uncertain step forward, then he and Razi simultaneously dashed for the door. Wynter went to follow, but Razi pushed ahead of her, literally shoving her aside and dodging under the flap before she could get past. Within the tent, Surtr screamed. There was a rending, splitting sound, and just as Wynter went to duck inside, the red-headed warrior flew past her, propelled backwards from the tent as if flung from a catapult.
The huge man flew ten or more feet before landing with a whoomph in the dust. His tunic was torn open, his belly scored with claw-marks and scarlet with blood. He immediately tried to roll to his feet, his face creased with concern for his brother.
‘THOAR!’ he yelled, falling back in pain. ‘Thoar!’
Wynter ducked into the tent and was confronted with a frenzy of noise and movement. Sólmundr and Thoar had thrown themselves onto Christopher, trying to pin him down. Razi, in turn, had flung himself onto the warriors, trying to pull them away.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘He does not mean it! Give him a moment.’
Razi kicked Thoar away, at the same time heaving backwards on Sól. The three men tumbled back, propelled by a violent shove from Christopher.
‘Give him a moment!’ screamed Razi as Thoar went to draw his sword. ‘He doesn’t mean it!’
Wynter went to run forward but came to a halt at the sight of Christopher’s terrible face. Utterly transformed, his eyes flashed yellow in the gloom, and he growled and snarled about him like a dog at bay. He was writhing in the shadows at the back of the tent, as if in battle with some unseen demon, his scarred fingers gouging deep claw-marks into the earth.
‘Christopher,’ she whispered.
He made no effort to attack, just remained where he was, struggling on the dirt floor, his body twisting around itself as he tried to overcome his rage. The noises coming from his distorted mouth were not human – they were anything but human – but Wynter understood fear when she heard it. She understood pain.
‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered again and knelt on the ground just out of his reach, her hand outstretched as if to comfort him. He continued to thrash and struggle, apparently unconscious of her presence. Razi crawled to her side, his face intent, but he, too, came to a halt just out of reach of his friend and knelt there, doing nothing.
In the end, it was Sól who went to him. He crawled straight past Razi and Wynter and, without hesitation, rolled Christopher onto his back.
Christopher’s yellow eyes widened at the contact; his lips pulled back. His distorted hands shot to Sólmundr’s shoulders. The too-long fingers dug into Sól’s flesh, and the warrior gasped in pain. Gritting his teeth, Sól grabbed Christopher’s face in his hands and jerked the young man’s head around, staring into Christopher’s inhuman eyes.
‘Coinín!’ he cried. ‘Is mé atá ann! It’s me! It’s Sól!’
Christopher opened his mouth, those long, sharp teeth only inches from Sólmundr’s throat. His fingers tightened brutally on Sól’s shoulders and, to Wynter’s horror, blood welled up beneath his fingertips.
Sólmundr’s face tightened in agony, but he did not pull away. Instead he shook Christopher’s head between his hands and yelled, ‘You freeman, Coinín! You not hurt me! You know who you are!’
Christopher’s yellow eyes locked with Sólmundr’s. His fingers abruptly relaxed their grip on the warrior’s shoulders. His face softened in recognition. Then he was Christopher again, just Christopher; his scarred hands clutching the fabric of his friend’s tunic, his fine, narrow face appalled and painted with despair.
‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Oh no!’ He lifted his hand from Sólmundr’s shoulder and stared at the blood that reddened his fingers. ‘Oh no!’ he cried. ‘Iseult! Iseult! ’
Wynter shook her head, her hands pressed to her mouth. She couldn’t speak. Christopher struggled to sit, calling for her and groping blindly about him as if unable to focus his eyes or coordinate his body. Sólmundr drew the young man to him, stilling his frantic attempts to rise, holding him close.
‘Iseult!’ croaked Christopher.
‘Iseult is good,’ murmured Sól shakily, patting Christopher’s shoulder. ‘You not hurt her.’ He looked out through the door to where Thoar was helping Surtr to stand. Hallvor had joined them. Surtr gingerly pressed his fingers to the long, deep gashes on his bloodied stomach. ‘You not hurt her,’ whispered Sólmundr.
By Wynter’s side, Razi rose slowly to his feet. Sól looked up at him. Razi met his eye and the warrior’s dazed confusion iced over to cold disapproval. Wynter