CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE ELVAR

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ELVAR

E lvar paced back and forth across the hall of the Galdur tower while her advisers stood and stared at her. She was dressed in her war gear; her bright-gleaming brynja that she had taken from the battle plain at Oskutree, a spectacled helm buckled at her belt and a sword hanging at her weapons belt, along with the slim-hafted axe that Grend had gifted to her. Gold and silver rings wrapped her arms, and she wore a jarl-torc about her neck, a thick rope-twist of gold, twin serpent heads as terminals. The first grey of dawn was seeping through high windows, the dark shadows in the room flame-licked by the hearth-fire. She should be thinking about leading, that was her task as jarl. To be the carer and provider of her crew, of her oathsworn, to be their gold-giver, the bringer of victory. She should be making plans, thinking about tactics, about logistics, using her deep-cunning to win this war, but only one thought swirled around her thought-cage like a savage north wind, forcing all else out.

Where is Grend?

Too many days had passed. She had thought he would return to her in a day or two. She had known that coming back to Snakavik had been hard on him, stirring up the memories of her mother, of her death, and that he had needed some time to sift through those times and lay old ghosts to rest, but it had been five days now, and there was still no sign of him. For the last two days she had sent her drengrs out searching for him, sent the Battle-Grim to the docks, to see if they could find word of Grend leaving Snakavik by ship, not that she thought he would ever do that, would ever leave her.

He swore his oath to me, sealed it with his blood. She had a sick feeling in her belly, a pressure in her chest, could not imagine a life without Grend in it, without his steady, reassuring presence at her shoulder.

"We must sail at noon with the tide," a voice said. Uspa, standing wrapped in a cloak of raven-feathers, the tattoos on her hands and forearms looking like swirling veins in her pale flesh.

Elvar stopped pacing and looked at those around her. Uspa, Berak and a half-dozen Berserkir . Gytha and some of her drengrs , Silrie, standing alone, half in firelight, half in shadow. Sighvat with Sólín Spittle. Hrung on his stone pedestal. Ulfrir, Skuld and a handful of his úlfhéenar with him. Over the last few days more of his wolf-blood followers had come to her, to swear their oaths, Ulfrir having close to a hundred of the Tainted warriors gathered to him now.

His own wolf pack.

"We must go to the docks, Elvar," Uspa said, "we must sail with the tide at noon."

Elvar glowered at her.

"Is there word of a Hundur -thrall?" she asked.

A day ago she had sent word through her followers, her petty jarls and mercenary bands, asking if any had a thralled Hundur in their service. She needed one with Hundur the hound's blood in their veins, to track Grend, and not for the first time cursed Biórr for freeing Ilmur the Hundur -thrall from the Battle-Grim.

"No word, my lady," Gytha said, stepping forwards. "But all who can be spared are still searching for him." Gytha had dark shadows beneath her eyes, and Elvar knew that she had been one of those searching, knew that she had not slept the last night for searching.

"You are needed at the docks," Uspa said, her voice a grindstone, grating in Elvar's skull.

"The tide waits for no one," Hrung said cheerfully.

"One more day," Elvar said.

"You said that yesterday," Uspa said with a glare.

"I know," Elvar snapped.

"We must leave," Ulfrir said. "If Lik-Rifa came upon us here she would destroy us. We have waited too long already."

Mutters rippled through those gathered in the hall and Elvar bit back a sharp reply. She sucked in a deep breath and walked slowly to her chair, took the bearskin cloak that was draped over it and swung it across her shoulders, pinned it with an iron brooch.

"To the docks," she said, and strode towards the Galdur-tower doors, Berserkir guards heaving them open for her, drengrs moving to Hrung and hoisting his head into a small cart, two shaggy ponies harnessed to it.

She swept through her father's halls, out into the ruin of his mead hall and into the streets of the fortress. Crusted snow crunched underfoot, the glare of the sun in a pale blue sky reflecting from the snow and making her squint. The fortress was empty, a dead husk, most of Elvar's people already moved down to the town of Snakavik, where her war-host was preparing to sail.

Out through the gates of the fortress and across the snow-covered skull of dead Snaka. The mercenary camps were gone now, just the wind hissing, sifting the snow and scouring across Elvar's exposed flesh like ground chips of ice. She was glad to step into the murk of the Bone Tunnel that bored through Snaka's skull like a wormhole through soil. The wooden walkway was damp and slick underfoot, smoke from braziers of whale-oil thick and claustrophobic. As she had done since a child, she counted the steps as she walked them.

