There was one further innovation that no-one as yet had tried. Udd’s invention of case-hardened steel as yet seemed all but useless. The material, once hardened, was too hard to work with any tools they had. Udd had suggested hardened crossbow-bolts, but as the others pointed out, the ones they had would go through any known armor anyway, so why bother? In the end Udd had made one thin round plate of the new steel, two feet in diameter, and pegged it on to a standard round shield of linden wood. Few warriors if any carried iron shields. The weight was so great that the shield could not be wielded for more than a few moments. Soft linden wood was used instead, to catch and trap the enemy’s point or edge, usually with an iron boss as hand-guard. The plate Udd had made was so thin that if it had been normal iron it would have added no protection. But the case-hardened steel would turn any ordinary sword, spear or arrow, and weighed no more than a second layer of wood. Udd and the others had not yet worked out what the utility of the new shield was—none at all to men who fought as they did. It was a case where a new technique had not yet found a use.
At first, in the early-morning hubbub, no-one heard the scratching at the door. Then, as it was repeated, Cwicca paused. The rest fell silent. Fritha and Hama snatched up crossbows, cocked them. Osmod stepped to one side of the door, poised his halberd. Cwicca jerked out a peg, lifted the latch, swung the door open.
Karli fell in on hands and knees, barely able to support himself. The seven men inside gaped at him, then slammed the door shut and sprang to help.
“Get him on the stool,” snapped Osmod. “He’s soaked. Hah, not all water either! Get his clothes off, one of you bring him a blanket. Rub his hands, Cwicca, he’s half-frozen.”
Karli, supported on the stool, was pointing towards a mug. Osmod passed him the strong warmed beer, watched it go down in a dozen gulps. Karli finished, breathed out, sat up straighter.
“All right. I’ll be all right in no time. Just cold and wet and dead-tired. But I’ve got news.
“First, Shef is alive, on Drottningsholm. The message he got was a trap but we got there just the same. So he’s on the island, he’s alive but he won’t be much longer if he stays there. Trouble is, that queen of theirs is screwing him senseless and he won’t leave. We’re going to have to go and get him. But he won’t come of his own free will and they’ve reinforced the guards over the bridges. And he’s not the only one there who needs rescuing…”
Karli poured out his story to a ring of faces that grew grimmer as he went on. At the end Osmod silently passed him a refilled mug, looked at Cwicca, who as catapult-captain shared the leadership with him in Shef’s absence.
“We’ve got to get him off. We could do it ourselves, but we’d never get away afterwards. That’s what we’ve got to think about. Now, who in this place can we trust?”
“How about Hund the leech?” asked Cwicca.
Osmod considered a moment. “Yes, I’d like to have him with us. He’s English, and he’s the lord’s oldest friend, and he’s a Way-priest besides.”
“Thorvin the priest, then?” suggested one of the hammer-wearers. Faces round him twisted dubiously. Cwicca shook his head.
“He’s more loyal to the Way than he is to King Shef. This is Way business, somehow. You can’t tell which road he’d turn.”
“Can we trust any of these Norskers?” asked one of the others.
“Maybe Brand.”
A pause while they thought it over. Finally, Osmod nodded. “Maybe Brand.”
“Well, if we got him on our side, it’s easy. He’s nigh seven foot tall and built like a stone wall. He’s the Champion of wherever-it-is, isn’t he? He’s just going to walk through them guards like piss through snow.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” muttered Osmod. “He got a sword right through his belly last year. They’ve patched him up, right. But they didn’t patch his head up, did they? I don’t know that he’d be champion of anywhere any more.”