The Viking's Captive(5)

Gustav shook his head at Halvor.

“You!” the Jarl said, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Will obey me, your Viking captain, and seek out the worth in the village yonder and bring it to me.”

“I have enough goods on the longboat to claim as mine when we land.” Halvor paused. Should he go on? Aye… “Grain, fur, hides, ale to name but a few.”

“To claim them you will need to get through me. I am master of all that sits on that longboat.”

Halvor knew this was true. He also knew the Jarl would continue to terrorize these lands long after he, Halvor, hung up his weapons and sought a quieter life. His fingers tightened on his sword, he pulled it, just a fraction, from its sheath.

The Jarl did the same, an angry grimace spread on his face.

I should kill him, now. Stop his marauding and pillaging.

“Halvor, my friend.” Gustav spoke in Anglo-Saxon dialect, knowing the Jarl understood not a word. “This is not the time or place. We are nearly home, a few more days and you’ll have this behind you. Do not risk punishment or retribution.”

Halvor swallowed. A bitter taste had filled his mouth. It was a mixture of anger and resentment. Being told what to do was not something he could continue with.

“One more time,” Gustav said almost cajolingly.

“What’s he saying?” the Jarl asked in Norse. “Tell me.”

“I am telling him to respect you,” Gustav said, slamming on his silver helmet and his nose protector sliding over his face. “For you are a fine captain with a fine ship.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” The Jarl nodded.

“We should go,” Gustav said, stepping away and reaching for another torch. “Before we lose the element of surprise.” With his gaze set firmly on Halvor he jerked his head toward the beach.

Now Halvor was irritated by Gustav as well as being angry at the Jarl. But there was little he could do about it. Staying back and watching over the slaves on the boat wasn’t an option. That was a weak job and he was arguably the strongest, bravest, and most skilled fighter on the longship.

“Yes, go, and be fruitful,” the Jarl said, pulling his sword but making no move to leave his ship.

So he’s staying put.

Halvor threw him a glare, knowing he could do nothing about it. Then grabbed his horned helmet, turned and ran over the sand with the other Vikings, toward what appeared to be a cut through in the cliffs.

His legs were stiff; he’d have liked some food in his belly. But that would have to wait.

Under the shelter of night, they made their way over the rocky terrain until it turned into grazed land speckled with fruit bushes and ancient trees. A goat bleated as they ran past it, and an owl hooted from a nearby copse.

Halvor was breathing heavily. His furs and leather tunic weighing him down as his body heated. Add in the heft of his iron sword and shield and he was feeling the weariness of his travels.

But luckily they soon came across the village, which had given itself away to them with candlelight in the windows of small crofters’ homes.

A man to his left threw his torch on the first thatch they came to. Instantly it caught, lighting the sky.

Another Viking to Halvor’s right shoulder-barged a wooden door and drew screams from the occupants.

Within minutes the scene was chaos. Halvor shielded himself from the blow of an axe and then knocked the peasant to the floor with a bang on his head. The man groaned and turned away.

More cottages were alight. Women and children were fleeing like rats escaping a flood, toward the hills. Some made it, but not all. The Viking men he fought with were fast on their feet when it came to catching women.

To his left Gustav was clashing his sword with a tall thin man. Each were grunting and working hard. The local had fire-red hair and a long angular face. Despite appearing delicate, he was putting up a good fight.

Halvor turned to a cottage as yet unaffected by the terror in the village. He marched up to the small narrow door, lifted his leg, and kicked it in the center. It burst open and rattled against the wall.

“Get out, get out, you brute!” A woman’s voice.

But she wouldn’t be without company, he knew that. Females did not live alone in these parts.

Stooping, he stepped in and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. A fire flickered in the grate and a few stick-like pieces of furniture sat around the room. It was clear he’d not stumbled across a wealthy home.

“How dare you.” A small, shadow of a man appeared before him, holding a pitchfork. “Leave my croft.” His narrowed eyes flashed and he pointed the sharp end of his weapon at Halvor.

“Father, no!”

Halvor reached for the fork, twisted it from the man’s hand with pitiful ease, and then tossed it across the room.

The man grunted in fury and tried to throw a punch, which landed on Halvor’s shield. The elderly man then staggered backward until his hunched shoulders hit the stone wall. He clutched his wrist and his features twisted. “You’re not welcome here!”

“Death doesn’t require a welcome.”

Suddenly the old man moved, quick as a snake in the grass, and grabbed a poker from the fire. He let out a blood-curdling cry, like a battle scream, and lunged at Halvor.

Halvor stepped to the side and watched the man lunge past him.

His would-be attacker’s movements were chaotic and un-practiced. The poker caught the side of a table and rattled to the floor.