That was true enough.
Ryan had a cut along the back of his right hand, and something had bitten him in the calf, drawing blood from the ragged wound. Krysty had dislocated a thumb, but Mildred had promptly but it back in place for her. Mildred herself had escaped without a scratch. J.B. had a bruise the size of a large egg across his chin, and more bruising around his ribs, where the tallest of the muties had gripped him in its several arms and hurled him to the deck. But Mildred had pronounced that no ribs had broken in the fall. Jak was furious because one of the muties had tumbled into the water and disappeared with one of his beloved knives still buried in its left eye. Other than that he was physically unharmed.
Doc had been hauled into the long ship, coughing and spluttering, having been pushed into the lake on three separate occasions. His dignity was a little dented, and he was shivering with cold. But he was very much alive.
The companions stood together under the figurehead, waiting to hear what the baron was going to say to them. Mildred was next to Ryan, apologizing yet again for nearly putting a .22 bullet through the top of his skull.
"Doesn't matter," he insisted. "You going to keep the blaster?"
"No way, Jose. Chucked it straight into Lake Superior, where it belongs."
At last, Jorund turned to them. He looked at each of them, though his eyes skated over Jak's pinched face and completely avoided Mildred. "It is sooth that we have won, partly through your aid, outlanders."
"Now I trust that you will abjure all your suspicions," Doc said in his rich, deep voice, "and allow us to go our way unhindered?"
"Let you go?" Jorund asked in tones of utter disbelief. "After this and these deaths? Oh, no, outlander. No!"
Chapter Thirty
It was late afternoon when they eventually reached Markland, and the sun had vanished behind fresh banks of swelling fog.
There were more funerals to arrange, and the keening of the women rose above the small ville. Since so many dead were warriors, Ryan wondered whether the Vikings would deplete their shrinking number of slaves still further by butchering thralls to accompany their free-born masters on their last journey.
As the six friends were being escorted ashore, Ryan made another effort to speak to the baron about their discoveries along the coast, and what that horror would inevitably mean to the survivors of the steading. But the big man resolutely turned his face away from him and marched up the beach toward his large hut.
Ryan beckoned to Erik Stonebiter. Glancing around at the other men, the youth moved a few reluctant steps closer. "What?"
"We found something very important."
"You broke faith. Nothing you can say is important to us."
"Wrong. We know what killed the children and the man who made the beer, and what's probably killed many others in the ville."
"We know, too."
Ryan was taken aback. "You know! Then why the dark night don't you do something about it? Why don't you move from this place?"
"No. The gods punish us. That is the sickness. And you... you outlanders are part of it. Sent as messengers of evil. Storm crows, all of you. All but the white-hair."
"Bullshit, you bigoted little asshole!" Mildred exploded.
Erik held his hands before his face, sticking out the index and little fingers at her, like twin forks.
She laughed, throwing her head back. "Think I have the evil eye, do you, you sniveling little wimp? As far as I'm concerned, you and your whole damned Viking theme park can go vanish up its own ass. And I'll stand and blow you kisses as you sink in the west."
"You aren't helping, Mildred," Krysty said, shaking her head with exasperation.
"Listen, lady. This bunch of mock-macho creeps aim to see us all turned into blue cheese dip for their gods. Being all lovey-dovey and kissing ass won't change that!"
Erik Stonebiter had moved back, eyes flickering nervously at her wrath. He stumbled over his feet and nearly fell. He righted himself and ordered Ryan and the others to be taken to their hut and kept under a close, armed guard.
"Time to move on, folks," Ryan said as soon as the door of the hut was slammed shut.
There was a general murmur of consent.
"When should we make our move this time?" Doc asked. He'd sat on a bed and pulled a blanket around his shoulders, shivering with cold from his repeated immersions.
"They'll watch us tight," J.B. said, carefully honing his knife against the sole of his boot.
Krysty was looking at the rear wall of the wattle and daub building. "This opens clear toward the forest, doesn't it? All we have to do is kick it apart and do a runner. Wouldn't need me using the Earth Mother's force on it."
"They'll watch front and back real tight," Ryan replied. "If it hadn't been for that triple hot spot we'd have been away clear over the ridge. Be close to the redoubt by now."
Mildred said nothing. She sat on the packed-earth floor, head on her hands, staring blankly into space.
Krysty asked her if she was all right, and the woman looked up with a faint smile that never got within a mile of her eyes.
"I'm fine, honey, thanks. It's just that I think the cryo-process is sort of catching up on me. My head feels like the inside of a spin dryer and my body's kind of fraying at the edges. I'm real, real tired." And very quietly she began to cry.
Krysty went to her and knelt at her side, laying an arm across Mildred's shoulders. Sobbing, the woman threw her arms around Krysty and pressed her face into the side of her neck. The others looked away, busying themselves with cleaning their knives, allowing Mildred the time to recover control.
Eventually the racking sobs ceased, and she began to weep more softly. She pushed herself away from Krysty and wiped her nose on her sleeve, summoning up a more convincing grin at the rest of the friends. "There, Mildred is herself again. Sorry about that. Won't happen again."
Ryan helped her to her feet and patted her on the shoulder. "If it does, then it does. Nothing to worry about, Mildred."
An hour or so later, food was brought by a wizened old woman, whose iron collar had been worn for so many years that it had become wafer-thin.
"When will the funerals be? Will they do it tonight?" Ryan asked her.
"No, masters, no. Oh, there's too many of the dear ones been taken across the saddle horns of the Valkyries."
Ryan's rough body count said that around a dozen of the Vikings had been chilled, with at least two more likely not to see the next dawn.
"When?"
"On the morrow." She looked around as if she were scared of being overheard. "But the wisewoman's all taken with a fury."
"Why?" Ryan asked.
"Too many dead, masters."
He didn't understand what she was driving at. "Too many?"
"Dead. A free-born warrior will have company as he rides to Valhalla. It has always been the way in Markland."
Krysty understood first. "She means the slaves, lover, the girls who were throttled for the fire ship funeral the other night. So many were chilled this afternoon on the lake that..."
"There aren't enough slaves to go around," Ryan concluded. "With the sickness and all, the ville must be shrinking around its own ears."