“You can leave that to us, then,” said Osmod. “Us Englishmen,” he added, rubbing the point in. “Do you think we can do it?”
“I think you can do it the way you said,” replied Brand. “You Englishmen. What worries me is getting you all across the mountains to the Gula Fjord. You’ve only met the civilized Norwegians so far. The ones who live up in the back hills, where we’re going—they’re different.”
“If we can handle King Halvdan’s guards, we can handle them. And what about you? You’re the champion of the men of Halogaland, aren’t you?”
“I think taking you midgets across Norway will need a champion. I shall feel like a dog taking a troop of mice through Catland. They’re going to think you people are just so many free dinners.”
Osmod’s lips compressed. “Show me where we are to meet you with the horses then, Lord Dog. I and the other mice will be there. Maybe with a few catskins.”
The little convoy moving down to the bridge and the islands beyond it looked as ragged and unthreatening as it could be made. In the lead an old farm-horse pulling a battered cart, with one man walking by its side chirruping encouragingly to it. The cart’s load was invisible, but a dirty tarpaulin held it all down, one end flapping loose. On the other side of the horse walked Udd, the smallest of the men, gaping near-sightedly at the horse-collar: a Norwegian invention which few Englishmen outside the catapult-teams had ever seen. It enabled a horse to pull twice the weight of the ox-style straight pole, and Udd, characteristically, had forgotten about the point of their journey in fascination at the new artifact.
Round and behind the cart straggled eight more men, the six remaining English catapulteers, Hund the leech, his white priest-clothes hidden under a gray mantle, and Karli. None carried a weapon in sight other than their belt-knives. Halberds were stowed inconspicuously on nails along the sides of the cart. The crossbows, already cocked, lurked under the loose tarpaulin.
As the cart dipped down to the shore, two guards by the side of the bridge straightened up, retrieved their javelins from the ground.
“Bridge is closed,” one of them shouted. “Everyone’s off the island. Can’t you see the sun, nearly down?”
Osmod pushed forward, shouting indistinctly in poor Norse. There were six men on this post, he knew. He wanted them all outside. The man leading the horse joined in, continuing to walk forward.
One of the guards had had enough. He jumped back, javelin poised, shouted at the top of his voice. Other men came suddenly out of the hut to one side, handling axes, picking up shields. Four more of them, Osmod silently counted. That was right. He turned and raised a thumb to the others clustered round the cart.
In an instant the crossbows were out and leveled, six of them, with Udd slipping back to seize his and join in.
“Show ’em,” said Osmod briefly.
Fritha, the marksman of the group, sighted and released. A sharp twang and an instantaneous thud. One of the men with shields gasped, his face suddenly white, stared down at the iron quarrel which had driven through his shield and deep into his upper arm. Fritha dropped the bow forward, thrust his foot into the stirrup, jerked over the goat’s foot lever, dropped a second quarrel into place.
“You’re all marked,” called Osmod. “These bows will go through any shield or armor. You can’t fight us. Only die. Drop what you’re holding and go into the hut.”
The guards looked at each other, brave men, but unnerved by the lack of face-to-face challenge, the threat of being shot down from a distance.
“You can keep your swords,” offered Osmod. “Just drop those javelins. Go in the hut.”
Slowly they dropped spears, shuffled backwards, watching their enemies, trooped into the guard-hut. Two Englishmen ran forward with bars, hammers, nails, quickly and roughly nailed bars across the door and the one shuttered window.
“We learnt something from King Shef,” remarked Cwicca. “Always work out what you’re going to do before you do it.”
“They’ll soon bust out,” said Karli.