed. Sent me back.” The young Icelandic warrior stood tall and brushed his straw blond hair from his eyes. “He’s behind the trees that line the opposite side of the main stream from the farmstead buildings.”

“How many attackers?” Larry dropped his pack.

“About a dozen,” Hallur said. “They dress like Northmen. They had already taken over the farmstead when we arrived.” He paused, his mouth tightening. “They are now enjoying the captives.”

“I’m going.” Larry avoided looking at any of the men. “I can’t ask you to go with me. These Northmen are experienced warriors.”

Larry leaned over and pulled his axe from his pack, moving it to a loop on his belt. “Hallur, describe the layout.”

“I’ll lead you there.” Hallur turned and started jogging.

Larry ran, smiling tightly as multiple footfalls followed.

* * *

Larry peered around the trunk of a battered oak. Across the shallow stream with its thick brush edges, the farmstead’s main building dominated an open area several hundred strides in width and half that in depth. In front of the dwelling, a body hung by the arms from a crossbeam. A handful of men stood around drinking and shooting arrows into the twitching body.

To the left of the wattle and daub building, three others herded a half-dozen or so sheep along a path that followed the stream. To the right stood an open-air shelter half full of hay. Several men, naked from the waist down, gathered around a thrashing body. Fear and anger clouded Larry’s thoughts. He had to focus. Looking over his shoulder, he saw matching emotions on his men’s faces. A sliver of pride cut through the anger; all the uninjured men had followed him.

“Gatanu, Tamatu follow me. Swords only.” Larry shifted his gaze to Hallur. “Give me a finger of sun movement. Then volley arrows. Your longbows have the range over their shorter bows.” He turned to the young teen. “Cassan, you guard their backs. Don’t let anyone sneak up on them.” That should keep the youth out of danger.

Cassan’s knuckles whitened as his hand tightened around a sword he’d appropriated the previous evening. The men nodded. Larry backed away from the tree-lined stream and started jogging.

* * *

“Damn.” A stinging burn erupted on the back of Larry’s hand as he moved through a field of tall plants. The square stalks and short oval opposite leaves hinted at nettles. Rubbing away the itch, he continued to the post and wattle fence. Sheathing his sword, he grasped the bottom layer of interwoven branches and pulled. As he grimaced with effort, the nearest post cracked and gave way. Staggering to regain balance, Larry brushed aside the remains of the fencing.

The screams from the far side of the farmstead died away as Larry, followed by Gatanu and Tamatu, jogged, hunched over, to the blind side of the largest building.

Muffled moans greeted Larry as he crouched behind the structure’s wattle and daub wall. As he unhooked his axe from his belt and hefted it in his left hand, the moans stopped. His right hand unsheathed his long sword as a cold hate shoved aside any fear. But he had to wait for his men to loose their arrows from across the stream.

On his left, Gatanu, sword in hand, stretched his back from one side to another. Once just an orphaned boy from another continent, he’d insisted on following Larry, leaving a wife and two kids back in Haven.

On Larry’s right, Tamatu stood, eyes staring nowhere, probably meditating. Also one of Haven’s many orphans and now one of Brent’s Buddhist warriors, he had also left home to follow Larry. Larry’s eyes blurred. He forced himself to breathe deep and long. Brent’s breathing exercises might be based on Buddhist pseudo-science, but they damned well helped.

A shout. Several shouts. Gatanu disappeared around the building. Larry followed, Tamatu’s footsteps sounding behind him.

As the three men rounded the squat building, they encountered a maze of running men. Keeping their relative positions, Gatanu veered left and Tamatu right. Larry charged straight, sword swinging at the back of a bowman aiming across the stream. Larry felled a second man before the invaders realized they had been flanked.

“Larry.” A shout from the right. Abandoning his buried axe in the head of a slumping warrior, Larry charged the three men who were backing up a staggering Tamatu. The first died without realizing he was being attacked. The second turned, his face savage and angry. He died, face frozen.

The third man, distracted by Larry’s appearance, gagged as Tamatu’s sword slid into his throat.

“They’re retreating,” Gatanu’s voice rang out over screams.

Larry glanced to the right. Gatanu’s sword plunged into the belly of one of the partially clothed men. The dying man’s deflating penis made a pale contrast to the dark blood welling up around the steel blade as Gatanu withdrew it. Other bodies lay twitching, hands grasping arrow shafts. On the mound of fodder, a naked woman lay unmoving, legs spread and blood welling from her groin. To the side of the fodder, a small battered and bloody body lay in a pool of coagulating blood.

To Larry’s right, Tamatu limped toward the bay in pursuit of several retreating men.

Screaming, Larry retrieved his axe and started out in a jog, breaking into a run as he passed Tamatu. His pulse pounded in his ears as images of the child, his injured men, and the dead woman overwhelmed his thoughts.

Behind him, more shouts followed.

* * *

Ignoring the growing protests from his knees, Larry ran along the trail as it paralleled the stream, plunging through the trees.

“I’m behind you,” a voice said.

“Look out for,” Larry said between gasping breaths, “an ambush.” His eyes flicked from side to side. Hills rose on either side of the narrow path as it wove among thick bushes and overhanging trees.

A flash of metal. “Look out,” Larry yelled as he twisted away from a spear tip that scraped his breastplate. He beat the spear point down and lunged. His arm jarred as his sword tip hit metal before slipping into soft flesh. Bringing up his left arm, he parried a second attacker with his axe.

Voices behind Larry mixed with voices from the trees as he thrust his sword. Withdrawing the dripping metal, he spun around to find only his own men standing. He glanced at the three men on the ground, noting unfamiliar faces. He turned back to the trail and continued running. The slaps of following footfalls mixed with the sounds of the babbling stream and Larry’s pounding pulse.

The trail opened onto a rocky beach. Twenty paces out, three Northmen leaned on poles as they attempted to leverage a small dragon-headed longship into deeper water. As Larry burst into the open, they abandoned the poles and unsheathed their swords.

Larry screamed as he plowed into the water, sword extended in his right hand, axe in his left raised over his head.

When he was still ten paces away from the three attackers, they staggered as arrow shafts blossomed from their chests.

Larry slowed to a stop as the three bodies fell, one only a few inches from his feet. He turned. Behind him in the water were Gatanu and Disunu, steel in their hands. Beyond them, four bowmen drew back additional arrows. After a heartbeat, they released the tension on their weapons.

“Thanks.” Larry leaned over, hands on his knees, still holding his sword and axe, gasping for air. “I’m too fuckin’ old for this.” As he stared at the spreading red stain in the lapping water, the two nearest men slogged past him and prodded the floating bodies with their swords.

* * *

“Larry,” a voice called from the longship.

Larry gave the knot a final tug and turned to inspect his work. Two lines secured the ship to the twisted trees that bordered the shoreline.

On the rocking vessel, Gatanu stood by the gunwale, holding a large bundle upright. “Found this,” he said, turning the bundle to reveal a young woman bound with ropes. Her wide eyes moved over the shoreline where the three Northmen bodies lay before coming to rest on Larry.

Now what? Larry shook his head. “Well, untie her.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Gatanu held the now squirming woman at arm’s length. “She’s already bitten me twice.”

Larry stared. Gatanu had just killed three or four Northmen warriors. Larry started shaking. Slowly at first, then with heaving gasps, he roared with laughter.

A second warrior, Disunu, appeared next to Gatanu, holding a second bound woman. Both men appeared confused. And scared.

Larry leaned over, hands now resting on his knees, howling through broken breaths. After a minute, his breath came easier. He stood and wiped his eyes. Faces uncertain, each man still stood holding a bound captive. Larry shifted his gaze to the bodies lying face up on the shore. Humor fled. How had they survived a third encounter? He fisted his hands to keep them from trembling. After several long breaths, he could finally loosen his fingers.

“Hand one down to me. I’ll untie her.” After dropping his sword belt and axe, Larry stepped through the saltwater, now clear except for debris raised by his sloshing footsteps. Ducking under one of the mooring lines, he stood knee deep next to the port side of the boat. Gatanu moved to the lower part of the boat and, with a grunt, lifted his captive over the side.

Larry grabbed the girl. Ropes bound her ankles, thighs, and arms. She squirmed at first when he took her weight in his arms. As he turned toward the shore, she went limp. At least she was lighter than Hatimu.

“Help Disunu with his captive,” Larry said over his shoulder before stepping carefully through the water. The bound girl tensed as he carried her onto shore. Her staring eyes bored into his as he lowered her to the ground. “Do not fear,” Larry said in Eire. “I will untie you now.”

The ropes were wound tight and the knots a solid mass of fiber. The woman flinched as Larry withdrew a small knife from the inside of his right boot’s shaft. “I am going to cut these ropes.” Leaning over, with one hand around the woman’s left calf, he slid the point of his knife into the center of the knot and twisted. After several breaths, the knot disintegrated, the rope falling to the woman’s bare feet. Standing up, Larry cut off the rope binding her arms to her chest. Her one-piece tunic of coarse wool was torn at the front. Greasy handprints covered the whiter skin of her heavy breasts. Larry glanced from her chest to her eyes. Tears dripped down to her tight lips.

“You are free to stay or go,” Larry said as he cut the remaining rope around her wrists. The last rope fell. The young woman stared at Larry for a heartbeat. She stepped back, turned, and ran up the path toward the farmstead.

“One more.” Gatanu and Disunu set the second woman upright next to Larry. This woman was similarly bound. Her tunic was of finer cloth—maybe linen—and was also ripped in the front.

“Who are you?” she said in a demanding voice, with only a trace of a tremor. Her eyes held Larry’s.

Larry stared back, eyebrows rising. “Enemies of your enemies.” He leaned down to cut her legs free. “I am Larry.” He straightened and cut the ropes around her chest.

She held up her hands. Larry slid the knife between her skin and the rope, feeling her eyes still on him. The ropes parted.

“I am Deirdre. Accompany me back to my father’s farmstead,” she ordered.

* * *

Leaving Gatanu and Disunu to finish securing the longship, Larry strapped on his weapons and followed Deirdre up the path between the two low hills. She only paused once to glance at the three Northmen bodies still lying next to the path.

As the path emerged into the open fields around the farmstead, she slowed. Larry’s men had laid out seven bodies in a row in front of the main building. To the right, next to the open outbuilding containing the fodder, the dead bodies of the invaders lay in a pile. Near them lay a heap of weapons and outer clothing.

Deirdre’s steps faltered, and she staggered to the bodies. “Mother.” A small cry escaped her lips as she knelt next to an older woman. After several shuddering breaths, she shifted to the body of an older man. She slid her trembling fingers across his battered face, closing his eyes.

Larry moved closer, careful not to interrupt the young woman’s grieving. His eyes flicked over the bodies and some of the tension from the encounter drained away. None of his men lay on the ground.

Three more times, Deirdre touched the bodies. One, the woman who had been raped on the mound of fodder, appeared to be a slightly older version of Deirdre. The facial features of the second, a man in his late twenties, hinted at non-family member or a spouse. Deirdre choked as she closed the eyes of the battered infant. Then she looked up as if suddenly realizing that strange men surrounded her. She stood and turned to face Larry.

“My parents and my sister’s family.” Her voice shook. After several long breaths, she said, “I place myself in your care.” Deirdre glanced around as Larry moved closer. “Where is my slave?”

Larry’s eyes furrowed. “Slave?”

“The other captive from the ship,” Deirdre said.

Larry stared at the woman. This bitch's family had just been wiped out and she wanted her what? He opened his mouth but closed it as several of his men started murmuring. Beyond Deirdre, Matuso exited the main building, his uninjured right hand steadying the other woman. Crying, she clutched a small bundle of cloth to her breast. The material left black stains on her torn tunic and her hands and arms.

“So Anya’s brat survived.” Deirdre’s harsh voice carried over the sobbing of the other woman. “Hidden in the ash of the hearth. How appropriate.”

Anya stopped at the line of bodies. Holding the bundle close, she knelt between the two bodies that had been ignored by Deirdre. Anya touched the forehead of the woman and then the man, both middle aged. Her tears dripped into the opening at the top of the bundle.

Deirdre turned and took a step toward the other woman. “I require your services to prepare my family for burial. Now.”

Deirdre’s body jerked as Larry laid his hand on her shoulder. “We will prepare your family,” he said, his voice a low whisper that cut through the silence around the buildings. “After we prepare Anya’s.”

Deirdre spun around, face red, teeth bared in a reply. Her eyes met Larry’s and she deflated. She jerked loose of Larry’s hand and strode around the bodies into the shambles of her home.

At the line of bodies, Matuso helped Anya to her feet.

Chapter 5

July 10

At the sound of running footsteps, Larry reached for his sword but only found air. His gaze swiveled from his sheathed sword lying in the prow to the sight of Cassan emerging from the worn path to the farmstead.

“People.” Cassan heaved in another breath. “Scouts just reported a small band of people.”

“How far?” Larry stood, abandoning the packing of supplies into the coastal longship they had named Seabird. He had been puzzling out how to stuff all his men, the two women, and their equipment and supplies in their newly acquired ship that was about three-quarters the length of Stormchaser and only half its width.

“Less than an hour away. Matuso’s setting up defenses. Anya and the injured are coming down here.”

“Stay with the ship.” Larry grabbed his sword belt and swung his legs over the ship’s side. He dropped, wincing as the cold salt water re-soaked his boots and leggings. “Finish stowing the supplies in case we hafta leave suddenly.” With a forced smile over his shoulder to Cassan, Larry moved into a jog.

Halfway back to the farmstead, he passed Anya and her son. A few steps behind them, three of the injured men hobbled along, lugging their packs and weapons. Larry slowed to squeeze each man’s shoulder as he passed.

Only Matuso was visible as Larry jogged out from under the canopy of trees and into the open farmstead area. The young warrior turned at Larry’s presence and nodded, face tight. “We got visitors?” Larry asked as he approached Matuso. “Where’s Deirdre?”

“Gatanu and three others are shadowing them.” Matuso looked east, into the trees at the edge of the farmstead’s fields. “Hallur, Kequit and Fistav are in the buildings or in the bushes. I asked Deirdre to wait in the house in case they’re friendly.”

“Good.” Larry turned in place. Over a fire in the common area in front of Deirdre’s home a battered copper kettle bubbled unattended. From the outbuildings, several men held out hands or swords to alert Larry to their positions. The place looked peaceful if one didn’t notice the series of graves scarring the field of grain. Other than wood fences, the place had nothing that provided cover. “We’ll hafta rely on surprise again if it gets ugly.”

“Supposedly it’s a mixed group of men, women, and children. They have a couple of horses with packs.”

“You stay with Deirdre. I’ll wait with the pigs.” Larry nodded to the small hut to the east of the main building. “Their grunting may help mask my movements.”

* * *

After a half hour, and with the pigs finally quiet, Larry heard approaching footsteps.

“Hail. We seek shelter,” a voice quavered.

Through the doorway, Larry watched as Deirdre stepped out of the house, followed by Matuso who held his sword in his uninjured hand.

“Who are you? Why do you request shelter?” Deirdre’s voice rang strong and confident. Larry allowed a smile. Meek she wasn’t.

“We flee before the Ur Neill. They follow.”

“You are leading them here?”

No one answered her.

“How many are you?” Matuso broke the silence, his stilted Eire in contrast to Deirdre’s melodic voice.

“Three men,” the voice answered.

“Looks like more than three.” Matuso’s voice dripped annoyance.

“Also five women and four children.”

“Come out of the trees. Let us see you.” Matuso stepped into the middle of the open area in front of the farmhouse. With deliberate slowness, he resheathed his sword but kept his hand on its pommel. Ready but neutral.

Voices murmured from the direction of the visitors. They sounded both frightened and angry.

“Given that you are surrounded, I suggest that you do as he says.” Deirdre’s voice cut like a knife. “How far behind you are the sarding Ur Neills?”

The voices quieted. After several heartbeats, two men stepped into the open, the first holding a small axe, the second a pitchfork. Both wore soiled linen tunics tucked into frayed trousers of wool. A third man appeared, a younger man in a dusty grey robe holding a thick walking stick. Behind them, two women led horses loaded with large bundles, followed by several kids. The women wore long linen dresses partially covered with woolen vests. The kids, two boys and two girls, sported clothing similar to the adults but smaller and well patched.

Bringing up the rear, two younger women leaned forward under smaller bundles strapped on their backs. Their attire consisted of patched and discolored wool dresses.

Larry sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Several of the newcomers took a step back. All stared, first at his face then at his weapons.

“You are welcome here.” Larry pointed toward the fire pit with his left hand. “Will you accept our dinner?”

The women and kids’s eyes followed Larry’s hand. The young ones swallowed as they looked at the steaming pot.

At the edge of the fire, a stack of clay bowls teetered on a flat rock. Larry walked over to it, picked up one of the bowls, blew out the dust, and filled it from the copper pot with a wooden ladle. He held it out toward the ragged band of visitors.

One of the women carrying a bundle stepped around the others and approached Larry. Shifting her load to the ground, she held out her hand. Larry placed the bowl in her hand. She took several steps backwards, dragging her load, eyes on Larry.

After a long moment, she brought the bowl to her mouth and sipped, still looking at Larry over the edge of the bowl. She drank more deeply and then used a finger to direct the chunks of meat into her mouth.

Behind her, the others moved forward, tentative at first, then in a fast walk.

“Back up,” Larry shouted as the two older men pushed in front of the others. They stepped back, eyes flicking from Larry to the pot of stew.

Larry filled another bowl and gestured one of the kids forward. One of the men again stepped forward only to find Matuso in his way. The man retreated.

Once the kids finished eating, Larry waved the women forward. One pushed in front of the remaining woman carrying a bundle. Larry pointed a finger at her and glared until she also backed up. He fed her after the other women.

As empty bowls became available, Larry refilled them for the men. One of the girls approached and held out her now empty bowl. “More please?”

Deirdre stepped closer, hands waving the little girl away.

“Don’t. If she wants more, she gets more.” Larry slopped more of the stew into the proffered bowl. “Here you go. Any time you want more, just ask me.”

“Thank you,” she said in a whisper and with a shy smile.

“What’s your name?” Larry asked.

“Fennore.” Her smile widened. “Thank you, Honorable Master.” She stepped back a few steps.

Larry snorted. “Just Larry. And nobody is master of anyone around here.”

At his side, Deirdre’s eyebrows arched.

As the others approached for seconds, Larry refilled bowls. As he worked, he noted that Fennore’s eyes never left him, even as she ate. When the women finished, Larry nodded at the men and refilled bowls for them.

“Do not be afraid. These are my men.” Larry held up his hand and his remaining men stepped out of the building and from the bushes. He introduced his men, noting that the youngest man—the one who had held back from the food—raised his eyebrows at the mention of Cassan’s name. “Now we talk.” He swept his hand around the fire. “Please sit in one large circle.” He turned to Matuso. “Set out two scouts.” Glancing at the rest of his warriors, Larry said, “The rest of you join us.”

They sat, and Larry urged the women and kids to sit in the same circle. Several of his warriors moved to sit with the kids, whose eyes watched the men’s every move.

“I am Father Ivar. These people are from farms east of here,” said the youngest man. He appeared to be in his mid twenties and wore a wooden cross on a thick string of twisted wool around his neck. At his feet lay his large bag and staff. “We are fleeing raiders. I believe they are a day’s journey behind us. Maybe two.”

“So who are these raiders?” Larry looked at the young man. He stared back unblinking. Larry shifted his eyes to one of the other men. Coarse patches decorated his shirt and his baggy pants had the thick weave of wool. He did not meet Larry’s eyes. The remaining man, who wore similar clothes but with a coarse knitted gray cap, did meet Larry’s eyes for several seconds.

“I have not seen them. I was traveling my path when I joined these people.” Ivar looked at the others. “They say the banners had the symbol of the Ur Neill. A large hand between two large cats.”

“We have met them,” Larry said. “These Ur Neill, are they from this part of Eire?”

“No, they are from the north.” Ivar stared at Larry. “Most of the people from this part of the country are of the Ur Sullivan clan. And some Mac Carthy.”

“My mother was from O’Brian clan,” Larry said.

Ivar blinked, one eyebrow rising slightly. “Ur Briain? You are far from home.”

Larry stared at the man for several seconds. A bead of sweat appeared on Ivar’s forehead. “Yes I am. And my mother’s husband is a Sullivan.”

Ivar’s eyebrows narrowed, his eyes flicking over Larry’s dark face and exposed hands.

“Why do the Ur Neill raid?” Larry decided that his parentage would be too hard to describe.

“The high kings fight among themselves.” The older man with a cap broke his silence. “The people suffer.”

“What do I call you?”

“I am Marcan.” He nodded to the man sitting next to him. “This is Fillen.”

“And the others?” Larry stared at Marcan. He squirmed but he rattled off seven names.

“You are missing two names.” Larry concentrated on his breathing as his annoyance grew.

“They are slaves,” Fillen said.

“There are no slaves here.” Larry stared as Marcan and Fillen’s faces morphed from astonishment to anger to a forced neutral, their eyes flicking between the Havenites’ tight faces and their well-maintained weapons.

Fillen spoke two more names in a low voice.

“We leave in the morning.” Larry looked directly at the two women sitting together with their bundles lying behind them. “You are free.”

One of the women put her hand to her mouth. The other just stared.

“And you are free to go with us,” Larry said before returning his gaze to Ivar. “You and these people may also accompany us.” Larry turned to Marcan and Fillen before glancing to Deirdre, who had retreated to the doorway of her home and now stood watching. “Under our laws.”

All three frowned.

* * *

The captured longship cast a long shadow over the rippling water as Larry stepped onto the shore from the path. “Are we all gonna fit in it?”

“If the water remains calm.” A tight mouth betrayed Matuso’s worry. “And if we leave the horses. But we’ll need some wind. I don’t want to row if we’re this heavy in the water.”

“We’ll start loading at first light.” Larry looked out over the bay. “I think that’ll be a low tide. We'll be gone before any Ur Neill raiders show.” Larry turned to look back up the path to Deirdre’s farmstead. “What’s with these people? They’re like savages.”

“According to Potts’s histories, no strong central government was formed in these lands or on the continent in this age. So it’s all local chiefdoms fighting for dominance.” Matuso turned to Larry. “If Potts’s notebooks are relevant in this part of the island.”

“Anything useful from Potts’s Buddhist writings?”

“I think so. If one’s thoughts are just narratives based on perceptions, then the violence on this island certainly will cloud their thoughts.” Matuso shrugged. “And violent thoughts will generate more perceived violence. I’m not sure how to break that circle.”

“Well,” Larry said, “I don’t always agree with all of Potts’s head talk, but I sure wish he was here to offer advice. At least he had set down some of his knowledge in writing before his death.”

Rapid footfalls interrupted Matuso’s reply. Cassan emerged from the path.

“They’re at it again.” Cassan shook his head as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder towards the farmstead.

* * *

Anya sat at the fading fire, Hatimu at her side. As Larry approached, she looked up revealing two scratches along the side of her face. A few drops of blood welled at the start of the longest one.

“Where’s Deirdre?” Larry said.

“She’s inside.” Hatimu winced as he stood, favoring his injured leg. “I think she’s gathering the last of her belongings.”

“Anya,” Larry stared at the young woman, “what happened?”

“Deirdre’s father gave me a comb for my hair.” Anya looked up, eyes wet. “She tried to take it from me.”

“You are a thief.” Deirdre stepped through the doorway of the farmhouse. “You should be beaten.”

“A comb.” Larry turned in place, looking at the farmstead, the dilapidated outbuildings, and the field with fresh graves. Near the sheep pen, the refugees were laying out sleeping skins and blankets. Several of the Havenites were herding the former occupants of that shed down toward the longship. “You’re fighting about a damned comb?”

A scream cut through the air. Hand withdrawing his sword, Larry turned toward the group of refugees. One of the men, Fillen, held one of the women by the throat, pummeling her in the face with his free hand.

“Stop,” Larry bellowed. With deliberate steps and with the sword still in his hands, Larry moved toward the standing trio. On the ground, the refugees scrambled out of his way.

“What is happening?” Larry’s voice shook with rage as he looked at Fillen. The man dropped his hand from the woman’s throat as he turned and faced Larry.

“My wife disobeyed me.” Fillen pushed out his chest, the quiver in his voice betraying his emotion. “Since you stole my slave, she must arrange my bed.”

“Your fucking bed?” Larry brought up the tip of his sword to the man’s neck.

“Please,” Ivar said as he pushed himself between Fillen and the woman. “I can settle this. I will talk to his wife.”

“Talk to who?” Larry turned to face Ivar. The sword tip remained at Fillen’s neck.

Ivar returned Larry’s gaze for several breaths. “And to the man.”

Larry stared at Ivar for several more breaths. “What is the procedure for divorce in this hellhole?”

“Any divorce must be approved by the bishop and the man’s Jarl,” Ivar said after a wide-eyed pause.

Larry lowered his sword and looked around the farmstead. From the thick brush along the path to the bay, a figure emerged.

“Matuso.” Larry waved his sword at the figure.

Turning back to Ivar, Larry said, “Who’s the Jarl for these people?”

“Ros is the Jarl for this region.” Ivar snapped his head toward Cassan who stood with several of the Havenite warriors. Cassan’s face tightened at the name of his father.

“Since his son is under my protection, I guess that makes me the acting Jarl.” Larry scanned the growing crowd of refugees and warriors as he waited for Matuso. “And as Matuso is the most educated of us on Potts’s teachings on Buddhism, I appoint him Bishop.” Larry turned to Matuso. “Please approve the divorce of this couple.”

Ivar opened his mouth, but closed it as Larry glared at him.

Matuso’s eyebrow rose. He looked at Fillen, then at the still crying woman, the bruises on her face starting to swell. “What is your name?”

“Treasa,” she said in a small voice.

“I approve.” Matuso nodded to Larry.

“I divorce you,” Larry said to the woman. He turned his head to look at Fillen. “Get out. If I ever see you again, I’ll cut off your face.”

The man took in a sharp breath and looked around. The refugees did not meet his gaze. The Havenites did and several smiled, one caressing the axe in his belt. Fillen stooped to gather up the blankets and pouches.

Bringing up his sword, Larry tapped the man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, those belong to your ex-wife.” He tapped harder, the dinged but well honed edge of the sword fraying the coarse woolen fabric. “I suggest you start running.”

Fillen’s wife stepped toward her husband. Deirdre appeared at her side and wrapped one arm around the woman’s shoulder, blocking her movement. A small boy stepped in front of Treasa and stood with folded arms. His exposed hands trembled. As Fillen stumbled away into the twilight, Deirdre turned to look at Larry, her eyes narrowed, her face still flushed with anger. “She will stay with us. Under your protection.” Her face softened as Treasa collapsed into her.

A few feet away, Ivar stood, eyes flicking between Larry and Deirdre.

Chapter 6

July 11

“Should we make two trips?”

Closing his eyes and tightening his jaw, Larry took in a deep breath through flared nostrils. Questions and complaints had been continuous since he’d woken everyone an hour or so before dawn. And he had no answers or solutions. Just guesses. The only thing he was sure about was that they had to move. And hope they could find safety on the peninsula to the south.

“I don’t think we’re gonna have a second chance to get out of here,” Larry said loudly enough for all to hear. “And we have no idea how long it will take to find a landing spot on the southern peninsula. Or even to find that valley.” He looked south across the bay. That valley was not visible from sea level. Hopefully it was uninhabited. Damn well better be. He shifted a clay pot filled with grain and wedged it between two sheepskins. “And right now we’re lucky enough to have a light wind from the west.” He stood and stretched. “Get them damned pigs on board.” He never used to have to stretch so frequently. And his knees seem to have developed a permanent ache. Maybe it was the humidity?

He looked over the ship in the dim pre-dawn light. No more than thirty-six feet long and eight wide, it was full of bags and bundles to the height of the plank seats. And a half dozen sheep shitting in fear. Deirdre had protested stripping the farmstead of supplies but quieted when Larry had offered to leave her and her belongings behind. All the refugees—including Deirdre, Anya and her son—were already on board, sitting cross-legged on their bundles of meager supplies or hunched down on the rowing planks. Worry etched their faces. But none had voiced any thoughts of remaining behind to face the raiders. Stepping over and around two and four-footed passengers, his men tightened lines and checked knots.

“Let’s do this.” Larry climbed between two of the refugee women, frowning as they shied away from him, and made his way to the rear of the boat. At the bow, a trussed pig was shoved over the gunwale and into the ship, its squeals adding to the crying of kids and the bleats of wooly four-footed refugees. Two more pigs made the trip and the last of his men clambered aboard. Two of the men leaned into long poles and, with a grind of rock that vibrated the entire ship, the prow slipped free of the shore. The Seabird settled deeper in the water.

“Get a couple of oars in the water.” Leaning against the starboard gunwale, Larry unlashed the rudder and gave it a couple of swings. “A little muscle on the starboard oars to get the bow around.” As they turned away from the shore, the sun broke over the hills, spreading light over the distant flat tidal area that joined the two peninsulas. “Raise the sail.” A flutter of panic twinged his stomach. “Slowly.” Heel over too much and the overloaded boat would founder. Any doubt he'd had about leaving the horses faded.

The refugees crouched low as the sail flapped and the men fought the unfamiliar rigging. The ship had only a few pulleys and those were used to raise the single sail. All other lines slipped around thick wooden dowels. The men would manually adjust these hemp ropes and secure them on a short piece of plank notched to allow for quick release. He’d eventually need to carve more pulleys and blocks. If he lived long enough.

Larry pulled back on the rudder, easing the longship into a broad reach. He clenched his jaw as the Seabird heeled to port, the tips of the larger waves wetting the gunwale. “Less sail. Everyone to starboard,” he said sharply.

The Havenites shifted position. After several breaths, they grabbed the refugees and pulled them to starboard. Larry resisted the impulse to swear. “Watch west. Ain’t a good time for visitors.” He glanced up the coastline. No sails. But even if the Northmen were out there, their ship would be hard to spot against the rising sun.

Seabird lumbered in the light breeze. A half hour later, an opening broke the eastern part of the bay. Shading his eyes against the rising morning sun, Larry leaned into the rudder to turn the ship and run with the wind.

“There’s a river, and it's roughly in the right direction. Hope it’s deep enough,” Larry said to everyone and no one. “Next time we do something this stupid, remind me to have a knotted rope with a rock tied at the end.”

“At least the tide is coming in,” Hatimu leaned over the prow, his injured leg stretched out alongside the gunwale. “I can see about two strides in depth.”

“Lower the sail another couple hand-widths.” Larry watched as two of the men adjusted the lines to the only pulleys. Two more reefed in the heavy leather sails. The kids looked bewildered and scared as the men worked around them.

One boy stared at Larry, eyes wide and unblinking, his open mouth revealing missing front teeth. He thought he was the son of the man he’d sent away. “Can you help me?” Larry pointed to the child. He rose, looking to his mother for permission. She glanced at Larry before nodding. The boy clambered over sacks and barrels to stand beside Larry.

“Help me push on this rudder.” Larry shifted position to allow the boy access to the long pole. Larry leaned into the rudder, the boy following his example. Seabird turned another few points east, sluggish with the heavy load. The water lightened on either side of the ship as the bottom slowly rose.

“What’s your name boy?” Larry asked.

“Garvan,” the boy said.

“Well, Garvan, let’s find ourselves a home.” Larry smiled as he directed his attention back to the shoreline.

As they entered the brackish water, Larry sent Garvan back to his mother. “Thanks for your help.” The boy beamed as he sat next to his mother, who smiled through her darkening bruises.

Behind them, Fennore stared at Larry, her jaw tight.

“Drop sails,” Larry said. Birds exploded from the reeds as Seabird glided into the sluggish river. Larry heaved back and forth on the long rudder, helping the four rowers maintain headway. Within minutes, the wide river turned left, away from their target valley.

“There’s a small tributary to starboard,” Hatimu called from the bow.

“Depth?”

“Shallow.” Hatimu leaned forward, wincing as he moved his leg. “But deep enough. It appears to head into the mountains.”

Larry forced himself to take deep breaths as he adjusted the rudder. This had better be a good idea. The shore closed in as the ship moved out of the deeper channel. Several of the Haven warriors strung bows.

The shoreline stayed wild. Only a few animal trails broke the otherwise solid wall of vegetation. Furtive movements in the water hinted at finned food. An occasional bird broke from the brush in alarm. As his constantly roving eyes passed over the passengers, he noted that Fennore’s eyes never left him. After about a mile, Larry jerked as a small shudder passed through the vessel. He ignored the worried faces of the refugees. “Depth?”

“About a stride. With a few rocks.” Hatimu hung over the bow. “To port.”

Larry pulled on the rudder as another tremor shook the Seabird. “Okay, half the uninjured men overboard. With weapons. Pace us. The further we float upstream, the less distance we’re gonna carry all this stuff.” To wherever the hell they were going.

As four of the Haven men slipped over the gunwale, Matuso repeated Larry’s words in Eire for the refugees. Their faces relaxed. Marcan grabbed one of the oars and started polling along with the uninjured Havenites. Realizing he’d spoken in English, Larry nodded his thanks to Matuso.

After another quarter mile, a series of shallow rapids stopped their forward motion. Brush lined the banks, occasionally broken by clumps of twisted trees. On the starboard bank, several of the men peered into a narrow break in the bushes. “This game trail leads to a small clearing,” one said.

“Stay put,” Larry said in Eire, pulling up the rudder and lashing it to the port gunwale. “Matuso, keep watch. I’ll see if there’s any place to set up camp.” Pulling his axe from his pack, Larry slipped overboard and flinched as the cold water wetted his leggings to his knees.

The men parted as he approached the faint trail. “Start widening it from this end while I check it out,” he said. Branches and vines scratched his bare head as he forced his bulk into a path more suited for something the size of a fox.

The trail broke into a small meadow, maybe 40 by 60 strides, enclosed by stubby pines, twisted oaks, and the ever-present brush. “This is home for the night,” he called over this shoulder as he inspected their new camp. He nodded. Barely big enough, it was well hidden.

“Keep widening it.” He swung his axe at an errant limb. A quarter of an hour’s work placed him back at the ship.

“We’ll be here for a day or so,” Larry said to the expectant faces peering from the ship. “So get yourselves to shore. Bring the animals. We’ll pile up a brush fence for the sheep but best keep those damned pigs hobbled.”

“Guards?” Matuso said.

“Half the uninjured to rotate watches. At least one up a tree. The rest with me. We'll scout upstream.” Flexing his stiff hands, Larry looked to the sun. “About mid-day. We’ll be back by evening.” He rubbed his stomach. “And we’ll be hungry.”

“What of the supplies?”

“Take out what you’ll need to make camp. We’ll decide about the rest when we get back.”

* * *

“The valley looks pretty good.” Larry wiped up the last of the dinner stew with the remainder of his coarse bread and stuffed it into his mouth. He stood and nodded his thanks to the wounded Tamatu, who had led the day’s cooking crew.

“We followed the river up into a large lake.” Cassan looked up from his own bowl, filling in for the still chewing Larry. “Or what we call a lough.”

He glanced at Ivar. “What’s this river called?”

“I believe it’s called the Caragh,” the priest said.

Cassan nodded. “The lake is pinched into two sections as the middle of the lake is girdled by steep hills. We traveled game trails along those hills to a point where we could overlook the upper part of the valley. It’s much wider there and a smaller river—the upper Caragh?—drains that larger area of the valley into the lake.”

“Thanks for cooking,” Larry said, handing his empty bowl to Tamatu. He turned to face his men and refugees gathered around the cook fire. “I’m thinking it would be best to move to the lake and camp on a small peninsula where the lake narrows and cuts through the hills that Cassan mentioned. That's a good place to hold the sheep and pigs. It’s a couple of miles.” He paused and stretched is arm toward the sun. “Or how long to walk a hand of time. We'll camp there a couple of days while me and the uninjured drag Seabird up the rest of this river.” He glanced toward the water and snorted. “Or this oversized creek.”

Several of the men laughed.

“There’s a bit of a shortcut over a small pass just south-east of here,” Larry said. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Ivar said, standing. “It’s the Lord’s day.”

Larry turned and, with hands on his hips, glared at the young priest, wishing he’d left him back at Deirdre’s farmstead to greet the raiders. “I’m sure your fucking Northmen and Ur Neill will spend the day in prayer instead of following our sorry asses.”

“Actually,” Matuso said in a neutral voice, “it may be a good idea to rest a day. Hatimu’s leg is acting up. And we could pack what we’d need for the hike to the valley and leave the rest in Seabird.”

Larry blew out a long breath and looked around. The refugees whispered among themselves but most of his men just stood, faces open. Both groups looked exhausted. On the opposite side of the cook fire, Hatimu looked down, biting his lip. “We could all use a rest,” Larry said finally. “And repacking is a good idea, given our rush to leave Deirdre’s farmstead. Leave what we don’t need for the next several days in Seabird. It won’t add that much weight.”

“Is the valley inhabited?” Ivar asked.

“Didn’t see any smoke. And no cultivated land.”

“What of crops?” Deidre asked, nodding to the stew in her bowl. “It’s late in the year. The sun has already passed its highest point.”

“What do you care?” From the other side of the fire circle, Anya shifted her son, Conal, to her right breast, the flickering shadows of the firelight animating a small half-moon birthmark above the infant’s right ear. “You never get your soft hands dirty.”

“Shut up, whore.” Deirdre stood, dropping her empty bowl on the ground.

“I’m a whore because your father would rather sard me than your mother.” Both Anya’s eyebrows and chin rose.

“So you consider yourself more desirable?” Deirdre’s shoulders drew back as she took in a deep breath, thrusting out her smaller chest.

“Yes, but that is not the reason that he played with me,” Anya said. “Your father liked the sheep, also.”

Deirdre screamed as she stepped toward Anya. Larry shifted to block her way, feeling her bounce off his torso. Clamping one hand on her shoulder, he turned to glare at the laughing men. They quieted.

Stepping close, he whispered to Deidre, “I think you should sit down.”

* * *

“Larry, here.” Larry stepped from the trees into the moonlight at the edge of a small open area on the hill above camp. “I’ll take the next watch.”

“Good,” Matuso said, letting the half drawn sword slip back in place. “The only reason I’m still awake is that it hurts when I fall over.”

Larry moved to Matuso’s side. “Thoughts?”

“I assume you are referring to the young women?” Matuso said. “I do not understand these people. So much anger.”

“Life is hard here.” Larry looked over the moonlit landscape. A flicker of light betrayed their camp in the dark moon shadow of the mountain. Fog softened the indistinct features of the flat lands to the east that stretched out from the bay, which was blocked to the south and north by the mountain ranges that formed each peninsulas. No other lights pierced the night.

“What would Joe say about them?” Larry turned to his young friend, a dark statue in the dim night.

“Father would probably start talking, asking about their hopes and fears,” Matuso said. “And he’d just keep talking until everyone settled down.” A small chuckle escaped. “I will try the same.”

“Do you miss Haven?”

“Yes.” The dark statue moved closer to stand next to Larry. “But these new lands call me. And you?”

“Ever since Sesapa died, Haven’s lost the feeling of home.” Larry shifted his weight. Should he burden his young friend with his problems? His guilt? “Not sure what ‘home’ means anymore.”

“She will live long in our memories. Someday, maybe I’ll find a mate like her.”

Shifting again, Larry looked over to the young warrior. Mid-height and wiry, he took after his father physically. Easy going and friendly, he also matched Joe’s temperament. But unlike his father’s pragmatic indifference to the spiritual, Matuso had taken to Potts and Brent’s Buddhist approach to life.

“Can’t complain.” Larry turned, eyes following the gossamer threads that defined the Caragh River below them. “Got Fergus and Kaylin. And maybe some grandkids if either ever settles down.”

“Hard to settle under the shadow of your legacy.”

“Don’t start that shit. I’m nobody special.” Larry breathed in, trying to dispel the ember of irritation. He only did what had to be done at the time. Never really had a choice.

“I know that personally.” The shadow turned toward Larry. “I have my father’s footsteps to follow.”

Larry sighed as the ember died. Joe had formed Haven out of sheer perseverance. And started a trading empire that now spanned the entire eastern coast of what they had known as North America. And that would have extended to Eire—Ireland in this past-future—if he hadn’t screwed up this trip.

Yeah, it would be difficult to grow up as the son of Haven’s founder. And Larry’s own role might have been less dramatic but legends about him, factual or not, still grew. Maybe his kids did feel pressure to prove themselves. Especially Fergus. Larry had pushed him especially hard—maybe too hard—but that was because he knew what his son would likely face outside the safety of Haven’s lands. “Maybe you’re right.”

Chapter 7

July 12

Larry opened his eyes only to see dim branches and leaves. Closing them, he tried to sort recent memories. Which were worse, the nightmares or his day realities?

Crawling out of his sleeping blankets and skins, he cursed his joints and wondered if some of the trees along the river were willows. They kind of looked like willows. If so, maybe Matuso could brew him up something for the ache.

As Larry stood, he scanned the camp. Matuso stooped by the fire ring, prodding last night’s embers.

As Larry approached the cook fire, Matuso looked up. “Something hot?” The younger man leaned toward the fire and grabbed a pot. “The ladies collected some herbs yesterday that make an acceptable tea. I think at least one is a member of the mint family.” Matuso looked around at the slumbering camp. “It may be awhile before we organize food.”

“No, I want to get the Seabird ready for rock climbing.” Larry looked over the camp. Most of his men and the refugees were no more than hide covered lumps scattered around the small clearing. “Maybe even start dragging it upriver while Ivar does whatever he does on a Sunday. Gonna be a bitch. Gets more rocky the closer we get to the lake. I'll eat after we get that little project going.” Adjusting his sword belt, Larry headed toward the trampled trail leading to the river. “I’ll be on the ship. Or chopping logs to roll that damned boat over the shallows. Send down the able-bodied as they wake.”

* * *

Matuso watched Larry head toward the Seabird. The big man started limping just before he disappeared down the trail. He added another hunk of broken wood to the fire. There was plenty; the men had made a show of chopping up a fallen tree and the debris from the path. Probably to impress Deirdre and Anya. Matuso let out a small snort. In spite of their attitudes, they were attractive young ladies. And with her breasts swollen with milk, Anya even drew covert glances from Larry.

But would he have a better attitude if he’d grown up in the violence of this society? Shaking his head, Matuso stood and walked to a pile of bags and baskets sheltered by one of the Seabird’s sails. Favoring his injured left arm, he searched through the assorted contents.

“May I help?” a small voice asked. Anya stood at his side, her baby hidden in a blanket tied over her shoulder.

“Yes, please.” Matuso shifted to his left. “I’m looking for the grinding stones and the grains. We used up the last of the ground wheat and rye for last night's meal.”

Anya’s eyebrows wrinkled together. “That’s women’s work.” Under the layer of dirt and ash, her skin appeared smooth.

“Feeding one’s tribe is a honor for both men and women.” He forced a neutral expression. He wasn’t a fresh flower, but she stank. “How is Conal? I think I heard you say that was his name.”

Anya’s face split into a wide smile. “He is well. And tired from a long suckle.” She shifted the blanket and pulled at her blouse. “My teats are very sore.”

Tightening his jaw and exhaling through his nose, Matuso forced his eyes to one of the leather bags. “Here are the grinding stones.” He shifted his eyes to hers. “Can you find the grain please?”

By the time they had started grinding grain for porridge, most of the men had rolled up sleeping skins and blankets and, after long glances in Matuso and Anya’s direction, had joined Larry at the ship. The sounds of axes biting into wood, grunting men, and Larry’s curses carried up from the river and over the sound of stone on stone. Matuso fed grain onto the bottom stone as Anya pushed the top stone back and forth with both hands. His heart pounded in his ears in time to the swaying breasts that threatened to escape her mended shift.

* * *

With the hazy sun near high, Larry strode up the trampled path from the river into camp. Across the clearing, most of the refugees milled about Ivar, several breaking away to walk toward the cook fire in the center of the clearing. To the left, Deirdre sat on her blanket looking miserable, her mouth and eyebrows pinched. Her own moving eyes caught his and held them for several heartbeats before she looked down.

Squatting next to the cook fire, Anya handed out clay bowls of porridge to a growing crowd of men and the first of the refugees. Feeding wood to the flames, Hatimu sat next to her, his bandaged left leg stretched out along the rocks that contained the flames.

Larry stopped for a moment, observing that neither Deirdre nor Anya had joined in Ivar’s Sunday ceremonies. As he reached Anya, he took his bowl. Turning away, he noticed Deirdre's empty hands. Larry turned to face Anya again. “Can I please have another bowl for Deirdre?”

Anya froze, her hand hovering over an empty bowl. After a long moment, she filled it, added a spoon to the bowl, and held both up to Larry.

“Thanks Anya,” Larry said, noting the tightened muscles around her mouth. He walked over to Deirdre and handed one of the bowls to the silent woman. He lowered himself to the ground and started eating from the second. As he chewed the thick gruel, he wondered if it had been a mistake to take these two under his protection.

After slurping up the last of the porridge, Larry turned to Deirdre. “Can I take your bowl?”

She stared at him, mouth open. After a few breaths, she closed it and held out her empty vessel.

