He was likely right. As they sailed closer, thewelcoming partygrew larger and not just in number.
Giric himself was taller than most men he knew, and he’d seen some massively built Vikings. But this lot must surely have descended from the giants in the old tales his grandfather had recited years earlier. Fierce warriors who could slay an entire village with one swing of their axes.
“Steady now,” Giric said to the men as they approached the long dock where several moored longships rested. He’d never seen such a well-built wharf in his life. And his lands included several port villages.
As the men secured the ship, the band of Viking warriors approached. Strategically, the long dock was quite clever. These warriors could easily overcome anyone who tried to gain access to the dwelling or even make landfall. The length of it gave them quite the advantage.
Giric stepped off the ship and onto the dock expecting it to give in some way for surely it would have to float. His legs stiffened when his foot hit solid plank. He wanted to look over the side to view the support posts, but he dared not tear his gaze away from the approaching threat. Drawing a deep breath, he stood his ground and let his arms fall to his sides.
They moved with such purpose, these warriors, their confidence evident in every step. Boots on plank echoed around him resembling battle drums. Giric had to admit they were a sight to behold with their thick, shaggy red, or blonde hair and beards, a mixture of furs and leather wrapped around every inch of their thick bodies and a weapon of some sort sticking out of every nook and cranny. They were made for killing and they made no bones about it.
The largest one stopped but a foot away from him. Surprisingly, he did not have to look up too far to meet the man’s icy stare.
“You are Giric MacDomnail,” the giant said, in surprisingly clear Scots. “I am Gunnar Haraldson, and you want to talk peace with me.”
“You speak our tongue,” Giric said.
“Of course. Do you not speak ours?”
That single point illustrated why the Vikings had been able to settle so successfully wherever they chose. They were fearless and intelligent, and anyone who underestimated that might as well pass over the keys to the castle.
“I do not, but not for lack of interest.”
Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “You say you want peace, yet every time we reach your shores, we meet with resistance. Why?”
The man was direct. That could make their discussion go much more smoothly—or end it before they began. Giric would take the same approach. “Because you have been known to take without asking.”
A big, meaty hand slapped Giric’s shoulder. He held his breath as Gunnar threw his head back and laughed.
“You are a funny little man, Giric MacDomnail. Come, let us drink a horn together and talk our business. You may take one man with you. My men will guard your ship and your men.”
Giric nodded and looked over his shoulder at a wide-eyed Osgar and motioned him forward with a flick of his head.
“Why is it necessary for your men to guard mine?” he asked Gunnar.
“You have much to learn, Giric. But do not worry, they will be safe, I assure you.”
“And me? Will I be safe?” As he asked the question, he noted the clouds had cleared and the calm waters of the bay reflected the deep blue sky above.
Gunnar threw his head back and laughed again. “I like you already. I think I might even offer you my sister.”
“Not if she looks like you,” Giric said. He wasn’t certain where his placidity had come from to offer such a jest, but something told him there was a lot more to these people than their outward barbaric visage.
“You do not think me pretty?” Gunnar asked with a sly grin.
“I own sheep prettier than you.”
Gunnar chuckled as they approached the structure that had intrigued him from offshore.
“Is that your home?”
“It is, ja.”
“Was it originally a ship?”
Gunnar shook his head. “Have you ever seen a ship that big?”
“No and that’s why I’m curious.”
