A moment later he realized he was looking at something even worse than a monster: it was a Viking ship, with a dragon head at the tip of its long, curved prow.
Another came into view, then a third, then a fourth. Their sails were taut with the quickening southwesterly breeze, and the light vessels were moving fast through the waves. Edgar sprang to his feet.
The Vikings were thieves, rapists, and murderers. They attacked along the coast and up rivers. They set fire to towns, stole everything they could carry, and murdered everyone except young men and women, whom they captured to sell as slaves.
Edgar hesitated a moment longer.
He could see ten ships now. That meant at least five hundred Vikings.
Were these definitely Viking ships? Other builders had adopted their innovations and copied their designs, as Edgar himself had. But he could tell the difference: there was a coiled menace in the Scandinavian vessels that no imitators had achieved.
Anyway, who else would be approaching in such numbers at dawn? No, there was no doubt.
Hell was coming to Combe.
He had to warn Sunni. If he could get to her in time, they might yet escape.
Guiltily he realized his first thought had been of her, rather than of his family. He must alert them, too. But they were on the far side of the town. He would find Sunni first.
He turned and ran along the beach, peering at the path ahead for half-hidden obstacles. After a minute he stopped and looked out at the bay. He was horrified to see how fast the Vikings had moved. There were already blazing torches approaching swiftly, some reflected in the shifting sea, others evidently being carried across the sand. They were landing already!
But they were silent. He could still hear the monks praying, all oblivious to their fate. He should warn them, too. But he could not warn everyone!
Or perhaps he could. Looking at the tower of the monks’ church silhouetted against the lightening sky, he saw a way to warn Sunni, his family, the monks, and the whole town.
He swerved toward the monastery. A low fence loomed up out of the dark and he leaped over it without slowing his pace. Landing on the far side, he stumbled, regained his balance, and ran on.
He came to the church door and glanced back. The monastery was on a slight rise, and he could view the whole town and the bay. Hundreds of Vikings were splashing through the shallows onto the beach and into the town. He saw the crisp, summer-dry straw of a thatched roof burst into flames; then another, and another. He knew all the houses in town and their owners, but in the dim light he could not figure out which was which, and he wondered grimly whether his own home was alight.
He threw open the church door. The nave was lit by restless candlelight. The monks’ chant became ragged as some of them saw him running to the base of the tower. He saw the dangling rope, seized it, and pulled down. To his dismay, the bell made no sound.
One of the monks broke away from the group and strode toward him. The shaved top of his head was surrounded by white curls, and Edgar recognized Prior Ulfric. “Get out of here, you foolish boy,” the prior said indignantly.
Edgar could hardly trouble himself with explanations. “I have to ring the bell!” he said frantically. “What’s wrong with it?”
The service had broken down and all the monks were now watching. A second man approached: the kitchener, Maerwynn, a younger man, not as pompous as Ulfric. “What’s going on, Edgar?” he asked.
“The Vikings are here!” Edgar cried. He pulled again at the rope. He had never before tried to ring a church bell, and its weight surprised him.
“Oh, no!” cried Prior Ulfric. His expression changed from censorious to scared. “God spare us!”
Maerwynn said: “Are you sure, Edgar?”
“I saw them from the beach!”
Maerwynn ran to the door and looked out. He came back white-faced. “It’s true,” he said.
Ulfric screamed: “Run, everyone!”
“Wait!” said Maerwynn. “Edgar, keep pulling the rope. It takes a few tugs to get going. Lift your feet and hang on. Everyone else, we have a few minutes before they get here. Pick something up before you run: first the reliquaries with the remains of the saints, then the jeweled ornaments, and the books—and then run to the woods.”
Holding the rope, Edgar lifted his body off the floor, and a moment later he heard the boom of the great bell sound out.
Ulfric snatched up a silver cross and dashed out, and the other monks began to follow, some calmly collecting precious objects, others yelling and panicking.
The bell began to swing and it rang repeatedly. Edgar pulled the rope frantically, using the weight of his body. He wanted everyone to know right away that this was not merely a summons to sleeping monks but an alarm call to the whole town.
After a minute he felt sure he had done enough. He left the rope dangling and dashed out of the church.
The acrid smell of burning thatch pricked his nostrils: the brisk southwesterly breeze was spreading the flames with dreadful speed. At the same time, daylight was brightening. In the town, people were running out of their houses clutching babies and children and whatever else was precious to them, tools and chickens and leather bags of coins. The fastest were already crossing the fields toward the woods. Some would escape, Edgar thought, thanks to that bell.
He went against the flow, dodging his friends and neighbors, heading for Sunni’s house. He saw the baker, who would have been at his oven early: now he was running from his house with a sack of flour on his back. The alehouse called the Sailors was still quiet, its occupants slow to rise even after the alarm. Wyn the jeweler went by on his horse, with a chest strapped to his back; the horse was charging in a panic and he had his arms around its neck, holding on desperately. A slave called Griff was carrying an old woman, his owner. Edgar scanned every face that passed him, just in case Sunni was among them, but he did not see her.
Then he met the Vikings.
The vanguard of the force was a dozen big men and two terrifying-looking women, all in leather jerkins, armed with spears and axes. They were not wearing helmets, Edgar saw, and as fear rose in his throat like vomit, he realized they did not need much protection from the feeble townspeople. Some were already carrying booty: a sword with a jeweled hilt, clearly meant for display rather than battle; a money bag; a fur robe; a costly saddle with harness mounts in gilded bronze. One led a white horse that Edgar recognized as belonging to the owner of a herring ship; one had a girl over his shoulder, but Edgar saw gratefully that it was not Sunni.
He backed away, but the Vikings came on, and he could not flee because he had to find Sunni.
A few brave townsmen resisted. Their backs were to Edgar so he could not tell who they were. Some used axes and daggers, one a bow and arrows. For several heartbeats Edgar just stared, paralyzed by the sight of sharp blades cutting into human flesh, the sound of wounded men howling like animals in pain, the smell of a town on fire. The only violence he had ever seen consisted of fistfights between aggressive boys or drunk men. This was new: gushing blood and spilling guts and screams of agony and terror. He was frozen with fear.
The traders and fishermen of Combe were no match for these attackers, whose livelihood was violence. The locals were cut down in moments, and the Vikings advanced, more coming up behind the leaders.
Edgar recovered his senses and dodged behind a house. He had to get away from the Vikings, but he was not too scared to remember Sunni.
The attackers were moving along the main street, pursuing the townspeople who were fleeing along the same road; but there were no Vikings behind the houses. Each home had about half an acre of land: most people had fruit trees and a vegetable garden, and the wealthier ones a henhouse or a pigsty. Edgar ran from one backyard to the next, making for Sunni’s place.
Sunni and Cyneric lived in a house like any other except for the dairy, a lean-to extension built of cob, a mixture of sand, stones, clay, and straw, with a roof of thin stone tiles, all meant to keep the place cool. The building stood on the edge of a small field where the cows were pastured.
Edgar reached the house, flung open the door, and dashed in.
He saw Cyneric on the floor, a short, heavy man with black hair. The rushes around him were soaked with blood and he lay perfectly still. A gaping wound between his neck and shoulder was no longer bleeding, and Edgar had no doubt he was dead.
Sunni’s brown-and-white dog, Brindle, stood in the corner, trembling and panting as dogs do when terrified.
But where was she?
At the back of the house was a doorway that led to the dairy. The door stood open, and as Edgar moved toward it he heard Sunni cry out.