lighten
the ship.”
The Sea Wolf held a dragon’s hoard of
silver and fine pilfered goods. Kolgrim
wasn’t about to start dumping it. The longship shuddered, bowing
and flexing with each swell.
“Unless you want to swim
back to Dublin, it’s time to cut our
losses!” Jorand shipped the steering oar and struggled to his feet. He clambered over the rest of the crew to the shallow cargo hold near the
base of the mast. He drew out his knife
and sliced the ropes that bound a stack of
ale kegs. They rolled one after another
into the dark sea. The Sea Wolf lifted, riding lighter, but Jorand didn’t stop. He bent down to grapple with
a heavy, locked chest.
“I’ll lighten the ship,”
Kolgrim growled. He grabbed an oar and swung toward his onetime
partner. The flat blade connected with Jorand’s skull at the temple. Jorand reeled, lost his balance, and
tumbled into the sea after the ale kegs, never to be seen again.
The worst of it was that
Jorand had been right. In the end, they’d dumped all the cargo and barely
managed to ride out the storm without further loss among the crew.
But since then, the men had been sullen and spiritless.
It was all Jorand’s fault, really.
“There’s a monastery on the
island down the coast. You all saw it as we sailed by last night.
Inishmurray, they call it.” Kolgrim’s lip
curled in derision. “Chris tians! Their
coffers are always filled with silver and fineries and they trust naked hope to defend them. All we’re
likely to meet on that piece of rock are toothless old monks and
ball-less young ones. From what I’ve
heard, Inishmurray is ripe for the plucking.”
“ Ja, so you say.” The other sailor spat into
the waves. “But a man can’t be at his
fighting best when his stomach’s knocking on his
backbone.”
“You’ve the right of it,
Einar,” Kolgrim agreed, narrowing his eyes
at the lone figure ambling along the rocky
beach. The wind was at their backs and the Sea Wolf closed the distance with
the same silence and stealth as the
predator for which she was named.
The person on the beach
meandered along, pausing here and there to pick up oddly shaped
driftwood that made its way to the coast, obviously unaware of the
raiders’ approach. The captain of the longship recognized the sway of a skirt.
A woman.
“By Loki’s hairy arse, it
looks like there’ll be plenty of sport at
this stop.” Kolgrim’s voice sank to a rasp ing grunt. The woman’s golden-red hair flashed in a shaft of
sunlight that split the heavens and bathed her in its
glow.
Kolgrim felt himself fully
engorge. He favored red heads. “These
little Irish wenches always put up a grand tussle.”
Kolgrim guided the craft in
close, no farther than the length of two longships away from her.
The woman didn’t hear them coming until
the Sea Wolf’s hull scraped into the gritty sand.
She turned at the sound.
The girl was younger than he’d expected,
and pretty, her heart-shaped face white as moonstone. Kolgrim
could’ve sworn it went whiter still when she saw them. She was
afraid.
Good.
He leaped over the gunwale
into the shallow surf, leaving Einar and
the others to tie up the craft. The woman hoisted her skirt,
showing a nicely turned pair of calves.
The promise of more to
follow, he thought. She wheeled and ran, screaming at the top of her
lungs.
“Keefe!” she yelled. Her
piercing wail echoed off the rocky cliffs
that rose from the shore. “Keefe Murphy!”
“So much for not raising an alarm,” Kolgrim
grumbled under this breath.
He didn’t mind when a woman
fought back. In fact, he preferred it that
way. But he’d hoped to loot a farmstead or
two without attracting any of the local rabble. If the girl kept
caterwauling she’d bring the whole countryside down on them. Once
roused, the Irish were fair fighters.
“The little skirt better be
worth the trouble,” Einar called after
him.
Kolgrim caught up with her
in a few long strides and threw her to the
ground. Not too
the ship.”
The Sea Wolf held a dragon’s hoard of
silver and fine pilfered goods. Kolgrim
wasn’t about to start dumping it. The longship shuddered, bowing
and flexing with each swell.
“Unless you want to swim
back to Dublin, it’s time to cut our
losses!” Jorand shipped the steering oar and struggled to his feet. He clambered over the rest of the crew to the shallow cargo hold near the
base of the mast. He drew out his knife
and sliced the ropes that bound a stack of
ale kegs. They rolled one after another
into the dark sea. The Sea Wolf lifted, riding lighter, but Jorand didn’t stop. He bent down to grapple with
a heavy, locked chest.
“I’ll lighten the ship,”
Kolgrim growled. He grabbed an oar and swung toward his onetime
partner. The flat blade connected with Jorand’s skull at the temple. Jorand reeled, lost his balance, and
tumbled into the sea after the ale kegs, never to be seen again.
The worst of it was that
Jorand had been right. In the end, they’d dumped all the cargo and barely
managed to ride out the storm without further loss among the crew.
But since then, the men had been sullen and spiritless.
It was all Jorand’s fault, really.
“There’s a monastery on the
island down the coast. You all saw it as we sailed by last night.
Inishmurray, they call it.” Kolgrim’s lip
curled in derision. “Chris tians! Their
coffers are always filled with silver and fineries and they trust naked hope to defend them. All we’re
likely to meet on that piece of rock are toothless old monks and
ball-less young ones. From what I’ve
heard, Inishmurray is ripe for the plucking.”
“ Ja, so you say.” The other sailor spat into
the waves. “But a man can’t be at his
fighting best when his stomach’s knocking on his
backbone.”
“You’ve the right of it,
Einar,” Kolgrim agreed, narrowing his eyes
at the lone figure ambling along the rocky
beach. The wind was at their backs and the Sea Wolf closed the distance with
the same silence and stealth as the
predator for which she was named.
The person on the beach
meandered along, pausing here and there to pick up oddly shaped
driftwood that made its way to the coast, obviously unaware of the
raiders’ approach. The captain of the longship recognized the sway of a skirt.
A woman.
“By Loki’s hairy arse, it
looks like there’ll be plenty of sport at
this stop.” Kolgrim’s voice sank to a rasp ing grunt. The woman’s golden-red hair flashed in a shaft of
sunlight that split the heavens and bathed her in its
glow.
Kolgrim felt himself fully
engorge. He favored red heads. “These
little Irish wenches always put up a grand tussle.”
Kolgrim guided the craft in
close, no farther than the length of two longships away from her.
The woman didn’t hear them coming until
the Sea Wolf’s hull scraped into the gritty sand.
She turned at the sound.
The girl was younger than he’d expected,
and pretty, her heart-shaped face white as moonstone. Kolgrim
could’ve sworn it went whiter still when she saw them. She was
afraid.
Good.
He leaped over the gunwale
into the shallow surf, leaving Einar and
the others to tie up the craft. The woman hoisted her skirt,
showing a nicely turned pair of calves.
The promise of more to
follow, he thought. She wheeled and ran, screaming at the top of her
lungs.
“Keefe!” she yelled. Her
piercing wail echoed off the rocky cliffs
that rose from the shore. “Keefe Murphy!”
“So much for not raising an alarm,” Kolgrim
grumbled under this breath.
He didn’t mind when a woman
fought back. In fact, he preferred it that
way. But he’d hoped to loot a farmstead or
two without attracting any of the local rabble. If the girl kept
caterwauling she’d bring the whole countryside down on them. Once
roused, the Irish were fair fighters.
“The little skirt better be
worth the trouble,” Einar called after
him.
Kolgrim caught up with her
in a few long strides and threw her to the
ground. Not too
Similar Books
