The Islands of the Blessed

“I should have brought Fair Lamenting ashore with me,” said Jack. “The minute Ymma and Ythla thought they were alone at the farm, they went through everything. I should have known they’d do the same thing on the ship.”

“I don’t blame you, lad,” the Bard said. “I was also entirely too trusting.” They stopped at a flowery meadow beside a rushing stream. Thorgil took off her boots and led the ponies into the water, where they drank noisily and sloshed their hooves. After a while she led them out to graze. The Bard broke the seal on the flask of mead and drank morosely.

It was getting close to sunset. Long shadows stretched across the grass and swallows dipped and fluttered in the upper air. “Mrs. Tanner said she was going to her brother,” Jack said. “Perhaps King Brutus could help us.”

“Brutus couldn’t find his crown with both hands,” said the Bard. “There are a thousand people in this town—farms and houses everywhere. We don’t know what her brother does for a living; to go by her, he’s probably a pickpocket. We don’t know what he looks like.”

“The arrival of a widow with two daughters can’t be that common,” Jack pointed out. “King Brutus could send out searchers. In time—”

“In time! We don’t have time, lad. If someone rings that bell, we’ve had it. Which brings me to the question, how did the Tanners know where it was?”

“Ymma and Ythla were always lurking about,” Jack said bitterly. “They saw me carry a mysterious bundle to the ship and decided to look inside. They knew enough to substitute one of Egil’s copper cauldrons.”

“I hate the sight of that wretched pot,” said the Bard, swigging more mead. Jack had brought the small cauldron back with them. It belonged to Egil, after all, and was valuable. It was a rich red-gold color, reflecting light from a dozen surfaces made by the artisan’s hammer. Egil said it had been made by men burned dark by the sun, the same ones who had traded merini sheep to him.

Thorgil returned from tending to the ponies and settled herself on the grass. She, at least, was in a good mood. The long ride and misadventure at the monastery had amused her. Her cheeks were rosy and the sun had brought out a spray of freckles on her nose. She was as finely dressed as a young knight. But where a year ago she had been easily mistaken for a lad, subtle changes had occurred. Her waist was more defined, her mouth was softer, her chest—

Jack looked away. No matter how hard Thorgil attempted to hide it, her chest definitely hadn’t stayed the same.

“An acorn for your thoughts,” the shield maiden said.

Jack felt his face grow hot. “I was trying to think where the Tanners might be hiding.”

“They’ll be easy to find,” Thorgil said.

“Easy! Where in this rats’ nest of a town do we start looking?” cried the Bard.

“We don’t have to look. Remember, Mrs. Tanner practically promised to marry my brother. He certainly thinks so.” Thorgil pulled up strands of grass and began chewing on them.

“Schlaup?” said the Bard, sitting bolt upright. “My stars! You’re a genius, Thorgil!”

“I know,” said the shield maiden, idly chewing.

They galloped back to the harbor in the gathering dusk. Egil and his crew had made camp on the beach. By day the men could pass for Saxons, but now, roaring songs and cavorting around a giant bonfire, they were clearly something else. A few women they had managed to lure from town huddled together in a frightened group. One of the crewmen swung a woman around in a wild dance, ignoring her screams.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed the Northmen. “She’s playing hard to get!” Kegs of beer, half buried in sand, were strewn around.

“Dragon Tongue,” cried Egil, rising as the ponies were reined in. “Have you found lodgings? You’re so late, we were beginning to worry about you.”

“Turn those women loose!” said the Bard, dismounting. “Thor’s thunderbolts! Do you want the whole town down on us? Go on, shoo, you silly geese!” He pointed his staff at the women and they fled. He pulled the dancing crewman away from his captive.

“I was only flirting,” the man grumbled. The last woman sped after the others.

The Bard sat down on a beer keg and mopped his brow. “Once and for all, get it through your heads: No pillaging. This is a trading mission. You can’t just carry off anyone you take a fancy to. Egil, I expected you to have them better trained.”

The captain grinned, not the least repentant. “Yes, sir. I’ll have a talk with them. I have to say, though, that those ladies were eager to come here when it was still light.”

“I’m sure they were,” the Bard said, sighing. “There’s feather-heads in every port. Now we have a very serious problem.” He explained about the loss of Fair Lamenting and the dire consequences if it were rung. “We need Schlaup’s assistance.”

“Schlaup?” echoed Egil. “Begging your pardon, Dragon Tongue, but if you think a little innocent pillaging is going to stir things up, wait till the townsfolk see a half-troll walking their streets.”