“They took something,” Elvar frowned, picturing in her thought-cage the figures who had fled. At first she had thought it was one of the chests Agnar’s payment had been held in, but it had been too supple, slumped across a warrior’s shoulder.
“They took the boy,” she said, standing and looking at Uspa. She was breathing, a bruise already purpling along one side of her jaw as Sighvat lifted her.
“Who are they?” Agnar growled.
“Ilska’s Raven-Feeders,” Elvar said. She walked out of the tavern, back to the warrior she had slain. He was blond-haired, with a thick beard now slick with his own blood. His war kit was good: a fine sword and brynja. She lifted the raven feather in his hair with her boot.
“The Raven-Feeders,” she called out. He was the warrior who had spoken to her as she had followed Agnar to see Jarl St?rr.
Agnar joined her, frowning. No words were spoken, but Elvar knew what he was thinking.
Why did they take the boy? Tainted children were worth coin, but not like an adult Berserkir or úlfhéenar. But whatever the reason, such an insult could not stand.
Agnar yelled a few orders and in a dozen heartbeats Elvar, having snatched up her shield, was following him into the snarl of Snakavik, Grend, Sighvat with the Hundur-thrall and a score of Battle-Grim behind them.
“There it is.” Elvar pointed with her sword at a tavern that came into view as they turned a corner. Agnar barked a command and a handful of the Battle-Grim peeled away, Sighvat leading them, slipping into side streets to check for other entrances and exits to the building.
Without waiting, Agnar shrugged his shield from his back into his fist and kicked the door in, throwing himself into the tavern, ducking and turning, shield raised, sword ready. Elvar followed behind him, covering his back, Grend and other forms pouring through the doorway.
A man cowered over the hearth fire, stirring the embers with an iron poker.
“Where are they?” Agnar snarled at him.
The man froze a moment, mouth open, Elvar seeing his eyes measuring Agnar and the Battle-Grim.
Everything is a choice, her father had said to her once. Truth or lie, fight or flight, love or hate.
“They are gone,” the man said.
Sighvat crashed into the room through a back doorway, timber splintering, the Hundur-thrall at his side. Footsteps drummed on stairs, voices shouting.
“Empty, chief,” Sighvat said.
“Where?” Agnar said to the landlord, striding towards him.
“The docks.” The man pointed with his iron poker.
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll be back to cut your tongue from your mouth and throw it on the fire,” Agnar said, then turned and left the tavern.
Sighvat growled at the thrall, who spent a few moments on all fours sniffing the tavern floor and benches, then straightened and hurried after Agnar.
They hurried through Snakavik’s streets, winding ever downwards, towards the harbour. The streets were filling, now, but all parted to let the stern-faced warriors with naked steel in their fists through. The Hundur-thrall led them on, pausing as they reached the docks and the road split. Grend peeled away to speak to a handful of harbour guards.
“That way,” Grend pointed, even as the thrall loped off in the same direction. They ran now, feet slapping on stone, past the pier that the Wave-Jarl was moored upon, a score of the Battle-Grim aboard it, guarding the ship and what was left of the coin Agnar had been paid by Jarl St?rr. The shrieking of gulls was louder, the reek of fish and salt heavy in the air.
Elvar saw a ship pulling out into the harbour, a sleek-lined drakkar, mast upright, sail hoisted on the yardarm but not unfurled. Oars dipped and pulled as the ship moved towards the fangs of Snaka that breached the water. Agnar and the Battle-Grim sprinted, only stopping when the pier met the green-blue water of the fjord, waves lapping against timber. Elvar and Grend halted at Agnar’s shoulder, the Battle-Grim spreading in a line beside them, all staring at the drakkar as it cut a white wake through the harbour. Grey shields with black wings painted upon them lined the drakkar’s top-rail, a figure standing at the stern holding the tiller: a woman. Elvar could see her clearly, shafts of light piercing through the eye sockets and cracks in Snaka’s skull to illuminate her. She was looking back at them, hair dark as a raven’s wings, bound with silver at her nape, a woollen tunic of grey, a sword at her hip, hilt and buckle glinting with gold.
“Ilska,” Agnar murmured beside Elvar.
Ilska the Ruthless. Ilska the Cruel. Elvar knew of her battle-fame, had heard many a tale of her around the hearth fire. Ilska was a woman who had risen fast and far, carving her reputation in blood and steel.