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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

“Release him,” shouted Hereward, seeming to ignore Tannskári’s people, instead addressing the leader of the Picts.

I wondered at his words and surveyed the line of sombre-faced Picts. With a twist in my gut, I saw who Hereward was referring to. Near the centre of the Pictish line, struggling against the strong hands that held him, was Drosten. He snarled, and as I watched he attempted to smash the back of his head into the man restraining him from behind. But Drosten’s struggles were to no avail. One of the Picts punched him hard in the face, twisting his head sideways with the force of the blow. Blood trickled from Drosten’s split lip as another man clutched tightly his braided hair, pulling his head back savagely, exposing the corded muscles and tendons of his throat. With a whisper in Drosten’s ear, the man placed a vicious looking knife against the tattooed skin there. Drosten grew very still.

“Drosten mac Galanan will not be freed,” said the Pictish leader in passable Englisc. “His name is known to all our people. And,” he inclined his head towards Tannskári, “to our friends. Drosten has long been wanted for his crimes. He will be taken to stand before Causantín mac Fergusa for the charge of murder.”

“Drosten is one of my crew,” said Hereward, “and he will sail with us on the tide.”

“No, Saes.” The Pictish leader spat his people’s name for the men from the south as if it were a curse. “He is a kin-slayer. Killer of Eithne, bride of the king’s cousin, and he must pay.” The Pict’s words fell, heavy and final like stones piled atop a barrow. They had the heft of truth, but surely this could not be so. Drosten was a killer in battle, but this? To murder a woman, his kin? I could not believe it was so.

Drosten snarled some words in his tongue and sought to pull away from his captors. The man gripping his hair tugged and pressed the knife to his throat. A droplet of blood dribbled from the blade and Drosten ceased his struggling. His eyes burnt with a dreadful light in that grey morning.

The Pictish leader glared at Hereward. He made a show of slowly surveying the unarmed men to either side of the Northumbrian, then Tannskári’s armed Norsemen, then, finally, he opened his arms. His mist-soaked coat of metal was slick and glistening, highlighting as effectively as any words the point he was making. We were outnumbered by armed opponents. If we fought, we would surely be slain.

“You are lucky, Saes, that Tannskári is your friend. He made me agree to let the rest of you sail free. I would happily gut the lot of you.”

Hereward spat.

“Tannskári is no friend of mine. And we will not leave this island without Drosten.”