"Interesting paranormal twist on Robin Hood myth."
Reviewed by Kate Garrabrant
Posted September 17, 2009
Romance Paranormal
Sister and brother, Marian and Robin are on a quest to solve
a riddle from their deceased father. If they succeed, Robin
will be able to win his lands and title. If they don’t, they
are doomed. They pretend to be peasants on a pilgrimage and
even though their journey will be dangerous, they have no
choice because Robin is marked for death and Marian meant
for marriage to a selfish and dangerous man. Steinarr the Proud is a cursed knight who has lived for
centuries. His unfortunate cruse transforms him into a lion
at sundown. During the day he roams the land. He is
searching for the brother and sister. Guy of Gisbourne has
paid Steinarr a substantial amount to find his cousin
Matilda and to get rid of her illegitimate brother Robert.
With Robert out of the way, Guy will be free to marry
Matilda and take hold of her father’s wealth. Steinarr has
met the two siblings before when he rescued them from death.
The idea of killing Robert and returning Matilda back into
the hands of a man like Guy does not sit well with Steinarr.
Instead he will aid Matilda on her quest help her solve the
riddle before she and Robert are found. Matilda trusts Steinarr even though she should not. His
touch makes her ache for more and even when he leaves her
alone to fend for herself at night she knows he will return
to her. She also knows Steinarr is a mystery that must be
solved. IMMORTAL OUTLAW takes the legend of Robin Hood and his band
of merry thieves and gives it an interesting paranormal
slant that readers will enjoy. The writing is rich and
descriptive. Fans of medieval romance will not want to let
this book pass them by. Steinarr is an intriguing character
and it is enjoyable to see him fall for the charms of
Matilda/Marian. This gentlewoman knows her way around men
and can protect herself. The way she is with Steinarr is
adorable. The journey Matilda and Steinarr travel is filled with
danger and when Matilda figures out who Steinarr really is,
it brings a few welcomed twists and turns you won’t see coming. Lisa Hendrix has a great talent and IMMORTAL OUTLAW is one
book that will have readers riveted.
SUMMARY
It’s been four centuries since Steinarr the Proud was
cursed by a wicked sorceress-along with the rest of his
Viking crew-to live for eternity as half man, half beast.
By day Steinarr is like any other man-by night he is a
lion. He has taken refuge in the woods of Nottinghamshire,
England, and there he encounters two young travelers, Robin
and Marian. Painfully aware of the danger he presents when the moon
rises, Steinarr initially refuses to help them search for
the key to Robin’s inheritance. Then a kiss from Marian
awakens his desire. Driven to protect the maid he so
desperately wants to possess, Steinarr joins their quest…
while the sorceress Cwen gathers her dark magic to destroy
them. As a legend spreads of an outlaw in the woods, their band
is joined by others. But it is Steinarr who has the most to
gain and the most to lose-if he is ever to be free of the
curse and free to love as a man…
ExcerptTHE LEGEND Sent by their jarl to capture a great
treasure of gold and jewels, the warriors led by Brand
Einarsson fell under a spell cast by the powerful sorceress
who guarded the hoard and whose son they had killed. The
witch Cwen cursed them to spend eternity as shadow beasts,
living half as animal, half as man, each taking the form of
his fylgja, the spirit companion whose image he wore. After
she worked her foul magic, Cwen took their amulets and had
them scattered across the land so they would never be
found, and she drove the men off into the forest to live
their accursed lives.
Some twelve-score years later, Ivar Graycloak, known to
the Normans who by then ruled England as Ivo de Vassy,
found both his amulet and a woman who loved him even
knowing the monster he was, and through their combined
magic, Cwen’s power over him was broken. The eight
remaining warriors found hope in Ivar’s victory and began
to scour the English countryside for their fylgja amulets.
They ransacked ancient ruins and burial mounds, standing
stones and wells, graveyards and even the most venerable
buildings of the Christian church, searching for some trace
or clue of the amulets. And as they searched, they also
watched for signs of Cwen, who had been sore wounded and
gone to ground.
Decades passed and neither Cwen nor any of the amulets
were found, and the warriors lost hope and once more
resigned themselves to their half-lives. Slowly, as Ivar
had, some began to make their way along the edges of
humankind, finding work and friends and even the occasional
moment of peace among mortal men and women.
