“Food for ravens,” Skrie snarled and swung his axe.
Agnar dragged his seax from its scabbard and stabbed down into Skrie’s foot. The big man bellowed, stumbled, his axe swinging wide, whistling past Agnar’s shoulder. At the same time Agnar rammed his shattered shield up, long splinters stabbing into Skrie’s throat, bursting out of the back of his neck.
Skrie slumped and gurgled, blood jetting, and with a bellow Agnar heaved him away, Skrie toppling to the side, ash exploding around him, settling back upon him as he lay gasping and twitching beside Agnar.
A silence settled over the plain, snow falling, ash swirling.
Elvar screamed and punched the air with her spear, the Battle-Grim letting out a triumphant roar, banging weapons on shields.
“AGNAR,” they yelled. “AGNAR!”
Agnar moved, half-rose, then slumped back down to his knees, gasping.
Ilska stared, face pale and twitching. Her brother beside her stood with his mouth open, stunned. Ilska took a step towards Agnar.
Elvar stepped out of the line and started to walk to him, then to run.
Behind her V?rn shouted something.
She heard the sound of feet behind her, Grend following, and Biórr.
“DRAGON-BORN!” V?rn shouted, and Elvar’s footsteps faltered. She stopped, turned and looked at V?rn.
The Froa-spirit was standing upon her mother’s head, pointing at the corpse of Skrie, her hair rippling like branches in the wind.
“DRAGON-BORN,” she yelled. “I SMELL YOUR BLOOD. CHILDREN OF LIK-RIFA, YOU SHALL COME NO CLOSER!”
Elvar stared, uncomprehending for a moment, then she remembered Skrie’s eyes glinting red, his unnatural speed and strength.
He was Tainted: dragon-born. But… they do not exist.
Grend reached her and slowed to stand with her, Biórr running on to Agnar.
Elvar turned, stared at Skrie’s dead body lying in the ash beside Agnar, then at Ilska and Drekr, both striding towards Agnar.
They are kin, she thought: Ilska, Skrie, Drekr. She looked at the others who had ridden in behind Ilska, another score of warriors, all with crow-black hair. All of them are dragon-born.
Ilska stopped, staring at V?rn. She turned, waved a hand in the air and the carts at the back of their warband began to move, their drivers guiding them wide, around the warband, towards V?rn and the blasted remnants of the great tree. As they moved the linen sheets covering their cargo were ripped away, revealing scores of people sitting on benches in the cart’s beds. Children. Iron collars glinted around their necks.
“Bjarn!” Uspa cried out.
Biórr reached Agnar and stood over him, the Battle-Grim’s chief raising an arm to the young warrior, his mouth moving as he said something.
Biórr raised his spear and stabbed it down, into Agnar’s open mouth, down into his throat, and ripped it out. Blood sprayed, Agnar swaying, falling backwards.
Elvar screamed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ORKA
Orka woke to a rhythmic shaking, blinked and stared, trying to make sense of the world. The sound of water, fast-flowing, a timber wall, voices. A stabbing, thumping pain in her head, one side of her face wet. The iron scent of blood. She tried to move, but found that her hands and feet were bound. Then she realised she was slung across her horse Trúr’s back like a trussed deer.
She twisted her head and caught a glimpse of the blond-haired man who had struck her with his staff.
A Galdurman, she thought. He spoke words of power and his staff burst into flame. She could smell burned hair, and thought it was probably hers, where he had struck her.
Other shapes moved around her: warriors on horseback, and others walking. Hounds loped alongside them. Shouts and the creak of gates, then they were turning, hooves on hard-packed earth, and they passed through an open gateway and into a wide courtyard.
The Grimholt, Orka thought. This is not the most deep-cunning way of gaining entry within its walls.
They walked up a gentle slope, following the curve of a channel carved from the river. Two sleek snekkes were moored to a jetty, their hulls freshly painted in yellow and black, Queen Helka’s colours. Around the courtyard were a tangle of buildings. Barns, a forge, the clang of hammer on iron echoing. Stables, chicken coops, pigpens. Goats bleated and chickens ran clucking as the party rode through the courtyard. Then Trúr was stopping and Orka was being dragged from his back and slung on to the floor. She saw Mord, unconscious and bound, and Lif, still shivering and blue-veined from the frost-spider’s venom, though his eyes were open and aware.
“If I cut your bonds about your ankles, will you be a good prisoner and walk?” a voice said behind her. “You’re a big lump and I’m not getting any younger.” She twisted and saw an older man looking down at her, his thinning hair close-cropped, and a white beard, a scar running through a large, lumpy nose.