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Back A Night of Flames
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

I had been in the first group of rowers and had grudgingly taken my place atop my sea chest, lending my strength to the task of pulling the ship back towards the safety of shore. When rowing a longship, your world shrinks. There is nothing save your oar, the oarsmen closest to you, the sky above, and your view of the stern of the ship. You become acutely aware of the grain of the wood on the oar’s loom and handle, every rough edge. Each burst blister and every throbbing muscle grows in your mind until you can scarcely imagine anything else. You cannot see where you are heading. You must place your trust fully in the skipper. After a time, you fall into a dozing daze, where your body pulls at the wood in your hand, leaning back and breathing in unison with the rest of the oarsmen fore and aft. But before you reach that level of exhaustion, with nothing else to occupy your mind, your thoughts and worries flap inside your thought-cage like a flock of angry gulls behind a fishing boat. You swoop and pick at decisions you have made, like fish guts thrown into the surf. Your mind conjures up the faces of those you have wronged, reminds you of sins committed in the past, and offers you a fearful, gloom-laden glimpse into what the future might hold.

Such was the state of my mind, turning over all the things that had befallen me since that bloody dawn on Lindisfarnae, the men I had killed, and the friends I had lost. I saw Cormac, Cwenswith, relived my part in Wistan’s death. I was thinking of the building of Brymsteda, and of this mad venture to go in search of Aelfwyn, when Drosten broke into my reverie. He placed a hand upon my shoulder as he passed, stepping carefully along the length of the ship as he made his way to the stern. Glad of the distraction from my over-full mind, I watched the Pict go, admiring the easy grace of the natural warrior and sailor. He halted beside Runolf and the two men began speaking. I would not have heard their words over the waves, the squeaking oars in the oarlocks, and the rhythmic grunting of the men as they leaned into the rowing, if Drosten had not raised his voice. The sharp sound of his anger caught me by surprise, startling me. A few of the oars clattered together as others missed their strokes, and I knew from the hush that fell over the crew that everyone was listening.

“I told you,” snapped Drosten, his face growing red behind his tattoos, “I cannot return.”

Runolf glanced past the Pict at the faces of the crew. Frowning, he spoke quietly enough that I could hear nothing save for the rumble of his voice.

Drosten shook his head.

“Why can we not continue across the sea?” he asked.