I’ll go west with Juoksa and Mielat instead. But every day that passed made it less likely that Gunnhild would be able to rescue Signy before winter. And if she wanted to find Signy, she needed a woman she trusted to sing the warding songs for her. She needed Oddny.
“Listen,” Thorolf said hastily. “Just come and speak with him. He’s in a dire position. He may be willing to strike a deal.”
“I want nothing from a witch-killer and a kinslayer. And that you would serve such a king makes me doubt my initial impression of you as a good man. Goodbye, Thorolf Skallagrimsson.”
She jerked the cart forward, but he stepped in front of her.
“Get out of my way or you’ll be sorry,” Gunnhild said.
Thorolf held his hands up in surrender. “Listen—”
“Let me be clear: I would rather curse your king’s cock to shrivel up and fall off than assist him with anything. If I have to tell you once more to let me pass, you’ll regret it.”
“Please,” he said, but stepped aside. “At least hear him out. More men could die without your help.”
Maybe it was because of the pleading look in his eyes, the knowledge of what he’d witnessed that summer and what he’d had to do, but she felt her resolve begin to crumble despite herself. And these men were still her quickest way of getting home . . .
“I promise that no harm will befall you,” Thorolf added softly. “On my honor.”
Gunnhild considered this. She supposed she had nothing to lose by hearing him out and having the satisfaction of snubbing King Eirik to his brother-killing, witch-murdering face. There was no reason for him to refuse her passage if she could pay.
And despite herself, she found that she trusted Thorolf.
“Fine,” she said. “Take me to your king.”
9
AS THOROLF LED HER through the camp, Gunnhild was taken aback by the sight of so many boxes and tents and men, in all shapes and sizes and colors. Some were cooking, others attending to the ship or to their weapons, and still others were combing and plaiting their hair and beards. A few had darker complexions that hinted at origins much farther south; Gunnhild saw one such man who had wiry black hair braided close to his head. She knew it wasn’t impossible that warriors from one land would throw in their lot with the king of another, for her own countrymen had been known to do the same when they traveled.
King Eirik’s hirdsmen were all well-groomed and well-fed, and like Thorolf, each wore a gold arm ring outside their tunic just above the elbow, a wolf head snarling at each end of the twisted torque. Many had knotwork tattoos peeking out from the collars of their shirts and the cuffs of their sleeves.
They stared at her as she passed. She stopped looking around and kept her eyes trained forward on Thorolf’s back, dragging the creaking cart behind her as they continued down the path between the sun-bleached woolen canvases of the tents. Most used the ship’s oars for beams, but the one Thorolf was leading her to had proper beams, carved with swirling patterns and topped with dragon heads.
Behind the camp loomed the beached warship, its mast down and its red sail furled. Even from a distance, Gunnhild knew that it was the finest craft she had ever seen in her life. Although the dragon head had been removed so as not to offend the land spirits, the ship was beautiful, its gunnel painted red and carved with complex loops and whorls from prow to stern.
A campfire lay in front of the tent with the carved beams. Beside it, two men sat upon ship boxes, playing hnefatafl atop a third box in the middle. The man facing away from her had his dark brown hair cropped short and a bald spot on the crown of his head. Across from him sat a dark-skinned man with tight curls, strumming a lyre as he squinted furiously at the game board.
“Wait.” Thorolf held a hand out to stop Gunnhild; they’d paused along the side of a tent, and from this angle they could look at the two men without being seen. “Let’s see what kind of mood he’s in first.”
Gunnhild huffed and muttered, “Oh good. That’s a wonderful sign.”
“The king is cornered,” the skald sang under his breath. He plucked the strings of his instrument in time with the next words: “Perhaps it’s time to give up.”
“You’re not a quitter, Svein,” the other man replied as he moved one of the ivory game pieces with a flourish. “But I just beat you anyway. Again.”
Svein blinked a few times and sighed before playing three sad notes, the last one warbling in the air. “Best three out of five. And you’re playing the king’s side this time.”
“Is that him?” Gunnhild whispered to Thorolf. “The one facing away from us?”
“No.” Thorolf nodded at a new figure approaching the men from the other side of the tent they were hiding behind. “There.”
“Hmm,” Gunnhild said. She couldn’t see his face, but he was tall—as tall as Thorolf, though a bit slimmer—with dark blond hair that just brushed his shoulders. His clothing wasn’t much finer than his men’s, but then again, a sea voyage was not the time to pull out one’s best garments.
Eirik, his back still to Gunnhild and Thorolf, stopped behind the man with the bald spot and cleared his throat.
The man turned. In profile, he seemed to be around the same age as the others—which is to say, not much older than herself, maybe thirty winters—with a short dark beard, a receding hairline, and a smirk she would not have expected to see on the face of someone looking at his king.
“Yes?” he asked pleasantly.
“You’re in my seat,” said Eirik.
“I don’t see your name on it,” the man replied, which caused Svein to strum two quick, ominous notes over and over on the lyre. “And there’s an empty stool right there.”
“Is this really how it’s going to be, Arinbjorn?”
Arinbjorn turned back to the game and said mildly, “It’s how it already is.”
“All right, then.” Eirik squatted behind him, grabbed him around the shoulders, lifted him off the box, and set him on his feet next to it—or rather, dropped him, since Arinbjorn was almost a head shorter. Svein snickered. Arinbjorn gave a little bow at no one in particular, as though being simply picked up and placed somewhere else by the future ruler of one’s country were a common occurrence for him.
“See?” The king slid away the thick sheepskin set atop the box like a cushion and gestured to the flat lid, upon which was carved in runes so big that Gunnhild could make them out even from her vantage point:
EIRIK’S
“Those look fresh,” Arinbjorn said, eyeing them. “Did you just do that?”
“Yes, because you kept taking my seat,” said Eirik as he slid the sheepskin back in place and sat down on the box. “I should outlaw you.”
“The perks of being your foster brother,” Arinbjorn replied, which to Gunnhild explained why he was addressing Eirik so irreverently. He leaned an elbow on one of Eirik’s broad shoulders and waved a hand. “Have I not given you plenty of other reasons to outlaw me over the years?”
“The prank with the fish heads was definitely worthy of at least lesser outlawry,” Svein pointed out. “I’ve been meaning to compose a poem about that one.”