Biórr drank beside her, quietly sipping.
“So, we are to Oskutree, then,” he said, nodding to himself. “That is quite a thing.”
“Heya, so it is,” Elvar agreed, holding her mead horn up and clinking his, then drinking some more.
“A toast,” Biórr said, smiling at her. “To finding Oskutree and changing the world.”
Elvar echoed him and they drank together.
“I am glad you, we, are sworn to be finding Bjarn,” Biórr said.
“There is a kindness in you,” Elvar said, liking how Biórr often mentioned Bjarn.
Biórr shrugged, looking away. “It is because I need a rematch of tafl board with him. He beat me the last time, and I need my revenge.”
Elvar smiled. “I have been thinking about that day, when Bjarn was taken,” she said. “Why did Ilska run? She fled Snakavik, fled from us. If she wanted to trade the boy, why did she do that?”
“Who knows the mind of Ilska the Cruel?” Biórr said. “I doubt that she was running because she was scared of us. But maybe she wanted to avoid a scrap. Let things calm down before she tried to trade with us. It is not so easy to bargain and trade with people when you have a blood feud with them.”
“Aye,” Elvar nodded. “And they had killed Thrud.”
A twist of Biórr’s lips and he looked away.
“He was your friend,” Elvar said.
“His death, it was my fault,” Biórr said heaving a sigh.
“It was an ambush and a fight,” Elvar said. “Lucky that you and Uspa came out of it breathing.” She thought about Agnar’s words to her, as they were crossing the lake. “We all live with death’s talons in our shoulder, her breath on our neck,” she said. “Thrud knew that as well as we do.”
“That is a truth,” Biórr said, looking into the hearth fire. They were silent for a while, sipping at their mead.
“It cannot have been easy leaving Snakavik behind,” Biórr eventually said, startling Elvar. “Leaving your kin behind,” he added at the twist of her eyebrow.
“It was not so hard,” Elvar said. “My father is not an easy man to like, and my brother Thorun is an arseling.”
“You have another brother, though,” Biórr said.
“Aye, Broeir.” She smiled. “I do like him. But, he is… content, with his lot in Snakavik.”
“And you are not?”
“No,” Elvar said. “My father would have sold me off as a brood bitch to Queen Helka’s spawn. I would not have been content with that.”
“Some would think that a fine life,” Biórr said, “not wanting for anything: warmth, food, silver in plenty. Power.”
“Not me,” Elvar snarled as she sipped her mead. “I want to earn my own battle-fame and silver, not be given it, or ride on the reputation of those before me.” She thought of her father, and the ever-fading memories of her mother, just fractured images now, of her smile, her laugh, her touch. She felt eyes upon her and shivered, looked at Biórr.
He was staring at her, his eyes glittering in the firelight.
“What?” Elvar said.
“You are a rare thing,” Biórr smiled. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the marks on the back of Elvar’s hand, sending a shiver through her. Gently he gripped her hand and held it up to the firelight, turning it so that the lattice of scars glowed like red rivers from Eldrafell, the fire mountain. “I follow Agnar Battle-Grim, but I will also follow you, Elvar Troll-Slayer, Elvar Fire-Fist,” he said quietly. Then he leaned forwards and touched his lips to hers. It was just a caress, but it sent a tremor through Elvar, as if ice had trickled down her spine. She pulled away, startled, and he smiled at her.
The sound of footsteps approached, twigs cracking in the darkness behind them, and then Grend was looming above Elvar, looking down at them with a deep scowl on his face.
“Your watch,” he said, his eyes shifting from Elvar to Biórr and then back to Elvar.
Elvar stood hurriedly, nodded and walked off into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ORKA
Orka sat in the corner of a tavern with a jug of watered ale and a drinking cup. It had not helped to relieve the headache that pounded and pulsed. Smoke from a hearth fire was slowly filling the room, too much of it to filter through the smoke hole in the vaulted roof, the reek of whale oil and hops and urine thick in the air. She had chosen the darkest corner of the tavern, wrapped a new cloak that she had purchased from one of the many traders lined along the dockside streets of Darl about her and pulled up the hood. The cloak was a grey wool herringbone that covered her brynja and weapons, and the hood was brown homespun wool, casting her face in shadow. This was the eleventh tavern she had visited in little more than a day since she had walked away from Mord and Lif, mostly just sitting and listening, sometimes asking a barkeep or serving girl a question or two. In return, so far, she had received only silence or dark looks.