I am an idiot.
“You are an idiot,” a voice said behind him and he turned to see R?kia. She was snapping arrow shafts in her shield, then pulling the iron tips through the inner side. “You attacked a druzhina of Iskidan with the cover still on your spear.”
“Yes,” Varg grunted.
Svik laughed.
“And your helm is still hanging on your belt,” R?kia added.
More laughter from Svik.
“No-Sense,” R?kia muttered, shaking her head.
“Yet he lives, and his foe is walking the soul road,” another voice said. Varg turned to see Sulich, the man this fight had been over. His shield was slung across his back, his sabre scabbarded at his hip. He walked to the dead druzhina and squatted, unbuckled the warrior’s helm and lifted it clear.
Sulich clicked his tongue.
The dead man was young, younger than Varg, his black moustache bound with silver rings. Sulich placed the helm down on the ground and rolled the corpse over, hands moving to the wound in his side where Varg had stabbed his seax into the druzhina. Sulich inspected the plate, pulling at the stitching and gap where the seax had slipped through.
“Travel well, my brother,” Sulich murmured, placing his palm over the dead man’s eyes, then picked up the helm and stood.
“This is yours, now,” Sulich said, holding the helm out.
Varg blinked and shook his head. The thought was repulsive to him.
“I am no carrion-crow, to steal from the dead,” he said.
Sulich’s face twisted. “Do not insult your victory,” he said. “These are the spoils of battle. He knew that.” Sulich looked down at the dead warrior. “Yes, he is dead, but all men die. Cattle die; all that draws breath will one day fail. He fought well, and so he died well. All that lives on is our battle-fame, and this…” He shook the helm at Varg. “This tells your tale. That on this day Varg No-Sense bested a mighty druzhina of Iskidan.” His mouth twitched in a smile. “Even if his spear was still capped and his helm was on his belt and not his head. This is sounding like a saga-tale to be sung around the hearth fire, no?”
Some laughter around them; a few shouts of agreement.
Varg just stared at Sulich.
“He is right,” Svik said. “Look around you.”
Varg did, and saw the other few druzhina who had fallen being stripped of their war gear by Bloodsworn warriors. Even the Bloodsworn who had fallen was being stripped by a druzhina, other Bloodsworn standing by and allowing it to happen.
“This is the warrior’s way,” Svik said.
“Aye,” R?kia grunted, “how else will you earn your battle-fame?”
“And it is fine war gear,” Sulich said. “That coat of lamellar is a mighty prize.”
“You have it, then,” Varg said.
Sulich’s face shifted, his good humour and smile evaporating, replaced by a scowl. He put the helm on the ground and walked away.
“What?” Varg said.
“You have insulted him,” Svik said with a shrug. “No warrior would take from another’s kill. That is stealing. That is not honour,” Svik rapped his knuckles on Svik’s head. “And Sulich is more honourable than most.”
“There is too much to learn,” Varg muttered.
“No one asked you to step into the ring with Einar Half-Troll,” Svik said. “This is the world you have entered, that you have chosen. Best you learn how to live in it. Come, I’ll help you.” He squatted beside the dead druzhina and started unbuckling his lamellar coat, then looked up at Varg. “Come on, then, I’m not your thrall.”
Varg crouched down and helped Svik strip the warrior of his kit: a belt with a long-handled knife and the sabre scabbard, the sword lying on the ground, which Varg retrieved. A bow case and curved bow, a quiver of grey-feathered arrows, and then they moved on to the coat of lamellar plate. It was heavy, and had extra panels to protect the upper legs, shoulders and upper arms. Beneath it the warrior wore a thick coat of quilted wool, but Varg left this on the druzhina.
“How do you carry all of this kit around?” Varg asked when he had it all piled in front of his shield, next to the hemp sack that stored all of the kit he’d purchased in the market earlier that day.
“We wear it,” Svik said with a shrug, “it’s easier to carry that way, or we store it in our sea-chest.”
“Sea-chest?” Varg said.
“By the dead gods,” Svik exclaimed, “don’t you know anything? The chest you will sit on to pull an oar, once you are on the Sea-Wolf.”