But that was not what drew Orka’s eyes.
Above the shattered oath stone a dead eagle hung, tied by one talon with rope to a bough above it. The eagle was huge, twice the length of Orka, its great, rust-feathered wings hanging down into the glade, blood dried in a slick from a wound on its white-feathered throat that had dripped from its curved beak. The rope creaked, the dead eagle twisting ponderously as the breeze soughed through branches.
Orka clicked her tongue and Trúr walked into the glade, let out a whinny to show his discontent. Dismounting, Orka padded across the glade, ducked beneath the eagle and kneeled before the oath stone. She touched the new carving, saw it had been coated in the eagle’s blood, now dried to black and cracked like a scab. She looked back at the two brothers, who sat on their horses looking uneasily at Orka.
“I saw something like that carving back in Liga,” Orka said as she stood and walked back to her horse.
“Worshippers of Snaka in Helka’s realm,” Mord said, incredulous. He hawked and spat.
“Not Snaka,” Orka said as she climbed back into the saddle. “Look closer.”
Mord and Lif urged their mounts into the glade and they both leaned in their saddles. Lif saw it first. He hissed.
“It has wings,” Lif said.
“Aye. Whoever did this, they worship Lik-Rifa, the caged dragon.”
Orka set her feet and waited.
Mord and Lif spread around her, left and right, seaxes in their hands, wrapped in wool. Mord moved first, darting in, and Orka stepped left, slapped his stabbing seax away, turned as Lif slashed at her side, twisted, felt it graze her waist. Another stab from Mord, Orka moving in to meet him, grabbing his wrist and heaving him forwards, a flicker of pain in his eyes from the wound in his shoulder. Orka ignored that, twisting to spin Mord into Lif’s path, who was already moving, committed to another attack, and he stabbed Mord in the belly. Or would have, if his seax were not wrapped in wool.
“Better,” Orka said. “You are both using your thought-cages, and beginning to react better. When you have done this enough times, you will not have to think. Your body will do it for you.”
“No hesitation,” Lif said.
“Yes,” Orka said with a curt nod. “Now, again.”
They fought on, Orka silent as they attacked, defeating them every time, though both Lif and Mord were getting closer to touching her with their blades, Lif especially. He was calmer, more thoughtful, and listened more openly, without any of the hubris that entwined Mord. He wanted to be skilled and dangerous, but without admitting that he was not good enough, yet. Mord’s patience would not last, and he would often try to rush Orka, which inevitably ended up with him on his arse.
“Hold,” Orka said, raising a hand. She tugged her n?lbinding cap off her head, Thorkel’s cap, and wiped sweat from her brow. It was cold this high in the hills, their sweat steaming. Orka had seen the tell-tale gleam of a frost-spider’s web that afternoon in the pinewoods. “Enough for tonight.”
Mord and Lif did not look disappointed with that decision.
Although it was still light, even in the shelter of this pinewood, Orka knew that it was late in the day, and she knew rest was vital if they were going to avoid capture by Guevarr and Sigrún’s drengrs.
“Tend to your weapons,” Orka said, walking to a bag and rummaging inside for the bread and cheese they had bought yesterday. They had crossed paths with an old farmer on the road, leading a mule and cart and heading to a nearby village to sell his goods at market. After they had convinced him they were not lawless men about to rob him, they had given him some coin in return for bread and cheese, a jar of milk, a dozen oatcakes and a joint of salted pork. She took it out and sliced them all a portion, handed it out and sat with her back to a tree. The wound in her back that Drekr had given her pulled as she stretched, the skin tight. Lif had cut the stitches and drawn them out, and it felt good to Orka. Just a little stiff, a tightness during some movements. She pulled her cloak about her, cold seeping in now that she had stopped moving, and there would be no fire to warm her bones.
Twilight lay heavy upon them, the long days and lack of darkness confusing Orka’s body. There was a stinging behind her eyes that spoke of exhaustion. She felt a weariness deep in her bones, and the weight of Breca’s absence gnawed at her.
You must rest, a voice whispered in her thought-cage, sounding like Thorkel’s rough voice.
I will rest when Breca is safe at my side, and when you are avenged, my beloved, she answered. Her thought-cage felt full to overflowing and sluggish. Fractured images of the glade with the dead eagle and rune-carved oath stone would not leave her.