'In fair fight, Jarl. Are they children, to nurse grudges?'
A block had been set up in the courtyard and Blade halted by it now, professing an interest he did not feel. It was a talk with Jarl he wanted.
Jarl, who was brave tonight in a new cloak and a golden chain about his broad shoulders, watched as Blade picked up a headsman's axe from the block and hefted it.
'For the morning,' he said. 'Getorix means to give them the blood they cry for. Which in part answers your question — yes, they are children and as sulky and unpredictable as such. They must be so treated. Even Getorix himself, at times, is not so much— '
Jarl broke off abruptly and looked away. Blade waited.
Had Jarl been about to say that Getorix himself was childish and unpredictable? That would be an important thing to know.
Jarl shuffled impatiently in the mud. He was wearing high boots of soft leather. There was a sliver of moon and the faint rays pricked glints from the headsman's axe.
'We'd best go,' Jarl said brusquely. 'Getorix does not like to be kept waiting.'
Blade placed the axe on the block and turned away. 'You call him Getorix at times. Others call him Redbeard. Why is this?'
Jarl shrugged. 'I call him what I like. I am his brother-in-law, married to his own sister, Perdita, and I have certain privilege. Which you do not have, Blade!'
They had halted at the entrance to the great hall. Jarl, ignoring the two guards who stood nearby, big men in horned helmets and armed with shields and spears, stared hard at Blade.
'I have a liking for you, Blade. Getorix does not like anyone, but he admires courage and skill in battle, and more important, he needs good officers. These scoundrels of ours fight well, but they must also be well led. I have had talk with Getorix since I saw you last, and he means to make you a captain. On trial, of course. But take some advice— your status is not yet such as gives you the right to ask questions. For myself, I do not care, but Getorix hates and distrusts questions and those who ask them. He wants only obedience and shut mouths. You do well to remember that.'
Blade bowed slightly and touched his fingers to his forehead, a gesture he had seen them use.
'My thanks, Jarl. I think we are going to be friends. And yet I will dare one more question.'
Jarl was watching the guards who, bored with their own company, and forbidden to drink or wench this night, had drawn nearer. A new burst of drunken laughter came from the great hall.
Jarl frowned. 'Then be brief, in Thunor's name! Those swine will finish the beer and wine before we are seated, and I have a great thirst.'
Blade kept his voice low. 'When you first attacked, and I saw this Redbeard for the first time, I would have sworn there was a woman with him. A woman wearing a white robe such as the Drus wear. A silver-haired woman. Did I dream, Jarl? Did my eyes trick me?'
The man took a step away from Blade. His smooth shaven, not unhandsome face was set in a grim scowl, the gray eyes narrowed and unfriendly.
'You see too much, Blade. You ask too much. I beg you a last time— have done of it! Else we cannot be friends, and I would have it that we are. Now come.'
Blade smiled at him. 'Then she was there! She is here— a woman of the Dru order and who is called Drusilla?' Was it possible, this last? He had never been a believer in the validity of dreams.
Jarl appeared to have lost interest. He only shrugged and strolled through the entrance, leaving Blade to follow. Yet Blade caught the words plainly enough.
'Drusilla is a title, not a name. It means leader of all the Drus. As for such a woman, Blade, I cannot speak either way. I know nothing of it! Nor will I hear of it again. Now come— and mind your manners and your tongue, or our friendship will be of short life.'
He followed him, convinced that Jarl was lying. Blade knew he had to walk carefully here— there were bogs underfoot— yet he could not rid himself of the dream, nor of the reality of a lovely silver-haired woman, a golden sword and a writhing victim. He would have been hard put to define the reality— the sword in the forest glade or his dream. He only knew that the silver-haired Dru haunted him and would not be put away.
Entering the great hall shocked Blade back to reality fast enough. There was a blast of noise and wavering torchlight and the smell of some two hundred unwashed sea raiders. Men drank and quarreled, laughed and sang, slept in spilled wine or spilled it gleefully over the head of a neighbor. Dogs were everywhere, snatching at bones, snarling and fighting among themselves and sometimes snapping at an unwary ankle or hand.
Long tables set on trestles groaned with food and drink. Huge tubs of wine were set about conveniently, and Blade caught his first glimpse of the kyries as they bore foaming tankards and horns of beer to their men. They were all big women, these kyries, and as bare breasted as Sylvo had sworn. Such a flopping and jouncing of bare pink flesh Blade had never seen, nor such a wriggling of large shapely buttocks in thin linen pants. All of them were bare legged and barefoot, and other than the thin pants wore only a leather helmet with metal horns under which they tucked a mass of blonde or red hair. Most were blue eyed and had pale skins beneath and rosy cheeks. All were buxom enough, if not fat, and it was evident that Redbeard's raiders liked them so. There was a great deal of laying on of hands as the beer was served, a great clapping of plump buttocks and squeezing of breasts, and now and then a warrior would take greater liberties and receive a clout on the ear for his daring. Yet Blade noted that now and again one of the men would leave with a woman, be gone a short time, and come back to laughter and grinning jibes from his companions.
Jarl, a bit to Blade's surprise, regarded the women with something of disgust. As they were met and escorted by a serving man who wore an iron collar bearing the snake blazon of Getorix, Jarl said: 'They call them war maidens. Whores would be a fairer name. Yet Getorix vows they serve a purpose and will not get rid of them.'
They were seated at a small table at some distance from where Redbeard sat on Beata's throne. This was another surprise. Blade looked to where Redbeard, his flaming head as tall as the throne itself, spoke with his officers gathered about a table just below him. Redbeard, if he had marked their entry, made no sign. He quaffed now and again at a horn of beer and listened moodily to the chatter of his captains. He wore a vast scarlet cloak that
