CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE ELVAR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ELVAR

E lvar stood at the prow of the Wave-Jarl , looking out onto the whale road as her drakkar left the fjord of Snakavik. It was oar-work, the Wave-Jarl ploughing into a south-easterly head wind as they turned south to shadow the coast. She glanced back, saw her fleet behind her. Fifty longships, and as many knarr with them. It took her breath away. Never in all the history of Vigrie had a war-host been so great. Not since the Guefalla, if the skálds-songs and sagas were true.

She turned and saw Ulfrir, standing at the stern with Skuld, alongside the heaped piles of treasure that had been brought back from Oskutree. They were looking back up at the rearing jaws and skull of his dead father. She had allowed Ulfrir to keep a handful of his úlfhéenar with him, but the rest were scattered throughout her drakkar crews, all of them put to work pulling at oars. Sighvat was close by, sitting on a sea-chest and beating time for the rowers with the haft of his bearded axe. He was singing a rowing song, those pulling at the oar-bench grunting out their responses.

Close to the mast-post an awning of old sail had been raised, a sheet hanging to act as a makeshift doorway. With a knot in her belly Elvar turned and walked towards it, at the last moment turning away and walking past. She kept walking, until she was standing in the stern. She nodded to Sighvat as he beat time and sang his rowing chant, and came to stand beside Ulfrir.

"Delaying a task does not make it easier," Ulfrir said as he took his amber-flecked eyes from the glowering might of Snaka's skull and looked down at Elvar. "Often it is the opposite. Better to do it than worry over it."

"Huh," Elvar grunted.

"To lead the pack, you must have strong jaws, wolf-cunning and a storm-hardened heart. Do you have those qualities, Elvar Wolf-Tamer?"

"Wolf-Tamer?" she blinked.

"That is what I have heard you called," he said with a twist of his lips, snarl or sneer, Elvar was not sure.

"You are not tame," Elvar said.

"No, I am not," Ulfrir said, a half-breathed growl.

"As for your question," she sucked in a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks and shrugged. "Time and the skálds will be the judge."

"Aye," Ulfrir grunted. "The world changes, even the things that you think strong, unbreakable." He gestured to his father's skull, fading into the fjord mist. "Who would have thought dread Snaka could be slain."

"I only believe it because I can see it," Skuld said beside Ulfrir.

"So, perhaps we can slay this dragon," Elvar said.

"Lik-Rifa will die, her life-blood draining in my jaws," Ulfrir snarled, and Elvar remembered his howl as he had heard of Orna's resurrection and swift death.

Even a god can grieve.

"Your den, this Wolfdales, you are sure you can find it?"

"Yes, I can find it," Ulfrir said. "If the Jarnvidr still stands, then so does my wolf-den."

Skuld turned and looked at Elvar, her hand resting upon the hilt of the sword Elvar had returned to her. "I would ask a … a favour," she said reluctantly.

That must have cost your pride , Elvar thought.

"What favour?" Elvar said.

"In the treasure you stole from Oskutree …" Skuld said.

Stole!

Elvar pursed her lips.

"Go on," she said.

"There is a pair of silver-wrought scissors."

"I remember them," Elvar said, "but, scissors? Why would you want … scissors?"

Skuld looked away, then back to Elvar, meeting her eyes.

"They were my mother's," she said.

Elvar turned away and walked to the treasure horde, unknotted and lifted the linen sheet that covered the pile of chests and sacks. She knew which chest the scissors were in, remembered packing them herself. She had taken them from the underground forge in the bowels of Oskutree's roots, where Skuld and Uspa had forged Ulfrir's rune-collar. She sifted through keys upon a ring at her belt and unlocked a chest, opened the lid and saw the scissors. They were bigger than any Elvar had seen, crafted for god-hands, and finely wrought, runes carved into the silver of the handles. Lifting them, they felt light.

Do they have some Seier-power? Elvar thought, suspicious of Skuld for a moment. She frowned at the winged woman. But she is thralled to me, cannot use them or anything against me.

"Here," Elvar said, holding them out to Skuld.

She took them almost reverently, turned them over in her hands, staring at them. Ulfrir looked, too, his eyes distant, elsewhere. A faint smile touched his lips, the tips of sharp teeth protruding.