"Two hundred and twelve," she breathed as she stepped from the darkness of the tunnel into the town of Snakavik and paused a moment, leaning upon a thick-posted rail. Beams of sunlight cut through the gloom, pouring down through the empty eye sockets of Snaka's skull, birds swirling in and out of the light.

The town spilled down a slope, pinpoints of flickering flame where torches burned marking the streets like constellations of distant stars fallen from the sky, reeking smoke wafting, buildings sagging and leaning, all leading towards the jaws of the dead god, where Snakavik's harbour and port lay snugged within the serpent's fangs and the steep-sided slopes of a fjord beyond. From this distance the docks were just a smear of silvered light reflected on water, the drakkars moored there small and dark as rusted rivets, though Elvar knew they were being loaded with war gear and provisions.

She walked on, looking left and right as she marched down a winding, steep-sloped wooden walkway, peering through Snakavik's gloom-filled half-light, part of her expecting to see Grend appear, emerging from the door of an inn or from the shadows of an alley.

"Where is he?" she muttered.

"My lady?" Berak said, looming at her shoulder, his voice like a slide of gravel.

"Grend, where is Grend," Elvar said, louder, one hand tugging at the troll tusk on a leather cord about her neck.

"All are searching for him, Jarl Elvar," Berak rumbled, and she knew that was true enough. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Ulfrir behind her, Skuld and his ever-growing retinue of úlfhéenar .

The deeper into Snakavik she travelled the busier the streets became, the lower town boiling like a kicked ants' nest as Elvar's host made ready to sail. Troops of warriors tramped through the streets, mercenaries or drengrs sworn to Elvar or her petty jarls, shields slung across their backs and spears in their fists. The crack of whips rang out as loaded wagons rolled, a swarm of traders rushing to sell their goods before Elvar's war-host sailed. The slope levelled and the roads widened, barns looming either side of her as she drew nearer the docks, voices shouting as wagons were loaded with all manner of goods; barrels full of salted fish, whale meat and walrus meat soaked in brine, venison, salted pork, lamb and beef, barrels packed with apples and turnips, cabbages and kale, honey and ale and mead. More barrels full of iron nails, rivets, caulking tar, and water, bundles of spear shafts carved from elm or ash, spear-heads of iron, bolts of cloth and wool and linen for repairing sails, for cloaks, caps, mittens, tunics and winnigas . All headed for the docks, and behind it all the screeching of gulls that swirled and swooped. Elvar had never seen such a sight in all her years.

She strode down a pier, past a handful of knarr that were sitting low in the water, their decks piled high with supplies, and then she saw the Wave-Jarl . It bobbed on the swell, sitting sleek beside the knarr as a wolf among sheep, the mast already set in place, the sail furled. The ship had been hauled onto land and damaged strakes repaired, tarred horse-hair wedged into gaps, the hull scraped of mussels and limpets, of algae and seaweed, and fresh-coated in pine tar and resin. Orv the Sneak and Urt the Unwashed stood on the pier, grinning and nodding to her, most of the Battle-Grim already aboard, standing or sitting at sea-chests, oars ready.

The sight of it made her heart swell.

My ship, my crew. Abruptly she longed for the sea, the simplicity of it, away from plots, politics and responsibilities and the need for deep-cunning, to feel the salt spray in her face, the muscle-burn of a shift at the oar-bench and she looked at her hands, the skin tough and calloused from oar-work, from blade work.

"Ah, hello, old friend," Hrung boomed as the wagon his head was secured within rumbled up the pier. He was looking at the deep dark of the fjord, sparkling in the winter's sun. "I must say, I hoped never to see you again. Three hundred years sitting in your embrace was too long for our friendship to endure." He looked at Elvar and winked.

"Load him on to the Wave-Jarl ," Elvar called out. "Carefully," she added as one of the drengrs carrying Hrung slipped as they stepped from the pier onto the top-rail.

The thud of feet on the pier behind her, voices raised, and Elvar spun on a heel, saw her Berserkir blocking the pier to a handful of figures.

