‘Tell me one thing,’ I said.
‘What is that?’
I saw his son move closer still.
‘Why did you turn against Gunnar?’
‘You truly wish to know?’
‘Yes.’
His eyes slid to his son. ‘He thought himself better than the rest of us,’ he said – slowly, grudgingly, but his words had the taste of truth. ‘He thought that because he had a good hand with a sword and a taste for killing, that he was the greater man. All he had was that little plot of land, that herd of wormy sheep. No kin, no favour with his chieftain. And yet he thought he could do without the rest of us.’
I did not dare to close my eyes, but that was all that I wanted – to block away the world for a moment, to think myself dreaming. I do not know what it was that I had hoped for. That Kormac had been bought with silver or the promise of honour. Now that I had the petty truth, I wished that I had not heard him.
‘You are right,’ I said. ‘He was a fool, to think that he could live without such things.’
The son was closer still. But I still had time to speak again.
‘He was right in his own way,’ I said. ‘He was a better man than you.’ And with that I lifted my hand, my good hand, from within my cloak.
Kormac was ready for me, stepping up and stepping back to escape a blade, his hand going to the weapon at his side. But he sought to escape a blade that was not there. I did not bring iron in my hand, but a heavy handful of leaves, still wet from the rain the night before. I cast them upon the fire and in a moment the longhouse was filled with smoke.
A hand grasped at my cloak, pulling me towards the point of a blade. But my cloak was unclasped and slipped from my back, and I was into the smoke, my hand over my mouth, my eyes closed. I listened.
The others were gasping, retching, stumbling. I sought Kormac through sound, through touch, as I have heard blind old men seek revenge at the end of their lives, their trembling hands searching in the dark for a throat, an eye, a beating heart to still. So it was that I went into the smoke, reaching forward with my maimed left hand until I felt it touch his chest. For it was my right hand that carried the knife.
Three times the blade went in and twice it came out again, for on the third stroke some trap of bone closed about it and held it there. I was away then, counting my steps back towards the door. I could hear his son moving in the smoke, circling the fire, crying out for his father. But he realised too late that I had made for the door.
I was into the blinding daylight, the smoke pursuing me like a vengeful spirit, my eyes streaming, sucking at the fresh air as a desert traveller drinks water. I looked back over my shoulder as I ran, for I thought that Bjarni would pursue me, that he would follow me out to fight and die beneath the open sky. But he did not. As I ran from the longhouse I heard the sound of a blade falling to the ground behind me, and a keening wail rose up, a son for his father, just as the softest snow began to fall.
31
What sign was it, this summer snowfall? For the clouds had come in from the sea, but they did not bear rain. The white was falling thick about me as I ran and scrambled from the killing house, back across the dale to Ragnar’s homestead. What god spoke this way? The White Christ or the old gods I had left behind? Was it to cover my escape or to reveal my tracks, to leave no place for a killer to hide?
In that moment, I cared not. For the killer’s joy burned like a fever, and how I had lived so long without it I did not know.
Now I understood the longing that Gunnar had felt, and I could not understand how he had tried to give it up, to trade the killing for a farmer’s life. What a thing it was, to try and put up your sword, once you have known such a terrible joy. At that moment I loved him more than I ever had before. And I loved his son, for that was all that was left of my friend.
I took a long time to return to Ragnar’s home. I circled around the high lands, waiting and watching for any sign of pursuit, for I could take no chance of being followed. Every so often I stopped to plunge my hands into the snow, leaving it red behind me, wiping away the killer’s sign that I bore. It was only when I was certain that no pursuer would find me that I made my way towards the coast, back to Ragnar’s longhouse.
I did not knock, but threw the door open and made my way inside. I could feel the smile upon my face, but I could not rid myself of it. As I entered, I found Ragnar and Sigrid speaking in close conference by the fire; Sigrid looked up at me and I could see the fear in her eyes.
‘It is not my blood,’ I said. ‘I am not hurt.’ For my hands were clean, but my clothes were still marked with gore.
She walked to me, put her hands to my face, held my gaze. I could not breathe for a moment, the ache in me was so strong. Yet I saw that I was mistaken. There was no tenderness in her touch, no affection. She meant only to be sure of my attention.
‘Thorvaldur has gone,’ she said. ‘He has taken Kari with him.’
That cold touch upon my skin once again – the mocking warning of a god.
‘Tell me what you mean,’ I said, ‘as quickly as you can.’
It was Ragnar who spoke now. ‘I went out to the captains and sailors. To try to get some sense of the talk in the valley. What Björn and his kin might be doing. I… I wanted to help.’ He hesitated. ‘Vigdis has been riding all across the valley today. And it seems that Björn will go tonight, with the turning of the tide.’
For a moment I could not breathe. ‘Where?’ I asked.
‘The north coast, near Kambsnes. He has a ship waiting for him there.’
‘Surely no man will sail in this storm.’
‘The wind is true and this storm will pass soon enough. It has to.’ He swallowed. ‘Thorvaldur said that it would be a coward’s curse to wait. That they would ambush Björn as he made his way to the ship.’
‘How many will go with Björn?’
‘I do not know. His brother. A few more men as well, I would have thought.’
‘Why did you not stop them?’
Sigrid spoke now. ‘You invite a wolf into our home and ask if we shall stop him for you?’
Ragnar smiled sadly. ‘I am sorry, Kjaran; I wish I could have stopped them.’ He licked his lips. ‘He called me a… coward.’
The word hung in the air – a killing word. A man or a woman needs magic to bring bloodshed. There are words that need no sorcery to make a killing inevitable: speak them and men will die. I saw Sigrid’s lips go white with fury, her hands twitch as though they longed to close about a weapon.
‘I will have to fight him, won’t I?’ said Ragnar. ‘To challenge him to the holmgang.’ He looked down at his sailor’s hands. I wondered when was the last time he had held a weapon. ‘I know what I am. But I cannot have it said.’
‘No,’ I said. Within me, I felt the killing joy change to something different. The cold, measured sense of revenge. ‘If it comes to that, I will fight him for you. I think, perhaps, that is what he wants. How long ago did they leave?’
‘An hour. They took horses.’
‘I must have one too.’
‘They took our two best. But take Snorri. He is old, half-lame. But he may get you there in time.’
A lie – a kind, hopeful lie, but a lie all the same. I took a spear from the corner of the room, felt the weight of it. An axe and shield lay there as well and I took them too. Kari had taken his father’s sword with him.
They did not speak to me as I gathered my arms. They could not even look at me, nor I at them. At the edge of my vision, I saw her take his hand in hers and hold it close, and I shut my eyes against the sight. They are glad to be rid of me, I thought. And I cannot blame them for it.