cloth next to Geraz, and went back to the hares, working for every last scrap on the blackening bones. Ulfar noted that the dog didn’t consider going for the food, even though it was within reach. “A man is only as strong as the water he can get. So if you are besieging a town, go straight for their water supply.”
The burned meat suddenly tasted of ash.
They’d walked for four days to get away from the stench of the big pyre outside Stenvik; it had been in their clothes, in their hair, in their noses. Human fat dripping on the flames burned with an acrid, sour smoke; the delicious smell of roast meat sat alongside the knowledge that it was from the bodies of fallen comrades.
Ulfar drank more water, but the taste of that bitter smoke was still in his mouth.
A howl broke the silence, the sound of something from the darkest recesses of the human mind, the tearing cry of nightmares. The hairs on Ulfar’s arms stood on end, but Gestumblindi and Geraz looked completely unfazed. “Did you—?”
“That’s Frec,” the old man said. “He likes the moon.” At his feet, the big white hound worried at a bone. It looked almost comically small in his huge jaws.
“Right,” Ulfar said. He leaned back and watched night chase day across the sky. “Do you want me to take the first watch?”
Gestumblindi chuckled. “That won’t be necessary. Anyone and anything that heard the same thing you just did will have the sense to stay away. Nothing can touch us here. Now sleep, Ulfar Thormodsson.”
The heat of the fire, the meat in his belly, and the stars overhead drained Ulfar, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Gestumblindi turned slowly toward the sleeping form. Geraz cocked his head and looked at his master, who nodded once. The big white dog stood and sniffed the air.
A gray wolfhound padded into the circle of firelight. It walked straight up to the old man, nudged its head at his thigh, and moved over to Geraz. They stood to attention, eyes trained on Gestumblindi.
“You’re trouble. Both of you,” the old man muttered. “But we’ll see what’s what.” He reached for his satchel, grimaced, and clutched his ribs. “Really didn’t need to take that much of a beating,” he grumbled. “Let’s see if this one can do with less convincing.” Rooting around, he found what he was looking for. “There we are,” he said as his hand came out of the satchel holding a small vial. “Seems a waste . . . but the belt was always for the smith.” Gestumblindi winced again as he reached for the silver flask, tipped the contents of the vial into it and sealed it again. When he rose, he looked older. “Right. Let’s go.”
The dogs fell in line as the old man walked away, leaning on his staff.
The moon shone on him, but he cast no shadow.
STENVIK, WEST NORWAY
OCTOBER, AD 996
The chime of blacksmiths’ hammers on blades rang out across town as weapons were prepared, chain jerkins repaired, and shields reinforced; raw voices of chieftains exploded in counterpoint, barking out orders. New Town’s square was full of people as Stenvik woke up to its purpose.
Just off the main south road, Jorn stepped closer to Runar. “Have you spoken to them?” he hissed.
“Y-yes. Botolf and Skeggi are in,” Runar replied. “I am heading d-down to meet them and tell them who to p-p-put on the boat.”
“Good. We’ll make sure . . .” Jorn’s voice trailed off.
“W-what?”
Jorn didn’t reply but stared at something over Runar’s shoulder. The archer turned to look. A group of Finn’s men were running away from the square and into the northern part of town. “Th-that doesn’t look—”
“No. It doesn’t, does it?” Jorn said. “Are they running toward—?”
“Yes.”
“Right. We won’t learn anything standing here. You head down to Old Town. Keep an eye on things, count the horses, divide stores, and make sure we get it right. I’ll go and find out what’s happened.”
Runar was already moving.
“And you’re sure about this?” King Olav said. Since he received the news, he’d been walking aimlessly around the longhouse, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of stillness.
“Quite sure, your Majesty,” Valgard replied. Beside him, Finn watched the young king pace. His eyes were sleepy, the smell of the mixture heavy on his breath. Unlike Harald, the burly soldier turned sleepy, even gentle, when the herbs kicked in. The ghost of a smile passed across Valgard’s face. He’d still prove useful, if played