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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

In the end, Hereward made us draw lots to see who would be on watch, while the rest gorged on roasted meat and smoked herring, drank Mancas’ fine ale and mead, and told tales and riddles into the night. Counting out a stalk of hay for each man, Hereward ripped three in half. Then, he placed all of the stalks, long and short, in his fist so that only the ends could be seen. We each picked one.

I had been crestfallen to pull a short straw from Hereward’s clenched hand. I knew the night would be long, and I did not relish the seemingly interminable darkness, alone with my thoughts, listening to the distant revelry coming from the hall.

I had been surprised when Drosten had reached over and exchanged his long stalk for my short one. The tattooed Pict had smiled.

“I don’t mind watching over her,” he said. “Just see that you bring me a flagon of ale.”

“I will,” I said, grinning.

“See that you bring my ale before you collapse. We all know you cannot handle your drink, Killer.” I frowned at his use of Gwawrddur’s name for me. But Drosten grinned and clapped me on the back and my anger quickly faded.

Now, with the golden light of the afternoon sun picking out all of the details of the ship’s sleek lines, I saw that Drosten was already here. Hereward had said that the night guard could first eat at the hall, before coming down to the wharf at dusk. Neither of the other guards was there yet. But they did not have the affinity for the ship that Drosten had. He had discovered that his hands, gifted as they were for fighting, also possessed the ability to create beauty. When Runolf had seen how the Pict worked the wood, how he could sense the flow of the grain, working with it to split and shape the timbers needed for the ribs, thwarts and strakes, the Norseman had given Drosten a huge piece of oak to carve.

I had watched them whispering over the hunk of timber, drawing on it with a piece of chalk, measuring out lines, sketching curves. It was to become the prow beast for the ship. One night in our hall, Drosten told Runolf he was not capable of such a task. It was too much responsibility.

“This is your fear talking,” Runolf said. “When you stand in battle, you are scared, no?”

Drosten shrugged. No man liked to be reminded of his fear.

“We are all scared,” Runolf said. “We fear what might be, the unknown. But still we fight.”

The other men nodded. Drosten shook his head.

“This is not the same,” he said. “I am fighting nobody here. There is just the oak. And me.”

Runolf nodded.