"My … thanks," Skuld said, and she hooked the scissors onto a leather loop, unbuckled her belt and threaded the loop onto the belt, buckled it back up. She looked up at Ulfrir and smiled.

Elvar turned away and walked to the awning set around the mast-post, where she paused a moment.

Better to do it than worry over it.

She lifted back the entrance sheet and stepped inside.

Gytha stood before her, hand on her sword hilt, and she stepped aside to allow Elvar into the small, makeshift room.

Silrie sat on a barrel, dark tattoos on her jaw. She was talking to Uspa, who sat next to her, Berak looming like a rockfall behind them. Sólín Spittle stood to one side, picking her nails with her seax. And, of course, Hrung, his head back upon his stone pedestal, which was harnessed to the deck with rope and iron rings. Hjalmar Peacemaker was sitting and talking with Hrung, a bundle on his lap. He smiled to see Elvar. At the centre of them all, hands bound and leashed to the mast, was Grend.

He looked at Elvar through one eye, the other one purpled and swollen shut.

Elvar breathed deep, felt a fluttering of emotion in her belly. Relief, that he had been found. Anger, at what she had been told. Fear, at what she might have to do.

When Hjalmar had dragged Grend before her at the pier Elvar had felt frozen, numb. Slowly, as if through a fog, she had become aware of all staring at her, and she knew that this was not something that should be aired in front of all Snakavik. And so she had commanded Grend be taken aboard the Wave-Jarl , a makeshift room crafted with an old sail so that she could speak to him with some semblance of privacy. Of course, on the deck of a ship that was not the easiest thing to do.

"Ah, here she is," Hrung said, smiling at her.

Elvar dragged in a deep breath and looked at Hjalmar.

"Tell me," she said.

"Of course, Jarl Elvar," he said with a dip of his head. "You remember the fight on the dock, against that nieing thief, Ingvild?" Hjalmar began. "Grend had a cut, on his forehead." He looked at Grend, squinting at the map of wounds on the man's face, all scabs and crusted blood. "It might be hard to find it now."

"I remember," Elvar said, and she did, remembered seeing him wipe the cut with a scrap of cloth.

"My Hundur -thrall found the linen he wiped the wound on," Hjalmar said. "He always has a good sniff around after a fight. We've found a few Tainted that way, made good coin from it," he explained with a shrug. His ever-present smile faded, shifted to something hard and cold. "He is Tainted, has the blood of Hundur in his veins. Well, we went after him. Of course, he disagreed with us. There were a few words. Short story is that he put two of mine in the ground, and then he ran. We chased. He led us a merry dance, up the fjord cliffs and onto Snaka's back, but we caught him in the end. Lost another three convincing him he should come back with us, and … here we are." He spread his arms wide and smiled. "These are his," he added, handing Elvar the bundle on his lap. It was Grend's brynja , wrapped with his weapons belt, his axe from Oskutree bound within it.

"Nice axe, that," Hjalmar said.

Elvar waved the mail and weapon away, Gytha stepping forward to take them.

"You shall be recompensed for your losses, shall be paid well for this service," she said to Hjalmar as she stepped closer to Grend, fought the urge to call for water and a cloth, to bathe his wounds, to stitch him up, as he had done for her, so many times. Instead, she stood and stared at him, kept her face a flat cliff, as he had tried to teach her.

"What have you to say?" she asked him.

He looked up at her, his face beaten and bruised, his one eye fixing on her, Elvar seeing a depth of pain and misery leaking from it. He opened his mouth, lips moving.

"I am sorry," he mumbled.

"Ha, still the man of many words, then," Hrung said, laughing, his booming voice making the awning ripple. "Some things never change."

"I am sorry," Elvar said. " Sorry! Nothing else? After fifteen years of being my weapons master, my protector, my … friend ." She spat the last word out as if it were an illness. "After all the counsel, the admonishments, you trying to teach me how to survive. Teaching me your code. To never give up, to never back down, to speak the truth in all things. And you give me sorry ." Her hand snapped up to slap him, but she held it back, trembling. Stood straighter and put her hand back down.

He looked at her with one eye, gave her silence.

"You have lied to me all these years, deceived me," Elvar said. She looked at Silrie.

"Silrie, put an iron collar about his neck, say the rune-binding words."

"Yes, Jarl Elvar," Silrie said.

Elvar turned and swept from the makeshift room, blinking, and hoping that no one saw the tears in her eyes.