Orka nodded. She heard the rasp of a seax being drawn and the rope binding her feet was sawed. Arms pulled her upright.
She stretched, clicked her neck and looked around.
The Galdurman was dismounting, the warrior with him. A blonde-haired woman took the reins and rode on towards stables, leading another horse with an unconscious woman slung over its back and a chest tied to its saddle. Orka winced as she looked at them, the pain in her head throbbing harder.
“No time for sight-seeing,” the white-haired man said as he dragged on the rope about her wrists. Orka stumbled on, blood returning to her feet in a prickling, stabbing flood now the rope-binding was gone. Other warriors fell in about them as she was steered towards the wooden hall and tower, Mord and Lif carried between them. The hall had a roof of birch-bark and turf; the tower had wooden tiles pegged to the lathe-beams.
Men and women paused in their work, thralls and craftsmen, all staring at Orka and the two brothers. A sound rang out from a barn close to the river.
A child’s voice, a cry.
Orka stopped, staring at the barn.
“Breca,” she croaked, discovering that her throat was dry and cracked.
The white-haired man pulled her on; another warrior prodded her back.
“Breca?” Orka said, louder.
“Move on, you big bitch,” the warrior behind her snapped, and prodded her again.
There was the sound of a slap and a child’s voice rang out again.
Orka ripped her hands from white-hair’s grip and turned, headbutted the warrior behind her, his nose bursting with a crack. He dropped to the ground, a long-axe falling from his fingers. She kicked a woman in the knee as she stared at the fallen warrior, the woman doubling over with a yelp. Orka raised her bound hands and slammed them down on to the woman’s head, sending her sprawling.
A blow to Orka’s shoulder spun her, the white-haired man glaring at her, slamming his spear butt into her belly. She felt another blow across the back of her legs, dropping her to her knees, and heard thuds and grunts as warriors closed about her, beating her with spear butts, punching and kicking. A boot connected with her chin and white light exploded in her head.
Orka snapped awake, gasping, ice-cold water dripping from her face. She was hanging suspended: pain in her wrists that were tied tight and raised over her head, bound to an iron ring in a wall; her feet dragging on the floor. She took her weight and slowly stood, relieving the pressure on her wrists. Blinked and shook her head, water spraying.
She was in a room of the tower, judging by the view from a window through stretched and scraped animal skin. She glimpsed turfed roofs below, and the ice-glitter of the river. Mord and Lif were similarly restrained, tied to iron rings bolted into the wall. A fire burned in an iron brazier, and a long table was sat against a wall, all manner of sharp and unpleasant looking tools spread upon it. A pair of tongs was heating in the fire. White-hair was there, along with broken-nose. He was leaning against a wall and had his long-axe back in his hands, and the woman whose knee Orka had kicked was stood in front of her. She turned away and limped across the room with an empty bucket. Others were spread around the room: a bald man wearing a pitted leather apron with rolled up sleeves standing by the fire, and the blond-haired Galdurman sitting on a chair by a door.
“What were you doing lurking in the woods about the Grimholt?” the white-haired man asked Orka.
“Just… travelling through,” Orka muttered.
“Travelling through the Boneback Mountains, half a league from any road, in the middle of a frost-spider nest,” he said.
“Got… lost,” Orka grunted. She rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth and felt a loose tooth. Spat a glob of blood. “I’m a trader.”
“A trader,” white-hair said, smiling. “Dressed in a fine brynja, carrying a spear, axe and two seaxes, and that’s just you.” He held up her weapons belt and dangled it. “What is your trade? War?”
“Vigrie is a dangerous place,” Orka said. “Best to be prepared.”
White-hair laughed and looked her up and down. “I’ve seen your sort before, but never in a trader’s market. More often across the rim of my shield, in the battle-fray.”
Orka shrugged. “My father was a big man.”
“You killed one of my men,” white-hair said. “Well, not you. Him.” He pointed at Mord. “Haga, wake him up.”
“Aye, chief,” the woman said, refilling her bucket from a barrel in the corner and walking to Mord. She threw it in his face and he woke spluttering and gasping. He shook his head, looked around and saw Lif, who was barely conscious, heaped in the corner on trembling limbs. Lif coughed and spat up ice-rimed phlegm.