King Olav’s right hand, and then . . .” She looked at Ulfar, then whispered, “Then he came for me. He said he needed me to find Ulfar and bring him back to Stenvik because—”
“—because he killed my cousin Geiri and he was worried that I’d find out and come get him, so he wanted Inga to get to me first,” Ulfar finished.
“Hmpf,” Arnar said.
“So you owe him,” Goran said.
“I do,” Ulfar said. His blood felt cold. “I certainly do. But we’ll speak of that later. I’ll take first watch.”
Above their heads a bloated, pockmarked moon rose and dragged the shadows of the forest with it. It shone down on a fading fire and, soon, three sleeping forms.
Ulfar looked at the wall of rock-black trees. “I know you’re there,” he whispered. “I know it. And I know you’ve got something to do with this. And when I’m done . . . I’ll come find you.”
The animals of the night stayed well clear of the travelers’ camp.
FAR NORTH OF TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY
NOVEMBER, AD 996
Spiked sealskin boots crashed through the frozen shell of the snowdrift and sank into the dry powder underneath. Botolf, at the head of the line, picked a careful sideways route down the hillside. Far below they could make out the outlines of Egill Jotun’s longhouse. The horses snorted in protest as they picked their way along the narrow boot-trodden path. A line of muttered curses drifted toward Valgard at the rear.
Cramps wrenched his legs, jabbed at his spine, and twisted his shoulders a half-inch farther into a solid knot with every step. They’d found little cover on the crest of the hill overnight. The soldiers had lit fires, but they hadn’t helped. The cold had been bitter, sharp, and personal, and Botolf’s men were even more surly than usual. The morning had been difficult.
“We should sledge down,” one of the men shouted.
“Or I could just break your neck right now,” Thora shouted back.
“Shut your hole, you fucking whore!” the man cried, “or I’ll open another one in your belly and f—” The snowball hit him square in the jaw and made him choke on his own spit as he lost his footing. His arms flailed as he fought for balance, then went rolling head over heels, kicking up delicate clouds of powder as he went. Thora stood still, watching the falling man with contempt. Valgard couldn’t help but smile. He looked funny, bouncing down the hill like that. Almost like a kid at play.
Ormslev shot him a dirty look. “He’s dead,” he said.
“Wha—?” He didn’t have time to finish the sentence.
In the blink of an eye, the man was airborne as he bounced off something hard hidden in the snow, and when he met the ground again, his head snapped to one side as the weight of his body landed on his neck. Moments later he was just lying there, a pile of rags halfway down the hill.
“Anyone else want to take the quick way?” Thora barked over the line. None of the men looked up. Even the horses stayed quiet.
They inched their way along after that, step by careful step. When they were nearly halfway down, one of Hakon’s men stepped on a sheet of ice hidden by a dusting of snow. Both his feet left the ground, and he twisted in the air. The dull sound of breaking bone as his skull met the jagged, ice-crusted rock cut through the heavy, cold silence.
Valgard watched the blood soak through the snow and thought of Botolf’s words.
The north would take them.
“Watch your feet, you thick-faced lamb-diddlers!” Thora growled. For a moment, Valgard thought she might consider the man’s death a personal affront and go and kill him some more.
The men stepped over the fallen warrior, careful not to meet the same fate.
“Try not to die of stupid!” Thora growled and turned to Botolf. “Where did you find these idiots?”
“The waiting line outside your mother’s house?” Botolf shot back. “Give them a break. They’re cold and wet, but whatever they are, they’re not idiots.”
“How do you figure?” Thora said.
“For one, they didn’t build their houses this far north,” Botolf muttered.
Despite the situation, Valgard spotted the odd smirk in the line.
The valley that had looked so inviting from above was nowhere near as easy to cross as Valgard had hoped. The snow was chest-deep and too loose to walk on. Treacherous rocks and roots hid underneath, but the men didn’t appear to care. They might grouch and grumble, but under