“Are you saying he’s gone yellow?” asked Fritha, incredulous.
“No. But I’m saying he’s got a bit careful, like he never was before. In this country full of berserks, or whatever they call ’em, that’s almost the same thing.”
“But you still think he’ll help?”
“As long as we don’t ask too much.” Osmod looked round, frowning. “Seven of us here, and Karli. Where’s Udd?”
“Where do you think? Now the water’s running he’s up at the mills, seeing how they work. Took a hunk of bread up as soon as light showed.”
“Well, go and get him back, someone. The rest of you, listen. Because here’s what we’ll do…”
“…So that’s our plan,” concluded Osmod, looking grimly across the table at Brand. “And that’s what we’re going to do. The only question we’ve got for you is, are you in or are you out?”
Brand stared down consideringly. Though both men were sitting, Brand’s face was still a foot above the Englishman’s. It was a real surprise, he reflected, how these men of Shef’s had changed. Everything in Brand’s make-up, culture and experience had told him all his life that a slave was a slave and a warrior was a warrior, and there was no way of making the one into the other. A warrior could not be enslaved—or only with massive precautions, like those King Nithhad had taken for Völund, and look where that had got him. And slaves could not be made into warriors. Not only did they not have the skills, they didn’t have the heart either. During the battles in England the year before Brand had revised his opinion, a little. Ex-slaves were useful, he concluded, for war-with-machines, because they could be made into machines themselves: doing what they were told, heaving on ropes and pulling toggles to order. That was all.
But now here was one not just making up a plan of his own, not just telling him, Brand, that he was going to do it, but defying Brand to stop him. The giant Halogalander felt a mixture of irritation, amusement, and something like—anxiety? Fear was not something he would ever readily admit to.
“Yes, I’m in,” he said. “But I don’t want my crew mixed up with it. And I don’t want to lose my ship.”
“We want to use your ship to get away in,” said Osmod. “Sail back to England and get out of here.”
Brand shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said. “King Halvdan’s got this coast sewed up as tight as a frog’s ass. And the Walrus can’t fight off one of his patrol ships, they’re twice our size.”
“Use the mule.”
“You know how long that would take to ship, not just to carry, but to mount it so it can shoot. Anyway, any ship not specially designed will just fall to pieces if you shoot that thing off in it.”
“So how do we get away after we’ve got King Shef back off this queen? Are you saying it can’t be done?”
Brand chewed his lip. “We can do it. Maybe. Not by sea. I think the best thing is this. I’m going to invent an errand and get off now—say I’m going out in the hills for some sport, they’ll believe that after a winter cramped up indoors. I’ll buy horses for the lot of you. When you’ve done your bit, meet me at a place I’ll tell you. Then we all have to ride like smoke till we’re out of Halvdan and Olaf’s territory—they won’t know right off which way we’ve gone. Then we all cut across country to the Gula Fjord. My helmsman Steinulf will take over here for me. I dare say with the Way behind him, or anyway with Thorvin and Skaldfinn and their friends, he’ll be able to get the Walrus free and take it round the coast to meet us. Even if there’s trouble, Guthmund should be able to get away with the Seamew. All meet up at the Gula and head back to England, like you said.”
“You don’t want to be in on the attack?”
Brand shook his head silently. Osmod in his turn stared across the table. He too had always believed that a slave and a warrior were two different breeds, as different as sheep and wolves. Then he had found that given a reason and a fighting chance, he had wolf in him. Now he wondered about the giant figure facing him. This was a man famous even among the fierce, quarrelsome, everlastingly competitive heroes of the North. Why was he now standing out? Leaving the dangerous work to others? Was it right that a man who recovered from a wound that took him to the gates of death was never the same man again? He had stood by the door and felt the cold wind come through…