Page 4 of The Blue Viking

“It does not have the same ring to it,” Bolthor said.

I would like to give you a ring, you dumb dolt. More like a ringing in the ears from a sound whack aside the head with a broadsword.

Then Bolthor added, more soberly, “Methinks ’tis time to put an end to this fruitless venture and admit defeat.”

“A Viking never admits defeat,” Rurik reminded him.

Bolthor shook his head in disagreement. “Vikings never admit that they admit defeat.” That was the kind of daft logic Bolthor came up with all the time.

“I say we behead every Scotsman and Scotswoman we come across,” Stigand interjected. “That will flush the witch out of her lair, I predict.”

Everyone looked at Stigand with horror. It was one thing to spill sword-dew in the midst of battle, but to kill innocent people… even if they were scurvy Scots? ’Twas unthinkable.

Vikings had their ethics, despite the English monk-historians in their scriptoriums, who liked to picture Norsemen as rapers and pillagers. Hah! Every good Viking knew that the Church amassed gold and silver in its chalices and whatnots just to tempt Norsemen. Besides, it was a well-known fact that Vikings invigorated the races of all those Christian countries they conquered. And didn’t they embrace Christianity itself … even if it was only a token embrace?

But, back to Stigand. Rurik knew about the horrors that Stigand had suffered in his youth… horrors that had caused his mind to split. But what had happened to him over the years to make the adult man so hard?

Fortunately, Rurik did not have to respond to Stigand’s suggestion because one of the twins, Toste, spoke up. “I have grown accustomed to the blue mark on your face, Rurik. Really, ’tis not so bad. If that is the only reason for continuing this quest… well, perchance you should reconsider.”

“The wenches seem to have no problem with it, either,” Vagn added. “Yestereve that farmsteader’s daughter picked you for swiving above all of us, and I’ll have you know that I am renowned for my good looks. Godly handsome is how the wenches describe me.”

“I did not swive—” Rurik started to demur, then gave up, throwing his hands in the air with disgust. But then he added drolly, “I thought it was your knack the women coveted.”

“That, too,” Vagn said with a grin.

“I’m more handsome than you are.” Toste challenged his brother.

“Nay, I am more handsome than all of you,” Bolthor proclaimed, which was so ridiculous it did not even bear comment.

“I think Rurik is the most handsome,” Jostein piped up. Jostein was suffering a severe case of hero worship and had been since Rurik rescued him when he was ten years old from a Saracen slave trader with a proclivity for male children.

“Bugger all of you,” Stigand said with a mild roar. “I am the most handsome and anyone who disagrees can taste the flavor of my blade.” He rubbed a callused forefinger along the sharp edge of Blood-Lover for emphasis.

No one disagreed with Stigand, though he resembled a wild boar. Mayhap he was a handsome fellow, but who could tell how he really looked under his unruly beard and mustache? He had not shaved in the past few years.

“I have three more months left,” Rurik told them with a weary sigh. “Theta gave me two years to have the blue mark removed afore she would wed me. And that time does not end till autumn … three months from now. I do not intend to give up till then.”

“Three months! Twelve more sennights!” Vagn griped. “It might as well be a year. Remember one thing, Rurik. Friends are like lute strings; they must not be strung too tight, and we all in your troop are overstrung, believe you me.”

“Lute strings? Lute strings?” Rurik sputtered.

“Precisely,” Vagn said. “I am sick to death of moors and Highlands and Lowlands … and quarrelsome Scotsmen.”

Stigand tilted his head to the side, as if thinking hard. “I rather like the quarrelsome Scotsmen. They give me an excuse to hone my fighting skills.” He ducked his head sheepishly and added, “They remind me a bit of us Vikings.”

Everyone gawked at him as if he had gone senseless … which he probably had, long ago … after his first hundred or so kills. Perhaps even long before that.

“ ’Tis true,” Stigand insisted. “They are proud, and independent, and good fighters. And they hate the Saxons the same as we do. So, we have something in common.”

“They hate Vikings, too,” Rurik pointed out.

That contradiction went right over Stigand’s head. Seeing their lack of accord with him, Stigand continued, “Even their practice of constant reaving—stealing shamelessly from their neighbors—is not unlike us Men of the North who enjoy a-Viking on occasion.”

They all shook their heads at Stigand’s thinking, even though it had some validity to it.

“What I hate most about Scotland is the haggis,” Jostein said, gagging as he spoke. “I swear, ’tis a concoction the Scots devised to poison us Norsemen. ’Tis worse than gammelost, and that smelly cheese is very bad.”

Rurik nodded in agreement. Once he had been on a sea voyage in which their food stores had been reduced to gammelost. By the time their longship had finally arrived back in Norway, all the seamen’s breaths reeked like the back end of a goat.