fort.”
That didn’t seem to ease the lowered brows and looks ranging between concern and suspicion at Alaric’s strange reappearance in the camp.
“And negotiations—how did your talk with the chieftain go?” Tarr probed. Though he was only a few years younger than Alaric, Tarr had an earnest determination about him that made Alaric forget just how sharply perceptive he was at times.
“Well enough. The old man still wishes to be courted—or coerced,” Alaric said, which drew some chuckles.
He made his way to the makeshift fire pit set off from the other tents. Though the day promised to be warm, he tilted his hands over the banked embers from the night before. It was something to do as his mind churned over the events of the last hour.
Most of his crew began dispersing to the tasks they’d abandoned when Alaric had arrived with Elisead in his arms. Some resumed sparring along the bay’s shoreline, while others took up mending their tents and clothes or tended to their weapons.
A few, however, followed Alaric to the fire pit.
“Was he amenable to giving us a portion of his farmlands?” Tarr took up a seat on a stump across the fire pit from Alaric.
“It hasn’t come up yet,” Alaric said through clenched teeth.
Tarr pressed his lips together but was wise enough to leave the topic alone.
Olaf, the red bear of a man, was not so wise, however. He snorted loudly as he took a seat on a stump next to Tarr.
“What is this courting of our enemies? Why have we not simply taken the fort from that blustering old chieftain and be done with it?”
Alaric felt his already grim mood darken. “If you had been placed in charge of this voyage by Jarl Eirik, the village, the fort, and all the Picts living here would be wiped away with naught to build on.”
Olaf, clearly missing Alaric’s dangerous tone, cracked his knuckles with satisfaction. He’d mistaken Alaric’s warning for a compliment. “Ja. Wiped clean and ready for our own settlement. We are Northmen, are we not?”
In one deadly swift step, Alaric cleared the fire pit and was standing in front of Olaf. The red-haired giant jerked to his feet, meeting Alaric. Though the older man was broad, tall, and battle-proven, Alaric’s sudden rage would give him more than enough strength to best Olaf if necessary. He would not be challenged.
“But you were not put in charge, Olaf Skull Splitter,” Alaric said, barely maintaining control over his fists, which he clenched at his sides. “ I was . That is because I know when to fight and when to talk. And I also know when to keep my mouth shut.”
Olaf jutted out his chin, sending his red beard quivering. But at last the old bear took Alaric’s meaning. He grunted, then lowered himself onto his stump once more in clear concession to Alaric.
Alaric turned to the others who’d followed him to the fire pit. Rúnin, Tarr, Olaf, and Geirr, who’d earned a spot on this voyage at the same time Tarr had, all stared silently at him.
“Does anyone else have something to say about my decision to pursue these negotiations?” Alaric snapped. He knew he shouldn’t be taking his rage at the attack on Elisead out on his men, but he would suffer not a whiff of dissention among his crew. They needed to know who their leader was.
At the silence that met him, Alaric waved his hand, dismissing the men. All but Rúnin got up immediately and busied themselves elsewhere.
“Do you have something to add, Rúnin?” Alaric bit out crossly.
“You know that I, more than anyone here, appreciate the value of avoiding open conflict,” Rúnin said quietly. “I stand by you.”
Alaric pushed out a breath and sank to one of the stumps ringing the fire pit. “Ja, and I thank you.” After nigh fourteen years as an outlaw, Rúnin had survived far worse than what Alaric was dealing with now.
Perhaps Alaric’s judgement was clouded by his overpowering desire to fulfill the responsibility placed on his shoulders by
That didn’t seem to ease the lowered brows and looks ranging between concern and suspicion at Alaric’s strange reappearance in the camp.
“And negotiations—how did your talk with the chieftain go?” Tarr probed. Though he was only a few years younger than Alaric, Tarr had an earnest determination about him that made Alaric forget just how sharply perceptive he was at times.
“Well enough. The old man still wishes to be courted—or coerced,” Alaric said, which drew some chuckles.
He made his way to the makeshift fire pit set off from the other tents. Though the day promised to be warm, he tilted his hands over the banked embers from the night before. It was something to do as his mind churned over the events of the last hour.
Most of his crew began dispersing to the tasks they’d abandoned when Alaric had arrived with Elisead in his arms. Some resumed sparring along the bay’s shoreline, while others took up mending their tents and clothes or tended to their weapons.
A few, however, followed Alaric to the fire pit.
“Was he amenable to giving us a portion of his farmlands?” Tarr took up a seat on a stump across the fire pit from Alaric.
“It hasn’t come up yet,” Alaric said through clenched teeth.
Tarr pressed his lips together but was wise enough to leave the topic alone.
Olaf, the red bear of a man, was not so wise, however. He snorted loudly as he took a seat on a stump next to Tarr.
“What is this courting of our enemies? Why have we not simply taken the fort from that blustering old chieftain and be done with it?”
Alaric felt his already grim mood darken. “If you had been placed in charge of this voyage by Jarl Eirik, the village, the fort, and all the Picts living here would be wiped away with naught to build on.”
Olaf, clearly missing Alaric’s dangerous tone, cracked his knuckles with satisfaction. He’d mistaken Alaric’s warning for a compliment. “Ja. Wiped clean and ready for our own settlement. We are Northmen, are we not?”
In one deadly swift step, Alaric cleared the fire pit and was standing in front of Olaf. The red-haired giant jerked to his feet, meeting Alaric. Though the older man was broad, tall, and battle-proven, Alaric’s sudden rage would give him more than enough strength to best Olaf if necessary. He would not be challenged.
“But you were not put in charge, Olaf Skull Splitter,” Alaric said, barely maintaining control over his fists, which he clenched at his sides. “ I was . That is because I know when to fight and when to talk. And I also know when to keep my mouth shut.”
Olaf jutted out his chin, sending his red beard quivering. But at last the old bear took Alaric’s meaning. He grunted, then lowered himself onto his stump once more in clear concession to Alaric.
Alaric turned to the others who’d followed him to the fire pit. Rúnin, Tarr, Olaf, and Geirr, who’d earned a spot on this voyage at the same time Tarr had, all stared silently at him.
“Does anyone else have something to say about my decision to pursue these negotiations?” Alaric snapped. He knew he shouldn’t be taking his rage at the attack on Elisead out on his men, but he would suffer not a whiff of dissention among his crew. They needed to know who their leader was.
At the silence that met him, Alaric waved his hand, dismissing the men. All but Rúnin got up immediately and busied themselves elsewhere.
“Do you have something to add, Rúnin?” Alaric bit out crossly.
“You know that I, more than anyone here, appreciate the value of avoiding open conflict,” Rúnin said quietly. “I stand by you.”
Alaric pushed out a breath and sank to one of the stumps ringing the fire pit. “Ja, and I thank you.” After nigh fourteen years as an outlaw, Rúnin had survived far worse than what Alaric was dealing with now.
Perhaps Alaric’s judgement was clouded by his overpowering desire to fulfill the responsibility placed on his shoulders by
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