Larry took it and walked to the fire where Anya was serving Matuso. As he handed the empty bowls to Hatimu, Fennore joined him, balancing several empty bowls. “How was your food?” Larry asked. “Did you get enough to eat?” He helped her set the bowls next to Hatimu.

“Yes, Honorable…” She bit her lip, and then smiled. “Yes, Larry.”

“That’s good. Is everything well with you and your family?”

“My father and mother are scared.”

“Well, they need not be. Not while I am here.”

“It is said that you will leave soon.”

Larry blew out a breath. “Yes, we will leave for our home someday. But we will make sure that you are safe before we do so.”

“Where is your home?”

“Many days sailing to the west.”

Fennore looked away for a moment. Then stared back at him again. “Why is your skin dark?”

“My mother cooked me too long.”

Fennore’s mouth opened then closed.

Larry laughed and tousled her hair. “No. My father had dark skin. So I do also.”

She matched his laugh and ran back to her family.

Larry stood and looked around, eyes stopping briefly at each of his men. Several moved closer. “We still have half a day of light. Let’s get a start on moving the Seabird,” he said, looking toward the sun, even more of a blur as darker clouds sped across the sky. “We may get some rain. But given how I smell, that would probably be a good thing.” A couple of the men laughed. Several of the refugees squinted in puzzlement. From the edge of the clearing, Deirdre continued staring.

“We may have a problem with food,” Larry said. The men stopped their chatter. “Keelin?” He looked at the elder refugee woman who now had a full bowl in her gnarled hands. “Can you show us what wild plants are edible?” he asked.

She nodded, a small smile lifting the edges of her mouth.

“Matuso and Cassan, can you go with Keelin?” Larry said, looking at Ros’ son.

Cassan frowned. After several seconds under Larry’s steady gaze, he turned and walked away to the edge of the trees.

Larry followed to where Cassan stood staring at the darkness within the trees. “What’s wrong?”

Cassan turned to Larry, face red. “Am I a girl that picks weeds in the forest?”

Larry drew in a long breath. Let it out and concentrated on relaxing his muscles. “Look, we need Keelin’s knowledge, and I would appreciate it if you protected and assisted her.” Larry felt the weight on his shoulders press a bit harder but tried not to let it show. In this culture, many teenagers were probably already training to be warriors. “Food is everyone’s problem.”

Cassan remained silent, but his face softened as his gaze shifted back to nowhere.

“Look, back in Haven, the most important person is Kristi.” Larry let out a chuckle. “Some say she’s a goddess. But she’s just a smart woman.”

“Women belong on the farm. Men go to war.”

“War is for those not smart enough to learn how to get along.”

Cassan turned. “You fight.”

“Only when there is no other choice. I’d like to think that all people are part of the same family.”

“Others are evil.”

“Both sides in any argument say the same thing.” Larry took in a long breath. “But yes, sometimes one side has an evil leader. But I really believe that all people are basically good.” He let the air out. "Sometimes, they’re too stupid to live."

In the dim light, Cassan’s shoulders drooped.

“Look,” Larry said. “I’ll switch off with you. Acceptable?”

Cassan turned and cracked a small smile in the dappled light.

* * *

Using only his right hand, Matuso pulled his pack from underneath the sheltering sail. Stifling a yawn, he turned back to the camp. In the center of the clearing, Hatimu sat by the cook fire, adding wood to the glowing embers. To the right, Larry waved his hands at several of the men. Matuso watched as two of them moved into the trees surrounding their camp. Around the perimeter of their camp, people were laying out ground skins and blankets. Matuso smiled. Habits were easily formed; everyone chose the same spots as they had on the previous night.

Hefting his pack with his right hand, Matuso walked to his place between Deirdre and Anya. Kicking away a few smaller rocks he’d missed the previous evening, he dropped his belongings and, one handed, started to pull out a sleeping skin and his blanket.

“May I help?” Anya appeared at this side.

“Yes,” Matuso said. “I just need help spreading this out. I’ll be able to finish on my own.” He stumbled over the Eire words as she grabbed one edge of the skin and pulled it taunt. “Thanks. Are you doing well?”

“I am alive. My son is alive.” The campfire illuminated only part of her face as she looked at Matuso. “But my distant home is only a dim memory. The only memories I have are those of being a slave to her,” Anya nodded in the direction of Deirdre, “and a plaything to her father. Father Ivar says that the man-god Jesus wants us to love our enemies.” Anya continued to stare past Matuso. “But I don’t understand why this Jesus would allow me to be used in that way. I was only a child when my family was sold to Deirdre’s household.”

“I don’t believe in gods.” Matuso watched her head rise. The whites of her eyes flashed small reflections of the fire. “Life is suffering. All we can do is live our lives so that it is more bearable for everyone.”

“I suffer because of Deirdre and her family.”

“It is not dishonorable to dislike her actions.” Matuso watched the firelight illuminate her clenched jaw. “She is blind to your suffering. I will try to help her see.”

Anya did not respond and the gleam of her eyes vanished as she looked away.

“We are captives to the voices in our heads. They tell stories but those stories are not always true.”

“Where do the false stories come from?” Anya’s eyes again reflected fire.

“Some believe they are from devils or evil spirits. But I think they come from our fears. Fears fed by our former experiences or sensations. Some good, some bad.”

“My experiences are all bad.”

“Your child is good,” Matuso said. He hoped it was so. What else could she value?

A small frown flashed across Anya’s face as she turned. “I must attend to Conal.”

As Matuso turned back to his pack, he noticed Deirdre glancing away and busying herself with her blanket. Wetting his lips, Matuso unbuckled his sword belt, dropped it on his bedding and walked to Deirdre. “How are you?” he asked.

“Are you impressed with that sarding cow?” Deirdre removed a pin from her hair and shook it free.

“She’s just trying to survive.” Matuso wet his lips again. “She’s frightened for herself and her child. Were those her parents back at your farmstead?”

Deirdre turned her face away from the direction of the fire. After several breaths, she faced Matuso, her forehead and eyes reflecting red. “She’s just a slave.”

“She’s a slave because evil men took her away from her home. Just like those raiders were taking you.”

Deirdre did not answer.

“Put yourself in her position,” Matuso said.

“The priests of the new god say that slaves deserve their fate because of their past evil.”

“Anya says she was brought here as a slave when she was a child.” Matuso caught a small tightening of Deirdre’s jaw muscles. “Punishing children is not the action of a just god.”

Deirdre did not answer. She lay on her skin and pulled her blanket over her head.

Matuso walked back to his bedding. Beyond, Anya and Conal were lumps under their own blanket.

Chapter 8

July 13

Lifting the edge of his sling to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Matuso sighed. Other than a few breaks to update his map, they had spent most of the day hiking along the sides of the mountains, past the lake, along the upper Caragh River, and into the thick vegetation of a broadening valley.

Larry had taken most of the uninjured men to finish dragging the Seabird up the lower Caragh River to the lake, leaving the rest to lead the refugees overland. But before leaving he’d asked Matuso and Ivar to scout out the valley. Matuso wondered if dragging the heavy boat up the rocky sections of the shallow river wouldn’t be easier than forcing their way through virgin forest and brush.

“This area looks like it had once been cleared,” he said as they broke into a more open area of waist-high grasses and small bushes that stretched over an area several hundred strides wide, bounded on two sides by thick trees. Breaks in the trees hinted at other possible fields to the west. Leaning posts defined the south side. A large pool in the Caragh formed the northern boundary.

“Old farmstead. Needs to be burned off.” Ivar pointed to a mound of thick weeds a few strides away. “A decayed home. In another few years, it won’t even be visible.”

“Where did they go?”

“Possibly illness.” The young priest turned in place as he scanned the area. “Or they just gave up. There is a large abbey to the east. Called Innisfallen. Maybe two or three days slow walk. They may have moved there.”

Matuso whipped his head around to stare at Ivar. “What clan allegiance?”

“Ur Briain, which Larry said was the clan of his father. And the Abbot has Ur Neill blood from his mother, which is a weaker connection.” Ivar stared to the east for several heartbeats. “But allegiances change with the whims of the pretender kings.”

“What do you mean by pretender?”

“Several clans claim kingship by history and by arms.” A weak smile curved Ivar’s mouth. “Some even claim to be Christian, to worship the true God.” He shrugged, his smile fading. “But they all fight. And kill.”

“I met some of your Christians in Iceland.” Matuso clasped Ivar on the shoulder. “I was not moved by their beliefs. Most of us follow the path of Buddha.”

“Who is this Buddha?”

“A man who lived in a far land a long time ago.” Matuso gave Ivar another squeeze before letting go. “He preached moderation and service.”

“You said most. What about the few?”

Matuso paused. Did he even want to get into this? “My people were in the midst of a war when five people of great knowledge appeared from a long journey to save them. Some believe that one of them, Kristi, is a goddess.”

“Who were the other four?”

Matuso let a laugh escape. “One is my father. Another is Larry. Not gods unless gods shit and bleed.”

“Your father?” Ivar looked confused. “You are of noble birth?”

“Not noble birth.” Matuso started to laugh again. Stopped. “It’s actually a burden.” He looked at his companion. “No, it is more of a curse.” Odd that he would voice his fears to this strange priest.

Ivar stared, his face blank of expression. Waiting.

“It is hard to be the son of the most famous man in all of Haven.” Matuso forced in a deep breath. Briefly closed his eyes as he let it out.

Ivar remained still.

“Expectations are very high. I love my parents, but I sometimes wish they were not so famous.” Matuso wondered if his Eire was getting his meaning across. And whether he should even be trying.

“That is not a problem I have.” The edges of Ivar’s mouth lifted briefly before turning down. “But I have seen it in the sons of powerful men. I followed a different path. The path of the man-god Jesus. Maybe because I am not strong with a sword?” He stood a hand width shorter than Matuso, with a thin frame, now slumped, and a face covered by a wispy beard.

“The sword is not the only measure of a man.” Matuso watched Ivar’s face tighten. The man had his own ghosts.

“So who worships this Kristi?”

“Only a few. Larry and the others just respect her for her skills.”

“Larry is a powerful man. But I agree that he is not a god.” Ivar stood straighter, his chest expanding. “It would be an honor to tell you of the holy man-god Jesus who lived life among us before returning to heaven.”

Matuso noted the eagerness flash across Ivar’s face. He was a kind man. And not deserving of insults. “Thank you, but not today.”

Ivar nodded, but he kept his posture erect. “I heard talk that you traveled from the west. That, I do not understand.”

“There are many lands to the west.” Matuso hoped the relief in the change of subject did not show. “But they are a very long journey away. And travel on the ocean is dangerous.”

“Even here, the local salt waters can be treacherous. Even more so when the Northmen sail upon it.”

“Did they raid here before?”

“This is the first time in this part of our island. We only used to hear tales of their attacks. And recent news tells of their alliances with pretender kings.”

“What of the attack on Jarl Ros? The invaders wore the sign of two lions facing each other. And they appeared to be supported by your Northmen in ships.”

“That is the herald of the Ur Neill, a powerful clan from the north.” Ivar’s mouth tightened. “A clan of one of the pretender kings, although their claim goes further back in time than many others. I suspect that they allied with one of the Northmen groups.”

“Other than the abbey, are there any other large villages or farms near here?”

“I have not heard of any in this valley. But there are settlements to the north and east of here.” Ivar stared nowhere for several heartbeats. “I serve the church through the Abbot. He has much power and is responsible for the people in this region. Perhaps I should discuss my superior with Larry?”

“He would want any information about anyone with influence in this region. You say your Abbot is east of here?”

“Beyond those mountains.” Ivar pointed east.

Matuso’s eyes followed Ivar’s outstretched hand. The main part of the valley appeared to run south, following the river to its headwaters but it bulged east to meet the eastern mountains. These broke apart in a set of small hills that defined the valley’s northeastern boundary.

“We have sufficient supplies.” Matuso pointed northeast. “I think we should see if there are any passes through those hills that could lead to your abbey.”

Chapter 9

July 14

“Ouch.” Matuso slapped the side of his head as he turned to face uphill. A pinecone fell and bounced at his feet.

Howls of laughter echoed between the steep sides of the mountains that flanked the lake. Forty strides up the hill, two forms rose from behind boulders, shaking off dusty tunics and dropping pine branches.

“Good thing you aren’t a deer,” Nanisu said, wiping his eyes. “Or you would be dinner.”

“If I was your dinner, I’d make sure you choked.” Forcing a smile, Matuso readjusted his left arm in his sling.

“You’d be too tough anyway,” Hallur added between wheezing breaths.

“Why is Larry posting guards?” Matuso asked.

“Actually, we’re looking for you.” Nanisu skidded down the slope. “We want to know why you skipped out on moving the refugees and them shitting animals to the lake.”

“Plus we hadn’t expected you to be gone overnight,” Hallur added, sliding to a stop next to Nanisu.

“We did take supplies.”

“We know. But Larry was worried. Scouts reported more warships in the bay.” Nanisu turned and pointed along the lake. “We’re down there.” The low surrounding mountains pinched an oval of land almost across the lake, nearly cutting it in two. A wispy plume of smoke rising from this small peninsula identified their new camp.

* * *

“Where is everyone?” Matuso frowned as he broke from the thick brush that divided the virgin forest of the lower hillside from the tall grasses that covered most of the spit of land.

Less than forty strides in front of him, a collection of lean-tos covered in grasses surrounded the cook fire where Hatimu sat, the young warrior’s injured leg again stretched out along the rock fire ring. Keelin, the elder refugee women, turned a spit with a large roast of deer on it, from which fragrant drops of fat fell. Matuso’s stomach grumbled in spite of his aversion to meat.

“I’d guess most of the men not on sentry duty are still dragging the Seabird upriver,” Hallur said, emerging from the brush behind Matuso. “We left them to find you. They still had a few more stretches of shallow water to deal with.” Hallur snorted. “I suppose I should thank you, given that I’m on dry ground instead of slogging through cold water up to my knees.”

“The women are out foraging for edibles,” Hatimu said as Matuso approached the fire. “The children are searching for dry wood.”

At the sound of cracking branches, Matuso turned. The two older refugee children emerged from the bushes, grinning as they dragged dead branches longer than they were tall. One of them dropped his load and pointed.

Matuso turned in the direction of the child’s arm. Out in the lake, dim in the shadow of the mountain, a ship skimmed toward them. Three oars on each side dipped and pulled in time. A figure stood at the prow.

As the ship approached the shoreline next to their camp, the man in the prow became Larry, his face cracked by a broad smile.

* * *

“Come on.” Signaling to the young priest, Matuso walked away from the men drinking Hatimu’s weak tea. “We both need a bit of a wash.”

At the water’s edge, Matuso untied his boots and stripped off his shirt. The breeze had cooled with the setting sun and he shivered as he splashed the cold mountain water over his face and chest. Untying the bandage around his left bicep he examined the red scar in the dim light. The cold water initially stung the tender flesh, but he sighed as the sweat and oil rinsed away. Maybe after another week he could start exercising it.

“I am confused by your bathing.” Ivar sat on the shore, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Exposing the body to too much water causes sickness.”

Matuso leaned down and, with both hands, soaked his hair. “We will need to talk about disease theory.” Pulling off his boots and rolling up his leggings, he edged his way into knee-deep water, his numb toes feeling their way through the dark water. Leaning over, he dunked his entire head. Gasping, he straightened and laughed. “Ivar, I’ve been meaning to bring this up, but you Eirefolk stink.”

As Matuso rinsed out his shirt, he pretended not to notice Ivar splashing water on his face at the lake’s edge.

Shivering in the night air, and with his damp shirt hanging over his shoulder, Matuso joined the line for the evening porridge. “What ingredients do we have tonight?” he asked as Hatimu filled a clay bowl. Beside him, Keelin squatted, sawing at the dripping roast with her knife.

“Keelin and Cassan came back with thick roots that she said were from the original cultivated fields. Also some wild onions and pot herbs to add to the grains.” The Haven warrior pushed the ladle deep and added more thick gruel to Matuso’s bowl. “Anya added some shoots. I haven’t a clue what they are. Chewed a few. Seemed okay.”

Keelin frowned when Matuso didn’t stop for a cut of the deer haunch. “No thanks,” he said, trying a smile to alleviate her expression.

“People say that some Christian monks do not eat meat. Are you a monk?” Raising an eyebrow at Matuso, Keelin turned the sizzling haunch by jabbing it with the sharp end of a green branch and using it to lever the roast a quarter turn.

“No.” Matuso hesitated. “But my beliefs do not include the eating of animals and fowl.”

“I have no restriction against meat,” Ivar said, appearing at Matuso’s side. “Except for those days proscribed by the church.”

Matuso caught a faint expression of puzzlement on Ivar’s face before the young priest looked down to accept a slice of the dripping meat from Keelin.

* * *

As Matuso lowered himself into the ring of men and refugees around the cook fire, he felt Larry’s eyes following his every move.

“What’s your assessment of the valley?” Larry spoke in English. The Havenite men looked up, eyes on Matuso.

“All appears quiet,” Matuso said, continuing in English. “My companion thinks there’s a abbey to the east, beyond the mountains. On an island in the middle of a lake.” Matuso nodded in Ivar’s direction. “The reason for staying overnight was to check out a pass to the northeast of the valley.”

“Danger?” Larry asked, sticking to English.

“No recent sign of passage through the lower passes. From a bald hill, we could make out a river cutting through the forest from the west to the north. Probably flows from the abbey’s lake to the estuary. We could see smoke near the river. Probably a farmstead. I’d guess it’s about halfway.”

“Sounds like your Bald Hill is a good lookout point. But is there anything suspicious in the valley?”

“On the way back, we did see faint smoke in the hills at the southwest side of the valley. Almost missed it.” Matuso noticed several refugee women looking at him with furrowed brows. Marcan, who had helped row the Seabird across the lake and now sat with them, leaned close to Gatanu. Gatanu whispered in the farmer’s ear.

“The valley is rich,” Matuso said, continuing in Eire. “We saw signs of former habitation. Some fields showed several years of wild growth.” The women’s faces brightened.

“Any reason not to move there?” Larry stood and walked to the cook fire. Keelin smiled up at the big man and plopped another thick slice of deer into his bowl.

“No. The river continues at the upper end of the lake. We should be able to take the Seabird up it about a mile, about a half-hand’s width walk, before shallow rapids block it. That’s where the abandoned homestead is located.”

With a groan, Larry sat back down and looked around. “So tomorrow, we pack up and check out Matuso’s new home. It’s not too far from the bay. But we’d need to establish a lookout, probably on that mountain to the west. The one between here and the bay. It was visible from Ros’s peninsula and while we were sailing.” He looked west before turning to Cassan. “What is that mountain called?” Larry pointed to the peak, a rounded peak a bit north of the setting sun.

The youth shook his head.

“Sui Finn, we call it,” Marcan said. “Named after an old warrior hero who is said to be buried there. I've never been to the top.”

“Well, you may get the chance to join us,” Larry said.

Matuso noted that the man puffed up a bit at being included.

“Got a name for this place we are going to?” Gatanu asked. “Assuming it works out?”

No one spoke for several minutes.

“Sanctuary.” Matuso looked around at the weary men and hopeful refugees. “Seems appropriate.”

“And the Lord provided for his people,” Ivar said.

“Don’t know about your lord,” Larry said, a slight growl in his voice. “But I thank you and Matuso for scouting it out.”

* * *

Larry watched as the last of his men slipped away from the dimming light of the dying cook fire and into the dark with their blankets and skins. The families had already laid their bedrolls close together, kids next to their mothers. Both Deirdre and Anya kept themselves separated from the other women and each other. The two slave women, Maeve and Niam, had formed a temporary family, although Larry suspected that the attention of the men would soon change that. He’d ask Gatanu and Matuso to keep an eye on the Icelanders who had grown up with casual access to slave women. Ivar and Marcan still sat in the fire circle, talking low together. Ivar’s companion got up and walked into the shadows. Probably to piss.

Ivar stood and walked around the dying fire.

“I would talk with you, sir,” Ivar said, stopping in front of Larry.

“Sit, you are blocking the light.” Larry gestured to the ground at his right. He didn’t know yet how to regard the young priest. Seemed harmless enough.

A spark exploded in the remains of the fire followed by a sharp intake of breath at Larry’s side. “What troubles you?”

“I believe that Innisfallen Abbey lies a few days’ journey to the west of here.”

“Matuso mentioned that. And?” Larry said after a moment’s silence.

“It is expected that newcomers present themselves to the Abbot for his blessing.”

Larry turned to his companion. “What if we don’t need his blessing?”

Silence followed, broken only by another puff of sparks and a small explosion from the fire.

“The Abbot also serves to protect his flock. A tithe is expected for this service.”

“Maybe we’ll just leave once my ship returns.” In the dim light, Larry allowed his eyes to roll. He’d been expecting some sort of foolishness from this man. But this didn’t sound too crazy. Easy enough to ignore.

After another long silence, Ivar continued. “There is also the matter of payment to Fillen, the man you sent away. For the loss of his wife.” Ivar’s voice sped up. “Compensation is required for the loss of property.”

Larry closed his eyes. Crazy after all. “His compensation is that I did not kill him.” Opening his eyes, Larry shifted to face Ivar. “No one is property of another person.” Larry allowed himself a smile, proud that he had not lost his temper.

“A woman is the vassal of a man. She belongs to her father. Then she belongs to her husband.”

Larry put his hand on Ivar’s shoulder. Squeezed. Watched Ivar’s face stiffened in pain. He squeezed harder. “Men exist to protect women. Not to own them.” He let go. “We follow Haven’s rules no matter where we go.”

Larry stood, allowing the rising anger to banish the pain in his knees. He looked down at Ivar. “Never insult the memory of my dead wife by calling her a possession.” His pulse pounding in his ears, Larry turned to seek solace in the darkness.

Chapter 10

July 15

Larry leaned into the rudder and smiled as the steeper mountains framing the southern section of the lake passed. The crisscrossing game trails along the upper reaches of the heather covered western slopes stood out like minute spider webs. Towering oaks dominated the mid-slopes while ash, pine, and willow crowding the lake shoreline. After a half hand of time, the land flattened to form a large bowl framed by even more distant hills and peaks. Hopefully a safe land.

Looking over the loaded ship, Larry’s smile widened as six oars dipped and pulled to the rhythm of the clapping hands of Matuso and the kids. They had gotten over their fear of the Havenites through a combination of full bellies and smiles. He signaled Garvan to move to stern and help with the steering oar. The girl—Fennore—lost her smile as she watched the slightly older boy make his way through the passengers, animals, and cargo.

“Fennore, you, too.” Larry shifted further aft, one gnarled hand always on the worn wood. “Garvan, show her how to hold the steering arm,” he added as he saw the flicker of a frown flash across the boy’s face.

With extra hands at the steering pole and the former slaves Maeve and Niam now helping Matuso clap, it was only minutes before Seabird entered the mouth of the wide but shallow upper Caragh River that fed the lake. “Keep rowing,” Larry said. “We have the width. The river must be sixty paces wide. But keep a watch on the bottom.”

At the bow, Matuso nodded before returning his attention to the clear water of the river. As they moved upstream, the banks overflowed with alder and willows. Birds erupted from bushes and insects buzzed then quieted. Beneath them, silver flashes darted between the rocks.

In a quarter mile, the ship scraped the bottom. “How far to the abandoned farmstead?” Larry asked Matuso.

“Less than a half-mile.”

“Stow the oars except the two shortest. Use them to pole.” Larry nodded to Gatanu and Nanisu. “You two ashore, shields and swords. Pace us from the banks.”

After another quarter mile, the Seabird scraped bottom continuously. “Men out with rope and start pulling.” He turned to Garvan and Fennore. “Thanks for helping. The men will guide the ship.”

The two kids returned to their seats, where Fennore’s gaze bounced between the landscape and Larry.

As they passed a small island, the river bent sharply left to reveal a long stretch of shallow rapids and large boulders, Ivar called out “This is the old farmstead.”

Waving, Nanisu appeared in the overgrown field to the right.

As the men pulled the Seabird against the right bank, Larry secured the rudder. “Everyone on shore. And get them shitting sheep and pigs off the ship.”

Several men slipped into the water to help the women exit Seabird as the two older kids scrambled over the sides on their own. Even the sheep started bleating in anticipation of release from their version of a floating hell.

“Matuso, set out guards.” Larry paused to look around, catching each person’s eye in turn. “Everyone else, let’s finish unloading. Then look around but stay within earshot. Meet back in an hour. One hand of time.”

* * *

A shrill whistle cut through the misty drizzle as Matuso unrolled his sleeping skin, and covered his pack with it. After placing rocks at the edges to keep the wind from exposing his belongings to the weather, he stood and looked around.

The injured Hatimu sat next to the cook fire, and Deirdre’s copper pot steamed in the cool air. Hide covered piles of belongings dotted the trampled clearing, which was now filling with Havenites and refugees. Chasing a loop made from a sapling while keeping it upright with sticks, Garvan and Fennore wove in and out of the assembled adults trailed by their younger siblings

Another blast of Larry’s whistle, and the kids stopped their play to join the adults milling about Hatimu and his cook fire.

“Here’s the plan,” Larry said, his eyes sweeping the gathering. “Except for those on guard duty, the men will work on a temporary shelter for the women and kids. Hopefully, you'll get it built by tonight.” He turned to the women who, except for Deirdre, stood around Keelin. “Can you scout the fields? See if there’s anything edible growing.”

Matuso heard Deirdre’s snort at his side. As Larry turned to face her, she shrank back, her lips a thin line.

“Gatanu and Fistav, you take a hike to that pass Matuso found. That spot he called Bald Hill.” Larry stopped to glance upward at the dripping clouds. “Forget it, you won’t see anything. But Cassan, you and me will take a walk and try to figure out the source of that smoke that Ivar and Matuso saw yesterday.”

As the crowd broke up, Matuso turned to Deirdre. “How are you doing?

She stared back at him for several breaths. “I’ve lost everything.” She looked down. “I have no male family member to protect me.” She turned to look at the rest of the women walking in a line across the overgrown fields. “Unless you count Anya’s son. My half-brother.”

“We will protect you.”

“Until you leave.” She turned to face Matuso, her eyes spearing into his.

Matuso broke eye contact. True. Larry’s plan was only to survive until Stormchaser’s return.

“Now I’m just one more mouth to feed.” She turned and walked into the forest surrounding the abandoned field.

Matuso watched her until she disappeared. Then he turned to join the men constructing the women’s shelter.

* * *

As Larry hiked away from the derelict farmstead, he looked back to see Deirdre moving out of the forest onto the overgrown field to the east. She walked in a back and forth pattern, scanning the ground. Hopefully looking for edibles. He’d have to deal with her attitude if time didn’t take care of it.

“She’s lost.” Cassan followed Larry’s eyes. “In one day, her whole life turned to shit.”

Larry halted and stared at his companion. The boy—almost a man—had said, or shown, nothing of his feelings about his family since they'd escaped from his father’s farmstead. Or nothing but a faraway look when he thought he was unnoticed. “It is hard to lose your life.” Larry squared his shoulders. He knew that all too well.

Cassan turned slowly and met Larry’s eyes. The youth nodded and forced a small sad smile.

“Best find that smoke,” Larry said, turning to stomp through the tall grasses. Behind, he heard Cassan’s footsteps following. Game trails wove through trees and brush, skirting outcrops of stone.

After an hour of slogging through tall grass and thick brush, Larry veered off to climb a small rocky hill. From its summit, maybe three or four hundred feet high, he could see a small stream to the south-southeast that tumbled down from the eastern mountains and formed a shallow valley within the larger one. No smoke or signs of habitation broke the rugged landscape.

“What is that?” Cassan pointed southwest, along the stream.

Cupping his hand over his eyes to shield them more from the misty rain than the feeble light, Larry squinted. “What are you seeing?”

“Just an odd pattern of growth.” Cassan moved to Larry’s side. “Squat down.”

As Larry did so, Cassan held his arm and outstretched finger. “Sight down my arm.”

Larry followed the finger. Along the stream, a clump of uniform color betrayed itself. “Looks planted. Let’s work our way closer.”

Moving with care, they worked their way up the broken rock of the ridge that defined the east side of the stream’s drainage. Below them, the outcrop merged into stubby trees that lined the small, rocky stream. Across it and upstream, several shapeless low clumps of green, broken by points of color, interrupted the expanse of wind-bent trees.

“Disguised vegetable plots?” Cassan didn’t bother to point.

“Yeah.” Larry scanned the small valley. The trees grew shorter and farther apart as the ground rose. Except for a thicket of trees above the vegetable garden. “Those trees beyond the plots. With all those game trails.”

“Those are not game trails.”

“I think you’re right. Let’s approach it from upstream.” Larry turned left and eyed the rough ground along the broken ridge. “Lousy walking.”

Another half hour of scrambling brought them to a position slightly upstream of the plots of green. As they peered from behind a clump of berry-covered bushes, the suspicious thicket of trees became just several trees surrounded by interwoven branches covered with vines. Several trails radiated outwards.

“We’re going to scare the shit out of whoever is in there.” Larry loosened the sword in his scabbard.

“Maybe.” A voice spoke in Eire from behind them.

Larry twisted around, sword half-drawn. He froze. A thin woman in a dusty, hooded cloak stood behind a low boulder a few dozen strides away. One hand curled around a short bow. The other trembled with the strain of pulling back the bowstring loaded with a metal-tipped arrow, its fletching ragged with partially missing vanes.

“Good morning, my lady.” Larry slid the sword back into its sheath. The bow was small, not much more than a stride and a half long, but at this range could still drive that tip through his leather vest and deep into his chest.

“Good manners in a warrior.” The woman raised an eyebrow, adding creases to her wind burned skin. “Whom do you serve?”

“I serve no man of this land.” Larry moved his hands away from his sheathed sword. At his side, he could make out Cassan’s hands rising.

“Whom do you serve?” The woman’s eyebrows narrowed.

“I serve the council of Haven.” Larry held his hands higher. “Haven is four weeks journey by boat to the west.”

“Elders say that only monsters live to the west.” Her eyes swept over his body. “Unless monsters have the appearance of men. With dark skin.”

“The only monsters I have met are human.” Larry’s eyes shifted, noting that several tears in her cloak had been mended with precise stitches. Red hair peeked from under her hood and leather shoes wrapped up around slender ankles. “Are you a monster?”

She pulled the bowstring back another finger width.

“We came to this land to trade.” Larry lowered his hands out in front of him. Better to lose a hand blocking an arrow than to have it puncture a lung. “We were attacked by men with a herald showing two lions and a hand.” Moving slowly, he turned to point back to camp with one hand. The other he kept toward the woman. “We came to this valley seeking shelter and safety. We also have a dozen refugees fleeing from those same men.”

The woman let out a long breath. Her right hand lessened the tension on the bowstring. “That is the symbol of the Ur Neill.” Her eyebrows once again narrowed. “Why would they raid this far south?”

“I do not know. I am unfamiliar with the politics of Eire.”

“Eire. An old name. Why do you call it that?”

Larry took in a breath. Now was not the time to get into his history. He exhaled. “We have prophecies that called this land so.”

“Prophecies are just lies dressed up in magic.” She turned slightly, the arrow now pointing to Cassan. “You appear to be of this land. Where?”

“I am Cassan, son of the Jarl Ros Suilman.” Cassan paused for several breaths before nodded toward Larry. “I voyaged with Larry to one of the lands in the west. On our return we found the Ur Neills at my father’s homestead. I do not know what has happened to my parents. My sister has been taken captive.” His voice cracked. “Another farmstead, a day's walk to the east, was also attacked. Those attackers we killed.”

“Are you a servant of the man-god Jesus?” The woman’s body language stiffened as she added tension to the bowstring.

“My family has allegiance to the abbey on the Island.”

The woman hissed and drew the arrow back an additional hand’s breath.

“But I no longer follow the foreign Jesus.” The words rushed from Cassan. “And my friend,” he turned to Larry, “follows prophets named Buddha and Potts.”

Larry moved sideways blocking Cassan from the woman. “What is your allegiance?”

“I have no allegiance. I serve the land and the people.” Her face slumped. “Or I did until the Abbot’s men destroyed our farmstead.”

Larry watched as the woman’s confident demeanor collapsed. The bow remained drawn but her arm shook with fatigue. “Did you live in the ruined farmstead near the end of this stream?”

The woman nodded. “What are your plans?”

“We wish to live in peace. We have no other plans except to protect any women and kids in our care.” Larry fixed on the woman’s eyes. He could feel the woman’s fear through her bravado. “Will you accept our protection?”

“I will accept your presence.” The arrow point lowered. “My name is Teltina. Please keep your people from this part of the valley. You may go now.”

Chapter 11

July 18

Larry tugged at his trousers as he re-entered the camp. Latrines. He'd better work on latrines. The areas set off for shitting were getting full and becoming odorous. He killed a frown as Garvan looked his way. Wearing a smile he didn’t feel, Larry walked toward the cook fire where Hatimu sat stirring breakfast in Deirdre’s copper pot. Larry’s weak smile faded as the sight of the pot triggered memories of their fight at Ros’s farmstead. And Stormdancer’s flight, which took their supplies—including all their cooking gear—and most of the trade goods. Samatu and the others simply had to have made it back to Iceland.

Matuso appeared at Larry’s side. “What’s the schedule?”

“Probably to continue clearing one of the fields. And weeding around whatever looks edible.”

“What about the sheep? They’re starting to roam. Haven’t a clue where the pigs are.”

“Probably ought to fence in another field for the sheep. The hell with the pigs. I don’t see them leaving the valley.” Larry stopped and looked northwest. “Maybe take a break and hike up to the lookout on Sui Finn and work on the shelter up there. Also, we need to take up wood for signal fires.”

“Nice break.”

Larry turned to note Matuso’s upturned eyebrow. “It rains too much. Gotta have a shelter up there.”

“Two weeks is the minimum,” Matuso said. “No way Stormchaser will be back before then.”

“Yeah, but we still gotta keep an eye open for those fucking Northmen.” Larry forced a smile. “And their Ur Neill buddies. Who’s up on Sui Finn now?”

“Fistav. Cassan left to relieve him before sunrise. A couple of hours ago. So we should have an update any time now.”

“Hopefully it’s quiet on the bay.” Larry bent to accept a bowl of porridge from Hatimu. “Cassan’s a good kid. Still working with him on the bow?”

“About an hour a day on the longbow with target arrows. His muscles are getting stronger. Probably should have him start exercising left-handed to keep his spine straight. We need to start making real arrows.” Matuso turned toward the rising sun. “What of the east pass? From Bald Hill, scouts don’t see much but isolated smoke plumes out in the eastern lands.”

“Points will be a problem. Haven’t seen any rock worth knapping. Need to fix up a forge.” Larry turned and gazed toward the low mountains, really not much more than hills that framed the eastern skyline. The sun felt warm on his face but the clouds were moving in. “Let’s keep the pass manned another week. It’s a rough trail and apparently unused, but there are people on the other side.” He visualized the terrain, the already low mountains tumbling to rocky outcrops. “After we get whatever looks like crops established, let’s start clearing paths. In case we need to move fast.”

Matuso laughed. “Before or after we build a shelter for the men?”

Larry ignored him and glanced around the cook fire. Most of the refugees were eating their breakfast of boiled grains, a few of the Havenites among them. He smiled at the kids whose faces broke into wide grins. He’d miss them when they left.

The older girl, Fennore, held up her bowl with her left hand. Her right patted her stomach, a wide grin stretching her face.

Larry returned her grin. Yes, he would definitely miss them.

After Hatimu handed Larry a steaming mug of herbal tea, he sat, suppressing a groan as his knees protested. “Think you can brew up something for the knees from the willows?” he asked as Matuso joined him.

“Will do,” Matuso said. “I’ll also ask the women if they know of any local herbs for the joints. And speaking of women, I haven’t heard anything about or from Teltina. Think she’s still in the valley?”

“We’ve stayed out of her little stream’s drainage. No reason to think she’s gone. It’s only been a few days.”

“Cassan told me she looked pretty experienced with that bow.”

“Yeah and she's good looking also,” Larry said. He glanced at Matuso’s smirk. “What?”

Matuso’s smile faded. “So why do you think the abbey destroyed her farmstead?”

“No idea.” Larry gazed around the camp. “But maybe someone here might know.” He waved at Ivar. The man looked around before pointing to his own chest. Larry nodded and waved him over. “He’s been silent whenever someone mentions Teltina’s name.”

“Been meaning to ask you about Teltina,” Larry said as Ivar lowered himself to the ground on the other side of Matuso. “She said that your Abbot destroyed her home here. What do you know of that?”

Ivar glanced at Larry and then stared at the cook fire. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said after a long pause. “It could be that Teltina’s family are Druids. The Abbot is very vigilant in suppressing the old pagan ways.”

“And what ways are those?” Larry willed his jaws to unclench.

“They practice sorcery and offer human sacrifice to false gods.”

“You know this for a fact?” Larry closed his eyes, forcing his breath in and out.

“So it is said.”

Larry opened his eyes and inspected the priest. Ivar continued to stare at the fire. His boyish beard contrasted with his dark sunken eyes. “Do you believe that?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“The Abbot is a holy man.” Ivar’s voice pitched higher than normal.

Larry watched as the young man bit his lip. “We were ambushed at Ros’s by a bunch of Ur Neill. One of them wore a cross. I would say that you Christians kill your share of people. And sacrifice innocents as you worship gold and plunder.”

* * *

Larry squatted at the side of the Caragh River and splashed water over his face. The cold water stung but removed at least some of the sweat and grime of the day, reminding him that he should build a sweat lodge. But a splash would be all he could manage for this day’s dinner. There’d be soap when Stormchaser returned. His stomach sank as possibilities flooded his mind. Crossing the ocean was risky. And with Stormchaser undermanned, it would only be more so. He shook his head and banished those dark thoughts.

He stood. The river gurgled by, providing a peaceful, even idyllic, scene. Upstream, the Caragh broke through boulders half the size of a man, boulders so close together that one could almost hop from one to another to cross. On the banks, gnarled oaks leaned over the water, waiting their turn to topple. Downstream, the longboat rocked in sync with both the water and a light wind. If not for the ship and the collection of huts not more than fifty strides to his right, this could be virgin land, unspoiled by man and his petty concerns.

Raised voices brought him back to now. He turned to find Garvan running his way.

“Fistav is back.” The boy stopped halfway and pointed back to the center of Sanctuary.

Larry blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and moved into a jog.

At the cook fire, men milled around Fistav. As Larry approached, they parted and Fistav turned to face him. “There are ships in the estuary.” The warrior paused to gulp a mug of tea. “At least I saw two objects about the size and shape of longboats. It’s not a good view from Bald Hill and the distance is great.”

Larry stopped, the temporary peace of the river fading as he took in Fistav’s anxious face. And the matching faces of the other men.

Chapter 12

July 19

Larry jerked and slapped his belt as a bird exploded out of a bush along the trail. His fingers only found his knife. Maybe he should have carried his sword. Ahead, the small stream cut through a miniature valley of rock and scattered gnarled trees as it flowed from the southeast mountains. Mountains. He grimaced. Would he ever see real mountains again? It had been over two decades—and a thousand years in the future—since he’d followed Joe into the Montana mountains and into a new life. A good life that had ended when Sesapa died.

Memories of his wife avalanched through his thoughts. Sesapa’s shy smile when he helped her with the clay for her pottery. Her laughter at his attempts to shape a bowl. Her soft sighs when they made love. Their shared pride at the birth of Fergus and then Kaylin. Then…her death.

He released a deep sigh. All he had left were memories. And a son and a daughter. Heaviness pulled at him. How was Kaylin? He hadn’t seen her in two years. Maybe married. He could even be a grandfather. And was Fergus still in Iceland? What would his son do once Stormchaser returned to Iceland? If his ship made it.

Larry shook himself. ‘Be here now,’ Potts would have said. Ahead, the thick copse of trees came into view. “Hello,” Larry said in a loud voice. “Teltina, I wish to talk.” He stood still for several breaths as his eyes scanned the terrain. No movement except for the taller trees swaying barely a hand's width in the light wind. Larry kicked a rock as he resumed walking. Then another. No way did he want to surprise a lady who carried a well-used bow. He slowed as he approached the thicket of vines that formed a fence around the copse. Almost invisible from a distance, it appeared to provide some protection, at least from animals.

Shouting out another greeting, Larry stopped and turned in place. Maybe she had moved on. He shrugged as disappointment pulsed though him. She was just a crazy woman with a bow.

Movement distracted his musing. A small boy, maybe ten or twelve years old, appeared from behind a boulder. His head was large for his scrawny body but his eyes were a bright green and his skin sun-darkened but clear. He stood, posture erect.

“Hello,” Larry said.

The boy brought his hands to his face. Fingers flew, moving from eyes to ears, ending pointing to his chest. He appeared clean, his clothes mended with tight, neat stitches. Familiar stitches. Larry touched his chest, his eye and pointed to the boy. He just stood there. Larry drew in a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, his right forefinger brushing his knife sheath. Words weren’t working. Neither were gestures. Hands moving in slow motion, Larry unfastened the sheath. Slipping the knife out, he stepped forward and placed both on a flat rock that protruded from the ground between them. Moving backwards, Larry pointed to the knife and then to the boy.

His eyes flicking between the knife and Larry, the boy moved forward one step. Another step.

Larry backed up another few paces, his gaze never leaving the youth.

The boy’s eyes widened as he picked up the knife and sheath. After a moment, his face reddened. He looked toward Larry, eyebrows narrowed. After several breaths, he slipped the knife into its sheath. He then lifted an object from around his neck with his free hand and placed it on the rock. With eyebrows high, he stepped back.

“Go ahead. Rory gives you a gift in return.”

Startled, Larry twisted to see Teltina standing behind him, an unstrung bow in her hand.

Larry moved toward the boy and, on reaching the rock, picked up a copper disk as big as his thumb. It was strung on a leather thong. Turning it over in his hand, he found three slashes impressed into in the metal. He lifted it over his head but the leather loop settled on his head. Too small.

“Allow me to help,” Teltina said from Larry’s side. He hadn’t heard her approach.

The brush of small fingers burned his hands as they took the amulet and leather chord. In a moment, the copper disk appeared before him as her hands lifted it over his head. A shiver ran down his back, as her fingers re-fastened the thong behind his neck.

“This is the Druidic symbol for male, female and the balance of the two. We call it Awen.” Her hands broke contact.

The boy stepped closer, one hand palm up and cupped. The other hand, still holding the knife, pointed to his mouth.

“Rory wants to know if you would like a cup of tea.” Teltina moved to the boy’s side and gazed at Larry with one raised eyebrow.

* * *

Larry looked around the small clearing hidden within the copse of trees. He sat on a three-legged stool under one of three thatched open-sided shelters that surrounded the main wattle and daub hut. Two worn paths led out of the living area through the surrounding trees, which shed a steady pattern of drips from the light Eire drizzle.

He loosened his jacket. At his feet, a small cook fire heated a copper pot that hung from iron stakes. Teltina perched on a second stool, humming an indistinct melody as she picked through a small basket of dried herbs. On a small flat rock next to the fire, four clay cups rested, each the size of her fist. Her fingers crushed the herbs into each cup. Her dark rust-colored hair fell on her right shoulder, leaving the soft curve of her bare neck.

Larry glanced at the four cups and swallowed a question. He and Teltina appeared to be alone, Rory having disappeared as Teltina lead Larry to her home.

“Your people have avoided this part of the valley. Why are you here now?” Teltina’s voice sounded over the pounding of Larry’s pulse in his ears as she turned to stare at him.

Taking a deep breath, Larry returned her gaze. “I just wanted to talk.” A warmth not from the fire spread through him as he saw the ends of her mouth turn up.

She turned her attention to the now steaming copper pot and ladled hot water into each of the clay cups.

“Agnes, come out and meet our new neighbor.” Teltina glanced toward the open doorway of the hut as she handed Larry one of the cups. “Wait a few breaths for the herbs to steep.”

From the doorway in the hut, a young girl emerged. Maybe six years old. A thick braid of red hair lighter than Teltina’s hung over one shoulder. She wore a tunic of coarse fiber—flax?—that hung to her knees. Shoes of leather laced around her legs halfway to the tunic. She glanced at Teltina before approaching Larry.

“It is my honor.” Agnes lowered her head.

“I am Larry.” Larry set his cup on the ground, stood and held out his hand.

Agnes put her small hand in Larry’s.

He folded his hand around hers and gave it one small shake as he dipped his head. “It is also my honor to meet you.” As he let go, Agnes rewarded Larry with a smile, eyes peering up from beneath a lowered head.

Larry tensed as a shape appeared on the path that led towards the western mountains.

“It’s Rory.” Teltina stood, laying a hand on Larry’s shoulder.

Heat radiated from her touch. Larry’s skin cooled as she withdrew her hand. He took a deep breath. “Hi, Rory.”

The boy smiled and held up a large rabbit with brown hair, white underbelly, and small ears. Rory’s other had held the bow that had surprised Larry a few days prior.

“You just caught that?” Larry asked, pointing to the dead rabbit. Maybe he’d get to stay for dinner?

Smiling, Rory circled a finger and shook his head.

Looking from Rory to Agnes, Larry decided not to ask.

