"What?" responded Arin.
Egil turned. "They say she is mad, my engel, just as was her ancestor."
"Mad? How?"
"I know not."
"What of her ancestor? Mayhap there lies a clue in the past."
Egil shrugged. "The tales say she once… um." Egil stopped, as if reluctant to speak further; his eyes were downcast in embarrassment.
"Say on," Arin urged. "Whatever thou knowest, I would hear."
Egil looked up at her, then took a deep breath and blurted, "They say she once took a horse to her bed."
Aiko raised one eyebrow skeptically as Egil turned back to the window, unwilling to meet Arin's gaze.
"Um," mumbled Egil to the windowsill. "There's even a chanty about it."
Aiko sighed. "Has it come to this, that we are to believe the ribald songs of sailors?"
"Many songs are rooted in truth," said Arin, then asked, "How old is this song?"
"Ancient," replied Egil. "That Queen of Jute is long dead. But they say that madness runs in families, especially in that royal line," responded Egil.
"Has there always been bad blood between Fjordlanders and Jutlanders?"
"Aye, but-"
"What is to say this is not but more bad blood?"
"Nothing, my engel. Nothing at all… But true or no, rumor or no, she is, the only mad monarch I have an inkling of." Egil turned and faced her again.
"Is there more?" asked Arin.
Egil shrugged. "Only this: they say animals roam in the royal gardens at the court of Jute, yet whether or no any of these are rutting peacocks, I cannot say."
Evening fell, and Egil slipped into slumber. And even though his fever was gone, once again in the middle of the night he suffered ill dreams.
Days passed and days more, and each day Egil's wounds were better than the day before. Every day, Thar came and watched as Arin laid poultices and medicks on Egil's face and marveled at how fast he mended, swift by the healer's standards, slow by Egil's own.
Every day as well, members of the ship's crew came and visited awhile, including Captain Orri, who always brought laughter to the room.
But every night, Egil woke up weeping, calling out men's names.
There came a day, however, when he sat in a chair facing Arin and said, "My engel, I would tell you what I can of the vile Wizard Ordrune."
CHAPTER 33
“I cannot… there is…" Struggling to speak, Egil shook his head, confusion in his eye. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out and stared down at his hands.
Arin drew her chair close, until she sat knee to knee with Egil.
He looked up at her and gritted, "I remember all he did to us in his tower, in his dungeons, in his… pits, but as to… concerning"-a look of fierce concentration drew over Egil's features-"the other… before… after." Egil slammed a fist onto open palm. "He stole thoughts. Took memories. Left confusion. Cursed me."
Remaining silent, Arin reached out and took his hand and gently unclenched his fist, and held it softly while smoothing out his fingers.
Egil watched, as if somehow detached from his own hand, yet slowly he relaxed. After a moment he took her fingers in his and lightly kissed each one. She lowered her eyes, and he released her, yet she did not draw away, but instead she reached out and took his hand again. They sat in still comfort, neither speaking. Through the open window they could hear the cook calling for the yard boy to bring more wood, while within the room there sounded only the whisper of whetstone against steel as Aiko sharpened her blades. At last Egil took a deep breath and slowly let it out, and then quietly, calmly, he began again. "This I do remember."
"Ragnar! Ragnar!" Egil scrambled down the slope toward his armsmate. The young man stopped and waited as Egil came scurrying. Egil dropped to the footpath, calling out, "We have it!"
Ragnar's eyes widened. "Your father's ship?"
Egil laughed hugely and shouted, "Yes!"
Ragnar whooped and clapped Egil on the shoulders. "By Garlon, at last! A ship of our own." Suddenly, Ragnar grew sober. "Your father, is he…?"
"It's the ague. He can't seem to cast it off. But he said he didn't want to miss the raiding season altogether, so he gave me command of the ship. 'You are only twenty summers old, my son, yet I was no older when I built her. Besides, 'tis time to see if you can fly on your own.' That's what he said, Ragnar-fly on my own-and me with four unblemished raids under my belt. Ha! I'll show him just how well I can fly. I'll swoop like an eagle, my friend, for is it not my name?"
"Hai, Egil, like hawks and falcons and other such we'll all swoop down upon our prey, and no matter how they twist and turn we'll run them to ground." Ragnar paused, then said, "Your very own ship at last."
Egil grinned. "At least for one raid. Come, Ragnar, let us go look her over."
Egil and Ragnar set off down the path toward the docks below, where tethered was the Sjoloper, a modest ship by Fjordlander standards-being just seventy feet long and carrying but fifteen pairs of oars-yet to Egil and Ragnar she seemed the greatest of all the Dragonships sweeping across the seas.
They strode along her length, stepping over thwarts, examining the overlapping oaken strakes that yielded the hull its serpentine flexibility, causing the craft to cleave sharply through the waters, giving the ship a nimbleness beyond that which its narrow keelboard could bestow alone. They scrutinized the mast and unpacked the square sail from its protective tarpaulin, unfurling and inspecting the dyed cloth, along with the beitass poles. They checked the steerboard and each of the spruce oars racked amidships in oaken trestles, the oars trimmed to differing lengths so that when plied in short choppy strokes they would all strike the water simultaneously.
Having gone over the ship from stem to stern, Egil said, "She needs a minor bit of work, but the crew will make short shrift of that."
Ragnar leaned against a wale and looked out over the water as if to see lands afar. "When do we sail?"
"As soon as we can," replied Egil.
Ragnar now turned and leaned back, his elbows on the wale. "Where are we bound? What shores? Leut? Thol? Jute? Where?"
Egil shook his head. "Father says those places are already picked over. He suggests West Gelen."
"Ungh," groaned Ragnar, his face twisting sourly. "Fisher villages. We'll find naught but old men to fight and cod to win."
"My thoughts exactly, Ragnar. But you see, I have a plan."
"A plan?"
"Aye. To go where Fjordsmen have not been."
Ragnar cocked an eye at Egil. "Where?"
Egil glanced 'round. No one stood nearby, though a few lads fished from the end of the dock. He slipped his jerkin loose and reached under to take a flat oiled-leather pouch from his belt. From the packet he extracted a tattered fold of parchment, doubled over several times, and said, "I bought this from a seaman in Havnstad in Thol." Slowly he opened the parchment, fanning it out on a thwart. It was a map, rather large.
Ragnar's eyes widened as he scanned the unfamiliar shores. "Where are we going? What will we do?"
"What else, Ragnar, but raid, that's what: towns, towers, ships, villages-we are Fjordlanders! Wolves of the sea! As to where…? Here!" Egil stabbed a finger down on the map.
Egil and Ragnar rounded up a crew, mostly younger men, men of their age, men eager for adventure, for Egil would not reveal where he was bound, and many of the older warriors would not go without knowing the destination. Yet the young men had no qualms about setting out on a venture with nought more than the promise it would be exciting. Besides, Egil had named them Hawks of the Sea, though Young Wolves of the Sea would have been more accurate. Hence, with nought but promises of adventure and of deeds of derring-do and of fortune awaiting, Egil and his Hawks set sail on a midsummer's day, leaving behind a puzzle as to where he was headed, and only Egil's father knew whence ship and son were bound, a destination he kept to himself.