“You cannot have him,” a voice said behind Jarl Logur.
All turned to look at Glornir.
He was still seated, leaning back in his chair.
“What?” Logur said.
“Sulich,” Glornir said, nodding his head towards the shaven-haired warrior who sat among the Bloodsworn. “Prince Jaromir cannot have him.”
Jaromir stared at Glornir, then turned his head much like the hawk on his arm to regard Sulich, sitting in between Einar Half-Troll and Svik. Sulich did not return his gaze; instead he slowly reached out and speared a slice of smoked mutton. He put it in his mouth and chewed with apparent relish.
“Who are you, to say no to Jaromir, a son of Kirill the Magnificent, a prince of Gravka and all Iskidan?” Jaromir said to Glornir.
“Who am I?” Glornir said. “No great lord or jarl, or prince, like you. But I am chief of the Bloodsworn, and with that comes responsibility to my crew. Gold-Giver, they call me. I am sworn to provide for them, and protect them.”
“And Shield-Breaker,” R?kia said.
“Soul-Stealer,” Svik added.
“Slicer, hacker, crusher,” Einar Half-Troll said, brows knotted in a thunderous glower.
Glornir shrugged. “I have many names,” he said. “But the heart of this is that they have sworn an oath to me, and I to them. To stand together. To fight together. To live or die together. Sulich has sworn that oath, sealed it with his blood. So, you see…” He stood slowly, cracked his neck one way, then the other. “You cannot take him.”
“He has committed crimes. Great crimes that he must answer for,” Jaromir said.
“I fear you are not understanding me,” Glornir said.
One of the women behind Jaromir stepped forwards, her fist wrapping around the hilt of her sabre. “I shall take his head for his insolence, Great Prince,” she hissed.
Chairs and tables scraped as over sixty warriors stood in the hall, all of the Bloodsworn rising. Beside Varg, Torvik stood, and before he realised what he was doing, Varg found himself on his feet too.
“Hold,” Sergei cried, spreading his arms and jumping between the druzhina warrior and Glornir. “This is not the way, my prince,” he pleaded, bobbing his head. “Their ways are not our ways; we must excuse their barbarian manners.”
Jaromir looked from Sergei to Glornir.
“Hold, Ilia,” Jaromir said. “We shall take our esteemed friend Sergei’s advice.” He looked to Jarl Logur.
“My apologies,” he said to the jarl. “I do not mean to bring bloodshed to your hall. But this is a serious matter and I will see it resolved.” He looked around the mead hall. “Liga is a trading port, and it has given you all that you have, but there are finer latrine-pits in Gravka than this hall. I could be good for this town; I could be good for you, bring in a river of wealth you have never imagined, if we were to come to an agreement.”
Logur looked at him.
“I wish no bad blood between us,” the jarl said, “but the lore of our land does not support your claim. You cannot march into a jarl’s hall and make these demands. Where is your proof? Your evidence? The witness of reliable, honoured freedmen? This is a matter for the Althing.” He shrugged. “And Glornir is my friend,” he answered.
“I have evidence, and witnesses,” Jaromir said. “Think on what I have said. I shall return on the morrow with all that you ask, and I shall ask you for justice. Again. I will not ask a third time.” He turned on his heel and strode from the hall, his hawk letting out another shriek.
The doors closed with a thud and silence settled over the room.
“What an arseling,” Svik said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELVAR
Elvar lifted her oar and dragged it clear of the oar-hole as the Wave-Jarl glided through the foaming surf and grated on a shingle beach. Agnar was unstrapping the steering oar and raising it so that it would not snare on the ground below the shallow water. Sighvat leaped overboard and splashed through the surf on to a narrow beach, a handful of the Battle-Grim following him. Gulls circled and screeched above them, launching from their sea-cliff nests.
They were two days south from Iskalt, roughly half the distance to Snakavik already covered with the help of a strong north-westerly that had filled the Wave-Jarl’s sail and sent them speeding south. The wind had changed, now, hissing cold and sharp from the east and slowing their progress. Agnar had chosen this island to camp upon, the most southerly tip of the Frost-Isles, as he had seen the glimmer of a beach which offered safe landing, and the bunching of storm clouds on the horizon that encouraged them to seek shelter. The sun was a pale cloud-wreathed glow dipping behind steep, grassy slopes as the Battle-Grim disembarked and shored the Wave-Jarl with ropes tied to rocks. The beach was too narrow for them all to camp, so, while most of them had been dragging their drakkar above the tideline on the beach, Biórr and a few others had been sent to scout for a decent site to camp. As Elvar was leaning and breathing hard from tugging on a rope, the young warrior returned, telling them he had found a spot at the top of a nearby slope that would keep the Wave-Jarl in sight. Agnar left five men with the drakkar, Thrud among them because of his arrow wound, and the rest of them followed Biórr as he led them up a winding path, Thrud’s complaints echoing louder than the gulls’ screeching. Sighvat led the new prisoners, Berak and his wife and child, and the Seier-witch Kráka and the Hundur-thrall followed close behind. The path twisted through grass and heather and finally spilled on to a level plateau. An open space of goat-cropped grass ran up to a slab of moss and lichen-covered granite as tall as a mead hall, and as wide as one. Alders clustered along the plateau’s eastern fringe, protecting them from the searing wind.