“So your blood debt has been collected, eh, Arik?” Elgo asked, while at the same time motioning for Ruric to join him, the Armsmaster just now returning with Arlan and others from the hunt, a doe slung across Flint’s withers.
“Aye, it ha’,” answered the blond Captain. “Tarly Olarsson split him in two wi’ an axe, though Tarly himself went down wi’ a dagger through his throat as we fought our way back to the ships.
“But wi’ the loss o’ the Surfbison and all her crew, as well as the slaying o’ those from the other ships in the raid, our vengeance came at a higher price than we bargained for. .” Arik paused for a moment, looking at Elgo’s features. “. . much as I deem that ’ee perhaps paid on your own mission.”
Elgo lightly fingered the still-tender scars on his left temple. “Aye, you’re right at that, Captain. We, too, paid more than we bargained for. Eight Men fell to Sleeth. And he took out my eye and scarred me for life. But in the end Sleeth the Orm fell to us.”
“ ’Ee slew the Drake?” Arik’s mouth fell open in astonishment.
Elgo nodded as Ruric joined them. “By Adon’s hand, we slew him,” answered Elgo, “tricked him into daylight.”
Arik shook his head. “Tricked him into the Sun. . Hah! Lad, ’ee be a marvel. How deadly. How simple. Now why be it that none thought o’ it sooner, I wonder?”
“Ah, Captain, I cannot claim all the glory. ’Twas something that my sister Elyn said long ago: ‘. . it sounds as if only Adon Himself could slay one,’ she remarked as we talked about killing Dragons. And she was right, though at the time I did not see that what she had said had any bearing upon the slaying of a Cold-drake. It took me some six or so years to recognize the truth in her words and come upon the plan for striking Sleeth dead.”
“And his trove, did ’ee come by that, too?” Arik’s eyes swept the Harlingar campsite, for the first time seeing the Dwarf wains alongside the pony waggons.
“Aye, we got the Dracongield.” Ruric’s voice was tinged with rue.
“Armsmaster, have the Men gather in the horses,” Elgo commanded. “And get set to break camp and lade the boats at Arik’s word. Jutlanders are somewhere nigh, and we would not have them come up on our hard-won treasure.”
“Would it not be better to meet them upon the land?” Ruric asked, his words cast such that it was clear where his thoughts lay.
“Aye, if it came to it, Old Wolf,” answered Arik, “but better yet to slip them altogether. Their ships be not as fast as those o’ ours, and so we set sail as soon as the blow will let us.”
As if somehow his words were a signal, cold rain sheeted down upon the land and sea alike, driven hard before the wind.
It rained all that day and the next, the gale blowing fiercely. Steeds had been gathered from the valley pasturage and used to hale the Dragonboats up onto the shingle out of the waves. And Men prepared to break camp quickly, for as Arik had told them, the storm would end for the Jutlanders first, and they would come riding in on its tail.
And now Arik surveyed the sky. Rain still fell, though not as hard. Elgo stood at the Captain’s side, as well as the commanders of Foamelk and Wavestrider. Ruric, too, was there. “In this cove the waves slacken,” said Arik, eyeing the boats down on the strand. “Methinks that we can lade now, setting sail wi’in an hour or so.”
“Arik, this may be but a lull.” The speaker was the Captain of Wavestrider, a hale Man in his late thirties, blond braids hanging down to his waist. “ ’Ee know the Boreal is wild as a Wolf this time o’ year, sometimes slinking quietly out o’ sight, other times raiding wi’ fury.”
“Aye, Trygga, it is at that,” responded Arik, “but if this be no lull, then the Jutlander fleet will soon come calling, and we would be long gone ere then.”
Arik turned to Egil, commander of the Foamelk, also braided, as were many of the Fjordsmen; he seemed to be in his early fifties, an astonishing age for a sea raider. “What say ’ee, Egil? ’Ee ha’e plied these waters more than any o’ us.”
“Ai, fickle as a Woman is the Boreal,” the elder Captain growled. “Right now, though, she seems to be inviting us to ride her bosom. But who can say if she means it? Not I. Might as well cast lots wi’ Fortune, as to try to outguess Lady Boreal. But I say. . let us chance it.”
And so they roped the horses once more to the hulls and backed the sterns of the Dragonboats out into the choppy surf. Cargo was loaded, and the vast trove carried aboard, the Fjordsmen marvelling at its extent. The treasure had been divided roughly into thirds, each ship receiving its share. The pony carts and Dwarf wains were abandoned, left upon the shore, but the ponies and horses were taken aboard, for steeds were the true treasure of the Harlingar.
And none of this lading was an easy task, for the waves pitched and tossed the Dragonships about. But after much struggle, Men cursing, at times losing their tempers, some sustaining injuries, all losing their footing in the billowing tide at one time or another, many several times, at last the job was done. Hardest of all was the loading of the horses, and Elgo despaired that they would ever accomplish it. But then Reynor struck upon the means, watching the surges tossing the gangways, noting that the waves seemed to come in sets of seven-a fleeting span of calm between sets-and charging his horse, Wing, through the lull and up. Following his example, most of the remaining riders and steeds made it up on the first try.
Sternweighting the boats and plying the oars, the Harlingar helping the battle-thinned ranks of the Fjordsmen with the rowing, at last the three Dragonships pulled free of the shingle and set out for the distant goal. And rain hammering down upon Man, horse, and horseling alike, hulls laden with Dracongield, sails were set before a fierce quartering wind that drove the boats climbing up to the peaks of the mountainous crests and sliding down into the depths of the cavernous troughs, flying northeastward upon the heaving mammoth bosom of the fickle Lady Boreal.
That night, in the darkness, the storm struck in fury, its rage doubling and doubling again. Waves slammed into the boats, crashing over the sides, the quartering waves precipitously rolling the hulls. Many lost their footing, Ruric among them, the Armsmaster slamming into an oar trestle, whelming his head into the oaken beam, falling stunned. Pwyl crawled to the unconscious warrior and sat on the decking, placing his arms about Ruric, gathering him up and holding him tightly, keeping him from rolling about with the plunging of the ship.
Horses, too, slipped upon the wet pitching planks, some to come crashing down upon the deck, and Elgo dispatched Men to aid the steeds and to steady them.
Men bailed, yet in the fury of the waves more water came over the wales, drenching Men, horse, and cargo alike, swashing the inner hull with foaming spew, seawater runnelling among hooves and feet.
Elgo struggled back to the stern of the Longwyrm, where Arik shouted orders above the shrieking wind. Seeing the Prince in the light of his storm lantern, Arik put his head close to that of Elgo’s. “We’re swinging to the steerboard and casting out the sea anchors and reefing the sail. We’ve no chance but to run straight before the wind, northerly or easterly I think, but there’s no guarantee o’ that.”
A Fjordhorn sounded, and was answered by a faint cry astern. Arik grunted. “Good. They know the plan.
“Go forward, Prince, and ha’e yer Men bail as if their lives depend upon it-for indeed they do-and perhaps we’ll all live to see the morning.”
Again and again the ship fell with juddering crashes into the sea. And in the blackness Men bailed, some using chalices from the Dragon hoard. A Fjordsman came and bade them to lash themselves to the shield cleats, so that if they were washed overboard they wouldn’t be lost. Ropes were uncoiled and Men cinched them about their waists and to the wooden fittings as directed, and then returned to bailing.