patched him up, right. But they didn't patch his head up, did they? I don't know that he'd be champion of anywhere any more.”
“Are you saying he's gone yellow?” asked Fritha, incredulous.
“No. But I'm saying he's got a bit careful, like he never was before. In this country full of berserks, or whatever they call 'em, that's almost the same thing.”
“But you still think he'll help?”
“As long as we don't ask too much.” Osmod looked round, frowning. “Seven of us here, and Karli. Where's Udd?”
“Where do you think? Now the water's running he's up at the mills, seeing how they work. Took a hunk of bread up as soon as light showed.”
“Well, go and get him back, someone. The rest of you, listen. Because here's what we'll do…”
“…So that's our plan,” concluded Osmod, looking grimly across the table at Brand. “And that's what we're going to do. The only question we've got for you is, are you in or are you out?”
Brand stared down consideringly. Though both men were sitting, Brand's face was still a foot above the Englishman's. It was a real surprise, he reflected, how these men of Shef's had changed. Everything in Brand's make-up, culture and experience had told him all his life that a slave was a slave and a warrior was a warrior, and there was no way of making the one into the other. A warrior could not be enslaved—or only with massive precautions, like those King Nithhad had taken for Volund, and look where that had got him. And slaves could not be made into warriors. Not only did they not have the skills, they didn't have the heart either. During the battles in England the year before Brand had revised his opinion, a little. Ex-slaves were useful, he concluded, for war-with- machines, because they could be made into machines themselves: doing what they were told, heaving on ropes and pulling toggles to order. That was all.
But now here was one not just making up a plan of his own, not just telling him, Brand, that he was going to do it, but defying Brand to stop him. The giant Halogalander felt a mixture of irritation, amusement, and something like—anxiety? Fear was not something he would ever readily admit to.
“Yes, I'm in,” he said. “But I don't want my crew mixed up with it. And I don't want to lose my ship.”
“We want to use your ship to get away in,” said Osmod. “Sail back to England and get out of here.”
Brand shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said. “King Halvdan's got this coast sewed up as tight as a frog's ass. And the
“Use the mule.”
“You know how long that would take to ship, not just to carry, but to mount it so it can shoot. Anyway, any ship not specially designed will just fall to pieces if you shoot that thing off in it.”
“So how do we get away after we've got King Shef back off this queen? Are you saying it can't be done?”
Brand chewed his lip. “We can do it. Maybe. Not by sea. I think the best thing is this. I'm going to invent an errand and get off now—say I'm going out in the hills for some sport, they'll believe that after a winter cramped up indoors. I'll buy horses for the lot of you. When you've done your bit, meet me at a place I'll tell you. Then we all have to ride like smoke till we're out of Halvdan and Olaf's territory—they won't know right off which way we've gone. Then we all cut across country to the Gula Fjord. My helmsman Steinulf will take over here for me. I dare say with the Way behind him, or anyway with Thorvin and Skaldfinn and their friends, he'll be able to get the
“You don't want to be in on the attack?”
Brand shook his head silently. Osmod in his turn stared across the table. He too had always believed that a slave and a warrior were two different breeds, as different as sheep and wolves. Then he had found that given a reason and a fighting chance, he had wolf in him. Now he wondered about the giant figure facing him. This was a man famous even among the fierce, quarrelsome, everlastingly competitive heroes of the North. Why was he now standing out? Leaving the dangerous work to others? Was it right that a man who recovered from a wound that took him to the gates of death was never the same man again? He had stood by the door and felt the cold wind come through…
“You can leave that to us, then,” said Osmod. “Us Englishmen,” he added, rubbing the point in. “Do you think we can do it?”
“I think you can do it the way you said,” replied Brand. “You Englishmen. What worries me is getting you all across the mountains to the Gula Fjord. You've only met the civilized Norwegians so far. The ones who live up in the back hills, where we're going—they're different.”
“If we can handle King Halvdan's guards, we can handle them. And what about you? You're the champion of the men of Halogaland, aren't you?”
“I think taking you midgets across Norway will need a champion. I shall feel like a dog taking a troop of mice through Catland. They're going to think you people are just so many free dinners.”
Osmod's lips compressed. “Show me where we are to meet you with the horses then, Lord Dog. I and the other mice will be there. Maybe with a few catskins.”
The little convoy moving down to the bridge and the islands beyond it looked as ragged and unthreatening as it could be made. In the lead an old farm-horse pulling a battered cart, with one man walking by its side chirruping encouragingly to it. The cart's load was invisible, but a dirty tarpaulin held it all down, one end flapping loose. On the other side of the horse walked Udd, the smallest of the men, gaping near-sightedly at the horse-collar: a Norwegian invention which few Englishmen outside the catapult-teams had ever seen. It enabled a horse to pull twice the weight of the ox-style straight pole, and Udd, characteristically, had forgotten about the point of their journey in fascination at the new artifact.
Round and behind the cart straggled eight more men, the six remaining English catapulteers, Hund the leech, his white priest-clothes hidden under a gray mantle, and Karli. None carried a weapon in sight other than their belt-knives. Halberds were stowed inconspicuously on nails along the sides of the cart. The crossbows, already cocked, lurked under the loose tarpaulin.
As the cart dipped down to the shore, two guards by the side of the bridge straightened up, retrieved their javelins from the ground.
“Bridge is closed,” one of them shouted. “Everyone's off the island. Can't you see the sun, nearly down?”
Osmod pushed forward, shouting indistinctly in poor Norse. There were six men on this post, he knew. He wanted them all outside. The man leading the horse joined in, continuing to walk forward.
One of the guards had had enough. He jumped back, javelin poised, shouted at the top of his voice. Other men came suddenly out of the hut to one side, handling axes, picking up shields. Four more of them, Osmod silently counted. That was right. He turned and raised a thumb to the others clustered round the cart.
In an instant the crossbows were out and leveled, six of them, with Udd slipping back to seize his and join in.
“Show 'em,” said Osmod briefly.
Fritha, the marksman of the group, sighted and released. A sharp twang and an instantaneous thud. One of the men with shields gasped, his face suddenly white, stared down at the iron quarrel which had driven through his shield and deep into his upper arm. Fritha dropped the bow forward, thrust his foot into the stirrup, jerked over the goat's foot lever, dropped a second quarrel into place.
“You're all marked,” called Osmod. “These bows will go through any shield or armor. You can't fight us. Only die. Drop what you're holding and go into the hut.”
The guards looked at each other, brave men, but unnerved by the lack of face-to-face challenge, the threat of being shot down from a distance.
“You can keep your swords,” offered Osmod. “Just drop those javelins. Go in the hut.”
Slowly they dropped spears, shuffled backwards, watching their enemies, trooped into the guard-hut. Two Englishmen ran forward with bars, hammers, nails, quickly and roughly nailed bars across the door and the one shuttered window.
