hard, of course. If he
knocked her out and she lay there unconscious, it would take all the fun out of it. He didn’t fancy rutting
a corpse.
But this quarry was far from docile. Her arms
and legs windmilled at him. She hissed and spat like a cornered
lynx. When her nails raked his cheek, he roared with laughter.
“Einar, hurry up and come hold her for me,”
Kolgrim said. “The little hussy wants to play, but I don’t want her
messing up my pretty face.”
Einar sprinted to them. Then he dropped to
his knees in the sand and forced a length of cloth between the
girl’s teeth. He jerked it tight and knotted it behind her slender
neck.
“That should shut her up,” Einar said. Then
he caught her flailing hands and pinned them above her head.
Two other crewmen grabbed her legs, spreading
them wide, and straddled her ankles. The other sailors crowded
around, leering down at the girl wolfishly.
“Hurry up, Cap’n,” one of them said. “There’s
an even dozen of us waiting.”
Kolgrim rucked up the girl’s tunic, exposing
her delicate pale flesh and a neat triangle of coppery curls. He
smiled in satisfaction. She was definitely worth the trouble. The
terror in her wide green eyes was an added treat.
He fumbled with the drawstring at the waist
of his trews.
“A damned knot.”
He drew out his long knife and sliced the
string. But before he could lower his leggings, a sound split the
air around them.
It was an enraged bellow,
too full of wrath to be an animal, too
feral to be fully human. The roar bounded off the cliff face and
repeated itself in a ghostly echo.
Kolgrim looked up to see a warrior rounding
the point, charging toward them. The man’s fair hair streamed
behind him, his face distorted with fury, and in his upraised fist,
he brandished the tool of a shipwright, a sharp-edged adze.
“It’s Jorand!” one of the sailors cried.
“Or his shade,” another
voice quavered. “He’s come up from Hel to
drag us back down with him.”
“Captain never should have
tossed him over board,” said the first.
“Bad luck, said I.”
“I’ll not fight a ghost!”
More than half of Kolgrim’s crew turned
and fled back to the longship.
Jorand roared again as he
closed the distance. Einar was slow to
scrabble to his feet and never quite managed it. The phantom warrior buried his adze in the base of Einar’s skull, nearly decapitating
him with one stroke.
Then Jorand’s shade
wrenched the weapon free and sliced its
wicked edge across another crewman’s gut.
The sailor screamed, clutching at his vitals as they spilled from his body in stinking gore.
“Jorand,” Kolgrim said
woodenly, his feet frozen to the
spot.
It couldn’t be. The
shipbuilder had drowned. By now, Jorand’s body must surely have
been picked clean by the denizens of the deep and his soul
con signed to icy Niflheim, the bleakest
corner of Hel.
Yet Jorand’s ghost stood
before him, furious and quivering in a
black berserkr rage. The phantom’s heavily muscled
right arm swung the adze again. This time one of Kolgrim’s crew
took the killing stroke right across his throat. Blood spurted like
a fountain, painting a red streak across Jorand’s face and heaving
chest.
Kolgrim’s erection
shriveled and his bowels threat ened to
loosen on the spot. There was no sense in fighting a ghost. The dead had nothing to lose.
He held tightly to the waist of his trews and
fled, terror giving him wings.
Before he shoved his vessel
into the surf and bounded over the side, he turned to see
another wounded raider sinking with
finality onto the beach.
The ghost of Jorand stood
over the splayed body of the girl,
defending her against all comers. It roared at Kolgrim, slashing the deadly adze over its head.
“Row!” Kolgrim bellowed to
what was left of his crew. “Row, damn you,
or I’ll kill you myself!”
Chapter Eight
He bellowed once more at
the retreating raiders. The unholy sound poured from him as he
expelled all
knocked her out and she lay there unconscious, it would take all the fun out of it. He didn’t fancy rutting
a corpse.
But this quarry was far from docile. Her arms
and legs windmilled at him. She hissed and spat like a cornered
lynx. When her nails raked his cheek, he roared with laughter.
“Einar, hurry up and come hold her for me,”
Kolgrim said. “The little hussy wants to play, but I don’t want her
messing up my pretty face.”
Einar sprinted to them. Then he dropped to
his knees in the sand and forced a length of cloth between the
girl’s teeth. He jerked it tight and knotted it behind her slender
neck.
“That should shut her up,” Einar said. Then
he caught her flailing hands and pinned them above her head.
Two other crewmen grabbed her legs, spreading
them wide, and straddled her ankles. The other sailors crowded
around, leering down at the girl wolfishly.
“Hurry up, Cap’n,” one of them said. “There’s
an even dozen of us waiting.”
Kolgrim rucked up the girl’s tunic, exposing
her delicate pale flesh and a neat triangle of coppery curls. He
smiled in satisfaction. She was definitely worth the trouble. The
terror in her wide green eyes was an added treat.
He fumbled with the drawstring at the waist
of his trews.
“A damned knot.”
He drew out his long knife and sliced the
string. But before he could lower his leggings, a sound split the
air around them.
It was an enraged bellow,
too full of wrath to be an animal, too
feral to be fully human. The roar bounded off the cliff face and
repeated itself in a ghostly echo.
Kolgrim looked up to see a warrior rounding
the point, charging toward them. The man’s fair hair streamed
behind him, his face distorted with fury, and in his upraised fist,
he brandished the tool of a shipwright, a sharp-edged adze.
“It’s Jorand!” one of the sailors cried.
“Or his shade,” another
voice quavered. “He’s come up from Hel to
drag us back down with him.”
“Captain never should have
tossed him over board,” said the first.
“Bad luck, said I.”
“I’ll not fight a ghost!”
More than half of Kolgrim’s crew turned
and fled back to the longship.
Jorand roared again as he
closed the distance. Einar was slow to
scrabble to his feet and never quite managed it. The phantom warrior buried his adze in the base of Einar’s skull, nearly decapitating
him with one stroke.
Then Jorand’s shade
wrenched the weapon free and sliced its
wicked edge across another crewman’s gut.
The sailor screamed, clutching at his vitals as they spilled from his body in stinking gore.
“Jorand,” Kolgrim said
woodenly, his feet frozen to the
spot.
It couldn’t be. The
shipbuilder had drowned. By now, Jorand’s body must surely have
been picked clean by the denizens of the deep and his soul
con signed to icy Niflheim, the bleakest
corner of Hel.
Yet Jorand’s ghost stood
before him, furious and quivering in a
black berserkr rage. The phantom’s heavily muscled
right arm swung the adze again. This time one of Kolgrim’s crew
took the killing stroke right across his throat. Blood spurted like
a fountain, painting a red streak across Jorand’s face and heaving
chest.
Kolgrim’s erection
shriveled and his bowels threat ened to
loosen on the spot. There was no sense in fighting a ghost. The dead had nothing to lose.
He held tightly to the waist of his trews and
fled, terror giving him wings.
Before he shoved his vessel
into the surf and bounded over the side, he turned to see
another wounded raider sinking with
finality onto the beach.
The ghost of Jorand stood
over the splayed body of the girl,
defending her against all comers. It roared at Kolgrim, slashing the deadly adze over its head.
“Row!” Kolgrim bellowed to
what was left of his crew. “Row, damn you,
or I’ll kill you myself!”
Chapter Eight
He bellowed once more at
the retreating raiders. The unholy sound poured from him as he
expelled all
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