She nodded. "How long?"
"Day. Two at most. There's some double-bad things in this ville."
The baron of Markland caught their whispered conversation, and he turned to Ryan. "My anger took me from myself for a moment. I fear that I came near to... What do you say?"
"Krysty and Mildred will do what you say. They'll go and live in the house with the other women of your ville. But they are not, and never will be, yourwomen. Or anyone else's women. They are our companions, free and equal in every way."
"Right on, boss," Mildred said, grinning at Krysty. Jorund Thoraldson stroked his long blond mustache and looked down for a moment at his feet while he considered Ryan's words. "You will not leave Markland until we say you may. Nor the women. But it shall be as you say. Now, they can go with the thrall. She can show them where they will live. You stay here."
"The tests?" suggested one of the Vikings, a walleyed man with a jagged scar across his face.
"Tests?" J.B. said.
Jorund smiled what looked to be a genuine, happy smile. "Aye. We have seen how your oldest man can butcher one of our best swords. We wait eagerly to see how you three fare as warriors."
"What are these tests?" Ryan asked.
"Halfway between nothing and a small thing, outlander," Jorund replied. "Since you are to be with us, we must know your mettle." He waved a dismissive hand. "Do not worry."
"I don't. But it would help some to know what kind of things you're going to throw at us."
"Trials for a warrior."
That was all he'd say. The Norsemen left the hut. Almost immediately the girl with the iron slave collar came and led Krysty and Mildred away, leaving the men behind to wonder what the next dawning would bring.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Arise, gentlemen." Doc stood silhouetted in the doorway of the hut. "There is a gray mist upon the sea's face, and there is a gray mist breaking."
Ryan stretched like a big cat, his muscles almost cracking as he extended his arms and legs. The mattress beneath him, which was filled with sweet-smelling summer grass, rustled softly. The air was cool and he breathed in deeply, aware of how much he'd missed having Krysty to warm his back. He'd slept fully dressed, only kicking off the steel-toed combat boots. His rifle rested at his side and his SIG-Sauer was beneath his pillow.
"Slave girl's coming," Doc said, "staggering under a great platter of food and a flagon of milk."
J.B. yawned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His first move, as always, was to reach for his glasses and slip them on. The second move, as always, was to check that his blasters were at hand.
"Feel hungry. Wouldn't mind another of those rabbits from last night."
"Hares, my dear friend."
"How's that, Doc?"
"They were hares, not rabbits."
Jak threw off his heavy woolen blanket and was on his feet in a single, fluid movement. He ran his fingers through his dazzling mane of hair, hair that was so white that it seemed to burn with its own incandescent flame.
The thrall, Margaret, appeared in the doorway. Doc stepped aside, and she walked into the hut, laying the food on the table.
"Oatmeal and buttermilk," she announced, "with dried fish and some more of the mutton. Apples, bread and honey. Will it be enough?"
"Enough for these condemned men to make a hearty breakfast," Doc replied. "Thanks."
"Are Krysty and Mildred all right?" Ryan asked. "Nobody tried to harm them?"
The girl shook her head. "Nay, masters. It would mean a swift death if anyone went against the word of Karl Thoraldson." She dropped her voice. "Besides, they say the redhead is a Valkyrie warrior and the jet-woman is a witch demon from the dark world of fire and shadow."
"These tests we gotta do," J.B. said, smearing clear honey on a torn crust of warm, fresh-baked bread.
"Aye?"
"What are they?"
"Something and nothing. All young men of the steading must be tried by the older men, to show them worthy as warriors of Markland."
"Yeah. But what..."
J.B. was interrupted by a loud shout from somewhere beyond the center of the ville. Margaret's eyes opened wide and she hefted her skirts, scampering out of their hut.
"Something and nothing." Doc smirked. "I trust that none of you will drag our honor low in the eyes of these people, after I have played my part with such skill."
He picked up his ebony swordstick and waved it in the air with a triumphant flourish.
"Why don't you go piss up a rope, Doc?" Ryan said. "I know the baron said you didn't have to do these tests, seeing as how your skill with the sword was undoubted. But we still got to do them. So let us eat our breakfast in peace, will you?"
To Ryan's disappointment the women of Markland had all been sent away, forbidden by ancient law to watch the ordeals of the warriors.
Jorund Thoraldson was waiting for the outlanders near the perpetually burning fire on the shingled strand below the ville. He was dressed in a long cloak of rich purple, trimmed with silver. Many of the other Norsemen were dressed in what were clearly their finest cloaks.
"Greetings, outlanders!" the baron boomed. "Once the fog has burned away we shall have a fine day of it."
"Hi, Baron," Ryan called. "Will all this take very long?"
"No, though the tests and ordeals for our young men often take several days. Weeks, even. For there are the tests of hunting alone where they must range the hills for many miles, armed only with a spear, a bow and single arrow."
"Apaches had the same kind of thing," Doc said quietly. "The old macho routine. We send out the boy and he returns a man. Horsefeathers!"
"And there is usually the test for their ability to handle a boat."
"Swimming?" J.B. asked.
"No."
"No?"
"If it is Odin's will that the waters return you safe to shore, then so be it," Egil Skallagson said solemnly.
"And if you tumble into the waters, then to be able to swim will only make your suffering the longer," Sigurd Harefoot added.
When Ryan had been involved with the whalers on the bleak New England coast, he'd sometimes heard them express similar sentiments.
"So what must we do?"
"Skill with arms and skill at grappling," Jorund replied.
"Grappling? You mean like wrestling?" J.B. asked. "Who against?"
"Some of the best of our warriors. But it is not to the death. It is only a testing with ax, spear and blaster."
The biggest surprise for Ryan and the others was the poor standard of performance from the men of the ville. While he watched their efforts to shine against the strangers, Ryan kept reminding himself of what Mildred had said about rad sickness. There was no doubt at all that there was something rotten in the steading of Markland.
"We begin with the throwing of the spear," Jorund announced.
The baron had selected eight of his own warriors to stand up for the honor of their people. Most were in their early to mid-twenties, but three of them looked less than well, with scabs around their lips and, in a couple of cases, open sores amid their thinning hair. One had an eye covered by a creeping leprous growth, and another had the nails missing from the weeping tips of his fingers.
But some were still tall and strong and filled with their own pomp.
The spears were about seven feet long and made from ash. The points were iron, embedded in the tip of the wood. The target was a man-size sheaf of bound grass, which had been set about thirty paces down the beach from a line that the baron drew with his own sword.