Carvings of Lik-Rifa. Worship of the dragon-god. And at the same time a dragon-born whom all think are just saga-tales appears, slaying my husband and stealing my son. What does it mean? It ate away at her, like saltwater dripping upon a fine sword, rusting and corrupting. Her nerves felt frayed. The thought of finding Drekr and putting a blade in his belly, twisting it just to hear him scream, played through her head, over and over.
Answers before vengeance, she told herself, though I will settle for Breca back safe and Drekr in the ground. She unbuckled her weapons belt and took a whetstone from the small pouch built into the scabbard of a seax, and began the rhythmic scrape as she ran it across the blade.
Lif was checking on their horses, the three animals nearby, hobbled by a stream, and Mord sat close to Orka. He lay his spear, seax and hand-axe on the pine needles and began to check them, cleaning with scouring sand and a linen rag, then sharpening their blades. Lif joined then and the three of them sat in silence, eating and sharpening.
“What is the plan, then?” Mord asked over the hiss and rasp of whetstones.
Orka did not answer for a while. She was still thinking it through.
After fleeing Guevarr she had thought to travel north after Drekr, towards the Grimholt, hoping to either catch up with him or find a place suitable to ambush Guevarr. Thus far neither of those hopes had borne fruit.
“We will continue to the Grimholt, and see,” Orka muttered. “It is maybe a day’s travel away, no more than two.”
“What is the Grimholt?” Lif asked her.
“A fortress, built to guard a gap through the Bonebacks against the vaesen of the north,” Orka said. “A hall, walls north and south.”
“Have you seen it, then?” Mord asked her.
“Aye,” Orka nodded. “A long time ago.”
In another life, or so it feels.
Mord and Lif glanced at one another.
“We may end up caught between hammer and anvil,” Mord said. “Enemies before and behind us.”
A precipice in front and wolves behind. Orka did not like that thought, either.
“You have seen the campfires on our trail,” Orka said. “Guevarr not even having the clever to hide his fires. We have opened up the gap between us and him. Maybe a day and a half.” She shrugged. “If we get to the Grimholt, then we shall make a decision. Move on, or stand and fight Guevarr.” She looked at them both. “Blood will be shed, and soon.”
Lif nodded, and Mord smiled.
“Fighting me is one thing,” Orka said, “and you are doing well.”
“Less bruises,” Lif smiled.
“Aye,” Orka nodded. “But for you to fulfil your oaths of vengeance you must fight Guevarr.”
“That is what we want,” Lif said. “And I don’t think he will be as hard to kill as you are.”
“He is a troll-shite nieing,” Mord grunted, and shrugged, as if dispatching Guevarr would be a simple task.
“True,” Orka said, “he is a troll-shite nieing, but he will be a troll-shite nieing who wears a coat of mail and carries a shield and sword. A drengr’s kit. And there will likely be other drengrs with him, such as Arild, and Helka’s warriors who were with him at the farm. So, you must be ready to fight a drengr, and more importantly, know how to defeat one. Their strengths and weaknesses. You will be in wool, most likely with a seax or axe in your fist.”
“Aye,” Lif grunted attentively.
“So, are you ready? How do you defeat a warrior in mail, with sword and shield? They are better protected than you, and skilled in weapons craft.”
The two brothers were silent a while.
“Speed,” Lif eventually said.
Orka nodded. “Good. You must use what you have to counter what they have. So, you will be light, not carrying a coat of mail on your back. A brynja chafes the shoulders and slows your movement. Move in quick, never a straight rush, though. Small steps, sway, and get in close, inside their guard; make it harder for them to swing a sword or stab with a spear. Their shields will be a problem. Again, move to the sides, not straight on. If you are using your axe, hook the shield rim, pull them off balance. And once you are in close, their mail will be another problem.” She stopped scraping the whetstone along her seax. “Strike here,” she touched her throat. “Or here,” and put her hand to the inside of her thigh, high, close to her groin. “Open those veins and your opponent is dead. And a brynja does not cover those spots perfectly.” She shrugged. “Of course, while you are trying to do that to them, they will be trying just as hard to stab you anywhere, as you will be wearing wool that parts like butter.”