“Her!” Orka said.
“Aye. Her name is Vesli. She told me.”
Orka shook her head. Thorkel whistled.
“Can we keep her?” Breca asked, looking at them both with pleading eyes.
The sound of Thorkel’s laughter echoed through the trees.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELVAR
Elvar blinked sweat from her eyes, her vision blurring for a moment as she searched the gloom.
“Halt,” Agnar called out, about a dozen strides ahead.
Warriors about her stuttered to a halt.
Elvar blew out a misted breath and wiped the sweat from her eyes, shrugged the shield from her back and set it down against a tree, then squatted beside a fast-flowing stream. Grend stood over her, then took a few steps into the gloom, eyes always searching.
They were high into the hills, snow falling heavily now, flakes drifting down through the canopy, thicker around the stream, its edge crackling with ice. Elvar tugged off a glove with her teeth and unstoppered her water bottle, drained it in one long draught, then leaned out and dipped the leather bottle into the stream’s centre, where it was not frozen, refilling it. Water bubbled, so cold it felt like it was burning Elvar’s fingers like fire. She took another long sip. The water was sharp as ice in her throat, and clear, the stones on the bottom of the stream shimmering with veins of colour.
It had been a long, hard climb since the fishing village. Through a break in the trees Elvar could see the village far below her, the Wave-Jarl moored in the bay, all of it blurred by the snow. A fence-line stood in a half-circle between the village and the trees. Wooden stakes, rune-marked to protect against vaesen. From this height she could still glimpse faint smudges on the beach, bodies and blood on the shingle marking the site of the battle.
Not much of a battle, it was over almost as soon as it began.
Agnar had slain the jarl, Hrut, and a dozen others had fallen against the Battle-Grim’s shield wall. That had been enough to convince the rest of the villagers to throw down their weapons. The only casualty among the Battle-Grim had been an arrow in Thrud’s calf. Elvar thought she could still hear his cursing drifting up to her on the wind and snow, his fury that he had been left behind. Agnar had left another dozen warriors with Thrud to watch over the prisoners, leaving twenty-six of them to follow their chief into the wooded and snow-shrouded hills.
“On your feet,” Sighvat bellowed as Agnar took a few steps into the trees.
“Hundur, lead us on,” Agnar said to the thrall, who squatted to sniff the ground, nose sifting through a light covering of snow, then bounded on, the chain fastened to its collar pulling tight as Sighvat lumbered after it. Elvar stoppered her bottle and hung it from her belt, pulled her glove back on, stood and slipped on a snow-and ice-covered rock. A hand grabbed her arm, steadying her, and she looked into Biórr’s face. Without thinking she returned his easy smile. His grip lingered and she shook her arm free and slung her shield across her back. Grend stepped between Elvar and Biórr, glowering down at him.
Biórr smiled and stepped away.
“Just helping,” he said. He looked at Elvar. “I don’t think your father likes me.”
He is not my father, she thought. Then they were moving out, into the shadows.
The path was narrow, following the stream on their left, but on the right the boughs were high, and the trunks spaced wide. Elvar picked up her pace and stepped from the path, padding across a thin covering of snow, made spongy with forest litter beneath, and moving up the line so she was closer to Agnar, Sighvat and the thrall. Grend followed, a few paces behind her.
There were more footsteps behind her and she glanced back and saw Biórr leave the path and head into the woods as well, his feet tracing her and Grend’s boot prints.
A dark mound appeared in the path ahead and the thrall slowed, stopped before it, sniffing. The mound was steaming, snowflakes drifting upon it and melting. Lumps protruded from it.
Elvar moved closer, a foul stench hitting her, clawing up her nose.
“Troll dung,” the thrall said. It reached out, grabbed a lump jutting from the pile and pulled at it. A sticky slap sounded as it came free and the thrall held up a large bone, a leg or arm: Elvar could not tell for the excrement and slime that dripped from it. A fresh wave of stench hit, snatching her breath away, burning her throat, and she lifted her arm to her nose, fighting the urge to retch.
Agnar stared into the woods, a scowl on his face. His head swept left to right, and then he saw Elvar wide on his flank.
“Elvar, Grend, Biórr, as you are so keen to lead, you can be the boar’s snout and scout ahead.” He said it with a grunt, but Elvar knew the honour Agnar was giving her. “Stay within sight,” he added.