“He caught it in a snare,” Teltina said. “He carries the bow in case a fox disputes his claim.” She paused, a smile softening her angular face. “These are my children.” Teltina’s smile faded as she returned to the boiling water and filled the remaining cups. “My husband was executed by the Abbot four years ago. Rory witnessed his father’s death and hasn’t spoken since.”

Larry stared as Teltina placed the copper pot on a nearby flat stone. After a long pause, he remembered to breathe. “I’m sorry.”

He returned to his seat and retrieved his cup. Taking a sip to avoid thought, his mouth exploded with a bitter flavor. Swishing the hot liquid around in his mouth, he found the taste both refreshing and a reminder that he hadn’t been cleaning his teeth recently. As he drank, Teltina served the herbal mixture to the two kids, her face neutral, broken by a brief smile as each took their cup.

“Ah…” he started. Could he even ask, given the history of her husband? Her eyebrows lifted as she tilted her head in his direction. “Last evening, my scouts reported two Northmen ships entering the estuary.” Larry took another sip of herbal tea. A bit astringent but it left a pleasant, minty aftertaste. “I’m worried they may go up the river Laune to Lough Leane. The people along that river and the abbey could be in danger.”

Teltina turned her head east, eyes unfocused. “The enemies of my enemies are not my friends.”

Larry winced. “The lives of women and kids are at stake. The refugees with us are not sure of how many there are and where they live.” Larry sighed as Teltina’s face hardened. “I’m thinking I should warn them. I just need to know where and how many.”

“Women and children jeered as my husband burned.” She held up one hand, her fingers twisting. The two kids stood instantly and walked into the dark hut.

“You may go now.” Teltina’s eyes remained unfocused.

Chapter 13

July 15

Samatu shifted on the hard wood that served as a seat on Stormchaser and closed the logbook. He slipped the wristwatch back into its smooth protective fabric pouch and returned it to its box. He closed the container and secured the latch before stowing it and the navigation logbook in a compartment under his seat. “By my longitude and latitude calculations, we should be close. Could be minutes to a few hours,” he said, directing his attention to the gnarled old man working on the damaged port planks. A blood stained cloth wound around his head let only a few strands of gray hair escape.

“Good.” Torben met Samatu’s gaze. “These top planks won’t make it through another storm, not even a small one. By Hel, they may not even survive another starboard tack.”

Samatu forced what he hoped was an encouraging smile. Torben’s use of the Haven’s terminology was a rare concession. The old seaman was worried. Samatu stood, holding his left arm with his right. Another chore on arrival would be cleaning and possibly re-stitching the swollen gash in his upper arm. His smile faded as his eyes flicked to the prow where Ramotu lay silent. The infection in the young warrior’s thigh was spreading. Moving to the center of the boat, Samatu joined the bailing efforts of Ligasu and Brynjar. The two men shifted, giving him a better position to make use of his one good arm.

The mindlessness of the rhythmic activity soon allowed memories to surface of their escape from Ros’s farmstead. The frantic rush to set sails. The appearance of the Northmen’s ship at the mouth of the bay. Being rammed as they maneuvered to elude their attacker. With most of their numbers still ashore, they had only barely managed to escape, thanks to the surprise of the two flintlocks. They could only run, leaving most of their companions fighting at the farmstead that Larry said would one day be be a town called Dingle.

Samatu’s mouth tightened at the memories. Deserting the shore party dug at his gut, a reminder of his betrayal of Haven as a youth. And his subsequent disloyalty to his father. Would Haven think this was another betrayal? Would the Sky Goddess?

He watched Torben as the older man fussed with the top planks, his gnarled fingers lacing pitch-soaked rope through newly drilled holes. Yet even the older man had insisted they could only run, with two injuries and a death.

A death. Samatu had seen many. But the necessity of a burial at sea had shaken him. How could they honor Todatu when his body was lost in the endless ocean? Samatu glanced at the dead man’s sea chest. He had written an account of Todatu’s death, his bravery in defending the ship and his fellow warriors. It would be returned to Haven to be added to the Sky Goddess’s Hall of Memories.

A sharp intake of breath at Samatu’s side brought him out of his musings.

“Birds,” said Brynjar as he dumped another bucket of water over the side and pointed. “Off to starboard. Maybe a few points forward.”

Samatu nodded at the Icelandic youth as he moved to the stern, slipping his left arm into his shirtfront. With his right, he tugged the line that secured the position of the rudder, allowing his body to force the long wooden arm an inch toward port. He gazed toward the birds circling in the distance, relieved to be close.

And dreading landfall.

Chapter 14

July 15

Fergus tapped the stoneware plug, scowling as it shifted under his fingers. Still, most of the sulphur-filled amphorae had tight seals, and it wouldn’t take long to reseal this one.

“Fergus,” a voice said from outside. High pitched, excited.

His frown deepened. He straightened and maneuvered around the knee-high pots toward the door. Blinking, he stepped into the stark, midday Icelandic sunlight to find Ari hopping from foot to foot.

“A ship just rounded the shallows. From the east,” the youth said. His face still betrayed his excitement at strangers, boats, and far-off lands, even though two of his nine years had been occasionally spent in the company of Haven sailors. “Come on, you can see it from the tower.” He turned and ran up the hill.

Fergus’s eyebrows narrowed. He expected a boat from Haven but not from the east. Reykjavik being on the southwest shore of Iceland, any ship from home would navigate to hit the island further north. Once safely along the coast, it would then sail south until it hit the settlement. Navigating directly toward Reykjavik posed the danger of missing the entire island if the ship strayed too far south.

His father was in the east, on the island of Eire. But he wasn’t expected back until early next summer. Unless he had run into trouble. Fergus shivered in the light breeze. He shifted his eyes to the small bay below him. On shore, the Dreamcatcher lay tilted on her side, her lines blurred by the smoke of the pitch pots. Along the nearby pier, two small fishing vessels bobbed with the incoming waves. Maybe he should take one of the fishing boats out to meet the ship?

No, that wouldn’t save much time. The shallows were only a couple miles off. He turned and jogged to catch up to the young Icelandic boy. At the top of the hill he climbed a small tower to join Ari. Fergus’s eyes followed the youngster’s. About two miles off, the silhouette of a knarr cut through the white tipped waves that curved around the point of land that stuck out of the Reykjavik area like a human foot.

“Looks like one of your boats,” Ari said. “Or maybe one from Danmark. But it’s been a long time since a boat has visited from there.”

“I don’t see much activity on deck.” Fergus kept his voice even. He felt a chill in spite of the early afternoon summer sun that hung not much below its maximum azimuth of 50 degrees.

After a few minutes, he laid a hand on Ari’s shoulder. “Thank you for letting me know. I’m going down to the dock.” He dropped his hand and turned to descend the tower’s ladder. As his foot rested on the top rung, he paused and looked at the boy. “Please keep watch. Let me know if anything else appears.”

As the boy’s smile widened and his posture grew straighter, he continued down the ladder.

* * *

The sun had only moved a hand’s width by the time Stormchaser slipped into the harbor. Fergus stood frozen on the narrow pier, watching his father’s ship drift toward him. The sails fell and too few hands gathered up the flaxen cloth into clumsy bundles. On the starboard side, several of the top strakes were cracked, as if from an impact. Fergus felt the chill intensify as two of the faces became Samatu and Torben. Where was his father? He usually stood at the prow, beaming with pride at his wooden vessel, shaped by iron tools that he forged himself.

The remaining three faces resolved into one Icelandic and two Haven sailors. Fergus’s heart hammered in his chest. Stormchaser had left with over two-dozen men. Including his father.

In silence, Samatu threw a line one-handed. A bloody cloth covered his left forearm.

Fergus caught the line and wrapped the hemp rope around a cleat. One of the settlement boys ran behind Fergus to catch a line from the rear of Stormchaser.

“We were attacked by land and sea just after arriving at Ros’s farmstead.” Samatu’s words ran together as he looked directly at Fergus. “Your father and the others were on shore. They retreated into the hills. That was the last I saw of them as a longship attacked us.”

Samatu turned toward a bundle in the prow. “Help me with Ramotu.”

* * *

Fergus redressed the cut on Torben’s head as Ari’s father, the local Godi, bustled around the great room of his sod farmhouse, trying to see to the comfort of the sailors. In spite of his worry, Fergus allowed a smile as Ari’s mother quietly countered her husband’s orders and brought organization to his chaos. He helped resettle Torben on a huge white fur skin, propping the old man’s head on a rolled up woolen blanket as one of the servants handed Torben a steaming mug of broth. The noise in the great room quieted.

From the side of the sleeping Ramotu, Samatu rose, swayed, and sat back down. A mug of birch beer appeared and he took a long drink. Silence ruled the room as he finished the mug. “Since this was our second voyage to Ros’s farmstead, we expected no trouble.” The middle-aged warrior shifted his gaze to Urard, Cassan’s cousin. The two Eire youths had returned to Iceland with Larry after the first visit, both as a good will gesture and to teach the Eire language to the Haven traders.

Urard returned his gaze, jaw clenched with worry.

Samatu closed his eyes. “Yet Larry insisted that six of us remain on Stormchaser as guards.” Samatu opened his eyes and met Fergus’s. “Your father is a cautious man.”

Forcing his face to remain blank, Fergus returned the older man’s gaze. Cautious? Shit, the old man was a danger to himself and his companions. He had always been crazy about training, driving everyone—especially Fergus—hard because of the Far Ones’ fear of the future. But after Mother had died, Larry had withdrawn into his trade voyages. He still had been fanatical about preventing the prophecies, but at least he’d been elsewhere. Now the old fool had got himself and his crew in deep shit and would have to be rescued.

“He and the others went ashore armed and carrying overnight packs,” Samatu continued. “We watched as they marched up the path to the farm building, maybe a half mile. I couldn’t tell if Cassan’s father, Ros Suilman, was there. But no women were visible and I could see that Cassan was looking around as if something was not right. Then some sort of struggle occurred near the farmhouse and everything turned to shit.”

“Armed men appeared from the rear of the farmstead’s main building.” Torben leaned on an elbow, his harsh voice cutting through the whispers. “Others appeared from outbuildings and from the twisted trees to the east. We hoisted sail, ready to cast off.” He slumped back in his makeshift bed.

“Then a smaller group of armed riders swept in between the buildings and the dock, cutting off retreat for Larry and the others.” Samatu again met Fergus’s eyes. “The attackers were not expecting cold steel or Larry’s handgun. But the dog fuckers were of sufficient numbers to drive our shore party out of Ros’s farmstead and into the hills. I did not see any of our men fall.” He looked down. “But the distance was too great to see clearly.”

Samatu glanced at Torben. “We cast off, intending to exit the harbor and to be ready to pace our comrades along the coast.” He took a deep breath, eyes closed once again. As he let his breath out, he opened them. “A longship appeared at the entrance to the harbor. We had the two flintlocks and the bows. We sailed directly toward it, and then veered to starboard. It rammed our port side, but the guns broke their boarding party. We lost Todatu.” He rubbed his right hand over his face.

“We fled. Sailed west out of the bay and stayed offshore overnight. In the morning, we approached land, only to find two longships patrolling.” He looked to Torben. “We had frightened off the first one with the guns. But they now knew we were few in numbers. With two enemy ships guarding the bay and coastline, we decided to return to Iceland.”

At Torben’s nod, Samatu returned his gaze to Fergus. “To repair Stormchaser. And go back.”

Fergus smothered his growing anger. Injured and with their ship damaged, Samatu and Torben could not have accomplished anything by staying in Eire. And there was the watch, their only means of determining longitude. Only three of the devices brought from the future by his father and the other Far Ones still worked. He nodded to Samatu and then gazed nowhere as he calculated the time required for the repair, the number of available warriors, and the provisions that would be needed. No time to alert Haven. And certainly no time to requisition additional weapons.

Weapons. Fergus turned his head in the direction of the damaged ship. Damaged when rammed by the attackers. Images formed in his imagination. “Return we will.”

Movement at the door interrupted any replies. A boy entered.

“A ship,” the youth said. “From the west. Looks like Waverider.”

Chapter 15

July 21

A groan escaped as Larry lowered himself onto the ground. He’d have to build a chair if Stormchaser didn’t show up soon.

Maeve appeared in front of him, steam rising from a clay cup in her hand. “Tea sir? Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“Thanks,” Larry said, giving the ex-slave what he hoped was a friendly smile. The refugees might have been wary of the Havenites, but the former slave women had been terrified. A male warrior was probably no friend to unprotected women on this island.

Larry watched her as she returned to the cook fire to join Hatimu. The Havenites had been religious about daily bathing. They'd even set up a swimming hole just downstream of Sanctuary. Although most of the refugees were slow to adopt this habit, both Maeve and Niam had been less odorous lately, especially since both former slaves had started helping Hatimu with the cooking. Maybe they were even being a bit competitive around the still healing warrior.

Larry sipped the tea and kept his face blank. The taste wasn’t terrible, just not good. Maybe he’d ask Teltina what plants she used? If she would even talk to him. That was one hell of a troubled woman.

His mind drifted to other cook fires. Tended by a different woman on a different continent. He’d felt hollow since Sesapa’s death, finding partial solace only on trading trips.

Larry blew out a long breath. On this last voyage he’d buried one of his friends and abandoned another’s body. He couldn’t even remember how many men he’d killed in the past days. Or even how many days had it been since the ambush at Ros’s. Death was his companion.

Did it follow him or did he follow it?

As Larry sipped again, a voice called his name. He turned to see Gatanu running his way, his sword slapping his thigh. Other heads also turned as the man approached.

He slowed to a stop and stood before Larry. “I’ve just returned from the east pass.” Gatanu leaned over, hands on his knees. He gulped a deep breath and straightened. “When Hallur showed up to relieve me yesterday, we decided to check the view from a rise about a mile from Bald Hill. It's not higher, but it has a better view to the north.”

Niam appeared at Gatanu’s side, holding a cup. He flashed her a quick smile as he took the tea. After gulping half, he looked back to Larry.

“From there, we could see smoke at the mouth of the Laune River. Lots of smoke.” Gatanu turned in place, eyes scanning his attentive audience. “Ivar had said he thought there were several farmsteads at the river’s mouth.” He returned his gaze to Larry. “If so, there’re gone now. I immediately left Hallur to return here but had to hole up at sunset. Been running since dawn.”

“See any ships?” Larry rolled to one side and pushed himself to a standing position.

“Hallur swears he could see a vessel moving up the river. Probably one of the longboats that had moved into the estuary.”

* * *

A shadow crossed Larry’s fingers as they worked grease into the flax threads of his bowstring. He looked up to find Matuso blocking the hazy sun. “I’m just gonna take a look,” Larry said.

Mouth twitching, Matuso looked east. “I’m going also.”

Gatanu and Fistav appeared next to Matuso. “When are we going?” Gatanu asked.

Heart racing, Larry stared at the twisted fiber in his hand. Events were speeding up. A wrong decision could lead to more and more fighting. If they hid out here in the valley, they might be able to stay safe until Stormchaser returned. He lifted his head to inspect the primitive camp they’d called Sanctuary. A couple of huts, several open shelters for equipment, and a cook fire. The refugees stared back at him. He’d hoped to leave them with this beginning of a safe farmstead when Larry and his crew returned to Iceland. Would he be able to do that if the raiders knew of Sanctuary?

“Half the uninjured must remain.” He looked at Gatanu. “You’re exhausted. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Keep someone at the main lookout on Sui Finn mountain. We’ll pick up Hallur on the way.” Larry struggled to his feet, knees aching. “We leave in an hour. Someone check Hallur’s stuff for anything he’ll need. Find Ivar. The rest of you eat, shit, and get your weapons and packs ready. Bows and swords. We’ll be moving too fast for armor.”

* * *

Shifting his shoulders under his pack, Larry inspected his men. Matuso, Nanisu, and Disunu would go with him. Ivar had volunteered to accompany them, but now his eyes darted around like a trapped bird while his hands worried the strap on his pack. Gatanu, Kequit, and Fistav would remain to guard the camp. Hatimu, Tamatu and Sigfus were still recuperating from their injuries. The latter two groups looked unhappy. As would Cassan when he returned from the Sui Finn lookout.

“How many arrows?” Larry asked, fearing the answer.

“We gathered them all. Nanisu and Disunu each have nine. I think Hallur has eight. My left arm is still too weak for a bow so I slipped my last two into your quiver. You now have seven.”

Larry turned at the sound of running feet.

Deirdre broke into the men crowding around Larry, followed by Keelin.

“Anya’s missing,” Deirdre said after pausing for a breath.

“I don’t have time for this,” Larry said, eyes rolling. “Maybe she’s out foraging.”

Deirdre took in a couple of deep breaths. “No, she is gone. Her bedding and Conal are gone too.” She turned to Keelin. “Tell him.”

Keelin glanced around at the armed men. “She told me that she thought the Ur Neill were kin to her clan.” Her eyes bored into Larry’s. “I think she’s gone to find the raiders.”

“What do you care?” Larry stared at Deirdre.

She lowered her eyes. “She may be a whore. But she is the mother of my half-brother.”

“Fuck me.” Larry closed his eyes and tried to sort through options for one that might work. He failed. “We’ll look for her on the way,” he said, opening his eyes. “Just hope she doesn’t run into those Northmen.”

Chapter 16

July 24

“Where is he?” Larry stared at the farmstead. They had marched nearly all day, most of that time spent following a small stream that flowed east out of the pass near Bald Hill. Now, with the sun halfway down the sky, they had come upon this quiet farmstead.

Too quiet. Nanisu had volunteered to scout it out.

Larry blew out a held breath as Nanisu sprinted back across the field to their position. Beyond, the farmstead remained silent in the misty rain.

To Larry’s left, Disunu leaned against a gnarled pine, ignoring clumps of hardened sap, arrow nocked and half drawn. To the right, Hallur crouched behind a thick bush, his own bow held ready. Behind him, Ivar knelt, chewing on his lip, his fingers worrying a string of beads. Next to Ivar, Matuso stood, facing back the way they had come, his head cocked as if listening.

“Empty,” Nanisu said as he came to a stop at Larry’s tree. “Or empty of living bodies.”

Matuso appeared at Larry’s side, handing Nanisu a bow and quiver of arrows. “I thought I heard something,” Matuso said in response to Larry’s narrowed eyebrows. “Probably just a spooked animal.”

“Let’s go.” Larry moved into a jog toward the farmstead, eyes scanning the three outbuildings as he approached the main farmstead building.

Two bodies lay twisted on the ground as he broke from the field and into the cleared area in front of the thatched main hut. An older man lay in a congealing pool of blood; his head cleaved open and spilling brains. At his side, a youth stared upwards with unseeing open eyes. His intestines steamed in the cool air.

“Search the place.” Larry pointed to the outbuildings that surrounded the open area in front of the thatched house. “See if anyone is alive.” In a corral at the north end of the compound, four horses neighed and stomped their hooves while two cows munched on a pile of fodder. “Why are they still there?”

“Ivar,” Disunu called from the doorway of a small circular outbuilding next to the horse corral. “You'd better handle this. It’s a child.” Ivar jerked his head around and broke into a run. Disunu stepped out of the doorway to allow Ivar to enter. “It’s a storehouse for fodder. I saw a small foot sticking out of the hay.” Disunu looked back at the doorway. “It moved.”

Larry entered the smallest structure. Barely more than a roof, it proved to just be large enough to cover a foot diameter hole in the ground. The smell of ammonia and rotting shit barely masked the smell of fresh blood. He looked into the shallow pit and swayed, bile billowing into his throat. Small legs protruded from the muck.

“Fuck,” he said as he grasped the infant’s legs and pulled. The body left the sewage with a soft pop. Leaving the broken body on the ground, Larry vomited into the primitive latrine. After a long minute, he wiped his face, then the face of the dead baby. And froze. Larry collapsed to his knees, screaming. Images old and new flooded his mind. Blood and bodies.

“Larry,” a voice called. A hand grasped his shoulder. Someone knelt besides Larry.

“It’s Conal,” Larry said, his voice now a rasping whisper. “Birthmark above his right ear.”

“I’ll take care of him.” Matuso lifted the broken infant and disappeared.

* * *

“How many?” Larry stood in front of the latrine shelter, forcing himself to breathe evenly, slowly.

“Fifteen to twenty by the tracks.” Disunu said. “Skid marks indicate a boat about the size of Seabird. Only left two or three hours ago.”

“Any sign of Anya?”

“No other bodies.” Nanisu pointed to the main hut. “From the sleeping bundles, I figure maybe six adults and four or five children. Probably taken as slaves.”

“I think they’re coming back here.” Larry straightened. “They left fodder with the horses and cows. Didn’t take the blacksmithing anvil or tools.” They weren’t much. Poorly made. But iron was scarce here.

“Shall we wait for them?” Matuso’s strained facial muscles twisted his features.

“Ivar,” Larry said, turning to face the storehouse. “Get anything from the girl?”

The priest appeared in the doorway, face pale. “She was in the forest, picking pot herbs when the raiders came. From her descriptions, they were Northmen and Ur Neill. When they left, she hid in the fodder. But not before seeing that they headed upstream. The dead man and boy are her father and brother. Brocc and Ossian. She has a mother and another brother. There are two slaves and a slave infant also. And a stranger. All taken by the raiders.” His face hardened. “Except the stranger’s baby.”

“Does this river go to your abbey?”

“This river flows out of Lough Leane, where the abbey sits on an island.”

At Larry’s nod, Ivar returned to the girl.

“They’ll be cautious when they return,” Larry said. “Disunu, Hallur. Track them. We’ll follow. This river’s not much deeper than the Caragh. They’re going to have to drag that boat somewhere.” He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them. “We’ll kill them at a shallow spot.”

Both men nodded and headed to a path that led east along the river. In a few heartbeats, they disappeared.

Larry turned back to the storehouse. “Ivar, give us a minute to move the bodies. Then take the girl into her home and wait. We’ll be back.”

* * *

At the sound of a low whistle, Larry stopped on the animal trail they’d been following along the river. He only had time for a couple breaths before Hallur appeared ahead of them.

“There’s a bend to the left a few hundred strides upriver,” Hallur said. “An overgrown gravel bar is on this side. They are probably going to manually pull the ship through the rapids there. Disunu stayed to watch.”

“We’ll start with arrows.”

“From both sides?” Hallur asked.

“Best not to split up.” Larry stared east, eyes unfocused. “We’re outnumbered. We'll have to break them with arrows first.”

“With no spare arrows, the men haven’t been practicing,” Matuso said, his right hand worrying the pommel of his sword.

Larry gazed at each man in turn. They depended on him to make the right decision.

Nanisu took a deliberate step forward. “I swore an oath in Haven to protect all women and children.” Eyebrows pinched, he looked in the direction of the raiders’ ship. “Those who kill infants are not men.”

Matuso nodded. “Aim with care.”

One small part of the weight on Larry’s shoulders lifted. He nodded and Hallur turned to jog back the way he had come. Larry followed, his footfalls echoed by Nanisu and Matuso’s lighter ones.

* * *

Larry slipped one foot into the water and leaned forward, lowering his head to look through a gap in the riverside foliage. Fifty strides ahead, a ship similar to Seabird lay in the middle of the river. More than a dozen raiders splashed through the water, pulling lines attached to its prow.

“The river bends sharply to the left.” Disunu’s low voice broke the silence behind Larry. “Very shallow to the right. The small trees and shrubbery in the middle of the river are actually a shallow island. The bend and the island extend for several hundred strides.”

“Let’s move to the head of the island.” Larry backed out of the river and onto the shore. “It’ll take them several minutes to sort out the drag lines.” He turned his head and faced his men. “Whatever their position, start with the furthest. That will confuse them. Once we run out of arrows, we’ll use swords.”

* * *

Matuso crawled through the thick brush, his left arm aching from the exertion. On either side, the others kept up the pace in spite of being hampered by their long bows. A flash of silver marked a fleeing fish as he entered the small channel between the island and the shore. To his right, Larry and Disunu entered the water, making use of the more open spaces and keeping about ten strides apart. To his left, Nanisu and Hallur readjusted their relative positions. Once on the island, movement slowed. Twisted roots and river boulders impeded progress. As he approached the opposite side of the overgrown gravel bar, Matuso moved into a crouch and shifted his head to peer between two bushes. Four towlines fanned out in front of the raiders’ ship. Four men, naked except for trousers and a weapons belt, held each line. Swords and axes. Matuso smiled. No armor.

On either side of the ship, a guard stood at the gunwale, each holding a short bow and wearing a quiver. At the stern, one raider manned the steering oar. A fourth stood at the prow, also holding a bow. The head of a fifth appeared and then disappeared.

A low whistle came from the right. Matuso turned to see Larry kneeling, his bow upright. Low whistles confirmed the others were ready. “Ship first,” Larry screamed as he stood.

A breath later the arrows flew, their whistling through the air both softer and shriller than the human signals. On the ship, the bowman in the prow crumpled, an arrow sprouting from his chest. The man at the steering oar lurched, losing his balance, and fell out of sight. The other two men in the ship disappeared from view. A second flight of arrows arced in and two of the men furthest away in the water dropped. A third staggered. All the men in the water turned to peer at the foliage on the island as they reached for their swords or axes.

The raiders charged the island as the whistles of another flight of arrows competed with their angry shouts. One fell, two staggered but the remaining dozen warriors maintained their charge toward the island, their screams drowning out those of their wounded comrades. Matuso rose from his crouching position and slogged into the water, seeking space to use his drawn sword.

The fourth volley ripped into the nearest men. Three more of the raiders fell, their screams turning into a gurgle of water. A fourth staggered, just strides from Matuso. He stepped forward, feet scrambling on the rocky river bottom. Another step and Matuso thrust, his sword slipping into the injured man’s belly. The raider dropped, mouth open in a silent cry.

More arrows flew, dropping two more raiders, but one arrow whistled past Matuso’s head, its fletching flashing as it twirled in air. On the ship, two men drew back their arrows but one collapsed, his arrow disappearing into the foam of the rapids. Matuso shifted to the right, engaging another raider and using the attacker’s body as a shield from the remaining bowman in the ship. A parry and Matuso’s sword slid into a bare throat. Blood fountained and the man dropped. Larry appeared to Matuso’s right and his vision filled with the swing of raiders’ axes and swords. More arrows filled the air in both directions.

A body fell to Matuso’s left as he parried an axe from the right. His sword rang, the very bones of his arm vibrating from the blow. As he crouched under his upraised sword, a rock shifted under his right foot. The water smashed into his hip. Then boulders dug into his side and his right hand scraped over rock. Above him a raider, red hair flying and open mouth revealing missing teeth, swung his axe arm over his head. Matuso fumbled to raise his sword as an arrow erupted from the raider’s chest. Unfamiliar fletching. The man crumpled.

Larry rose from the water, an arrow in his left shoulder. He bellowed and swung his sword. Another raider fell.

Silence. From across the river came the sound of breaking branches and fading footsteps.

Matuso drew in gasping breaths as his eyes flicked right and left. At his side, Larry stood, blood seeping down his left side. The bodies of five raiders ringed Matuso and Larry. Two floated on their backs, arrows blossoming from the torsos. Not the long arrows of Haven. Matuso turned. On the island, Teltina stood, bow loaded and drawn back, eyes sweeping the river.

“Nanisu.” Larry choked a cry and slogged upriver. The Haven man floated face down in the water, surrounded by the bodies of three raiders, one with Teltina’s shorter arrow buried in his neck.

A splash came from down river. Matuso turned to see Hallur forcing his way through the rushing water toward the ship. In shallower water, Disunu stood covering him. In a few heartbeats, Hallur reached the boat, grasped the gunwale and pulled himself onboard. He stood, unsheathed his sword and strode to the bow. His sword plunged twice. He turned and made his way to the stern. Twice more his sword plunged.

Hallur waved, grasped the steering oar, and swung the drifting ship into the shallows.

* * *

Larry’s face contorted as Teltina pushed a broken arrow shaft through the meaty part of his upper arm. Blood spurted and ebbed. He grabbed the gunwale with his right hand, stood, and swayed. At the stern, Disunu tugged at a knot that secured the ship in place before picking up his bow and peering into the forest. Near the prow, Matuso laid Nanisu’s body on the forward-most rowing bench.

Six bodies lay squirming at the bottom of the ship. One, a man, had ropes loosely wrapped around his ankles and wrists. It was Fillen, the refugee that Larry had sent away at Deirdre’s farmstead. The other five were women and kids, all tightly bound. Anya was one of the women.

Hallur’s facial muscles strained as he stood over Fillen. “When I climbed aboard, he was lying next to the captives, wrapping rope around his feet.”

“I was taken captive also.” Fillen’s eyes flicked from Larry to Hallur. “These raiders were going to sell me as a slave.”

Still bleeding, Larry took several steps forward and leaned over Anya. His knife flashed and her gag fell away.

“Conal.” Anya sobbed the high-pitched words. “He killed Conal.”

Larry moved his knife to Anya’s hands. “Who killed him?” He forced his voice to remain steady, but the knife shook as he cut through the ropes around Anya’s wrists.

“Fillen.” Anya pointed a shaking arm toward Fillen. “He laughed as he slit my baby’s throat. Then threw him in the shit hole.”

Larry stood, leaving Anya’s legs still bound. He turned to Fillen who crabbed tremor backwards to lean against the gunwale, hands held out in front of him. “You did what?” His shaking body magnified the tremor now in his voice.

“I swear I’m a captive.” Fillen’s entire body shook. “She’s just a slave. Her word is no good.”

“He killed the baby.” A woman next to Anya held up her hands to Disunu’s knife, the remains of a gag hanging around her neck. Bruises darkened her face. Her voice shook. “After he sarded me and her.” She nodded toward Anya.

Blood still seeping from the wound in his left shoulder, Larry stepped closer to Fillen. Forcing concentration over the roaring in his ears, he looked down at the quivering man. As he braced his feet to drive the knife downward, the vision of tiny feet sprouting from sewage stayed his movement. Too easy. He dropped the knife and reached down with his right hand to haul Fillen to his feet by his throat. “My mistake for not killing you earlier.” Bringing up his left hand to join his right, Larry squeezed.

Fillen grabbed Larry’s wrists and strained to pull them from his throat. Silence reigned except for the slash of Disunu’s knife on ropes, Anya’s sobbing, and the frantic shuffling of Fillen’s feet. Long minutes passed. Fillen’s body finally convulsed and sagged.

With a grunt, Larry heaved the lifeless body overboard. The splash silenced Anya’s sobbing and the roar in his ears. He sagged to his knees, shifting to sit on the overlapping planks that made up the ship’s floor. He lowered his face into his right hand. The thrill of killing an asshole faded, leaving a guilt-tinged emptiness—an emptiness deepened by the image of tiny feet emerging from the muck.

As his shoulder continued to bleed, Larry wept.

* * *

Within an hour, the homestead appeared. Larry nodded to Matuso, who grounded the boat and jumped ashore to secure it to a gnarled oak.

Shoulder bandaged by Teltina, Larry helped Disunu carry Nanisu’s body ashore. They carried him to the center of the farming compound where Larry knelt by his fallen friend. Disunu left him to help the others clamber out of the ship. The older woman, maybe in her early thirties, looked around, eyes wide. The young girl burst from the main hut and ran to her. The boy stood still for a moment after departing the ship and then joined them in a sobbing hug. Two younger women stood at a distance, one holding the smallest freed captive and the other rubbing the rope burns on her wrists. Their eyes stayed wide as they watched Brocc’s family mourning.

Larry looked back toward the ship to see Anya staggering as she walked away from the ship, heading to the pit toilet. Teltina joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist for support. Ivar intercepted and guided both of them to the center of the compound. Matuso materialized carrying a small bundle, placed it next to Nanisu’s body, and stepped back a pace. Anya fell to her knees next to Conal’s body. She lifted the cloth from the infant face and collapsed, sobbing.

Larry stood silent until all were gathered around the bodies. “Who are you all?” His low voice competed with the sobbing of Brocc’s family and Anya.

After a long minute, the older woman spoke. “I am Uaine. Wife of Brocc. He and my son Ossian were killed by the raiders.” She took a long shuddering breath. “Thank you for saving my son, Lonan, and protecting my daughter, Evlin.”

Larry looked up at her and nodded. He looked to the two younger women. “And you?”

“They are our—my—slaves,” Uaine said. “My husband and son?”

“They are in the blacksmith shed,” Ivar said. “I have performed Last Rites.”

The woman nodded. “Liaden, wash the bodies.” Uaine looked at the taller of the two slave women.

“You will prepare your own husband’s body.” Larry stared at Uaine. Did he have to go through this shit again? “The slaves are no longer under your control. They are freed.”

Ignoring Uaine’s open mouth, Larry turned to the now freed women. “What are your names?”

Ivar moved to the two women and placed a hand on each’s shoulder. “You are safe with us.”

“I am Liaden, and this is my son, Cian.” The taller woman looked down at the boy holding her hand. She brushed her matted dark blond hair from her face as she looked at Larry. “Thank you.”

Ivar touched the elbow of the other woman. She raised her head, peering at the men through dirty red hair. “Davnat.”

Larry turned around. “Teltina, we must thank you.”

“Teltina?” Uaine said. “I thought you looked familiar.”

Teltina, ignoring Uaine, knelt at Anya’s side and faced Larry. “I am sorry for your fallen friend. I will pray for him.” She looked down. “And for Conal.”

“Pray?” Uaine said in a sharp voice. “I watched the Abbot burn your husband for paganism. I thought you dead. Your prayers will send this man and baby to hell. And you.” She turned to Larry. “Who are you to free my slaves and to travel with a pagan?” Her weathered face burned red as she pinched her eyebrows together.

Larry wiped his face with his trembling right hand. “Teltina, you probably saved our lives. How did you happen to be there?”

“Yesterday morning, Deirdre visited me. She asked about Anya.” Teltina placed a hand on Anya’s shoulder.

Anya turned to stare at Teltina with an open mouth.

“She ran off when I said I had not seen her.” Teltina looked up at Larry. “I decided to follow. But you had gone by the time I arrived at your camp.” She tossed her red hair and shrugged one of her shoulders. “I followed.”

“Anya, can you talk?”

Anya was silent for a long time. Finally, she took in a deep breath and raised herself to her knees, eyes on her dead infant. “I am distant kin with the Ur Neill. I thought they would help me go home. Instead they used me and killed…” Sobs wracked her voice. She collapsed back to the ground.

“This is so fucked.” Larry looked around at his remaining men and the new refugees. “We leave in the morning.” He looked at the two former slaves. “You are welcome to come with us. We will protect you.” He turned to Uaine. “You may go with us. But under our rules. No slaves. And I don’t give a shit about religion.” He shook his head. “Hallur, Disunu, check out the ship. Take anything that’s valuable. Then load it up with fodder and firewood. We’ll burn the damn thing before we leave.” Larry returned his gaze to the newly widowed Uaine. “Stay or leave with us?”

“I’ll seek protection at the abbey. Where my soul will be safe,” she said, glancing at Teltina.

“We leave at first light.” Larry looked at the low sun before fixing his eyes on Uaine. “We will purchase several of your horses and your blacksmithing tools.” She looked away. “Let’s bury the dead,” Larry said, “and say our remembrances. Uaine, any shovels here?”

Chapter 17

July 25

“These people rely on me. And it just gets deeper and deeper.” Larry blew out a long breath as he walked, a coil of rope slung over his uninjured shoulder. “And now Nanisu is dead. And Conal. At this rate, we’ll all be rotting in the ground by winter.”

“We chose to follow you. And you’ve kept most of us safe in circumstances where otherwise all would have perished.” Matuso shifted a shovel to lay a hand on Larry’s right shoulder. “We’d be lost without you.”

“I don’t know.” Larry stopped to look behind them. Liaden and her son walked a few paces back. Cian’s small hand was in her left hand as she led one of the horses. At their heels, Davnat carried a food bag on each shoulder. Behind her, Disunu, burdened with his own leather sack of food, led a second horse laden with folded sailcloth and extra weapons. Hunched under a leather pack filled with iron tools, Ivar led a third horse carrying Anya and a small anvil. Hallur brought up the rear, several coils of rope slung over his shoulder. In the far distance, a black plume of smoke betrayed the burning ship.

They had found a small bag of silver coins in the raiders’ ship. With these, they had bought three of the horses, blacksmithing supplies, and farm implements from Uaine, who acted reluctant to give up anything but seemed quite content to accept the coins. Ivar complained that she profited from the trade.

“We may want to come back for the iron in that ship if the raiders don’t salvage it first.” Larry turned south and resumed walking. “How many arrows did we recover?” he asked as Matuso moved to his side.

“About half,” Matuso said. “And most of the tips from the damaged ones. And all the raiders’ arrows I could find. We might be able to reuse the tips from those.”

After a couple hours of walking and with the sun descending into evening, Larry called a halt. They were all tired, and Anya was starting to bleed between her legs. They gathered in a small meadow cut by a meandering stream.

The animal trail they had been following meandered into the hills ahead, where a break in the forest canopy that hinted at the pass that led into the valley of Sanctuary. At their existing pace, they’d probably have to spend the night on the trail somewhere near that pass, probably at the base of Bald Hill.

Teltina appeared while they rested. She had disappeared as soon as they had started out.

“I don’t detect any threat in the forest,” she said, lowering herself to the ground next to Anya. They spoke in whispers for a few minutes before Teltina put her arm around the young woman.

“How do you know there aren’t any threats?” Larry asked after the two women ended their conversation. He didn’t want to offend this woman, but he needed to know.

“I listened to the birds.” She smiled, her green eyes always moving, watching everything. “Their calls vary. Telling each other their location, calling for mates, or broadcasting threats.” She shifted her foot close and adjusted the lacing on her leather shoes. “There's nothing except a fox.” Once she was satisfied with her shoe, she looked up. “But there’s going to be a problem when Uaine reaches the abbey. The devils who live there did not know that I was still in the area. You will be tainted by my presence.”

Larry met her eyes, feeling a hollowness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel these past years. What a powerful woman. He broke eye contact and gazed into the mountains over her shoulders. “Well, if we’re tainted already, maybe Garvan and Agnes could visit our camp. Play with the kids there?”

Teltina tilted her head a few degrees to the side. After several breaths, she smiled.

* * *

As the thrall set the tankard on the table, Ragnar grasped her wrist. “What is your name?” he asked in Eire.

“Orla.” The young woman kept her eyes down.

“Look at me.” He watched her raise her face, her eyes closed. “You need not fear me.” He nodded as she opened her eyes. “If you are nice to me.” Her mouth tightened into a thin line. He’d seen similar reactions in other women who hadn’t accepted their fate. Still, she was pretty enough.

“You will warm my bed again tonight.”

Orla lowered her head and he let go of her wrist. She turned and scurried back to the brewing barrel. As she covered the vessel with a sheet of leather, the light dimmed. A man blocked the door of the farmhouse.

“What do you want?” Ragnar asked in his own tongue. He sipped at the thin beer. Sour, but at least it was wet.

“The ship Raven has beached. Bringing Gunnarr. He approaches.” The man bowed.

“Any word about our Ur Neill brothers?” Ragnar said.

“Not yet.” The man looked over his shoulder. “I will send a runner to determine when they will arrive.”

Ragnar nodded his dismissal at the man and looked toward Orla. “Bring a second tankard.”

As she placed another tankard on the table, a second figure darkened the doorway.

Ragnar frowned at a bloody cloth wrapped around the man’s right forearm. “Come in, Gunnarr.”

“Shipmaster.” The man entered and bowed, a sharp breath escaping as his right arm moved.

“What news from our fat Abbot?” Ragnar narrowed his eyes at the captain of the coastal longship Water Witch.

“We were attacked.” Gunnarr straightened, his eyes locking on Ragnar’s. “Only I escaped.”

“Sit.” Face tight, Ragnar nodded to the full tankard. “Drink and explain.”

“We had moved to the first rapid. More than halfway up the Laune River at a bend in the river with a wide island to the south.” Gunnarr lifted the tankard to his lips and drank half of its contents, his eyes never leaving his oath master. “At that point, arrows flew. Well placed. Taking out the men on guard.” The injured man set down the tankard and untied a leather bag at his waist. With the trembling fingers of his left hand, he opened it and withdrew an arrow point. “This was cut from my arm.” He pushed it across the table.

Ragnar picked up the metal point and turned toward the cooking fire, where Orla stirred a copper pot. “Bring a candle,” he said in Eire.

He waited as Orla, using a burning twig pulled from the edge of the fire, lit a stubby candle supported in a clay cup and set it in front of Ragnar.

Ragnar held the worked metal behind the small flickering flame, turning it over and over. Although damaged, it was well made. A remaining sharp edge cut cleanly through the end of one of his fingernails.

“Continue.” He sat back and watched Gunnarr as the man described the ambush by unknown assailants, the ensuing battle, and his flight.

“After the strangers floated my ship downriver, I returned to the site of the ambush. The bodies of my men and the Ur Neill men were stripped of valuables. The attackers had retrieved all their arrows but I still had the one in my arm. I followed them. They stopped at the farmstead we had stripped earlier.” He shifted in his chair and met Ragnar’s eyes. “The next morning, they burned Water Witch and walked south into the mountains.”

“Describe them.”

“The men were foreigners. Several were dark skinned. One very dark.” Gunnarr’s eyes unfocused in thought. “One was an Eire woman.”

Ragnar leaned his left elbow on the table. He turned his head and raised his right hand toward Orla. “More beer.” After Orla had refilled their tankards, Ragnar raised an eyebrow to Gunnarr. “You had no orders to sard the locals.”

Lowering his eyes, Gunnarr placed both hands on the table. A twitch in his jaw muscles betrayed the pain in his injured arm.

Ragnar stared at the captain of his lost ship. Not the best man. But not the least. Good fighters were easy to recruit. But men who could command a ship were harder to find. After several breaths, Gunnarr looked up and Ragnar nodded.

“I walked back to our camp at the mouth of the Laune. The master of Raven brought me here after his smith cut the arrow tip out of my arm.”

Ragnar stared for tens of breaths at his subject. Then smiled. “You will live for now.” The smile faded. “The penalty for losing one of my ships is death. But I give you back your life in exchange for the information you brought. But the attack on the farmstead will cost two knuckles. You may choose the finger.”

As Gunnarr took in a quick breath, Ragnar continued. “Go find the piss-taster and have him administer to your arm. I will need that arm in the future. See that you don’t lose any more fingers. Take the beer with you.”

After Gunnarr left, Ragnar looked at the arrow point on the table. Lifting a pouch from within his cloak, he withdrew two other points and placed them next to Gunnarr’s. The workmanship was similar. And all were made of hard iron.

* * *

At the sound of voices, Ragnar stood and walked to the doorway, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. A large group of armed men strode into the open area between the farmstead buildings. Seeing that several of his men accompanied them, he let his hand drop. The newcomers stopped in the middle of the buildings. One man, dressed in chainmail over leather, broke from the group and walked several paces toward Ragnar. Ragnar, hands held slightly away from this torso, stepped from the doorway and matched the man’s number of paces. “Welcome Cormac, son of Neill,” he said in Eire.

“Greetings to Ragnar of the Northmen.” Cormac bowed a few inches, his eyes never breaking Ragnar’s gaze.

“Please release your men to drink and sup.” Ragnar swept his hand around the farmstead. “And join me for the same.”

As Cormac signaled his men, Ragnar re-entered the farmhouse. “Orla, bring beer and prepare food,” he said as the thrall turned from the cook fire. “For two.”

Orla set two tankards on the table as Cormac entered. She looked up and gasped, hands going to her mouth.

“Have you been enjoying my gift?” Cormac grinned at the young woman who now stood on the other side of the cook fire. “Ironic that she now serves you in her father’s former home.”

“She amuses me.” Ragnar’s gaze flicked between Cormac and Orla, remembering the bruises she had worn when the Ur Neill man had gifted her.

“If she starts to bore you, I will take her back for my men.”

“Her cooking pleases me.”

“Then I’m glad she didn’t die along with the rest of her family.” Cormac followed her movements with his eyes. “Doalty saved her for me.” He laughed. “After he enjoyed her.”

“Wasn’t he one of those killed by the strangers?” Ragnar watched Orla as she wiped two platters with a cloth. Her hands shook.

“Yes.” Cormac’s attention shifted from the woman to his tankard and he scowled. “And I will find the men who did it.” He grabbed it with a scarred hand and took a long drink. “We brew better beer in the north.” He looked at Ragnar as he returned the tankard to the table. “I hear you also lost some men?”

Ragnar pointed to the three arrow points in the middle of the table. “I believe two of these are from the attack on your men at this farmstead by strangers over two weeks ago. They are from arrows my men found buried in the walls. The third was given to me by the only survivor of a recent attack on one of my ships, where four of your men died along with over a dozen of mine.”

Pushing the three points around with a finger, Cormac furrowed his brow. “They are identical.” He looked up. “Who are these strangers?”

“I don’t know. The last attack occurred during a joint trip to collect tribute from the abbey on Lake Leane.” Ragnar met Cormac’s gaze. “Has your Abbot switched allegiances? Hired outsiders?”

Cormac snorted, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. “Not possible. The Abbot much prefers gold, beer, and young girls to blood and iron. I control him.”

