Legend of the Mist Read Free Page B

chuckled one man. “When one conquers a people, one tends to learn its language, ja?” His heavily accented statement was followed by another round of guffaws.
    Fearchar glanced sideways at his own men, who fidgeted uncomfortably in the boat. Refusing to be intimidated, he continued, “I have come to speak with Einarr Alfradsson. He has summoned me for—”
    “Ja, we know,” drawled another man. “You have come to beg mercy. Well, what are you waiting for? You won’t have your chance to grovel if you don’t leave your little boat.”
    One by one the Gallach clansmen filed out of the birlinn, hesitantly accepting the outstretched hands of their adversaries. The Norsemen pulled their visitors onto the dock, leering at each one as they did.
    When the boat was emptied, one of the Norse sentries gestured for Fearchar to follow, and directed the men away from the dock towards a rocky slope leading inland.
    The brush covering the island was dense, Rysa Beag having been previously uninhabited. But a path had been cleared through it since the island’s settlement, making the journey relatively easy. A low, orange glow seeped through the uncleared foliage as they neared the camp, and the thick, acrid smell of smoke assailed the nostrils of the Fara men. No one spoke; each man was preoccupied with the prospect of his own death at the end of the short journey.
    Soon, the intense brush gave way to a clearing, in the midst of which was situated the Vikings’ makeshift camp. A cluster of hide tents circled a central bonfire which the heathens were gathered around. Some sat on boulders and felled timbers, some directly on the trampled grass. They talked amongst themselves in their Norse language with its odd cadence, largely ignoring the newcomers.
    At the head of the circle, opposite the path from which the Fara men had emerged, was a man seated on a short stump of log that had been cut with a ledge to make a seat. His golden hair shimmered in the firelight, and the long, low shadows made his bare, muscular arms appear even more menacing. The harsh lines of his face were not softened by the darkness of the night, nor did his cold eyes lose any of their steely edge.
    This was the great Einarr Alfradsson. The men of Fara would have known it by the look of him alone, even had he not raided their land. He was a man much talked of amongst the people of the isles.
    “Ah, Fearchar I presume?” he called in Gaelic, a jovial smile on his granite face. He stood, as did several of his men surrounding him.
    Fearchar stepped a pace forward. “I am.”
    “Ja, I remember your face,” Einarr nodded, amused. “ Chief of Clan Gallach. Well then, I beg you sit with me. You need not stand as though you are ... what is your word ... inferior? Low of birth?”
    Fearchar glanced behind him. Inclining his head that his men should obey, he lowered himself onto a vacant timber across the fire from Einarr. Iobhar and Garrett sat on either side of him, filling the remaining space on the log; the seven clansmen behind seated themselves around their chief on the trampled grass.
    “There now,” said Einarr , seating himself once more. “Is this not nice? It is not as grand as what you must be accustomed to, I think, but still comfortable, no?”
    “Aye, ‘tis ,” Fearchar allowed. “Though we are no’ grand on Fara.”
    “You’re even less so now,” quipped one of the Vikings in Norse . To illustrate, he held up a pendant of gold and amber which had been taken in the raid. A round of cruel laughter followed his comment. The Fara men glanced questioningly amongst themselves, suspecting, but not quite understanding, the meaning of the jest.
    “So, Fearchar,” Einarr continued once the laughter had died down. Stumbling over the pronunciation of the name, he added, “Am I saying that right?”
    Fearchar shru gged his shoulders dismissively. “It is fine.”
    “No,” Einarr pressed, “please tell me. I would like to know the proper way. We