“Just waiting to see if the young cub is fast enough to escape the old wolf’s teeth and claws,” Thrud said.
Grend reached out and put a hand on Biórr’s wrist.
“You are right, Elvar will choose her own path. She always has. But I am there to stamp on the rats in the shadows, those that smile at her and hide their intentions. I am the one who crushes their skulls before they can scratch or bite.”
Biórr took his gaze from the tafl game and looked at Grend, then at Grend’s fist clamped around his wrist, Elvar seeing a shift in the young man’s eyes. The smile and hint of humour that seemed ever-present was gone, replaced with something hard and cold.
There was a slap of boots and Sighvat was looming over them.
“Chief wants a word,” he said to Elvar.
Elvar stood and took a moment as the world swayed around her. Grend stood too.
“Didn’t hear the chief ask for you, big man,” Biórr said.
“Where Elvar goes, I go,” Grend growled. “Agnar knows this, and the sooner you understand that, the better.”
Sighvat nodded an agreement, and then he was leading Elvar and Grend across the tavern, winding between tables and benches, his bulk bashing the elbows and shoulders of all in their path, warriors of the Battle-Grim mingled with locals, fisherfolk, traders and craftsmen, warriors, whores. Agnar was sitting in a corner, his bearskin cloak cast over a chair behind him. Like Elvar, he still wore his coat of mail, his weapons belt unbuckled and lying upon the table, beside a horn carved cup and a jug of ale.
Agnar gestured for Elvar and Grend to sit, Sighvat stomping off in search of food.
“I am not prying; your business is your own,” Agnar said. “I just wanted to check that you are… well.” He looked from the mead horn in her hand to the mead that glistened on her chin.
“I am well enough,” Elvar said with a twist of her lips as she sat heavily, Grend pulling up a chair.
Agnar nodded, as if she had said much more than her words.
Above them the roof rafters creaked rhythmically. When Agnar rented the hayloft of the tavern the landlord had evicted half a dozen whores who rented the space. By the sounds of it they were making up for their lost coin, most of it from the Battle-Grim now that they had been paid.
Sighvat returned and slammed a trencher of food on the table: a joint of cured ham, cheese and flatbread, a bowl of butter, cream and strawberries.
Elvar moved to cut herself a slice of ham.
“That’s mine,” Sighvat said, waving a protective hand over the food. “I’ll get yours now.”
He stomped off again.
“Sighvat doesn’t share food,” Agnar smiled.
Sighvat returned with another plate of ham and flatbread.
“That’s yours,” Sighvat said as he sat, the bench creaking. He carved himself a thick slice of ham, chopped some cheese and wrapped it all in the flatbread, then took a huge bite.
“What?” he said to Elvar’s staring.
“Nothing,” Elvar said and reached for her own plate.
Agnar smiled and shrugged.
“My father has asked me to take my place at his side, offered me drengrs and a warband,” Elvar said.
I owe him the truth.
Agnar had been good to her, taking her in when she had only seventeen winters on her back. She had told him the truth then, and he had kept his lips closed about it for almost four years. He had promised her no special treatment, that she would earn her place in his shield wall or be cast out, for which she had been grateful. That was all she had ever wanted, the chance to be judged on her own merits. Her own skill, her own courage. Her hand drifted up to the troll tusk around her neck.
And I am still here.
Agnar opened the chest beside him, pulled out two pouches and thrust them across the table at Elvar and Grend.
“Your share of the Battle-Grim’s spoils,” Agnar said. “Your father pays well for Berserkir, and troll meat fetches a good price in Snakavik’s markets.”
Elvar just looked at the bags of money.
Grend took the two pouches and slipped them into his cloak.
Agnar leaned across the table.
“Follow where your heart and thought-cage lead you,” he said, “but know this. Whatever your choice, whatever your road, you will always have an oar-bench on the Wave-Jarl. You have proved your worth, Elvar Troll-Slayer.”
He offered her his arm, one warrior to another.
She felt a flush of pride swell her chest at Agnar’s words, reaching her face to twitch a smile. She leaned forwards and took his arm.