They can laugh, thought Shef. And they can sail too, I admit it. But this is like the sack of York, a new kind of battle. My men don’t have to be the best sailors since Noah. They just have to be at sea. If the Ragnarssons want to get past us, or any other damned pirates out of the North, they must come in range. Then we sink them. The best sailors in the world can do nothing on shattered planks.
He rolled up his scroll, thrust it in its waxed leather bag, and walked forward to pat the comforting bulk of the mule. Cwicca, now senior catapult-captain of the fleet, grinned gap-toothed at the gesture. He had won forty well-stocked acres and a young bride for his part in last year’s successes, wealth literally unimaginable for one who had been a slave of the monks of Crowland, owning nothing but a bone-and-bladder bagpipe. Yet he had left it all, his silk tunic apart, for this cruise. Hard to tell whether he hoped for more riches or more marvels.
“Sail turning this way,” yelled the lookout suddenly from his uncomfortable stance on the single yard fifteen feet above Shef’s head. “And more behind, I can see them! All coming straight for us.”
The Norfolk heeled instantly as the more excitable crew-members rushed over to the left side, the backboard, to see for themselves. Moments of confusion as the boatswain and his mates kicked them back. Ordlaf shinning deftly up the knotted rope that led to the yard, following the lookout’s pointing finger. Sliding back down again, face tense, to report.
“It’s Brand, lord. All his ships tearing along together, fast as they can go, wind on the beam. They’ve seen something right enough. They’ll tack and be alongside—” he pointed at the sky “—when the sun’s gone so far.”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Shef. “A still morning and a long afternoon to fight in. Nowhere for the pirates to hide. Serve the men their noon-meal early.” He clutched his pendant, the silver pole-ladder. “May my father send us victory. And if Othin wants heroes for Valhalla,” he added, remembering his dream, “let him take them from the other side.”
“Well now, what do we make of that?” asked Sigurth the Snake-eye. He spoke to his two brothers, flanking him in the prow of the Frani Ormr. “A fleet in front, steering to meet us, and then suddenly they all spin round and take off as if they’d heard their wives were offering it free to all comers back home.”
A voice behind him, the skipper of the Ormr, Vestmar. “Pardon, lord. Hrani here, the lookout, he wants to say something.”
Sigurth turned, looked at the young man now being thrust forward. A young man, where almost everyone else on the ship, Sigurth’s fifty picked champions, was in his prime. A poor man, too, without a gleam of gold on him, and a plain bone hilt to his sword. Picked out by Vestmar and added to the crew, Sigurth remembered, for his sharp sight. Sigurth did not bother to speak, merely raised an eyebrow.
Staring into the famous snakes’ eyes with their white-bordered pupils, Hrani flushed and stammered. Then collected himself, swallowed, and began. “Lord. Before they turned I got a good look at the lead ship. There was a man standing in the prow, like you are, lord, looking at us.” He hesitated. “I think it was Brand. Viga-Brand.”
“You’ve seen him before?” asked Sigurth.
The young man nodded.
“Now, think carefully. Are you sure it was him?”
Hrani hesitated again. If he were wrong—Sigurth had a fearsome reputation for vengeances, and every man in the fleet knew of his and his brothers’ consuming desire. To find and kill the men responsible for the death of their mad brother Ivar, Skjef the Englishman and Viga-Brand, Brand the Killer. If the brothers were disappointed… Yet on the other hand to lie to them, or to hide what one saw, both were equally dangerous. Hrani considered for a moment what he had actually seen, as the leading enemy ship rose on a wave. No, he had no real doubt. The figure he had seen was too big for any other man.