“And why did I save your life, when Leif stood over you with a cleaver and named you murderer?” Glornir said quietly.
“I am no murderer,” Varg said slowly, controlling the anger he felt bubbling in his veins.
“So you say,” Glornir replied, “and I shall know what you are soon enough. But answer my question. Why did I save your life?”
Varg blinked, emotions swirling, confusion and anger mixing within him.
“I don’t know,” Varg breathed. “Svik said it was because I bit Einar…” He trailed off, realising how ridiculous that sounded.
“I saved you because you have potential,” Glornir said. “You have a foot in the mead hall, but you are not yet one of us. To be Bloodsworn is an honour, and one that is not undertaken lightly. We do not allow just any warrior with fast fists to become one of us. You have to have the right… qualities. Skill in battle. You lack weapons craft, yes, but R?kia tells me you are fast and have balance, and a warrior’s spirit. We saw that when you fought Einar. Courage and strength are necessary to be one of us, obviously, but you must have more than that. You must have the right qualities here.” He stepped forwards and prodded Varg on the forehead. “And here.” A finger poking his chest, over his heart. “Loyalty, devotion unto death. Do you possess those qualities?” Glornir shrugged. “Time will be the judge. Until then, think of yourself as an apprentice. We will teach you, feed you, protect you. In return you will learn, you will obey, you will fight. And then…” Glornir smiled, which changed his face. “We will see.” He sniffed, wrinkled his nose and looked Varg up and down, at his blood-crusted, sweat-stained tunic, the grime and dirt on his skin.
“Here,” Glornir said, reaching inside a belt-pouch and handing him a small bag. It chinked with coin. “Buy yourself some kit. If not we’ll most likely be putting you in a barrow after your first scrap, not listening to your oath. And we sail with the tide, so be quick at it.”
Varg looked at the bag.
“Don’t be a fool,” Svik said. “Take it.”
Varg did. “My thanks,” he muttered, and then Glornir was walking away. Vol looked at him a long moment, then followed Glornir.
“Glad we’ve got that cleared up,” Svik said, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let’s go and spend that coin.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ORKA
Orka ran, her chest heaving, lungs burning. She could smell smoke on the air. The vale of the ash tree was far behind her, she had climbed the ridge at a run, crossed it and was plummeting down the far slope through woodland, towards her steading.
The flicker of flames through branches. Sweat stung her eyes, her limbs heavy, branches whipping her skin, but she ran on. The sounds of shouting. A cloud of black smoke rolled through the woodland.
A rhythmic thud, a tremor in the ground and ripple in branches, as if Berser the dead god had awoken and was pounding on a war drum.
She ran on, heard voices mingled with the crackle of flame.
A crash, a battle-cry, a scream, high and terrified.
Breca.
Fear and rage bubbled inside her, merging, feeding her. The clash of iron and steel, more screams.
Vines snagged her feet, sending her stumbling, but she steadied herself with her spear and ran on, swerving around trees, carving a path through ferns and sedge. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood beating loud in her skull. The ground began to level, and she knew she was close to her home. Abruptly she realised that the noises had stopped. She heard only the crackle of flame, thick banks of cloud swirling among the trees.
And then she was bursting into the clearing around her steading.
The gates were open, one hanging on a single hinge. Beyond the gates and stockade the walls and roof of her hall were on fire, flames blazing and reaching into the sky. Gouts of black smoke swirled through the courtyard, obscuring much.
Orka pulled the leather cover from her spear blade, dropping it as she ran for the gates. Passing through them she saw that the timber post where the galdr-runes that protected the steading were carved had been burned and obliterated, which only a Galdurman or Seier-witch could have done.
The courtyard was churned with boot prints. Chickens and goats lay dead, scattered around, the barn and stable doors open, Snort the pony was nowhere to be seen. A shape draped on the rock by the stream: Spert, unnaturally still, black ichor oozing from a hole in his segmented body. Smaller bodies lay around him, a dozen tennúr vaesen. All appeared dead.
Orka’s eyes swept the steading, piecing together what had happened. The doors to her hall were smashed and splintered, bodies lying across the entrance.