god, the thing must be done, and done swiftly to quench his wrath –’ And suddenly hisright hand, which had been hidden in the folds of his mantle, appeared, and in his hand the sacred blade. He gestured with it to the flat bake-stone beside the fire.
Bjarni, his arms twisted behind him, was shouting desperately, ‘The sacrifice must be willing! He’s not willing – look at him – and no more am I! I’ll fight you for him. I’ll fight anybody for him –’
‘Will you fight Thor himself?’ shrieked Asmund.
‘It’s not Thor, it’s only you with too much of the sacred juice in you, and you know why –’
He half expected the wrath of the Lord of Thunder to strike him into nothingness in that instant, and yet the other half of him knew that it was true, that it was only Asmund with spittle in his beard and Thara’s malice working in him that he had to fight.
Then Onund’s voice came between them again. ‘There is one quick way to put an end to this matter,’ and he walked with that stiff swinging strut of his, down the hall to where Hugin, half strangled with the ropes about his neck, still struggled in the hands of his captors. Bjarni saw the firelight catch the naked blade in his hand, and unbelieving horror rose like vomit within him. Someone was bellowing, ‘No! No!’ and it was him – unless it was him making that terrible howling noise. Then in the confused horror of the moment he heard Onund ordering, ‘All’s over! Let him go – let them both go!’
The thing was over between one heartbeat and the next, and next instant Bjarni and Hugin were crouched together, the hound suddenly silent, thrusting against him and the blood pumping from the place where his left forepaw now lacked the ends of its two long central toes.
‘You have lamed my dog!’ Bjarni shouted, glaring up at the ship chief where he stood wiping his bladewith a handful of rushes, with Hugin whimpering against his breast and scattering bright droplets everywhere.
‘You have robbed the Thunderer of his sacrifice!’ the Priest was almost shrieking. ‘For how may I offer a maimed beast on his altar?’
‘How indeed?’ said Onund simply, and in Bjarni there began to be a glimmer of understanding.
Chieftain and Priest stood confronting each other. The wind was dropping away moment by moment, the bruised darkness beyond the door growing lighter, the crown of the storm over. ‘A fine thing it must seem to both of us that the Lord of Thunder seems not so angry as you had feared,’ Onund said into the sudden after-storm stillness. ‘You will have a moon to light your homeward path.’ Asmund seemed to be trying to say something, but in the end he turned away with it still unsaid, and strode from the hall, his two thralls following like hounds behind him.
When they were gone and when Bjarni, his hand twisted in Hugin’s collar, had got to his feet, Onund spoke again. ‘There is a time for battle and a time for peace and
Sea Witch
has no place among her crew for a man who cannot tell the one from the other.’
‘They would have taken my dog for sacrifice,’ Bjarni said, thinking desperately that he could not have understood.
But Onund Treefoot had understood. ‘You would not have been the first man to lose a dog in such a way. So now, take him and be gone from Barra.’
Bjarni could not believe it. It could not be simply because he had got into a fight at the wrong moment. No ship chief was so set against a scrap among his crew. It could not be because he had raised hand against the Priest in defence of Hugin – it was Onund himself who had made Hugin unfit for sacrifice . . .He was just starting to urge these things, but what he saw in Onund’s face stopped him. Instead, he said only, ‘Loyal sword-service you have had of me these two summers past, Onund Treefoot.’
‘So now do I give you back your sword-service with honour,’ Onund said, ‘that you may take it elsewhere.’
7
Thorstein the Red
THERE WAS
Bjarni, his arms twisted behind him, was shouting desperately, ‘The sacrifice must be willing! He’s not willing – look at him – and no more am I! I’ll fight you for him. I’ll fight anybody for him –’
‘Will you fight Thor himself?’ shrieked Asmund.
‘It’s not Thor, it’s only you with too much of the sacred juice in you, and you know why –’
He half expected the wrath of the Lord of Thunder to strike him into nothingness in that instant, and yet the other half of him knew that it was true, that it was only Asmund with spittle in his beard and Thara’s malice working in him that he had to fight.
Then Onund’s voice came between them again. ‘There is one quick way to put an end to this matter,’ and he walked with that stiff swinging strut of his, down the hall to where Hugin, half strangled with the ropes about his neck, still struggled in the hands of his captors. Bjarni saw the firelight catch the naked blade in his hand, and unbelieving horror rose like vomit within him. Someone was bellowing, ‘No! No!’ and it was him – unless it was him making that terrible howling noise. Then in the confused horror of the moment he heard Onund ordering, ‘All’s over! Let him go – let them both go!’
The thing was over between one heartbeat and the next, and next instant Bjarni and Hugin were crouched together, the hound suddenly silent, thrusting against him and the blood pumping from the place where his left forepaw now lacked the ends of its two long central toes.
‘You have lamed my dog!’ Bjarni shouted, glaring up at the ship chief where he stood wiping his bladewith a handful of rushes, with Hugin whimpering against his breast and scattering bright droplets everywhere.
‘You have robbed the Thunderer of his sacrifice!’ the Priest was almost shrieking. ‘For how may I offer a maimed beast on his altar?’
‘How indeed?’ said Onund simply, and in Bjarni there began to be a glimmer of understanding.
Chieftain and Priest stood confronting each other. The wind was dropping away moment by moment, the bruised darkness beyond the door growing lighter, the crown of the storm over. ‘A fine thing it must seem to both of us that the Lord of Thunder seems not so angry as you had feared,’ Onund said into the sudden after-storm stillness. ‘You will have a moon to light your homeward path.’ Asmund seemed to be trying to say something, but in the end he turned away with it still unsaid, and strode from the hall, his two thralls following like hounds behind him.
When they were gone and when Bjarni, his hand twisted in Hugin’s collar, had got to his feet, Onund spoke again. ‘There is a time for battle and a time for peace and
Sea Witch
has no place among her crew for a man who cannot tell the one from the other.’
‘They would have taken my dog for sacrifice,’ Bjarni said, thinking desperately that he could not have understood.
But Onund Treefoot had understood. ‘You would not have been the first man to lose a dog in such a way. So now, take him and be gone from Barra.’
Bjarni could not believe it. It could not be simply because he had got into a fight at the wrong moment. No ship chief was so set against a scrap among his crew. It could not be because he had raised hand against the Priest in defence of Hugin – it was Onund himself who had made Hugin unfit for sacrifice . . .He was just starting to urge these things, but what he saw in Onund’s face stopped him. Instead, he said only, ‘Loyal sword-service you have had of me these two summers past, Onund Treefoot.’
‘So now do I give you back your sword-service with honour,’ Onund said, ‘that you may take it elsewhere.’
7
Thorstein the Red
THERE WAS
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