WAIN OLAF'S son stood on the battlements of Lambaborg and stared down at the gray North Sea and the single, bluff-bowed craft that was scudding before the Spring gale out of the north. For a moment he thought of ordering his own men into the dragon, Deathbringer, that tugged impatiently at taut moorings in the cove beneath the headland, but a second glance assured him of two things—the stranger was neither large enough to be a menace nor rich enough to warrant a sally in such a sea, and in any case, she was edging into shore with the obvious purpose of making the shelter of the cove.
"No Norseman," he muttered to himself. "Scotch, by every line of her. Yet she must come from the Orkneys or beyond. Perhaps she'll carry word from Jarl Paul."
He waited until she was safe under the headland, then descended from the wall and crossed the court to the skalli which occupied its center, ringed by the huts of the sturdy viking-farers who shared the lot of his outlawry. Here he tarried long enough to thrust his head inside the aleroom to bellow an order to the Italian cook he had captured on last Summer's cruise, and passed out the gate. At the foot of the cliff he met a crowd of his men escorting a man and woman, who led a handsome boy just out of babyhood. They were all three richly clad, and the elders moved with an air of assurance, despite the menacing walls of the borg and the savage vikings who surrounded them. But Swain had known many fugitives who were richly clad in the beginnings of their flights, and he frowned.
"Who are you?" he demanded abruptly, as they stopped at his approach. "If you have come here for mercy or for protection you have your trouble for your pains. I am an outlaw, and these men with me are outlaws, too. We have no friends; we give no protection; we show no mercy."
Both the men and the woman laughed.
"I can see that you are Swain Olaf's son," said the man.
"It would be strange if you could not," Swain retorted.
"We know you because you have a rough tongue and a quick tongue, as all men say," answered the woman.
"The winds blow your words away," said Swain impatiently. "You have not told me who you are."
"I am Jarl Maddad of Atjoklar," answered the man, "and this is Margaret, my wife. We have been to visit her brother, Jarl Paul, at Orphir, and we stopped on our voyage home to Scotland because we have news of the Orkneys which we thought might interest you."
Swain's face cleared.
"Have you a message from Jarl Paul, lady?" he asked Margaret eagerly.
She shook her head.
"No, Swain, we heard only complaints of you from Jarl Paul."
This time Swain looked from one to the other of them, puzzled. He paid no attention to the child, even when the boy fearlessly came toward him and fingered the scabbard of his sword.
"Come," he said finally. "If you have sailed this far to visit me, at the least you shall have such hospitality as I can offer. We will talk later."
He led the way back up the path to the gate in the wall of the borg which crowned the summit of the headland. At the gate the woman halted to inspect the view.
"A choice hold for an outlaw," she remarked.
"It serves," rejoined Swain.
"How long has it been?" she inquired softly.
"Two years."
"A long time, Swain. They say Asleif, your mother, weeps for you."
Swain cursed under his breath.
"In the skalli we will talk," he said. "But I warn you that you do not commend yourself to me. You are Jarl Paul's sister, to begin with, and you have a trick of annoying me, to cap it off. It is true that the Scots king would make trouble for me if I did away with you, but there are other places than Lambaborg I know of, and no Jarl's anger or king's rage can keep me from visiting punishment where I think it due."
"That is your reputation, Swain," the man interposed hastily. "We have come here to do you a service."
"That is to be seen," said Swain, and turned on his heel.
At the skalli door he dismissed the throng of vikings with a gesture, and ushered his guests into the hall, where the high table was ready spread. And not another word did he speak until they had eaten and their ale-horns were filled. After his own custom, he drank water from a cup, and at the end of the meal the man spoke of this.
"They say you killed Swain Briostreip, Jarl Paul's forecastle man, because he called you a water-drinker, Swain."
"They say lies," returned Swain curtly. "I slew him because he forced a fight upon me. It was his life or mine. Moreover, he was a black sorcerer, as ail men know.
"My version is Jarl Paul's," answered Jarl Maddad.