The Outcasts Read Free Page B

live, he had shown the utter contempt with which he and his companion regarded these neophyte warriors. Such disregard made the Iberians even more uncertain.
    “I think you’ve made them nervous.” Mikkel grinned at his friend.
    Thorn shrugged. “So they should be. They shouldn’t be allowed out with pointy sticks like that. They’re more danger to themselves than anyone else.”
    “Let’s see them off,” said Mikkel. “They’re starting to annoy me.”
    Without any warning, the two Skandians brandished their weapons and charged at the small group of horsemen, screaming battle cries as they went.
    The shock of it all was too much for the demoralized group of riders. They saw the terrifying warriors charging across open ground at them and each one was convinced that he was the target they were aiming for. One of them wheeled his horse and clapped spurs to its flanks, dropping his spear as his horse lurched suddenly beneath him. His action was infectious. Within seconds, all four horsemen were steaming across the plain in a ragged line, the riderless horse with them, and their dismounted companion stumbling awkwardly behind them, encumbered by his thigh-high riding boots, spurs and flapping, empty scabbard.
    Mikkel and Thorn stopped and rested on their weapons, roaring with laughter at the sight.
    “I do hope they get home all right,” Mikkel said and Thorn laughed all the louder.
    “Are you ladies ready to join us?” It was Svengal, sent back with five men to reinforce the rearguard. “It seems you don’t need any help.”
    Still laughing, Thorn and Mikkel sheathed their weapons and walked back to join Svengal and the others at the mouth of the defile.
    “You should have seen it, Svengal,” Mikkel began. “Thorn here simply frightened them away. The sight of his ugly face was too much for them. It even made a horse fall over.”
    Svengal let go a short bark of laughter. Hurrying up the defile at the head of the reinforcements, he had seen how Thorn dealt with the charging rider. He was impressed. He knew he could never have pulled that move off. In fact, he couldn’t think of anyone other than Thorn who might have managed it.
    “Well, you played your part too,” Thorn was saying in reply. “Although I must admit I was magnificent.”
    “I’m not sure that’s the word I’d—” Mikkel raised his arm to clap his friend on the shoulder when the spear hit him.
    It came out of nowhere. Later, thinking over the event, Thorn realized it must have been the spear dropped by the first of the fleeing horsemen. He surmised that one of the following townspeople, overcome with rage and frustration, had retrieved it and hurled it blindly at the Skandians, then run for his life into the scrub and rocks before he could see the result.
    The result could not have been worse. The heavy iron head penetrated underneath Mikkel’s raised arm, burying itself deep in his upper body. He let go a small cry and fell to his knees, then crumpled sideways. Horrified, Thorn dropped to the ground beside his friend, seeing the pallor of Mikkel’s face as the life drained from his body.
    “Sword … ,” Mikkel gasped. If a sea wolf died in battle without a weapon in his hand, his soul would wander in the netherworld for eternity. Svengal had already drawn his own sword and thrust it into Mikkel’s groping fingers. The stricken man looked up in thanks, then turned his gaze to his best friend.
    “Thorn,” he said, the effort of speaking that one word almost too great.
    Thorn bent his head close to Mikkel’s. “Hold on, Mikkel. We’ll get you to the ship.”
    Somehow, the ship meant safety and salvation, as if the simple act of being on board could negate the effects of the terrible, life-sapping wound in Mikkel’s side. But Mikkel knew better. He shook his head.
    “My wife … and the boy … look out for them, Thorn.”
    Thorn’s vision blurred with tears as he gripped his friend’s hand, making sure that Mikkel’s grip