Dave Duncan – The Living God – A Handful of Men. Book 4

Considering that the men of Nordland had been raiding everywhere else for thousands of years, Gath wondered what they had done with all their loot, apart from putting that copper sheeting on the palace roof. Furthermore, Gark was supposed to be a very strategic thanedom, controlling the south approaches. Garkians pillaged other jotnar on their way home. What did they do with it all?

Squandered it in the bars and brothels of the Impire, dummy! What else would it be good for?

The beach was coming up fast and the population was streaming down to the strand to meet the returning thane. The cheering was drifting out over the swell already.

Vork jabbed an elbow in Gath’s ribs. Gath jerked around and saw that he was wanted astern. Already! He’d been daydreaming. Again he hurried aft. It was time for the death threats.

Still holding the steering oar, Drakkor had a quizzical look in his inhumanly blue eyes. “Boy?”

“Aye, sir?” Gath said. You’ll keep your mouth shut about that.

“You’ll keep your mouth shut about that.”

“Aye, sir!”

Drakkor nodded, with perhaps a hint of a trace of a suggestion of a smile on his baby face. “Keep it shut ashore, too.”

“Aye, sir.” Gath wasn’t sure what was meant yet, but here came the threat

“You say the wrong thing, I’ll have to kill you. That goes for your copper-haired friend, too.”

“Aye, sir. I understand,” Gath said.

You’re a good lad and I’d rather not, but I will if I must. “You’re a good lad,” Drakkor said with a smile, “and I’d rather not, but I will if I must.”

Was Vork not a good lad, then? Still, praise from Thane Drakkor was unexpectedly chest-puffing. He was a bloodthirsty killer, but Gath had spent the last month in the company of fifty men who worshipped their thane’s toenails and would cut off their ears to hear those words from him. Good lad, huh?

“Aye, sir.” Now came: I’ll have someone explain.

“I’ll have someone explain.” The thane turned his attention to the beach.

Twist.

Beaching a longship was a ceremony and a celebration and a job that must be left to the crew. The population of the thorp stood back and watched, cheering. Gath and Vork leaped into the water with the rest of the men, although their puny strength would make no difference. Blood Wave went up on the shingle with the rush of the next wave, but she was almost being carried by all those brawny arms.

Thane Drakkor leaped ashore dry shod and glanced around. “Gismak? Grablor?”

The two men waded forward, glowering.

“I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

“I’m ready to do it now!” Grablor snarled. He stood a head taller than the thane, but the betting on board had been that his careless backtalk was going to cost him dearly.

“So am I,” Drakkor said, “but I’ve got visitors coming. Tomorrow. Unless you want to grovel now?”

“No!” both men said at the same moment.

“Tomorrow around noon, then.” Drakkor turned away to look at the sea. It was a captain’s duty to discipline his crew, and a jotunn captain must do it with his own fists. The thane’s hands were twisted and scarred by a thousand such fights. There was not a mark on his face. His nose and ears were their proper shape, most unusual for a jotunn.

Far out in the bay, Seadragon was approaching at a tactfully gentle pace, Thane Trakrog coming to call in at Gark on his way to the Nintor Moot.

Drakkor spun around and headed landward. That was the signal. Screaming welcome to the returning sailors, the townsfolk came rushing forward through the upturned dories and the lobster pots, between racks of fishnets and heaps of drying whale bones. Wives dashed to husbands, children to fathers, parents to sons. The men wore breeches and some had boots, as well. The women were in simple gowns of bright homespun. Smaller children ran naked. There was not a dark head among them, and the sight of so much fair hair made Gath feel homesick for the docks at Krasnegar. Half the queen’s subjects were impish, but the docks were the domain of the jotunn half.

Vork was looking at him with green eyes wide, wanting guidance. He thought he was Gath’s buddy, but he was really his follower.

“We stick close,” Gath said. Until Twist comes.

Sticking close to Drakkor was not as easy as he had made it sound. Half the population of the thanedom seemed to want to speak to the ruler. He was in a hurry to reach his hall before Trakrog beached, and the result was a mob scene. Only two things were important enough to slow him down. One was a presentation ceremony—every new baby born since he had left was held up by its mother for his approval and blessing. He patted heads and smiled, nodding as he was told the names of his new thralls. The other delay was caused by a limber maiden in a brightly woven gown. She was granted a lingering embrace and a kiss. The noisy onlookers shouted encouragement and lewd predictions.

With an odd sense of unreality, Gath realized that he was actually in Nordland, the home of half of his ancestors. Through his mother he was related to the thane himself, but very distantly. Grandfather Grossnuk had been a humble raider who must have come from some village like this. Even Dad had not known which island he had hailed from, though, nor any more about him, not even the name of his longship. Some of these people might be Gath’s first cousins, and that was a very strange notion. He would ask while he was here.

Moving in the midst of clamoring chaos, Drakkor headed up the gentle slope toward his hall. About halfway there, he seemed to remember his two young guests. He stopped and looked around. Before he could speak, Gath elbowed through the mob with Vork at his heels.

Drakkor’s blue eyes twinkled briefly as he recognized prescience at work. He scanned the crowd.

“Twist?” he shouted. “Where is that misshapen mongrel?” People then backed out of the way to make an opening. A strange figure came hurrying forward in a lurching, awkward gait, leaning on a crutch. Children screamed in derision, and not a few adults, also.

He was a hunchback; he dragged a withered leg. He was as jotunn as anyone, but among the horde of healthy golden giants this puny scarecrow was a sorry excuse for a man. His limbs were thin as poles, his hair hung lank, and every bone seemed twisted out of shape. His age was hard to assess because of his thinness, but he was probably not much older than Gath, for his beard was a straggly silver fuzz. He leered up at his thane with teeth that seemed to stick out of his mouth at a dozen different angles.

“There you are, you runt!” Drakkor said, looking down contemptuously. “I thought I told you to grow up while I was gone?”

Everyone laughed.

“You are welcome back, lord!” the cripple said, whining. “One look at you and I wish I’d stayed away.”

More cruel laughter. Twist cringed back, as if expecting a blow.

“See these two?” Drakkor snapped.

The hunchback glanced at Gath and Vork with eyes of a pale gray like sea fog. ”I am seeing them.”

“Explain things to them. Now!” Drakkor cuffed him across the face. The cripple staggered on his crutch and almost fell. A foot snaked out of the onlookers and caught him behind his good knee. Down he went in the mud, and the crowd hooted with raucous mirth.

Drakkor departed and the mob streamed after him, leaving three youths, one prostrate on the dirt. To mock cripples was perfectly normal. It happened in Krasnegar, too, although Gath’s parents disapproved of it. Vork was sniggering, probably to hide his disgust at being assigned to the attention of this runt. Gath stepped forward and helped Twist to his feet.

“I’m Gath, sir, son of Rap. This is Vork, son of Kragthong.” Leaning on his crutch, the cripple beat dust from his clothes with his free hand. He wore a homespun robe of drab brown, a woman’s garment. Real men in Nordland never covered their chests until there was ice on the buckets. The gray eyes flickered from one boy to the other.

“Athelings? Krasnegar and Spithfrith?” The grotesque teeth blurred his speech, but there was an odd lilt to it.

“Aye, sir.”

“We are not being at sea now.”

“No. I mean, yes, sir.” Gath realized that the colorless eyes were surprisingly bright and perceptive. He felt they were looking right through him.

“And you are calling me `sir’ you are asking for trouble, Twist being my name. Come, then.” He set off at a fair pace, swinging wildly on his crutch so that it was impossible to walk close to him. Soon his breath was wheezing and rattling, but he did not slow down.