The Islands of the Blessed

The stones were extremely weathered and covered with lichen, but the boy could make out the faint outlines of animals. One of them was a serpentlike creature standing on its tail. “Is that a carnyx?” he asked.

“It’s what the carnyx was copied from. It’s a male Pictish beast. The females have legs of a sort; the males have none. I’d guess this wall was made from an old Pictish tower. Speaking of claiming kingship, Thorgil, do you think it wise to pose as a princess?”

“That was their conclusion,” she said. “I only said I was of the line of Hengist. Besides, dressing up and mincing around is a surprisingly effective battle strategy.”

The Bard laughed. “I know that strategy. It’s called ‘flirting’.”

“Flirting?” said Thorgil, puzzled by the word. But before the Bard could explain, Big Half and Little Half returned.

“His Majesty bids you welcome,” the dwarf said with a deep bow.

When they were through the gate, Big Half closed it with nine bolts. That’s a lot of bolts for one gate, thought Jack. The wall was as deep as his outstretched arms and higher than Skakki’s head. What kind of enemy was Bjorn expecting? He remembered the words the brothers had used: enemies, dangerous, hogboon. What on earth was a hogboon?

Inside, a courtyard separated the wall from the large hall beyond. Jack had expected the same landscape that existed outside, but here was no grass or heather. The ground was completely dead in spite of a spring bubbling up in the middle. The water had carved a deep channel, but it didn’t flow more than a few paces before it disappeared into a rift in the ground.

The courtyard reminded Jack of the old fortress of Din Guardi, where nothing grew. It didn’t have the cold despair of that place, however. Rather, it seemed filled with active resentment, a simmering rage that would wither the leaves of any plant brave enough to sprout. Jack felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

“You feel it too,” the Bard said in a low voice. “It’s the wall. The stones have been stolen from a Pictish tower, and those towers are not like other buildings. They draw their strength from the blood of men buried alive beneath them.”

“What’s that you say?” said Little Half, walking behind them. He was so short, Jack hadn’t noticed him. “I told the king it was a rotten idea to tear down that tower. The horses bolted rather than carry the stones, and not one of them came back until today.”

The entrance of the hall was secured by an iron door. Jack had never seen such a thing and wondered about it. The heavy door creaked dismally as it was dragged open, but when it was closed behind them, the simmering rage vanished. That explained why Bjorn had used such an expensive substance.

The hall itself was a simple structure, somewhat like King Ivar’s dwelling in the Northland. A long fireplace ran down the middle, unlit at the moment. On either side were tables with benches, and along the walls were narrow sleeping cupboards. It was cluttered, as such places were, with chests, bedding, and stacks of peat to be used for the fire. The floor was covered by an ankle-deep layer of straw. At either end were openings leading to other rooms and possibly other ways to get into the courtyard. Jack knew from the Bard that such establishments sometimes had escape routes in case of an invasion.

On the seaward side two small windows let in the late-afternoon light. They would be blocked with bundles of hay at night or in bad weather.

A farther, open door led to a spacious area between the hall and the cliff’s edge. Here were the features one usually associated with a large household: kitchens, barns, a granary, and an herb garden. Men were preparing game, cooking, or mending fishnets. Women sat weaving in the mild sunlight, and children drove seagulls away from drying fish. Yet there was a curious lifelessness about the place. The children didn’t play or laugh.

“Hey, you! Get some water,” bellowed a man at a pair of scullery boys.

“We did it last time,” one of the boys dared to say, and he received a blow.

“Get moving or I’ll lock you into the courtyard,” threatened the man. The boys quickly gathered buckets and hurried to the iron door.

“The stream is our only source of freshwater,” Little Half explained. “People don’t like going out there because… well, you felt it. Sit down, honored guests, and I’ll get you bread and cheese. The king will be with you as soon as he’s finished combing his beard.”

“Combing his beard?” whispered Jack, amused. “How long does that take?”

“Perhaps he’s trying to impress me,” Thorgil said, fluffing her hair.

“No, Bjorn would never put on airs like that,” declared Skakki. “He’s just getting the nits out.”

The dwarf returned with food and excused himself. They ate. The silence of the hall settled over them. The sun lowered until it shone directly inside, and a haze of dust motes drifted through the light. “How do all those people fit in here at night?” Jack said at last.