Horace stepped forward too, into the off-balance Skandian's path. The heel of his right hand, fingers spread upward, slammed forward into the Skandian's broad nose, making solid contact. At the exact moment that he struck, Horace released his left-handed grip on the beard so the Skandian was hurled backward, sprawling, on his back onto the hard ground.
One inevitable side effect of a solid blow to the nose, as Horace knew, was to fill the eyes with unavoidable tears. As Nils scrabbled on the ground, blinded by tears, he heard a slithering sound of metal on leather. Then he felt a strange prickling sensation in his throat. There had been something familiar about that sound, and instinct told him not to move. He froze and, as his vision cleared, he found himself staring up the glittering length of Horace's sword, its point held lightly just beneath his chin.
"Do we need to take this any further?" Horace said. The smile had gone. The young man was deadly serious, and Nils knew his situation was a very unhealthy one. Horace moved the sword slightly away from his throat to give him room to answer.
The Skandian shook his head and spoke thickly through the blood that was running down the back of his throat from his nose.
"Nuh… no fur'der."
"Good," said Horace. He rapidly sheathed the sword, then held his hand out to Nils, helping the burly sea wolf to his feet. The two stood, chest to chest, for a few seconds, and a look of understanding passed between them. Then Horace slapped the Skandian on the shoulder and turned to his shipmates.
"I think that settles things?" he said. There was a chorus of approval and agreement from the others. They all knew Ropehander's propensity to complain and object to any change in routine, and they felt the young knight had handled the situation perfectly. They were impressed by his startling speed, his strength and his expert grasp of Skandian debating tactics. Skandians invariably preferred a good thumping to any amount of well-reasoned argument.
Horace looked around the bearded, approving faces and grinned at them."Let's see what a bunch of bad bargains I've been given as an army. Step closer," he said.
Grinning in turn, the Skandians moved around him in a half circle. Horace gestured for them to make room for Will.
"He's not too big," he said, "but he can turn very nasty if he's excluded."
The grins widened as they made room for the Ranger. Horace, hands on hips, paced around the circle, frowning as he studied them. They were a scruffy bunch, he thought, and none too clean. Their hair and beards were overlong and often gathered in rough and greasy plaits, like Nils's.
There were scars and broken noses and cauliflower ears in abundance, as well as the widest assortment of rough tattoos, most of which looked as if they had been carved into the skin with the point of a dagger, after which dye was rubbed into the cut. There were grinning skulls, snakes, wolf heads and strange northern runes. All of the men were burly and thickset. Most had bellies on them that suggested they might be overfond of ale.
All in all they were as untidy, rank-smelling and rough-tongued a bunch of pirates as one could be unlucky enough to run into. Horace turned to Will and his frown faded.
" They're beautiful," he said.
11
The little space Will had christened Healer's Clearing was growing considerably more crowded. Malcolm's small cottage was already stretched by having to accommodate Lord Orman and Xander. As a consequence, Will and Horace chose to pitch their own one-man tents on one side of the clearing, close together, where they could talk in private.
The Skandians had brought canvas and ropes from their ship and they set about building a large, communal shelter for themselves on the far side. At least, Will thought, there was no lack of timber available in Grimsdell Wood.
A large fire pit was constructed in the middle of the clearing for heating and cooking purposes, and to provide an area for relaxation as well. On the first evening, Horace looked a little askance at the roaring blaze that the Skandians built. The northmen seemed to have a love for setting big fires, whether they were burning down villages or just sitting around having a drink.
"It's a big fire," he said doubtfully to Will. "It could be visible for miles."
The Ranger shrugged. "No harm in it," he replied. "It'll just add to the legend of Grimsdell – strange sounds, strange lights."
At that moment, the Skandians, who had brought a few kegs of aquavit, the rough grain spirit that they flavored with caraway seeds, broke out into a sea chantey.
"Strange sounds, indeed," Malcolm put in. "If I could have come up with something like that, I would have kept people away from my home for another ten years."
One of the Skandians broke away from the circle around the fire and lurched toward the small group of onlookers. He thrust a beaker full of the spirit into Horace's hands.
"Here you go, General," he said, "take a drink."
Horace sniffed carefully. "My god. Do you drink this stuff, or strip paint with it?"
The Skandian bellowed with laughter.
"Both!" he replied. Horace handed him back the beaker.
"I think I'd rather live through the night," he said. The Skandian beamed at him.
"All the more for me, then!" he said, and weaved his way back to join his friends.
Xander had come out onto the veranda of the cottage as the singing had started. He glared disdainfully at the Skandians and walked over to join the little group.
"Is this going to continue for very long?" he asked. Malcolm, Horace and Will regarded him with distaste, then, deciding that he had asked no one in particular, they each decided to let someone else answer.
Xander's scowl deepened.
"Malcolm," he said, "how is my lord supposed to sleep through this infernal racket?"
Malcolm regarded him thoughtfully. "In my experience," he said, "if one is tired enough, one can sleep through a little noise."
"A little noise!" the secretary spluttered. "Do you call what those barbarians are doing – "
He got no further. Will's hand suddenly clamped over his mouth, and the rest of his question was reduced to unintelligible mumbling. Eventually, he stopped, peering fearfully above the hand into the Ranger's eyes. Will's eyes, usually so warm and cheerful, were suddenly cold and threatening. It was as if a curtain had been pulled aside to reveal a previously unseen side of the Ranger's character.
"Xander," Will said, when he was sure he had the man's full attention, "since we have been here, you have done nothing but moan and complain. Malcolm has saved your lord's life. He has given you shelter and food and a safe place to stay. These Skandians – the barbarians to whom you refer – are friends of mine. They are going to help you regain your castle. Some of them will probably die doing it. Sure, we're paying them, but the fact remains, we need them. Now we are all sick and tired of you, Xander. You'd better realize that, unlike the Skandians, we do not need you. So if I hear one more word of complaint, one more snide remark, I swear I will drag you back to Macindaw and hand you over to Keren. Is that clear?"
Xander's eyes still bulged above Will's hand. The Ranger shook him roughly. "Is that clear?" he said very slowly and distinctly. Then he took the hand away.
Xander breathed in, deeply and raggedly, his chest heaving. After a pause, he replied in a small voice.
"Yes."
Will took a deep breath in his turn and exhaled slowly.
"Good," he said, and Horace and Malcolm both nodded agreement. Will started to turn away from Xander, but the little man could not resist trying to have the last word.
"All the same – " he began in that pompous tone they knew so well.