“OARS!” Sighvat yelled and the rowers raised and banked their oars, the Wave-Jarl gliding towards the space on the pier. Warriors of the Battle-Grim leaped over the top-rail on to the pier, mooring ropes slung across to them and tied off, and then the strakes of the Wave-Jarl were grating against timber. Agnar climbed on to the pier and spoke to the harbour official, a woman wrapped in red wool edged with pine marten fur, a wool and fur hat on her head, rings of silver thick on her arms and around her neck. Her mail-clad guards stood close, eyeing Agnar and the crew of the Battle-Grim as bored warriors do, appraising. There was little trouble in Snakavik, at least not when Elvar had lived here. Jarl St?rr was a stern master, and though his realm thrived, trade and wealth flowing, he was not a tolerant or forbearing man. Elvar’s eyes flickered to a row of posts as tall as masts set along the dockside, metal cages hanging from them, creaking on rusted hinges. Skeletons were wedged within them, bones picked clean by ravens and crows. In one of the cages a half-decomposed body was visible, male or female, it was impossible to tell. A half-gnawed arm flopped through the iron bars, tattered strips of a tunic flapping in the breeze.
A pouch of coin passed from Agnar to the harbour official, paying the Wave-Jarl’s harbour dues. The official handed Agnar a block of rune-carved wood, then she was walking away, her guards following.
Agnar called out a half-dozen names, a handful of warriors ordered to remain with the Wave-Jarl to guard the ship, and everyone else climbed over the top-rail on to the pier.
Elvar was already dressed in her brynja, her weapons belt buckled and looped at her waist, a brown woollen hood draped across her head and shoulders, holding off the rain. Out of habit she lifted her sword in its scabbard then let it slide back down. Her shield she had left wedged on the top-rail by her sea-chest, and her spear was still on the racks in the Wave-Jarl’s deck. Sighvat clambered on to the pier, chains rattling as he led their prize, the Berserkir, Berak. His wife and child followed behind them. Biórr and Thrud were their guards, Thrud still limping from the arrow he had taken in his calf back on the island of Iskalt. He was lean and knotted as walrus rope, his face scarred and pitted, his cheeks and bones all sharp angles. Finally, Kráka, the Tainted Seier-witch, and the Hundur-thrall stepped on to the pier and walked to Agnar.
Elvar stood quietly with Grend, her hand rising to close around the troll tusk that hung around her neck. She liked the feel of it in her fist, smooth and cold like walrus ivory. Grend wore his brynja, axe and seax on his weapons belt, a woollen hood pulled up over his black braided hair. Then Agnar was calling out and they set off along the pier, marching into the harbour town of Snakavik. They passed the creaking cages of criminals, each post with a rune-carved sign nailed to it. The one closest to Elvar read, “Worshipper of a dead god’。 They passed through the docks, fish-houses and a score of taverns reeking of stale mead and urine. Elvar scowled at the narrow streets and walls, as if she could warn off the stench of fish, brine and humanity with a glare. By the looks of it Grend was trying the same tactic, but it wasn’t working for either of them.
Even though the sun was still in the sky, the harbour town of Snakavik existed in a permanent state of dusk or darkness, the serpent’s skull only leaking light in through its open jaw, eye sockets and a few score cracked fissures that ran through its thick bone. Because of that, torches burned everywhere, smoke from whale and seal oil thick in the air, adding to the cloying sense of pressure all around. Elvar started to feel her skin crawl, realising how much she loved the open seas and life with the Battle-Grim.
Living a life where I could have died many times over is far more preferable to living one more day in this stinking turd of a town.
The road steepened, buildings rearing and leaning, crowds of people thick as flies: fishermen, warriors, merchants, traders, whores leaning in the entrances to alleys, sometimes the glint of iron deeper within the shadows, cut-throats waiting to relieve a whore’s client of their coin or life.
They came to a crossroad and Agnar stopped.
“Find us a tavern with room enough for the Battle-Grim, one that sells good ale and mead,” Agnar said to limping Thrud and gave him a bag of coin. Thrud grunted and shuffled off to the right, Biórr telling the prisoners to follow him.
“Sighvat, Huld, Sólín: with me,” Agnar said, then strode on up the steep hill, Kráka and the Hundur-thrall accompanying them.
Elvar blew out a long breath, partly relieved, partly disappointed not to have been chosen. The rest of the Battle-Grim walked after Thrud and Biórr, Elvar standing there a moment then following after them.