"Things go ill here, outlander," he said to Ryan. "I am not one who will lay blame at your door. But I tell you this..." he looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear. "...I fear that there are others who will. Many who will."
Seconds later the screaming died away in a drawn-out bubbling moan.
A noon meal wasn't brought to Ryan and his companions. They kept to their hut, making sure their weapons were primed and ready. Through the open door they saw that the ville was almost deserted. There had been an outburst of keening from the women shortly after the death of the second child. Since then the steading had been quiet. Everyone seemed to have retreated to their own homes.
"I'll go scout some food," J.B. said. His chron showed one-thirty in the afternoon.
"Why not?" Ryan agreed. "But we'll all go. Mebbe get to Krysty and Mildred. I don't like being separated from them. There's a real bad gut feeling about all this."
"No," Jak said from the doorway. "Baron and Krysty and freezie coming."
Jorund had a couple of the elders of the ville with him. Krysty and Mildred walked at his heels, followed by half a dozen kitchen thralls, carrying bedding and cooking pots.
"Looks like they are about to be moved in with us," Doc observed. "I wonder whether that is a good omen or not."
Doc's supposition was correct, and his concern was also confirmed.
Jorund Thoraldson stood in their doorway, signaling everyone else to remain outside. His face was grim and he was perspiring heavily, though the afternoon was cool. "Your women must come to stay with you," he said. "It has been decided. The wisewoman has cast runes. The red thread and the rowan sprig tell a sad tale, outlanders."
"I was sorry to hear that two young children had died," Ryan said.
"It was a sorry day that ever you came to the steading of Markland," the baron replied.
"There was the sickness long before we came here," J.B. said, anger creeping into his usually calm voice.
Thoraldson shook his head. "I will not argue. It has been decided that you will remain here. None of you must leave this hut, but for the exercise of your bodily needs. Any attempt to depart from Markland will be looked upon as hard and treasonous."
"For how long?" Ryan asked.
"A day. Two, perhaps."
Ryan knew with total certainty that the tall Norseman was lying.
"Then what?" J.B. asked, taking off his glasses to polish them. He glanced at Ryan, showing his own disbelief.
"Then the wisewoman will cast the runes again. And it may be that the light will come again."
The baron turned away. Doc looked as if he were about to argue, but Ryan spotted him and quickly held a finger to his own lips. Doc shook his head in disgust.
Jorund Thoraldson paused, then turned back to them. "We give you back the black woman. It may be we shall have need of the white-haired boy. A small thing, only."
Then he was gone, calling out orders to the thralls, and gesturing Mildred and Krysty to join their friends.
Only when the six companions were left alone did they talk. And the talk was brief.
Ryan told the woman what the baron had said to them. "You know about that bloody altar up in the woods. We've all gotten the feeling that they regard Jak here as some kind of mysterious stranger-god, and that Mildred is evil on the hoof."
"Story of my life." She grinned.
Doc cleared his throat. "Are you suggesting, my dear Ryan, that these Viking throwbacks might somehow wish to sacrifice this lady to their pagan gods? And use young Jak here as their chosen instrument on earth? Is that it?"
"Yeah. In a cartridge case, that's it."
"So, we go?" J.B. asked.
"Yeah."
And that was the end of the discussion. The plan of escape took only a little longer.
The ville was ringed by sentries at night, guarding against another sneak attack from the muties. But the central area, near the beach, was left unguarded. The large fire was allowed to smolder during the hours of darkness. There was a quarter moon, mostly hidden behind banks of tattered cloud. Though none of the companions had much experience on water, they had all agreed that the ships offered their best chance. The plan was to push off and make their way eastward, keeping close to land to avoid becoming lost. They'd strike inland at the first hint of dawn and head for the high ridge to the south. With luck the friends would get over the top before any pursuit could get close.
Jak left the hut first, his white hair covered by a hacked piece of blanket. J.B. followed, ready to move in fast at any sign of trouble. Doc and Mildred were third and fourth, with Krysty at their heels. Ryan brought up the rear.
There was no point in their stealing one of the fifty-foot-long dragon-ships. It would have been utterly impossible for so few to handle one. But there were several smaller boats, narrow, with single oars, and lying low in the water.
The ville was asleep; not even a dog stirred. They reached the lower part of the beach safely, though Ryan winced at the noise their feet made on the shingle. They reached one of the small boats, its oars neatly stacked inside. Jak took up a position in the stern, alert for any threat, while the others climbed aboard. Ryan and J.B. were last and set their shoulders to the task of moving the craft off the grating pebbles.
Very slowly they began to float away from the Viking ville.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"Get your elbow off my tit, Doc!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this contrary piece of wood won't do what I want it to do."
"Hold her straight, Krysty."
"Gaia! You want to steer, lover, then you come and have ago."
Trying to propel the boat in the direction they wanted was proving even more difficult than Ryan could possibly have imagined. Once the boat floated a few yards out onto the lake, Ryan and J.B. had each taken an oar to paddle the craft farther from the steading.
As soon as the others took oars, the chaos began. The oars were long and heavy, and it was hard for Doc and Mildred to control them. Ryan had to hiss a biting warning about the amount of noise they were making — splashing, cursing and banging the clumsy oars against each other and against the sides of the vessel.
Another big problem was that the boat had no conventional tiller or rudder. Ryan followed Doc's tentative suggestion that the bracket near the stern was for a steering oar. Trailed over one side the blade of the oar could be angled to change the course of the vessel. But Ryan found the method clumsy and difficult. If he altered the pitch of the oar a fraction too much, the boat went careering off in the opposite direction.
Eventually Ryan managed to find an effective way of running the boat. Jak took the steering oar and tried to hold the craft just within sight of the shore. Ryan, J.B. and Krysty each took an oar, while Mildred and Doc shared a thwart and did their best to share the last of the oars.
It wasn't terrific, but it was the best they could do.
The night air was cool, and Ryan could see his breath misting in front of him. Behind the boat he could just make out the silvery line of the wake, cutting erratically over what had once been called Lake Superior. His sight was only a little better than average, and he'd long since lost the red glow of the fire at the center of the ville. Nor had he been able to make out anything of the land to their right.
In the darkness it was difficult to judge what kind of progress they were making. As they were on a lake there wouldn't be much of a current, but there was a fresh breeze blowing.
"Jak?" he called.