“Rill would rather fuck sheep than just about anything,” Uvigg said, and the still hush of the sea was broken by the laughter coming from the longship.
“There,” Heingistr said, jabbing a thick finger into the mist. “Marshes. There will be a channel. And beyond, farms.”
Grislae bent her back to the sea.
The channel opened into a sheltered bay where they moored the Reinen that night. No lights from home fires nor watchmen’s torches shone in the dark, and the mist pressed too close to spy any smoke breaking the heavens, or stars peering through.
“Snurri, Hoensa, take one of the new ones — Grislae — and scout.” Heingistr nodded his head inland. The men began unlimbering a goat from the hold of the Reinen, and Wen and Urtha whetted their knives. Snurri cursed and belted on his sword, put his helm on his head. Hoensa’s eyes glittered.
“No shield,” Snurri said to Grislae as she took up her gear. “We move fast and it will only slow you.”
They made their way inland, walking swiftly and crouching low. The men moved easily, familiar with each other and their rhythms. Grislae kept up without much struggle — her time on her father’s farm had kept her fit and strong — but was alarmed by the amount of noise the men made as they moved through the forest: snapping limbs underfoot, grunting, cursing under their breath.
Grislae moved in almost absolute silence, lightfooted. The land rose, and she passed through cut forest and into fields. It was warm, her skin beading with sweat.
They came upon a farm, low slung and dark, no smoke coming from the roof.
Snurri, sweat streaming into his beard, whispered, “We will wait here, and watch.” He hopped over a fallen log and kneeled behind the low brambles between the farm and where they crouched. Before Grislae and Hoensa could join him, he cried, “Ach!” Flailed and rolled on the ground. When he rose, he stomped like a maddened horse. “Snake! Gods protect me!”
“Odin’s eye, you’re one big fucking baby,” Hoensa said. He peered at the house. “Sound a battle horn next time.” He drew his sword and looked at Grislae. “If someone was there, we would know it by now, thanks to Snurri. Let’s take a look.”
Hoensa moved forward, what meager light cut through the dark, cloudy sky glinting off his helm. Grislae followed, drawing her sword. After a moment, the shaken Snurri lumbered after them.
The farm had a thatched roof, wooden walls, and rough-hewn timber shutters. The door was open. Entering, the three were swallowed in darkness. A thick matting on the floor of the farmhouse cushioned their steps. Only the faintest intimations of rooms were apparent to them. Grislae smelled more than saw the cold hearth on a far wall. The scent of bread and meat told her it had been occupied but recently. But there was another smell, an old smell, sour and stinking of death, mingling with the odors of farm life. From all around came a rustling sound too, and that put her on edge.
“I have a fire steel and striking stone,” Grislae said, moving toward the back of the room. The close air was hushed, but there was a light susurration, as reeds stirring in the breeze.
Snurri, hulking in the darkness, said, “I don’t like this place. There are no people here. They will have taken their wealth wherever they have gone.”
“Let us see what we can see,” Hoensa said.
At the hearth, Grislae removed the fire steel and stone from the pouch at her belt and struck a spark. The flash revealed a bundle of kindling hay near the wall by the hearthstone; she soon had a small fire burning in the sooty hearth. She stood and stepped away from where the shifting yellow light spilled across the farmhouse, the brilliance blinding after their long trek through the night.
Through her watering eyes, the floor shimmered. Snurri gave a small exhalation, “Uff, dip me in sheep piss.”
“What, Snurri?” Hoensa asked, hearing his tone. “What is it?”
“The brood of Jorgumandr,” Snurri said with a curiously flat inflection. “Snakes. More snakes.”
Hoensa and Grislae blinked away tears, peered at the floor. It shifted and gleamed in the fickle yellow firelight. As Grislae watched, it writhed and wriggled in a lazy expanse. Looking down, she saw many small snakes strike at her high boots with their vicious mouths.
“Ergi! These damned serpents!” cried Snurri, whipping his hand about as if to rid himself of a fly. He began stomping indiscriminately, and Hoensa joined him. The small fire crackled in the hearth, the floor rustled, and for a long while there was naught but the sound of the men’s heavy breathing and bootfalls as they crushed the snakes.
Grislae grabbed the remaining cord of kindling hay and stuck one end in the fire. Then, sword in one hand and flaming straw bundle in the other, she shook out her legs and moved. “The door,” she said. “There is nothing here but vermin.” Raising high the makeshift torch, she turned around in a circle. Everywhere, every open bit of floor, shimmered and writhed. “You will stomp all night and never kill them all. Come.”
It took a moment for the men to stop. Snake-fear and kill-lust kept them stomping the writhing mass. Grislae shrugged. She left the farmhouse, entering the sodden night. Hoensa and Snurri followed. She was reaching to set the thatch roof on fire when Hoensa placed a hand on her arm and said, “I think not. There are other farms full of fat children, food, and gold. Best not to warn them Heingistr’s company is here until we are upon them.”
“I am bit,” Snurri said, holding up his hand. When they said nothing in response, he patted his body from collar to crotch. “Ach, I can feel them slithering all over me.”
They moved away from the farm, taking a muddy road that led beyond the house and beside a furrowed field. The mire sucked at their feet. They had reached the far tree line when the light of torches filtered through the trees.
Doughty men with ruddy faces carrying axes. Farmers, all. They tromped down the road, speaking in a round, fluid language Grislae could not make out. Their hushed tones were agitated; something had disturbed them.
Crouched behind a mossy rock jutting from the forest mulch, Grislae readied herself to strike. Hoensa, who had hidden himself behind a thick oak, held up a hand — Wait.
The farmers neared. Snurri, poised behind a log, withdrew his sword. Grislae gripped hers tighter.
Hoensa shook his head and pointed back to the farmhouse. He mouthed, No. Wait.
They let the farmers continue on, passing a few paces away, unaware that the company of the North hid so close.
When the farmers had crossed the field, Grislae said, “Why did we let them pass? We could have killed them and taken their gold.”
“I’ve killed scores of farmers and they never carry gold. They hide it away in their houses and will not yield it until you put a blade to their son or daughter’s throat.” Hoensa shook his head. “We’ve raided these shores for generations. These would not be out here in the dark, unless some greater fear than that they hold for us was not pushing them on. I would see what it is that frightens them so.”
Snurri sucked on the back of his hand. “Would that we had found a mill or hamlet, killed the men, fucked all the wives and daughters, and took their livestock and metal. Not this. The countless brood of Jorgumandr and thrice-cursed farmers.”
“Stop complaining, Snurri,” Hoensa said. “We will circle around and see what we can see.”
They stayed beyond the tree line and made their way around the field and into view of the farmhouse. The farmers were clustered outside the door, arguing. One of them pointed inside and gave a blistering speech in their bubbling language, but one word was prominent, due to its hard sounds and angles: Yig.