Others could not, their animal forms being too strange
to move easily among the beasts of England or too deadly to
live near her people. One of these was Steinarr, son of
Birgir BentLeg, called Steinarr the Proud, who so terrified
the English as the lion he became each night that he was
driven from forest to forest without cease and who did such
damage to the other warriors that most would not tolerate
his company. But even a man who lives in the wilds has need
of clothing and food and other things of men, so he learned
to find coin where he could, turning to thievery, banditry,
and even, when the opportunity presented itself, to hunting
men...
~from the Dyrrekkr Saga of Ari Sturlusson
(E.L. Branson, trans.)
CHAPTER ONE
Nottinghamshire, August 1290
He knew better than to try to help an Englishman.
But this one was old and tiny, and the reavers
attacking him were young and hale and armed with clubs. And
three against one was too many, even when the one wielded a
quarterstaff and knew how to use it. Steinarr tossed his
packhorse’s reins over the nearest branch and quickly
fitted an arrow to his bowstring. Before he could take the
shot, however, the biggest of the three slipped in behind
the old man and brought his club down hard. The crack made
Steinarr’s stomach clench; he well knew the sound of a
deathblow.
His arrow hit the outlaw’s shoulder before the old man
hit the ground. The reaver bellowed with pain, and his two
friends whirled, searching for their attacker. In quick
order, two more arrows thudded into the side of the cart
between them, and they panicked. Spinning their horses
around, they tore away. The injured man trailed after them,
weaving perilously in his saddle, the shaft of Steinarr’s
arrow protruding from his back. Steinarr sent another arrow
whizzing past his ear into a tree for good measure, then
watched the three disappear up the road.
When they were gone, he galloped over to the old man
and leapt off to check him. It was too late; he was gone,
his eyes empty and his skull laid open like a gourd, his
blood darkening the dust of the road.
Steinarr lifted the old man’s flat purse from his belt
and emptied it into his palm. All that tumbled out were two
silver farthing pieces. Not even a full penny. He shook his
head in disgust. Thievery he understood. He practiced it
himself when he needed to, waylaying a merchant or nobleman
or the occasional churchman when other means of getting
money failed. But he chose only those with silver to spare,
and he left their skulls intact. These three had set upon a
poor man, and killed him merely for the sake of killing.
And he, fool that he was, had both failed to save the
old man and lost one of his best steel arrowheads in the
process. Steinarr considered taking the old man’s cart as
recompense, but it looked about to fall to pieces, as did
the sad little mare, more bones than meat, that stood
between the shafts. Even the harness she wore had been
patched a dozen times, apparently with more hope than
skill. Weighing what little he might gain against the time
he would lose taking them to market, he decided to keep the
halfpenny and send the mare back down the road for others
to find.
First, though, there was the body to deal with.
Steinarr dropped the farthings into his purse, and then
dragged the old man off the road a little way. He used the
edge of his shield to scrape a shallow grave, which he
covered over afterward with stones and brush. It wasn’t a
good grave, but it would serve for the time being, and he
could tell the priest in the next village where to find the
body to do a better job. Finishing, he took a moment to
stand over the grave, silently asking the gods to watch
over the old man on his journey.
"His name was John," said a soft voice behind
him. "John Little."
Steinarr whirled, hand reaching for sword, but he froze
as the voice registered and he saw who stood in the verge.
A woman? Here? "Where did you come from?"
"There, my lord," she said, pointing to a thick patch
of bracken a few yards behind her, still swaying where she
had passed. "John heard them coming and bade us hide. He
said no one rides that hard in this part of the forest but
outlaws or soldiers, and that we wanted to meet neither,
since they are so often much the same."
"You are fortunate. If those three had seen you..." He
knew by the way she blanched that she understood his
meaning. "‘Tis a shame John Little did not take his own
good advice."
"He thought they would not trouble with him. He had
nothing of value to steal."
"Only his life," said Steinarr, and her moss-green eyes
glittered with tears as she nodded. He gave her a moment to
collect herself before he asked, "What was John Little to
you? Father? Servant?"
"Neither. A kind stranger who offered his aid when our
horse went lame."
"You said ‘our.’ Who is the other?"
"My cousin." Twisting, she spoke over her shoulder to
the bracken. "Stand up and let this good man see you, Rob.
He means us no harm."
A tall, bony lad wearing a green chape over his reddish
hair slowly unfolded from the bracken. He hadn’t filled out
yet, but by the small, pointed beard that decorated his
chin, he must be about the same age as the maid, perhaps
eight and ten.
He appraised Steinarr warily. "How do you know? He
looks like one of them."
