Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

“By the World Tree! My Latin is not that poor!”

“Was the priest’s Latin I had ill thoughts about,” Cormac said. “An it’s like unto most of his kind he is, the garbled mess he calls Latin would be sounding better from a kittiwake. He supports Cathula’s tale, does he?”

“Everything does. The village wenches are rolling their eyes and making guesses about her fate… they pretend to be appalled, but they giggle even whiles they bite their lips, ye know?” Knud spat on the ground. “Despite what ye said, Cormac, I’d never ha’ believed even a sounder of Britonish peasants could accept a Dane as a Frankish vagabond! Certain I was they’d know me for the liar the instant I said aught so ridiculous! Yet they believed me. They could not tell the difference.”

He fell silent, brooding on that in disbelief and some outrage.

Cormac grinned. “Forget fretting, Knud. Not one of them’s been more than a league from the village in his life’s days, remember. Well then ’tis settled for me; it’s honest our Cathula is.” He ceased to smile. “By which token, it’s a bargain Lucanor of Antioch has made with that bloody hearted Frank. Now we can be certain-Sigebert and Lucanor are yonder in Nantes, and teamed.”

Since the black owl’s talons had smitten Wulfhere, he had become morose and silently brooding amid his pain. Now he spoke.

“We have another chance to slay Sigebert, and Lucanor with him! This war of Franks on Romans Howel avows is in the making… it helps us. Do the Franks march on Soissons and conquer , all the land will be in uproar. Nantes will seethe with panic like a broken nest of ants! Fleeing country folk will howl at its gates in multitudes. In such confusion we can enter-and leave again with none remarking us!”

“An these things happen, Wulf.” They looked at each other: blood-brothers.

They settled to sleep. Knud wondered, half hopefully, whether he ought not return to the village for another day or two-just to be wholly sure there was naught he’d omitted to learn… His comrades brayed him down. Were the women of this village so eager that he could not bear to depart? They were assured the village priest was the man to ask about that; Knud felt sure that despite what the black-robe said in church, he’d likely had every nubile girl for a league around and some of the wives into the bargain.

With the sun’s rising they made a fire and roasted venison killed by Howel’s foresters. Cormac and Wulfhere allowed a big cheery blaze, as they meant to leave the vicinity anyhow. Nor were they overly strict about smoke.

By this means did the messenger from Vannes find them. Himself a forester end expert tracker, he’d have trailed them to the camp in any event. The odour of woodsmoke merely made it simple for him. He’d traveled most of the way with an armed party, but finished his journey alone. He bore ill news, he said, the Lady Morfydd having despatched him to bring it them.

“The Lady Morfydd?” Cormac repeated. “Not Prince Howel?”

The men shook his heed. Short-legged, heevybodied end bald he was, clad in deerskin tunic leggings. “The prince is wounded,” he said bitterly. “He may die yet.” And he glared at Cormac as though blaming him personally.

“How?” Cormac snapped. “By whom?” There was that in his and sudden complete attention to make the man think again about voicing his own feelings on the matter, or doing aught at all save answer the question fully.

“Hengist, lord. He came with three Saxon longships, end raided the Mor-bihan in full daylight! The prince was newly returned to his keep on the island. Hengist made no attempt to storm it, for he could never ha’ taken it in any case with three ships’ companies. He stole your ship-”

“What?” That from Wulfhere, in a bellow. “ Raven stolen?” He made three titan’s strides and seized the forester. He lifted the man as if he were a doll. “Hengist, ye say? Ye dare tell me he has lifted Raven from out the Little Sea? From your master’s own doorstep? What were his coast-watchers doing to prevent it?”

The forester said into Wulfhere’s congested face, “The coast-watchers died to a men! My master the prince led a sortie down from the hall to prevent those Kentishmen’s launching your ship. ’Tis how he came to be wounded. When he fell, his warriors carried him back from the fray and covered his retreat wi’their lives-”

“And allowed Hengist to have my ship?” Wulfhere howled.

He shook the forester like a flapping sail. Even while the men turned grey in that grip, rage got the better of his common sense. With a violent curse, he spat full in Wulfhere’s eyes end reached for his hunting knife.

Wulfhere dropped the man in sheer astonishment.

The man crouched, his skinning knife point upward in his fist. “Rot your ship, and your vast self with it!” he snarled. “Would ye’d both been destroyed ere my lord took a wound for you!”

With a strangled bellow, Wulfhere reached for his ax.

An attack of prudence came on the forester. He wheeled, dodged between two Danes, end vanished down a game trail with alacritous churning of short legs. Wulfhere blundered after him, enraged. He found that his quarry had disappeared into the nigh impenetrable brush. Wulfhere hunted about, beating the undergrowth with his ax. It availed naught.

“I lost him,” he growled, returning to the campfire. “Brave little rooster!”

“I’d guessed as much,” Cormac said drily. “There’s only green on your beloved little toy there. Ye needn’t be hoping to see him again, either. He’ll not show his face whiles we two remain in Armorica.”

Wulfhere shrugged massive shoulders. “He’d delivered his message. Hengist! The bastard! He must ha’ learned we be guests of Howel’s. Word would get about.”

“Aye. It’s we he wanted. We were not present when he came avisiting, so he took our ship instead.” Cormac’s hard fingers clenched over his sword-hilt. “Desire is on him that we seek him out to regain Raven . Damn!”

“He will get his wish. Ah, wait! The five men left to finish work on Raven! Yon fellow said Howel’s coast watchers were all slain, but I frighted him off ere he said what became of our own!”

“Right. Thought was on me of that very thing,” Cormac said, shooting Wulfhere a look and sounding bitter. “It’s in my mind that we have no need of him to tell us. We can both guess.”

Wulfhere swore thunderously. Whirling up his mighty ax with both hands, he struck it deep into the mossy log whereon he’d sat a few moments since. All the power of his giant’s body went into that strike, and much frustration. The heavy log split from end to end so that it fell in halves. Fat grubs writhed in its partly rotted center and thousand-leggers scuttled.

“Take up your gear, wolves!” the redbeard ordered. “We march for Vannes, and thence we take ship for Howel’s island. We march hard!”

There was no protest. They, too, had heard all.

“An other insults be bandied when we reach the Mor-bihan, Wulfhere, do keep your ax still,” Cormac counselled. “Doubtless others will be feeling as yon forester does. Morfydd herself well may.’

“What? Blaming us for this?” Wulfhere was taken aback. “Why, Howel’s a reiver himself! ’Tis the risk of the game. He might ha’ met Hengist on the open sea at any time.”

Cormac’s thin lips parted in a wry half-smile. “Well done. Good hard sense that is, and none can gainsay. And how much difference might it be making to a woman whose man lies at the point of death? Or may have died, for aught we ken.”

“Get of Loki,”, Wulfhere said, scratching pensively within his beard. “I’d not thought. Well-let us hope he lives. He’s a good man, that Howel.”