develops?'
`I think,' the other answered, 'that things are already developing. Listen . .
Drifting out to them over the sea came the deeply raucous bellow of a conch blown in warning, and immediately all of the now plainly visible human figures of the settlement turned to stare and point oceanward at the bat-shape that came down out of the sky toward the beach. Moments later, running down from their huts and houses — appearing from their places of work beneath the beached dragonships and out from behind the communal-hall's stockade, from wherever they happened to be at the time — the great majority of the settlement's people appeared, all hurrying to witness at firsthand the arrival of this strange, aerial visitor.
In between the rocky points of the fjord de Marigny flew the cloak, bringing it to a hovering halt over the sea some seventy-five yards from the beach. 'I see a large number of weapons there, Hank,' he cautioned. `Axes and swords.'
`I see them, and a spear or two. Still, from what little I know of the Vikings, they wouldn't go to bed without taking their favourite blades along! And in any case there's no question of a fight. We're outnumbered at least twenty to one — and we're here for information, not blood. But look — what's happening now?'
On the beach the four or five dozen Vikings, including a scattered handful of women and children, were congregated about a massive slab-sided boulder that guarded the gate to the communal hall. Standing atop this great rock, a wild, long-haired, ragged female figure harangued the crowd. They cowered back, cringing in the face of her vehemence, then turned their backs on her to kneel grudgingly on the sand facing the sea and the men who rode the cloak.
`What the hell — ?' the Warlord queried. 'Vikings — on their knees before us?'
`The old woman's a "witch-wife,'" de Marigny informed. `The Viking equivalent of both oracle and witchdoctor combined. A seer, a rune caster, supposedly endowed with all of the peculiar powers such terms dictate.'
`Very well,' said Silberhutte, 'then since she seems to be for us, I say we give it a whirl and take a run ashore.'
The beldam continued to rant at the assembled community as de Marigny flew the cloak in to the beach. There he hovered effortlessly while Silberhutte freed himself and fastened the loose ends of his harness straps at the back of his neck. Then, setting down beside the big Texan, the cloak's master allowed his marvellous garment to fall loosely about his fur-clad form. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder, the two of them, arms crossed on their chests.
Still the hag railed on, but her tone was lower now, full of awe. The eyes of the whole community fed unblinkingly, not a little suspiciously, on the men from the sky.
`That tongue she's using,' Silberhutte casually drawled. `The more I hear, the better I understand it. There's some Norse in it, a lot of Old English, too, but mainly it's . .' He frowned in concentration, trying to fathom the strangely familiar dialect.
`Gaelic,' de Marigny finally recognized the language. `And those swords on the sand there. Viking craftmanship, yes, but they're designed more like claymores than anything else!'
`Yes, I'd noticed that too,' the Warlord answered. 'But right now I'm more interested in the old woman. Listen to her — she's giving them hell!'
Even as he spoke, the crone uttered one final harsh word of command that rose in pitch to a breathless shriek. Then she threw her head back and her arms wide, beginning to stumble dangerously about the uneven upper surface of the rock. At that, almost without exception, the assembled Vikings cast their eyes down and bowed their heads. The two closest to the great boulder, however, leaped to their feet and rushed to help the witch-wife.
Her eyes had turned up, and she was falling forward, a bundle of rags that would have smashed down on the shingle if the two had not caught her and placed her on her feet. Now, recovering
`I think,' the other answered, 'that things are already developing. Listen . .
Drifting out to them over the sea came the deeply raucous bellow of a conch blown in warning, and immediately all of the now plainly visible human figures of the settlement turned to stare and point oceanward at the bat-shape that came down out of the sky toward the beach. Moments later, running down from their huts and houses — appearing from their places of work beneath the beached dragonships and out from behind the communal-hall's stockade, from wherever they happened to be at the time — the great majority of the settlement's people appeared, all hurrying to witness at firsthand the arrival of this strange, aerial visitor.
In between the rocky points of the fjord de Marigny flew the cloak, bringing it to a hovering halt over the sea some seventy-five yards from the beach. 'I see a large number of weapons there, Hank,' he cautioned. `Axes and swords.'
`I see them, and a spear or two. Still, from what little I know of the Vikings, they wouldn't go to bed without taking their favourite blades along! And in any case there's no question of a fight. We're outnumbered at least twenty to one — and we're here for information, not blood. But look — what's happening now?'
On the beach the four or five dozen Vikings, including a scattered handful of women and children, were congregated about a massive slab-sided boulder that guarded the gate to the communal hall. Standing atop this great rock, a wild, long-haired, ragged female figure harangued the crowd. They cowered back, cringing in the face of her vehemence, then turned their backs on her to kneel grudgingly on the sand facing the sea and the men who rode the cloak.
`What the hell — ?' the Warlord queried. 'Vikings — on their knees before us?'
`The old woman's a "witch-wife,'" de Marigny informed. `The Viking equivalent of both oracle and witchdoctor combined. A seer, a rune caster, supposedly endowed with all of the peculiar powers such terms dictate.'
`Very well,' said Silberhutte, 'then since she seems to be for us, I say we give it a whirl and take a run ashore.'
The beldam continued to rant at the assembled community as de Marigny flew the cloak in to the beach. There he hovered effortlessly while Silberhutte freed himself and fastened the loose ends of his harness straps at the back of his neck. Then, setting down beside the big Texan, the cloak's master allowed his marvellous garment to fall loosely about his fur-clad form. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder, the two of them, arms crossed on their chests.
Still the hag railed on, but her tone was lower now, full of awe. The eyes of the whole community fed unblinkingly, not a little suspiciously, on the men from the sky.
`That tongue she's using,' Silberhutte casually drawled. `The more I hear, the better I understand it. There's some Norse in it, a lot of Old English, too, but mainly it's . .' He frowned in concentration, trying to fathom the strangely familiar dialect.
`Gaelic,' de Marigny finally recognized the language. `And those swords on the sand there. Viking craftmanship, yes, but they're designed more like claymores than anything else!'
`Yes, I'd noticed that too,' the Warlord answered. 'But right now I'm more interested in the old woman. Listen to her — she's giving them hell!'
Even as he spoke, the crone uttered one final harsh word of command that rose in pitch to a breathless shriek. Then she threw her head back and her arms wide, beginning to stumble dangerously about the uneven upper surface of the rock. At that, almost without exception, the assembled Vikings cast their eyes down and bowed their heads. The two closest to the great boulder, however, leaped to their feet and rushed to help the witch-wife.
Her eyes had turned up, and she was falling forward, a bundle of rags that would have smashed down on the shingle if the two had not caught her and placed her on her feet. Now, recovering
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