“Yet someone killed our joint crew and burned my ship. That is not part of our plan.”

“Our pact stands. You get a trading port and enough land to sustain it. I get the rest of southern Munster.” Cormac picked up one of the points, scraping an undamaged edge across the tabletop. It left a finger-width of shaved wood. “But these points suggest that the killers of Doalty are also responsible for the loss of your ship. And for the loss of more of my men.”

“And maybe for the loss of another of my coastal ships. It disappeared the day after the strangers attacked your men here.” River Serpent was one of his smaller vessels but important for the local rivers. Ragnar’s fingers tightened around the tankard.

“If my Abbot is involved in this trouble, then perhaps he needs to be reminded of his place. What is the price of your ship and men?”

“The weight of his head in gold.”

“I won’t stand in your way if you wish to collect.” Cormac flicked the point to the center of the table with a finger. “Just don’t kill the fat fool. He is a kinsman through his mother. He remains useful to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “And to us.”

“There is another issue to resolve before I visit your Abbot,” Ragnar said. “We must move to this side of the peninsula. The northern side is exposed to the winds. The harbor here will protect us from the weather and is more easily defended.”

Cormac nodded. “Agreed. The few farmsteads to the north have been stripped of food and fodder. Even the small monastery is now empty. But this side will also soon be barren unless we obtain more thralls to work the land.”

“Send your men into the interior. We’ll forage along the coast. Both for food and for thralls.” Ragnar gestured for Orla to serve the food and refill the tankards.

“Agreed. I will move my men and cattle here. It will only take a few days.” Cormac’s eyes followed the woman as she placed platters of roasted meat and bread on the table.

“Good. Then I’ll notify my other ships to sail here.” As he drank the rest of his beer, Ragnar watched his ally over the rim of the tankard. He needed this man from the north to secure the countryside while he built up a fortified port. After that, only the gods knew.

Chapter 18

July 31

As Matuso chewed sinew, he positioned the sections of split feather on the shaft of ash. The repetitive actions left his mind open. Open to the images he’d been avoiding since the battle on the Laune River. A shudder rippled through his body. He had attended the injured during the fight at Ros’s and had been wounded early on at the mountain, but the ambush of the Northmen raiders had been his first kills.

He could still feel the jolt as his sword cracked through one raider’s rib cage, the smoothness as it slipped into the belly of another. Other images crowded into his mind as he tied the sinew around the ends of the feathers. Nanisu floating face down in the Laune. Pondusu falling during the fight in the mountains. Bonetu’s death at the Ros farmstead. He’d known two of them since childhood. The third for the past several years. All good men. Now gone.

“I see something,” Garvan said.

Matuso looked up, his hand frozen in the task of wrapping a thin strand of sinew around the fletching. “Be right there.” He wound the saliva-wetted thread another couple of times, looped it to form a single knot and set the arrow on a rock. If his left arm was still too weak to hold a long bow, at least he could still make arrows. He rose, stretched and strode to Garvan’s side at the northwest edge of the stone windbreak at the top of Sui Finn Mountain. The boy pointed west, over the bay, toward the small inlet that led to Ros’s farmstead and the large harbor. Matuso squinted, trying to see movement in the light mist floating on the water. “Your eyes are better than mine. What are you seeing?”

“Just a half finger-width to the left of Ros’s entrance. A sail.” The boy held out his hand.

Matuso stood, peering west. In spite of the sun, a shiver rolled down his back. In the past couple of days, they had seen several ships. But those had hugged the shoreline and sailed directly into Ros’ harbor. This new ship was sailing down the middle of the bay. “If it’s one of ours, it’ll run into the Ur Neill camped at Ros’s.” Matuso turned toward the cook fire in the middle of the windbreak then shifted his view to the pile of firewood and damp weeds. Larry had insisted that the whistle codes could be used for smoke signals.

“I’ll build up the fire,” Matuso said.

* * *

“The contours look correct.” Fergus’s eyes flicked from the chart to the break in the shoreline. “That’s the entrance to Ros’s. No mistaking the cleaved cliff.”

“Do we go in?” Brynjar said as he shifted position, the steering oar under his arm.

Fergus turned his gaze to the steersman. “Let’s sail past the entrance. See what we stir up. Any sight of Waverider?” They had lost sight of Jessie’s ship as Dreamcatcher maneuvered through the islands off the Peninsula.

“They’re still working their way through the islands at the end of the peninsula.” Brynjar looked over his shoulder before returning his eyes to Ros’s harbor entrance.

“Be ready to load the flintlocks,” Fergus said to the crew. He faced the narrow opening to the right of the broken cliff that led to the still hidden harbor. The distinctive cleaved rock face of the cliff matched the simple line drawing copied from Stormchaser’s logbook.

“Fergus.” The voice was low but insistent.

Fergus turned to follow the steersman’s pointing finger. Bracketed by two mountain-ribbed peninsulas, the bay merged into low flat lands far to the east. Brynjar’s finger pointed to a mountain at the far eastern part of the southern peninsula. A puff of smoke grew from one of the peaks. As they watched two others followed.

“Could just be coincidence,” Brynjar said.

“Could be.” Fergus forced himself to breathe as the first wisp of white faded into the blue sky. In minutes, all three disappeared. Grabbing a mast line, he stepped on the gunwale and looked to the west. Sails billowing in the light east wind, Waverider was now visible, only a mile astern.

“More smoke.”

Fergus turned to see another cloud of smoke rise from that same peak. Within a few breaths, a second joined it. In minutes, both disappeared.

He looked down at Brynjar. “Routine signals?”

“One, I’m here. Two, come here. Three, danger.” The steersman raised an eyebrow. “Your father?”

A grin broke Fergus’s face. “Or Matuso.” His friend could be insufferable sometimes, his father always. But any hope that either was alive was welcome.

“We have company,” said one of the crew in a tight voice.

Turning to face the shoreline, Fergus watched as a longboat leapt out of the channel from Ros’s harbor. About a dozen oars on each side powered the narrow war ship. The ship had the look of Torben’s handicraft and, given this timeframe and location, was most likely that of Northmen raiders. Or Vikings as the Far Ones knew them.

Fergus scanned his crew, finding Samatu at the bow, also gazing at the newcomer. The older man twitched and his hands clenched, validating Fergus’s fear. They didn’t have a real plan other than avoiding trouble and finding the abandoned shore party. Well, they found the trouble.

It wasn’t a cargo ship like Dreamcatcher. They couldn’t outrun it. And in a head to head fight, couldn’t defeat it. Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, Fergus looked at the expectant faces of his crew. Father had warned him of this, of the burden of responsibility. But he had never really understood. Until now. “Oars in position but out of the water. Bows and flintlocks ready.”

Samatu broke his gaze and looked over his shoulder. Fergus nodded. The older man, beaten by the Northmen only a few weeks earlier, turned and unknotted the heavy line attached to the ram. A section of a spare mast, maybe four strides long, pivoted from a hinged curved beam tied to the keel. An iron spike decorated the upper end. Two lines restricted any sideways movement of this makeshift arm. A third line, terminating at Samatu’s feet, kept the arm upright. Releasing it would allow the helmet size spike to swing downwards to just below the water line.

Fergus swallowed. The ram, never tested and attached at sea, could only be used once. A smaller fourth line held the spike to the mast section. If impaled in another ship, it could be cut loose, freeing the Dreamcatcher from its target. If it worked.

Fergus stepped down from the gunwale and moved to the steering oar. “Steering,” he said, nodding to Brynjar who shifted forward to an oar station.

“Another ship.” Samatu pointed from the bow. A second Northmen warship slipped out from the narrow channel.

Fergus fought his thoughts as he noted the warships’ speed, the wind direction, and Dreamcatcher’s bearing. He should have a second ram spike. Waverider should also have a ram. And more flintlocks and maybe even one of the cannons being tested back in Haven. But it would have taken at least a month to get either. He shook his head, breathing deep to clear his mind. What would his father say? Probably nothing. Just scream and attack. Not a great option.

“Waverider is running under sail and oars.” Brynjar stood, gazing sternwards.

Fergus’s hands sweated as he grasped the steering oar. Almost too heavy to carry on shore, the long oar-like rudder required enormous strength to move. “Brynjar, help me when I make the turn. It's got to be quick. Then back to your oar.”

“Sail down,” Fergus called. “Oars out.” Eight of the twelve oars thrust out and dipped, the men heaving and pushing from a standing position.

Three of the crew not working the oars lowered the yard, wrapping the sail around it and securing it to the gunwales, and returned to their positions. Usually disconnected from the mast and stored lengthwise, the sail now rested perpendicular to the keel, turning the Dreamcatcher into a cross.

With the sail stowed and with eleven oars in the water, the Dreamcatcher increased speed. Fergus stood, hands squeezing the steering oar, knuckles white. The first warship skimmed over the water, only a hundred strides to port, and would catch up in a few breaths.

“Now.” Fergus screamed and leaned back, he and Brynjar pulling with their entire weight. The bow turned, Dreamcatcher rolled several degrees and a couple of the starboard oars sprayed salt water, the tip of the dismounted mast adding to the shower. When the attackers were a few degrees to starboard and barely forty strides off, Fergus called, “Straighten out.”

Brynjar moved to his oar and, now with twelve oars, Dreamcatcher made a final leap forward. Sweating and straining, Fergus pushed and pulled at the steering oar, anticipating the movements of both ships in the light chop. In the bow, Samatu crouched behind the gunwales, freeing the ram arm release rope when they were twenty strides from the war ship. They could hear the insults and war cries from the warship.

As the warship passed in front of Dreamcatcher’s bow, the ram hit it midship a foot beneath the water line, the crack of wood drowning out the Northmen’s cries of anger and pain. Dreamcatcher lurched, knocking several men to the deck planking. Several of the men on the warship, poised to jump, fell into the water.

As the warship continued past them, the impaled ram pulled at Dreamcatcher’s bow, swinging her close to crush the warship’s stern port oars.

“Stern, reverse. Bow, weapons.” Samatu screamed from the bow as he axed the lines to the impaled ram. The rowers in front of the mast pulled in their oars, fumbled at weapons to meet those Northmen poised to jump.

Gunshots and arrows greeted the first leaping Northman as Dreamcatcher, ram now cut loose, began to back away. Angry faces in the warship’s stern threw grappling hooks, but Samatu danced among the bows and flintlocks, chopping any lines that grabbed at Dreamcatcher. Several axes flew. A man next to Samatu screamed and fell to the deck.

Waverider appeared, cutting across the Northmen’s bow and showering them with a flurry of arrows.

“All oars out. Reverse.” Fergus steadied the steering oar, willing the ship to retreat from the warships. He hazarded a glance at Waverider, now 50 strides away, allowing his hand to point east when their steersman risked a glance in their direction.

As they gained some distance, Fergus swung the stern to starboard, bringing the bow around to the east. “Forward.” They had to withdraw. They couldn’t face the experienced Northmen in a direct clash even if one of their ships was damaged.

As Dreamcatcher responded to the steering oar, Fergus looked over his shoulder. A hundred strides behind, the second warship had shipped oars and drifted closer to the first, now riding low in the water. It probably wouldn’t sink, but the ram had stopped them.

Samatu loaded one of the flintlocks taken from the fallen man and threaded his way among the rowers to Fergus’s side. “He’s dead,” Samatu said in a strained voice. “The keel is cracked and we’re taking water. The impact tangled the line to the ram and ripped off the support.” He sighted down the thick barrel of the flintlock and fired.

As Fergus looked back at the wallowing warships, one of the Northmen staggered and fell. Raised fists and weapons were Fergus’s last image of the attackers.

“Take two men and start bailing.” Tremors shook his body.

As Samatu made his way to the bow, Fergus leaned against the gunwale. “Shit, how did we survive that?”

* * *

Holding the broken shovel, Larry blew out a long breath. He really needed to get a forge together. But first he needed clay and charcoal. Or not. Stormchaser might be back soon. Then they could return to Iceland. He clenched his teeth, thinking of the refugees. The kids.

Voices rose from the growing collection of huts and shelters that made up Sanctuary. Insistent voices. Larry dropped the broken shovel and ran. As he entered the clearing at the center of their little settlement, he saw Garvan kneeling on the ground next to the cook fire. He was surrounded by several of the men, all talking and gesturing.

“What’s going on?” Larry broke through the bodies surrounding Garvan and knelt next to the boy.

“We saw two ships,” the boy said, eyes wide, breaths coming in pants. “Matuso doesn’t think they are Northmen. We signaled. Then Northmen ships came out of Ros’s harbor. Looked like a fight. Matuso sent me to tell you. The first ships we saw escaped those from Ros’s and are heading east in the bay.”

Larry stared at the boy for a few breaths. Ships from Haven? A battle in the bay? They’d seen large warships in the bay the past several days. Warships that Haven’s waddling trading ships had no chance of defeating. “But they got away? How long ago?”

“Yes.” A wide grin stretched Garvan’s face. “As long as it takes for me to run here. Maybe two hands.” The grin faded as he looked northwest toward Sui Finn lookout. “Matuso stayed to keep signaling.”

Standing, Larry looked around, his mind racing. Faces returned his gaze. As if in slow motion, he turned and walked to his lean-to. He tossed supplies into his pack, strapped on his sword, and turned toward Seabird. He needed to get to the lower Caragh. He could only hope the two newcomers turned into it instead of moving up the estuary to the Laune.

He froze in indecision. The ship would cut off five miles. He could almost run that distance faster. But he’d still need to go down the Caragh. On foot. And it would be dark soon. He turned to the watching men. “Two to Sui Finn. Four to row. We’ll take Seabird across the lake. Then hike down the Caragh in the morning. Bring your bedrolls and weapons. Let’s go.”

* * *

The men had dragged Hafgufa onto the beach by the time Ragnar arrived. He took in the gaping hole midway along the port side, maybe a forearm in width. Three strakes destroyed. He forced his jaws to unclench. It could be repaired, but this was the third ship he'd lost. Who or what sarding devils were responsible?

“Shipmaster.” Hafgufa’s captain appeared in front of Ragnar.

“Explain.” He listened as Snorri described his interception of the two knarrs, how one of them had rammed Hafgufa with some device and that the two knarrs had escaped to the east.

“Why didn’t the Lyngbakr pursue?”

“They assisted us. We could have sunk.” Snorri’s eyes peered in the direction of the Lyngbakr, now rowing toward the harbor entrance. “Their captain wanted to inspect our damage first.”

“I will consider his actions later,” Ragnar said. “What caused the damage?”

The trembling man pointed to two large sections of wood lying next the damaged longship. One was the diameter of a mast but only four strides in length, the other a curved piece half as long and trailing ropes from several drilled holes. “We hooked these and towed them here. I believe they held the iron ram. The ram that holed Hafgufa.”

Ragnar gazed at the debris. “Where’s this ram?”

“It is still within the ship.”

Ragnar strode to Hafgufa and hoisted himself aboard. In the dark shadow from the setting sun, a helmet-sized mass of iron lay in the puddled seawater that filled the bottom of the beached ship. Ropes trailed from the open end of the ram and exited through the smashed strakes.

Ragnar squinted. The ram looked like a cooking pot with an axe head forged to its bottom. And with scrap sword blades forged to its sides to tie it to the shaft. He forced his jaw to unclench. Not only did the strangers damage his ship, they also insulted his honor with a weapon made from a kitchen tool.

The damage could be fixed in a few days, given suitable planks. But those would take longer to prepare. Weeks perhaps. He took in a long breath. Plan and adapt.

He continued to stare at the damage as Snorri clambered aboard and stood next him. “Any injuries?” Ragnar said without turning.

“Three men lost and four injured.”

He forced his breath even. These men left their homes and families to follow him. “How?”

“Two men fell overboard when the strangers rammed Hafgufa.” Snorri said. “They wore plate. One died of a strange wound, similar to that of two of the injured men. Arrows injured the other two. I understand Lyngbakr’s men suffered from both types.”

“The strange wound, was there metal?”

“A small iron ball. Soft iron. But the arrow tips are made of a very hard iron.”

Ragnar tightened his fists until his knuckles shone white.

Chapter 19

August 1

The Seabird was just another shadow when Larry opened his eyes. A few birds called out, but whether in alarm or just for the joy of it, he didn’t know. Maybe Teltina would.

He smiled into the dark. Why think of her? He shook her image from his head. There were ships in the bay. Maybe Stormchaser? Light flickered and Larry turned over. A small flame revealed a dark shape. The shadow of a hand moved in front of the dancing yellow tongue. Someone was starting a cook fire. Larry sat up and twisted his torso against the tight aches. A snort escaped as the decades old memories of mattresses and electric lights surfaced. He looked east. A faint glow in the eastern sky hinted at sunrise. He flipped aside his sleeping skin and laced on the boots.

“Should have hot water in a few minutes,” Gatanu said.

Larry stood. The growing eastern glow defined the trees surrounding their camp at the lake’s outlet into the lower Caragh. “I’m heading downriver.”

“You’ll go faster with your belly full and with enough light not to walk into a tree.” Gatanu stood a few strides away and stretched.

“I liked you better when you were young and didn’t talk back.” Larry shook his head in the dim light, remembering the man as a kid. The man who, almost twenty years later, had left his family to follow Larry across the ocean.

* * *

“We’ll climb the mountain.” Fergus looked south at the peak. The double puffs of smoke, occasionally triple, had continued until dusk last evening. But no signals this morning. “I’m still hoping my father or one of his crew made those signals.” The sky was clear, and the rising sun had burned away the morning mist. To the west, some clouds dotted the blue.

“Will those warships pursue?” Brynjar added a handful of twigs to the smoldering cook fire.

Fergus looked at his crew standing around Brynjar. They all had awoken early and already had their bedrolls stored. One man was missing. His body lay in Dreamcatcher. Fergus rubbed his face, fingernails scratching his skin through his thin wispy beard. “Samatu, take charge here.” Fergus turned to the two ships, one moored in the shallow water of the river and the other partially hauled up onto the bank. “I’ll take Brynjar and look for any signs of my father and his crew. And check on our Northman friends.”

At the sound of a snapping branch, they all turned to see Ligasu emerge into the clearing. “Someone’s coming,” he said.

Fergus held up both arms and flashed open his hands, fingers pointing in all directions. The crews melted into the surrounding brush and trees leaving Fergus standing above Brynjar who, after unsheathing his sword and laying it next to the ring of rocks containing the flames, added another handful of twigs to the cook fire. After several more minutes of feeding the flames, Brynjar set up an iron tripod and hung a copper pot filled with water over the flames.

The crash of breaking branches and thudding footfalls turned their heads. Fergus concentrated on his breath, his right hand sliding his sword in and out of its scabbard. A figure broke into the clearing. A large dark man, flush faced and sweat stained, stopped and leaned on his knees, gasping for breath.

“By the Sky Goddess’ teats, I thought it was going to be one of those mythical elephants you used to tell me about when I was a child.” Fergus gave his head one slow shake and then jogged to meet his father. As he stood before Larry, relief gave way to anger. His father was alive and uninjured. And Fergus had lost a man getting here.

“We lost three men.” Larry met Fergus’s gaze with bloodshot eyes.

His father’s words cut through Fergus’s thoughts like a knife. Shit. He helped his father straighten up and clasped his arms around him. “I am so relieved to see you.” And was surprised to realize that he meant it.

Around them, familiar faces entered the clearing.

* * *

“I’m thinking it was just bad luck.” Larry spoke in English, his eyes scanning the men sitting around the cook fire. Only one wounded but a wrapped body lay in Dreamcatcher. “We arrived at Ros’s farmstead just after it had been taken over by the Ur Neill and their Northmen buddies—Northmen being what the Eirefolk call the Vikings in these days. Anyway, a lookout musta seen us.”

“Well, they’re still there,” Fergus said.

“This whole thing is outta control.” Larry poked at the fire with a broken branch. “Best thing to do is get our asses back to Iceland.”

“What of the prophecies?” Jessie asked. “We need access to Europe to stop disease from crossing to Haven and the rest of our continent.”

Larry looked up at Kristi’s son. His father had been from one of the interior tribes, probably the Monongahela, and that had hardened Kristi’s mix of Spanish and Algerian features. But his personality was all Kristi.

“Being dead ain’t gonna help prevent the prophecies.” Larry poked the fire again, sending a few sparks flying over the iron kettle of stew. “But let’s put off worrying about tomorrow. We need a plan for today.”

“Dreamcatcher is too damaged to sail,” Fergus said. “By the time we entered the river, we had as many men bailing as rowing. The bow section of the keel needs to be replaced. Possibly even the entire keel.” He shook his head. “That's a big job and I don’t see much in the way of oaks large enough to supply the wood.”

“Bigger ones in the valley. But the first thing is to hide these ships.” Larry looked over his shoulder at the two knarrs moored in the Caragh. “Or maybe make those raiders think this river is not navigable?”

“Snags?” Jessie stood and walked a few paces toward the river. “A few downed trees in the river just up from the estuary? Make it look blocked. The trick will be to tie them in place without any ropes showing.”

Larry looked around at the two crews, eyes meeting each man’s for a breath before moving on. His stomach roiled at the increased responsibility. He had lost count of how many were stuck in this land of violence. He stood. “Let’s do it. We’ll come back to eat when it’s done. Then we'll decide whether to hide these ships or move ’em to Sanctuary.”

Chapter 22

August 6

“Thank you.” Ivar accepted his bowl of breakfast porridge from Hatimu.

The man smiled back then took an empty bowl from Maeve, their fingers brushing.

Ivar hid a grin as he walked away. The quiet former slave had found a friend in the wounded warrior. Ivar’s mouth turned down. What of his own life? His vows forbid physical relations. He could only look forward to dying as an old man in some dark room in a dark abbey before he claimed the reward of an eternal afterlife. He snorted. If he remained with these heathens, he would probably die young and by the sword. Hopefully quickly. One of the new Havenites—Ivar did not remember his name—waved him over.

“What are your chores for today?” the man asked as Ivar settled on the ground next to the young warrior.

“Check on the sheep. Then weeding.” Ivar shifted to avoid a rock that was cutting into his posterior. “And you?”

“Searching for suitable bow and arrow material this morning,” the man said. “But Fergus wants all of us back by mid-day.”

Ivar set his bowl on the ground. Lowering his head, he clasped his hands together. “Lord, thank you for this day and for this meal.” Feeling his companion’s eyes, he added, “And give your blessing on these people.”

“So who is this Lord?” the man said as Ivar took up the bowl and, with a spoon from the pouch around his waist, stirred it.

“The God who gifted us with the clay for the bowl, the wood for the spoon, and the grain and vegetables for the porridge,” Ivar said, glancing to the man at his side. He only replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you a follower of Buddha? Or Potts?” Ivar asked before taking a spoonful of the thick gruel.

“I just follow our code. Makes me strong as a person and a better member of our local and extended tribe.” The man scraped his bowl with his spoon. “I hear you island people have many gods and goddesses to choose from. And have some belief in life after death. That I find curious.”

“I follow the one God.” Ivar concentrated on his bowl. How could he save souls that didn’t believe in the reality of an afterlife?

“Thank you for herding and weeding.” The man stood. “And I will see you later today.” He walked toward the cleaning station near the cook fire.

Chewing a mouthful of coarse porridge, Ivar wondered what was to happen at mid-day.

* * *

Ivar drew in a sharp breath as two whistles cut through the overcast day. No third. Thank God that it was just a gathering signal. Pushing off from the ground, he stood and stretched. He allowed himself a bit of pride as he looked back on the row of cabbages. Letting his gaze wander, his stomach sank as he saw that Keelin had weeded almost two rows.

He hurried his pace to catch up to her at the small open shelter where they stored their tools. “Lady Keelin, how did you weed so fast?”

“Who are you calling Lady?” The elder refugee beamed at him. “As for weeding, I find that singing helps pass the time. And keeps my fingers plucking at those plants that would diminish my dinner.”

“Do you know what Larry has planned for this afternoon?”

“No. I volunteered to work on this evening’s meal.” Keelin nodded a farewell and walked toward the low structure that the Havenites had built to cover the women’s latrines. Two other ladies—Maeve and Anya—joined her.

As Ivar turned toward the cook fire and his small midday meal, he saw one figure still toiling, bent over and swinging an implement, in the large unused field to the south. Curious, Ivar changed direction and headed toward the man who now stood, inspecting the ground. It was Larry.

Ivar slowed as the large man, now with the scythe over his shoulder, left the field and headed his way.

“On what project are you working?” Ivar said as he met Larry.

“Clearing the field for training. But also for a diversion for the kids.” Larry shifted the handle of the long curved blade to his left shoulder and slapped Ivar on the back. “And maybe for us also. Cassan and Garvan have been playing a game they call hurling in their off time.”

“I remember that game,” Ivar said. “I used to play it at the abbey when I was young. At the abbey on the other side of the mountains.”

“You lived near there?”

Ivar chewed his lip as heat burned his face. “I was sent there by my uncle after my parents died.” He glanced at the large man walking at his side. Larry’s mouth formed a thin line. “Too many children. Not enough food.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” The big man lowered his head and scuffed the ground as he walked.

“So what is Fergus planning this afternoon?” Ivar asked to change the subject.

“We need to start training.”

* * *

Ivar stood at the rear of the crowd forming at one end of the freshly scythed field and watched as Larry and Fergus conferred in whispers. Off to the side lay a pile of trimmed saplings, each about two strides long, and several leather bags.

Most of the men and Garvan had gathered, missing only those on duty at Sui Finn or the east pass. The Havenite warriors milled about, joking or stretching.

“Do you know why we are gathering?” Marcan appeared at Ivar’s side.

A growing silence interrupted his answer. All faces turned toward Larry and Fergus, who stood together now facing the gathering men.

Ivar narrowed his eyebrows as Larry spoke in the language he called English, the sound of the strange words familiar from overheard conversations among the Havenites.

Fergus whispered in Larry’s ear and he continued in Eire. “We will start daily weapons training.” His eyes found Ivar’s before shifting to the man at his side. “Marcan, what weapons are you familiar with?”

Marcan stood silent for several breaths. “Lots of experience with the axe.” He snorted. “But only in fights with trees.”

He staggered as someone on his other side clapped him on the back. But he stood straighter as the warriors nodded and broke into grins.

“Good, I've got a war axe you can use.” Larry’s eyes shifted. “Ivar, what about you?”

Ivar looked down. What did he know about fighting? His only experience in violence was getting beat up by the other boys at the abbey. That and throwing rocks at wolves threatening the sheep he had herded as a child. “I can only use a sling.” His eyes remained down.

“Show us,” Fergus said.

“My sling is in my personal bag.” Ivar looked up. Neither Fergus nor any of the other warriors laughed.

“Get it while we continue organizing.”

Ivar stood frozen, as the men jostled into smaller groups. Larry led Garvan to one side of the field. Fergus pulled an enormous axe from a leather bag and placed it in Marcan’s hands. Now ignored, Ivar turned back to Sanctuary. Fergus wanted him to get his sling? A rope with a patch of leather tied at the center? Ivar would look the fool surrounded by men swinging iron. Maybe it would be best to get the humiliation over. Ivar quickened his pace. Maybe it was time to leave. What good could a man of God do in a group of heathens? None showed any interest in his words of salvation.

By the time he returned, sling in hand, one group of men were moving in unison at the far end of the field, swinging wooden staves, Cassan’s mimicking movements didn't quite match the older men’s. In the middle of the field, Larry and Garvan pummeled the air with fists. Nearby, Samatu held up a shield and stepped forward and back. Matching his steps, Marcan slammed his axe, cutting edge buried in a small log and secured with leather, into Samatu’s shield.

Fergus looked up as Ivar approached. The warrior sat with several men at the edge of the clearing shaving shorter staves into the shape of swords. “Aim at that tree over there.” He pointed to a gnarled oak at the edge of the field.

Ivar tied one end of the sling around his middle finger, holding the free end between his thumb and forefinger. Rooting around in the grass with his foot, he dislodged a small rock about the size of a child’s fist. With Fergus’s eyes cutting into him, Ivar picked up the rock and placed it in the leather pouch. Facing the tree, Ivar took a breath, swung, and let the free end loose, letting the stone fly.

The rock hit the tree with a sharp thump that reverberated in counterpoint to Marcan’s axe swings.

“Do that again,” Fergus said, his voice flat.

Heart pounding, Ivar scuffed up another rock. Please God, don’t let me look like a fool. He loaded the sling and threw.

Another sharp thump. Across the field the men dancing with the staves stopped. And stared. Larry and Garvan also stopped. Ivar’s heart pounded.

Fergus stood, jogged to Samatu, and took his shield. He moved toward the edge of the clearing, checked behind him, and held the shield out with his right hand. The front of the shield faced Ivar. “Again.”

Ivar hesitated. What if he hit the man?

“Well?” Fergus gestured with his left hand.

Ivar kicked up another rock and loaded his sling. Hoping his shaking hands weren’t visible to the watching men, he swung and let loose.

The rock hit the shield with a sharp crack.

Fergus dropped the shield and shook out his arm, the grimace on his face turning into a grin. “I am familiar with the sling only as a child’s toy. But…” Fergus’s eyebrows rose as he walked toward Ivar. “Let me try.”

Ivar untied one end of the sling from his right hand and handed it to Fergus. With Ivar’s help, the warrior secured one end and loosely held the other. Picking up a rock, he fitted it into the pouch. Adjusting his grip on the loose end, he whipped the sling in a circle and let loose.

A whistle and flurry of leaves erupted from the tree as the projectile flew through the outer branches and into the forest beyond. “Suggestions?”

Ivar snapped his head around and stared at Fergus. After a breath, Ivar closed his mouth, heat scorching his cheeks. “I find it best to stand facing sideways, then twist as I throw keeping body and arm forward.” Ivar twisted in place, ending with his body and left leg forward. “But that’s just my way.”

Fergus tried another stone, mimicking Ivar’s stance. It skimmed a finger width past the trunk of their target. “We will make one of these for everyone,” he said to the watching men before turning to Ivar. “Can you lead a daily practice session? Maybe for a hand of sun?”

Ivar stared at Fergus. The tall dark man wanted him to lead warriors?

“Tomorrow, I am going to start training on the staves with the women. Would you also direct their sling practice?” Fergus paused. “And even Fennore also?”

“Ahh…yes,” Ivar said, aware of everyone’s eyes. By all the saints, now what had he gotten into?

* * *

Fergus blew one sharp whistle and waved everyone off the practice field toward the center of their settlement. The men broke up, some gathering up equipment while others reviewed fighting stances and footwork.

Larry broke from the men and, with Cassan and Garvan in tow, moved to one end of the field, dragging a long leather bag and an armful of saplings. Puzzled, Fergus walked toward them. What was the old man up to now?

Larry lifted a trimmed sapling about four strides long and, holding it vertical, pushed one end into the ground with his weight. He wiggled it around, working its way between rocks. He did the same with a second post about three strides away. Garvan and Cassan lifted a third pole over their heads and Larry lashed it to the two upright posts about two strides high above the ground.

“Now what are you planning?” Fergus said as he approached his father.

“Need some entertainment.” Larry turned to the two kids. “Why don’t you show Fergus how to play while I set up the other goal?”

Fergus forced himself not to laugh as the two pulled short paddles out of the leather bag and talked over each other as they explained the rules. There followed a spirited demonstration as they batted the small leather ball with the paddles they called hurleys, Garvan’s enthusiasm no match for the older youth’s skill and coordination.

After a few minutes, Fergus asked to use one of the hurleys. Pulling a third paddle out of the bag, Garvan explained how to hold the sliotar aloft with the flat end. Taking the hurley, Fergus bounced the small ball on its end of the hurley a few times before he batted it between the upright poles. Garvan cheered. One of Cassan’s eyebrows rose. As Garvan ran to retrieve the sliotar, Fergus swung the hurley. Then he swung it again, holding it with a different angle. Swinging the wooden bat, if it was a bit heavier, would be a great conditioning exercise for swordplay. Or for bashing some asshole in the head.

Maybe his ancient relative was on to something. Even if it was just another way to practice killing people.

* * *

Bouncing the sliotar at the end of his hurley, Fergus headed back to Sanctuary followed by an excited Garvan and a puzzled Cassan. As he walked into the cooking area, the men either jeered or clapped at his efforts. Or both. He stopped, caught the sliotar in his left hand and bowed. “Cassan and Garvan need players.” Fergus nodded to the two boys and then returned his attention to the men. “Divide yourselves up tomorrow after training. These young men are going to teach you a bit of entertainment.” And some useful exercise. Passing the sliotar and hurley to the two beaming boys, Fergus walked to the supper line, slowing to match steps with Jessie.

“So you’re going to interrupt our war with the locals to play games?” Jessie asked as both men halted at the end of the queue.

“We need a break.” Fergus knuckled Jessie’s hair. “And maybe we ought to see if anyone has a pair of shears?”

“And why would that matter?”

“Got a few young ladies here.” Fergus looked around. Deirdre and Anya had already been served and were sitting on one of the benches. Deirdre looked up, caught his eye and looked down.

“Yeah.”

Fergus caught Jessie’s glance at the same two women. “You still inspecting Anya’s muscles?”

“Like she’d bother with the son of a rapist,” Jessie said in a low voice as the line shifted and he shuffled forward.

“Hey, what kind of talk is that?” Fergus matched Jessie’s steps.

Jessie did not answer, but glanced again at Anya.

Fergus followed his friend’s eyes, frowning as a couple of Havenites stopped and took the ladies’ empty dishes. His jaw tightened as Deirdre favored the two men with a brief smile.

Chapter 20

August 3

Larry stood among the gathered Havenites below the solitary cairn that lay on the mountain slope west of Sanctuary. They had decided to build a mound of stones rather than to dig a grave for the man killed in the second naval encounter with the Northmen. The soil was too rocky. Except in the flat bottomland, digging was almost impossible.

Larry barely knew Fergus’s crewman. Just that he was a Susquehannock. In his late teens. Out for an adventure. He hadn’t planned to travel as far as Eire but had volunteered to join in the rescue. To save Larry’s worthless ass. Now three shiploads of Havenites were stranded on this island of death. And all were his responsibility. Five dead. Plus who knew how many locals. Larry forced his mind back to Matuso’s eulogy. He had recited the words from the most recent entries in the book of remembrances, describing the highlights of each deceased man’s life and finishing with the most recent casualty. The one whose body lay under the cairn.

“Our brother’s body returns to the earth but lives on in our memories.” Matuso closed his book and, after wrapping it in oilcloth, placed in the satchel hanging on his shoulder. It would eventually be sent back to Haven to rest in the Hall of Remembrances.

One by one, each of the Havenites added another stone to the cairn as a personal touch.

“May I speak?” Ivar took a step forward from the circle of Havenites and refugees surrounding the cairn.

Eyes turned to Larry. He nodded.

“I know you follow a different path. But your beliefs, however mistaken, cannot hide your concern for others.” Ivar paused, his gaze moving around the circle.

Larry followed Ivar’s eyes. All the Havenites not on guard or lookout duty stood in a loose semicircle facing Matuso. Most Eirefolk attended, although Deirdre and Anya stood together a few paces from the others. Up the slope and apart from all, Teltina and her kids watched. Liaden and Davnat remained in Sanctuary, having volunteered to prepare a meal. Larry’s jaw clenched as he watched Ivar’s eyes fix on Teltina. Did Ivar share his Abbot’s prejudice? What good were priests if all they taught was hate?

“My God knows all. So he knows the good you are doing in this land.” Ivar’s eyes sought Larry’s. “If you accept his truth…” Ivar stopped talking as Larry’s eyebrows narrowed.

Larry shifted his gaze. The faces of the Havenites appeared as blank stones. And probably just as receptive to the cleric’s talk of his god.

The young priest hesitated. Let a breath out. “I will pray for your fallen,” he said, adding his stone to the mound before stepping back into the circle.

“Thank you for your words.” Larry forced a smile at the young priest. He let it turn genuine as one of the Havenites clapped the man on his back, causing him to stagger.

His smile faded. “Let us return to the cook fire and feast to his and the other fallens’ memories.” Larry stepped forward and added one last stone to the cairn.

* * *

As the crowd drifted away from the raw mound of piled rock, Matuso rearranged a few of the stones. He would return tomorrow to restack some of them as several had already collapsed. Maybe he'd even add another layers or two to the waist high pile. Not that it would matter to the deceased. But the memory of the fallen man would linger longer if his grave remained a prominent landmark instead of just another shallow pile of stone. Another hand repositioned a chunk of sandstone. “You confuse me,” Ivar said, turning to face Matuso. “You claim to not believe in a life after death, but you take care to bury your dead.” Ivar bit his lip. “When you can.”

“Once the body dies, the personality fades.” Matuso picked at a broken nail on his thumb. Although the area was littered with rock, not all of them wanted to be moved. “But we like to honor our memory of the deceased.”

“Is that the teaching of your Buddha?” Ivar turned to look over the valley.

Matuso followed his gaze. A tendril of smoke a mile or so to the east betrayed Sanctuary’s cook fire. Hunger twinged his stomach. But the rock monument soured any thought of food. “No, we have little in the way of Buddha’s actual words. Just what one of the Far Ones recorded. The one called Potts. He died protecting Haven before I was born.” He allowed a chuckle to escape. “Before I was conceived.”

“And the knowledge of Buddha?”

“Before his death, that Far One wrote all his knowledge in books we call the prophecies.” Matuso’s face lost his smile. “Besides the teachings of Buddha, these books also tell of many things to come. The death of my people in the lands to the west.” He turned to Ivar. “The death of your people by the invasion of tribes from the east. The triumph of the Christian religion followed by infighting between its various heresies. A great sickness and a greater famine. This island will see much pain and death.”

“The triumph of Christianity is a good thing,” Ivar said. “But can the pain and death be prevented?”

“We hope to use trade as a force for peace. If people communicate, they are less likely to kill each other." Matuso flexed his fingers, noting several scratches and several more broken nails. “As for the teachings, the man called Buddha preached moderation—a life not driven by wants. And a society where all people are valued.”

“Is that why you free slaves?”

“Slavery is just greed, an excess of desire.”

“Are not slaves just people who have offended God?”

“We have no gods.” Matuso turned to clap Ivar on the shoulder. “And if gods do exist, I wish to ask them why they created so much sorrow and death.”

“Without God, what purpose do you give to life?”

“Only what we chose to give it.”

Ivar sat, gazing over the evening shadows that crept across the valley. “Tell me of the Far Ones and Haven.”

“There is a large land to the west. Larger than this island and the island to the east.” Matuso moved a few small rocks and pebbles and settled on the ground next to Ivar. “In the future, it will become a very powerful...” He searched for a word but failed. “A very powerful tribe. My father and Larry and three others journeyed from that future to this time.”

“I do not understand your words.”

“We do not really understand either.” Matuso smiled at Ivar’s furrowed frown and tight mouth. “But they know of events, of weapons, and of the lands unknown by any others. My mother, Alita, was of this time. She traveled to the future and returned with the Far Ones, choosing one of them for her husband, my father. She still speaks of that journey with wonder.”

At Ivar’s nod, Matuso recounted the tale of his father’s fight to save his mother’s people, of the founding of Haven, and the battle with a local warlord. And the battle with disease from lands to the east.

“A year later, I was born.” Matuso turned to Ivar. “The knowledge the Far Ones brought with them revealed trade routes and the location of distant lands. So we tend to accept their beliefs.”

“Your story is very strange.” Ivar shifted, placing his hands on the ground. With a grunt he pushed off the ground and rose. “My body is stiff from carrying rocks. And my belly aches from hunger.”

Matuso rose, stretching against his own aches, and followed the young priest downhill toward the collection of huts called Sanctuary.

* * *

Matuso sat, body exhausted but mind racing. He looked at his bag, but decided that update to his map could wait.

“This would be an adventure equal to that of our parents if it weren’t for the dead bodies.” Fergus tossed a twig into the embers of the cook fire where it burst into a small explosion of flame.

The three eldest sons of the Far Ones sat around the dying cook fire. The rest of Sanctuary’s inhabitants were sleeping, their snores competing with the croaks of frogs.

“They had their dead bodies, too. But it's still not the adventure I was expecting.” Matuso stirred the fire with a twisted branch before tossing it into the glowing red embers. “Yet we need access to the continent.”

“I have doubts about the prophecies. But in case they’re true, I agree with you. But is Eire the best location to maintain contact, discreetly or otherwise, with the main continent?” Fergus asked.

“According to the writings and the maps, it’s remote enough to escape notice and close enough to let us monitor the emerging states.”

“States that won't even be strong enough to pose a threat to Haven for several hundred years. I can’t even figure how many generations of children that would be.”

“You've got to start having children to give reality to that concern.” Jessie snorted a laugh.

“What about our refugees?” Fergus said. “They really limit our options.”

“It's our oath. Protect women. Take care of the children.” Matuso nudged the wood further into the fire. Small yellow flames licked its peeling bark.

“I'm not sure if it’s reasonable to protect and care for everyone. We’re not exactly holding a strong position here.” Fergus made a fist with his right hand. Tightened it until the knuckles turned white. “Maybe we should start combat training. Marcan seems able. Maybe the older boy.”

“The women?” Matuso said.

“We could make shorter bows,” Jessie said. “But better than those shit sticks the raiders used. I noticed some yew. And ash for arrows. Points could be a problem until we get a forge going.”

“You think any of the women have the attitude for combat?” Fergus said.

“Who knows how anyone will act in a fight until it comes. I sure didn’t.” Images, sounds, and smells flooded Matuso’s mind. “My stomach turns every time I think of my sword vibrating against bone.” He blew out a breath. “But Teltina can fight. She certainly saved our sorry asses.”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk with her. What about the others? That one lady has a don’t mess with me look.”

“Her friend seems shy. But strong,” Jessie said.

“So you’ve noticed them?” Matuso stared at his friends, the urge to laugh dying with his next breath. “Deirdre’s tough. Especially after all the shit she’s been through. Same for Anya, although I’d never accuse her of having bulging muscles. Are you sure you aren’t referring to some other part of her anatomy?”

“Perhaps.” Jessie’s eyebrow rose. “Surprised you haven’t been sniffing around them yourself.”

“Theirs is not a good story.” Matuso described the attack on Deirdre’s farmstead, ending the story with the discovery of the murderer of Anya’s baby. “Larry strangled the killer. Just stood there, him bleeding from a serious shoulder wound, his hands around the man’s neck.” He stared at Fergus. “I’ve never seen your father so crazy angry.”

The edges of Fergus’s mouth turned up as he returned Matuso’s gaze. “Yet the old fart is wet clay around children.” Usually. Fergus shifted his eyes back to the fire and his smile faded as memories surfaced of his father berating him and the other children on the practice fields back in Haven. Always ‘shoot straighter’ or ‘hit harder.’ “What is going to happen to them when we leave?”

“Larry hopes to get a functioning village going here before we leave.” Matuso prodded the fire, accomplishing nothing. “But I’m not sure what good that would be with the Northmen and Ur Neill raiding the countryside.”

Matuso’s hand jerked toward his sword as a figure entered the firelight.

“It’s me,” Larry said as his bowed frame emerged into the firelight. “Just checked in on the guards. One upriver. One at the lake.” He turned and looked northwest. “Plus the two overnighters on Sui Finn. Damned long hike.”

“Samatu and Brynjar are staying overnight with our ships.”

“Good.” Larry stepped close to the fire and lowered himself onto the ground with a groan. “What are you kids plotting?”

Matuso leaned back against a log, staring at the older man. “Just talking about options.” Fergus’s father was looking far older than someone not quite fifty.

“And what did you decide?”

“Get the hell out,” Fergus said, turning to Matuso. “But there’s the issue of the refugees. Not to mention the countering of the prophecies.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Larry said with a sigh before Matuso could respond. “But our recollection of history has been correct so far. Eire is being invaded by various groups of Northmen from lands to the northeast. Eventually, the larger island to the east will grow strong and also invade. That’s the fate of this place that will be called Ireland in the future. Maybe.”

“And a few hundred years later, a country to the southeast will decimate Haven’s continent with disease,” Matuso said. “Opening up our lands to invaders. We know. And we agree to make plans to counter those possibilities. And, if necessary, use force.”

“And we must control sulfur and saltpeter resources.” Jessie tossed a small stick into the fire. A small puff of flame illuminated the scowl on his face. “And so, dominate the production of gunpowder.” His facial muscles twitched, lips tight. “So we can kill anyone that gets in our way as we stop the prophecies.” He snorted as he stared at Larry. “One hell of a legacy you Far Ones are leaving to us.”

“Eventually.” Larry reclined on his back, hands behind his head. “But we gotta stay alive first. And also keep as many of our charges alive as we can.” His head rotated back and forth. “I thought I was done with killing.”

“So do we deal with these Ur Neill and Northmen or do we run?” Fergus’s tight voice mirrored his facial muscles.

“Maybe run.” Larry leaned up on his elbows. “Get most of you in Waverider. Sneak out one early morning.”

Matuso stared at Larry. Not all would fit in Waverider. And no way would he leave anyone behind. He shifted his gaze to Jessie and Fergus. If looks could kill, Larry would be occupying another cairn.

