The Island House Read Online Free Page B

to the sea. It was nearly dark, but no moon had yet risen to expose her. This was all she could do, and perhaps, in the end, Tarannis was merciful, for the ships hauled up on the beach were unguarded—there’d been no need to leave sentries.
    So the child hurried alone, in the shadow of the cliff, to the place they’d left their coracle at dawn, outside the sea cave.
    She found their small craft smashed.
    Like a wounded animal, Signy crept deep into the back of the cave, and from the pain that clenched her body she thought she might die, but in the end she only sobbed until she slept.
    She did not see the comet as it rose against the clearing stars. She was too deep in the dark.
     

    The long-necked ships would leave soon. They were being readied to push out from the beach on the swollen, full-moon tide.
    The raid had been successful, and the vessels were laden with trade goods because the invaders had kept nearly all the younger nuns alive, though some of the older monks, those who’d tried to fight, had been killed. A loss, of course, but the remaining boys—those without beards—would be valuable; they’d likely be gelded before the autumn markets and sold on as merchants’ clerks. And a large enameled cross had been looted from the chapel, along with a good, uncracked bell of bronze. Since there was always a shortage of bronze on the market, this alone would fetch a price that would put the raid into profit.
    Reimer, the captain of the raiding band, was impatient at the slow start to the day. He was beginning to pace. A bad sign.
    His men had eaten and drunk well after the raid—too well. After their days at sea, they’d gorged themselves on the fat sheepof Findnar’s meadows. Mutton, though not as good for fighting men as beef, was relished after fish for so many days, and they’d also found jars of mead in an earth cellar under one of the barns.
    “Men of God they call themselves—idiots and drunkards, that’s what I think them. Our Gods crushed theirs last night. No contest. Eh? Eh, Thorkeld?”
    Thorkeld nodded, keeping his eye on the work going forward. He was happy to agree with his volatile war leader, since doing so saved trouble and time. No contest. The lieutenant yawned, scratching his belly. A big man who had survived late into his third decade, Thorkeld was unexcitable. He commanded Wave Piercer, the second largest ship in the fleet of twelve, and he’d worked hard last night but, after so many similar raids this season, he was, unusually, feeling the effects. His ax arm, for instance. He’d jarred it torching the chapel; plus the smoke, noise, and ale headache from the aftermath was more annoying than usual. The Abbey folk had not offered significant resistance, however, except for one or two hotheads, who were easily dealt with. On balance, irritations aside, a good result. Today though, when he was both queasy and tired, Thorkeld had no relish for the long, cold voyage to come.
    Perhaps he was finally too old for this life. He didn’t enjoy it as much as he once had; maybe it was time to leave it to younger men and retire to his farm, paid for from twenty years of raiding, and breed sons. He’d earned that.
    “I’ll kill you!”
    Reimer and Thorkeld turned to look at a fight at the water’s edge. A wheat-haired youth in his late teens was choking another member of the war band. They were fighting over a coffer from the Abbey. Its lid was up, and vestments, one or two of silk, were spilling into the water.
    “They’ll ruin those if they keep this up.” Reimer hated waste.
    Thorkeld nodded and started off to pull the men apart. Reimer called him back. “No. It might help Grimor. He’s been black since last night.”
    Grimor, the blond, was winning—his opponent was on his knees in the surf, blood from a split nose and a broken eye socket washing away in the sea. At last the defeated youth staggered to his feet, hands held high and empty; he waded out of the surf followed by