Isle of Fire by Wayne Thomas Batson Page A

monstrous man to be the chieftain of the Raukar.
    Guthrum spoke to the man, and he glanced down at Thorne and laughed. Thorne understood the insult, but kept his tongue for the moment. The dark-haired man stroked his beard and then stood at last. He walked behind the tapestries and disappeared. A few moments later he reappeared with two others, a man and a woman. Thorne knew immediately that he had been mistaken about the chieftain, for surely this new man was he, and the lady his wife. The lord wore no helmet, but a golden circlet rested on his brow. He had large, deep-set green eyes and a mane of hair both blond and white. Upon his massive chest lay a dark corselet of mail whose rings were so small and intricate that none could see where one began or ended. His golden beard was forked and the two ends were braided. A silver pendant shaped like a hammer hung from his neck. He looked like he’d weathered many years, but his muscular build and the great axe he carried suggested that age had not diminished him in the least.
    The woman at his side had the same ageless quality. Her face was smooth and serene. A silver circlet rested on her forehead above her deep blue eyes, and her hair was woven into a long braid that wound down her neck and over her shoulder. She seemed queenly and wise and placed her hand lightly on the forearm of her husband.
    Once the lord and lady were seated, the dark-haired warrior with the tooth necklace took his place at their right hand. He turned to the lord and spoke gruffly. Thorne had had enough of his coarse humor, so he spoke in their language, “Ni skamtar pa egen risk—”
    â€œI speak your tongue, outlander, . . . far better than you speak mine,” said the chieftain. “Perhaps Bjorn’s humor is lost on you, but it is a joy to me. And in the abode of the Raukar, I assure you, peril lies most heavily upon you.” His stare burned like coals and lingered on Thorne for several moments. Thorne did not look away. “I am Hrothgar, steward of this people, and this is my wife, Fleur, who answers to no man but me. You are fortunate to gain audience here. Guthrum believes you have a claim. If that is so, then state your claim now, for my patience is fleeting.”
    Thorne had strangled the last man who spoke to him with such impudence, but greater diplomacy was called for here. “Lord Hrothgar,” Thorne began, “it is indeed a rare honor to stand before you, but forgive me if I do not quake in fear or bow my head as one of lesser standing. I am Bartholomew Thorne, or the name your people might more readily understand: Bartholomew Gunnarson Thorne.”
    Hrothgar raised an eyebrow, out of amusement or interest, Thorne could not tell, so he continued. “I am descended in an unbroken line from Eiríkr Thorvaldsson, and I have come to the Raukar, not to beg, but to lead them.” An angry murmur surrounded Thorne and his men. Apparently many of the Raukar could understand English.
    Hrothgar was unmoved. He motioned to Guthrum, who took Thorne’s book and laid it in his chieftain’s lap. Hrothgar traced the border of the thick volume with his finger and then gently opened the book. He smiled as he slowly looked over the account of Erik the Red’s many voyages. Then he found the diagram in the back, the family tree. Thorne watched Hrothgar’s finger descend to the bottom, watched him pause, and watched his face grow taut. The chieftain whispered something to Bjorn, who practically leaped from his chair. He once again disappeared behind the tapestry and returned with another book, which he handed to his leader. Hrothgar opened the second volume to a well-worn page and began to look back and forth between the two books. He grunted something unintelligible and handed the second book back to Bjorn.
    â€œBartholomew Gunnarson is a name of pure lineage,” Hrothgar said. “It is a high name and demands authority, but if you are indeed