Fenrisulfr led good men.
A woman was moaning from behind a pig-sty, and someone else was breathing heavily, but there was no reason to investigate. Among the drying blood and hardening gore were fresh shoots of green grass, while sparrows squabbled heed-lessly nearby, and the weight of his sword on his hip – he had laid aside his axes for now – with the soft squeak and smell of the leather, were comfortable and pleasing and somehow very new, as if he were seeing the Middle World through a child’s eyes.
I lead good men.
It was the thinnest of thoughts, like a dying man’s voice.
Stígr felt my vengeance.
And so did all these slaughtered people whom he had never met before, who had never heard of Ulfr’s – Fenrisul fr’s – home village, or of the poet Jarl slain because of Stígr’s machinations, or of Eira, sister to Jarl and volva to the clan and everything to the heart of a young warrior and dead, so long dead, because of Stígr’s dark sorcery once more, and how was any of this going to bring her back?
It wasn’t. Nor would she recognise him, the man he had become, if she could return, for in a real way Ulfr also had perished a long time ago.
Brökkr and four of his strongest fighters were standing in front of him.
‘Chief. Feels like the morning after.’
‘It does.’
‘Got treasure to take home, but I’m not sure about young Thóllakr’s haul. Gold and steel don’t eat. Drink blood maybe, but you don’t need to carry food for them, is what I mean.’
Fenrisulfr squinted at him. ‘Speak plainly, Brökkr.’
‘There.’ Brökkr gestured with a hooked thumb. ‘Got himself a thrall, if you can call it that.’
‘Óthinn’s piss,’ said Fenrisulfr. ‘I might have known.’
Two of the fighters chuckled, but their smiles were vicious. This was going to cause trouble, and it amused them. And if they were the ones to spill someone’s blood, then all the better – at least that was how Fenrisulfr read their thoughts, and he had been a reaver chief for a long time now.
Too long, by the Norns.
That, too, was a new thought.
Thóllakr’s bounty was the girl – young woman – who had been tending his wounds when Fenrisulfr had slain Stígr and triggered the Holy Isle’s doom, the destruction of those who lived here. Except that Thóllakr had taken this one for his own, and not by force, to judge by the way she clung to Thóllakr’s arm and stared down at the ground, avoiding everyone’s gaze and clearly wishing they were not here.
Wishes count for nothing.
If they did, then Eira would still be—
Enough.
He forced himself to speak. ‘You’re claiming her, is that it?’
‘I am,’ said Thóllakr. ‘Her name is Thyra and she’s from an inland village and we’re— Well, she’s under my protection.’
‘Under your hips,’ muttered one of the fighters, poking one finger through the fingers of his other hand, and waggling it.
‘When we move inland,’ said Fenrisulfr, ‘I want you to remain behind with the guarding party. And no trouble, Thóllakr. All right?’
‘Yes, chief.’
‘And while you’re here, there’s a roan gelding by the foundry that I like the look of. I want him looked after for me. Take your thrall, and if she knows how to groom and feed a horse, let her help you. Do it now.’
‘Yes, chief.’
Fenrisulfr looked at Brökkr, thought of spinning on the spot and slamming his heel into Brökkr’s liver – the kind of kick that drops a man, leaving him conscious and wishing he were not, because of the pain – but an ambush shot was not the way to deal with a feisty former lieutenant who might be considering a challenge for leadership of Fenrisulfr’s people, combining two bands into one. Domination for face had to be overt, against a prepared foe, though sneakiness in a fighter was and always would be a virtue.
‘Walk with me,’ he told Thóllakr. ‘Bring the girl.’
The two leering fighters looked at each other, wondering if Fenrisulfr was going to assert his right to take her, either while Thóllakr watched or after Fenrisulfr had beaten him unconscious, assuming he protested. Fenrisulfr noted this but did not comment further, waiting instead until he, Thóllakr and the girl were far from the others. He pointed at the horse, still tied up where it had been.
‘The gelding is strong,’ he said. ‘Can carry a decent weight.’
‘Er, yes, chief.’
Fenrisulfr looked at the causeway peeking through the waves, joining the Holy Isle to the mainland. ‘My orders are that you exercise the horse while I’m gone. I’ll let the rest of the guarding party know that. When you cross to the mainland,’ he added, ‘don’t even think about heading west inland, because you’ll miss the rest of us, since we’re turning south.’
‘Er . . .’
‘Then if you carried on riding, deep into Northanhymbra, you’d find yourself among strangers, maybe even Thyra’s people. And if you ended up staying there, you’d have to learn a new way of speaking, earn a living without killing, and all the rest.’
Thóllakr was swallowing, gripping Thyra’s hand hard.
‘In years past,’ Fenrisulfr went on, ‘our people ruled here, so they know us. But Erik Bloodaxe is dead these forty summers, and the current king is named Æthelred, one of Thyra’s folk.’
Hearing her king’s name and her own, the girl stared at him.
‘May the Norns treat you well.’ Fenrisulfr clasped Thóllakr’s shoulder. ‘And to Hel’s realm with them if they don’t.’
Finally, Thóllakr grinned.
‘Yes, chief. Thank you.’
Fenrisulfr walked away, pulling his cloak around him.
No looking back.
Brökkr was looking thoughtful when Fenrisulfr returned. Ivarr was with him, in addition to the four fighters from Brökkr’s band. Fenrisulfr gestured towards the causeway.
‘We’ll cross at low tide. Have you decided who’s to be left behind?’
‘I have,’ said Brökkr. ‘You want me to run through the names?’
Fenrisulfr shook his head.
‘I trust your judgement on this, as in everything else,’ he said. ‘But I would have private words with you, brave Brökkr. By the holy men’s fortress?’
‘Er, yes, chief.’
‘Come, then.’
Of course Brökkr was suspicious, but Fenrisulfr, not carrying his axes, spread his hands openly as they walked, keeping to Brökkr’s right side, and asked a question in an easy tone just before the pivotal moment, so that Brökkr’s mouth was open, his mind and tongue forming the reply – the estimated distance the raiding party could cover per day – when Fenrisulfr’s body slammed into his. Fenrisulfr grabbed Brökkr’s sword-hilt at the same time as whipping his head into the side of Brökkr’s jaw – a sideways head-butt, almost getting the knockout – and slamming his knee into Brökkr’s thigh – no point in trying for the groin because Brökkr was fast even when surprised – and pulling free, drawing his own blade left-handed, a reverse grip but never mind because he had two swords and Brökkr had none, and as Fenrisulfr swung both blades high Brökkr flinched and tried to duck beneath as Fenrisulfr had hoped and this time he drove the knee in with maximum force, smashing into Brökkr’s face, then swung his left hand thumb-first and still holding the snatched sword so its hard pommel drove into Brökkr’s temple and then he was down.
There was a water-skin nearby, and after giving Brökkr a few moments languishing in dreamworld, Fenrisulfr splashed the water over his bloodied face, and waited while Brökkr coughed himself awake, then glowered at Fenrisulfr.
‘You’re already a good leader,’ Fenrisulfr told him. ‘And capable of leading my men in addition to your own.’
He had both swords in normal grips now, his wrists and forearms loose and ready.
‘Huh.’ Brökkr pushed himself up to a sitting position, knowing better than to rise any further. ‘Not when I let sneaky bastards catch me like that.’