CHAPTER FORTY-ONE BIÓRR

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

BIóRR

B iórr sat eating a bowl of porridge, stirring a drop of honey into it with his wooden spoon. The pewter-grey of dawn was leaking into the world, darkness fading, a faint glow at the edge of the world where the sun was clawing over the horizon. Around him the camp was moving, people eating, drinking, tending to horses, packing their kit. He saw a bull troll bellowing at two cubs that were rolling on the ground, punching and kicking, gouging with their new-grown tusks and close by Red Fain was overseeing the Tainted children sparring, saw Harek slam a shield into his sparring partner and send her crashing to the ground.

So much was happening all around him, so many people all around him, and yet he felt alone.

The scrape of footsteps and a figure stepped out of the grey, sat on a barrel beside him.

Ilska the Cruel. She stared at the pot of porridge a moment, reflected flames flickering in her dark eyes. Biórr saw that the lines on her face were deeper, the grey in her hair stronger.

"I have not thanked you," she said with a frown, "for bringing Myrk's body to me."

Myrk's body. The words were like a fist clenching in his gut.

"You do not need to thank me for that," Biórr said. "She was … dear to me."

"You brought her joy," Ilska said, "and I thank you for that, too."

"The joy was mutual," Biórr said, "and the world is less without her."

"Heya," Ilska agreed.

They sat there in silence a while, Biórr's head full of Myrk, the smell of her, the twist of her smile, the taste of her lips.

"This Orka," Ilska said, breaking the silence. "Tell me what you know of her."

Biórr frowned, thinking on that.

"She is Tainted," he started, " úlfhéenar . She has a rare weapons craft." He paused, seeing Orka in his head, fighting, snarling, carving her way through all before her. "She prefers the long-axe, though I have seen her fight with seax and hand-axe, with her teeth and claws." He shook his head to dispel the image of Myrk with her throat ripped out. Remembered his conversation with Orka, about the gods. They do not care for the lives of anyone , she had said. "She is stubborn," he grunted.

"Anything else? There must be more," Ilska asked her.

Biórr sifted over all that Myrk had told her of Orka.

"She is single-minded and loves her son. She tracked him across all Vigrie. She does not fear death like most do, it is … unsettling. She walked into The Dead Drengr at Darl to confront Drekr and a dozen others with him, slew most of them. She walked out of the trees and confronted Myrk and a dozen Raven-Feeders at Rotta's camp, would have fought them alone. She walked into our war-host as we attacked Svelgarth, carved her way through frost-spiders, warriors, skraeling, just to get to her son, so she has stones of granite and some deep-cunning." He sighed. "She took pain, would say nothing about Ulfrir despite a beating from Rotta. She only spoke of Ulfrir when Rotta threatened the life of her spertus."

"A spertus? But they are loyal to Lik-Rifa," Ilska said.

"Not all," Biórr said with a shrug.

"And then she attacked Rotta when he slew the spertus. She has no fear, or respect, for the gods."

Ilska nodded, thinking it all over.

"Why are you asking me this?" Biórr asked her.

"Because it is best to know your enemies. And I will meet her soon," she said, a cold twist of her lips. Biórr had seen that before, and he shivered.

"Is there anything else?" Ilska asked him.

"She is bound to the Bloodsworn, somehow. Three of them were with her at Svelgarth. I slew one of them."

Ilska grunted approvingly at that.

"Two of them came for her when we were attacked by Orlyg and his Tainted. They helped her escape."

"There will be a reckoning for the Bloodsworn, too. Sterkur death-in-the-eye has heard news that your Elvar has offered them silver to fight for her, so I think that we shall meet them soon."

Your Elvar. He did not like to think on Elvar, although she was always in his head, lurking in the shadows. His betrayal of her was the one thing he regretted.

"The cost of our war," Ilska said, "it has been high. My father, my brother, my sister." She blew out a long breath, shook her head. "We cannot fail."

"We will not," Biórr said.

Horns blew, marking the call to march.

Ilska patted him on the leg and stood. "My thanks," she said. She drew something from a pocket inside her cloak. A raven's feather.

"It was Myrk's," Ilska said, holding it out to Biórr. "I think she would have liked you to have it."

Biórr took it, watched Ilska walk away as he braided the feather into his hair.

Biórr rode alongside Rotta, close to the head of their column, only Lik-Rifa and Ilska ahead of them. Rolling plains and patches of woodland stretched before them and, in the distance, the sun reflected upon the curl of the River Sl?gen, sweeping across the land like a silver-touched serpent. Beyond it Biórr could just make out the sweeping darkness that was the Iron Wood.

"That river is the boundary between Queen Helka's land and Jarl St?rr's," Biórr heard Ilska telling Lik-Rifa.