"And so I might be."
The maid shook her head. "You drove them off."
"Perhaps I hoped to rob the old man for myself."
"He did empty John’s purse," pointed out the boy.
"He would be a fool to bury his money with him." She
turned back to Steinarr. "I am sure he intends to return it
to John’s family."
"‘Tis only a halfpenny," said Steinarr.
"Several days’ food for a poor man," she said.
And didn’t he know it? Steinarr decided to shift her
mind to other matters. "You were foolish to reveal
yourselves. What is your name, boy?"
"Rober-"
"Robin," interrupted the woman. "His name is Robin.
Mine is Marian. We are pilgrims."
The boy looked flustered, but nodded. "Aye, pilgrims.
Bound to Lincoln to pray to Saint Hugh."
But not bound to tell the truth, apparently-not that
their lies or their true purpose made any difference to
Steinarr. He pulled the two arrows out of the cart and
returned them to his quiver, then swung up on the stallion
and started up the road to retrieve the shaft he’d put into
the tree. "Well, Robin, I hope you take better care of your
cousin on the rest of your journey. Fare you well."
"No!" She bolted out onto the road after him. "Surely
you will not leave us here alone, my lord."
"You have your saint to protect you," Steinarr said
over his shoulder. "I am told that should be enough for a
good Christian."
"But those men will be waiting for us."
"Possibly."
"They will kill us!"
"If you are lucky," he said darkly, and once more saw
his warning raise a shadow of fear in her eyes. Good. She
should be afraid, especially with only Robin for
protection. He’d already shown his colors-a lad that size
should have been fighting next to the old man, not hiding
in the bushes with her. "Go back to Sheffield and wait for
a larger group of travelers. It should only be a day or
two."
"He is right," said the boy, flicking a spider off his
sleeve as he joined her in the road. "We should have waited
to begin with."
"We have no time for waiting," she muttered, then
louder, "Why can we not travel with you, my lord?"
"Because I have better things to do than play shepherd
to stray pilgrims." Steinarr reached the tree, worked the
arrow loose, and jammed it into the quiver with the
others. "Make haste, so you are out of the forest by dark.
A safe journey to you."
Which would have been a good way to take his leave,
except he’d forgotten that his rouncey was still tied where
he’d left him, and these supposed pilgrims stood between
him and his horse. As he turned the stallion around to go
back, hope flared in their eyes. In her eyes.
"No." He shook his head firmly. "I only fetch my pack
horse. Your path is there." He pointed back the way they
should go, then swung his arm around to point south and
east. "And I go that way."
She stood there in the road open-mouthed as he
retrieved the rouncey, and she was still there when he led
the horse back into the road. He could feel her accusing
eyes burning into his back as he headed off. He was nearly
out of hearing when he heard her call out, "Some help here,
Robin, if you please." He glanced back to see her tugging
at the mare’s harness.
Good. They were going back. Satisfied, he cantered the
horses until he’d left the pilgrims well behind, then let
the animals settle back into a walk. Keeping one eye alert
for the outlaws, he let his mind wander to other things. He
was working through his plans for capturing Long Tom when
the sound of an approaching horse snapped him back to the
present and sent his hand to his bow. He already had an
arrow nocked to the string when he realized the sound was
behind him, not ahead.
Them. His curse echoed through the forest as he
turned. "You go the wrong way, Pilgrims."
"We go the way we must, my lord," the maid called back
as they came bouncing up the road bareback on the old mare.
Then they would go it alone. Making a quick decision,
Steinarr reined his horses off the road and headed into the
forest.
"I told you," he heard the boy say. "He will not suffer
our company."
"I care little for what he will suffer. Go after him."
She said something else Steinarr couldn’t hear, and they
kept coming, the little mare trotting along gamely.
Balls. Perhaps the creature would have been worth
taking to sell after all-and if he’d taken her, they
wouldn’t be following him now. In an effort to discourage
them, he sent his horses crashing through a thicket. But
the branches slowed his animals, while the mare actually
gained ground using the way he’d cleared. Determined to be
rid of the pair, Steinarr led them deeper, twisting and
turning through the thickest part of the forest in a path
as crooked as a ram’s horn. They stuck like burrs.
"Stubborn fools," he muttered to himself. They had no
idea who-what-they were following, nor what trouble they
would be in come sundown if they succeeded. Abruptly he
wheeled his horse around and drew his short sword. "I will
cut that animal’s throat if you do not go back."
