Echegorgun, gauging the whales’ mood exactly, had swum easily and confidently across the narrow strait after the whale-boats. He had seen Shef take the men on shore, had seen the one over-confident boat sweep on into the harbor, to be met and butchered by the whales. He had kept well back, but had followed the whales on into the harbor, sure that he would hear if they turned towards him. He had cruised along the shore, only the tip of his skull showing, and that looking like yet another gray rock. He had watched the doings of the men with interest, but without concern—till he had seen two men load an unmistakable figure into a boat. Brand son of Barn son of Bjarni. His own aunt’s grandson.
Echegorgun knew exactly what would happen next. He had a couple of minutes only in which to avert it, alter it. Like a seal he had launched himself across the water, clung for a moment to the stern of the Crane, gauged the distance between himself and the lead boat with Kormak in it, felt the swarm and flurry of whale-flukes only yards away. He submerged, striking out like an otter.
Brand, bound helpless in the bottom of the boat, Kormak’s foot resting firmly on his chest, saw only a great gray hand seize the gunwale. Then the boat tipped. Tipped towards Echegorgun, tipped a fraction before the first whale struck. As the men shouted and raised their weapons, an irresistible clutch seized his tunic, dragged him over the side and down deep, deep, away from the splintering planks and thrashing limbs on the surface.
For a second Brand felt all the superstitious horror of his race. Seized by the marbendill, dragged down to the monster’s dinner at the bottom of the sea. And yet, in that flash, he had half-recognized the hand. He lay motionless, not resisting, holding his one deep-drawn breath.
Slowly the grip dragged him through the water, powered by the great muscles of the not-man. Under the Crane’s keel. Across the bay. Into the shallows. As they both came up, releasing their breath in a final gasp, Brand stared into the face next his own. The face staring back. As Echegorgun produced a flint knife and began to cut free the ropes that held Brand’s arms, they explored each other silently, for similarity, for family resemblance.
Finally Brand spoke, sitting in the shallow water. “I have left messages for you and your folk in our secret place,” he said, “and I have always kept to our compact. Yet I never expected to see you here in the daylight. You are of the race that grandfather Bjarni met.”
Echegorgun smiled, showing his massive teeth. “And you must be my good cousin Brand.”