Ulfar remembered moments later that his lower jaw belonged above his chest. “What . . . ?”
Goran turned to Ulfar. “Think about it! You are a man of honor. You have seen battle, unlike that squeaky pip. You are a good man and true. You are just the right man to lead the Svear, proud and powerful, against that bastard King Olav! Turn around and take what you’re owed!”
“Are you drunk? Alfgeir Bjorne would have my head off before I got close. And why should I? No one owes me anything.”
The mist curled around his rock, around his legs. Ulfar glanced down. Then he turned around.
Arnar and Inga were nowhere to be seen. The landscape looked wrong somehow, like someone’s idea of a location more than an actual place.
He turned to Goran.
“What’s happening? Who . . . who are you?”
Slowly, uncomfortably, Goran changed before his eyes. The man in the saddle was young, dark-haired, and handsome. A sweep of black hair sat above a thin, sharp nose. Green eyes sparkled with mischief. When he smiled, Ulfar half-expected fangs.
“Me? It is not important. I am a friend.”
“I doubt it. Where’s Goran?”
The stranger’s smile was tinged with sadness that looked almost genuine. “Poor Goran was not as young and fast as he thought he was. He killed the Norseman, but he took a blade in the belly. We met last night and made a deal. Don’t worry about him. I am here to give you a great opportunity to join me and reap rewards you couldn’t dream of.”
Ulfar looked at the man. “Last time I got fed horseshit like that, it was by an old scrawny fucker with one bad eye.”
The stranger’s skin turned a dark shade of blue as he hissed and bared a row of big, sharp teeth. The next moment he was back to normal. “A misunderstanding. Ulfar Thormodsson, you are destined for great things. Surely you’ve been told this?”
A smile spread over Ulfar’s face. “Yes. Yes I have.”
“And—”
“And if you want your belly opened up so you can see what you look like inside, do tell me again.”
The stranger looked him up and down. “You don’t presume to refuse my offer, do you? I can make you rich beyond your—” The breath stopped in his throat and he looked in astonishment at the hilt of Ulfar’s sword as it inched closer to his breastbone.
“I just told you this would happen.” Ulfar said. “I’ve had enough of being toyed with.”
The stranger looked up at Ulfar—and smiled back at him. A thin line of blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth. Another line formed around the wound in his chest, blossoming out all too quickly. “We’re not done, you and I,” he whispered. “Not done at all.” The stranger’s face . . . withered, like a field in winter. The hair faded and turned gray at the temples, then at the top.
And suddenly it was Goran staring at Ulfar in surprise. He tried to speak, but nothing happened. Only blood, pulsing faster and faster as his life faded away. The sword stuck obscenely out of the old guard’s back, caked in blackening, thickening blood. Ulfar dropped the hilt of the blade as if it was on fire and whirled around.
Arnar stood beside Inga with his sword drawn. “Step closer, boy, and I’ll gut you twice over,” he growled. “I don’t know what’s got into you but you’re not coming near us.” He muttered something to Inga, who shook her head without looking at him.
Ulfar opened his mouth, but nothing came out. All he could think of was that voice.
Not done, you and I.
Behind him, Goran coughed, twice. The sickly, faintly metallic smell of blood drifted past.
Ulfar blinked—and Inga was there, right in front of him, thunder in her eyes.
The slap was fast and hard enough to make him taste blood.
“Remember who you are,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “And get your head right. When you can be trusted, come find me.”
She turned and walked toward Arnar; she mounted her horse with ease.
Ulfar watched them ride away without a second glance. He heard Goran’s body fall to the ground, but he didn’t turn.
The mist faded. The clouds disappeared. A bird even sang to him from a nearby tree, but Ulfar didn’t note it. Instead he methodically drew the sword from Goran’s body, ignored the smell of the dead man, and set to cleaning the blade with long strokes