“You will ask my aunt’s forgiveness for your insult,” Guevarr said.
Virk looked from Guevarr to Jarl Sigrún, eyes flickering to the warrior-thrall at her shoulder.
“Forgive me, I meant no insult to you, Jarl Sigrún,” Virk said, “I do not think you a liar.” He paused, looking from her to Guevarr. “The blame of it lies at your nephew’s feet.”
“I did all I could to find them,” Guevarr snapped, his voice rising.
“You squeak like a wire-trapped ferret,” Virk said, “and as you cannot even find your nose to wipe it, how are you capable of finding stolen children, murderers and thieves?”
There were snorts of laughter at that.
Guevarr’s eyes bulged, his mouth moving, strangled sounds escaping his throat. He cuffed the end of his dripping nose.
“Holmganga,” he snarled. “I challenge you, here, now.” His hand moved to his sword.
“Guevarr, stop this now,” Jarl Sigrún snapped.
“It is too late,” Guevarr spat. “The challenge is out, before my jarl, before the people of Fellur, and before the oath stone. There is no going back.”
Jarl Sigrún shook her head.
She knows as well as any that Guevarr cannot take his challenge back, Orka thought. And Virk cannot decline, not if he would walk away from here with any honour.
Virk took a step deeper into the clearing, eyes locked with Guevarr’s.
“I accept your challenge,” he said.
Jarl Sigrún sucked in an angry breath.
“Very well,” she snapped. “Each of you, choose a second, and make your preparations. We will break until you are both ready and the hazel rods have been laid.”
Virk turned and walked back to his sons.
“What are you doing?” one of them said. “He’s a drengr!”
“He’s a pup grown mighty in his own head because his kin is a jarl,” Virk said, calm now. He looked at Orka.
Thorkel must have known what was coming, because he opened his mouth and started to raise his hand, but the words were already leaving Virk’s mouth.
“Will you be my second?” Virk asked Orka.
Orka looked into Virk’s eyes.
“One of your sons, Mord or Lif, should do that. You have kin at your back.”
“No. If I lose and they are my seconds they will try to fight Guevarr.” He leaned close to her. “And they have some weapons craft, but they are no match for a drengr,” he whispered. “All I ask of you is, if I lose, to remind them of the rule of holmganga, and to put my axe in my fist, so that I would not walk the soul road weaponless.”
Orka sucked in a breath and looked at Thorkel. He was frowning and shook his head, but he knew already what her answer would be.
Orka nodded. “Aye, then,” she said. “I will do it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VARG
Varg opened his eyes, looking up at blurred shapes and shadows. He blinked, his vision slowly focusing, images coalescing into timbered beams and a vaulted roof. Pigeons were cooing in the rafters, and a raven, black and hunched, seemed to be staring at him. Sunlight filtered through smoke holes and shuttered windows.
Varg tried to roll, something poking and scratching into his back, but the effort seemed too much for him, so he flopped back. There was a smell of stale mead, of cold fat and grease and woodsmoke. Of sweat and urine. A murmur of voices passed close by, and further away he heard the thud of wood hitting wood, a few shouted curses. He became aware of a dull pain in his side, sharper in his ribs when he tried to move.
“Aha, so Varg No-Sense is awake,” a voice said. Footsteps and a face appeared over him. A handsome face, a red beard cut neatly and gleaming with oil.
“Svik,” Varg said, the sound croaking through the dry pit of his throat, stumbling over his lips. He tried to roll on to his side again, but it seemed like a task too difficult for his body to complete.
“Here, give me your hand, you flopping fish,” Svik said, all smiles. He gripped Varg’s wrist and pulled him up so that he was sitting propped with his back against a timbered wall. He was in a large hall, a makeshift bed of rushes bunched close to the wall and behind a thick wooden pillar, a swirling pattern of elaborate knotwork carved into it. Two long tables and benches ran the length of the hall, hearth fires between them, the tables ending at the foot of a large dais. Upon the dais another long table stood, at a right angle to the other two, so that whatever lord or lady sat there they could look out at their people. The ground was covered in dried rushes, which were the culprit of the scratching in his back, and there were wet patches here and there, of spilled ale or urine from a night’s feasting, he imagined. He saw that his cloak had been folded beneath him, used as a pillow, and he reached out and touched it, felt something solid wrapped within it. His thrall-collar, and his cleaver.