Swain's Stone

By Arthur D. Howden

Swain's Stone by Arthur D. Howden is about hunter Swain and a mysterious stone he finds on his hunts. Excerpt: "Swain pushed on through the low, dwarf trees of the wood, trees that had been battered and shoved and bent into caricatures of themselves by centuries of booming winds. He was sure, now, that he had missed the reindeer stag at the streamlet far back beyond the scaur of Nafar, but he heard in the distance the sounding roar of the surf and so he continued…"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 4064066434540

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Arthur D. Howden

Swain's Stone

Published by Good Press, 2020

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EAN 4064066434540

Table of Contents

SWAIN'S STONE

by Arthur D. Howden

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

SWAIN pushed on through the low, dwarf trees of the wood, trees that had been battered and shoved and bent into caricatures of themselves by centuries of booming winds. He was sure, now, that he had missed the reindeer stag at the streamlet far back beyond the scaur of Nafar, but he heard in the distance the sounding roar of the surf and so he continued, hoping that he might be fortunate enough to encounter some belated fisherman who would save him the long tramp home to Dungalsbae along the rocky shore.

The sun was near to the ocean's western rim as he burst through the last copse and gained the verge of the broken cliffs, a ball of crimson, incandescently aflame, flooding the burnished surface of the water with a peculiarly hard, glittering light. There was an effect of stillness, which halted him in his tracks. The cliffs stood up to right and left as far as he could see, iron-bare, savage, menacing. Over the gravel beach at their foot waves rolled with a continuous, grinding beat. And far across the restless waters of Pentland Firth the opposite cliffs of Straumsey stood up like a great ship in the waste of waters.

His eyes swept the scene with instinctive pride. As a picture, of course, it meant nothing to him—except the thought that here his father ruled under the Two Jarls, aye, from the shores of the firth southward across the dales and hills of Caithness into the depths of Sudrland, where the dimly defined marches of Scotland began—the last outpost of the Norse power. But the pride gave way to surprize, and then anger, as his gaze dropped to the rock-bound cove of Morkaorsbakki, almost a stone's throw beneath him.

A long dragonship was fending in betwixt the treacherous reefs, its crawling oars swift to respond to the steering sweeps astern, and behind it followed two ten-oared barges, all three craft crowded with people and heaped high with gear. Who came to these waters unannounced? Strangers, for certain. For Swain had left his father's stead at Dungalsbae that morning, and no word of visitors had been received up to that time.

Were they far rovers from the Norse viks, or Iceland outlaws or fierce freebooters from the Sudreyar? Whoever they were, they must answer to Olaf of Dungalsbae, and whichever of his sons came first upon them. Swain's action was as instinctive as his first feeling of pride in the vista of lands and waters he helped to rule. He strode down from the cliffs, without even staying to loosen his sword or draw an arrow from his quiver.

When he reached the pebbly beach the nose of the dragonship had taken ground and from her starboard gunwale a long plank had been outthrust to land. A group of men stood amongst the boulders about a woman, and servants were shifting bundles ashore. The newcomers saw Swain when he was still out of earshot, and they watched his approach with a curiosity savored with amusement. It was almost as if he were the tresspasser

, and not they, and he fumed with a young man's wrath, under the mockery of their eyes. He clinched his bow-stave very tight; a frown wrinkled his forehead, and his lips under the down of his new beard met in a straight line.

Who are you? he called.

The group fell apart, leaving two who stood advanced, the woman and a youth of Swain's years, swart-skinned and black of hair where Swain was fair and ruddy. The woman was as tall as a man. Her hair was long and gray. But it was her face that caught Swain's attention, and held it. It was full and unlined, and her eyes were a bleak green. They made mock of him without changing their expression.

And who are you? she answered.

The youth at her side bellowed with laughter, and a chuckle came from the housecarles and servants at their back. The work of unloading the longship was abandoned that all might enjoy the baiting of Swain.

I am Swain Olaf's son, replied Swain, battling with his temper. None lands here without rendering account to my father, who governs this land for the Two Jarls.

A second laugh greeted this.

What two Jarls? demanded the dark young man.

Jarl Paul and Jarl Harald, said Swain, puzzled. It is plainly to be seen that you are not Orkney-born.

There was a third bellow of laughter, louder and more prolonged.

We do not know the Two Jarls, returned the dark young man.

Nay, there are no longer two jarls, added the gray-haired woman with the cold, green eyes.

Now, do I know you are outlanders, insisted Swain, "and I warn you it is ill-doing, whether you come in dragonship or barge, to make merry with the Two Jarls, for their rule runs from Fridarey to