“Okay, just saying.” Larry’s face cracked a small smile. “Cassan thinks there’s another bay on the south side of this peninsula. I’m wondering if we can move the ships overland. Set up a port there.” He stared upwards. “Get Dreamcatcher fixed and then maybe get everyone the fuck outta here.”

“How soon?” Matuso followed Larry’s gaze. His fire-blinded eyes could barely make out a couple of stars in the dark hazy sky.

“Gonna hafta wait until next spring if we want to retreat to Iceland. How was the voyage here?”

“Weather was clear. We did see one small iceberg. Wouldn’t want to try in a month or so.” Fergus stared at the fire. “But even if we dared use your smaller longboat on the open ocean, we’d have to leave the refugees behind.”

“Yeah.” Larry shifted to lean on his right side. “A shit idea unless we build more ships over the winter. Don’t think some would go. Teltina probably wouldn’t.”

Matuso searched Larry’s blank face for several breaths before glancing at Jessie and Fergus. They were also staring at Larry.”

“And what about now?” Fergus said, breaking the short silence.

“Food. Got the sheep settled. The pigs are wandering the valley. Some crops are struggling among the weeds in the fields.” Larry sat upright, eyes moving among Haven’s first generation. “Did you bring the seed and saplings that were originally part of Stormchaser’s cargo? If so, we gotta get ‘em planted in spite of it being so late in the season. Gonna need to eat regardless of Northmen or local politics.”

“We brought them. I think most of the trees survived,” Fergus said. “I also brought your belongings from Stormchaser along with all the trade goods, including farm implements that’ll be useful with your horses. Also, the sea chests of your shore crew. All jumbled together back in Dreamcatcher. Some might be a bit wet.”

“Thanks,” Larry said. “Let’s get them trees and seed taken care of. Then we'll decide about moving your ships.” He rose. “And after that, maybe I’ll ask Teltina about routes to the south shore.”

As Larry walked into the dark, Matuso grinned at his friends’ raised eyebrows.

Chapter 21

August 5

The day shone bright and cloudless as Larry hiked up the small tributary of the Caragh River to Teltina’s home. It was a welcome change from the perpetual drizzle. He kept close to the water, enjoying its murmur and splash as it flowed over the rocky ground.

Ahead, a finger of rock jutted down from the western mountains, cutting into the valley. Teltina’s stream followed the broken rock for several miles before escaping into the main part of the valley. Three more miles later, it joined the Caragh just downstream of Sanctuary. Teltina’s little farmstead hid in a copse of trees on the west side of the stream.

Once again he felt oddly nervous, and his hand slipped into the bag hung over his right shoulder. His fingers found his recorder, the two whistles, and several small pouches of seed. It had been almost two weeks since Teltina had intervened in the fight with the raiders. Other than showing up for the memorial, she hadn’t interacted with anyone except to visit Anya several times.

Just as her copse of trees came into view, Rory appeared from behind a ragged bush, his smile stretching his face and puffing up his cheeks. He lifted one hand, fingers waving.

“Hello Rory,” Larry said. “May I visit?”

Rory’s smile widened as he flashed his fingers before turning and scampering up along the streambed. After a few strides, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

Larry waved and followed.

* * *

Larry watched as Teltina poured hot water into the mug that sat on a flat-topped rock at the side of her outdoor cook fire. Her face revealed nothing. She had a great poker face, if anyone played poker in this century. “Thank you for visiting Anya,” he said. “She needs all the support she can get.”

Teltina looked up, her eyes meeting his. “To lose a son…” She looked across the small clearing. “A terrible grief.”

Larry followed her eyes to where Rory sat twisting fibers into string, his left hand feeding fiber—hemp or flax?—to his right. His movements mimicked exactly those of the various peoples back in Haven.

“I am honored to help her.” A small smile lifted the edges of her mouth. “You and your men have treated her as kin.”

“Our actions define our life,” Larry said, his eyes returning to Teltina’s. Shit, he was now talking like Potts. He wiped his hands on the rough texture of his leather trousers. “We believe that all people are kin.”

Teltina turned her head, cocking it barely a finger width to the left as one eyebrow rose.

Larry picked up the mug and sipped the minty tea, buying time while his thoughts coalesced. “Maybe that’s more of a hope than a belief.” The knot in his stomach loosened as Teltina smiled. He turned as Rory appeared next to the cook fire with a mug in his hand. Teltina took the mug and, after adding a pinch of leaves from a small covered jar, poured hot water into it.

“The men in the new ships brought vegetable seed and fruit trees. Including two types of flax, one for oil and one for fiber.” Larry nodded to where Rory was resuming his activity with a small pile of fiber and a coil of thin rope. “I brought a selection. Would you like some to grow?”

“I would try your seed,” Teltina said. She opened her mouth, froze for a heartbeat, and closed it. With a small smile, her eyes shifted downwards to her hands.

Larry stopped breathing, mind clouding with thoughts unfamiliar these past years. Had her face, raw with sun and wind, just darkened? He slipped his pouch off his shoulder, hands seeking distraction. “Great. May I give Rory and Agnes a small present?”

“Rory,” Teltina said. “Our guest has a present for you.”

The boy left his task and walked to her side.

Larry removed two wooden whistles from his bag, spares he had recovered from his sea chest that Fergus had brought, and blew one before holding it outstretched. Rory cocked his head, smiling as he accepted his gift. He blew it once and smiled, fingers moving.

Rory’s eyebrows narrowed as Larry pulled the recorder from the bag. When Larry played a simple scale and then his attempt at Greensleeves, Rory’s eyes widened in amazement. Even wider when Larry handed the musical instrument to him.

“He thanks you.” Teltina’s face softened with a smile at she looked at her son. Rory blew into the mouthpiece as his fingers moved over the tone holes.

Larry’s own eyes widened as the boy nearly completed a musical scale. “I only have one,” Larry said. “But I thought he’d like…” He paused, unsure if he should bring up Rory’s silence.

“It will help him communicate.” She smiled. “I find it interesting that a warrior is interested in music.”

“I will make one for Agnes…” He paused. Shit. “When events calm down.” He sighed. Shifting his attention to Rory, Larry explained the three basic signals for the whistle. “I’m sure you could make up more signals. We try to have everyone know at least the basic ones. He nodded to the musical instrument in Rory’s hand. “Nanisu…”

He choked. Paused. “Hatimu is a better musician than me. Ask him for help with the recorder.”

Teltina looked toward the main path that led out of the clearing through the copse. “Agnes is collecting herbs. I will give her your present if she’s not back before you leave.” She shifted her gaze to Larry. “Would you stay to sup with us?”

“It would be my honor.” Larry hesitated. “Is it safe for Agnes to be wandering out alone?”

“I think yes,” Teltina said. “She knows to check her surroundings as she walks. And if anyone comes across our dwelling here, I’d rather she be elsewhere.”

What kind of a life were these people leading? Larry shut down that thought and withdrew several small packets made of dried and stretched intestines. “Here are several varieties of seed. Vegetables and flax. We have others, including root vegetables, but they’re all in the ground.” He explained each one, and Teltina made marks on each with a dead coal from the edge of the cook fire. “It’s late in the season, but hopefully they’ll sprout and mature.”

Larry closed the leather flap on the pouch. “I’d like to ask about the terrain to the south.” He looked at Teltina, whose eyebrows rose. “Are there harbors or bays that could be used for our ships? Any trails or passes through the mountains along which we could move them?”

She stared for several breaths. Larry felt his stomach twist. Had he somehow insulted her again?

“Are you still planning to leave?” Her face turned blank.

Larry looked down at his hands, holding the clay mug with the tea. A refreshing tea. What were his plans? How could he stay in this land of death? And could he leave the refugees to their fate? Hell with it. He shifted his eyes to Teltina, who still sat there staring at him. “I just don’t know.”

After several more breaths, Teltina nodded, a small smile softening her face. “You must do what your heart and spirit tells you to do.” She turned her head to face south. “There are harbors suitable for salt water boats. When you decide to go south, I will show you the passes.” She paused for several breaths. “There were several farmsteads on that side of the mountains. But Wildlings moved in two or three years ago. There may be danger.”

* * *

The cook fire provided a convenient beacon in the twilight as Larry entered the fields around Sanctuary. He’d have to discuss night fires with the crew. Maybe shield the cook fire with a wall of fencing?

On one of the unplanted fields, Garvan and Cassan ran back and forth through the knee-high grasses. Curious, Larry detoured to watch them. Each held what looked like an arm-length paddle and either swung at or bounced something on the broad end. As he got closer, he could see that the something was a ball about the size of a child’s fist.

After a few minutes, he figured that they were directing the ball to opposite ends of the field. He watched until the deepening dark made play impossible.

“What is that called?” Larry said as the youths left the field.

“I was just taking a break.” Cassan looked sheepish. “It is called hurling. A child’s game.”

Garvan frowned at Cassan, who was already walking toward Sanctuary, before turning to Larry. “The idea is to knock the sliotar into the opponent’s home.” He held up a leather-covered ball in his left hand and pointed to two poles at the near end of the field with the paddle in his right. “It’s more interesting when there are many players.”

Larry turned to the opposite end. Through the dim light, another two poles rose at that end, although somewhat leaning.

“Maybe tomorrow you could show me how to play?” Larry asked. Maybe they all could use a little diversion from planting and building. And from the killing. This field wouldn’t be used this season except as pasture for the horses. Maybe he could clear it. Scythes had been among the trade and farming goods that Dreamcatcher had brought.

“I would be honored,” Garvan's face brightened in the dim light.

“Good, let’s check on the others.” Larry looked toward the light of the cook fire. “While we can still find our way home.” As they walked together, he said. “Garvan, could you do me a favor? Teltina’s son, Rory, may be visiting. He doesn’t talk much.” Larry looked down at Garvan. “Could you show him around? And teach him how to play hurling?”

“I can.” Garvan’s back straightened.

* * *

Ragnar watched as the shipwright planed the strakes with an adze, following the twisted grain.

The man looked up, shaking his head. “This land only produces wood suited for burning.”

“Our gods are weak here.” Ragnar stepped closer and slapped the man on the back. “That’s why we have men like you to do what the gods cannot.”

The man spat and then grinned. “I think it is that new man-god of this land that makes the trees twisted.” He looked past Ragnar, pointing with his adze to a long pit dug in the rocky soil. “It will take a week to steam and straighten the strakes.”

Ragnar’s arm swept from the ship to the plank over which the man stood. “Do what you can. Can you use more men?”

“I have enough to work the wood. But more thralls to dig and feed the steam pits would help.”

Ragnar nodded to his man and turned to the farmstead. Several riders approached from the east. Even at a couple hundred strides, he could tell they were Ur Neill with their coarse linen jackets, dyed a poor blue with piss and plants. “It appears that our friends have not collected any help,” Ragnar said, seeing that all the visitors rode horses. He nodded to his shipwright and walked toward the main dwelling.

The men had dismounted and hobbled their horses as Ragnar approached, all but two joining his men around the central cook fire in the middle of the farmstead. “Greetings, my Ur Neill brothers,” Ragnar said in Eire to the two men who now stood at the entrance to the house.

“This is Aedan.” Cormac indicated the second man. “He has brought a story from the abbey. And gold.”

“Enter and drink.” Ragnar stepped into the interior. “Orla, three mugs.”

At the cook fire, Orla looked up, her face tightening as the men entered.

Ragnar swept his arm toward the table as he took a chair on the side nearest Orla. “Drink. Then I would hear your tale.”

The two men watched Orla serve the beer, their eyes drifting up and down her body. “Still content with her?” Cormac asked.

“Still cooks well.” Ragnar sipped his beer. “Now tell me of the abbey.”

“Aedan is the mouth of my kinsman the Abbot.” Cormac nodded at the tall thin man at his side. “He has brought gold to pay for the loss of your ship. I think the Abbot prefers to settle this without meeting you.”

The Abbot’s man pulled a leather pouch from beneath his robes and placed it in the middle of the table. About the size of a clenched fist, it thunked as he set it down, making the table vibrate.

Ragnar kept his eyes on Aedan’s face. The abbot must have a very small head. But if the metal were gold, the contents would more than cover the cost of his ship. And the pact with Cormac was too fragile to argue weight. Besides, he had more important tasks than dealing with some man-god cleric. “What news from your abbey?”

“We did not know your ship was attacked until a woman and two children approached the village across from the abbey and asked for protection.” Aedan lifted the mug to his mouth and swallowed. Twice. “They claimed to be the family of Brocc, who has a farmstead a bit more than half the distance up the Laune River.”

“My men did not have orders to attack the farmstead,” Ragnar said. “The survivor, Gunnarr, has been punished.”

“Your ship was attacked by strangers at a shallow bend in the river. The Brocc woman said that all the men on the ship were killed. But the captives, including the Brocc woman and her children, were taken back to the farmstead.” Aedan nodded to Ragnar. “I assume she didn’t see your survivor escape. Once at the farmstead, she realized that one of the attackers was a heretic to her man-god Jesus, a woman named Teltina.” Aedan drained his mug.

Ragnar signaled Orla for more beer.

“The strangers, the heretic woman, and two of Brocc’s thralls traveled into the mountains to the west after burning the ship.”

“Are these strangers still in those mountains?”

“We do not know. However, the river Caragh flows from a valley in those mountains. We suspect they reside there.”

The man paused to watch Orla fill his mug. He licked his lips.

“I think these are the same strangers that killed Doalty and his men,” Cormac said. “They must die.”

“Agreed.” Ragnar stared at the tabletop where Cormac had previously sliced a sliver of wood with one of the hard iron arrow points. “But what of the two strange Knarrs that escaped after they almost sank one of my warships? And my small missing coastal ship? My men confirmed that the mouth of the Caragh is not navigable. And it is a long way to drag a ship into those mountains.” He stared at the sliced wood. Not navigable because of snags. Snags in the middle of the river’s mouth...

Ragnar slammed his fist on the table. Aedan’s eyes widened. Cormac’s hand slipped beneath the table. A gasp erupted from near the cook fire. “By Hel, they will die slowly,” Ragnar bellowed.

Chapter 23

August 8

“I don’t care if you are a woman. You don’t have to hit like one,” Fergus said to Anya, trying not to let his exasperation show in his voice. And failing. “I attack. You parry and counter. Again.” Fergus took one step forward, swinging his padded stave in a slow roundhouse arc. The young woman tapped his stave with hers before dropping it to the ground. He let the padded end of his stave slide off her upper arm and, adding an extra twist of his torso, bounced it against her head. A gasp erupted from the women standing in a loose line on the practice field.

At Larry’s urging, all four of the younger Sanctuary women attended the training. No one had suggested that Teltina do so.

“You all just spent the last hour practicing parries and strikes.” He stepped forward and looked down at the glaring woman. Although she was mid-height, the top of Anya’s head only reached his throat. “Now use them against me. I am not here because I like sweating in this leather suit. The next time you are attacked in this shit hole of an island, I want you to fight back. Not lie down and get raped.”

Anya’s mouth contorted into a thin rippling line.

“You insult her.” Deirdre stepped forward, her stave pointed at Fergus’s face.

“You’re just as bad.” Fergus brought his stave down hard on her protruding stave, knocking it out of her hands. “Swing it. Or thrust it. But do not leave it pointing in the air. Consider yourself raped.”

Muttering sounded from Maeve and Niam as he turned his attention back to Anya. “Again.” Fergus stepped back several strides. “Now fight like you are defending your family.” He held his stave forward in a ready stance. “Think of Conal.” Lunging forward, he again brought his stave around in a slow arc.

Instead of countering, Anya stepped back, eyes streaming.

Screaming both in frustration and to get her attention, Fergus pressed his attack on the retreating woman. He swung, getting under her arm and smacking her side. She cried out. “Hit me,” Fergus bellowed, letting the anger fill his voice. He glimpsed a motion to his right. Then a blow rang his head. Fergus turned. Deirdre's arms were over her head, swinging a second blow. He countered, blinking against the blood blurring his vision. Movement from the left. Pain erupted in the back of his knee. Still swinging against Deirdre, he stepped back and the leg collapsed. Another blow and his unpadded back exploded in hot agony. He twisted away, dropping his stave to use his hand to break his fall. Another blow across his back dropped him to the ground. All around him, skirts flared through the dust raised by moving feet. Heart pounding, he scrabbled on hands and knees as blow after blow rained down on his back.

“Training's over,” a voice cut through the footsteps and heavy thuds. Fergus collapsed onto his belly as the light dimmed.

* * *

“Fucking youngsters,” Larry said under his wheezing breath. He leaned on his knees, forcing deep gulps of air into his lungs. At the edge of the field, Jessie and Matuso alternatively waved their arms or pointed to the crude playing field boundary that had been dug into the rocky ground. The players, all the men and the two older boys, stood waiting. Larry’s eyes drifted around the field, noting a few of the young women were watching. No wonder the guys were arguing. He suppressed a smile. Samatu and Hatimu watched from the sidelines. As Larry expected, Fergus was nowhere to be seen. Two more—no, three—spectators appeared from the forest path at the south end of the field. Taking another gasp of air, Larry straightened and squared his shoulders. It was Teltina and her kids.

He signaled Samatu to take his place and walked in her direction. “Hi Rory,” Larry said, his eyes on Teltina. “Do you want to join in the game?” He waved his right hand toward the field where a laughing Cassan, balancing the sliotar on the end of his hurley, dodged around a panting Samatu.

Eyebrows pinched, Rory wiggled his fingers.

“He says it looks complicated,” Teltina said, eyes bouncing between the field, her son, and Larry.

“There are just a few simple rules,” Larry said. “There are two teams. Each trying…”

“Hi.” Garvan appeared at Larry’s side. “Want to play?”

Rory’s fingers danced.

“He’s not sure what to do,” Teltina said. Her eyes caught Larry’s.

“He talks with his hands,” Larry said, turning to face Garvan. “But he listens with his ears.”

“Can you teach me?” Garvan asked, raising his eyebrows as he stared at Rory. “And I’ll show you how to hurl.” He faced the field where Jessie and Matuso still gestured. “They argue too much. There are extra hurleys and sliotars. Let’s go to the far end of the field and I will show you how to keep the sliotar in the air.”

The two boys ran off.

“That went well.” Larry watched as the two boys headed for the far end of the field.

“Thank you,” Teltina said. “Rory has not interacted with anyone his age for years.” She turned. “I hear there was some excitement this morning?”

“Fergus will recover.” Larry looked for signs of humor, but Teltina’s face only showed concern. “I think he may have been a bit hard on the women. But he will heal.”

“I met Anya on the way here and she told me the story. She was quite upset at first. But by the time she finished, she was almost laughing.” Now Teltina smiled, her eyes shining.

Larry looked away, his gut tight. Damn, how could a simple facial expression affect someone as old as him? “Will you sup with us this evening? It is about time for our evening meal.”

“I would be honored.” Teltina shifted her gaze to the far end of the field. The men were gathering up equipment. But the two boys walked in circles, bouncing sliotars on their hurleys. “As will Rory and Agnes.” She stopped, turning in place. “She seems to have run off with Fennore.”

They started walking back to Sanctuary with Larry very conscious of the hand’s width of space between their swinging arms. “I have a request.” He slowed to watch her expression. “I am carving shorter bows for the women. We hope to have them all familiar with bows, staves, and slings. Ivar is teaching the sling. I will take over training with staves. Would you help the women with bow skills?”

Teltina returned his gaze for several steps. “I would be honored.” A grin split her face. “But I have a condition.”

Larry stopped. After an additional step, Teltina did also.

“I would have one of your bows,” she said. “Almost full size.” She held out her hand at shoulder level.

Larry exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Then the honor is mine.”

“Good.” Teltina resumed walking. “I will also cut some leather. Several of the women will need to bind their breasts.”

Larry barked out a laugh. “I'm not sure the men will like that.”

Teltina raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But I have noticed that they treat the women with respect. Is this part of your belief system?”

“I am not good at describing Haven’s way of life. Matuso is much better with the words.” Larry met her eyes. “But it involves minimizing pain and suffering. And not seeking pleasure for its own sake. We follow what is described as a middle way. Avoiding excesses is thought to minimize suffering. And treating everyone with dignity is part of that.”

“What of the gods?”

“We have no gods.” Larry broke free of her gaze. Smells from the cook fire wafted past. “At least most of us do not.”

They walked in silence toward the huts. Larry shot quick glances to the woman at his side. She wore neither frown nor smile.

Catching his eye, she said, “Just thinking.”

As they entered the central clearing with its cook fire and surround seating, Larry saw that most had already been served. As they stood in line for their bowl of venison stew, Larry wondered why no one looked their way. No, one person was watching. Fennore ran up. “You can eat dinner with me,” she said to Larry.

“Thank you.” Larry said. “But I would be rude to let Teltina eat alone. But please join us.”

Fennore’s eyebrows narrowed. “Mother says Teltina is evil.”

“Wait. I do not think…” Larry paused when a hand touched his shoulder.

“It is true I don’t believe what your parents believe.” Teltina wore a smile, but her voice sounded tight. “But I hope I am still a good person.”

“I will look for you tomorrow morning,” Larry said to Fennore. “And we can breakfast together.”

Fennore lowered her head. “No.” She turned and fled into the gathering dusk.

Larry glanced toward her parents. Marcan shrugged his shoulders as he returned Larry’s gaze but Sheeva’s eyes were locked on her bowl. Next to them, Agnes sat looking over her shoulder at Fennore’s retreating form.

“I am sorry,” Larry said to Teltina.

“It is sometimes hard to be young.” Her smile didn’t include her eyes. “Niam is waiting to fill our bowls.”

Larry turned and held out his bowl. The young woman filled it, making only brief eye contact. Stepping back to allow Niam room to fill Teltina’s bowl, Larry scanned the surrounding benches. All but one were occupied. Maeve and Hatimu sat on one end, leaving room for two to sit.

“Looks like the gods have left us a place to sit,” Teltina said, stepping to Larry’s side.

Chapter 24

August 10

“Please get in line along these piles of rock and listen up.” Larry sighed as the four women formed a ragged line at the south end of the playing field—or the hurling field as Cassan insisted they call it. Off to the side, Hatimu stood, his leg still too stiff to join the men training in the center of the field. Next to him, Ivar stood, shuffling his feet.

“We think you should concentrate on staves, slings, and the short bows. Staves you have started.” Larry stopped as Maeve and Niam snickered. He closed his eyes, forcing a frown. He had almost rolled on the ground laughing when he had heard about Fergus’s beating. The little shit had most certainly deserved it. “Look, this is not funny. Fergus lost a friend to the Northmen.” Larry blew out a breath, any urge to laugh disappearing as the events of the past weeks flooded his thoughts. “So he may have been a bit overenthusiastic.”

“What bows will we be using?” Deirdre asked, breaking a thick pause.

“The shorter bows should be done in a few days. Along with wrist guards and vests to protect your, ahh, torsos.” Larry glanced around the field. “Teltina will help you with those.” She wasn’t in sight. “Today, Ivar will lead your practice on the sling. Your targets are there.” Larry pointed. Leather patches from rabbit-size to an entire deerskin hung in the twisted ash, elm and oaks that bordered the field. The mid-afternoon sun cast rippled shadows on the skins, which were animated by a light breeze.

“They are all yours,” Larry said, turning to Ivar. The young priest’s mouth twitched as he looked around. The poor man was terrified. Was it the teaching or the women’s attention? Larry stepped back, leaving Ivar alone in front of the four waiting women.

Ivar took a breath, paused, and let it out. “As a child, I was responsible for the abbey’s sheep. I used slings against wild dogs and wolves.” He lifted a long thin rope from around his neck. “Tied in the middle is a patch for the rock. At one end of the rope is a loop. That goes around a finger on your right hand. The other end is loosely held in that same hand.”

He held out his hand. The leather patch hung from two stride-long ropes, one tied around the middle finger, the second pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Ivar stooped, picked up a stone half the size of his fist from one of the several piles. “Holding the pouch in your left, place a rock in the pouch.” He transferred the rock to his right, gripping it between his free fingers and palm, and placed it in the pouch. “Hold it in place with your left.”

The rock fell out of the pouch.

Mouth open, Ivar looked down at the projectile now lay on the ground.

“You mean like this?” Larry stepped forward, attaching his own sling to his right hand. Picking up the fallen rock, he placed it in his sling’s pouch, and twirled it. With a step forward, he loosed it at one of the trees. The rock flew through the upper canopy of an oak, releasing a few leaves to float to the ground. One flittered past one of the skins. Larry turned and, with a small nod, stared directly at Hatimu.

“At least you hit the tree,” Hatimu said after a heartbeat. “Ivar, please show this old man how to use the sling properly.”

One of the women tittered. Deirdre just looked at Larry with narrowed eyes.

Larry forced a scowl at Hatimu, relieved that they’d gotten some of the attention off the young priest.

Ivar’s next rock smacked the center of the smallest leather target, its supporting branches quivering. The rock bounced back to fall just within the scythed clearing.

“What did I do wrong?” Larry said as he fitted another rock in his sling.

“Stance.” Ivar demonstrated. Another leather target sang as it vibrated.

Larry shifted his feet and aimed at the largest target. Hit it. “Hatimu, see if you can do better.”

In spite of his wobbly leg, he did.

Larry grinned as he left Ivar working with the women. And Hatimu helping Maeve.

* * *

Larry’s stomach growled as he crossed the field toward the slinging area. From the sun, he guessed it would soon be dinnertime. He’d best gather Ivar and the kids. Keelin had promised a deer and turnip stew for dinner. Although Larry wasn’t sure about the turnips, he’d eat anything with venison in it. As he approached, it was evident from the expression on Ivar’s face that he enjoyed working with the kids much more than the women. The priest was beaming.

Larry slowed. Rory had joined the training for the last few days. And he, Garvan, and Fennore seemed to be making a game of it. They lined up and, on a count of three, swung and released their rocks. One, two, three. And the towering oak, survivor of decades if not centuries of abuse, shook as three rocks pelted the battered deerskins strung among the branches.

Larry clapped. “Hey, great.”

Ivar turned and looked sheepish. Like a kid caught having fun when he should have been doing chores.

“You are doing great,” Larry said to the kids, smiling to himself as he noted that Ivar’s expression changed from embarrassed to relieved. “But if Ivar is done with you, maybe we ought to think about cleaning up for dinner.”

“Mother says washing causes sickness,” Garvan said.

“What do you see when you hold a handful of soil?”

“Bugs.”

“How small?”

Garvan held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger almost touching.

“Well, you can see smaller bugs than I can,” Larry said. “But can others see smaller bugs than you?”

“Maybe, but my eyes are really good.”

“True. But there are bugs that are so small even the best eyes can’t see them. And some of them cause sickness.” Larry decided he was doing pretty well with the example. “So we want to wash the bugs off before eating.”

“We eat bugs when there's no food,” Garvan said.

Larry gave up. “Clean up or I’ll throw you all in the river.”

Garvan shrieked and Rory waved his hands in the air as they ran off laughing.

“I hit the target almost every time,” Fennore said, shaking her head theatrically as she watched the two run toward the center of Sanctuary.

“That is great.” Larry nodded and turned to Ivar. “Thanks for helping.”

“It is my honor,” the priest said. “I will join the boys at the river.”

As Ivar walked off, Larry turned to Fennore. “Show me again how you are doing with the sling.”

Fennore picked up a small stone and fitted it to her sling’s pouch. “I cut a few slits in the pouch. It holds the stone better.” She swung. And hit the smallest leather target in the tree, the stone bouncing back onto the cleared field.

Larry stared. Remembered to close his mouth. “That was a great shot.” He glanced up at the low sun. “And deserves dinner.”

As they walked toward Sanctuary and the river beyond, Fennore scrunched up her face in thought. “Why is your wife not with you?”

“Unfortunately, she died several years ago.” Larry smiled in spite of the flash of pain. This was one inquisitive little girl.

“I will pray to God for her soul.”

“You…” Larry paused. “Thank you.”

“Will you marry again?”

Larry hesitated. Memories flooded his mind. Along with the ever-present guilt. “Probably not.”

“How did she die?”

Larry closed his eyes. Shit. She was just a kid. Asking an innocent question. “She died in childbirth.” Trying to birth a kid that she hadn’t really wanted to have. But he had wanted a third child, and she had given in to his desire. And died.

“I am sorry.”

“It has been over a hand of years.” Larry tried to smile and hoped he didn’t look demonic.

* * *

Fergus filled another bowl with the evening’s stew and, looking up, lifted it to the next person in line.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said as she took the bowl. The ends of her mouth curved up a hair’s breadth.

“All I do is fill food bowls.” Fergus glanced toward Keelin who sat next to him carving slices of deer to add to each bowl. “Keelin made the stew. Quite tasty.”

Deirdre opened her mouth. Closed it. Before she turned away, she met his eyes for several heartbeats.

As soon as all were served, Keelin helped Fergus stand and served him a bowl. He thanked her and looked around. All the benches were filled. Behind the benches, in a rough semi-circle, stood the sleeping huts and workshops.

Fergus headed toward the hut that sheltered his father’s budding forge. It wasn't set up and wouldn’t be until they got charcoal production going. But it had a log on which he could sit and enjoy his dinner. In peace. Without the stares of the women.

* * *

Larry looked up as Jessie entered the light of the dying fire. “All is well?”

“Sentries are out. They’re even awake.” Jessie sat next to Fergus. “Moving better yet?”

“Yeah, I should be back to whatever passes for normal in a couple of days,” Fergus said, his eyes on the fire.

“Think you’d be up for a foray to the south coast?” Larry looked around at the late night gathering. Jessie, Fergus, and Matuso returned his gaze, all with eyebrows slightly raised.

“Scouting it out?” Matuso said.

“Yeah, want to see if we can move the ships?” Larry poked the fire with a charred piece of wood. “Ouch.” He shook his fingers. “Teltina says there’re several farmsteads that way. But they may have been taken over by what she called ‘wildlings’.”

“We going to kill more people?” Fergus asked with a grimace.

“I figure we’ll go armed but plan to just talk,” Larry said.

Chapter 25

August 12

Larry looked down the valley that opened into a vast panorama. In the distance—maybe seven or eight miles—the bay formed a flat dark ribbon, backed by the mountains of yet another peninsula that stretched out like an additional finger to the southeast. Below, a thinner ribbon of a small creek tumbled down and grew as the steep valley sides broadened and softened into a broad plain bounded by small hills.

“Rugged and ragged,” he said.

“Yet beautiful.” Teltina appeared at his side, her unstrung bow over her shoulder. “I think the smoke marks the Wildlings’ settlement.” She pointed.

A half-mile from the bay, smoke betrayed habitation along the left side of a small bend in the river. “Maybe four hours to get there,” Larry said, turning. The last of the men appeared, clambering down the twisting deer-path to gather around him.

He had decided on only a dozen men. Plus Teltina. Jessie and Fergus had each brought five men from their respective crews, leaving Matuso in charge of Sanctuary and the three ships. All had bows and swords or axes. Two carried flintlocks. They had decided against armor because of its weight and to avoid looking threatening.

“We will camp below. Head toward the bay along the river in the morning.” Larry turned and pointed. “We’ll travel along the left side of the river.”

“Must you meet the Wildlings?” Teltina’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

“If we decide to move the ships to this bay, we will need to do so with their knowledge.” He faced Teltina. “Thank you for leading us. We would have spent days finding this pass through this jumbled terrain.” Larry paused to take a long breath as he gazed at the dusty woman in front of him. He didn’t want her with them tomorrow. “Will you return to the valley of Sanctuary?”

Teltina stared at Larry for several breaths. Her face showed no emotion, but her eyes pierced his. “I will wait here in the mountains. Do not trust them.”

* * *

Larry’s stomach growled as they hiked along the game trail that followed the river’s edge. They had risen early and skipped food.

“I thought we were supposed to be quiet,” a voice whispered behind Larry.

“Fergus, sometimes I think the best part of you dribbled down my leg.” Larry raised a hand. The sun was close to straight up. After four hours of hiking, they had to be close to the Wildlings’ settlement.

“String bows and load the flintlocks,” he said as the men gathered close.

“The plan?” one of the men asked.

“The forest is dense. And this path is not well used.” Fergus met his father’s eyes. “So they won’t see us. And we won’t see them.”

Jessie moved through the men to stand next to Fergus. “Two groups?”

Larry shifted his view to the narrow trail. “When we’re close, I’ll go in alone. Fergus, at that point take your men through the forest. With the two flintlocks. Jessie, follow me but keep back. Or move into the water to parallel the trail. Use your judgment.”

Men shifted and Samatu edged between Fergus and Jessie. “A single man is suspicious. I’ll go with you into the settlement.”

Larry gazed at his old friend. Nodded.

At the sound of crashing branches, Larry turned, his hand moving to his sword. A deer burst onto the trail a couple dozen strides further along the trail, stopped, and bounded back into the forest. In several heartbeats, the sound died. Larry remained frozen.

“What was that about?” A voice whispered nearby.

“It was fleeing something,” Larry said. “Or somebody. Let’s go but watch our flanks and rear.”

A half hour later, they found a fish weir and the game trail widened into a path. As Jessie and his warriors slowed, Fergus and his four remaining men faded into the forest. Within a few minutes, the path widened into a clearing. Larry glanced at Samatu. At his nod, Larry walked into the clearing, Samatu’s footfalls behind him.

The settlement, more than a single farmstead, stretched out of sight as the river curved. A half-dozen thatched dwellings of wattle and daub followed the visible section of the path. Smaller shelters and huts dotted the spaces around the main structures. To the left, fences of posts and interwoven branches separated fields of grain. To the right, a thin line of small shrubs and trees bordered the river.

One single man stood in the path several hundred strides away. He wore a grey tunic over leggings. An axe protruded from a belt. He raised one empty hand, his other resting on his hip.

“Hello,” Larry said in Eire, stopping and raising his right hand in greeting, his left held a foot away from his axe.

Behind the man, the rest of the settlement stretched out of sight as the river curved.

“Too quiet,” Samatu murmured. “And why no dogs?”

“Maybe we’ll find out.” Larry moved forward, pausing a heartbeat on each step. As they passed the second dwelling and came within twenty strides of the man, he dropped his hand to chest level, palm outward. “What do you seek?”

“We search for access to the ocean,” Larry said. “We ask permission to travel in this region.”

“You travel with weapons.” The man’s eyes traveled over Larry’s body, shifting between his face, axe, and sword. “Unsheathe the sword. I would look at it.”

Puzzled, Larry pulled his sword from his sheathe in a slow motion. He held it out in front of him.

“And the axe.”

Larry slipped the axe from his belt with his left hand and held it high.

“I think that sword is a nice gift. As is the axe.” The man smiled, revealing two gaps in his upper teeth.

“We can arrange for a trade,” Larry said.

“Trade? I think a dead man does not trade.” The man raised his left hand, his right drawing his own axe.

Larry spun in a circle. From small and large buildings, men appeared, some with short bows, others with swords or axes.

The bowmen stepped forward and drew back their arrows. The heads of two exploded into a spray of blood, brains and bone. Two sharp cracks echoed. The remaining archers fired before crumpling as arrows sprouted from their chests.

A sharp gasp from behind turned Larry. Samatu swayed, face lowered, eyes staring at a shaft protruding from his chest. He looked up at Larry as blood gushed from his mouth. He fell.

Larry froze. Images of a young Samatu flashed through his mind. As a prisoner in Haven. As a hero returning the stolen weapons. As a father. As a sailor. Images faded into red. A roaring grew in his head and Larry turned away from his fallen friend, eyes sweeping the settlement. The Wildlings ran as the Havenites erupted from the forest and from the path. Larry moved into a jog. A run. Eyes seeing only fleeing men, Larry swung. Swung again. A scream erupted from his gut and carried over the cries of the men who fell before his axe and sword.

The running bodies faded. The scream in his mouth died as full vision returned. Turning in place, Larry took in the mangled corpses and trails of blood. He looked at his hands. They were covered in blood as were the shaft of the axe and the hilt of his sword.

“Larry.” A voice cleared his head. Fergus appeared in front of him. Larry lowed his axe and sword.

“They’re all dead. At least the ones that didn’t run away.” His son paused. “Jessie is with Samatu.” He lowered his head.

“Samatu.” Larry turned back toward the body lying at Jessie’s knees. He staggered to the body of his old friend and sank to the ground.

* * *

“Here.” A hand held a clay mug in front of Larry. After a few heartbeats, he took it. Brought it to his mouth and drank. He registered a mint taste. He took another sip.

“We found over a dozen slaves shackled in one of the larger houses.”

Larry looked up. Jessie stood, face drawn. A bloody piece of cloth formed a sleeve around his right forearm. “How badly are you injured?”

“Barely more than a scratch,” Jessie said. “Are you able to talk? We’re interviewing the former captives. Some of the women are pretty messed up. There are also children.”

Larry’s pulse increased. Kids. More responsibility. His breaths were coming faster and faster. A hand grasped his shoulder.

“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 hand 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 and 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?”

“Continue training,” Fergus said, looking around at the staring faces and nodding to two. “The men from the south are recovering and Donngal and Trian have already joined in on a few of the less strenuous exercises.”

Larry returned his attention to his breakfast. It just got worse and worse. Now they were training not only women and kids, but also injured ex-slaves.

Chapter 29

August 18

The sun had risen halfway to its zenith by the time Ivar came in sight of the peninsula that jutted out toward the abbey’s island. The trail he’d been following was now a road, connecting the farmsteads that dotted this side of Lough Leane. He continued inland, past the peninsula. Ahead he’d find the small village that surrounded the dock where the abbey’s boats tied up. And maybe something to eat; the hunger in his stomach nearly overshadowed the ache of moral uncertainty.

Others trod the road, carrying produce, straw, wood, or leading animals. Ivar kept his crucifix exposed, content to blend into the abbey’s traffic, blessing any who met his eyes.

By noon, the edge of the village came into view. Ivar hesitated. Should he worry about being recognized? Uaine, Brocc’s widow, could link him to the Havenites or the Abbot’s men might wonder why he was back. He hadn’t left the abbey on the best of terms. Being assigned to ‘wander preach’ was really a punishment for questioning the Abbot’s use of the female slaves. A way to get him out of the Abbot’s sight. He continued walking. At least he didn’t look like a total stranger, which would set tongues to wagging.

As the road veered toward the dock, larger buildings appeared—storehouses for the grain and wool paid as rent by the surrounding farmsteads to the abbey. A few years ago, before Ivar had been exiled, the village had teemed with women and children. Now, other than a few farmers with their wares, mostly hard looking men with weapons moved about. With Ur Neill colors on their shields. Ivar’s heart pounded as the muddy road opened onto the dock area. Armed men guarded the ramps to the docks and boats that provided access to the island-bound abbey. He slowed his step.

Ivar caught the odor of a privy. He turned, eyes picking out the shed, closed on three sides but open to the road. He slipped into it, hefting up his robe. Emptying his bladder, he contemplated his options. Stay or leave? He wanted to talk with the Abbot. Ask his guidance. But if he was supporting the Ur Neill, then Sanctuary needed to know.

“Father, glad to see you using it for something.” The voice startled a choke out of Ivar. A large body appeared next to him. A steady stream of steaming urine splashed into the elongated pit at their feet.

“Blessing on you,” Ivar said, voice squeaking in spite of his efforts. He dared a sideways glance. The man wore a sheathed sword and reeked more than the pit.

“Your blessing on my sword, Father.” The man shook his worm. Something wet warmed Ivar’s cheek. “We have some killing to do up in the mountains behind the lake,” the man said.

At the sound of a sword slipping out of a sheath, Ivar turned, dropping the hem of his robe. The tall warrior held a sword, dinged and rusty, upright. Ivar shivered. Had he been identified with the Havenites?

“Your blessing, father,” the man said again.

Ivar forced his tongue to move. “May the almighty Son of God give you a long life and may he give your sword the gift of death.” He moved his right hand in the sign of a cross.

“And may God give you something to do with your worm besides pissing.” The man laughed as he left.

Ivar drew rapid shallow breaths.

* * *

Larry swung. A clang reverberated as his hammer hit the edge of the glowing sword, sending bright sparks flying.

“What will you use this for?” Garvan asked between pants. He stepped from one foot to another, forcing the leather bellows to force air into Larry’s hellish pit of glowing charcoal.

“I am shaping the tip of this shit sword into a rod. When it's cool, I will use it to form other pieces of captured weapons into a tube.” Larry grunted as he swung again. “Then I close and sharpen one end. Slip it over a stave and we have a spear. For larger pieces, I could even weld on an axe head and make a halberd.”

“Purpose?” Garvan asked, sweat pouring from his body in the heat that radiated from the glowing pit.

“An axe head on the end of a long spear makes it easy to whack a swordsman from a distance.”

“Take a break,” a voice said in English from behind them.

Larry wiped the sweat from his face with his left sleeve, leaving streaks of soot and charcoal. “Almost done.”

“Can we hurl?” Garvan asked in his own language. “It’s close to supper.”

“These points ain’t gonna make themselves.” Dropping his hammer, Larry withdrew a large piece of cloth from his tunic and ran it over his face and hair.

“Take a break,” Matuso said again. “It’ll be dinner soon anyway. I’ll finish up here. Sigfus can handle the bellows.” Matuso gestured to the Icelander who stood behind him.

“I can finish it faster.”

“As your medical resource, I’m prescribing recreation.” Switching to Eire, Matuso turned to Garvan. “Take Larry to your field and run his muscles loose.”

Stretching his aching back, Larry stared at Matuso. These young ones were getting more and more argumentative.

Matuso stared back, head cocked slightly and eyebrows up.

Larry caught himself thinking of Teltina. She had similar mannerisms. He shifted his gaze to Garvan. The boy met his eyes. Shit, the boy tilted his head also. “All right.” Larry removed his leather apron. “Running around senselessly may actually relieve some of these aches and pains.” He switched to English. “Matuso, the next time I see your father, I’m gonna tell him what a pain in the ass you are.”

Larry turned to face Garvan and switched back to Eire, “Let’s go, but you’ll never score against me.” As he followed the running boy, Larry wondered yet again what would happen to this kid after he and the other Havenites left.

Chapter 30

August 19

Larry’s eyes followed Garvan and Rory as they raced around the cook fire area, each bouncing a leather ball on their bats, or what Garvan insisted on calling hurleys. After a couple of circles, they veered off toward the playing field. Larry tightened his jaw, trying to remember what it was like to be young and free of worry. Maybe he could get in an hour of play after this meeting. He glanced up. The sun had fallen midway to the horizon. If he was to play, he’d better hurry; supper would be in an hour or so.

“Sui Finn safe enough?” He looked at Fergus, who sat between Jessie and Matuso. Around the fire itself, Niam, Keelin, and Sigfus prepared dinner.

“This side of our lookout has a lot of cover.” Fergus tossed a twig into the fire. It flared for a few breaths. “But if our lookout is attacked from this direction, we’re already screwed.”

“Coming up the Caragh River?”

“If anyone taking that route doesn’t want to be seen, they won’t.”

“Any good news?” Larry said. This whelp took after his father too much.

“Obvious routes tend to be used.” Fergus tossed another twig into the fire.

Larry lifted his eyes from the fire and swept the village. Other than today’s cooks, the other Sanctuary inhabitants had decided to stick to their chores rather than be anywhere near him. Shit, he probably came across even grumpier than usual lately.

All eyes around the fire looked up as a running man broke from the trees near the river. Larry’s hand dropped to his waist, fingers wrapping around his knife. “Now what?” he asked, muscles relaxing as Fistav slowed and stopped in front of him. The sweating man leaned over, took a breath and straightened, leggings dripping water.

“Ivar’s back,” he said, drawing in another breath. “He’s maybe a hand of time behind me.” Fistav glanced back toward the trail that entered the village from the river. “I met him at the East Pass. After talking with him, I decided to report immediately.”

“And?” Larry asked, dreading the answer.

“What I understood from his babbling is that the Ur Neill are at the abbey and planning to attack.”

“We’ll gather everyone when he gets here.” Larry sagged. More death was coming.

“Should we talk to him privately, first?” Fergus asked, eyes locking onto Larry’s.

Larry returned his gaze for several breaths. “No, I ain’t keeping anything back. Everyone deserves to know what shit’s coming down.”

* * *

Matuso watched Ivar slow as he entered the cook fire area, the man’s eyes flicking around the assembled crowd. Most of the villagers were present, sitting on the benches and logs that surrounded the simmering pot of supper. All stared at the young priest.

“Sit and have a drink.” Larry waved a hand toward the open space at his side.

Matuso filled a mug with cooled mint tea and handed it to Ivar, leading the man with his left hand to a seat next to Larry. “Take your time. We can wait for your story.”

Ivar’s eyes moved, shifting from person to person like a trapped animal.

“Relax,” Fergus said from across the fire. “We'll beat the shit out of you later. For now, sit and tell us your story.”

Ivar’s eyes widened. After a moment, a smile cracked his face. He sat and lifted the mug to his lips. His throat twitched as he drained the mug. A hand removed the empty mug and refilled it. Ivar downed it also. “My apologies,” he said, after pausing to take several long breaths. “I decided to visit the Abbot, my confessor.” His eyes again swept his audience.

Matuso nodded encouragement as Ivar met his gaze. The young priest had aged in the last few days. His face was haggard and paler than usual.

