the priestess’s sleeve. “Forever? At least the Gods of the land, They live. They must!”
Runa sighed. “Mayhap someday we shall learn, though I think that will be after we are dead, if then. Meanwhile we must endure … as best we can.” Sternly: “You will never be so rash again. Do you hear me?”
Stubbornness stood behind bewilderment; but: “I p-promise I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Bide your time.” Runa unfastened her brooch and took the cloak from her shoulders. “Wrap yourself in this, lest anyone spy your state. Come along to your room. I’ll tell them you’ve been taken ill and should be left to sleep. ’Twould not do to have word get about, you understand—now that we shall be dealing with Christians.”
As she guided the girl, she added: “If we hold to our purpose and are wise in our ways, we need not become slaves. We may even prevail.” Bared to the sky, her countenance hardened.
3
When the warriors appeared, Maeloch spat a curse. “So nigh we were to getting clear. Balls of Taranis, arse of Belisama, what luck!” He swung about to his men. “Battle posts!”
All scrambled for their weapons, some into
Osprey
where the fishing smack lay beached. The tide was coming in, but would not be high enough to float her off for another two or three hours. With axes, billhooks, knives, slings, harpoons, a crossbow, they formed a line before the prow—fifteen men, brawny, bearded, roughly clad. That was almost half again as many as the craft carried while at work, but these were bound for strange and dangerous bournes. At their center. Maeloch the captain squinted against the morning sun to make out the approaching newcomers.
From this small inlet, land lifted boldly, green, starred with wildflowers, leaves already springing out on trees and shrubs. Here was no bleak tip of Armorica jutting into Ocean, but one of a cluster of islands off the Redonic coast of Gallia, well up that channel the Romans called the Britannic Sea. fowl in their hundreds rode fresh breeze which drove scraps of cloud across heaven and bore odors of growth into the salt and kelp smells along the strand. A rill trickled down from the woods decking the heights. The foreign men must have followed it. They continued to do so as they advanced.
Maeloch eased a bit. They numbered a mere half dozen. Unless more were lurking behind them, they could not intend hostilities. However, they were clearly not plain sailors like his crew, but fighters by trade—nay, he thought, by birth. It would cost lives to provoke them.
He shouldered his ax and paced forward, right arm raised in token of peace. They deployed, warily but skillfully, and let him come to them. He recognized them for Hivernians, though with differences from those in Mumu with whom Ys now had a growing traffic. Nor were they quite like those he had fought—seventeen years ago, was it?—after that gale the Nine raised had driven their fleet to doom. Here the patterns of kilts, cut of coats and breeks, style of emblems painted on shields were subtly unlike what he had seen before. But swords and spearheads blinked as brightly as anyone’s.
Maeloch was no merchant. However, he had had his encounters when boats put in to Scot’s Landing or chanced upon his over the fishing grounds. It behooved a skipper to speak for his men; he had set himself to gain a rough mastery of the Scotic tongue. “A good day to yuh,” he greeted in it. “Yuh take … hospitality … of us? We … little for to give … beer, wine, shipboard food. Yuh welcome.”
“Is it friendly you are, then?” responded the leader, a man stocky and snubnosed. “Subne maqq Dúnchado am I, sworn to Eochaid, son of King Éndae of the Lagini.”
“Maeloch son of Innloch.” The fisher captain had decided before he left home to give no more identification than he must. With phrases and gestures he indicatedwhat was quite true, that
Osprey
had been blown east, far off course, by the gigantic storm several
Runa sighed. “Mayhap someday we shall learn, though I think that will be after we are dead, if then. Meanwhile we must endure … as best we can.” Sternly: “You will never be so rash again. Do you hear me?”
Stubbornness stood behind bewilderment; but: “I p-promise I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Bide your time.” Runa unfastened her brooch and took the cloak from her shoulders. “Wrap yourself in this, lest anyone spy your state. Come along to your room. I’ll tell them you’ve been taken ill and should be left to sleep. ’Twould not do to have word get about, you understand—now that we shall be dealing with Christians.”
As she guided the girl, she added: “If we hold to our purpose and are wise in our ways, we need not become slaves. We may even prevail.” Bared to the sky, her countenance hardened.
3
When the warriors appeared, Maeloch spat a curse. “So nigh we were to getting clear. Balls of Taranis, arse of Belisama, what luck!” He swung about to his men. “Battle posts!”
All scrambled for their weapons, some into
Osprey
where the fishing smack lay beached. The tide was coming in, but would not be high enough to float her off for another two or three hours. With axes, billhooks, knives, slings, harpoons, a crossbow, they formed a line before the prow—fifteen men, brawny, bearded, roughly clad. That was almost half again as many as the craft carried while at work, but these were bound for strange and dangerous bournes. At their center. Maeloch the captain squinted against the morning sun to make out the approaching newcomers.
From this small inlet, land lifted boldly, green, starred with wildflowers, leaves already springing out on trees and shrubs. Here was no bleak tip of Armorica jutting into Ocean, but one of a cluster of islands off the Redonic coast of Gallia, well up that channel the Romans called the Britannic Sea. fowl in their hundreds rode fresh breeze which drove scraps of cloud across heaven and bore odors of growth into the salt and kelp smells along the strand. A rill trickled down from the woods decking the heights. The foreign men must have followed it. They continued to do so as they advanced.
Maeloch eased a bit. They numbered a mere half dozen. Unless more were lurking behind them, they could not intend hostilities. However, they were clearly not plain sailors like his crew, but fighters by trade—nay, he thought, by birth. It would cost lives to provoke them.
He shouldered his ax and paced forward, right arm raised in token of peace. They deployed, warily but skillfully, and let him come to them. He recognized them for Hivernians, though with differences from those in Mumu with whom Ys now had a growing traffic. Nor were they quite like those he had fought—seventeen years ago, was it?—after that gale the Nine raised had driven their fleet to doom. Here the patterns of kilts, cut of coats and breeks, style of emblems painted on shields were subtly unlike what he had seen before. But swords and spearheads blinked as brightly as anyone’s.
Maeloch was no merchant. However, he had had his encounters when boats put in to Scot’s Landing or chanced upon his over the fishing grounds. It behooved a skipper to speak for his men; he had set himself to gain a rough mastery of the Scotic tongue. “A good day to yuh,” he greeted in it. “Yuh take … hospitality … of us? We … little for to give … beer, wine, shipboard food. Yuh welcome.”
“Is it friendly you are, then?” responded the leader, a man stocky and snubnosed. “Subne maqq Dúnchado am I, sworn to Eochaid, son of King Éndae of the Lagini.”
“Maeloch son of Innloch.” The fisher captain had decided before he left home to give no more identification than he must. With phrases and gestures he indicatedwhat was quite true, that
Osprey
had been blown east, far off course, by the gigantic storm several
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