“I am Prince Jaromir, son of Kirill the Great, Khagan of all Iskidan,” he said loud enough for all to hear.
Queen Helka’s eyes flickered to Logur and then back to Jaromir.
“You have esteemed visitors,” she said to Logur. “Welcome to my realm, Prince Jaromir. I hope that my jarl has made you comfortable.”
“He has not,” Jaromir said angrily. “I came to him with a reasonable request, and he has denied me. The blood of my warriors has been spilled on this…” His face twisted as he gestured to Liga’s quayside.
“What do you expect if you attack the Bloodsworn?” Jarl Logur snapped. Queen Helka held a hand up, raising an eyebrow at Logur.
“This is not the place to discuss business such as this,” she said. “Logur, lead us to your hall, where Prince Jaromir and I shall sit and he can tell me of his grievances.”
“My queen,” Logur said, dipping his head. He walked ahead of Helka, her bodyguards stepping aside for him. The jarl passed Jaromir, not looking at him, and strode from the pier on to the docks, a dozen of his blue shields settling around him. Another command from Helka as she followed, her guards allowing Jaromir to walk beside her, and then all of her retinue was in motion. Glornir and the Bloodsworn around him stepped back, opening a wider gap between them and Jaromir’s druzhina so that Helka could pass between them. She saw Glornir and paused, then gestured for him to join her. He stepped out of the Bloodsworn, shield slung across his back and long-axe resting on his shoulder. He raised a hand as half a dozen made to follow him, muttered to Einar and then he was enveloped by Helka’s bodyguard.
Varg stared at them as the procession passed him by, Helka’s bodyguards striding ahead of her, heads swaying as they swept the crowds either side of them with predatory eyes. Varg found them unsettling, a tingling in his blood as they passed him by. An air of violence surrounded them, almost palpable, like a heat-haze on midsummer’s day. One of them eyed the dead druzhina near Varg’s feet, then looked up at him, as if it knew the kill belonged to Varg.
Their eyes met and Varg took an involuntary step backwards. He had expected arrogance, a cold, fierce haughtiness, but what he saw in the warrior’s eyes shocked him.
Misery.
Then they had passed him by, the young man behind Queen Helka talking with the blond-haired man who walked with a staff. Varg saw small bones, what looked like rat and bird skulls, and pewter rings twisted in his hair and hanging from his braids, and his hands were covered in a knotwork of tattoos, disappearing up the sleeves of his tunic.
The whole procession passed them by, marched across the docks and into the street that led to Logur’s mead hall.
“Thirsty?” Svik said in Varg’s ear, offering him his unstoppered water bottle.
Varg realised he was and took the water bottle, drinking deeply.
“Some cheese?” Svik said, cutting a slice from a round he took from his pouch. He had blood on his hands, just like Varg.
“No,” Varg grunted, the thought of food making his stomach churn. “Who are they?” he said.
“Who?” Svik mumbled through his cheese.
“Queen Helka’s bodyguards.”
Svik’s general cheer withered. “Her wolf-pack,” he scowled.
Varg frowned.
“They are úlfhéenar,” Svik continued. “Tainted thralls, descended from Ulfrir, the wolf-god.”
“They look fierce, and wretched,” Varg said quietly.
“Aye, well, they are thralls. Treated well, given the finest of everything, but they are slaves, nevertheless,” Svik said. “No one wants to live a life on their knees.”
“No,” Varg whispered, touching his neck. His thrall-collar was gone, but its mark was still there, like a weight on his soul.
“Good in a scrap, though,” Svik said. “Vicious bastards.”
I believe that.
“Who was the man behind Queen Helka?” Varg asked.
“That was her son, Hakon, talking with Helka’s skáld and Galdurman, Skalk,” Svik said.
A Galdurman…
Around them the Bloodsworn settled into waiting for Glornir, tending their wounds after the brief skirmish with Jaromir and his druzhina. Varg saw warriors cutting arrows from their shields, helping comrades clean and bind wounds. One of the Bloodsworn had fallen, an arrow through her eye.
The druzhina were doing the same, attending to their injured, all the while a row of Logur’s blue shields separating them.
Varg strode over to his discarded shield and spear, which were still laying upon the ground, and picked them up. He leaned his shield against a wall and saw a slash through the black paint where the druzhina had struck at him with his sabre. He grimaced at the leather cover still on the blade of his spear.