“I entered the abbey’s village. It’s on the lakeshore and has a dock for the boat that serves the island.” He looked down at his hand. “I saw a large number of men. A couple dozen. Not regular inhabitants.” He sucked in a deep breath. Exhaled. “I tried to hide in a privy.” He looked up as several people chuckled. “An armed man entered. He spoke to me and asked for my blessing. He claimed he was part of an expedition moving into the mountains.” His eyes found Larry’s. “To kill us.”

Us. Matuso caught several of the men glancing at each other. He wasn’t the only one to catch Ivar’s word use.

“I returned immediately, before anyone from the abbey recognized me. Or the woman from Brocc’s farmstead.”

“The men you saw,” Matuso said, “were they Northmen or Ur Neill?”

“Only Ur Neill.”

“So where are the Northmen?” Matuso eyes swept the gathered inhabitants of Sanctuary.

* * *

Matuso sat, mug of mint tea in his hand. “What are your thoughts?”

It was late. Fergus squatted by the fire’s edge and tossed twigs into the fire, the resulting flares of light occasionally washing out the moon’s weak shadows. Larry and Jessie sat on the bench on the opposite side of the dim flames. Behind them, Hatimu looked at the recorder in his hands, frowned, and slipped it into a pouch.

“Ivar, for all his silliness, confirmed what we feared.” Larry picked at a fingernail with his knife. “Thing is, we can’t fight them directly. We don’t know how many they are and they are likely to be experienced fighters. We only prevailed before…” Larry closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose. “Those of us who survived did so because we had surprise on our side.”

“The ambush in the mountain…” Matuso started to say.

“Was a lot of luck and we lost Pondusu.” Larry’s voice was low, but cut through a night broken only by the crackle of flames and the snap of collapsing wood. “And those were Ur Neill, not Northmen.”

Matuso closed his eyes, seeing the cairn they had left behind in the mountains to the east of Ros’s farmstead. And the shallow grave at Brocc’s farmstead.

“What are our defensive options?” Jessie asked after a long pause.

“None.” Fergus tossed in an evergreen branch, which flared and illuminated drawn and haggard faces. “I’m thinking…” He turned to Larry. “What’s the word for hit and run fighting?”

“Guerrilla warfare.” Larry moved his knife to his left hand, scraping the tip under the nail of the index finger of his right hand. “We need to monitor their movements. And attack and fade while they’re still far away from Sanctuary.”

“Hello.” A voice broke from the dark. Marcan moved into the light.

“Please join us,” Matuso said in Eire.

“My family is sleeping. But I can not.” The man sat next to Matuso. “Anything I can do?”

“Die with us.” Fergus poked at the fire with a stick, releasing a puff of smoke. “Or flee with your family.” Only the slight downward edges of his mouth betrayed his blank face.

“Flee where?” Marcan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face cupped in his hands. “We are safer here than on our own. For their sake, I will wield an axe at your side.”

Matuso raised an eyebrow at the man’s comment. Maybe they had underestimated the refugees. The southern men were certainly enthusiastic on the training field and tended to follow Marcan’s lead.

“Well, I guess we fight.” Fergus leaned back, arms above him in a stretch. “And I would be honored to have Marcan at my side.”

“Matuso, will you head up to Sui Finn early tomorrow? Check what the boys up there are seeing.” Larry turned to Fergus. “You to the east pass? Then let us meet mid-day. Decide on strategy. Maybe raiding parties.”

“If we can cause enough damage, maybe they will not even enter Sanctuary.” Matuso stood. “I think I'd better get some sleep while I can.”

Chapter 31

August 21

“It’s veering off to the south,” Matuso said. “That’s odd.” He stood looking east, scanning the coastal contour on the south side of the bay.

“Odd good or odd bad?” Hatimu asked, moving to stand next to Matuso.

“Bad.”

Hatimu stepped forward as if to see better. “But maybe not so odd. The longships can land on an exposed beach if the waves aren’t too high. And that small hill blocks our view of that part of the coast. Great place to start a flanking action.”

Matuso turned to face their small cook fire set between knee high walls of stone. He’d arrived at their lookout on Sui Finn mountain a few hours ago to find Cassan and Hatimu taking turns reinforcing the rock wall that formed the wind break for their small lean-to shelter.

Cassan now sat tending the cook fire, their lunch simmering in a metal pot rumored to be one brought by Potts from the Far Lands. The Eire youth treated it as a sacred relic.

“Cassan, how’d you like a run under this sun?”

“Better than running in the rain.” The youth stirred the stew once before standing. “Let them know there’s a landing?” He moved to a clay jug and poured water into a small cup.

“And ask for more sentries,” Matuso said. “I’m going down to scout them out.”

“I should go,” Hatimu said. “You need to coordinate from here.” He chuckled. “And play with your map.”

“Your leg isn’t healed enough to run.”

“The goal is to not be seen, not to outrun a couple of sailors from the north.” Hatimu grinned. “And I need the exercise. So don’t argue.” He joined Cassan at the water jug.

Matuso watched as the two drank their fill. Cassan kicked up dust and dislodged small pebbles as he sat to drink. Hatimu left prints but no noise and no dust. Even with his bad leg, he was the best choice for scouting out the Northmen.

* * *

Larry squinted into the glowing hell of the forge pit. He’d have to make a proper brick furnace eventually. He paused at that thought and snorted. If he lived long enough.

“Will the women fight?” Face dripping, Garvan worked the bellows. Behind him, Rory and Cellach lay on the bare ground in exaggerated poses of exhaustion, arms and legs splayed outwards.

“I hope they will not have to,” Larry said. “Worse case, you, Rory, and Cellach take the women up into the mountains. You remember where we cashed supplies?”

“Up the valley from Rory’s home then west over the ridge.” Garvan pointed southwest.

“Look for stacked rocks. Cache is downhill a hundred strides,” Cellach added. Larry noted that the boy, one of the refugees from the south, had put on weight. And, in spite of his abuse in captivity, was now interacting with adults as well as the other kids.

Rory lifted one hand, fingers moving. Beside him, Cellach squinted.

“Larry strides, not ours.” Garvan translated for Rory.

“Your job?” Larry said.

“Scout out the terrain,” Garvan said. “Help the women. Defend them.”

“Why is that important?” Larry nodded to Cellach and pointed to an iron rod. “Hold that.”

“So you and the other warriors can concentrate on saving Sanctuary,” Cellach said as he held the rod with heavy leather strips. “Without worrying about the women and the little ones.”

Larry nodded. And to keep you rascals out of trouble. He hefted his hammer and brought it down on the glowing sword fragment that rested on the iron rod. Sparks and debris flew and the glowing metal formed around the colder rod. “This should be the last of the spear tips. Wish we had time to form halberd heads.”

“Look.” Garvan’s rhythmic steps faltered as he pointed toward the center of the village. “Cassan just ran in.”

“Almost there.” Larry’s hammer rose and fell. “Another few hammer strikes and we will see what he has to say.”

The squeak of the bellows died away, replaced by footfalls and labored breathing. Larry looked up. Garvan had stepped off the footpads of the bellows and stood facing Cassan. The latter took in one more deep breath and said, “A Northman boat landed on our side of the bay, just west of Sui Finn.”

* * *

Hatimu leaned against the weathered oak as he peered around its ancient girth. Below, the small valley constricted as it and its accompanying stream escaped to the bay through a narrow cut in the hills that bordered the salt water. He massaged his leg with one hand. The trail—never more than a game path—had deteriorated into small tunnels through the thick brush. It had taken him a lot longer than expected to work his way across country. Hunger gnawed at his stomach but small streams kept him hydrated.

He moved uphill for a better perspective and, once there, lowered himself into a clump of bushes to view the landing area. A hollowness settled in his gut not related to hunger. Three longboats were pulled up on the rocky beach. How had the other two gotten here? At night?

A shiver ran through his body in spite of his sweat. He could only see enough men milling around the ships to fill one. Where were the rest of the Northmen? Hatimu turned in slow, deliberate movements. His eyes, partially blinded by the deep shadows from the low sun, swept the hillside and the valley below. Retreat became a priority. This wasn’t just a scouting party. Three ships meant at least 60 or more men. He needed to get back to Sui Finn.

Picking out a path with cover, he crawled into thicker brush. Crouched, he scurried from one shadow to another. Once back on Sui Finn, he’d get someone to run to Sanctuary with the news. The next hillside provided a welcoming dark shadow. He could make better time once in its safety. Wincing from the fire in his leg, he jogged into its embrace. And froze.

A dark shape stepped from behind a leaning birch, a man with a smirk half hidden by a thick beard. He wore a chain mail vest over a leather tunic and stained trousers. Boots laced up his leg and gauntlets covered his hands and forearms. The man’s smile widened and he said something in a low voice.

A sharp pain stabbed Hatimu’s left thigh. He brought up his bow, his right hand flailing at his quiver. A noise from behind. A second explosion of pain…

Chapter 32

August 22

Ragnar rolled over, extending his arm. Nothing. With a sharp intake of breath, he sat upright. The early morning light cut through the tent’s entrance. He flipped off the blanket and crawled to the door. Outside, the dawn revealed the camp nestled in a narrow valley that lay between the mountains that formed the backbone of the peninsula and the small hills that bordered the bay. A small stream followed the valley before tumbling down the steep shoreline on which his three longships lay beached.

He slipped out of the tent, pulled on a wool tunic, and looked around with a frown. Scattered over the narrow valley, mounds of wool blankets breathed and snored. Most had scouted the region to the south and east yesterday—confirming that the strangers only had one base—and deserved a late morning. Nearby, a small open-sided shelter protected their cooking supplies from the frequent rain. There, Orla’s familiar form knelt at a cook fire. Ragnar relaxed.

The murmur of voices turned his head. Scouts picked their way through the sleeping men, two carrying a litter.

“We found this stranger last evening.” The lead man dropped his end of the litter, evoking a moan from its contents. “We were assigned to monitor the area between here and the mountains and to view the valley for lights during the night. So we did not bring him in but left him tied up overnight as we continued our task.” The man looked down at the injured captive. “On our return, we found him still breathing.”

Ragnar squatted and turned the man’s head. “Not from Eire. Not from our lands.” He slapped the captive. The captive moaned again. “Who are you?” Ragnar said in Norse. Then repeated the question in Eire.

“Trader,” the captive said in Eire. “Trader from...” His head lolled to one side.

“Weapons?” Ragnar said, looking up at the scouts from his position at the side of the unconscious man.

The scout handed Ragnar a bow and a quiver of arrows. “Well made.” He pulled a sheathed knife from his belt. “Very well made.”

Nodding, Ragnar pulled one of the arrows from the quiver and brought the arrow’s tip a hand’s width from his eyes. A familiar tip of hard iron. He scraped one of the sides of the arrowhead across the back of his hand, leaving a hairless strip. “Tell me what you found,” he said, handing back the bow and quiver, taking the knife. He frowned as he withdrew the hard metal from its sheath.

“We could see fires from the summit. But only at their settlement.” He turned and pointed toward the skyline to the east. “There are guards posted at the northern most peak. But they did not see us.”

Ragnar’s eyes followed the scout’s outstretched arm. A line of mountains formed a wall to the east. Three prominent passes broke the chain, the lowest being the middle.

He returned his gaze to the warrior as he handed the knife back. “You and your men can wager for the stranger’s weapons. Leave the captive here. I will have my thrall attend to him. Feed your men and have them rest in turns, but keep one on the captive and one at the boats.” He gazed toward the campfire. “And one to guard the thralls.” Two other women had joined Orla. One wore a silk trimmed wool cloak—probably Gunnarr’s wife—and was giving orders to Orla and the second thrall.

Ragnar had not been happy to have wives on this journey but his ship captains had that right. He had to admit that they did help run a comfortable camp. And their presence helped keep the female thralls from being too damaged to work by some of the rougher men. He turned and looked over his men. As the shapeless mounds stirred, his eyes unfocused. The strangers would have most of their defenses at the lowest pass. He smiled.

* * *

Hatimu choked as water filled his mouth. He opened his eyes to find a young woman leaning over him.

“Drink,” she said. “You need water.” She lifted his head then repositioned her hand as he stiffened from pain. “Apologies. I did not realize you also have a head wound.” Fingers crept along the back of his head. Soft but insistent fingers. “A blow. But the skin is not broken,” she said in a soft voice.

He swallowed. “Who are you?”

“I am Orla.” Her voice broke and a sob escaped. “Daughter of Ros.”

“Ros?” Hatimu started to rise, but the world spun. Nausea threatened to bring up the water he just drank.

“Don’t get up.” Her hands pushed, gently, on his shoulders.

“Is Cassan your brother?” Hatimu asked, eyes closing.

“Cassan?” A hand rested on his chest. “Is he safe? Is he with the strangers who came to trade?”

Hatimu forced a weak smile. “He escaped with us. We are the traders. Fled into the mountains.”

“Hush, Ragnar returns. Drink this.” A hand raised his head again. A bowl of liquid pressed against his lips. A broth.

* * *

“Is he alive?” Ragnar said, kneeling at Orla’s side.

“Weak but alive.” Orla shifted backward, then stood and retreated.

“Speak, stranger,” Ragnar said. “Tell me who you are and why you are here.”

The captive opened his eyes. His features were unfamiliar. Darker skin than Eire or Norse peoples. Long black hair. Prominent nose. Sparse beard. Well-sewn clothes of leather and flax. And a tunic of wool, finely stitched.

“I am called Hatimu.” The stranger met Ragnar’s eyes. “We came to trade.”

“You came to kill.”

“We kill only when attacked.”

Ragnar sat back on his haunches. This man’s face twitched, but his eyes did not waver. “Where are you from?”

Hatimu narrowed his eyes. “We live in the west,” he said after a long pause. “About three weeks travel by sea.”

Ragnar shifted to the left and pulled out his knife. He reached forward and placed the tip on Hatimu’s cheek. “You lie, nothing exists in the west but rumors and children’s tales.”

The man’s eyes crossed as he focused on the knife. “Poorly made.” The eyes refocused on Ragnar’s. “Maybe you would like to trade for better blades?”

Ragnar increased the pressure, a bead of red appearing. This man was mad. He had an arrow wound in his leg and a bash on the back of the head. Yet he spoke as if he was an equal. Maybe it would be better to just kill him. Yet curiosity stayed his hand. Who were these intruders? And could he profit from them? He withdrew the knife and sat himself on the ground, feet at the stranger’s torso. The knife he kept in his right hand. “Tell me of these lands that do not exist in the west.”

“It is a long sea voyage from two great lands that lie to the west and to the southwest.”

“I have only heard of a large island,” Ragnar said. “But it lies to the northwest.” He frowned. He was talking with this captive as if he were an equal. “So you lie.”

“Have you been west of Iceland?” The captive’s face showed nothing. “There exists another large island. Green pastures lie in the southern part but ice covers the rest.”

Ragnar should just kill him. But knowledge of hard iron could be important. “What of your weapons?” He unfastened a small pouch from his belt and spilled the contents into his left hand. “What do you know of this metal?” he said, showing Hatimu one of the metal arrow points.

“Steel from Haven’s forges.”

“What is Haven?”

Hatimu described the coming of the Far Ones, the war with the warlord Tork, and the founding of Haven. “They can die, but their power is great.”

“If they can die, why should I be concerned?”

“Because you can also.” Hatimu shifted his gaze to the hills on south side of the camp.

“What if I kill you?”

Hatimu shrugged, glancing into Ragnar’s eyes for a brief breath. “I will be remembered by Haven.” The captive returned his gaze to the hills.

“No one is hiding in the hills in order to rescue you.” Unease crawled through Ragnar. Was this man brave or just mad? Were all the strangers like him?

“I enjoy the view.”

“Before you enter the underworld?” Ragnar said, smiling.

“Before I cease to exist.”

Ragnar watched the man for many breaths. Maybe just mad. But tales of powerful men from the west could be true. An island did exist to the north and west. It was a land of both green pastures and ice, and there were rumors of a second.

He stood and nodded to a waiting guard. “Put an arrow in his other leg if he tries to escape.” Ragnar turned, seeing Orla attending the cook fire. “Orla, see to the captive’s wound.” He turned to another guard, “Find Gunnarr. His tent is down near the boats.” Ragnar snorted as he pointed north between the low hills to the sea. Gunnarr’s demon wife insisted he stay away from the thralls. “Tell him to gather the men into two bands. The returned scouts will rest here and guard. Overnight packs for the rest. We march.”

* * *

Larry looked up at the sound of running footsteps. Heads turned away from their breakfast porridge as Matuso entered Sanctuary, sweat streaming off his face and soaking his tunic. Larry’s clay bowl shattered on the ground as he stood and moved to intercept his young friend.

“Hatimu’s missing,” Matuso stammered between gasps of air. “There are Northmen warriors to the west of the mountains.

Larry bit off a reply as one of the kids held up a mug of tea to Matuso. “How many?” Larry asked after Matuso gulped down the contents. “Cassan told us yesterday there was a ship.”

“At least one.” Matuso exchanged his empty mug for a full one. “Can’t see that section of the coast from the lookout.” He stood, looking at the full mug. “Hatimu went yesterday to scout them out. But he should have returned last night. There was adequate moonlight. I ran here after being relieved by Marcan and Brynjar.”

Larry looked around the gathering audience. Hatimu was good, even with his injured leg. Unlikely to get caught unless he ran into a lot of Northmen. “This doesn’t mean he’s in trouble. Maybe just delayed. But we will send additional men to the lookout.” He scanned the mountains, lingering briefly on the easier passes. “And men to the passes.”

Fergus appeared at his side. “Send a large force?”

“No. Just scouts.” Larry sighed. “With orders to retreat if they run into anyone.”

* * *

Over the lip of his mug, Larry watched the off-duty warriors and his charges mill around the evening cook fire. The minty tea soothed his thirst but did not settle the ache in his gut. He couldn’t even think about dinner. What would happen to these people if he couldn’t get them out of this mess? A murmur arose, and heads turned to the northwest. Guts twisting in a knot, Larry stood and stared in the same direction. A runner from the Sui Finn lookout. Legs leaden with worry, Larry moved to meet him.

“Troops,” Brynjar gasped in English. “Even through the trees, we could make out dozens of men.”

“Give him water and food.” Larry’s eyes scanned the worried looks of the refugees and the open faces of the Havenites. “Then meet in ten minutes.” He made eye contact with several of the refugees. “Meet in one finger of time,” he said in Eire.

* * *

Larry watched as, dinner forgotten, Havenites, Icelanders and Eirefolk crowded around the cook fire. Niam approached and he gave up, handing her his dinner bowl, still half-full of stew. She nodded instead of scowling.

He watched her fuss with the bowls, letting his mind escape from the coming conversation. Niam had adapted well to her freedom, making peace with her former owners. That had been helped, no doubt, by the attention the young lady received from the warriors. Rumor had it that a couple of the men had pressed a bit hard, but she had deflected their advances with apparent good humor. He’d also heard that one of the Icelandic warriors, who had not grown up in Haven culture, had not accepted her rejection. Until Niam talked to Deirdre. Who, in turn, had Fergus take the warrior for a long walk.

If only all problems were that easily solved.

“Any plans?” Fergus said, sitting on the bench nearest the cook fire.

“Nope.” Larry sat next to him. In minutes, the milling crowd settled on the remaining benches or on stools dragged into place.

“As you have heard, Hatimu is missing and warriors, probably Northmen, are approaching.” Larry said as silence overtook the gathering. “I am thinking that we should avoid a direct battle until we are in a better defensive position.” Larry forced his eyes to sweep the crowd, meeting one pair of eyes after another. “As exposed as we are here, even winning would decimate our ranks, leaving us vulnerable to any further encounters.”

“Should we surrender?” one of the new refugees who sat next to Marcan asked, rising from his seat to emphasize his question.

“No.” Larry met the man’s gaze. “We run. And make it painful for them to follow.”

The man nodded and sat. Marcan placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick squeeze.

“To the south?” Fergus said.

“Teltina knows the mountains.” Larry stood, his eyes searching the crowd. She stood at the edge of the gathering, only her head showing. As their eyes met, she nodded. “She could lead us into the mountains while some of us hold back to make pursuit painful. Teltina?” He held out a hand in her direction, directing everyone's attention.

Teltina stepped onto one of the benches. “When should we leave? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

Larry looked at his son.

“I am expecting our scouts from the east.” Fergus got to his feet and looked about him. “Once we know more of the Ur Neill’s tactics, we can pick the best route into the mountains.” He hesitated before turning to Teltina. “Your choice.” He shifted his gaze to Larry. “We should leave no later than tomorrow evening. We will have a half moon. Good enough to slip away.” He turned to the crowd. “First prepare what you can carry on your back in case we have to leave sooner than that. And then prepare bundles of food and spare weapons to load on the horses. What is left we will bury or hide if there’s time.” He turned toward the river and the ships. “Or scuttle.”

“I will leave now to check the passes and join you tomorrow before midday.” Teltina stepped down.

As the crowd dispersed, Larry intercepted her. “You can not go alone.” Larry swallowed bile. This woman was crazy. “It is too dangerous.” They stood at the edge of Sanctuary, away from the crowd milling around and exchanging rumors after the meeting.

Teltina smiled. It was an infuriating smile, one that an adult would bestow on a child. “Agnes will remain here but Rory will accompany me. These mountains are our home. I must confirm which passes are not being watched.”

“I will go with you.”

“You will stay here. And hold this community together.” She reached out with her right hand to touch Larry’s arm. “We will not be seen.”

Her touch burned his forearm. Larry opened and closed his mouth, his tongue impotent.

“Tomorrow.” Teltina turned and, in a few minutes, was lost in the dim evening light.

* * *

The lake cut into the valley like a knife. Ragnar smiled. If the mountains were taller, this could be a scene from home. The smile sagged as he closed his eyes. But it was not crowded with brothers and cousins seeking land. He must not fail them.

Movement at his side jarred Ragnar back to this place and time.

“I see ships.” Gunnarr pointed with his left hand, his shortened little finger held at an angle.

At the end of his outstretched arm, fields broke the forest about a rost up the small river feeding the lake. “I will trust your good eyes,” Ragnar said. “How many?”

“Three. The smaller one is the size of our missing coastal ship.”

“They will die.” Not only did these foreigners disrupt his plans, they also humiliated him.

“Shall I move the men downhill?”

Ragnar’s eyes swept the valley. To the north, the lake curved through the hills and mountains. To the east, passes among low hills provided access for the Ur Neill. If they fulfilled their oath. To the south, the valley disappeared into broken mountains. “No. Let them rest. We will await our Ur Neill allies.”

Chapter 33

August 23

The sun on the eastern horizon warmed Ragnar’s face, thwarting the bite of the mountain wind screaming through the pass.

“Hel’s wind,” the warrior at his side said in a low voice.

“It blows on our enemies also.” Ragnar did not turn but kept his eyes on the receding shadows that flowed east to meet the rising sun.

“Will we engage today?”

Ragnar hesitated, weighing first blood versus caution versus curiosity. “I wish to watch our Ur Neill friends fight.” And to determine if they could. And if Cormac gained a few coins from their wager, so be it. He’d rather have his men alive than gold weighing down his pouch. And the hard iron tempted him. He turned to the warrior. “But to warm your bones, run to camp and bring additional food and drink. Use the thralls. But leave Orla and one other to attend to the captive and to feed the guards.” He paused. “And warn them to watch our captive carefully. The strangers may try to rescue him.”

As the warrior started down the mountainside, Ragnar nodded to another man. “Find Snorri. I want to talk with him about our attack.”

As the second man ran off, Ragnar returned his gaze to the brightening valley.

* * *

A hand appeared in front of Larry holding a steaming mug. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the tea from Keelin.

“Did you even sleep?”

He met her eyes. “Some.”

The Eire grandmother nodded once before returning to the cook fire, where a copper kettle rested above the flames.

Larry watched her retreating back for several breaths before shifting his gaze to the east. Over the top of the dark forest, the soft slopes blazed emerald under the rising sun. Nearer, the break in the forest exposed the dark ribbon of the river whose mist was already dissipating.

Damn, it was a beautiful country if one could forget the killing. Or the heart-pounding thrill of bleeding out some asshole in battle followed by the mind-dulling emptiness when it was over.

Trying to clear his mind of anticipation and dread, Larry shook his head.

“Going to fall off.” A figure appeared at his side, a steaming mug in a hand wrapped in cloth against the still-chilly air.

“Just so it ain’t cut off.”

Fergus choked off a laugh. “Events going to hit your proverbial fan today?”

Larry sipped at his tea. The minty concoction cleared the taste of sleep and yesterday’s meals from his mouth. “I’m thinking our friends will need another day to get in place.” He turned to face his son. “But I’d hit sooner. Even if not ready.”

“So, in case the Northmen or Ur Neill think like you, we ought to be ready now.” Fergus broke eye contact and stared at the western mountains. “I thought I saw reflected light.”

“Probably armor.” Larry turned back to face the rising sun. “If they’re working together and if I was doing the planning, I’d split up. So maybe the Ur Neill will appear from the east.”

“Look.” Fergus pointed toward the river.

“Shit,” Larry said as a lone man broke from the far riverbank and splashed in the river. Larry set down his mug, stepped toward the man, and broke into a run. The sound of Fergus’s footsteps followed. By the time they reached the water, the man was stepping out of the water, soaked from the waist down. Larry stopped in front of the heaving man, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“Men moving up Brocc’s river,” the man said between breaths. “Must have spent the night at the farmstead and left with the sun.”

Larry turned his head to meet Fergus’s eyes.

His son nodded. “My men and I will meet them.” He turned to the runner. “How many and how far?”

“Several dozen at least. And maybe four hours away.” He looked at the morning sun. “Probably three now. We only saw them as they followed the trail through an open meadow.”

“Let’s hope they are as inept in fighting as they are in stealth.” Fergus’s mouth formed a thin line. “If they came from the abbey, then it would be just as easy to move into our valley from the south as a flanking action.”

“So much for our plan to have the women and kids slip into the south mountains.” Larry puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled.

“No help for it,” Fergus said. “I’ll take care of this group. Keep a careful watch to the south as well as on our Northmen in the west.”

“Take the flintlocks.”

“Better to leave them here?”

“We may or may not need them. But you definitely will.” Acid pain lanced through Larry’s gut as he watched his son nod and trot back to the campfire, arms signaling his men to assemble.

* * *

“Scouts report at least three groups in the mountains,” Matuso said, lowering himself on the bench next to Larry and the cook fire. The old man had finally sat after pacing most of the night and into the morning. Now that Fergus and his men had disappeared into the forest, Larry had accepted his weariness. “They saw two groups of Northmen to either side of Windy Gap and a third to the north.” He gazed at the passes now lit by a sun unimpeded by clouds.

“Anyone left at Sui Finn?” Larry said.

“They’re back. They retreated as the third band of Northmen broke from the trees on the other side to start their climb.” As he lowered his eyes from the mountains, he could see a few of the Haven men working through katas in the middle of the hurling field. Near them, those southern refugee men who were physically able swung axes at targets of bound grasses under Marcan’s leadership. A few strides away from the men, Anya worked with Ronnat and Brona, pulverizing their own dummies with swinging staves. Nearer, leaves fluttered as a stone smacked the smaller of the leather targets. Although Matuso couldn’t see the slinger, he guessed it was probably Fennore.

“I hate waiting.” Larry stood, turned in place and sat down. “Where is Teltina? We may hafta move out.”

“The last of the scouts should report soon.” Matuso picked up a stick and poked at the dying embers. Probably no more cooking except to heat water. Travel food had been prepared and packed in bags sitting under a small shelter near the cook fire. In addition to food, each bag contained a small blanket and a water skin. Grab and run kits.

He looked around their collection of huts and lean-tos. Several men meditated under the trees, packs and weapons at their side. Beyond them, Hatimu played a sorrowful tune in a minor key. In the thatched huts, a few of the women sorted and packed last minute essentials. Running through them all, Garvan and Cellach bounced leather balls with their hurleys, bumping each other in an attempt to force the other to drop their ball.

As soon as Teltina returned, any remaining sentries would be called in and they'd decide. Flee or hold position. Matuso’s gaze moved to the mountain passes. The Northmen were up there. Just waiting in plain sight. “Any guess as to why they aren’t moving?” he asked.

“Maybe waiting for the Ur Neill to attack first?” The big man shifted on the bench, which gave a groan. “But if Fergus stops them before they enter our valley, then I don’t know.” He looked toward the mountain passes. “But it’ll take them a couple of hours to get here once they decide to move. Maybe we ought to move the women and kids now?”

“Teltina should be here soon.” Matuso hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. She might be a ghost when she wanted to be, but accidents happened.

A long breath escaped Larry. “I’m worried about her and Rory.”

* * *

Ragnar watched the shadows creep across the valley, devouring the land in its relentless hunger. A hunger that matched his own.

“Men are crossing the river.” Gunnarr pointed toward the middle of the valley. “From that collection of huts and fields. Heading east.”

“Maybe the strangers go to meet Cormac.” If so, then he would attack. “How many?”

“Too far for eyes to count,” Gunnarr said. “Hard to distinguish men from rocks in that part of the river.”

“Given the original attack at Ros’s farmstead and the later encounter with the two knarrs, there are at least 60 men. So if half are moving to meet the Ur Neill, that leaves us 30 to kill.”

“What of any Eire men with them?”

“I do not think…” Ragnar turned at the sound of shouts.

Along the side of the mountain, men sat wrapped in furs or wool blankets pulled tight against the wind. Weaving through them, two men pulled a stumbling figure. As the men drew closer, the figure became a woman, hands bound in front of her. The men dragged her to a stop in front of Ragnar.

“Found this hiding among boulders.” One of the warriors pointed south. “I was looking for a peaceful place to shit out of this sarding wind. Soiled myself grabbing her. A boy ran off.”

Gunnarr moved forward to peer at the woman’s face. “This is one of the attackers,” he said, voice low. A knife appeared in his right hand as his left reached for the woman, the stub of his small finger on that hand still raw.

“Hold.” Ragnar thrust a hand between Gunnarr and the woman. “I would talk with her first.” He stepped in front of her. “Who are you?” Ragnar said to the woman in Eire, noting the bruised cheek on her plain face and dried blood at the corner of her mouth.

“I live in this valley,” the woman said, eyes never leaving his face.

“And the boy?”

“Just a boy.” Her eyes widened, betraying her. “No threat to you.”

“Are men searching?” Ragnar said, turning to the warrior.

“Yes, Skati.” The man pointed to the southern end of the valley. “I have four men out. But the boy is small. He does not leave much of a track.”

“What of the foreigners?” Ragnar said, attention back to the woman.

“You are the foreigners.”

Shifting his weight to his left leg, Ragnar slapped her. She staggered. “You should answer my questions or I will have Gunnarr ask them for me.”

The woman stood, staring at Gunnarr. Ragnar turned enough to see the man’s yellow teeth exposed in a wide grin. She would not survive his questioning. Especially since she had been involved in the loss of part of his finger.

“What of the foreigners?” Ragnar returned his gaze to the woman’s face. Fear and loathing changed into a tired resignation. She did not answer but kept her eyes unfocused.

“Let me loosen her tongue,” Gunnarr said. “A bit skinny for my taste. But she will speak or my men will sard her to death.”

“You probably would not understand her.” Ragnar snorted. “A bit skinny?” You mean your wife won’t…”

A shout turned his head. Now what?

A running man appeared on the deer trail that climbed the mountain from the west.

Stepping away from the knot of men around the captive, Ragnar forced his face into neutrality as he waited for the messenger. As he approached, Ragnar noted that the sweating man’s wide eyes radiated fear.

“Skati.” The man held both hands outwards, palms up and empty as he came to a halt, gasping for air.

“What news?” Ragnar said.

“Skati,” the man said again. In a few heartbeats, his breathing slowed but his face twitched.

“Well?”

“The captive has disappeared,” the messenger said, moistening his lips.

“How?” Ragnar breathed deep.

“One of the thralls is missing. We think she helped.”

“Who.” Ice filled Ragnar’s gut.

The messenger’s eyes focused on the ground. “Orla.”

Ragnar closed his eyes, the sound of blood pounding in his ears. “Are men searching?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“We did not want to leave the ships unguarded.”

Ragnar stared at the man. After several more heartbeats, the messenger squared his shoulders and met Ragnar’s eyes. “A correct decision,” Ragnar said after a long pause. He turned to Gunnarr. “Take ten men and sweep along the eastern side of these mountains in the remaining hour of daylight. Take overnight supplies and continue tomorrow. I’ll start a search on the valley side at first light.”

“The men are restless.” Gunnarr shook his head. “She is just a thrall. You will not be able to keep her when your wife Birgit arrives. And the captive is wounded. He will not travel far.”

“They both know our numbers and the location of our ships.” Ragnar frowned at his captain. A good man, but he gave no thought for tomorrow. “We will battle. But when the advantage is ours. I am in no hurry for the men to drink with the gods.” He barked a laugh. “That will happen soon enough.”

Gunnarr stared for several breaths before nodding, a grin softening his face. “That it will.” He narrowed his eyebrows as his eyes shifted toward the captive. “What of this woman.”

“You can play later. Gather your men and search.”

After Gunnarr left, Ragnar turned to the two men who had caught the woman. “Where is your post?”

“Surveillance from the ridge to the south.”

“Return and take the captive with you. The men here will be moving out soon. Keep her alive for further questioning.”

Chapter 34

August 24

A single chirp interrupted Larry’s thoughts of death and failure. If the birds were up, he might as well give up trying to sleep.

The light drizzle, not much more than a low cloud, bathed Sanctuary, releasing the odor of rich humus. Larry buckled on his belt, the slap of his sword and axe sheaths against his thighs drowning out the solitary chips of birds greeting the day. The crackle of burning wood hinted at water heating at the cook fire.

After ducking into the forest to relieve himself, he detoured to the river to splash the lack of sleep from his eyes. At the cook fire, a hot mug of tea awaited him. “Thanks,” he said, sipping the blend of nettle and mint. “Any activity?”

“Been quiet,” Brynjar said. The Icelandic warrior pushed a broken branch into the growing fire. “Guards are late in reporting, probably due to the cloud cover. Dark as my mother’s womb out there.” He nodded toward the invisible depths of the forest.

As the aroma of reheated porridge triggered Larry’s stomach to gurgle, a figure broke from the trees, hand and fingers waving. Hand worrying the pommel of his sword, Larry stepped forward to meet the dark wraith. And froze as the dancing light from the cook fire illuminated Rory’s features.

“Teltina?” Larry asked, his hands moving to clasp the youth’s shoulders. “Where is she?”

Rory’s fingers flashed and the whites of his eyes blazed from his mud-covered face. Gasps and grunts added to the boy’s distress.

Cellach pushed through a growing crowd to stand at Rory’s side.

“What is he saying?” Larry asked.

“Men. His mother.” The boy started shaking. “No understand the rest.”

Fuck, the boy was slipping into PTSD. “Hold, I’ll get Garvan.” Larry turned and jogged to one of the wattle and daub huts that circled Sanctuary’s common area. “Garvan,” he called, voice booming in the quiet of the pre-dawn day. Faces appeared. A small body stepped forward.

“I need your help.” Picking up the boy, Larry ran back to the cook fire.

Rory’s fingers danced as Larry lowered Garvan to the ground. Garvan’s own fingers moved. “Teltina’s been captured.” After a few heartbeats of fingers signing back and forth, he turned to Larry. “There were three warriors. Teltina told him to run.”

Rory looked at Larry, the edges of the youth’s mouth drooping. After a few breaths, he broke his gaze and lowered his head.

Larry opened his mouth. Closed it, grabbed the boy, and drew him into an embrace. “You did good to come tell us. You could not fight off three warriors.”

Around him, footsteps sounded and more bodies appeared.

“What’s happening?” Jessie asked.

Larry looked up. “Teltina...” His voice failed.

“Taken by warriors.” Garvan’s voice broke.

Jessie met Larry’s gaze. “I’ll gather the men.”

“Wait.” Larry untangled Rory from his arms and stooped to kneel before him. “Where did this happen?”

The boy’s fingers twisted in the air.

“Near the mountain top,” Garvan translated. “Uphill from his home.” He pointed southwest.

Larry stood, still holding on to Rory. “Please take him,” he said to Jessie. “I’m going now.” Voices drowned out Jessie’s reply. Warriors surrounded Larry, all clamoring to accompany him. “A single man can slip through the forest unnoticed,” Larry said, resting a hand on Rory’s head. “Better that I go alone.” The boy’s body shook.

“You’re right about not too many bodies.” Jessie moved to block Larry. “But take at least a couple of us. You don’t know what you’re going to find.”

Larry froze, his eyes locked on Jessie. “You have to lead here.” He looked around at the gathering men. “I’ll take two men. We’ll go for speed and stealth; no armor, swords and axes only. Watch over Rory.” He turned and jogged to his hut. Behind him, he heard Jessie assigning the men who were to accompany him.

He looked up from his pack at the sound of footsteps.

“What can I do?” Deirdre asked.

Larry looked back toward the crowd. The three boys stood nearby looking forlorn and forgotten. “Please spend time with Rory. He needs comfort. And the other two.” He met Deirdre’s gaze. “I must go.” He scanned the still growing crowd. Shit. “And please find Agnes.”

She hesitated, nodded, and trotted toward the boys.

As he shoved supplies into his backpack, images of Teltina in the Northmen’s hands iced his blood.

* * *

The light rain had burned off by the time the sun had climbed halfway to zenith. Sweat beaded Larry’s face as he glanced upwards to check the time. Hours had passed. Hours during which anything could have happened to Teltina. He climbed the rock face, clawing toward a better view. Behind him, Gatanu followed. Above, a single bird alarm betrayed Kequit’s movements.

Teltina had headed southwest. The Northmen must have spread along the mountain crests far enough to intercept her. Flanking them perhaps. Worry about that after he found her.

He took a shuddering breath. What would he find?

“Look.” Gatanu pulled himself up level with Larry and pointed.

Teltina’s small valley—not more than a fold in the main valley of Sanctuary—followed the small stream up to a dip in the mountain crests, about three miles south of Windy Gap. There, small dots shifted position. The hollowness in Larry’s gut deepened. “The Northmen are flanking us.”

“We have more problems.” A few feet above them, Kequit stood at the top of the outcrop of sandstone. He looked southeast.

Larry puffed up the last few strides of ground. Squinted in the direction of Kequit’s outstretched arm. “You’re gonna hafta tell me what you see.” It was a toss up what was worse, his eyes or his knees.

“Men along that slope. Just above the edge of the forest. At first, I thought they were deer. Maybe more Ur Neill?”

Larry froze. Sanctuary was flanked from all sides. West and southwest by the Northmen. East and southeast by the Ur Neill. North was water and Northmen ships. “Kequit, you let Fergus know. He’s somewhere near the east pass. Try Bald Hill. Gatanu, you go back to Sanctuary. I don’t know what to suggest.”

“And you?” Gatanu’s face tightened. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You must warn Sanctuary.” Larry stretched out a hand. Clasped Gatanu’s in a vice grip. “I’m going after Teltina.”

“May the old and new gods be with you.” Kequit added another grip of pain to Larry’s hand. Each man nodded and disappeared. Larry faced the small pass at the head of Teltina’s valley. Whoever had captured her may still be up there.

* * *

Fergus’s eyes unfocused as he absorbed the scout’s report. Thirty to forty Ur Neill warriors only an hour away. Nineteen men to stop them. How?

Fergus closed his eyes, rubbed his face, and then opened them. He looked around, hoping for inspiration. Below, the thick trees blocked sight of the trail. Above, the broken rocks along the sides of Bald Hill impeded movement. But maybe the broken landscape could even the odds.

“Two sets of five men.” He transferred his attention to the men surrounding him. “Not the flintlocks. Set up a quick route from within the forest, across the trail, and back up to here. One man every twenty strides or so among the trees. The first man gets the Ur Neills’ attention, shoots, and retreats past the second man. That one looses an arrow and joins the first retreating past the third, and so on. Continue the pattern uphill. We’ll wait for you there.”

“Disunu, lead the first group.” Fergus pointed downhill to the dense forest. “And Ligasu, take the second group. Keep away from each other. I want ten dead Ur Neill before you leave the forest.” He glanced up at the sun high overhead before returning his attention to the men. “Let’s have them in full pursuit when they break into the open. Hopefully they will be partially blinded by the noon sun.”

As the ten men slipped into the trees, Fergus turned to the remaining men. “Move uphill. Don’t fire until our men have retreated past us. Go for gut shots. No time for clean kills.”

The remaining men stared at Fergus. After a pause, several nodded.

“How much gunpowder?” he asked, looking at the two men loading flintlocks.

“Maybe a half-dozen shots each.” The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

“Yeah, we weren’t expecting a full scale war.” Fergus pursed his lips. He should have known that anything related to his father wouldn’t be quick or easy.

“Someone coming,” a voice said. “From the west.”

Fergus turned. Several men pointed at a figure that appeared out of the forest and onto the game trail that they had pounded into a muddy track over the past months.

“It’s Kequit,” another voice called out.

After long minutes, Kequit came to a stop in front of Fergus. “Teltina’s been captured,” he said after pausing to take a breath. “Probably by the Northmen. Larry, Gatanu, and I went looking for her. Saw men on the mountain pass behind her valley. Also men from the southwest. We’re being flanked.”

“And my father?” Fergus asked, fearing the answer.

“He’s still looking for Teltina.” Kequit rubbed his face with his hand. “Gatanu went back to Sanctuary to let them know.”

Fergus stood, calculating distances. “We need to deal with the Ur Neill here. Then we can think about helping Jessie and Sanctuary.” He drew in a long breath. Let it out. “We can do nothing to help my father.”

The arrival of another scout interrupted further talk. “Men less than a mile away.”

Fergus turned in a semicircle. Some of the men were already moving uphill into position. Below, the two groups of five men were out of sight in the trees. Nothing to be done but wait for the killing to start.

* * *

A shout distracted Matuso from his task of rubbing deer fat into the flax bowstring. He stood as Gatanu emerged from the trees, followed by one of the sentries. All around the campfire circle, men and women abandoned their noon meal to crowd around the panting men.

“Unknown men to the southeast and probably Northmen at the southern end of the mountain crest,” Gatanu said, arm sweeping along the mountains from Sui Finn to the pass above Teltina’s valley.

“The southern passes lead to the abbey. Probably Ur Neill or their allies, maybe even the Wildlings.” Jessie walked through the crowd to stand next to Gatanu. “What of Larry?”

“He sent Kequit to warn Fergus. And sent me here,” Gatanu said. “But he’s still going after Teltina.”

“How long until the men from the south group get here?” Matuso moved closer to Kequit and Jessie as the crowd opened before him.

“Probably three or four hours at the earliest. Not much in the way of good trails in that direction.” Kequit grasped at a mug being thrust at him and drank deeply. “The men on the mountain? Not sure. Maybe a couple of hours.”

“I fear the Northmen more.” Matuso stopped next to Jessie and they looked at each other.

“Our backup plan was to flee south,” Jessie said. “That option is now shit.”

“North?” Ivar moved into the growing circle.

“The last one on Sui Finn saw longships in the estuary.” Matuso stared at the priest, who stood with narrowed eyebrows. “What are you thinking?”

“Fergus and his men are east, near or on Bald Hill. Facing the Ur Neill.” Ivar hesitated. A hand emerged from the crowd and prodded him on the shoulder. “If we follow—all of us—and if we can break through, we could escape in that direction.” He chewed his lip. “The forest in that direction is vast. And there are small scattered farmsteads.”

The crowd remained silent, eyes down or on the mountains. Havenites, Icelanders, and Eirefolk all pondering possibilities. Even the children stood quietly. Except for Garvan and Cellach who stood apart from the others, swinging their flat hurleys against imaginary opponents.

Matuso gazed at Jessie. After a minute, Jessie nodded.

“We leave in ten minutes. One finger of time,” Matuso added for the Eirefolk. “Weapons, overnight packs, whatever food you can carry. We’ll take the horses but scatter the sheep.” He looked toward the river. “Make that two fingers of time. We need to scuttle the ships.”

Matuso froze. “Where’s Rory?”

* * *

Sighing with relief, Fergus watched Disunu and Ligasu’s men emerge from the trees. Hours had passed, and the sun was now halfway down the western sky. The Ur Neill must have stopped to rest or reconnoiter. And had probably been stirred into action by either Disunu or Ligasu.

The fleeing men maintained their rotating positions as they clambered up the rocky slope, with one man stopping to fire an arrow while his companions passed. Some hit their targets. In spite of their losses, the pursuing Ur Neill sensed blood, their battle cries increasing in volume and enthusiasm.

“Hold,” Fergus said under his breath. He lifted his head, covered with a hat of intertwined branches and vines, above his rocky outcrop of broken sandstone. Along the rocks and heather that provided cover and obstacles on the hillside, small shifts in the vegetation hinted at others waiting. Disunu and Ligasu’s men gasped for air as they ran up the broken ground of their hill, drawing the Ur Neill out of the forest and up the apparently deserted hillside. Several no longer fired arrows but helped wounded comrades instead.

