Page 94 of The Blue Viking

Should he shoo her away?

Or forgive her monumental transgression?

Was he ready to face all this so soon?

Slowly, he opened one eye, then shut it quickly on a groan. It was a witch, all right, but not Maire the Witch.

“What do you want?” he asked Cailleach. With eyes still scrunched tight, he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his folded arms.

“Time’s a wasting, Viking. Get up and start to set your world aright,” she advised.

Really, the old hag had a death wish, ordering him about so.

Then the witch did the unthinkable. She whacked him across the buttocks with a palm and cackled several times with relish at her act.

He was half-reclining on his back within seconds, casting killing glares at the outrageous old crone. He refused to budge beyond that.

“Did ye hear me, ye lazy lump of Norse flesh? Rise and shine… though I doubt ye’ll do much shinin’ today. Yer skin looks a mite green. Exactly how much uisge-beatha did ye suck up las’ night?”

“Not enough, apparently.”

“Ooooh, ye are a foolish lad, maligning a witch so. I have powers, ye know.”

“Really? Well, what say you to waving your magic wand and getting rid of this bloody blue mark on my face?”

“Is that all ye care about?”

“I’m getting mighty tired of answering that question.”

“Well, yer gonna be lots more tired by the end of the day. Ye have much to do this day, Viking. Company’s coming.”

“Huh?” Rurik said. “What company? We have no need of more people here … not with every bloody witch in Scotland roosting in every free space.”

“Watch yer tongue, boy, or ye may find this witch roosting on a body part that canna bear the weight.”

“Don’t push me too far, witch. I cannot guarantee the consequences.” Suddenly, he sniffed … and sniffed … and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“Yer breakfast.”

Oh … Good… Lord! Rurik’s gaze had moved sideways to where a huge cauldron was boiling over an open fire—an open fire in a stable! The witch was already ladling out a wooden bowl of some grayish liquid with pieces of something floating in it. She shoved the bowl into his lap and handed him a wooden spoon, then ordered, “Eat!”

“Why?”

“Ye need yer strength today.” He was alert of a sudden. “Is there to be another battle?”

“Ye could say that.”

Rurik’s eyes darted to his sword, which lay to the side.

“Not that kind of battle,” Cailleach said with a few cackles.

“What other kind is there?” he asked.

She pointed to the bowl with the silent message that he was to get to it.

“What’s in it? Eye of a newt? Toe of a snake?” he jested.

She just waited.