Shef considered furiously. The woman was Ragnhild, the ship the one that had tried to sink them in the Gula-fjord. “What do you think they mean to do?”
Echegorgun looked at the sun. “If they did not attack last sunset, they will attack this one. The two ships Brand has will not be ready to fight. He will have taken them up to the grind-beach and loaded them up with oil and meat. The strangers will catch everyone else asleep or tired. The grind makes much work.”
“Will you not warn them?”
Echegorgun looked surprised, as far as his flat hair-covered face would show it. “I would warn my cousin Brand. For the rest—the more Thin Ones kill each other, the better. I know you spared me when you could have struck me with the spear, so now I spare you, for True Folk keep their bargains, even if they have not been said. You fed my boy, my Ekwetargun as well. But I would be wiser to twist your head off your shoulders and hang you with the others.”
Shef ignored the threat. “I can tell you one thing you do not know,” he said. “I am a man who has authority. I am a king in my own land. Some say I am a sort of a king even here. And I speak for many people. Here is one sign of my authority.” He showed the Rig-token, the kraki, round his neck, and pointed to the one he had made for Cuthred. “It may be I could do something for you. For you and your kind. Make the men stop hunting you. Let you live in a place less stony. But you would have to do something for me. Help me defeat those men from the south, and the woman with them, and their ship.”
“Well, I could do that,” said Echegorgun carefully. He rose to a strange squatting position, gripping his bare feet in his enormous hands.
“How? Would you warn Brand? Would you—fight on our side? You would be a mighty warrior if we gave you iron to use.”
Echegorgun shook his massive head. “I will do neither of those. But I could speak to the whales for you. They are worked up already. If they thought I had killed you, they might feel like listening to me. And these are stranger whales, of course. If they were my own folk I would not deceive them.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Bruno, Hauptritter of the Lanzenorden, stood in front of a double rank of his armored knights, pikes sloped, standing immobile at attention as he had made their custom. All were looking at the ceremony taking place a hundred yards in front of them. They could have got a better view by marching closer, but one could not be sure how the natives would take interference in their sacred custom. Bruno had no objection to interfering with the barbaric customs of the natives, but this was not the time.
A roar came from the thousand throats of the men clustered at the center of the doom-ring of the Gautish peoples, a roar and a clashing of weapons on shields.
“What’s that mean?” muttered a voice from the rear rank. “They’ve made a decision?”
“Silence in the ranks,” said Bruno, though without heat. The Lanzenorden believed strongly in the theoretical equality of all its members, without the savage discipline that had to be imposed on armies of peasants. “Yes, look, they have a king. Habeunt regem,” he added, parodying the formula for the election of a Pope.
A figure rose, swaying wildly, from the throng in front of them. A man lifted on a shield by a dozen eager supporters. Once he caught his balance, he looked round, drew his sword, shouted out his name and the traditional formula of proclamation. “I am the king of the Gauts. Who denies it?”
A moment’s silence, then the clashing of weapons again. A week before, and a dozen chieftains would have denied it. Fighting it out hand to hand would have deprived the Gautish peoples of most of their ruling class, the rich and the god-born together. So for days the meeting, the Gautalagathing, the Thing of those bound by the Law of the Gauts, had been abuzz with messengers, rumors, offers of support and retractions, deals and promises. Now it was all settled. Till the next shift of power.