Behind the shield-wall on the jetty, the rising sun cleared the surrounding hills and shone for the first time that day full on the water. It caught the fins and bodies of the killers as they swept in for the second time from the deep water, confident of what they had to do, emboldened by their first success. A great cry went up from the water as the men in the dories realized what was coming towards them.
Brave men, some of them struck out with spears and swords as the black-and-white bodies rushed in. Valgrim the Wise, standing disbelieving in the prow of his boat, swung back the ‘Gungnir’ lance to use as a harpoon. Too weak, too slow. The boats were taken from underneath. A blow from a snout, propelled at thirty miles an hour by a body tons in weight, and each boat disintegrated. The heavily-armed men splashed or sank in the water, and as they did so the jaws tore at them, into them, the killers sweeping backwards and forwards in the pattern they used for hunting seals or porpoise. In seconds the bay ran as red as the cove of the grind. But this time with man-blood, not with whale’s, crewmen’s mixed with that of their skipper, and that of Valgrim the Wise, priest of Othin, now sacrificed to Othin’s own creatures. Unnoticed by any, the spear with the ‘Gungnir’ runes drifted gently to the bottom: it had brought its last owner no luck.
Shef’s charging line faltered as the men took in what was happening, a thing no-one had ever seen before. Seeing their enemies stare and hesitate, Kormak’s detachment turned as well. Both sides stood, struck with horror. There was no way for anyone to intervene.
After a time, Shef stepped forward, spoke to what seemed to be the leader of the men on the jetty. “Put your weapons down,” he said. “We will give you life and limb, and passage home when we can. There is no way for you to escape now. And there has been bloodshed enough.”
Lips pale, the leader looked at his men, saw their shaken and horrified expressions, the fight drained out of them. He nodded, slowly laid down sword and shield. Cuthred moved forward, shouldered a path through the others for Shef, walked with him to the end of the jetty to see the end of the story.
As he did so, a figure rose from the planking, shrieking recognition. Ragnhild, knife in hand, unmoved by the slaughter, desperate for revenge. She came at Shef like a fury, knife low for the thrust. Shef saw her come, recognized the green eyes he had kissed, the hair he had clenched in climax. The lance drooped disregarded in his hand, he groped for words of apology. She was shrieking something as she ran in, he caught only the words “…killed my son!” He stood, arms wide, paralyzed, hoping for a word of explanation, another miracle.
Cuthred stepped between them, the knife-thrust screeching off the hard surface of his shield. Automatically he lifted it to thrust her off. Ragnhild’s eyes widened with sudden shock. Then she fell backwards, dragging Cuthred’s targe with her. The targe with the foot-long spike Shef had welded on himself. It had driven through her heart below her breasts.
“As God’s my judge,” said Cuthred, “that was an accident. I never killed a woman in my life.”
“Too many killings,” said Shef. He stooped, searching for signs of life. Her lips were still moving, still cursing him. Then they ceased, and he saw her eyes roll upwards. As he stepped away, Cuthred walked forward, put a foot on Ragnhild’s outstretched arm, and jerked his shield free. He shook his head in self-reproach, looked to see if his leader had noticed what he had done.
But Shef’s eyes had turned from the corpse on the jetty to the bloodstained, fin-slashed water. Then, disbelievingly, he looked again across the bay. There, in the shallows opposite, two figures were sitting, visible in the growing daylight. Behind him a murmur of amazement arose as more and more men saw the astonishing sight. The second thing they had seen that morning that no living man had ever seen before. One of the Hidden People.