That was an understatement. King Harald was loudly berating Olaf while the crowd avoided them, and Gunnhild fought back a smile at the sight of a man in his fifties being reprimanded like a child. She caught Olaf’s eye and waggled her fingers in a smarmy little wave.
Olaf’s face purpled and he jabbed a finger at them. “You two! You started this, not me. You came to my district and started trouble in my—”
Before Gunnhild could argue, Eirik drawled, “Go home, Olaf. And if I ever see your face again, they’ll call me a kinslayer thrice over.”
“Is that a threat?” Olaf’s face became, if possible, more purple.
“It is! Well done,” said Gunnhild. “Perhaps you’re not as foolish as you look.”
“Do you hear this, Father?” Olaf raged. “Do you hear these two?”
King Harald ignored him; he was squinting at something just over Gunnhild’s shoulder. “What is the meaning of this?”
Gunnhild turned.
Halldor limped toward them, battered from the battle just like the rest, but it was clear from the look on his face that his had been a different fight entirely—one much more personal. Behind him were Gunnhild’s brothers, dragging a man between them: Tryggvi Olafsson, hands bound, a gag tied tightly around his mouth, eyes ablaze with shame and fury.
Halldor gestured to Alf and Eyvind and said, “Here is fine,” and they shoved Tryggvi forward to land face-first on the ground in front of Olaf. Then, with a brief look at Gunnhild, the twins turned and fled rather than risk incurring the kings’ wrath. Halldor, however, stood his ground.
“Tryggvi! What—” Olaf rolled his son over and looked up at Halldor. “You?”
“Me,” Halldor said, and it seemed that was all he needed to say. He looked to King Harald without giving the slightest inclination of deference, then to Eirik and Gunnhild, and nodded. They nodded back, and Halldor turned and melted into the crowd.
King Harald scowled. “Who is that man?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Eirik with a perfectly straight face.
Gunnhild didn’t know why he’d lied, but she followed his lead nonetheless: “Nor do I. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
It took all her self-control not to smile when the old king didn’t argue: Not only had King Harald still not recognized his own grandson, but either Halldor had done a good enough job avoiding him all winter or King Harald simply did not keep track of who was in his son’s hird. She strongly suspected the latter.
“Liars!” Olaf had untied Tryggvi’s hands and ripped the gag from his mouth, and now he hauled his son to his feet and rounded on Eirik.
“It takes one to know one,” Eirik shot back.
“Boys,” King Harald barked. “Enough. Olaf, go home. Eirik, have this mess cleaned up.” He gestured to the bodies on the hillside and started to walk away.
“Respectfully,” Gunnhild said, in the least respectful tone possible, “this mess is the bodies of the people who died defending your estate from your son’s attack.”
King Harald stopped and looked at her as though she’d gone mad. “I haven’t the patience to deal with you right now, woman.” He turned to Eirik again. “Have the thralls clean this up at once.”
“There are none. I freed them all and offered them each a mark of silver if they’d stay and fight,” said Eirik. Gunnhild’s head swiveled to face him in surprise. When his father sputtered, Eirik shrugged. “We were outnumbered. What was I supposed to do? Let them defect to Olaf’s side?”
King Harald shook his head slowly, then waved a hand and headed up the hill. The servant who’d been standing behind him, holding on to his dogs’ leashes, followed. Gunnhild turned and caught a glimpse of Queen Gyda waiting near the door of the longhouse, and when the old queen caught her eye and gave the tiniest nod, Gunnhild knew that Thora’s body had been placed among the rest.
It hit her then—she’d no longer have to look out for a murderous seal every time she stepped aboard a ship. And she’d be bringing her child into a world without Thorbjorg. Her relief was palpable, even as her other enemies still stood before her.
“You’ll pay for this,” Tryggvi spat. Then something in his face changed, and Gunnhild followed his gaze to his father’s boat, where Thorbjorg’s body lay. He twisted away from Olaf and said her name with such sadness that Gunnhild realized at once what the nature of his relationship with the witch must have been—and then he turned back to Eirik and Gunnhild with newly kindled rage. “You will pay.”
Olaf grabbed his son’s shoulder. “That’s enough. It’s over.” But the look in his eyes said, For now.
Gunnhild raised her chin in a challenge. Do your worst.
“Come,” Eirik said when his brother and nephew had gone. “Let’s find Arinbjorn. We owe him our thanks.”
Gunnhild followed him to where Arinbjorn, Svein, and Thorolf were disembarking from Arinbjorn’s lead ship, all of them dirty and bloodied and grinning. Seeing Eirik covered in blood, she’d felt only relief that he was alive; seeing them all together hit her differently. She’d known that these men were capable of breathtaking amounts of violence, but it was jarring to be presented with the evidence firsthand. Everything Thorolf had told her in the tent in Finnmark suddenly made sense.
“That leap, Arinbjorn,” Svein was saying. “Gods, I’m going to write a poem about that moment. The most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. You just—hopped up on the gunnel like a rabbit, and just—”
The three of them stopped and turned when they saw Eirik standing there.
“Better late than never, I suppose,” said Eirik to his foster brother, but he was smiling as he stepped forward and pulled the other man into a short embrace.
“We would’ve never made it if not for Oddny,” Arinbjorn said, turning to Gunnhild. “She cleared the fog and summoned a wind. That’s how we got through. You didn’t tell us she was a witch!”
Gunnhild was awestruck. That Oddny had traveled down to the void was one thing, but the rest was news to her. “She really did all that?”
“So I wasn’t imagining it,” Eirik said. “She was a hawk, wasn’t she?”
Runfrid, who had finally found them in the crowd, came up behind them and said, “Eirik! Good to see you alive. Get out of my way,” and no sooner had he stepped aside than she threw her arms around Arinbjorn.
Eirik turned to Svein, and a look passed between them before they clasped forearms. When they parted, Gunnhild nodded to the skald, who nodded back, and then she and Eirik turned their attention to Thorolf.
“I thought you said you weren’t coming back,” Eirik said with careful formality. “After you’d dropped off the sailcloth from your father and hurried back to your ship.”
Gunnhild gave him a sidelong look. From what she’d observed on the day they returned from Vestfold, she’d thought he and Thorolf had reconciled. But then she noticed that Thorolf’s arm ring was gone and wondered if that had something to do with her husband’s guarded tone.
“I only hurried because I’d left my brother on board,” Thorolf replied in kind. “Then I went to Fjordane to talk to Arinbjorn about marrying his cousin in Sogn, like I’d told you.”