muttered through the layer of cloth that covered his face. He gestured toward a shadow below the cliffs on the right-hand side.
Valgard shrugged, and Botolf, taking that for agreement, raised his hand. Ormslev, the bug-eyed trek-master, appeared by his side. Valgard could not hear their conversation, but he watched nonetheless as Bug-eye nodded crisply and started barking orders. The formation broke up into individual piles of cloth and fur. A group of men brandishing axes went to the perimeter and started shoveling snow with the flat of the blades. Within moments, piles had been formed into blocks and blocks into walls.
As the horses were led into the enclosure, Valgard realized what Botolf was doing: the shadow below the cliff was hard ground, sheltered from wind and snow, and the new-built walls would take care of the rest.
The pale sun set on fur-covered fighters huddled around miserable fires. Sheets of cloth had been strung out over spears set at angles to make a windbreak against the worst of the weather; a light, silent dusting of hard frost had already colored them white.
“Ah, the life,” Botolf sighed. “Just us and the wild. It’s good, isn’t it?”
Valgard accepted the flask Botolf handed to him. The liquid was sour and burned all the way down his throat, but he bit his cheek and kept a straight face as Botolf smirked. Someone shouted something at the other end of the camp; there was laughter. The fiery drink settled quickly in Valgard’s stomach.
“You’ll be happy to see the rising sun, Grass Man,” Botolf said as he rose, and as Valgard shuddered farther into his furs he added, “Oh, don’t be sour now. Come. You need to claim your prize.”
“What do you mean?” Valgard muttered, gritting his teeth to ward off the mounting screams of pain from his spine.
“The stars are out.” Grinning, Botolf offered a hand. When Valgard took it, the tall chieftain yanked him to his feet with a strength belied by his skinny frame. “Let’s go and get our sweet little flower, shall we?”
They found Thora sitting in a circle of Botolf’s men, telling filthy jokes. Pinkish liquid had leaked into her eyebrows from a small open cut in her forehead. Someone had stuffed it with snow.
One of the men in the circle sported a recently and very thoroughly broken blood-caked nose.
“Kverulf! What happened to your face?” Botolf asked.
Thora stopped talking. The tough guys assembled around the fire looked determinedly in any direction but at their chieftain. Some of them were smirking; others were trying hard not to laugh.
“I’m sorry, my Lord Scrawny,” Thora said. “Kverulf here thought he’d take advantage of little old me while my hands were tied. Only he isn’t too sharp at the counting bit, is he? There’s one of me, but there was only one of him.” Chuckles around the fire; even Kverulf offered a gap-toothed smile. “And of course I told them of our undying love, how you begged me to marry you and all that. My beloved.”
“Fuck off,” Botolf said. He couldn’t quite keep the smile out of his voice. “You’re coming with us.” He yanked Thora to her feet and half-pushed, half-dragged her away.
“Remember to tie her feet and flip her round, Chief!” Kverulf shouted after them, and the rest of the men offered their own encouragement. “And watch the teeth! Hers—and yours!”
Roars of laughter washed off their backs as Thora fell into an easy stride just behind Botolf. “How far?” he asked her.
“Just away from the fires,” she said.
Valgard hobbled after them, watching closely. There was something in the way they walked . . . Botolf liked her.
That might make things a little harder.
On the other hand, if his hunch was right, he’d not need Botolf’s muscle—or anyone’s.
“Here,” Thora said. “Hold on.” She turned, scanned the horizon and muttered to herself. “Yes—there it is. We’re going”—she pointed up the slope, toward the highlands—“that way.”
“Sure?” Botolf asked.
“Get stuffed,” Thora snapped.
Botolf just looked at her and smirked.
Valgard turned and hobbled back toward his lean-to.
Sometime later, the light changed from dark to a pale milky gray. Valgard dusted the snow off his clothes as he saw Botolf scan the camp; Bug-eye the trek-master hovered close. Something about the rangy chieftain’s stance dragged Valgard swiftly from slumber, through several shades of pain, and into the waking world. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t catch a word of their whispered conversation. He stumbled to his feet and didn’t need to act at all to look feeble and helpless. For