As the last of his men passed his position, Fergus stood, his outstretched left arm holding his bow while his right pulling an arrow to his ear. “Now,” he shouted, releasing the bowstring. The whistle of feathers mixed with the cracks of the two flintlocks answered his shout.

Not waiting to see if his arrow hit, he pulled another from his quiver and, placing it in position, pulled. He focused on a tooth-gapped screaming face and let fly.

As he withdrew a third arrow, the pursuing men below slowed and stopped to turn and retreat. Fergus aimed. “Keep firing.” His arrow flew. He had a fourth arrow notched when the third thumped into a running man’s back. Fergus grimaced but fired the fourth. Another man fell. Within minutes, the remaining Ur Neill had disappeared back into the forest, the crashing of branches betraying their flight east. On the hillside, silence.

“We lost one dead. Two wounded.” Disunu’s voice cracked at Fergus’s side.

His relief was tinged with grief as Fergus stepped from behind his stone shelter. Sixteen men remained. And below him, maybe a dozen men in Ur Neill livery littered the hillside. No way to tell how many had fallen in the forest. Was this what his Father and the other Far Ones went through during their first summer in Haven? Facing death with no backup?

“What of any wounded Ur Neill?” Ligasu pointed toward the bodies below them.

Fergus shook his head once. Ligasu gestured to his men and moved downhill.

“Oh shit.” The voice of Disunu broke through the groans of their own injured. “Look west.”

Fergus snapped his head around to the west. A line of people emerged from the forest, flanked by warriors. Horses appeared, heavily laden. The man in front—Matuso?—waved his sword.

* * *

Matuso placed another rock on the burial cairn. “What of the Ur Neill bodies?”

The man on his right grunted as he lifted a foot long stone onto the pile. “Jessie said we’ll strip them later of anything useful. Then pile and cover them up.” He grunted. “After this shitstorm ends.”

Matuso hesitated then repositioned his rock. “Yeah, and before they start…” He turned toward the sound of an argument. At the southern end of the summit of Bald Hill, voices rose.

“You women stay out of the way.” Fergus’s loud voice carried over the hill, silencing the milling crowd that was still setting up shelters and unpacking supplies.

“Are you suggesting that we are too weak to defend ourselves?” Deirdre’s soft reply cut through the quiet, reminding Matuso of Larry just before he lost his temper. No one argued with Larry when he lowered his voice. Nobody.

“You are built for babies, not swords,” Fergus said.

Matuso winced. He had better interrupt this conversation before someone got hurt.

“Have you forgotten who bested you on the practice field?” Deirdre’s sun and wind-burned face radiated anger.

“We need all the arms we can muster.” Matuso stumbled across the broken hilltop, coming to a halt between Fergus and Deirdre. “Have the women sling from positions between bowmen.” He turned to look at the children, several of whom were carrying spare weapons. “And maybe have the children wear hats to look taller. Give them spears and have them move above the more broken hillside where there’s less likely to be an attack.”

“We had planned to continue east into the forest.” Jessie joined them.

“The Ur Neill are now in the forest.” Matuso glanced over the flatter, forest covered land to the east. “I’m thinking they are going to be pissed,” he added in English.

“This hill is not that high.” Fergus’s eyebrows narrowed in thought.

“But the ground is hard walking. Harder running.” Disunu entered the conversation, stepping up to stand next to Jessie. “Even the easier approaches from the south and west are thick with grasses and heather, hiding ankle-breaking outcrops, loose rocks, and holes.”

Fergus scuffed the ground with his feet, revealing several small rocks about the size of goose eggs. He picked one up and turned, looking up the hill. “It may be possible to hold here.”

“The only way we survived the forest was by retreating along a known route,” Disunu said.

“Put us between the bowmen.” Deirdre stood in the growing group of men, head high, her eyes never leaving Fergus. “With slings or our shorter bows.”

Fergus narrowed his eyes as he handed her the rock. “I would rather you be at my side than facing me.” The edges of his mouth twitched.

“Then that is where I will be.” She nodded as she placed the rock in a bag hanging from her waist. “But now, I need to lay out my bedroll before darkness falls.” She turned and walked off.

Mouth slightly open, Fergus watched her walk away for several heartbeats before he turned to Matuso. “I really don’t like your idea of posing the children as warriors.” He frowned as he scanned the hillside. “But let’s do it. Take a hike around this hill. Pick sections that look easily defended and place them there. Have Donngal and Trian be with them. They’re still too weak for a direct confrontation. Assign those men still recovering to guard the camp.”

Matuso left him talking with other men about sentries and scouts. Hiking around the hilltop’s perimeter, he noted several areas that were difficult to approach. Good places for children posing as warriors. As he returned to the southern slope, he noted that the men were selecting defensive positions as several of the women piled small stones between them. Other women leaned quivers against larger boulders.

Looking west, Matuso wondered when the Northmen would arrive. A low-lying cloud appeared in the center of the valley. He froze. Not a cloud. Smoke. Sanctuary was burning.

* * *

Larry hunched down as the Northman slipped past, gliding through the trees like a ghost. The man wore chain mail over leather, sword and axe in his belt, and shield over his back. Yet he made no sounds, and only birdcalls betrayed his presence. He must have woven thread between the metal links. The Northman moved with easy grace. Even if he could risk the delay, Larry wasn’t sure he could take him. Especially since the man wore armor. He waited until the birdcalls returned to their normal single ‘here I am’ chirps. As he tensed to rise, another series of alarms froze him in place. After another twenty minutes, the birds again returned to normal. Probably a fox.

As he stood, alarms rose again. But there was only himself to hear.

The trees thinned as the ground steepened. He slowed as he moved into rock and heather. Ahead, the dark mountainside climbed toward the setting sun. If they had Teltina, they’d be holding her on the far side. He broke into a lumbering run, moving from one depression or boulder to another. Chest heaving, Larry crawled the last hundred strides to the summit. The mountain crest was broad and undulating, with exposed rock that tore at his hands and knees. Small pools of recent rainwater soaked his clothing while mud cloaked his face and silenced his weapons. Damn, he was cold. At the top and with no enemy in sight, he dared stand, hoping for invisibility in his dark and muddy clothes. To the south a small wisp of smoke rose from the western mountainside. Maybe a mile away.

He looked back at the valley and stiffened. A thick column of darker smoke rose above Sanctuary. Heart racing, he took a step downhill but stopped. It would take him hours to get there. Whatever was happening there was beyond anything he could change.

Wrenching his eyes from the unknown horror, he faced north toward Windy Gap and Sui Finn. More smoke rose from multiple points along a line a hundred or so strides along the western side of the summit. Likely this was the main body of troops, hidden from anyone in the valley. He turned. To the south, the single wisp of smoke still quivered in the light wind.

Teltina could be in either direction. But she had started hiking south when she had left Sanctuary. The only break in this catastrophe was that there were fewer Northmen in that direction. He turned south, moving into a slow jog, willing the exertion to warm his wet clothing while fearing a misstep on the broken ground.

The sun was dipping into the horizon as he approached the area above the isolated smoke plume. Larry moved downhill, hunched low, hands pressing his weapons to his sides to silence them. As he approached the dim flickering light, he heard voices. Not the language of Eire. His heartbeat sped. In a few minutes, the light became flames and the smoke stung his nostrils. His stomach rumbled from the smell of sizzling meat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

Now on hands and knees, he crawled, moving from depression to bush to boulder. The moon wasn’t up and the hazy sky limited any starlight.

“You will die.” Teltina’s voice cut through the falling night.

“All die. Someday I die battle. Join ancestors. Join gods.” The voice spoke in broken Eire. “You I enjoy. Now.”

Teltina gasped in pain.

Blood pounding in his ears, Larry rose and sprinted forward. A yell reverberated. As he closed on the two men holding a body, he realized that it was his voice.

The two men stood, leaving a twisting body at their feet. One turned and jumped over the fire behind them, hands reaching for something on the ground. The second rushed Larry.

Larry raised his sword tip and lunged. Felt the metal cut into the man’s stomach, ending with a jolt as the tip wedged between vertebrae. Abandoning his sword, Larry pulled his axe out of his belt and faced the first man. Now armed with a sword, the Northman stalked around the fire, cautious but grinning. He spoke but the words were unintelligible.

Larry circled to meet him, Teltina’s bound body now at his feet. As he stepped over her, he unsheathed his knife and dropped it. As he did so, the man lunged, sword whipping through the air. Larry stepped back to counter, his foot catching on Teltina’s leg. As he fell, he watched the sword continued its journey.

A body intercepted the blade, giving Larry time to regain his balance. He swung his axe at the struggling Northman, cleaving through skull and brain. The man fell, his sword still impaled in a small body.

“Rory.” A cry from Teltina.

Larry turned and knelt by the two fallen bodies. He turned over the smaller, finding a familiar face staring up at him.

“Father,” Rory said before his eyes stopped seeing.

A voice screamed again and again in Larry’s ears.

“Hush.” Teltina’s voice sounded through her broken sobs and his screams. “We must go. There are sentries all along the mountain crest.”

Chapter 35

August 25

Leaning against a dark ancient oak, Larry shifted the weight lying on his right shoulder. The small body had cooled during the night. The flaccid arms and legs would soon stiffen.

“Dawn is soon.” Teltina’s voice, hoarse from a night of silent sobs, sounded over the quiet of the light wind through the trees.

He didn’t understand how she maneuvered through the dark forest; what little moon seeped through the light cloud cover never reached the ground under the heavy canopy. He’d somehow avoided crashing into the invisible trunks, but their roots constantly grabbed at his feet.

“We should stop in Sanctuary.” He had to know what happened.

“They would not have stayed after burning it,” she said after a long moment. “But any survivors may need help and I must find Agnes.” A faint rustling of leaves hinted at her movement.

A dim sky showed through the upper branches as they approached the Hurling field. Nothing moved. Not even a birdcall cut the silence. Smoke stung their noses as the light breeze fought to clear the air. Larry lowered his burden, allowing the body to curl into a sleeping repose. “I will scout.”

Teltina’s dark form nodded as she handed him his weapons and strung her bow. They had found her bow and quiver with the Northmen’s supplies before fleeing. And she had also taken one of their swords and several knives.

After a circle of the smoldering huts, Larry returned. “No bodies. The boats are scuttled.” He heard relief in his voice. “They left before the raiders came. Recent footprints are from the south. And then they followed our people. Probably to the northeast pass.”

“Thank whatever gods still exist,” Teltina said. She knelt by Rory’s body. “He needs his final resting place.” She looked up at the empty field, its two goals still leaning in the clearing air. “He would like to watch the games.”

“I will bring stones.” There were certainly enough. Several piles, some knee high, surrounded the field, collected to clear the playing area.

It only took minutes to build a small cairn, several layers of stone high, at the west end of the field.

“We can add more later.” Teltina stood, the morning sun illuminating a face streaked from tears and sweat. “We should leave now.” She faced west toward the mountains they had descended during the night. “Men are approaching. The birds in the distance are scolding. Maybe a finger of time.” She turned to the still smoldering huts. “Agnes and your friends will need our help.”

Dreading what he might find, and anxious to follow his friends, Larry nodded.

* * *

Ragnar turned from his breakfast of bread and weak ale at the sound of running feet. One of his men stopped in front of him, pointing upwards to the crest of the mountain.

“Skati,” the man said, addressing Ragnar. “Smoke.”

Ragnar followed the man, trotting on a now worn path, to the east side of the hill that the Eire people called a mountain. As they came to a halt, the man pointed. In the middle of the valley, a distance of about a rost up the upper river from the lake, smoke curled into the air. The village of the foreigners was burning.

“Our Ur Neill friends have been busy.” He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not. If that sarding Cormac burned his ship, Ragnar would gut him. He turned to the men that had followed him to view the excitement. “We move in a hand of time.”

“The search for the captive and the thrall?” one of the men said.

Ragnar stared at the man called Eskild, one of the younger warriors on his own ship and a distant cousin. No judgment in his voice, just eagerness. Several of the older warriors had grumbled at the delay in the anticipated battle. “Take five men and continue searching until midday.” He pointed along the mountainside below them. “Sweep along the slopes and then join us.”

* * *

The broken rock scraped his hands as Larry crawled up the southern side of a sandstone outcrop. To the rear and right, the broad expanse of a shallow lake rippled under a light breeze. A thousand strides to the east, the trail disappeared between one of the many folds in the low mountains.

“I’m guessing those are our people at the summit,” Larry said. “Our scouts call it Bald Hill.” He pointed north to a massive stone hill, hundreds of strides high that rose out of the forest to form one side of the pass, its surface a mixture of bare rock, heather, and grasses. Along its south slopes, minute figures in the colors of the Ur Neill crouched behind stones or isolated trees, most positioned above the trail.

“They’re trapped.” Larry shifted his axe, rubbing the spot where it had dug into his hip. “We had one of our lookouts up there. There’s no shelter and no water.”

“Maybe not trapped.” Teltina pointed to the bodies lying part way up the slope. “Those bodies are not moving. And the hill is well placed for defense. The ground to the right and left looks treacherous.”

“Until the food and water runs out. Or until night.” Larry watched as several Ur Neill warriors stepped from the forest holding interlocked shields. In minutes, they had reached their fallen comrades and collected their weapons. And their shields.

“I am wondering why they retrieved the weapons but not the bodies.” Larry pointed to the men now retreating down the hill, dragging the salvaged equipment under a rain of arrows. “Something odd about that.”

“There may be a bigger problem.” Teltina pointed to the western approach of the hill. Steeper than the southern approach, its surface consisted of broken rock and heather. A line of men moved from the tree line to disappear into the folds of stone.

“Either a diversion or a flanking attack.” Larry rolled onto his side, pulled off his pack and upended it. Scattering the contents, he held up a small leather bag. “My flint, steel, and tinder.”

“What are you thinking?”

“The men scampering up the western side are making good use of the terrain. They probably can’t be seen from the summit. Even if they are using the binoculars.”

“What is that?”

Larry paused. How to explain? “A tool to see distant objects.” He repacked his pack, leaving the small bag out. “But maybe we can warn them.”

* * *

Fergus glanced to his side as Matuso crouched besides him.

“Confirmed,” his friend said. “No gunpowder left. Good on arrows.”

“Expected.” Fergus looked along the hillside where over two dozen men stretched in a loose line, broken by several women holding spears, slings, or short bows. Below, movement in the forest confirmed the Ur Neill presence. “At least they’re figuring this remains the best place to attack. The decoys are working. But I think we should expect at least one flanking attack.”

“I asked Gatanu to take five warriors and patrol the perimeter of the summit. And check on the children and the women who are our decoys. He’s worried about flanking also.”

“That’ll work until the sun sets in a few hours.” Fergus snorted. “Then, as my father would say, we’re fucked.”

“Maybe we need to suck them into a trap?” Matuso said.

“I’m thinking that holding this place is our only option.”

“Maybe withdraw to the other side of the hill, leaving men pretending to be dead?”

“Too dangerous. Best to keep up the appearance of strength. Maybe have Keelin and any of the mobile injured move around waving flags or spears.”

“Or not,” Fergus said, looking downhill. “I think the attack is now.”

Below, a line of shields materialized out of the forest and started moving uphill. A dozen shields were mounted in vertical pairs, about two strides high, overlapping slightly so as to leave an opening between adjacent pairs.

“Shit,” Matuso said.

“Yeah, a moving wall. Expect arrows from those openings between the shields.”

The shield wall moved in jerky steps. Helmeted heads could be seen bobbing behind it.

“We need to hit it from the sides,” Matuso said. “Shit again.” He pointed to the side of the shield wall. “Look.”

Two other moving shield walls appeared and moved into position on either end of the main one. Smaller, six shields each, they held back as the main one moved uphill a stride at a time. The men holding it apparently lifted the wall and stepped forward, resting between steps. Or, once they got closer, loosening arrows.

“I’m not coming up with fucking anything.” Fergus winced as he realized that he sounded like his father.

“I’m going to warn Gatanu about what’s happening.”

“Take my binos.” Fergus dug in his pack and handed a battered leather case to Matuso.

“I’ll be right back.” He backed up and out of Fergus’s sight.

“I’d really be glad to see my father right about now,” Fergus said in a loud whisper, not caring if anyone heard him.

* * *

Panting from the run, Matuso strode to the small group of older or pregnant women and younger children who sat in the midst of the piled supplies and the hobbled horses. Guarded by the wounded warriors and the still recovering refugee men, they occupied a slight knoll at the north side of the summit. It would be the final defensive position.

Keelin looked up as Matuso approached. “All is well here.” Her smile looked forced, but he appreciated it.

“We have a good position here,” he said, hoping the lie would provide some temporary comfort. He shifted his gaze to take in the expanse of stone, a mile long and half as wide that formed the crest of the hill, broken by occasional patches of heather and grasses. “Most of the men are just below there.” He turned and pointed south but the curve of the hill hid any sight of Fergus or the other men. Or the Ur Neill.

A guttural chant rose up over the glaciated rock. The shield wall must be moving.

“I must check any other approaches.” He nodded to Keelin and the others before he headed counter clockwise around the hilltop.

Their camp disappeared behind him as he scampered over and through the ankle-breaking ground. At the western edge of the broad summit, he detoured to clamber downhill, trying to catch a glimpse of anything that might be approaching from that direction. Nothing was visible. He started to turn away and froze. To the west, maybe a thousand strides away, three columns of smoke drifted into the crisp air. Couldn’t be accidental, not given last night’s drizzle. He pulled out the binos and scanned the area around the smoke. Even with the optics, he couldn’t make out any figures.

Shifting his view closer, he forced himself to take time, moving from one fold in the rock to another. Movement stopped his scan. A body slipped into a crevice. A few minutes later, it re-appeared a few strides uphill.

Heart pounding, he waited. More bodies rose, shifted position, and disappeared. All moving uphill.

Matuso lowered the binoculars and looked around the summit. A few Sanctuary warriors were visible along with several children in their high hats and staves. But none of them appeared aware of the flanking movement.

He put his whistle to his lips. Stopped. Anything his people could hear, the attackers could also hear.

Matuso ran.

* * *

A shout turned Fergus’s eyes away from the shield wall climbing the hill below them. On the hillside above the defenders’ positions, a running child appeared. He waved his bow and the child, Agnes, altered her direction.

Jessie joined Fergus as Agnes slowed to a stop in front of them. Deirdre also joined them.

“What’s wrong?” Fergus asked, dreading any answer.

“Matuso saw men sneaking up the slope,” Agnes said. Her tall hat hung from a strap around her shoulder. She still held her stave with its iron tip, their version of a spear. “From the west. He and Gatanu’s men are preparing to meet them. Donngal and Trian also joined them.”

“How many men?” Fergus exchanged looks with Jessie. The snapping of several bowstrings cut through Agnes’s panting and Fergus’s pounding heart.

“He said he saw at least a dozen. But thinks there are probably more.” Agnes’s eyes gleamed with liquid. She’d been frantic with worry about her mother and brother but still insisted on joining the older children on decoy duty.

Fergus momentarily closed his eyes. What a fucked country, where probable orphans held positions alongside warriors. “Thank you.” Fergus touched her shoulder. “Please let Keelin and the wounded men at camp know.” Maybe that would at least get this child out of harm’s way. As she scampered off, could now hear the thuds of Haven arrows slamming into the shields. Damn. “Hold off until you get a soft target,” he shouted.

“Why are the heads moving in an odd fashion?” Deirdre asked, pointing downhill at the advancing Ur Neill with her spear.

He watched the helmets behind the shields. Pairs, and a few triplets, moved in unison.

“Fuck this, the shield wall is a bluff.” Fergus turned to Jessie. “Take half the men up to the summit to back up Matuso. He only has six—no eight—warriors.”

A few paces away, Deirdre turned his way, one eyebrow raised. “And half the women,” Fergus said, nodding to her. She didn’t smile but nodded back.

Jessie signaled his men—and the women who had stepped forward—and headed uphill.

Ivar stood, eyes flicking between Jessie and Fergus. Fergus met his eyes for a heartbeat, raised his hand, and made a fist. Ivar followed Jessie’s men and women.

Fergus turned to the remaining men and women. “Form two groups. We will hit each side. Women with spears. Or bows.” He looked at Deirdre. “Cover me?” This time she smiled before nodding.

“Now.” He started downhill, the sound of footsteps followed.

As he closed on the shields, he screamed. Voices, some high pitched, echoed behind him.

* * *

“There. Our people.” Larry pointed uphill. From the summit, figures descended, hopping from rock to rock, pausing only to loose arrows.

Downhill of the descending Sanctuary warriors, the ascending attackers, most with swords or axes and voicing their war cries, slowed to dodge the flurry of arrows. “Ur Neill,” Larry said. Although most sported the livery of the Ur Neill clan, a few mismatched clothing. “And their Wildling friends.”

Larry and Teltina had gotten closer to the hill, no longer attempting stealth but going for speed. They were still a few hundred strides away from the closest Ur Neill but were still unnoticed. Teltina fitted an arrow to her bow but lowered it. “Closer," he said. "Then cover me.” Unsheathing his sword with his right hand and pulling the axe from his belt with his left, Larry charged through a clump of heather, hearing Teltina follow his trail.

“To the right,” she yelled as they approached the Ur Neill rearguard.

Sword extended, Larry turned in time to parry a blow. Allowing his blade to tangle his attacker’s, he swung the axe in his left hand down on a leather-helmeted head. The Wildling, who had probably sought safety in the rear, died instantly.

Looking up, he found two more attackers, one a Wildling and the other a liveried Ur Neill warrior. At his side, Teltina ignored the two men, firing arrows at the climbing warriors further up the hill. Grinning, Larry let the exhilaration of battle wash over him as he cut through the two men. His eyes sought nearby targets, seeing only men clambering up the slope. He continued running, ignoring the ache in his knees. Behind, lighter footsteps followed.

The back of another man appeared. As Larry approached, the Wildling turned in surprise, raising his sword, Larry swung his axe, shattering the brittle iron and cleaving the man’s skull.

Placing a foot on the gore that was the man’s head, Larry forced the axe free. An arrow whistled past his head. Larry looked up to see it plunge into the breast of an attacker only a few strides away.

“Thanks,” Larry said as Teltina appeared on a nearby stone outcrop.

“More are turning back to face us.” She fitted another arrow and drew it back, the tip arcing as she sought another target.

“Stay behind me.” Larry forced deep breaths. He allowed the image of Conal to fill his imagination. He took one more breath and clambered past Teltina, eyes searching for opponents.

“Be careful,” Teltina said in a low whisper. Larry wondered if she meant him to hear. That thought evaporated as his eyes found movement a few strides upslope. Ignoring the growing pain in his knees, he leaped through a gap in the rocks toward new opponents.

As he closed, three men turned, surprise then anger twisting their faces. From their uphill position, one leaped, axe swinging through the air. Larry looked up, the axe filling his vision until it passed by, followed by a body with an arrow sprouting in its chest. Shifting to the right, Larry shouldered the convulsing body to the side in time to block the second man’s sword thrust. Stepping back onto the first man’s twitching body, Larry swung the axe in his left hand into the second man’s neck.

The body under his foot rolled, and Larry fell to his knee. As the third man lunged forward, Larry dropped onto his left side and thrust upward with the sword in his right hand. Sliding up under the chain-mail tunic, it released a torrent of bright red blood that ran down the length of the blade to the hilt. A salty, metallic aroma filled his nostrils.

“More coming.” Teltina’s voice sounded along with the whistle of one of her arrows. “Go left.”

Larry staggered to his feet, facing left. Two men, screaming, broke through a patch of heather, one moving directly toward Larry, the second moving to the side. Dropping the axe, Larry grasped the slick hilt of his sword with both hands and shifted left to meet the flanking man. Swinging in a wide arc, he broke the man’s charge and turned to face the first. Lunging, he parried and thrust, driving him backward. Swinging his sword over his head, Larry leaned into his blade, hacking through the attacker's weaker iron sword and into his leather helmet. The man crumpled.

Jerking his sword from the deformed skull, Larry looked over his shoulder. Twenty strides away, Teltina stood on a rocky outcrop, bow drawn back, facing away from Larry. Beneath her, a man in the leather tunic of a Wildling rose up from a patch of heather.

Larry inhaled and froze. Too far away. He tried to scream a warning but could not exhale.

In a flash of motion, a body sailed through the air and crashed into the assailant.

Breaking into a charge, Larry reached the pair as the second man rolled off the Wildling and struggled to rise. The Wildling rose faster and lunged toward the second man, knife in hand. As Larry’s sword cut through the Wildling’s knife arm, an arrow shaft blossomed from the man’s back.

Heaving air into his lungs, Larry’s eyes rose to meet Teltina’s. Her eyes shifted downward.

“You two…” a familiar voice said between gasps of air. “Are too dangerous to be left alone.”

Swaying in pain and exhaustion, Larry looked down at the speaker.

Rising to one knee, a bloodied Ivar panted. “I have killed Christians,” he said, his voice cracking.

Larry gazed around. They stood halfway to the summit. Uphill, men from Sanctuary looked open-mouthed at Larry. Downhill, a trail of contorted bodies, some spouting Teltina’s shorter arrows, marked their path. Weariness and pain clouded his thoughts and the ground slammed into him.

* * *

“You old fool.” Fergus squatted, looking down at his father. They were in the area set up for the wounded on the north side of camp.

Larry’s eyes fluttered. Opened. Age and pain looked up at Fergus.

“I must be in hell,” his father said. He winced as he tried to rise, then gave up.

Fergus shook his head. “Some may call it that, but most of us just call it Bald Hill. And you look like shit. A few nasty gashes but mostly you’re just not as young as you try to act. You’ve been out for a couple of hours.” At least the now familiar weight of death didn’t include his father.

Larry’s eyes cleared. “Teltina?”

“She’s uninjured. Had quite a reunion with Agnes. They’re both helping with the wounded.” He glanced over to where they worked alongside Matuso. “We lost three men. And have four wounded, one seriously.” He could almost see pain etch additional lines in his father’s face as he spoke their names.

“Wiggle your fingers on your left hand,” Fergus said, staring at his father’s hand. “You got a deep gash in your upper left arm. Took a few stitches but Matuso was worried about nerves.” He nodded once as Larry’s fingers moved. “Good. But both that and a bad slice in your right thigh need rest. You hear?”

“No respect,” Larry said before he nodded.

“We routed a shield wall attack from the south.” Fergus shuddered as he described the battle. “It was a diversion. Their bowmen carried the shields. But carrying them over the rough ground kept most of them from their weapons. Which let us overrun them. Almost.” Fergus paused; two of their fatalities had been caused by those Ur Neill bows. “Most of their sword and axemen were in on a flanking attack from the west.” He stared at his father. “Someone warned us with three smoking fires.”

His father raised one eyebrow.

“That flanking attack was slowed by the terrain. And broken by a couple of idiots picking off the men at the rear. Totally confused them.”

His father raised the second eyebrow.

“Not many got away.” Fergus paused. Should he add to his father’s burden?

“What’s wrong?”

“The children…” He stopped as Larry tried to sit up. “Stay down.”

“Tell me,” his father demanded.

“We also lost Cellach.” Fergus blew out a long breath. “They were watching the east side. A couple of Wildlings slipped away from the other two groups and tried to do a secondary flank on that side. All the men on the hilltop had moved to the west to counter the main flanking thrust.”

Larry’s hand clutched Fergus’s leg. Painfully.

“The children slung stones at them. Knocked one out cold. I hear it was Fennore’s stone. But the other Wildling took down Cellach. Luckily…” Fergus choked.

“Anyway, Niam and two of the Southern women—Ronnat and Brona I think—heard the children screaming and arrived in time to beat the shit out of him with staves. Then they cut both of the Wildlings’ throats.”

“Cellach?” Larry’s eyes aged.

“Died.” Fergus slumped. “When the men found out about Cellach, they killed the few prisoners we took. It was over before I knew what happened.”

“Probably not good. But saves me from doing so.”

“You rest.” Turning from his father, he scanned the summit. The beginning of several cairns occupied the center of the hill. Like most burial locations in this land of rock, the soil was too thin for a dug grave. Or was non-existent. Nearby, Keelin and several of the less injured men surrounded a cook fire. Twenty strides further away, most of the children sat in a circle while Matuso told them stories. Or lies. It didn’t matter, just so they could think of something other than death.

“But there is good news.” Fergus turned to face Larry again. “Cassan’s sister showed up as we swept the area for any remaining Ur Neill. Name of Orla. Another emotional reunion. She’d escaped from the Northmen and brought Hatimu out with her. He was too injured to travel very far, so she left him at the lake’s outlet. I've got men going to get him now.”

A smile flickered on Larry’s face before it faded. “Rory’s dead. The Northmen are moving toward us.” His father groaned as he pushed himself up on his elbows.

“I know. Teltina told us.” He had to give his father credit, he never stopped thinking. “We had hoped to flee into the eastern forest. But now I think we’ll have to hold here.”

“You’re probably right.” Larry collapsed back down with a grunt and closed his eyes.

Fergus stared at the old man at his feet. A tough man in a fight. Tougher as a father.

His father's eyes opened. “You did good.”

Something inside softened and Fergus smiled. “I had to. I’m your son.”

* * *

Pride vied with sorrow as Larry watched his son walk away. He’d been hard on the boy. He shut his eyes against a pain that had nothing to do with his injuries but caused a profound sense of loneliness.

“I am sorry for your wounds.” A small voice broke his painful musing. He opened his eyes to see Fennore kneeling at this side.

“Fergus told me that we lost your father.”

Fennore lowered her eyes as a single tear left a track down her left cheek. “I think he was happy to be with you and the other warriors.” Her mouth quivered but failed to form a smile. “It is hard to think.”

“Living is hard.” Larry struggled to find words. “But we go on and keep memories in our heart.” His throat closed on the words.

“My father told me that he thought you were Finn, come back from your grave on the mountain. To protect the people of this land.”

Larry inhaled. Any protest died as he searched the young girl’s open face. “Your father was a hero, and it was very good of him to think that highly of me. But I’m just a man. Maybe this Finn has been an inspiration to both your father and to me?”

A small smile softened the tightness in her face. “I listened as Matuso talked with your warriors about the burden of living. He said that, without gods, we can only rely on ourselves and the people around us.” She sniffed. “That sounds hard. Is that what you believe?”

“Burden of living?” Larry wondered what tangent the young man had taken. “Well, we must go on. In honor of the dead and in hope for the future of our kids. We make mistakes but keep trying to make life better for the next generation.” He drew in a quick breath. Had he stopped trying to do that when he had escaped to sea because of Sesapa’s death?

“Well, I know what I want to do to make life better.” Fennore’s posture straightened. “I am going to be a great warrior.” Her hands dropped to the rope around her waist. A rope with a pouch.

Larry sighed. It was still an island of death. “It is better to be a healer than a warrior.”

“Without warriors, everyone dies.”

“Well, maybe if everyone was part warrior?” Larry floundered for thoughts. “But were also farmers, healers, iron men. Or iron women.”

Fennore scrunched up her face. “Be two things?”

Larry nodded.

“Will you teach me to be an iron woman?”

Chapter 36

August 26

A misting rain cooled the air, causing Matuso to shiver. He stood before all the Sanctuary inhabitants who weren't on patrol, all wearing layers of blankets and sleeping furs. The injured sat or lay on skins at the front of the assembly. Larry stood next to them, leaning on an improvised crutch. His face showed the years he'd added in the last few days.

Matuso turned to confirm the reality of five oblong mounds, the horror of the four larger cairns magnified by Cellach’s smaller one. The mounds only stood thigh high, moveable rocks being few on the barren summit of Bald Hill. They would build them higher when time allowed. “Today we remember our fallen heroes. Brave men willing to die to protect their blood and adopted families.” He paused to allow time for his eyes to sweep over each person in the crowd, stopping to gaze at Teltina, her hand tightly gripping her daughter’s shoulder. “And to remember two youths who became men fighting for the safety of their loved ones.” He then shifted his gaze to Cellach’s parents. The father, still recovering from injuries suffered in captivity, and his wife, heavy with a child of rape, embraced in sorrow.

Matuso swallowed and then drew in a deep breath. “We are united in remembering their sacrifice.” He withdrew a leather-covered book from a bag at his waist and, using a small blanket as shelter from the rain, opened it. “I read from my remembrances,” he said, turning to the most recent entries and reading short summaries of each of the four men and two boys. When he finished, he looked up at the crowd, noting tears and grim faces. And anger and determination. “Please come to me with additional memories. I will pen them in our book.” Placing the book back into his pouch, he stepped to the side and watched as Ivar moved forward.

“I give God’s blessing on these fallen heroes.” Ivar’s hand made a vertical movement followed by a horizontal one. He paused to scan the crowd, nodding to Matuso as their eyes briefly met. “Although of different religion and gods, each showed strength in protecting their blood and non-blood family,” he said, his gaze resting on Teltina.

Wondering what thoughts passed through the Christian and the Druidess, Matuso pulled the book back out of the pouch along with a small bowl and quill. He leaned over to shelter his efforts and penned Ivar’s words. Looking up, Matuso found Ivar’s eyes now on his book and the young priest’s eyebrows arched in surprise that his words were being recorded.

Ivar broke his gaze at the book and continued. “It is actions, not beliefs, that define a man.” He chewed his lip for a heartbeat. “Or a woman. God may be called by a different name, or maybe several names, but I believe he recognizes the good in all.” Ivar’s voice broke and his head drooped. Jessie stepped forward and, taking Ivar’s arm, led him back among the crowd.

After writing down Ivar’s last sentence, Matuso turned and took a handful of smaller rocks from a pile by the mounds. With slow, deliberate steps, he added one of the rocks to each of the mounds. Later, he would find and add a rock to Rory’s mound. Behind him, he heard others coming forth to do the same.

As he retreated from the mounds, Jessie intercepted him.

“Thoughts on the Ur Neill dead?” he asked. “We had piled up the first group. I checked the new corpses. There are dozens of dead bodies along there and to the west. They're going to be ripe in a few days. Everyone’s avoiding them.” He paused. “Except Orla.”

“Looking for a relative?” Matuso couldn’t figure how that could be possible. But there was a lot he didn’t understand about this island.

“Not likely. One of the guards reported that she searched until she found one particular body. On the flanking side. He said she just stood there for a long time before she spat on it and walked back up the hill.”

“Not sure I want to know what that was about.” Matuso looked to the west as if he could see over the curve of the hill. “We can’t just leave them there for the wolves. I’ll get a few volunteers to strip them of useful items and pile them up.” A gruesome task, but better than the alternative. “And maybe start covering them with stone?”

“Yeah, probably the best we can do. I’ll help.” Jessie laid a hand on Matuso’s shoulder. “I have a few words to write in the book.”

* * *

“Shit, I don’t know what to say,” Larry said to Matuso. They sat next to the cairns, and Matuso held the book of remembrances open on his lap. Between them, a small clay bowl containing a mixture of powdered charcoal and animal fat sat on three stones, smoke from a small fire drifting up around it.

“We can do this later, if that’s better.” Matuso trimmed a goose feather with a small knife. “I should recheck on the wounded. Jessie’s with them now.”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you. See if Kequit’s doing any better. We can deal with words later. When I can think.” Larry shifted, relieving one of his many protesting muscles. “They all deserve careful thought. Rory especially.” His voice cracked and he drew in a deep shuddering breath.

“I’m having trouble thinking, also.” Matuso rose and moved the ink mixture off the small fire.

“Help me up.” Larry rolled onto his side, placing his right hand on the ground. Grunting, and with Matuso's hand pulling up on his belt, he rose.

To the west, several men carried a litter with the injured Hatimu on it toward the area set aside for treating the wounded. A figure raced toward the men, and Larry recognized Maeve. Her low sobs carried over the hilltop. The young woman’s emotions stirred an emptiness in Larry. Could he ever allow himself that kind of connection to a woman again? Certainly not in this world of so many dead bodies. And was his yearning for the loneliness of the open sea just evasion?

Leaning on Matuso, Larry hobbled toward the improvised tents sheltering the wounded, the movement loosening his aching muscles. Two of the men had wounds in the arms or legs, but an arrow had pierced Kequit's abdomen. Jessie looked up from the unconscious man’s side and, with tight lips, shook his head.

“Hey Kequit.” Larry eased himself down besides the Icelandic warrior. “You were awesome. We're here for you." He went on to describe the hilltop, the dinner that was being prepared, and anything that came to mind. Kequit probably didn’t register a word he said, but Larry hoped the dying man would at least recognize his voice.

“The poppy juice is keeping the pain down,” Matuso said, settling next to Larry. “I opened him up to repair the internal damage…” He blew out a long breath. “But an alcohol wash is unlikely to suppress infection, given his level of injury.”

Larry stopped babbling and reached across to lay a hand on Matuso’s arm. “You did your best.”

They sat by Kequit’s bed for a few more minutes until Hatimu’s stretcher arrived, followed by Maeve.

Teltina and Deirdre joined the men attending the dying man. “Deirdre will watch Kequit with Jessie,” Teltina said, nodding to her companion before facing Matuso. “Hatimu needs your skills, and I would observe.” She turned to Larry. “You'd best hear anything he has to report.”

Larry nodded his appreciation and, with Matuso’s help, stood and limped over to the stretcher.

As Maeve’s hands twisted in worry, the men lifted the wounded man onto a sleeping skin, their calloused but gentle hands cradling his head, torso and extremities. As the men retreated, Matuso and Teltina conferred in low voices.

Larry ignored them, his hand massaging Hatimu’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe now.”

Hatimu opened his eyes and smiled at Larry. Then Hatimu’s eyes shifted and he held his hand out to Maeve who took it in both of hers. After several minutes, he moved his gaze back to Larry. “I got caught scouting out the Northmen.”

“Yeah, you did,” Larry said. “You really need to stop getting wounded. Anything to report?”

“Three ships. Maybe sixty men. Landed behind the small hill to the west of Sui Finn.” Hatimu grimaced as Matuso moved his leg. “Sneaky bastards.”

“You rest.” Larry looked up to meet Matuso’s eyes and let out a breath as Matuso nodded, a small smile creasing his haggard face.

“No body cavity penetration and the wound is clean. Alcohol should be sufficient,” he said.

* * *

Ragnar stood, eyes on the rocky hill where all tracks led. “What did you find?” he said as footsteps stopped at his side.

“It appears that the strangers defeated the Ur Neill.” The scout frowned. “They are now burying the Ur Neill dead in rock cairns.”

“They share barbaric customs with the people of Eire.” Ragnar narrowed his eyebrows. But in their strange world that could be a sign of respect. “Our men?”

“In place around the south and west.” The scout waved his hand in those directions. “And moving into place in the forests to the north and east.” He turned to face Ragnar. “Will we attack at night?”

“Wait until dawn,” Ragnar said. “I would talk with these people who honor their enemies.” And learn more of their hard iron. Winning this land would require more than just winning a battle.

Chapter 37

August 27

Larry reached down and lifted Rory’s head.

“Father,” the boy said as his eyes stopped seeing.

A voice screamed. Larry flailed for his sword and axe.

“Larry, wake up.” A different voice sounded through the fog of memory.

Larry opened his eyes and turned his head in the direction of the speaker. In the dim morning light, a face peered back at him.

“We have company. The men are gathering,” Cassan said, before withdrawing.

Larry rubbed the sleep and dreams from his face and swallowed to relieve his hoarse throat. Rolling to his right side, he slipped on his boots one-handed and rose. Men and a few women were standing around the cook fire in the dim morning light as Larry limped to join them.

“There are Northmen at the base of our hill and in the forests.” Matuso handed him a battered mug of tea.

Larry sipped and then gazed into the swirling liquid. Would this be his last drink of tea? And how many were already dead? All because of some quixotic goal of maybe saving Haven from something that might not even happen.

They could flee. Have the women and kids take off, with maybe a few warriors to break through the Northmen’s line, the rest impeding pursuit. Larry snorted. Then any survivors could be hunted down at the Northmen’s leisure. But what else could they do? “The only way is a direct attack.” Larry turned his head, meeting each pair of eyes. “Break through and run. Bowmen at the rear to discourage pursuit.” Maybe a few would escape. He’d ask Teltina to lead them away. “Up here on this hill, I am guessing we are evenly matched, given our advantage in terrain.”

Larry lowered himself to the ground and rubbed his face with his hand. The men surrounding the small cook fire shifted nervously. Next to the cookfire, Keelin kept her eyes on a pot of steaming water.

“If we stay here, we will eventually be starved out. Or we'll run out of water if the weather clears.” Larry scooted to his left, finding a slightly less uncomfortable section of rock on which to sit.

“We have no gunpowder.” Fergus picked up a small twig and tossed it on the small pile of wood next to Keelin.

“We wouldn't have time to reload once the shit starts.”

“Off this hill, they have the advantage.” Fergus stared at Keelin’s small fire. “I would guess there are fifty to sixty Northmen surrounding us. That matches Hatimu’s report.”

“Any chance of talk?” Matuso asked.

“Talk? Those fuckers killed several of our people.” Larry followed Fergus’s gaze. They were even short on firewood. “And Rory.” His voice cracked as Rory’s last word echoed yet again through his mind. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“Even if we win in battle, we lose.” Teltina shouldered into the circle of men around Keelin. “We would be so weak, the cowardly Ur Neill and Wildlings would be able to overcome us.”

Larry gazed at her, surprised at her choice of words. Her red eyes met his before turning outward. He followed her gaze past the men to where several women stood listening, slings hung around their necks. The older kids had joined them, each carrying an improvised spear.

Larry closed his eyes. In spite of Rory’s death, Teltina thought about consequences. “Maybe they’ll attack anyway.” He started to lift his right hand to his face but it still clasped his sword. He let it go and rubbed his face.

* * *

Ragnar stood, eyes on the rocky hill where all tracks led. “What did you find?” he asked, not breaking his gaze as the footsteps stopped at his side.

“It seems that they are all up there.” The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It will be hard to climb that hill.”

“Is Orla up there?”

“Too far to tell. But one of the scouts saw a man who resembled the escaped prisoner. Two men were helping him walk behind a rock to piss.”

Jaw clenched, Ragnar continued staring at the hill. That bitch had repaid his kindness with betrayal. Maybe he should have given her to his men. An ache gnawed his stomach. No, he couldn’t have. But maybe it was better this way. His wife would become his private Ragnarok if Orla still served him.

He needed to secure this land by the following spring. Almost a hundred brothers and cousins planned to arrive, if one counted their families and thralls. Including Birgit and their two young children. All depending on him. His smile at the thought of his wife and two sons faded as an image of Orla’s bare form ignited a flash of longing and anger. May she anguish in the underworld, cut off from her family.

Another set of footsteps approached. “Although scuttled, our ship is in good shape,” Gunnarr said, stopping at Ragnar’s side. “It will be easily repaired. As are the strangers’ ships. Most of the rigging has been removed and probably hidden. We’ll find it eventually.”

“What of tools?”

“Only a few items. But well made of hard iron.” Gunnarr turned to face the west.

Ragnar turned to follow Gunnarr’s gaze. Mist rose from the valley as the sun dried the land. A beautiful country in spite of its poor soil. But the bottomland could be worked and the hills would support sheep and cattle.

“What rigging remains is unfamiliar.” Gunnarr turned to face Ragnar. “But it is of interest. I would talk with their shipbuilders.” He grinned. “Before I kill them.”

“Perhaps we should ally with these strangers instead of the Ur Neill?”

“I have blood with them.” Gunnarr growled his reply. “As does Snorri.”

* * *

Aided by his crutch, Larry hobbled down the hillside and stood on a small flat outcrop of sandstone. Several hundred strides below stood a group of Northmen, staring upwards. These were the assholes who had killed one of Fergus’s crew, injured Hatimu, and killed many locals. Including Rory.

The boy’s first and last word cut through Larry’s core. His right hand moved from his crutch to tighten around the grip of his sheathed sword, his injured left, threaded through the straps of his shield, remained limp. He turned and looked back up the hill. Teltina stood among the warriors, staring back at him. She’d lost a son to these fucks yet was able to take a long view. Should he also be able to do that?

“There are at least sixty men.” Fergus joined Larry on the rock shelf. “Twenty more than us.”

“Experienced warriors.” Larry climbed down from the rock, taking time to place his feet. “But with our defensive position and the longbows, we could hold our own long enough to decimate each other.”

* * *

“Brave or a fool,” Ragnar said to no one as the dark-skinned man, leaning on a wooden crutch, stumbled downhill about thirty strides, leaving his companion on the rock shelf. Uphill, nearer the summit, warriors, perhaps twenty, stood in a line.

Ragnar stared. Several of the warriors looked like women.

“Allow me to kill him.” Gunnarr’s sword slipped in and out of its sheath.

“You will have your blood,” Ragnar said. “These strangers interest me. I will talk first. Wait here.” Gunnarr had no sense of anything past today. Hands held at his side, Ragnar walked uphill, matching the dark stranger’s movement.

Again, the dark warrior limped downhill. Ragnar closed an equal distance.

“What is your intention?” Ragnar asked when the distance between them had narrowed to forty strides. The man shook his head and Ragnar repeated the question in Eire.

“I am called Larry,” the dark man said in Eire. “Why did you attack my men?”

