Isle of Fire by Wayne Thomas Batson Page B

he, you must know that Hrothgar is the lord of the Raukar!” The room exploded with noise as swords smacked upon shields and the blunt ends of spears were bounced hard on the ground. Lady Fleur’s heavy gaze roamed over Thorne thoughtfully.
    â€œI don’t wish to be called king or prince,” shouted Thorne. “Only captain. I want to lead you by the seas to battle, lead you to the grandeur that harsh ice and the outlanders took away from you hundreds of years ago.”
    The crowd went silent, and Hrothgar’s face reddened as he stood. “Our former kinsmen in the north have forsaken our gods, but the Raukar have endured. The Raukar serve the mighty Tyr!” Hrothgar slammed the flat of his axe against the tapestry behind him. The warriors bellowed their cheers.
    â€œYes!” Thorne exclaimed, his raspy voice rising above the din. “The god of war who alone of all the gods would place his hand in the jaws of Fenris—it is this courage that I seek. The courage to go to war against the enemy who surrounds you. You say the Raukar have not forsaken Tyr and yet,” Thorne paused to choose his words carefully, “and yet, here you are hidden away. A proud race, yes, but strangely dormant as those who do not follow Tyr own the seas and grow stronger.”
    The tumult grew loud behind them again, but this time there was more confusion as not all were in agreement. Finally, Lady Fleur raised a hand. The crowd went silent. “I do not trust this man,” said the Lady of the Raukar, “. . . whatever the books of lineage may say. His words ring true but appeal only to emotion, bringing dissent even into the hall of Hrothgar. I say he is a fraud. This book proves nothing.”
    â€œMy lady is wise,” said Hrothgar. “The Raukar have survived, nay flourished, these many years out of devotion to our beliefs. What did you think, Bartholomew Thorne . . . that we would blindly welcome you and give you a place of honor?”
    Thorne stared evenly at the chieftain, but he was not worried. Teach was. The quartermaster admired his captain but began to think that it was a grand mistake intruding on these proud Vikings. Teach scanned the room for a quick exit. He had several ceramic grenades in a pouch at his side and wondered if he’d have time to light one before one of the Raukar ran him through with a long spear.
    â€œLook around you, Thorne,” Hrothgar continued. “Each warrior in my hall has earned his honor, not with his mouth, but by his own sweat and blood. Eiríkr Thorvaldsson is a high lineage, but Lady Fleur is right to question your words, for any man may utter such. You must prove your worth.”
    â€œI am willing,” said Thorne.
    Hrothgar nodded. “We have a saying among the Raukar: True blood will be proved when it is spilled. If you are truly a descendant of Eiríkr Thorvaldsson, then you will prove it in the Bearpit.” A roar of agreement went up from the Raukar crowd. Teach lowered his hand toward the grenades, but a look from Thorne froze the quartermaster in place.
    Hrothgar silenced the room as he stood. “In the Bearpit, you will be tested in single combat by a warrior of my choosing.” Again the crowds became frenzied, but this time it was warriors volunteering to do battle. Hrothgar said, “Nay, my valiant Raukar, if this test is to ring true, if we are to discover whether Eiríkr Thorvaldsson lives in this man’s blood, he must face an ultimate challenge. For his opponent, I therefore choose: Bjorn Ingalad!”
    The crowd became ominously quiet. Bjorn stood up from his chair by Hrothgar’s side and glared at Thorne.
    â€œAs is our custom,” said Hrothgar, reaching into a black pouch at his side, “the winner will receive this!” He held aloft a slim, curved spike. “This bear tooth belongs to the man who emerges from the Bearpit alive!”
    Bartholomew Thorne noted once more the