A hesitation, then a curt nod from the thrall.
“I am a nieing thrall,” the woman growled. “I do not give commands. I obey them.”
“Who commanded this? The murder of my husband; the abduction of my son?”
A silence, the thrall’s eyes fixed on Orka’s. They glittered with amber.
“Wolf-kin, tell me,” Orka growled.
“My name is Vafri,” the thrall said, “and I am descended from Ulfrir, the great wolf-god, and Hundur the hound. Proud and strong we were.” She shook her head with a twist of her lip. “If I am about to die, you will know my name, and my lineage.”
“I care nothing for who you were. You are a thrall now, and have my pity for that, but you are the reason my husband is dead…” Her fist twitched, knuckles white around the hilt of her seax. “Who commanded this?” Orka growled. “I will not ask you again.”
Vafri’s lip curled, the glint of her teeth. “My master is Hakon, son of Queen Helka,” she said. “I was ordered to report any sign of the Tainted.”
“Report to who?” Orka hissed.
Another silence.
Orka’s blade moved, a line of blood trickling down Vafri’s neck.
“He is… not a man to cross,” Vafri said.
“His name,” Orka said.
“Drekr,” the thrall grunted, a tremor in her voice.
Orka drew in a long breath, her thought-cage turning. She had heard that name from the lad by the river.
“And where is Drekr taking my son?” Orka said.
Vafri shrugged. “I am not told such things.”
A twitch of Orka’s wrist, and the seax sliced a deep line into flesh.
“I swear, I do not know,” Vafri hissed.
“Guess, then,” Orka said. “You are wolf-cunning. Where do you think they are taking my son?”
Another long silence. Their eyes locked.
“Darl, maybe,” Vafri said. Her eyes flickered away, looking over Orka’s shoulder for a moment, then returning to Orka. There was the creak of a bed and Orka turned and saw Jarl Sigrún reaching for her weapons belt.
A fist slammed into Orka’s jaw, Vafri moving as soon as Orka’s eyes were off her. Orka stumbled back, slashed with her seax to keep Vafri back, shook her head to clear the white spots dancing in her eyes. She took another shuffle-step, back and to the side, closer to Sigrún, at the same time drawing one of the seaxes in her belt: one of the blades she had pulled from Thorkel’s body.
Sigrún had a fist around her sword hilt and was on her feet, drawing the blade from its scabbard. She yelled and was answered by the sound of movement beyond the chamber’s door, in the mead hall. A voice called out. Orka slashed, diagonally from above, right to left, and Sigrún fell away with a scream, blood spraying from a red gash stark across her face, from forehead to chin.
Vafri snarled and rushed Orka, a seax in the thrall’s fist. Her eyes glowed amber, the battle-joy bright in her. Orka remembered how the thrall had rushed and overwhelmed Virk. She snarled and ran at Vafri, taking her by surprise.
Vafri stabbed with her seax and Orka swayed to the side, letting her coat of mail take the seax’s edge. She wrapped her left arm around Vafri’s and heaved it into a lock, strained harder, hearing the crack of bone breaking. Vafri gasped, her momentum carrying her into Orka, jaws wide, teeth suddenly sharp, snapping for Orka’s face and throat, her empty hand raking at her, nails razored as claws. There was a burning pain across Orka’s cheek. She slammed her head forwards, crunched into Vafri’s nose and upper lip and heard the crackle of cartilage snapping, a gush of blood, lip mangled, teeth knocked loose. Vafri’s legs buckled, the woman still conscious, snarling and spitting froth and blood as Orka plunged the seax in her right fist into the thrall’s belly.
With a grunt and whine, Vafri curled over the blow.
The sound of boots and voices outside the door.
Orka shoved Vafri away, ripping her blade free, the thrall stumbling back and dropping to her knees, blood sluicing from her belly and nose. She toppled to her side, one hand clutching the wound in her gut, her other searching for the hilt of her seax, lying on the floor close to her.
Shouts outside; a kick and the door was hurled inwards, silhouettes filling it.
Jarl Sigrún stumbled towards Orka, swinging her sword overhead, her face a ruin of blood and gaping flesh. Orka caught the sword on her seax and swept it away. Sigrún was thrown off balance and tripped over the bed.
A wordless scream came from the doorway as drengrs pushed into the chamber, swords and axes in their fists. Guevarr was first into the room, his shoulder bandaged from the wound Virk had given him, his sword held in front of him. He froze a moment, seeing blood and bodies in the fire-glow and moonlight, then his eyes fixed on Orka.