Ragnar watched the man’s face. The eyes stared with an intensity that chilled his gut. Grey speckled the man’s tightly curled hair and contrasted with his dark skin. An older and, given various scars, experienced warrior. “My name is Ragnar,” Ragnar said. “Strangers are enemies.”

The dark stranger turned and looked uphill. One of the women, her sex now obvious at this closer distance, stepped forward from the line of warriors.

“We came to this land to trade. Strangers can be trading partners.” The man turned back to face Ragnar. His dark face frowned as his eyes focused behind Ragnar. “Do your men fear me or my words?”

Ragnar turned to see Gunnarr and Snorri climbing to meet him. “What do you want?”

“I demand my right to blood,” Gunnarr said.

“I also.” Snorri’s hand tightened on his sword.

Frowning, Ragnar studied the faces of his two men. They had the right to address their losses and had probably talked each other into pushing their claims. But he could not deny them their rights without losing the loyalty of their men. “Your men shed Gunnarr and Snorri’s blood or the blood of their oath followers,” he said, turning back to the stranger.

“What does that mean?” The stranger’s face betrayed confusion.

“Snorri challenges the captain of the ship that damaged his and killed several of his men in the bay.” Ragnar turned and nodded to Gunnarr. “And Gunnarr’s ship was lost on the river to the abbey. Along with several of his followers.” Ragnar turned to face the dark warrior. “They have the right to confront the men responsible in combat. Or that man’s blood brother. Nothing else can be discussed until the blood is settled.”

Confusion faded as anger crossed the dark face. “I must talk with my men.”

Ragnar held a hand up to the sun. “You have one hand of time.”

As the dark stranger turned and hobbled uphill, Ragnar turned to regard his ships’ captains. Blood oaths did not apply in duels of honor. But the loss of either of these men would weaken his status with their warriors.

“What if they refuse?” Snorri asked, his face dark.

“Then we kill them.” Ragnar pushed between his two captains and worked his way down the slope. A slope that would impede any attack. The men had several seasons of raiding behind them. But their targets had been easy pickings that required little thought or skill. These strangers were no monks hiding behind weak walls and an impotent god.

He froze, just strides from the bottom. Where had the strangers learned how to build longboats? By Hel, there were layers and layers here.

* * *

“What is it?” Fergus stared at his father’s stone face, etched with new lines. Fergus had worried about the two leaders killing each other while he waited at the rock outcrop. Now he dreaded what his father would say.

“They won’t talk until some blood feud foolishness is settled.” Leaning against the protruding stone, Larry rubbed his face. Something he’d been doing a lot lately.

“What does that mean?”

“A duel.” Larry stared at Fergus for a minute before looking down at the Northmen. “Two duels.”

“Who?”

“The persons responsible for damaging or destroying their ships and killing their men.”

Jessie, Matuso, and several men joined them. Larry repeated his news.

“Those encounters were self defense.” Matuso stepped around the outcrop to stand next to Larry. “And a rescue.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Larry looked back at Fergus, then at the men who had climbed down the hill to join them. “They want revenge on somebody.”

“Well that’s easy. It was my ship that rammed theirs in the bay.” Stepping forward to occupy a spot in the middle of the men, Fergus gazed around, daring any argument.

“I led…” Larry said.

“No, you’re injured.” Matuso stepped in front of Larry. “I was on the trip up the river toward the abbey. I’ll fight.”

Larry shoved his way to the center of the group, wincing as he bumped his left shoulder. “No. My responsibility.”

“I can handle this,” Jessie said, looking directly at Larry.

“Someone needs to cover for this old fool,” Fergus said, shaking his head. Why were old people so bloody stubborn? “He’s too injured.”

“I was there.” Matuso shifted to Larry’s side.

“Me and Hatimu were there also,” Disunu shouldered his way into the argument.

“Hey, the fight is with them.” Fergus pointed downhill before leaning over to pluck several pieces of grass.

“Wait…” Larry said.

“The idea is to win,” Fergus interrupted as he stepped from the group and, with his back to them, arranged the grass leaves in one hand. “Long one fights. Only people involved can pick one. No injured.” He turned to face the group and held out the hand with the grass leaves. “Start with the fight in the bay.”

Larry snorted and started to reach out his hand. A smaller, more delicate, hand blocked Larry’s.

“What is best for Sanctuary?” Teltina asked as she led Larry away from the group.

Chapter 38

August 28

A light drizzle freshened the air, sweeping away the lingering odor of blood, shit, and death. Wearing only a wool coat and trousers over linen undergarments, Larry limped down the south side of their hill. Behind him he heard the footsteps and clanking armor of Fergus and Matuso.

“Feel them out,” Larry said. “They’re experienced, but everyone has weak spots. Use your head, not your muscles.” By the time they reached a terrace halfway between the summit and the Northmen at the base, he’d run out of useless advice. He could only hope training would get them through this cluster-fuck.

The semi-flat area chosen by Ragnar for the duels was a hundred strides wide along the south side of the hill. Up and down, it was only forty strides. Less broken by rock and heather, it was the flattest area between the two forces. And the most open.

Larry stopped a dozen strides from the battle area, hearing the footfalls behind him divide. In minutes, Fergus took a spot at the west end of the terrace, facing the Northman called Snorri. Matuso stepped to the east, to face Gunnarr.

Heart sinking, Larry noted the look of anticipation in the two Northmen. Almost joy. Orla had told him that the Northmen equated battle with religion, and dying in battle reserved them a place in some other world among the great warriors of the past.

Dumb shit animals.

Below, a hundred strides away, the Northmen formed a loose line, several with tankards or skins of liquid. Like spectators at a game. Cold seeped through Larry’s core; those fucks considered this entertainment.

Across the terrace, Ragnar glanced at Larry’s crutch before locking on his eyes. “This is a blood fight, honoring oaths taken to serve and to protect brothers. No one may interfere on the penalty of death.” The Northmen's leader carried no weapons nor did he wear armor.

“Proceed,” Ragnar said, backing up.

Cheers and insults rose from the men at the foot of the hill. Silence reigned at the summit.

To Larry’s left, Fergus moved to keep Snorri below him. Snorri slapped his sword against his shield, one slap for each step as he countered Fergus’s movements.

To the right, Matuso stepped and thrust, his sword arm outstretched. Gunnarr planted his right foot behind him as he took the blow with his shield arm. Larry gasped as the Northman shifted his weight, his shield pushing Matuso’s sword to the side. As Matuso staggered to regain balance, Gunnarr thrust with his right hand, his sword blade slicing a gash across Matuso’s right side.

Breathing forgotten, Larry could only snap his head back and forth between the two duels, hands squeezing the wood of his crutch.

Fergus backed up, using shield and sword to parry Snorri’s pounding attacks. To the left, Matuso recovered by retreating, the shield held in front of him to take Gunnarr’s blows.

Larry gasped in a breath as Fergus stumbled in a depression and recovered, dancing backwards in two quick steps.

Matuso, favoring his right side, could only back up. Gunnarr kept up the barrage, his grin exposing stained teeth.

Fergus took another step back, shield held to the side, sword tip low to the ground. Snorri lunged, his sword following Fergus’s before arcing upward, his leading foot coming down in the same hole that had almost tripped Fergus. As Snorri teetered, Fergus slapped Snorri’s blade an inch to the left and drove forward, the blade tip arcing up beneath the Northman’s chain tunic and into his groin. Red liquid pulsed as Snorri collapsed, his sword bouncing off Fergus’s shield and across his arm.

Chest heaving, Matuso stepped back again, foot twisting on the broken ground. He fell to his knees as Gunnarr dropped his sword and pulled out an axe, the head a hand span wide, from his belt. Stepping into a charge, he swung it high over his head. Matuso lunged forward onto the ground, using the shield on his left arm to break his fall, and thrust his sword upward with his right. As Gunnarr’s axe descended, the tip of Matuso’s sword entered the Northman’s gut. The axe cleaved into the muscles between Matuso’s neck and shoulder, his spasming arm twisting his sword sideways along Gunnarr’s torso.

Blood dripped down Fergus’s arm as he stood over Snorri’s body. As Snorri twitched in death, Fergus looked up, eyes widening. Larry followed his son’s eyes to see Gunnarr stand and wrench his axe from Matuso’s neck.

Gunnarr raised his axe in triumph before collapsing to the ground, blood spurting from his abdomen.

Larry ran, stumbling over the uneven terrain. Ignoring the flaring pain in his thigh, he fell to his knees at Matuso’s side, right hand moving to the young man’s neck, fingernails digging into the skin as they tried to force the gaping wound closed. Tried to stem the diminishing flow of blood.

Someone knelt next to Larry. Hands pulled his fingers away from Matuso’s lifeless body. “He’s gone,” Fergus said, voice low and quivering.

A cry turned Larry’s head. A woman, followed by several men, ran to Gunnarr’s side.

Between the fallen bodies, Ragnar stood, eyes on Larry. “They died with honor and will sit with the gods until the final battle.”

“No gods,” Larry said, his voice a croak. He looked down at the body of his young friend. “But he will live on in our memories.”

Ragnar stepped closer, hands on hips as he stared down at Larry.

“I would like very much to fucking kill you.” Larry’s growl carried over the sound of the woman’s wails.

Ragnar smiled. “It would be a good fight. Except that you are old and wounded.” He shifted his eyes uphill. “Have you my thrall, Orla?”

Larry stared. This man was mad. Two men, maybe three, dead and he wanted to talk about a slave? “She is with us.”

“I would have her back.”

Larry looked down at Matuso’s body, bile churning in his stomach. “She goes where she wishes.” He shifted his eyes to stare at the Northman. “We have no slaves. Or thralls as you call them.”

“Some are destined by the gods to be thralls.”

“We also have no gods.”

Ragnar laughed. “Then what is the purpose of life?”

Larry turned as footsteps approached. Ivar directed several men to the body of Matuso.

“The purpose of life is whatever we choose it to be,” Larry said, as Ivar helped him stand. The men shifted Matuso’s body onto a blanket. Once he was settled, Ivar joined them to lift their burden. They headed uphill.

At the other end of the dueling site, Jessie splashed liquid over the slash in Fergus’s upper arm. Larry didn’t remember his son getting that wound. But it looked shallow.

Fergus neither flinched nor recognized Jessie or Deirdre, who stood by, holding a folded linen cloth. As Jessie returned a bottle to the bag hanging from his shoulder, Deirdre pressed the cloth against the wound. Pulling a strip of fabric from the bag, Jessie secured the bandage. Fergus just stood staring at the men carrying Matuso’s body uphill.

A second woman and several unarmed Northmen approached Fergus and, at his slow nod, knelt to lift Snorri. They lifted their fallen comrade and headed downhill, followed by the sobbing woman.

The first woman held Gunnarr’s head in her lap and wailed as two Northmen pressed their hands to the wound. Blood seeped from between their fingers.

Larry’s eyes slid back to the woman. Must be his wife. The display of anguish stirred him. Maybe these weren’t just bloodthirsty warriors, but men who had families and had experienced death and sadness also. He shifted his eyes to Jessie, who looked up after tying off Fergus’s makeshift bandage. They held each other’s gaze for several breaths.

“Do you want me to look at Gunnarr’s wound?” Jessie asked in English.

“No fucking…” Larry said before considering. A quick glance downhill confirmed the Northmen numbers. He risked a glance uphill. Even with curve of the hill, he could see Teltina staring, her face still twisted with anguish.

“Do it,” Larry said. “But ask first.”

* * *

One of the younger strangers approached Ragnar. “I would look at Gunnarr’s wound,” he said in the local tongue. “I have skills from our distant lands.”

Ragnar looked from the warrior to Gunnarr. The two men, one on either side of Gunnarr’s torso, still squeezed his wound shut while the woman sobbed.

“You have my permission.” Ragnar nodded to his men. “Let him attend Gunnarr.” He turned to the woman. “Learn what you can from the stranger.”

“Gunnarr’s wife, Birna, will observe,” he said in Eire to the young stranger. “But he is dead. The wound will kill him.” He took in a deep breath. The blood duels had not gone as expected. He had hoped that the death of the strangers’ two champions would appease the men and give him an advantage in trade negotiations. But they could fight. The loss of both captains would prompt the men to agitate for more blood, eliminating the possibility of acquiring the hard iron. His hand slipped to the pouch hanging from his belt. Fingers pressed the cold metal of the arrowheads.

At the foot of the hill, the men stared upwards. No doubt calculating the odds of a direct attack. Ragnar resisted the desire to shake his head. The agreement with Cormac had been a mistake. All it had accomplished was conflict with these strangers. Strangers who appeared to want to trade. Trade that could make his family wealthy. Trade that could provide his warriors with weapons to defend that wealth.

If Gunnarr died, they must attack if he was to maintain control. Ragnar’s eyes drifted up the hillside. Hard to climb with arrows flying. And hard to climb quietly at night. Maybe these strangers had the power to heal a gut wound. If so, that would just be more reason to ally with them.

And a healed Gunnarr would soften the demands of his warriors.

* * *

“Larry, I need help,” Jessie said as he trotted to Gunnarr’s side. Blood spurted as one of the two Northmen’s hand momentarily loosed as he shifted to kneel next to the second Northman.

Larry looked to Ragnar, pointing to himself and then to Gunnarr. Ragnar scowled but nodded.

Larry limped to Jessie’s side and knelt.

“The cut goes into the abdominal cavity. A small artery is severed,” Jessie said, hands palpitating the area around the hands pressed over Gunnarr’s wound. “Wide but not deep.”

“What's in your med bag?” Larry asked.

“Clean linen bandages, thread, needles, forceps, and small bottles of cannabis and poppy tinctures. Most from Matuso’s kit.” Jessie withdrew a glass bottle. “And one of Potts’s old whiskey bottles refilled with about fifty percent alcohol.”

Jessie looked toward the summit. “Water,” he shouted, voice cutting through the wail of the distraught woman.

Pulling a battered and dented stainless steel bowl from his bag, Jessie poured a fourth of the bottle into it. He looked uphill.

Larry followed Jessie’s gaze to see Deirdre handing Cassan a water bag. He broke from the ranks of people still holding position at the summit and ran downhill.

“Give him some of the poppy?” Jessie asked as they waited for Cassan. “Not much left.”

“Let the fucker suffer.” Larry glanced at the sobbing woman and sighed. “Go ahead. Just a little. We may need the rest for ourselves if this whole thing goes deeper into shit.”

“Hold this,” Jessie said, handing the bowl into Larry's hands as Cassan skidded to a stop behind them. Within a half-dozen breaths, Jessie had taken the water skin from Cassan and diluted the alcohol. “I’m going to pour this over your hands. Then mine. Save most for irrigation.”

As he poured, Larry rubbed his hands together under the thin stream of liquid. Then Larry poured for Jessie. Nudging the two Northmen’s hands from the wound area, he opened the cut, clamped the cut artery, and flushed the wound. Jessie probed the wound, separating a thin layer of fat and a thicker layer of muscle. Even under the overcast sky, the intestines glistened. “Nicked but not punctured. Our friend here may survive. I’ll tie off the artery then irrigate once more. Then you hold it closed while I prepare temporary sutures.”

As Larry pressed the two sides of the wound closed with the heels of his hand, Gunnarr groaned and tried to struggle. The two Northmen shifted, one to sit on the injured man’s legs, the other to hold his shoulders. The two talked low in their own language, their tone not of hatred but of curiosity.

As Jessie worked, several men climbed the hill to crowd around the fallen man. “I need more light,” Jessie said.

“Ragnar, move these people back,” Larry said as he nodded to the new spectators. After a bark of command, all but the woman and the two men at Gunnarr’s head and feet moved back. Ragnar remained standing behind Larry.

He continued standing as Jessie sutured the wound, placed an alcohol-soaked linen bandage over it and bound it with linen strips. “These are temporary. Once the danger of infection is over, I will sew him up permanently.”

Larry sat back on his haunches and twisted recent kinks out of his back. “Nice job.”

Jessie stood, swaying from exhaustion. “I’d rather just kill him,” he said in English. “I give him two to one odds that he'll live.” He looked down at Birna and nodded. She responded with a small brief smile.

“Better than Matuso.” Pushing off the ground with his left hand, Larry stood and faced Ragnar. “He may live,” he said in Eire.

“If he lives, we will talk.” One side of Ragnar’s mouth turned up. “If he dies, we will kill you and take the women.”

Larry stared at the Northman. Was this man crazy? He remembered Ragnar’s expression when his two captains interrupted their first meeting to demand blood. Could his bravado be a shrewd attempt to get past the damn blood feud shit? “When?”

“In five days. By then, Gunnarr will be recovering.” Ragnar looked down at his injured captain. “Or dead.” After a pause, he turned to look at his men patrolling the base of the hill. “I will return here. If Gunnarr is recovering, I and two others will talk with you and two of your choosing.” Once again Ragnar smiled. “If he is not, you will die.”

Chapter 39

August 29

Below, several Northmen walked along the edge of the forest. Standing fifty strides below the summit of Bald Hill, Larry fumed. The fuckers didn’t even bother to hide, acting as if they were out on a causal walk. In full armor. He turned away from Ragnar’s men. Above, his sentries stood, also in armor.

Favoring his right leg, Larry limped back up the hill as thoughts flitted through his head. Attack, flee, or hold. Each had an advantage. And each had problems. Many problems. As he reached the first sentry, Larry nodded his greeting. “They’re still patrolling along the tree line.”

“Do you think the wounded Northman will survive?” the sentry asked.

“I hope so.” Larry snorted. “So I can kill him at some future time.”

“All of us want that honor.” The man turned and looked over the exposed rock and heather of the summit. “When are the words for Matuso?”

“Probably after we eat.” Larry clapped the man on the shoulder and headed toward the small cluster of people gathering around a smoky cook fire.

As he approached, Orla broke from the crowd.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she said, lowering her eyes as she stopped in front of him.

Larry nodded. “Thank you.” She stood there, staring at the ground, teeth nipping the edge of her lower lip. “And thanks for helping Hatimu.”

Her eyes rose to meet Larry’s. “All was hopeless until he told me Cassan was still alive.” She looked back to the cook fire, where her brother stood watching them. “That gave me the courage to act.” Turning back to Larry, she raised her eyes to his face, “I was told you refused to give me back to Ragnar.” A smile brightened her face, the stress of the recent months temporarily fading. “Thank you.”

“It is who we are,” Larry said. This young girl had lost almost her entire family. He should be so brave.

* * *

After dinner, the crowd drifted to the small knoll near the center of Bald Hill where seven mounds now lay in a row. As Larry followed, Fergus joined him.

“Teltina asked Jessie about our Buddhist beliefs. I suspect she thinks her gods have deserted her.”

“Better that she asked him than Ivar.” Larry’s eyes wandered over the hilltop, finding her walking hand-in-hand with her daughter toward the burial area.

“Should we try to escape?”

“Not sure we have a direction,” Larry said. “North and west are Northmen. East is the remaining Ur Neill and the abbey. South is a maybe. But the Ur Neill have already attacked from that direction.”

“Yeah, and we’d be traveling with the women and children.” Fergus slowed to a stop. “And the wounded.”

“That's probably why Ragnar left only a few sentries.” Larry halted and looked at his son. “He’s not worried about us escaping. At least we have the food you brought from Sanctuary.”

“And the food scavenged from the Ur Neill camp before the Northmen showed up. Enough for over a week.” Fergus pointed to the north. “Water’s a problem, but they’ve backed away from that small lake.”

“I thought that was where their camp was located?”

“No, that’s the larger lake to the south. I mean the small lake to the northeast. Not much more than a pond, it’s only a couple hundred strides long. Several of the women have already dared to walk down and bring back water.”

“Any problems?”

“None. The Northmen just watched. I may try to take the horses down later.”

They resumed walking. “They either want something or they figure they can kill at any time.”

“Assuming Gunnarr makes it, who do you want with you for the talk with Ragnar?” Fergus asked.

“I’m thinking of taking Deirdre and Ivar with me.” Larry slowed. “Politically, that's the best mix. A landowner and a cleric. Or, at least, a former landowner. I may need their input on any negotiations. If there are any.”

“Are you going to be able to talk with this Ragnar?”

“I must.” Larry wiped his face with his right hand. “I must.”

Fergus gripped his shoulder. “Jessie’s starting the remembrances for Matuso and Kequit,” Fergus said. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I must,” Larry repeated yet again.

Chapter 40

August 30

“How much alcohol remains?” Ignoring his queasy stomach, Fergus focused his eyes on Gunnarr’s wound as Jessie’s wet fingers probed the raw flesh. The pale fatty tissue and red muscles glistened in the sun.

Gunnarr twitched as Jessie, sweat glistening on his haggard face, inspected the edges of the cut. “Looks good,” he said. “No sign of infection. A bottle and a half left. I’ll probably finish the partial on this.” He sat back on his haunches. “After another irrigation, I’ll restitch and then re-cover the wound with salt-saturated bandages.”

At his side, Anya knelt, holding a stainless steel bowl covered with a thick cloth in one hand and a clay pot in the other.

As he rinsed, Gunnarr’s eyes opened then widened as he focused. His mouth moved. “Who you?” he said in broken Eire.

“Brothers of the man you killed,” Fergus said.

Gunnarr leaned forward, pain spasming across his face as he strained to inspect his belly, and then he fell back, unconscious.

“Animal,” Jessie said. He tied the wound together with a new set of sutures and rinsed with the remaining liquid in the glass bottle. Switching the empty bottle for the pot, he splashed salt water over the cloth. “This is a saturated salt solution.”

“My stomach is not liking this,” Fergus said in English.

“If you’re going to faint, please don’t do it in front of the women.” The edges of Jessie’s mouth turned up. “Myself, I’ll save my vomiting for later,” he added in Eire, getting a raised eyebrow from Anya.

Fergus looked up as a shadow moved across Gunnarr’s legs. Gunnarr’s wife, Birna, stood there, eyes locked on Jessie’s fingers.

“Gunnarr live?” she asked in broken Eire.

Anya looked up, face hard. Fergus followed her eyes. Tears tracked down the Northwoman’s face, which was red with anguish. He looked back at Anya in time to see her face soften.

“We hope,” Anya said in a whisper.

* * *

“Well?” Larry stood over Jessie as he and Anya gathered up their medical supplies.

“No sign of infection,” Jessie said, looking down at Gunnarr. Birna kneeled at his side, dribbling warm broth into his mouth by squeezing a scrap of cloth. At her side, Fergus sat holding a small wooden bowl of broth, into which she dipped the fabric. “Maybe he will live. If the wound is still clean in a couple of days, I will finish sewing it up.” Jessie capped the bottle of alcohol and slipped it into his medical bag.

“I am still confused about the small animals Jessie described.” Anya looked up at Larry. “Jessie called them ‘microbes.’ He has showed me with his glass the not so small animals that live in the soil. My mind hurts when I try to imagine even smaller ones that the strong beer kills.”

“Think of a village,” Larry said. “It is made up of many individual people. And sometimes, they are attacked by outside people. Our skin is the wall around that village. If the wall is breached, the outsiders can enter.”

Anya paused, then nodded.

“Any plans?” Jessie stood, reaching a hand down to assist Anya up.

Larry turned, eyes sweeping the summit. “We can sit around fretting. Or we can resume weapons training.”

“And the children?”

“Maybe I’ll make goals for a Hurling field.”

Chapter 41

September 1

Nodding to Birna, Jessie knelt by Gunnarr's side and unwrapped the cloth covering the man’s abdomen.

Gunnarr said something guttural as Jessie lifted the bandage.

“He talk.” Birna touched Gunnarr’s shoulder. “Why help?”

Jessie hesitated, eyes shifting between Gunnarr and his wife. “My chief wants to be friends. Not enemies.” Actually, he suspected Larry would like to gut them all. But more people breathed when you employed diplomacy than when you used a sword. Or an axe.

Birna and Gunnarr conversed while Jessie prodded the still swollen skin around the wound. Only an occasional gasp betrayed Gunnarr’s pain. Jessie had to give the man credit for fortitude. He covered the wound with fresh, salt-soaked linen and rewrapped Gunnarr’s torso.

“Why travel here?” Birna asked.

“To trade.” Jessie wondered what the people from the North would think about their plans to change the course of history.

Birna and Gunnarr again conversed.

“How?” Birna pointed to Gunnarr’s belly. “No die?”

“Knowledge from far lands.”

Birna only stared in response.

* * *

Larry limped to a stop as the lower hillside came into view. “Expected,” he said, turning to Fergus. “They would want to be in place for tomorrow. The fifth day.”

“They’ve blocked access to our water supply also,” Fergus said. “But we’ve enough for a couple of days.”

They stood on the south side of Bald Hill just a few strides away from the dueling grounds, looking down at the trail at the bottom of the hill that wound in and out of the trees. Instead of a few Northmen watchers, dozens of armed men stood or sat.

“I’ll check on the other directions.” Fergus turned to face uphill. “But I expect I'll find the same.” He paused. “Tomorrow, they’ll want to check on Gunnarr. Where do you want that to happen?”

Larry’s eyes followed the terrain below, moving along the slopes to the visible part of the summit. Even if Gunnarr was healed, they could still attack.

“I think we’ll move him there.” Larry pointed to the spot where the duels had taken place. “Set up a small lean-to. Keep everything out in the open. And out of sight of the summit.”

“We’ve burned almost all the wood we have.” Fergus snorted. “Or used it for hurling goals. Been chopping up turf to dry for fuel.”

Larry glanced at his son. The little shit was always bringing up facts. “There’s a solution to that.” He unbuckled his weapons belt, dropping it to the ground. Pulling the axe from its sheath, he turned downhill.

“Don’t,” Fergus said as Larry limped downhill.

The Northmen below backed up as Larry approached holding his axe by its head. They didn’t even draw their weapons. Curiosity rather than fear painted their faces. Or maybe amusement.

He moved directly to a broken oak. The ancient tree had toppled but still sent up shoots to the sky. A great metaphor for life on this island. As he chopped and trimmed several of the straighter branches, Fergus joined him. “You are one stubborn old fart,” he said.

“Once one has finished propagating, regardless of the quality of the offspring, death ain’t so frightening.” Larry limped around the tree and selected another branch. Surprised when he got no rebuttal, Larry turned. Fergus just stood there, shaking his head.

“Finished propagating? Your third leg does a good job of kicking when the young ladies bend over,” Fergus said. “Front or back view.”

Larry snorted. “The younger generation. No respect.”

Around them, the Northmen watched.

* * *

Standing with Jessie and Anya, Ivar watched Larry and Fergus descend the hill. “What are they doing?”

“With those two, one never knows,” Jessie said.

“Larry only has an axe. And Fergus is unarmed.” Ivar fingered the beads hanging around his neck. “May God protect him.”

“Praying for a heathen?”

“No, I am praying for a good man.” Ivar’s hand moved to the sling hanging from the right side of his belt. “If God even hears the prayers of one who has killed.”

“I have no words to comfort you,” Jessie said, laying a hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “But I appreciate your presence at my side.”

Ivar stared at his friend. Strange that one with no belief in God was so kind. He could not even summon any anger at Jessie’s influence on Anya, who had started but then stopped attending his daily prayers. He shifted his gaze to the young woman standing at Jessie’s side, only to avert his eyes. The sight of Anya burned his core. Why did God give man these temptations? It had to be a test from God because he could not believe that Anya was evil. And she had suffered so much. But why the test and why the suffering?

Ivar shook his head, clearing it of doubt.

“Are you okay?” Jessie asked.

“How is Gunnarr?” Ivar asked, diverting attention from himself.

“We just checked his bandages. The swelling is going down.” Jessie looked at the sky. “The cloud cover is breaking up. With the better light, I think I’ll add additional sutures and call it good. Get him ready to meet Ragnar tomorrow.”

“I will pray that your efforts are successful,” Ivar said, wondering again if God would even listen.

Chapter 42

September 2

“Show me the wound.” Ragnar looked down at Gunnarr, who held up a hand in greeting. One of the strangers knelt by his shipmaster and drew back the injured man’s shirt revealing layers of gray cloth. One by one he lifted each layer, placing it in a metal bowl.

Ragnar shifted his gaze. The bowl showed wear, covered with scrapes and dents. But it was well made of very thin metal. And no rust. From the strangers’ forges? Anger flared as he remembered his former captive telling Ragnar that his knife was poorly made. The stranger finished uncovering Gunnarr’s wound. Ragnar noted that, although the skin was red, there wasn’t any puss. There was some swelling, especially around the stitches, but not like the usual, and always fatal, gut wounds.

“May I rebind the wound?” the stranger said.

“Yes.” Ragnar shifted his gaze to the man. Wiry and of medium height, his facial features were not unlike some of the Moorish traders in Dub Linn. “What is your name?”

“I am called Jessie.” He took a bottle out of a bag at his side.

Ragnar stared. Clear liquid sloshed inside. Glass. He had only seen glass in the trading ports and none there had been of this clarity.

The man called Jessie removed something from the bottle’s mouth and poured the liquid into the bowl with the cloths. Resealing the bottle, he set it aside and poured a small amount of the liquid from the bowl over one hand. Switching hands, he did the same for the other.

“This liquid helps kill that which causes the body to decay.” Squeezing the excess liquid from one of the cloths, Jessie placed it over the stitched wound in Gunnarr’s abdomen. Repeating his actions, he covered the wound with three more cloths before sitting back on his haunches. “Once they are dry, I will cover it with additional strips of clean dry cloth. Then I will hold them in place with longer pieces.”

“I will talk to Gunnarr alone.” Looking at Jessie, Ragnar knelt at Gunnarr’s side.

“The strangers say I killed my enemy. True?” Gunnarr asked after Jessie had moved several strides away.

“He is dead. The damage to your ship and the death of your men is avenged.” Ragnar allowed his eyes to roam. Gunnarr lay under a lean-to shelter about halfway up the hillside. Made from the wood collected yesterday. He had been surprised at the bravery of the strangers to march, unarmed except for one small axe, into the midst of his men. Then to honor Gunnarr by preparing this shelter.

Many strides uphill, the leader of the strangers waited.

Below, his men waited along with Birna.

“How did the strangers interrupt my journey to my ancestors?”

“They have powers greater than our healers,” Ragnar said. Maybe too much power. But the men had accepted his decision to talk if Gunnarr survived. And the hard iron would make fine weapons. Weapons to defend his kin and to boost his trading efforts.

“I don’t understand.” Pain twisted Gunnarr’s face as he tried to sit up.

Ragnar looked over to Jessie who shook his head. “Don’t move. You need to rest. I will send your wife to be at your side.” Standing, Ragnar waved Birna to join her husband. As she started up the hill, Ragnar turned to Jessie. “Show Birna how to attend to him.” Turning away from the lean-to and his healing ship captain, Ragnar faced uphill. The stranger named Larry stared back. Ragnar nodded and pointed to the trampled duel area. With Gunnarr healed, he would have no trouble from the men as they talked.

* * *

“We seek only trade.” Larry raised his bowl and sipped the weak beer. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable—and less rocky—patch of ground on which to sit.

“What can you offer us?” Ragnar sipped, his eyes peering at Larry over the lip of his own bowl.

“A better quality of iron,” Larry said. “And new edible plants.”

“We have iron and plants.”

Eyes on Ragnar, Larry leaned on his left side and slid his fingers into his right boot. The Northman’s pupils widened, but he didn’t move a muscle, as Larry withdrew a small knife. The man had nerve.

“Ivar, please get me a large hunk of wood and a small hammer.” Larry set the knife in front of him, brought his right hand up in Ragnar’s direction, and turned it over.

With a small smile, Ragnar pulled a bone-handled knife from an inner tunic pocket and placed it on the ground. “A knifeless man is a lifeless man.”

As the men had approached the meeting area, they'd made a show of stripping off swords, axes, and shields. The area had been trampled flat and each group had sent one man to walk the area for hidden weapons, taking care with a pile of small firewood next to a small cook fire. Larry had arranged for this and had asked Keelin to prepare a venison stew, including the new vegetables such as small potatoes just harvested and dried peppers brought from Haven. Wooden bowls and spoons lay next to the firewood.

The two men stared at each other as they waited for Ivar to return. Ragnar had two of his men with him. Larry had kept to his decision to include the priest and Deirdre. No one yet had served himself or herself any of the stew.

Ivar approached with Jessie. As Ragnar scowled and his men tensed, Jessie dropped a stride-long, hand-width section of wood and retreated. Ivar handed Larry his heavy forge hammer and dragged the thick branch closer.

Holding the hammer in his right hand, Larry picked up his knife with his left and, ignoring the aching pain in his upper arm, pushed the tip into the section of wood. Tapping at first to set the tip, Larry drove the knife deep. Looking up at Ragnar, Larry nodded once and hit the side of the knife, cracking the wood handle and bending the knife.

Raising his eyes, Larry noted that Ragnar’s eyes had widened in surprise. Reaching around the fire, Larry picked up the Northman’s knife and abused it the same way. The iron cracked.

“I’m hungry.” Taking a bowl and spoon, Larry leaned forward and ladled out a portion of stew. Sitting back on the ground, he ate a spoonful.

Eyebrows narrowed, Ragnar reached forward and served himself. Ivar and Deirdre took portions for themselves. Ragnar’s two companions followed their example.

“Are the vegetables you offered to trade in this meal?” Ragnar asked, raising one eyebrow as he chewed.

“We call them potatoes and peppers.”

“What items do you seek?”

* * *

“You’re still alive after that stunt with the knives?” Fergus’s incredulous voice greeted Larry as he passed the sentries at the summit of their hill.

“You don’t hafta sound so disappointed.” Larry clapped his son on the shoulder. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Would have much rather buried my knife in that fuck’s gut.”

Fergus placed his hand on Larry’s shoulder. The warmth demanded truth. “Actually, it was the second hardest.” Larry forced himself to maintain eye contact. “The hardest was burying your mother.”

“She would have been proud of you.” Fergus squeezed harder. “As am I.”

“Proud?” Larry snorted. “She died because of me.”

“She died because, in the end, life is pain and loss.” Fergus drew him into an embrace. “But you gave her years of pleasure and joy. And that’s not just me talking. She would have said the same.”

“But…”

Fergus’s arms tightened. “Deal with truth.“

Larry took a deep breath as dizziness threatened.

After several long breaths, Fergus loosened his hold.

“See anything from up here?” Larry asked, his voice husky from the unexpected closeness.

“The Northmen around the base of the hill just stood or sat. It looked like several were playing some sort of wagering game.” Fergus pointed east. “The last report from above our water source is that our friends have backed away. I’ll send a couple of men down to get water.”

“Before then, let’s meet,” Larry said. “Change the guards first.”

They walked to their hilltop cook fire where all Havenites and Eirefolk not on sentry duty joined them.

* * *

“It appears we will not be fighting,” Larry said after everyone had made himself or herself comfortable and conversation had halted. “It also appears that the Northmen have plans centered on trade.” He went on to tell them that the Northmen would confine their activities to the peninsula to the north. Sanctuary and its surrounding lands were theirs to control.

“The only point of conflict is slaves. Thralls as you call them.” Larry noted several of the former slaves shifted in position, their eyes darting from him to one another. “If you are here, you do not have to fear. But I would suggest that you stay away from the peninsula to the north.” Several of the restless listeners relaxed, one nodded his head. “Ragnar stated that he would free two slaves in celebration of our pact. But I’ll believe that when it happens.”

“Trade items?” a voice asked.

“They want Haven’s steel. They call it hard iron.” Larry met Fergus’s gaze. “Probably not good in the short term. Long term it probably doesn’t matter. For us, I asked about copper, tin, honey and honey bees, and sheep.”

“The Seabird?” a voice asked.

“Lots of talk about it and the ship we burned at Brocc’s,” Larry said. “A real sore spot with them. They call our Seabird the River Serpent.” He sighed. “We agreed to drag it down to the estuary. They’ll take it there.”

“Any talk of gunpowder?” Fergus asked.

“I lied.” Larry snorted. “Said it was secret knowledge, of which I had no understanding. I doubt that he believed me. But he wants our steel.”

The Eirefolk looked puzzled and the Havenites frowned.

“It will probably be a point of contention in the future. But for now, we live.” Larry smiled. “And they live. I think Ragnar knew we were too evenly matched.”

“What of the Ur Neill?” Jessie asked.

Larry scanned his audience. Found Ivar’s blank face. Probably deep in thought. “Ivar brought that up. Care to tell them?”

Moving slowly, Ivar stood and looked around. “I believe that the Abbot has broken his vows to God by working with the Ur Neill. Ragnar has no further need to ally with them or the Abbot. He will work with us.” Ivar paused, taking several breaths. “I asked if I could take over the abbey. The Northman leader just laughed.” Ivar smiled. “He cares not.” Ivar’s hand crept to his beads, fingers running over their smooth surface, before moving to the sling on his left side.

“You need help?” Fergus asked. Several other warriors voiced their support.

Ivar blinked a few times and nodded.

“There is another issue,” Larry said. “Ragnar indicated that the Ur Neill activity in this part of Eire will likely trigger a response by the Ur Brian clan. We need to prepare for their appearance. But I would guess that they would be more concerned with the presence of the Northmen than us.”

“I suggested that when they appear,” Deirdre said, “we send an emissary to let them know that we defeated the Ur Neill.”

“How would they regard the Northmen?” Jessie asked.

“Just call them traders,” Deirdre said. “Traders can be good for a clan.”

Larry sat down as individual conversations arose. As he looked around, he spied Teltina standing at the outskirts of the crowd, holding her daughter’s hand. She did not look his way.

Chapter 43

September 8

Other than those on guard duty, the Hurley match had the entire population of Sanctuary out in a misting rain. The white bands were ahead of the black bands by four to three and the spectators were screaming their throats hoarse. The game provided a needed break from the rebuilding of Sanctuary, scavenging food and crops, and refloating the boats. Larry puffed out a breath. He’d miss the Seabird.

The game—and the feast afterwards—also celebrated the start of the fall run of salmon and the beginning of what was looking like a massive acorn crop; both providing a much-needed supply of food. More than enough to get them through the winter. He snorted. At least he liked fish. The damned pigs could have the acorns.

Keeping to the edge of the crowd of supporters, Larry plodded toward the south end of the field. He stepped with exaggerated care, minimizing his limp in respect to those who still couldn’t walk. Most of the viewers were intent on the game. A few waved to Larry, but the two newly freed slaves held his gaze as he passed.

Larry acknowledged them with a nod. Elias and Ibrahim were both elderly, most likely released so that Ragnar wouldn’t have to feed them. Both were originally from Al-Andalus. Each had been caught up in some political or religious dispute and sold into slavery. Already, under Jessie’s tutelage, they spoke enough Eire to get along, which was not surprising given that each was a scholar in his respective culture. Eyes flicking back to the players, Larry continued his way around the cheering crowd and headed toward the south end. There, a dozen strides from the corner of the field, rose a stone cairn.

He paused when he saw a woman and girl watching the game in silence from the other side of the cairn. Although guards had reported that they visited the grave late in the evenings, Larry hadn’t seen them for almost a week. Teltina had disappeared after the talks with Ragnar on Bald Hill. Maybe she didn’t want to see him? Did she blame him for her son’s death?

As he reached the cairn, Teltina looked up and nodded, her face blank. Ignoring his surging heart rate, he nodded back and lifted a toppled stone from the ground. And froze, his hand in the air. A wooden recorder lay along the cairn’s top. He blew out a sharp breath. He placed the stone next to the instrument and brushed the fingers of his right hand along its length. With his left, he pulled out the small copper disk from under his tunic, his thumb and forefinger rubbing the ancient symbol.

He was surrounded by death. To the southwest, Samatu lay on the shallow rocky outcrop that defined Teltina’s valley. To the northwest, Fergus’s crewman occupied a cairn below Sui Finn. He didn’t even remember the man’s name. Only that he was in his late teens and had joined the rescue effort. Across the bay, Pondusu’s body lay in the mountain above Ros’s farmstead. Another young man who had followed the wrong leader. And as for Bonetu’s body, lost during the fight at Ros’s, the Northmen had no information.

He slumped as he continued turning, pausing when he faced east. The moist rocks of Bald Hill glistened in the evening sun. Would he be able to see the seven cairns with the binoculars? Certainly not the shallow graves that lay miles beyond at Brocc’s?

It didn’t matter. Just more dead people. He longed for the solitude of the open ocean where the vast emptiness would mask his own. Dangerous but peaceful. And lonely. But at least on the ocean, he wouldn’t be plunging a sword into some fool’s gut. Sighing deeply, Larry focused on his immediate surrounds. The trampled grass around Rory’s pile of rocks had recovered, springing upwards to the sun. Maybe he should build a plaque. Forge something in bronze? Some copper was available from the Great Lakes region to the northwest of Haven. Tin he could maybe get by trading with whoever ran the island to the east nowadays. He rubbed his face with his hands, wincing as the movement stretched the wound in his left arm. No, the last thing he needed was to deal with another island of death.

“You blame yourself without need.” Teltina’s voice sounded at his side.

“So many dead.” Larry fought to keep his voice steady.

“More if you had not come here.”

“Rory would be alive.”

“Rory died saving us both.” Teltina placed a finger on the copper disk hanging around his neck. “He died a man.” She looked up to stare in Larry’s eyes. “I heard his last word. He called you father.”

Larry rubbed his face with his hands. That memory chilled his core.

“You gave him hope. A home.” She pulled his hands down, forcing him to look at her. “Do not minimize what you did for him.” Teltina turned, pulling him around to face the Hurley field. “If you must feel responsible for something, be responsible for this.” She dropped his hands, gesturing toward the players and spectators. “You are not just a forger of metal, but also of a people.”

Out on the field, Fergus, two small sacks of rocks hanging from his shoulders as a handicap, batted the ball while dodging Garvan’s swinging hurley. The crowd roared as Garvan stole and deflected the ball to one of his teammates.

“I have talked with Jessie,” Teltina said. “And with Matuso before he died. They say you came here to prevent a great death in the future. They explained, but I don’t understand. But if that is your destiny, you cannot avoid it.” She faced Larry. “And it is an honorable destiny.”

Larry opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.

“Matuso spoke of a future where leaders are chosen by the people. Where there are no slaves. Where illness can be cured.” She smiled. “Those are worthy goals.”

“I can’t even remember how many men I’ve killed.” Larry’s voice broke.

“I think that destiny and goals can be hard gods.” Teltina’s face fell. “Although I can no longer judge gods. Mine have abandoned me and my family.”

“We do not have gods.” Larry watched Teltina’s face—all angles covered with sun burnt skin. This woman was capable of laughter and joy, yet hard enough to kill. “We only hold belief in each other.”

“Matuso had spoken to me of your beliefs,” Teltina said. “He was a kind and learned man.”

Larry’s shoulders sagged. Joe and Alita would be devastated when they learned about the death of their eldest son.

“If Matuso could return from the world of the dead, what would he do if he knew that you blamed yourself for his death?”

Larry snorted. “He would kick my ass.” He narrowed his eyes; this woman had a gift of seeing.

Teltina turned at another cheer from the crowd watching the Hurling match. “What is next?” she asked, her eyes on the game.

“We will repair our two ships over the winter,” Larry said. “Both will leave in the spring after crops are planted.”

She kept watching the game. Her face was unreadable.

The silence demanded to be filled. “Deirdre has expressed interest in traveling to Haven with Fergus to study medicine. I think Jessie will stay here with Anya and start a school with the help of our two newly freed slaves. And almost half of our men have expressed interest in staying, both to farm and to trade.” Silence returned as Larry fumbled for more words. Movement across the field caught Larry’s attention. A small figure broke from the crowd and ran around the end of the field. Agnes raced to meet her. They met, hands gesturing in greeting. After a moment, Agnes pointed toward Larry and Teltina. The girl, now close enough to be recognized as Fennore, stared for several breaths before she waved.

Larry squinted. Did a small grin grow on the young girl’s face? Then both girls screamed as someone scored a goal. He turned to face Teltina. She still stared in the direction of the playing field, although her eyes now appeared to be unfocused. “At least one ship will return by next summer with supplies,” he said. “Especially gunpowder. In case our agreement with Ragnar needs to be reinforced. And to help us deal with the abbey.”

After several breaths, Teltina turned to face him. “And you? Will you return?”

Larry bit his lip as his heart rate spiked higher. “Maybe I won’t leave.”

She looked down. Swallowed. Stepped forward half a pace then looked directly into his eyes.

Heart pounding, Larry held out his hand. It shook. He didn’t care.

A shy smile erased years from her worn face as she took his right hand in her left.

He swallowed. “Will you stay for dinner?”

She glanced at the players and spectators. “As their guest or yours?”

“Only mine.”

She shifted her gaze back to his. “Yes.” A few more years disappeared.

Hands tightly clasped, they turned to watch the game.

[end]

About the Author

Walt lives in Portland, Oregon with his artist wife Gretha and two cats (named Schiz and Zoid). When not writing, he plays jazz piano, performs labor sacrifices to the food chain goddess in the vegetable garden, and cleans litter boxes.

For more information:

www.waltsocha.com

walt@waltsocha.com

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Book three, tentatively titled “Collapse,” takes place a decade after Contact (and three decades after Conflict) in what is now know as the Yucatan peninsula. For updates, sign up for Walt’s newsletter at:

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