Elvar nodded. That was what she had wanted, to lead, to prove herself, but her father had wanted her to be sold off as a prize brood bitch to Queen Helka’s son, Hakon, so that her children would rule all Vigrie. That was why she had left, to escape such a fate.
It would have been a thrall’s life, no matter if the collar were gilded with gold.
“What would you have me do?” she asked Grend.
The old warrior snorted. “As if you have ever taken my advice.”
“I might,” she said.
Grend shrugged. “He is offering you what you wanted, so take it. But I am no deep-thinker, and all know that Jarl St?rr does not say all: for every plan spoken, there is another hidden within it.” He shrugged again. “Whatever you do, I will follow you.” He looked at the palm of his hand, at a white scar that ran along it. Elvar remembered seeing the blood well, remembered the words he had spoken, the oath he had sworn.
“It is… confusing,” Grend said. “When a thing does not go as you expected.”
“Aye,” Elvar said, nodding and drinking.
“At least Thorun has remained the same,” Grend said.
“He can always be relied upon,” Elvar grumbled. Thorun had only ever made things worse. “Thorun was born an arseling and just grew bigger.”
Both of them snorted laughter.
“Something funny?” a voice said beside her. She looked and saw Biórr sitting and playing tafl with the boy, Bjarn. She had not noticed them return to the tavern or sit so close to her.
Elvar shrugged, not knowing where to start.
“You are Elvar St?rrsdottir, then,” Biórr said to her, his voice remaining steady, eyes fixed on the board and wooden carved pieces.
She took another drink from her mead horn.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Why would a jarl’s daughter leave a life of privilege behind her, a life of wealth and power, and trade it for an oar-bench, for a life of violence and death?” he said to no one in particular.
Grend shifted beside her.
“To prove my worth,” Elvar said before Grend had a chance to threaten the young warrior. “To earn my reputation.”
“You have done that, right enough,” Biórr said, eyes flickering to the troll tusk around Elvar’s neck.
“Elvar is the bravest warrior I know,” Bjarn said, looking up at her with his large, dark eyes. “She saved me from the serpent.”
“Grend saved us both,” Elvar said.
“So, you left Snakavik in search of a reputation?” Biórr asked.
“Yes,” Elvar said. “And to live free, to be my own master, not some play-piece on a tafl board that my father can manoeuvre and sacrifice.” She waved a hand at the board between Biórr and Bjarn. The boy moved his jarl-piece, making a break for a gap his oathsworn guards had carved through the ranks of their attackers. Biórr’s carved wooden warriors were circled around the jarl, a net drawing tight to capture and kill him.
That is how I feel, Elvar thought. No matter how far I travel, the weave of my life tugs me back here. To Snakavik and my father’s web of plans. Should I leave the Battle-Grim and take a place at my father’s shoulder, involve myself in his politics and struggles, involve myself in the war for Vigrie? She blew out a long breath and realised that Biórr was staring at her.
“What?” she said, glaring.
“I am thinking that you have a pleasing face,” he said, with a twitch of his lips, showing his white teeth. “Fine cheeks, eyes that snatch my breath, and such lips…”
Grend’s chair scraped as he shifted his weight, turning to glare at Biórr.
“But there is far more to you than just what the eye can see,” Biórr finished.
Elvar’s brows knotted.
“You are fighting a battle in your thought-cage, one that I cannot see, but it is a great struggle; one that is heavy on your shoulders.” He leaned forwards. “I could help you.”
Grend growled deep in his throat. “She is not for the likes of you,” the old warrior said, his voice like a slow-drawn blade.
Biórr shrugged. “From what I am learning of this shieldmaiden, that is a choice you cannot make for her, old warrior.”
Thrud was sat close by, sitting at his usual pastime, picking his nails with a small seax. A sliver of bone hung from a leather cord around his wrist, hacked from the skull of a wight he had slain when he had first joined the Battle-Grim. He huffed a laugh.
“Something funny?” Grend asked him.