"Let me through," a voice called out. "Sister, tell them," she heard her brother Broeir calling out and she barked an order at her Berserkir . They parted and Broeir burst through, excited as a puppy. He looked like a god of war, dressed in gilded mail, a gold-edged helm tucked under one arm, a five-lobed sword at his belt, though Elvar suspected he had not won any of this gear through victories in the shield wall or battlefield.

Gifted to him by my father, more like.

"I have found one for you," Broeir said, beaming as he bounded up to her.

"Found what?" Elvar frowned, then saw that there were figures following behind her brother. A mouse-haired woman, broad and squat, mail-clad with a shield slung across her back, two bearded axes thrust through her weapons belt.

Runa Red-Axe, one of my father's petty jarls. No, one of my jarls , she corrected herself. A handful of Runa's drengrs followed behind her, shields scribed with two crossed bloody axes. A woman walked among them. She was shaven-haired, wore a fine-embroidered woollen tunic and had an iron collar about her neck.

"I found a Hundur -thrall for you," Broeir said eagerly. "You asked for one, to find Grend with, and I have found one for you, sister." If he'd had a tail, it would have wagged.

"Red-Axe," Elvar said as Runa drew near. The woman stopped and dipped her head to Elvar.

"Jarl Elvar," she said. "I have a gift for you." She grunted at her drengrs , and the Hundur -thrall was pulled forwards. "She has a good nose on her, has always led me to whatever scent I have given her to track."

Elvar looked at the thrall, saw she was wearing good leather turn-shoes, clean woollen breeches and a straw-coloured tunic.

She is a prize, for Runa to treat her so well.

"My lady," the thrall said, though she did not meet Elvar's gaze, just looked down at her feet.

"What is your name?" Elvar asked her.

The thrall looked to Runa Red-Axe.

"We call her ákveein," Runa said. "Once she has a scent, nothing can sway her from it."

"My thanks, Red-Axe," Elvar said. "I will not forget this gift."

"You are my jarl," Runa said, as if that were all to the matter.

"I need you to find my friend," Elvar said to ákveein.

The thrall raised her gaze and met Elvar's eyes.

"If you have something with their scent on, I will find them," ákveein said.

"Gytha," Elvar called out. "Something of Grend's."

Gytha hurried forwards, reaching down to a pouch at her belt.

Elvar became aware of noise along the docks and looked to see another troop of warriors emerge from the streets of Snakavik. She saw the knotwork ravens scrolled upon shields that marked the warriors as Hjalmar Peacemaker's and realised that she had not seen him for many days. He led his crew, a tall man in mail with a tangle of black beard. A murmur of voices rippled along the pier as Hjalmar passed by, a crowd falling in behind them and following.

A burst of raised voices at the pier as Hjalmar turned to walk towards Elvar and the Wave-Jarl , people shouting and pointing at something within Hjalmar's warriors.

Elvar's Berserkir and drengrs spread along the pier, blocking Hjalmar's way.

"I have something you will wish to see, Jarl Elvar," Hjalmar cried out through cupped hands.

"Let them through," Elvar said, and her warriors parted for Hjalmar and his mercenaries. They strode down the pier, Hjalmar marching up to Elvar. She felt Sighvat's presence as he stepped closer to her, his hand resting upon the axe at his belt.

"I have a gift for you," Hjalmar said.

"This is a day for gifts, it seems," Elvar said, nodding to ákveein. "Runa Red-Axe has just gifted me her Hundur -thrall. Do you have one for me, too?"

"A gift, but not a Hundur -thrall, there is no need for one," Hjalmar said, a grin splitting his beard. "I bring you what you seek," and he waved a hand at his band of warriors. They parted to reveal a man standing in their midst.

Grend.

Blood sheeted his face and tunic, one eye swollen shut, lips mashed to pulp, half his face a purpling bruise. His hands were bound at the wrist with rope and a strip of leather was wrapped around his neck, two warriors holding the leash.

Hjalmar barked an order and the warriors dragged Grend so that he stumbled forwards and fell to his knees at Elvar's feet.

"What have you done to him?" Elvar hissed, one hand reaching for her sword hilt.

"No less than he deserved," Hjalmar said. "He has deceived you all these years." He grabbed the leather leash from his warriors and jerked it hard, dragging Grend's face up to look at Elvar.

"He is Tainted ."