"It is my land," Lik-Rifa said, "this upstart Jarl St?rr and his pet wolf are maggots festering in a wound. I will cut them from it, teach them the meaning of pain."

As Biórr looked he saw riders ahead, appearing over the rim of a low hill.

A whirring of wings and a handful of tennúr swooped out of the sky, hovering around Lik-Rifa. Biórr recognised Tannbursta, their chief.

"It is your people, my queen," the tennúr said. "Krúsa and those others you sent out."

Jarl Sigrún and her snot-nosed nephew.

As Biórr looked he saw them spill down the hillside, riders and skraeling loping alongside them, a dark cloud of frost-spiders behind them. As they drew nearer Biórr saw there were less of them than had left Darl, and he made out bandages upon some of the riders. He saw Krúsa running at the head of her skraeling, long arms dangling, almost running on all fours, and Sigrún leading her drengrs , her nephew Guevarr close to her.

They have seen some action, then, and they do not appear to have any prisoners. Did they kill Skalk, Estrid and the others, or were they beaten and routed by them?

Ilska turned in her saddle and shouted orders. Horns were blown and like a juddering, dying insect Lik-Rifa's war-host came to a halt, waiting for Krúsa and Sigrún. They were moving at a fast pace and it did not take long. As Biórr watched them rein in and draw up before Lik-Rifa he saw more tennúr in the distance, a handful appearing over the hill that Sigrún and Krúsa had ridden across. These tennúr sped towards them, circling overhead, and one swirled down and landed upon Krúsa's shoulder, began talking animatedly in the skraeling's ear.

"My queen, Ilska the Cruel," Jarl Sigrún called out as she rode up, reining in to a halt before Lik-Rifa and dipping her head to them both.

"Are they dead, then?" Lik-Rifa said. She looked to Ilska. "What were their names, the ones they went after?"

"Estrid and Skalk, my queen," Ilska said.

"No, my queen, they are not dead," Sigrún said.

"Have you been defeated, then," Lik-Rifa scowled, looking at the injured among them.

"No, Mother-Maker," Krúsa said, lopping forwards, the tennúr remaining upon her shoulder. "We fought faunir in the Jarnvidr."

"What of Skalk and Estrid?" Ilska asked.

"We found them," Krúsa said.

"They wish to join you, to swear their oaths to you," Jarl Sigrún said.

"Do they?" Lik-Rifa frowned.

"Why?" Ilska asked, her face cold and hard.

"Things have changed in Vigrie," Sigrún said. "They have offered information to prove their new-found loyalty, and more."

"What information?" Ilska asked.

"Jarl St?rr is dead, slain by Ulfrir," Sigrún said.

"So, the wolf seeks to rule," Lik-Rifa snarled.

"No, my queen, Estrid and Skalk have told us that Ulfrir wears a thrall-collar, they say that he is thralled to Jarl St?rr's daughter, Elvar, chief of the Battle-Grim."

"What?" Biórr said, in time with Rotta, Ilska and Lik-Rifa.

"This is news indeed," Lik-Rifa said thoughtfully. "My wolf-shite brother, a thrall." She gave a vicious grin.

"You said Skalk and Estrid offered more," Ilska said to Sigrún. "What more?"

"To be our eyes and ears in Ulfrir's camp," Sigrún said.

Ilska nodded slowly, thinking it over. "That would be good, very good, but can we trust them?"

"They say they are better served swearing oaths to the dragon rather than the wolf," Sigrún said.

"Obviously," snorted Lik-Rifa.

"As for trust," Sigrún shrugged. "We trust no one. But so far, their information has been helpful."

"They have sent more news, Mother-Maker," Krúsa said, stepping forwards. "Munni brings word from them." She nodded at the vaesen on her shoulder, who gave a deep bow to Lik-Rifa. "Ulfrir is not at Snakavik, he has fled to his den in the Jarnvidr."

"It is true, it is true," the tennúr said, hopping from one foot to the other on Krúsa's shoulder. "When Maeur told Munni, Munni think, be brave, be brave, think he must see with own eyes to be sure, think Mother-Maker would wish Munni to do this. I flew there, saw many ships on the river, saw the stone wolves at the doors of Ulfrir's den. He is there."

"You have done well, Munni, very well, all of you have," Lik-Rifa said as Rotta rode up beside her. Lik-Rifa looked at him and grinned.

"He is weak, brother. If Ulfrir has slunk to hide in his den, then he is weak."

"And he is close," Rotta said, looking ahead at the faded, green-tangled blur of the Jarnvidr in the distance.

"Soon he will be close enough to touch," Lik-Rifa said. "Close enough to kill."