The boy reined the mare to a halt and backed her up a
few steps. "I am sorry, my lord, but my sister..."
"Sister?" Steinarr pounced on the word. "I thought she
was your cousin."
"I am his cousin," said the girl quickly. "He was going
to say that his sister is very ill and our pilgrimage is
for her sake. He fears that if we go back instead of
forward, our prayers will come too late."
"He fears that, does he?" Steinarr nudged his horse
closer, glaring at the maid for a long moment before he
shifted his frown to the boy. "Do you also fear to speak,
that you let your cousin put words in your mouth?"
The boy flushed, but raised his hands in a gesture of
helplessness. "I find she does whether I speak or not, my
lord."
Despite himself, Steinarr snorted back a laugh. "No
doubt. And she likely talked you into coming after me as
well."
"Aye, my lord, she did that."
"Then you are both fools, putting yourself at the mercy
of a stranger, deep in a wild forest, riding an animal that
could founder at any moment."
"The mare is stronger than she looks," said the maid,
adding, "my lord," as if in afterthought. "She will carry
us well enough, so long as you keep your blade from her
throat."
Steinarr waggled said blade, sending shafts of light
glinting around her head. "Perhaps I should use it on that
tongue."
"Perhaps, my lord, but you will not."
Not a whiff of fear in her, when it came to this.
Steinarr frowned. "You speak with great sureness,
considering you do not even know my name."
"I saw you take the time to bury an old man you did not
know. That is enough for me. The name, I will learn as we
ride together."
His glower deepened. "We will not ride together."
"But you go the same direction we do." She took a long
look around her, and a crease formed between her brows. "At
least, you did. I am no longer certain..."
"And yet you follow me like puppies."
"Only because you force us to it. Please, my lord, let
us go on with you. We will be no trouble."
"You are already trouble," he said flatly. He glanced
around to get his bearings, then pointed once more. "The
road is that way. Go." He turned and rode away.
Behind him the boy began, "If we hurry, we ca-"
"Do not," she snapped. "Do not! Ride after him. Go."
Pigheaded little wench. Steinarr pushed the horses a
little faster, even as he calculated whether he was going
to have to let these dogged pilgrims catch him. He’d lost
the entire morning in burying the old man, and now he was
losing the afternoon in trying to shake off these two. It
had grown too late to send them back; nightfall would catch
them still in the woods among the wolves and worse.
The problem was it had grown too late to take them
forward, as well. If he escorted them on, he was the one
who would be caught, changing into the lion too close to
where men lived. A cow or sheep-or worse, a man-would be
found half-eaten, and frightened, angry peasants would pour
into the forest with traps and snares and spears and dogs
searching for the beast who had done it. He’d be forced to
move on yet again and end up freezing his balls off in
Scotland.
"Scotland!" he muttered, and the stallion swiveled his
ears around to listen. In four hundreds of years, he’d come
to hate Scotland and the Scots even more than he hated
England and the English. Every man of them seemed to own a
hound the size of a horse, and their weather was as vicious
as their dogs. "That’s what I get for helping one of these
cursed Englishmen. Nothing good ever comes of it. Ever!"
Just then, the maid laughed at something her cousin
said, as if to remind Steinarr that she, too, would have
died, if those outlaws had found her hiding in the bracken.
Now that would have been a shame, he thought, glancing back
at her. She was a comely thing, young and fair, with full,
red lips and honey-colored braids that peeped from beneath
her linen headcloth. She wore a simple gown of dark brown
wool, laced to show the curves of her body, in the way
Englishwomen tormented their men these days. She caught him
looking back at her and leaned against her reedy cousin to
murmur something that made the lad grin.
"Cousin!" snorted Steinarr under his breath. "Lover
more likely. There’s an angry father on their heels, I
wager. That’s why they don’t want to go back the way they
came." The lad didn’t seem bold enough to lure a quick-
tongued creature like that into his bed. Perhaps it was she
who did the luring...though why, Steinarr couldn’t fathom.
He assessed the boy out of the corner of his eye: All knees
and elbows. Spot-faced. Scarred chin beneath the beard that
tried to disguise it. Craven. Unless the lad carried Frey’s
own pillock inside those breeks, he had little to recommend
him.
Well, whatever they were to each other, he’d rather not
see the crows picking over their lion-killed bodies come
morning. There was only one thing to be done. He reined his
horses around in a circle, so he could fall in alongside
the mare.
