They found a small river — one that, Uvigg told them, ran into the marshy bay where the Reinen was beached — and followed it south. Two more farmsteads they came across — one, rich with livestock and grain, where three young men and a girl fought them when the door was kicked in. The girl, no more than thirteen, chose to defend her home with a butcher’s blade, so Grislae ran her through. The girl looked surprised once her widening eyes fixed on Grislae’s face, and she pawed at Grislae’s breasts as she died, as if looking for some kind of succor there. The rest of the farmer’s sons, and the other daughters hidden in the cold room below the kitchen, they took for slave stock. The men of Heingistr’s company looked at Grislae with new eyes.
The next farm was empty, possibly alerted by the screams and shrieks of their neighbors. They left four men to round up with the scattered flock.
The sky lightened. Soon the sun would rise.
Thirteen men and one woman moved inland, toward the mill. The sky bloomed in the east and illuminated the water vapor in the air, shining through the trees like the golden fog of Valhalla.
The mill was guarded by men bearing axes, cudgels, and a single rust-eaten sword, doubtless their families and other precious things barricaded inside. Svebder had unlimbered his bow and feathered two of the men before they knew Heingistr’s company was upon them. In the blood-spiked rush toward the mill, Grislae found herself yelling wordlessly. She killed two men, taking one through the throat as he swung a hammer at her — she received some of the blow on the meat of her shoulder — and speared another through the back as he grappled with Hoensa. It was over quickly, and she came out on the other side with a calmness she’d never known, as if all the wheels of heaven had locked and the braid that was her fortune and destiny were complete.
The men rousted the miller, his wife, sons, and daughters, killing only the one girl who dared to fight back. Grislae found a horse, harnessed it to a wagon and brought it around for the spoils. By daybreak, the wagon was heavy with grain — and some metal — and on its way back to the Reinen. They reached the ship unmolested, loaded slaves and spoils into the hold, and were back into the waters of the marsh and approaching open sea by midday.
Spirits on the Reinen soared as the sails bellied with wind and the sea spray dampened beards. “Hale we went forth, and hale we returned, heavy with plunder and the blessings of Aesir and Vanir!” Heingistr shouted at the shore, exultant. “We have come to this fat shore, all the high holy gods protect us!”
As if in answer, Snurri moaned. A fever had settled upon him, and he slumbered heavily, cradling his hand to his chest. When he woke, he would dip the bloated green hand in a bucket of saltwater — the old remedy. It did not seem to work. “We are cursed by Yig,” Snurri mumbled, eyes cloudy. “It will be the death of us —”
“Shut up,” Hoensa told the delirious man. “You are snake-bit and addled. Do not speak of these southern gods.”
“ — the children of Yig — ”
Hoensa snatched the bucket of saltwater and dumped it on Snurri’s head. “Clear your mind, man. We are to sea.”
“ — cursed, we are — ”
Heingistr said, “Put him below, where his delirium cannot poison our good cheer.” He slapped the mast and looked to the men of his company. “We are heavy! This shore is rich and ripe!”
Wen and Urtha, with Hoensa’s help, moved Snurri into the hold, near the livestock. They looked wan and dejected when they returned.
“The ravings of the ill and infirm do no favors to the brave,” Hoensa said, as he stepped on the deck and took a deep breath of salt-spiced air. The wind was up and Reinen’s sail full, the shore passing at a good clip.
Urtha, shaking her head, said, “I will tend him, and the slaves. I am afraid for him.” She paused, looking to the distant shore.
“Snurri bears a tattoo of Jorgumandr on his chest, the great serpent eating its own tail. He told me once that the völva seer saw his doom in a serpent’s mouth, so his father tattooed him there,” Hoensa said.
“Loki’s brood,” Urtha said, pursing her lips as if tasting something bitter. “Inconstant and wicked.”
“We shall see. Snurri is strong, if nothing else,” said Hoensa, looking toward the feverish man.
“And stupid as rocks,” Urtha said.
Urtha joined Wen at the covered stern of the Reinen and spoke with her softly. The seas were high, swells pitching the longship. Some of the men chanted the Glymdrápa in rough but strong voices, laughing as Fjolnir fell into the mead and drowned:
The seas grew, and Heingistr brought the Reinen in to shore, to find port and send out scouts. “When the seas are high, the North is nigh,” he said, looking at the shore, avidly.
Beneath them the livestock bleated and the thin moans of Snurri filtered through the air-grate. His breath had taken on a rasp, as if the fever had settled in his lungs, and Urtha gave Hoensa worried glances when she came up from the hold.
They paced the shore for two days, until the swells let up, and finding a river, made their way up it until the water was barely brackish. They moored her on an old pier, half-rotten — despite the livestock hold, the Reinen’s draft was shallow. They set up camp in the burnt-out ruin of a fishing hut; victim, possibly, to one of their or their cousins’ forays. Heingistr sent Grislae, Hoensa, and an unblooded lad named Knut to survey the area. They found farms and a small village with a moss-covered church, all within a half day’s walk of the Reinen — it was still morning, and so they set forth immediately.
With the full company save the wives and Snurri, they took the village, killing all the men and the women who fought. Any boys and girls old enough to labor in the field, or bed, were taken as slaves. Grislae felt the exaltation of war and battle as she came into the hamlet and heard the screams of the villagers, pleading. She killed a woman in her home — a farmer’s wife who hid something in her cellar. She heard muffled weeping from below as she stood in the dim house over the woman’s body.
Grislae found the trapdoor and went down among the crocks of butter and sacks of grain, where she found two chubby, red-cheeked children. She dragged them out into the street and put them to the sword for all of the company of Heingistr to see, and the gods as well. The raiders found a wagon and drove it to the stone church, killing the high priest and his servants there, and taking their gold.
“We do not burn! We will return one day,” Heingistr laughed, as he came through the church’s shattered door, carrying a chalice and a cross. It was late afternoon and the slanting golden rays made the spoil and slaughter seem kissed by the gods. “Kill the goose, take the eggs, one day another goose will make its home in the nest.”
Spoil-weary, they trudged alongside the pilfered wagon, leading a string of slaves back to the Reinen.
“The spring planting was especially hard on Willa and the children, after the late freeze,” Uvigg said to Hoensa, who walked beside him, axe in hand. Uvigg patted the slats of the wagon trundling beside them. “So my share of this will be a great boon. The boys grow tall and thin now that their manhood is in sight, and we can buy a cow and some goats to keep them in milk and cheese.”