In the centre of the square two men were fighting. Or more accurately to Varg, a man and a tree were fighting. The shorter one was light on his feet, a round shield in one hand, dancing around the bigger man, who was stripped to the waist, woollen breeches tied with rope, with a red braided beard that dangled to his waist. He was thick bodied and limbed, muscles knotted and bunching like the roots of an old oak. As Varg watched the smaller man feinted right and then darted left, stepping in and slamming the iron boss of the shield into red-beard’s ribs. A hook from his right hand into the stomach. A grunt from red-beard was the only acknowledgement, one arm swinging, catching the smaller man across the back of the head as he tried to duck and leap away. He staggered, stumbled back a dozen steps, his legs abruptly loose. Red-beard stomped after him.
“Name,” a voice said. Varg blinked, tearing his eyes away from the spectacle.
“Name,” the man said again, leaning against the gatepost with his arms folded. He was roughly the same height as Varg and slim-built, red hair neatly braided and a trimmed beard oiled and gleaming. He was clothed in a well-cared-for brynja of riveted mail, fine scrollwork knotted along the scabbard of his seax.
“Varg,” Varg said. His natural response to a command was to obey unthinkingly. On Kolskegg’s farm anything other resulted in a thump or the lash.
“Varg what?”
Varg blinked.
The slim man sighed.
“This is the way it works,” he said. “I say name, you give me your full name. For example, I am Svik Hrulfsson, or Tangle-Hair, on account of my hair never being tangled. So, let’s start again. Name?”
“I don’t know,” Varg shrugged. “I never knew my father or mother.”
Svik looked him up and down.
“You are sure you want to do this?” he said.
“Do what?”
“Fight Einar Half-Troll.”
“I don’t want to fight anyone,” Varg said, “and especially not someone with a name like Half-Troll.” He took a deep breath. “I want to hire your Seier-witch.”
Svik blinked.
“Vol is not for hire,” he said, glancing at the tattooed woman talking to the bald man.
“I must speak to her,” Varg said. “It is… important.”
“Aye, to you, maybe. But to us,” Svik shrugged, “not so much.”
“I must speak with her,” Varg said, feeling panic begin to bubble in his belly.
“What is so important? You need a love potion? Want to hump some fine-looking thrall on your farm?”
“No!” Varg exclaimed. “I don’t want a love potion.” He shook his head. “It is more important than that.”
“More important than a hump?” Svik said, raising an eyebrow. “I did not know that could be true.”
Chuckles from the crowd behind Varg.
“I need your Seier-witch to perform an akáll.”
Svik frowned. “An invocation. That is a serious business.”
“It is a serious matter,” Varg said, fingertips brushing the pouch at his belt.
“The answer still is no,” Svik said. “Vol uses her talents for the Bloodsworn. No one else. She is not for hire. Even if Queen Helka herself marched up those steps and asked for it, the answer would be the same.”
Varg felt his hope draining away, a coldness settling in the pit of his belly.
A crunch from the square. Varg looked to see the huge warrior – Einar Half-Troll – punch the other warrior’s shield. The wood cracked, shattering and spraying in splinters.
“Why does Einar not have a shield?” Varg asked.
“To give the others a chance.” Svik shrugged. He leaned forward. “It’s not really much of a chance,” he whispered.
Einar grabbed his opponent by throat and crotch, lifted him squeaking into the air, then hurled him to the ground. There was a dull thud, the squeaks cut short, the man on the ground abruptly still. Men and women ran in and carried the unconscious warrior out of the square.
Varg looked at Einar, thick and solid and menacing, a few red marks on his body the only evidence that he’d already fought at least a score of fights. He looked back at Svik.
“I’ll fight him,” Varg said.
CHAPTER THREE
ORKA
Orka walked alongside the wagon, the bodies of Asgrim and his wife Idrun laid out upon the wagon’s flatbed. They were covered with a coarse woollen blanket, blood seeping in patches. Orka sniffed and looked around. The trees were thinning about them, the ground levelling as they took the winding path to Fellur, the fishing village on the banks of the fjord.