He felt weak as a newborn lamb, his limbs like lead, his head too heavy for his neck. His throat was dry, a foul taste in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.
“What have you done to me?” Varg said and looked accusingly at Svik, who was staring at him, clothed in a fine tunic of green herringboned wool, silver rings coiled thick on his arms, and another of twisted silver wrapped around his neck, two serpent heads at each end.
“Saved your miserable life,” Svik said, still smiling. “You had a fever, from the spear wound in your side that your friend Leif Kolskeggson gave you.”
Leif!
Varg looked down and lifted his tunic, bloodstained and torn where Leif had cut him with his spear. He saw a long red wound, neatly stitched with cords of boiled gut or tendon. The wound had been cauterised, the flesh around it red and raw. Memories fluttered in Varg’s head like moth’s wings, a bald man offering him a strip of leather to bite on.
“Ah, you remember now, then,” Svik said. It wasn’t a question.
“Aye,” Varg grunted, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. Leif’s attack came back with too-vivid clarity, a host of memories tumbling over themselves, like water over rapids in a river. He hissed. A hand snapped down to his belt and he found his pouch.
“Nothing of yours has been touched. We are not thieves,” Svik said. Then his mouth twisted. “Well, not unless you have something worth stealing, which you don’t.”
Varg undid the clasp on the pouch and reached inside, blowing out a sigh.
“You see?” Svik said. “Would you like some cheese?” He opened a pouch at his belt, took out a slab of hard cheese and cut off a thin slice.
Varg’s belly growled as he took the cheese and swallowed it almost whole. He frowned and lifted his right hand in front of his eyes. Made a fist. It wasn’t hurting. Well, it ached, but there was no stabbing pain like he had felt before. He checked his body over, fingertips searching. He remembered waking by the fjord feeling like he had been beaten by a troll, his ribs cracked, face swollen, one eye almost shut. Now there was a faint echo of that pain, but it was dull and distant.
“How long?” he asked Svik.
“Six days,” Svik said. “I thought you might die, but I kept the rats from gnawing on your toes, just in case. Here, drink this.” He offered Varg a drinking horn.
Varg sniffed it.
“Not very trusting, are you?” Svik said, his pleasant smile never leaving his face, as if he were amused at some joke that Varg did not understand. “It’s just watered ale.”
Varg sipped; it was cold, like liquid joy in his mouth. He tried to stop himself gulping it all down in one long draught.
“Why did you help me?” he asked. “I lost against Einar.”
“Everyone lost against Einar,” Svik said. “That was never a question. It was how you lost, though.” Svik whistled and shook his head. “Einar is still limping. You bit Half-Troll. I have never seen such a thing, though it may take Einar a while to forgive you. Here.” Svik took the empty horn from Varg and replaced it with a wooden bowl and spoon, porridge steaming, a dollop of honey in it.
“Slowly,” Svik said, as Varg burned his mouth.
“This is… delicious,” Varg breathed. The porridge was creamy and hot, the honey sweet. Varg closed his eyes, the pleasure of food and ale consuming him. He forgot about Svik and Einar, about Kolskegg and the Bloodsworn, and just ate.
The sound of chuckling brought him back to himself and he opened his eyes.
Svik was laughing.
“You are a man who enjoys the simple things in life.”
“I have not eaten properly in…” he paused. “A long time.”
“I can tell. You look like a half-starved wolf caught in a wire-trap.”
Varg ate some more porridge, forcing his eyes to stay open.
“My thanks,” he mumbled through a full mouth.
Svik dipped his head.
There was a scrape of feet on rushes and Varg looked past Svik. A tall warrior was striding towards them with a black shield in her fist: the blonde woman who had offered Varg a shield before his bout with Einar. She was not wearing a brynja coat of mail now, just a plain woollen tunic belted with a strip of tablet-woven wool, but something about her, the way she walked, the way her eyes fixed on him like a predatory hawk: she looked… dangerous.
She came to stand over Varg, staring down at him, ignoring Svik.
“Get up,” she said.
Varg blinked.
“Nice to see you, too, R?kia,” Svik said.