They turned a corner and the tavern appeared before them, a painted sign creaking over the door, a soft fire-glow leaking from shuttered windows and the open door.
Grend’s hand touched her shoulder.
“Wait,” he breathed, the rasp of leather on wood as his axe slid into his fist.
“What?” Elvar said, frowning. Then she realised.
There were shouts from within the tavern, the clang of iron, a scream.
She reached for her sword hilt and broke into a run, Grend a few steps behind her.
A voice: loud, female, shouting. A flash of searing light exploded through the door and threw the window shutters open. Elvar and Grend stumbled, blinded for a moment. Elvar blinked and rubbed her eyes, her vision returning quickly, dappled with white spots. She ran on.
Figures burst through the open doorway: five, six, seven, one with something draped over their shoulder. All had sharp iron in their fists, some glittered in mail. They were not the Battle-Grim.
Elvar was close. She drew her sword in one fist, her seax in the other.
One saw her, a blond-haired warrior, tall and broad with a thick beard, silver rings about his neck and arms. A black raven’s wing was braided into his hair. He wore a brynja and had a sword in his fist, and he turned to meet her as Elvar ran at them.
Their swords met, sparks grating, the clangour loud in the silent streets, Elvar holding the warrior’s sword in a bind and slashing at his belly with her seax. More sparks, the man grunting, though the iron links of his brynja held. Another warrior turned on Elvar, a woman, axe and seax in her hands. The rest ran on, downhill and away from the tavern.
The woman lunged at Elvar, who stumbled away, sweeping the blond warrior’s sword wide with her seax, chopping down into his calf with her sword, slicing the blade deep through leg-wraps and breeches into flesh as she stepped away.
Grend slammed into the woman lunging at Elvar, the two of them crashing into the tavern wall.
The blond warrior yelled and swayed, and dropped to one knee as his injured leg gave way. He glared at Elvar, his face twisting, muscles twitching, and his lips drew back, revealing jagged teeth, sharp canines. Elvar stabbed at him but he moved, faster than Elvar thought possible, an arm swinging to bat Elvar’s sword away. She stepped forwards, off balance, close to the blond warrior, looking straight into his eyes. A hissed breath as she met his eyes causing her to freeze a moment. They were grey, colours shifting like sun and rain through clouds, the pupil narrowed to a pinprick.
He is Tainted, she thought. He was snarling at her, trying to rise, but his wounded leg was failing him. He staggered and Elvar stabbed with her seax, fear giving her speed and strength, and her blade punched deep into his throat. She pulled away and ripped it out. There was a spurt of arterial blood, black in the half-light, and he toppled to the ground.
Elvar stood over him, chest heaving, and saw Grend push away from the tavern wall, his axe swinging. With a spurt of blood and a gurgled scream the woman sank down the wall, leaving a smeared trail of blood on the whitewashed wattle and daub.
They stood there, staring at each other.
Shouts sounded from inside the tavern and Elvar ran through the door.
She was met with the stink of blood and voided bowels, burned flesh.
Thrud lay across a table, a red gash across his throat, another wound in his back, blank eyes staring. Biórr was slumped unconscious against a wall, blood pulsing from a wound in his shoulder, more blood sheeting his face. Uspa lay on her face on the ground, three or four bodies piled around her. Their hair and clothes were smoking, the flesh on their faces and hands charred and blackened.
Grend checked the room, as Elvar ran to Biórr and crouched beside him.
The loft-ladder had been moved, wedging the loft-hatch closed, blows from above shaking the roof. Elsewhere in the roof an axe head burst through timber with the sound of cracking and a form crashed through in an explosion of timber and straw, landing in a cloud of dust.
Sighvat stood, axe raised, spitting and sputtering, a half-formed battle-cry on his lips. He frowned when he saw Elvar.
“Where are they?” he said.
“Dead or fled,” Elvar told him.
Grend kicked the ladder away, freeing the loft-hatch.
Agnar dropped from the hatch to the ground, his face a snarl, sword in his fist. He took in the scene as Elvar had done, and strode to Uspa as other Battle-Grim dropped down to the ground and turned one of the dead with his boot. Heat still radiated from the corpse.
“More escaped,” Elvar called to Agnar as her fingers found Biórr’s pulse in his neck. He groaned, eyelids flickering.