Read Online The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online

She was longer and leaner, with rakish lines and trim that had once been gaudy. The sight jolted Maeloch. He felt sure he knew her aforetime.
    Subne led him to the first. Those were two separateencampments. Such bands tried to keep peace, and mingled somewhat with each other, but had learned not to put much trust in their own tempers.
    Scoti sprang to their feet, seized arms, calmed as they recognized comrades, and gathered around. They did not crowd or babble like city folk; their stares were keen and their speech lilted softly. Subne raised his voice: “Chieftain, we’ve brought you the captain of the outland ship.”
    A man bent to pass under the door of the largest hut nearby, trod forth, straightened his wide-shouldered leanness. Behind him a young woman peeked out, grimy and frightened. Maeloch saw a few more like her in the open, natives commandeered to char, cook, and be passed from man to man.
    His attention went to the leader. Eochaid maqq Éndae, was that the name? The king’s son was well dressed in woad-blue shirt, fur-trimmed leather coat, kilt, buskins, though the garments showed soot and wear. His age was hard to guess. Gait, thews, black locks and beard seemed youthful, but the blue eyes looked out of a face furrowed and somber. It would have been a handsome face apart from what weather had done to the light skin, had not three blotchy scars discolored it on cheeks and brow.
    His gaze dwelt for a moment on Maeloch’s grizzled darkness and bearlike build. When he spoke, it was in accented but reasonably good Redonic, not too unlike the Osismiic dialect: “If you come in honesty, have no fear. You shall be scatheless. Say forth your name and people.”
    He must have visited himself on these parts before and at length, Maeloch decided; and he was no witless animal. An outright lie would be foolhardy. The fisherman repeated what he had told Subne, but in the Gallic language and adding that he was from Ys.
    Eochaid raised brows. “Sure and it’s early in the year for venturing forth.”
    “We carry a message. We’re under … gess … not to tell any but him it’s for.”
    “They know not gess in Ys. Well, if you gave an oath, I must respect it. Nonetheless—” Eochaid reached a swift decision, as appeared to be his way, and addressed a man, who sped off. “We must talk further, Maeloch,” he resumedin the Gallic tongue. “The Dani over there have lately been in Ys. I’ve sent for their captain. First you shall have a welcoming cup.”
    He settled himself cross-legged on the ground. Maeloch did likewise. The hut was unworthy of a chieftain entertaining a guest, at least in clear weather. Eochaid gestured. His wench scurried to bring two beakers—Roman silver, Roman wine, loot. A number of warriors hung about, watching and listening although few could have followed the talk. Others drifted off to idle, gamble, sharpen their weapons, whatever they had been doing. All had grown restless, waiting on the island.
    “You can better give me news of Ys than Gunnung,” Eochaid said. “He was there two months agone; but a German would surely miss much and misunderstand much else.” The marred visage contorted in a grin. “Beware of repeating that to him.” His intent was obvious, playing Northman off against Armorican in hopes of getting a tale more full and truthful than either alone might yield.
    Bluntness was Maeloch’s wont. “What d’ye care, my lord? Foemen break their bones on the wall of Ys and go down to the eels in the skerries around.”
    For an instant he thought Eochaid had taken mortal offense, so taut did the countenance grow. Then, stiffly, the Scotian replied: “Every man in Ériu remembers how Niall maqq Echach won sorrow there. Will Ys seek to entrap the likes of me too? I should find out ere I again sail near.”
    Maeloch knew what was in his mind. Scoti had learned from the disaster and from the later strengthening of the Ysan navy to confine their raids to Britannia—until