At length Salvalindis took her daughter aside. They sought an outbuilding where the household’s women met to weave and sew when there was no other work for them. There was now, so that these two were alone in its dimness. Salvalindis put Jorith between herself and the broad, stone-weighted loom, as if to trap her, and asked bluntly, “Have you been less idle with that man Carl than you’ve become at home? Has he had you?”
The maiden flushed, twisted fingers together, stared downward. “No,” she breathed. “He can, whenever he wants. How I wish he would. But we’ve only held hands, kissed a little, and – and -”
“And what?”
“Talked. Sung songs. Laughed. Been grave. Oh, mother, he’s not aloof. With me, he’s kinder and, and sweeter than… than I knew a man could be. He talks to me as he would to somebody who can think, not just be a wife -”
Salvalindis’ lips pinched. “I never stopped thinking when I married. Your father may see a powerful ally in Carl. But I see in him a man without land or kin, belike a warlock but rootless, rootless. What gain can our house have of linking with him? Goods, aye; knowledge; but what use are those when foemen threaten? What would he leave to his sons? What would bind him to you after the freshness is gone? Girl, you’re being a fool.”
Jorith clenched her fists, stamped her foot, and yelled through tears that were more of rage than woe: “Hold your tongue, old crone!” At once she shrank back, as aghast as Salvalindis.
“You speak thus to your mother?” the latter said. “Aye, a warlock he is, who’s cast a spell on you. Throw that brooch he gave you into the river, do you hear?” She turned and left the room. Her skirts made an angry rustling.
Jorith wept, but did not obey.
And soon everything changed.
On a day when rain blew like spears, while Donar’s wagon boomed aloft and the flash of his ax blinded heaven, a man galloped into the thorp. He sagged in the saddle, and his horse was near falling from weariness. Nevertheless he shook an arrow on high and shrilled to those who had come out through the mud to meet him: “War! The Vandals draw nigh!”
Brought into the hall, he said before Winnithar: “My word is from my father, Aefli of Staghorn Dale. He had it from a man of Dagalaif Nevittas-son, who fled the slaughter at Elkford so as to carry warning. But already we at Aefli’s had marked a ruddiness on the skyline, where surely farmsteads were afire.”
“Two bands of them, then,” Winnithar muttered. “At least. Belike more. They’re out early this year, and in strength.”
“How could they leave their grounds untended in seeding time?” asked a son of his.
Winnithar gusted a sigh. “They’ve bred more hands than they need for work. Besides, I hear of a King Hildaric, who’s brought their clans beneath him. Thus they can field greater hosts than erstwhile, which move faster and under a better plan than we’re able. Aye, could be Hildaric means to rid these lands of us, for the good of his own overflowing realm.”
“What shall we do?” an iron-steady old warrior wanted to know.
“Gather the neighborhood men and go to meet as many others as time allows, like Aefli’s, if he hasn’t already been overrun. At the Rock of the Twin Horsemen as aforetime, eh? It may be that, together, we’ll not hit a Vandal troop too big for us.”
Carl stirred where he sat. “But what of your homes?” he asked. “Raiders could outflank you, unbeknownst, and fall on steadings like yours.” He left the rest unspoken: plunder, burning, women in their best years borne off, everybody else cut down.
“We must risk that. Else we’ll be whipped piecemeal.” Winnithar grew silent. The longfires leaped and flickered. Outside, wind hooted and rain dashed against walls. His gaze sought Carl’s. “We have no helmet or mail that would fit you. Maybe you can fetch gear for yourself from” wherever you get things.”
The outsider sat stiff. Lines deepened in his face.
Winnithar’s shoulders slumped. “Well, this is no fight of yours, is it?” he sighed. “You’re no Teuring.”