"Steinarr," he said. They both blinked, not
comprehending, so he repeated, "I am called Steinarr."
"Oh." The maid found her tongue first, of course. "Does
this mean you-?"
"It means I have no stomach for leaving innocents in
the forest as wolf bait, even when they have wasted much of
my day. We will make camp nearby where you will be safe,
and in the morning, I will see you as far as Maltby. After
that, you find your own way."
"We are grateful, my lord," said the boy, relief clear
on his face.
"Most grateful." The girl battled to keep the smugness
out of her smile. "You will not be sorry, my lord."
"Mmm." Steinarr spurred the stallion ahead again before
he was tempted to make her sorry.
One of his favorite campsites-a shallow cave tucked
into the side of a hill-lay nearby and he led them to it
with plenty of daylight to spare. He started unsaddling the
stallion, and to the pilgrims’ credit, they both set to
work without being told. As soon as the mare was secure,
the boy hurried over to unload the rouncey, while the girl
started casting about for firewood. By the time she
returned with her first scant armload of twigs, all three
horses were nibbling at the grass nearby and Steinarr was
shredding dry bark and leaves into tinder, in preparation
for laying a fire.
"Others must have made camp here recently, my lord.
There is little wood left on the ground."
"Not others. Me. Last month. There is a fallen tree
over that way, about a bowshot. You will find wood enough
there." He jerked his head toward the east, then pulled his
scramasax from his belt and proffered it hilt first to the
boy. "Here. You need something heavier than that plaything
at your waist. You’ll want four or five good armloads each
to keep the wolves at bay all night. See you’re done and
back here well before sunset."
Steinarr watched until he was certain they were headed
in the right direction, then took out his flint and striker
and went to work. A tiny flame soon crackled before the
shallow cave. He added enough twigs to keep it going until
the pilgrims brought real wood, then retrieved his quiver.
As the bees buzzed lazily overhead, he pulled out several
good, straight reeds he’d been drying for arrows, selected
the best, and began to work it smooth with the file he kept
for the purpose. The girl and her cousin came and went
several times, dumping armloads of wood into a pile nearby,
and Steinarr kept working, scraping until the shaft met his
satisfaction, then nocking it and working the tip down to a
point, which he carefully cured over the fire. Smoke-
hardened reed made a poor substitute for good steel, but it
would have to do until he could buy more points-that was
his penalty for helping an Englishman.
He glanced up as it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen
his other penalties in a while and that he hadn’t heard any
chopping either. Even with the long summer afternoon, he
would have to leave soon to make certain he was well away
by sunset, and he needed to make sure his pilgrims, or
lovers, or whatever they were, were safe by the fire before
he left. Muttering about their parentage, he slipped the
unfletched new arrow into his quiver and pushed to his
feet. He’d gone barely a dozen yards when he heard them
coming through the woods, laughing and talking.
"What took you so long?" he demanded as they neared.
"It is still well before sunset, my lord." The maid
carefully held out a wide curl of bark, piled with
brambleberries. I made Robin wait so I could gather some."
He’d forgotten the berries. They hadn’t been ripe yet
when last he’d been here. "Mmm. Well, I hope you got
enough, for they will be your only supper. There was no way
to hunt with you two chattering like jays."
"Oh, we have food, my lord," said the boy. "Bread and
cheese."
"We would not set out without food," said the maid,
adding, "We are not the utter fools you think us."
"We shall see about that." Cheese. Steinarr’s stomach
rumbled at the mere mention of it. And bread. His meals had
been nothing but wild foods and small game for far too
long. "You’d better cut some boughs for your beds,
while ’tis still light. I’ll take the horses for water."
Steinarr dug through his gear bag for a small leather
pail, then led all three horses around the hill to the tiny
spring that made this campsite one of the better ones he’d
had recently. He filled the pail first, then stood back to
let the animals have their fill while he contemplated the
possibility of melting some of that cheese over the bread
before he had to leave. By the time he led the horses back
to camp, imagination had him smelling the toasting bread.
He quickly secured the rouncey. As he bent to hobble
the mare, he heard light footsteps coming up behind
him. "What?"
"You had no dinner today because of us, my lord. I
thought you might be hungry."
He glanced over his shoulder to find her holding out a
thick slice of coarse, dark bread. Melted cheese, rich and
savory, oozed over the fire-browned edges. The smell alone
pulled him to his feet, and he reached out greedily. He
took a bite and groaned as the warm cheese hit his tongue.
