Except that humanity does not exist, here. They had passed a pile of troll dung once, a bull marking the boundaries of his territory, but other than that they had seen little evidence of vaesen, either.
Elvar felt a little disappointed.
“What’s wrong?” Grend grunted beside her.
He had woken almost two days ago, and now it seemed that he had never been injured, if not for the hint of a bandage visible beneath his iron helm and the scrapes and scratches all over his body. All of the Battle-Grim wore their full battle gear, even for marching, the lesson of the tennúr hill at the bridge still vivid in all of their minds. Elvar’s iron helm was buckled at her belt, a weight on her hip.
“I thought there would be more… danger,” she said.
“Be careful what you wish for, Elvar Fire-Fist,” Biórr said with a smile, who was walking close to her. He was never far from her, now.
“I know, you’re right,” Elvar said, smiling at the young warrior.
Grend gave Biórr a dour look.
Elvar had taken Biórr to her bed each night since the willow tree and made no secret of it. Grend had refrained from commenting, but the fact that he could have uttered the words Biórr had just spoken, and yet only scowled at the young warrior, showed that he did not approve of Elvar’s choice.
Their column halted, Agnar hidden from view as he led them, somewhere up ahead, with Uspa, Sighvat and the Hundur-thrall. They were following a winding track up a ridge, slow going with their carts. Elvar looked around and frowned. It was not an obvious place to make camp, and they had not been marching long enough to stop now, anyway.
“I’m going to see what is wrong,” Elvar said with a frown. Grend followed her, which was no surprise.
They strode along the column, past wagons and horses and the Battle-Grim, warriors staring into the woods around them, other shadowed figures scattered among the trees, scouts of the Battle-Grim. An air of excitement and anticipation hovered over them all, sharpening their senses. Elvar could almost feel it tingling in the air and prickling her skin, like before a thunderstorm.
The prospect of Oskutree. It feels so close, I can almost smell it, taste it, hear its whispered call in the wind.
The front of the column came into view, Agnar standing upon the driving bench of a wagon. He was staring back along the column, over Elvar’s head.
“What is it?” Elvar asked as she drew near.
Sighvat shrugged. “Chief thought he saw something,” he said. The Hundur-thrall was sitting with his back against a tree, Uspa stood beside him. Her expression was drawn and stark compared to the warriors around her. Her hand absently patted the Hundur-thrall’s shoulder, like a faithful hound.
Elvar put a foot on the cart’s wheel and climbed up beside Agnar. He was staring back over the hills and woodland, a hand over his eyes against the glare of the sun in a cloudless sky. Elvar followed his line of sight. Back along the path they had taken, a patchwork of woodland, streams glistening among them like silver wire. In the distance were black specks of crows in the sky, silhouetted by Eldrafell’s red-veined glow, far to the west.
“What is it, chief?” Elvar breathed. She could feel his tension.
Agnar was silent a while longer.
“Nothing,” he eventually breathed, dropping the hand from his eyes and looking at her. “Just a feeling.” He sighed, turned and looked at Uspa.
“How much longer?” he asked her.
“Soon,” she shrugged.
“You have been saying that for two days,” Agnar growled.
“That is all I can say,” Uspa said. “The Graskinna was a Galdrabok, not a map.”
“Fine,” Agnar grunted. He patted the shoulder of the man in the driving seat of the cart, then leaped down to the ground.
“Onwards,” he shouted.
Elvar traced a finger across Biórr’s shoulder as she lay beside him, following the curl of a blue-twisting tattoo, moving on to his striated chest, his sweat glistening on the dense curl of his dark hairs. White lines ran diagonally, from right to left, a lattice of silvered scars.
“What did these to you?” Elvar said, still a little breathless from their lovemaking.
Biórr shifted on to his side and looked into her eyes.
“That was a whip,” he said. “There were knots in the leather.” He opened his mouth to say more, but paused, shifted, looked away, uncomfortable. There was a tenseness to him, Elvar thought, that she had noticed growing in him throughout the day.
“When?” Elvar said, frowning at the change in him.