Chapter Twenty-Two

"Arise, gentlemen." Doc stood silhouetted in the doorway of the hut. "There is a gray mist upon the sea's face, and there is a gray mist breaking."

Ryan stretched like a big cat, his muscles almost cracking as he extended his arms and legs. The mattress beneath him, which was filled with sweet-smelling summer grass, rustled softly. The air was cool and he breathed in deeply, aware of how much he'd missed having Krysty to warm his back. He'd slept fully dressed, only kicking off the steel-toed combat boots. His rifle rested at his side and his SIG-Sauer was beneath his pillow.

"Slave girl's coming," Doc said, "staggering under a great platter of food and a flagon of milk."

J.B. yawned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His first move, as always, was to reach for his glasses and slip them on. The second move, as always, was to check that his blasters were at hand.

"Feel hungry. Wouldn't mind another of those rabbits from last night."

"Hares, my dear friend."

"How's that, Doc?"

"They were hares, not rabbits."

Jak threw off his heavy woolen blanket and was on his feet in a single, fluid movement. He ran his fingers through his dazzling mane of hair, hair that was so white that it seemed to burn with its own incandescent flame.

The thrall, Margaret, appeared in the doorway. Doc stepped aside, and she walked into the hut, laying the food on the table.

"Oatmeal and buttermilk," she announced, "with dried fish and some more of the mutton. Apples, bread and honey. Will it be enough?"

"Enough for these condemned men to make a hearty breakfast," Doc replied. "Thanks."

"Are Krysty and Mildred all right?" Ryan asked. "Nobody tried to harm them?"

The girl shook her head. "Nay, masters. It would mean a swift death if anyone went against the word of Karl Thoraldson." She dropped her voice. "Besides, they say the redhead is a Valkyrie warrior and the jet-woman is a witch demon from the dark world of fire and shadow."

"These tests we gotta do," J.B. said, smearing clear honey on a torn crust of warm, fresh-baked bread.

"Aye?"

"What are they?"

"Something and nothing. All young men of the steading must be tried by the older men, to show them worthy as warriors of Markland."

"Yeah. But what..."

J.B. was interrupted by a loud shout from somewhere beyond the center of the ville. Margaret's eyes opened wide and she hefted her skirts, scampering out of their hut.

"Something and nothing." Doc smirked. "I trust that none of you will drag our honor low in the eyes of these people, after I have played my part with such skill."

He picked up his ebony swordstick and waved it in the air with a triumphant flourish.

"Why don't you go piss up a rope, Doc?" Ryan said. "I know the baron said you didn't have to do these tests, seeing as how your skill with the sword was undoubted. But we still got to do them. So let us eat our breakfast in peace, will you?"

To Ryan's disappointment the women of Markland had all been sent away, forbidden by ancient law to watch the ordeals of the warriors.

Jorund Thoraldson was waiting for the outlanders near the perpetually burning fire on the shingled strand below the ville. He was dressed in a long cloak of rich purple, trimmed with silver. Many of the other Norsemen were dressed in what were clearly their finest cloaks.

"Greetings, outlanders!" the baron boomed. "Once the fog has burned away we shall have a fine day of it."

"Hi, Baron," Ryan called. "Will all this take very long?"

"No, though the tests and ordeals for our young men often take several days. Weeks, even. For there are the tests of hunting alone where they must range the hills for many miles, armed only with a spear, a bow and single arrow."

"Apaches had the same kind of thing," Doc said quietly. "The old macho routine. We send out the boy and he returns a man. Horsefeathers!"

"And there is usually the test for their ability to handle a boat."

"Swimming?" J.B. asked.

"No."

"No?"

"If it is Odin's will that the waters return you safe to shore, then so be it," Egil Skallagson said solemnly.

"And if you tumble into the waters, then to be able to swim will only make your suffering the longer," Sigurd Harefoot added.

When Ryan had been involved with the whalers on the bleak New England coast, he'd sometimes heard them express similar sentiments.

"So what must we do?"

"Skill with arms and skill at grappling," Jorund replied.

"Grappling? You mean like wrestling?" J.B. asked. "Who against?"

"Some of the best of our warriors. But it is not to the death. It is only a testing with ax, spear and blaster."

The biggest surprise for Ryan and the others was the poor standard of performance from the men of the ville. While he watched their efforts to shine against the strangers, Ryan kept reminding himself of what Mildred had said about rad sickness. There was no doubt at all that there was something rotten in the steading of Markland.

"We begin with the throwing of the spear," Jorund announced.

The baron had selected eight of his own warriors to stand up for the honor of their people. Most were in their early to mid-twenties, but three of them looked less than well, with scabs around their lips and, in a couple of cases, open sores amid their thinning hair. One had an eye covered by a creeping leprous growth, and another had the nails missing from the weeping tips of his fingers.

But some were still tall and strong and filled with their own pomp.

The spears were about seven feet long and made from ash. The points were iron, embedded in the tip of the wood. The target was a man-size sheaf of bound grass, which had been set about thirty paces down the beach from a line that the baron drew with his own sword.

The spear was too heavy for Jak, and despite his agility and fighter's eye, he managed only to heave it the distance, where it flattened out and slid into the shingle. Every one of the Vikings succeeded in hitting the target. J.B. hit it two throws out of five.

Ryan shook his head when it was his turn. "No. Too simple. Thought this was supposed to be a real test."

"Bold words, outlander," sneered one of the young men, his lips peeling back off jaggedly broken teeth in a savage grin.

"Well said, Erik Stonebiter," one of the watchers called.

"Stonebiter?" Ryan questioned.

"When I was a skraeling— a child — I saw our karl throw his knife into the air and catch it between his teeth. I had no blade, so I tried the trick with a large stone. And I caught it. Sadly it snapped off most of my fine teeth."

The tale, clearly often told, brought bellows of laughter from all the listeners. Jak was one of them, still smarting at his own failure with the ash-spear. "Catch knife teeth! Who?"

"My father, Jak Snowhead. It was something he did when heavy in drink. Once he missed and it pierced his cheek. After that he ceased doing it."

"I'll do it," Jak said.

"No," Ryan called, knowing something of the albino teenager's stubborn pride. Knowing, too, that it would on occasion push him way beyond the bounds of good sense.

"Easy," Jak insisted, filling his hand with one of the throwing-knives with the leaf-shaped blades that he kept concealed among his clothing. The point and edges were honed to a whispering sharpness.

"Show us," Erik Stonebiter said. "Show us, young outlander."

"Jak, you'll..." But Ryan closed his mouth when the boy stared at him with his blazing ruby eyes.

"Watch," the lad hissed.

The sun couldn't break through the roiling banks of fog that hung over the lake, but there was still light enough to dance off the glittering blade as Jak sent it spinning high into the air.