She accepted the tribute with a nod of her head. "You
are welcome."
He made some indistinguishable grunts of thanks and
took another huge bite. Stepping past him, she stroked the
mare’s nose, and he was amused to hear her whisper a few
words of thanks to the creature for bearing her and the
boy. Next, she went to the stallion, where she murmured a
greeting and let him sniff at her palm. Her brow wrinkled
in puzzlement, then cleared a bit.
"Ah. He has a raw spot. I think the saddle rubs." She
moved around to run her hands over the animal’s withers and
suddenly stopped. "God’s knees. What happened here?"
"He was attacked."
"By what?" She traced the scar lines that raked the
stallion’s back, spreading her fingers wide to match the
breadth of the lion’s paw. "They look like claw marks." She
lifted her eyes to accuse him. "Or whip marks."
"I would not whip my own horse," growled Steinarr,
flushing in fresh shame at what he’d done to his friend so
long ago. And not just to Torvald. Nearly every man in the
crew had felt those claws, either as man or beast. Steinarr
choked down the last of the bread, now gone tasteless, and
stepped around to join her. He laid a hand over the scars
in apology for the lie he was about to tell to protect them
both. "‘Twas wolves. One leapt on his back. The wounds are
long healed, but I need a new pad to protect the scars
better."
In truth, he needed two new pads: the one for the
rouncey was just as bad.
She touched the raw spot, and the stallion’s flesh
rippled as if he shook off a fly. "I have some help, I
think." She untied the knot in one long sleeve and fished a
tiny wooden pot out of the hem. She twisted the stopper
free and dug out a bit of greenish salve on one finger.
"What is that?"
"A balm I carry to ward off blisters on the road." She
gently daubed the salve over the wound. "It should bring
some ease."
Steinarr had the distinct impression she spoke to the
stallion and not him, but he nodded anyway. She finished
tending the horse and rubbed the excess into her hands, and
as they walked the few yards back to the fire, he
admitted, "You may be slightly less trouble than I first
thought."
"Thank you, my lord." She picked up another slab of
cheese-covered bread from a flat stone that lay at the edge
of the coals and handed it to him. "My name is Marian."
He frowned. "I know. You told me earlier."
"You never said it, my lord, not all day," said the
boy, coming up to throw a big load of green boughs into the
mouth of the cave. "Nor my name. We thought you had
forgotten."
"You were mistaken." There had simply been no reason to
use names when he’d planned to be rid of them. Steinarr
savored another bite as he checked the sun once
more. "Well, Marian and Robin, I must leave you now."
Robin started. "Leave? But you said-"
"That you would be safe here, not that I would stay
here with you."
"But where will you be?"
"Nearby. Stay near the fire and keep it well stoked and
you will be fine. And you will want to..." He stumbled to a
stop, not sure how to say this to a woman. "Um...take care
of your needs early." The creases across her brow told him
he hadn’t been clear, and he tried again. "You can’t be
going off into the bushes after dark. The wolves." And the
lion.
Faint pink roses blossomed in her cheeks, but she
nodded. "I understand, my lord."
"Good.’Tis important." He retrieved the roll of
clothing that was Torvald’s, snagged one more large piece
of bread and cheese, and swung up on the stallion bareback,
having decided to leave the saddle where it was secure for
once. "I will return a little after sunrise. Be ready."
"We will be, my lord," promised Robin.
"And I will keep some bread and cheese for you," added
Marian.
"Do that," called Steinarr as he rode off.
He rode downwind far enough that Torvald’s cries of
agony during the changing wouldn’t be heard, then slid to
the ground. He placed the bread and Torvald’s clothes on a
nearby log for his friend to find when he was a man again,
then stripped the bridle from the stallion and hung it in a
nearby tree, where it would be safe for the night.
"Guard over them, and we will meet back here, first
thing. Cheese or not, I want to be rid of them by midday."
His only answer was the sound of the stallion chewing a
mouthful of grass, but it didn’t matter; Torvald kept a
part of his human-self intact while he was in the
stallion’s form. He would remember, at least enough, and
watch from a distance to see that the lion stayed away.
Without bothering to say good-bye, Steinarr set out on
foot, trotting away from camp as fast as the terrain would
permit. By the time the last of the sun’s disk finally
slipped below the horizon, he had put enough distance and
enough trees between himself and his two pilgrims that the
lion’s roar should be little more than a whisper on the
evening breeze.
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