“Shut up, you strutting peacock,” R?kia said, her eyes still fixed on Varg.
“What’s a peacock?” Varg asked through a mouthful of porridge.
“A vain, arrogant, self-loving oaf,” R?kia said.
“She’s showing off,” Svik said. “Peacocks are birds: large, impressive, beautiful birds. They can only be found in southern Iskidan, beyond the great city of Gravka.”
“Get up,” R?kia said again, ignoring Svik as if he did not exist. “And take this.” She waved the black shield at him.
“I told you, I don’t fight with a shield.”
“You called him No-Shield, and No-Sense, remember?” Svik said.
“Exactly,” R?kia said. “Fighting without a shield makes no sense. You cannot be part of the Bloodsworn and not know your way around a shield. Glornir’s orders, not mine. I don’t care if you get chopped into a thousand pieces in your first shield wall, but Glornir is my chief, so, get up. Take it.”
First shield wall!
Varg gulped and looked at Svik. He felt like his body had been wrung through a mangle, and the porridge was heavy in his stomach. The thought of fighting in a shield wall was not a pleasant one.
“She has a point,” Svik said with a grin. “You wanted to be one of the Bloodsworn.” He shrugged, still smiling. “And if Glornir has said do it, then best be getting on with it.”
“Glornir?” Varg said.
“The one who saved your life,” Svik said.
“Our chief. Glornir Shield-Breaker,” R?kia said.
“He has a lot of names,” Svik said with a shrug. “My favourite is Glornir Gold-Giver.”
R?kia curled her lip in distaste at Svik.
Varg remembered him, the bald warrior stepping into the woodland glade as Leif was about to chop his hand off. He owed this man. But he also remembered why he had come here, why he had fought Einar Half-Troll.
Vol, the Seier-witch.
Carefully Varg put the empty porridge bowl down on the ground and stood. The room moved a little and he swayed. R?kia shoved the shield at him and he gripped the rim, bound in rawhide. R?kia turned on her heel and strode across the hall, Varg seeing she had a shield of her own slung across her back.
Varg looked at Svik.
“I suggest you follow her,” Svik said. “Unless you want a tongue-lashing to go with the beating I suspect she is about to give you.”
Varg sucked in a deep breath, turned the shield and gripped its wooden handle, his left fist slipping into the curve of the iron boss, and followed R?kia. Now that thirst and hunger were not screaming at him, questions were starting to gather in his head, circling like a murder of crows.
He stepped out through open-flung doors into bright spring sunshine, two wooden pillars framing wide steps that led down into the courtyard where he had fought Einar Half-Troll. Judging by the sun it was a little past midday. The courtyard was full of warriors sparring, the Bloodsworn’s black shields spattered with red, and a few of Jarl Logur’s blue shields with red sails bright upon them. He saw Einar Half-Troll instantly, the big man standing head and shoulders over the tallest men and women there. He was sparring against two of Logur’s warriors at the same time, Einar gripping a shield as big as a table in one meaty fist, an axe in the other.
Varg searched for Vol, the tattooed Seier-witch, but he could not see her. Elsewhere in the courtyard he saw the silver-haired woman sparring with a man, her two hounds lying stretched in the sun, watching her. Close by he saw the bald man with the grey beard who had saved him in the woods beyond Liga.
Glornir.
He was sparring against a warrior who stood out from the rest of the Bloodsworn. A slim warrior of average height, but his head was shaved, apart from a long, thick coil of braided hair, black and gleaming as polished jet. His skin was dark where all the others in the courtyard were fair, and he wore a grey Kaftan of wool, buckled down the centre, with baggy breeches, wrapped tight with winnigas from ankle to knee. The man was holding a black, red-spattered shield and a curved, single-edged sword. There was something about him that looked familiar.
“Stop staring like a virgin in a brothel and get down here,” R?kia yelled up at Varg. Warriors’ heads turned towards him, smiles and laughter. Varg coloured and hurried down the steps, feeling the stitches in his side pulling.
R?kia was stood at the bottom of the steps beside a stack of spears in a barrel.
“I need to speak to your Seier-witch,” Varg said, feeling the death of his sister like a heavy weight upon his heart. He had a task to complete, the responsibility of it a consuming fire.