Von Richthofen, of course, pooh-poohed it, but the Norsemen believed in revelation via dream. Rather, most of them did. Among the inevitable sceptics, unfortunately, was Erik Bloodaxe.
“You want us to go traipsing ten miles and dig just because you had a wild nightmare?” he bellowed. “I’ve always thought you had a mind as weak as your courage, Clemens, and now I know it! Forget about it!”
Sam had been sitting down while eating. He rose to his feet and, glaring beneath the heavy brows, said, “Joe and I will go our own way then. We’ll organize the locals to help us dig, and when we find the iron—as we surely will—you won’t be able to buy your way into the organization for love or money. The first of which, by the way, you’ve never had on Earth or here, and the second of which just doesn’t exist.”
Bloodaxe, bread and steak spewing from his mouth, shouted and swung his ax. “No miserable thrall speaks to me like that! You’ll dig nothing but your grave, wretch!”
Joe, who had already risen to stand by Clemens, growled and pulled his huge stone ax from his belt sheath. The Vikings stopped eating and walked away to arrange themselves a little behind their chief. Von Richtofen had been grinning while Clemens was describing his dream. The grin remained frozen, and he was quivering. The shaking was not from fright. Now he arose and without a word stood by Clemens’ right side.
He said to Bloodaxe, “You have sneered at the fighting ability and courage of Germans, my Norse friend. Now you will have that sneer shoved down your throat.” Bloodaxe laughed loudly. “Two gamecocks and an ape!
ou won’t die easy deaths; I’ll see that it takes you days to find the joy of death! Before I’m done, you’ll be begging me to end your pain!”
“Joe!” Clemens said. “Make sure you kill Bloodaxe first. Then you can get up a little sweat knocking off the rest.”
Joe raised the 50-pound weight of the flint head above his shoulder and rotated it through a 45-degree arc, back and forth, as easily as if it weighed an ounce. He said, “I can break hith breathtbone vith one throw and probably knock down theveral behind him.”
The Norsemen knew that he was not bragging; they had seen him smash too many skulls. He was capable of killing half of them before they killed him, maybe of smashing all of them and still be standing. But they had sworn to defend Bloodaxe to the death and, much as many of them disliked him, they would not break their oath.
There should have been no cowards in the Rivervalley; courage should have become universal. Death was not permanent; a man was killed only to rise again. But those who had been brave on Earth were usually brave here, and those cowardly on Earth were cowardly here. The mind might know that death lasted only a day, but the cells of the body, the unconscious, the configurations of emotion, or whatever it was that made up a man’s character, these did not recognize the fact. Sam Clemens dodged violence and the resultant pain—which he feared more than violent death—as long as he could. He had fought with the Vikings, swung an ax, wielded a spear, wounded and been wounded and once even killed a man, though it had been more by accident than skill. But he was an ineffectual warrior. In battle the valves of his heart were turned full open, and his strength poured out.
Sam knew this well, but about this he had no selfreproach or shame.
Erik Bloodaxe was furious and not at all afraid. But if he died, and he probably would, he would never be able to take part in Clemens’ dream of the great riverboat or storm the citadels of the north pole. And, though he had scoffed at the dream, he still believed in a part of him that dreams could be revelations sent by the gods. Perhaps he was robbing himself of a glorious future.
Sam Clemens knew his man and was betting that his ambitions would overcome his anger. So they did. The king lowered the ax and forced a smile.