Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [37]
The northmen waited impatiently as Sigurd cleared his throat, timing the opening of his tale with meticulous care.
"I set sail, near a fortnight hence now, to catch the salmon schools," Sigurd began, finally satisfied that he had his audience's attention. "Followed the coast north, I did-but the gales! They came and they swept me from the bay! My friends, I fought those waves as our great king must once have struggled with yon sea dragon!"
The fisherman paused to allow his listeners to look at the mounted dragon head. He waited, allowing the heroic image to form in their minds.
"I ran before the storm-used nothin' more than a coupla scraps of canvas on my mast. Before I knew it, the rocks of the archipelago loomed ahead of me-gray death, as you all well know! But if I passed them, nothing but two thousand miles of ice-flecked water waited for me.
"Well, my brave friends, my choice was simple, and it was no choice at all. I ran for the lee side of one of them rockpiles and just managed to slip into a tiny cove. There, I tell you true, I thought my troubles were over!"
Once again Sigurd paused, his last words hanging in the air. Now the northmen leaned forward with almost palpable tension.
"I know the isle. So do many of you. We have kin there, and I thought sure someone would come to meet me. But no one did, and at last I set out to look around. Near to where I touched shore were several huts, and these I went to visit." Sigurd looked full into the eyes of the king.
"I approached with caution, sire, feeling the presence of a great evil lurking somewhere within the mist and fog," Sigurd explained carefully.
"Yes, man-tell the tale!" barked the king, sharing the tension that had spread about the room like a smoky incense.
"Strangely, the door of the hut stood open. I entered, calling aloud for one who might live there, but there was no answer."
Sigurd cast his pale eyes, set in the midst of a face weathered for many years by the lashing of the sea, around the room. The northmen's attention was rapt.
"Each of the houses, sire, I entered-and found no one. Finally I came upon a dwelling-I had previously thought it to be a pile of wreckage-and discovered charred timbers. Within, there were four bodies-a man, a woman, two children."
A growl passed around the lodge, rumbled from a hundred warlike hearts. Sigurd paused again, his expression smug.
"Well, my lord, caring little for my own safety, I pressed onward. I found another village-a dozen houses by a larger cove. These, too, were empty, several destroyed. I noticed other things, then. Their boats were still there, apparently at rest along the shore. When I looked closely, I found that the hull of each had been holed. They were useless!
"Here, too, I found bodies in the burned huts. But more-at one of them, I found these!"
Now Sigurd raised the pouch he had worn at his side throughout his tale. Reaching within, he pulled forth an object of steel and several circular shapes of bronze.
"A broken sword, sire-and see, here? The hilt bears the mark of Callidyrr!"
The growls surged upward in force, becoming hoarse cries of outrage. Some warriors stamped their feet, while others shouted their fury.
"Treachery!"
"Betrayal!"
"War!"
"Aye!" Sigurd continued, raising the bronze circles. He had one other bracelet, of gold, but that he would keep hidden from the eyes of all the others, knowing his king would claim it as his due if he but saw it.
The fisherman concluded with a dramatic flourish. "A neck torque and a warrior's bracelet. They bear the symbols of the Ffolk!"
Now Brandon of Gnarhelm stood on his feet. In his hand, he held his keen steel axe,