“Skjef Sigvarthsson Ivarsbane,” said Skuli, grinning, now only a few feet away. “I’m ready to pay more than market price for you. I reckon Ivar’s brothers will pay me a man’s weight in silver in return.”
“If you can collect,” snarled Shef, backing away and looking swiftly over his shoulder for a wall to set his back against. Karli was with him, he realized. He had drawn his sword, was shouting defiance in a growing hubbub. Shef saw instantly that he had forgotten everything he had been told, was holding the weapon like a thatcher cutting reeds. If the tension snapped, Karli would be dead within five heartbeats.
The blond German was within Shef’s line of vision now as well, sword also drawn, his men trying to make a line between Shef and Skuli. He too was shouting something about a price. In the background traders and slaves were scattering, some trying to get well away, others drawing, seeming to align themselves with one faction or another. The guards of King Hrorik, taken off guard by this sudden outbreak among the customers, were trying to form a wedge to drive into the midst of the likely battle.
Shef drew a deep breath, hefted his spear. He would go straight for Skuli and take his chance with Erkenbert and the Christians. One act of charity first. He turned, meaning to club the unsuspecting Karli with the spear-shaft. If the little man was on the ground, maybe no-one would kill him, as they would if he tried to fight.
Something clung to the spear-point, weighing it down, hampering him. Something else over his face, blinding him. As he tore frantically at the blanket, trying to wrestle free, a soft concussion caught him on the side of the skull, and he found himself on one knee, struggling to rise, struggling to see. If he lost consciousness the next thing he might know was a Ragnarsson face intent on cutting the blood-eagle through his ribs.
Someone kicked Shef’s feet from under him, and his head met the ground.
Chapter Eight
Sorry about that,” said the fat face from the other side of the table. “If I’d heard about you just a little bit earlier I’d have bought you off your Ditmarsh friends myself, and no-one would have been any the wiser. But as a king yourself, you must know how it is. No king is cleverer than the information he gets.”
Shef stared, trying to bring the face into focus, shook his head to clear it, and winced.
“There,” said the face. “I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying. Where does it hurt?”
Shef rubbed his left temple, realized at the same time that the lump on his skull was on the right. A hand passed in front of his eyes, and he realized he was being tested for concussion.
“Lump on one side, pain on the other. Makes you think the brain is loose inside the skull, doesn’t it?” the face went on conversationally. “That’s why so many veteran warriors are—well—a little strange. We call it vithrhögg, the counter-blow. But I can see you’re recovering now. Let me just run over some of what I said again.
“I’m King Hrorik of Hedeby and South Jutland. And you are?”
Shef grinned suddenly, realizing the gist of what was said to him. “I am your fellow-king, King Shef of the East and Middle Angles.”
“Good. I’m glad it’s all coming back. We have these riots in the market-place pretty often, you know, and the lads have a drill for it. Throw sailcloth over all the weapons, and then clip everyone who looks dangerous while they’re trying to get their blades free. We don’t like losing customers permanently.” A large hand poured wine into what Shef realized was a golden cup. “Take some water with that and you’ll soon feel better.”
“You lost a customer today,” said Shef, remembering the knife standing from the Swedish buyer’s heart.
“Yes, bad business that. But my jarl reports that the dead man gave provocation. Besides…”
A plump finger jerked Shef’s pendant from under the tunic which, he realized, someone had found and put back on for him.