As the man walked away Shef said to Hund, in an urgent undertone, “Treat the ones he shows you. Then demand to see the others. Even the thralls. Ask anyone you think you can trust about the mill. The mill we can hear creaking. Whatever happens, be back here at dusk.”
The disk of the sun was already poised on the jagged mountain-tops as Hund walked back to the others, looking weary. The brown stains of dried blood showed on the sleeves of his tunic. From time to time during the afternoon, the listeners had heard faint cries of pain: a leech at work in a place where even poppy and henbane were unknown.
“Much to do up here,” said Hund, sitting down and accepting the bowl of food Shef passed him. “I had to break that child’s leg again to set it properly. So much pain in the world. And so much of it easy to cure. Warm water and lye for the midwives’ hands would save half the women who die in childbirth.”
“What about the mill?” demanded Shef.
“Late on they brought a thrall-woman to me. They did not want to, told me it was useless, and so was she. They were right. It was useless. She has a growth inside her and even in Kaupang with assistants and my best potions I doubt I could save her. But I tried to ease her pain. Her pain in the body, that is. There is no cure for what is in her mind. She was an Irish woman, stolen from her home when she was fifteen, forty years ago. They sold her to some man up here. She has never heard a word of her own tongue since, had five children by different masters, all taken away from her. Now her sons are Vikings, stealing women on their own. Never ask yourself why there are so many Vikings, so many Viking armies. Every man breeds as many sons from slave-women as he can. They do to fill the ranks.”
“The mill,” said Shef firmly.
“She told me there is a mill, as you said. It was set up only last year by a Way-priest who came up here, one of Valgrim’s friends. Last year, too, they brought up a man to turn it. How can a man turn a mill?”
“I know,” said Shef, remembering the god-vision he had seen. “Go on.”
“She says the man is an Englishman. He is kept locked up there all the time. Twice he has broken free and run into the hills. Both times they ran him down. The first time they beat him with rawhide outside the temple. She said she saw that. She said he is a man of great strength. They lashed him for as long as it would take to plow an acre, and he never cried out except to curse them. The second time he ran, they… did another thing.”
“What was that?” asked Brand, listening keenly.
“When they say slaves are gelded, it usually means they cut off their stones, like a bullock or a cut stallion. To make them tame and docile. They did not do that with him. Instead they cut off the other thing that makes you a man. They left him his stones. He is still as strong as a bull, and as fierce. He has the desires of a man. But he can never act like one again.”
The men listening stared at each other, each one wondering what his fate might be in the morning.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Cwicca definitely. “I don’t care what promises anyone makes. If Brand loses tomorrow—and Thor send he won’t—the man who beats him gets my first bolt right through him. And then we’re all going to start shooting. We may not be able to get out, but I’m not going to be a thrall here. These mountain-trolls are as bad as the black monks.”
A rumble of assent came from the others, men and women together.
“She said one more thing,” Hund went on. “She said he’s mad.”
Shef nodded, reflectively. “A mad Englishman,” he said. “As strong as a bull and as fierce. We will loose him tonight. I know there are sentries watching us. But they will expect us to try to sneak off with the horses. All of us will go to the latrine separately once the sun is down, but three of us will hide the other side of it till full dark. Me. You, Karli. You, Udd. Put your smith-tools inside your tunic, Udd. And a flask of grease from the meat-pot. Now, Hund, show us as much as you can about how the village is laid out…”