Agnar stepped forwards to meet them.
Elvar scowled. She was used to seeing Sighvat at Agnar’s shoulder, and seeing him walk out alone seemed wrong. Without thinking she stepped out of the line and strode after him. There was a moment’s gap, and then she heard the pad of Grend’s footfalls behind her. And then another pair of feet. She glanced back and saw Biórr following after her, concern on his face. Elvar liked it.
Ilska stopped and waited.
Close up, she was older than Elvar had realised. She had deep lines around her eyes.
“Surrender to me and I shall allow you and your warriors to live,” Agnar said as he reached her, a grin on his face.
Ilska looked at him, hard and cruel. She snorted a laugh, but there was little humour in it.
“Your days are done, Agnar Broksson, chief of the Battle-Grim,” she said, her face flat, her voice emotionless. “Step aside or die.” She shrugged.
“I was here first,” he replied, still smiling, as if he were just chatting over a game of tafl. “Besides, I am glad that you are here. I have sworn a blood oath to find you, so you have made my task easy.” He raised his hand, looking at the white scar that wound around it, then looked over his shoulder at his warband. “My oath will be fulfilled to you this day,” he said to Uspa.
The Seier-witch dipped her head to him, then stepped around the warband and walked to them.
“Ilska,” she said, a familiarity in her voice, and a hatred. “My son?”
“He lives, Uspa,” Ilska said.
“Give him back.”
“No. He will change the world. As you could have done.”
“It is not the way,” Uspa said, a deep sorrow in her voice. “Please, do not do this.”
“Enough,” Agnar barked at Uspa. “There will be no pleading, no bargaining. We will take your boy back from these nieing child-stealers,” he said, his smile gone, iron and steel in his voice. He looked over Ilska’s shoulder to her warband and sniffed. “My Battle-Grim will make a fine song of this. Of you and your Raven-Feeders.”
“A song that they will not hear sung,” one of the men at Ilska’s shoulder growled, the one with the long-axe. “You and your Battle-Grim will be food for ravens soon enough.”
Agnar shifted his gaze to him, and took his time to look the huge warrior up and down. “Best be silent when your betters are talking,” Agnar said to him.
The man took a step forwards, his hand reaching for his axe. Ilska held a hand up, slapped his chest and he stopped.
“We have work to do and little time to waste,” she said, her eyes flickering to V?rn the Froa-spirit, perched upon her mother’s head, then back to Agnar. “A holmganga to resolve this, Agnar Broksson,” she said.
“You would risk all on a duel, when you outnumber us?” Agnar said, raising an eyebrow.
Elvar was surprised, too. Despite Agnar’s words, it was clear that they were in the weaker position: the Raven-Feeders outnumbered them, and their reputation was formidable, so to suggest a duel that would level the odds to one on one, that seemed foolish.
“I value my people, as no doubt you value yours,” Ilska said. “My Raven-Feeders will win, there is no doubt of that. But this way, the only death on this field will be yours.” She shrugged.
“So, you would fight me?” Agnar said.
“Not I,” Ilska said. “My brother, Skrie, has begged for that pleasure.”
The warrior with the long-axe smiled.
“Him?” Agnar said with a twist of his lips, then he laughed. “I accept.”
“Good,” Ilska said, turning on her heel. “Skrie, make it quick. Drekr, with me,” she snapped at the scarred man. He stood there a moment, looked from Agnar to Elvar, from Grend to Biórr, then gripped his brother’s arm and squeezed it before striding away after Ilska.
Elvar hesitated a moment, then leaned in to Agnar.
“Kill this arseling,” she whispered. “We have a saga-tale to make.”
“I’ll see you after,” Agnar said, not looking at her, his eyes fixed on the bulk of Skrie, and then Elvar was walking away, Grend and Biórr following her.
She settled into Agnar’s position in the front row of the Battle-Grim and looked back. Skrie shrugged his axe from his back, gripped it two-handed and swung it around his head, loosening his shoulders. It hissed through the air, snatching snow into its swirling wake. His dark brynja rippled and gleamed.
Elvar looked along the line of the Battle-Grim and saw the tension and excitement she felt in her own bones mirrored in those about her. Huld held the bear-claw around her neck; Sólín’s white-knuckled hand gripped her sword hilt; Biórr tugged on his neat beard; others were restless, shifting.