The World Above the Sky Read Online Free PDF Page A

vest and coarse wool undershirt over his head. He slid both down his sword arm to the blade itself. He whirled the sword in a great circle, slung mail and shirt off its tip toward the Skrelings. One advanced, then retreated, both attracted and repelled by the undershirt’s bearish stench. Athol unwrapped his great kilt, wound it around his forearm. Naked but for his great boots he stood, fearless and alone, his barrel chest expanded, its red hair matted with the sweat of battle and unwashed months at sea. His calf and thigh muscles tensed, then relaxed. He circled his head left then right, loosening the muscles of his shoulders and neck. His testicles, with minds of their own, drew snug to his body, less likely targets of stone-flake knives and sharp Skreling teeth. He exhaled. He filled his lungs. The ancient Celtish cry of war rose from a rumble low in his belly and burst forth in deep-throated whoops, bellows and growls.
    The Skrelings cocked their heads, like dogs listening to music, intrigued, but unable to make sense of the fantastic sounds.
    â€œStand where you are. I say, stand where you are, murderous little cutthroats,” he ordered. “Touch one man or that boat and by God above, in the name of His Holy Daughter, whom I love and serve, I will carve you, I say, I will carve you into quarters and feed you to the sea wolves.”
    A cry of rage rose among the Skrelings. They flooded the beach. In the manner of naked Celts in the flush of battle, Sir Athol’s manhood rose to full menace. Tree-trunk legs pumping, Sir Athol broke into a full, roaring run. His broadsword held aloft mimicked, in angle and intent, its fleshy prototype below.
    The little red-ochred men had never seen a berserker Norse or Scot in the full throes of battle madness. They split to the left and the right. Sir Athol turned and made for the boat where his men, ankle-deep in round stones, scrambled for a foothold.
    The Skrelings outflanked the Vikings and Celts and took to the water. Infuriated little bears on land, they became sleek otters and ravening sharks in the sea. Two of Athol’s men disappeared below the water. It bloomed red with their blood. Sir Athol was about to suffer their cut-tendon, slit-throat fate.
    Speeding through salt blood and water, Garathia flung herself with knee-wrenching fury against Sir Athol’s submerged attacker. Gunn tumbled into the curragh, rose to his knees. His broadsword slipped from his grip, fell to rest on the stones below. He propped his axe on the gunwale, urged his men to the oars.
    Eugainia felt Sir Athol Gunn’s sudden panic. She followed his line of vision. A new sound rumbled in Garathia’s ears. Orca! Garathia listened intently. Cod, like most fish, are sensitive to motion but deaf to sound. The killer whales know mammals’ underwater hearing is acute. They’re chatty creatures when hunting cod, Garathia warned. They hunt seal and walrus, the great ice bear and men in lethal silence.
    The black-and-white sea wolves went suddenly, eerily, quiet. Garathia knew they smelled blood. She peered above the surface, sculled quietly. Three sets of slick, towering black fins—two old Orca bulls and a young cow—carved a steady course toward them. Three or four others, she couldn’t be certain of the number, followed. Garathia slipped below the surface. Six, maybe seven in all. Coming fast. She turned and sped out to sea.
    On Reclamation , Eugainia, caught between life and death—her death and the life of her child—moaned.
    In the ocean, she and her Selkie mother knew hope lay in greater depths. A black shadow loomed above. Eugainia recoiled instinctively as Garathia veered. Both were relieved when oar blades cut the surface. Garathia cut a wake at the curragh’s bow. Sir Athol missed the Selkie’s leap but heard her splash. He caught the second leap and smiled. The seal flipped mid-air, landed with a full-belly-smack, drawing the Orca’s