CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT VARG

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

VARG

V arg ran, a steady jog, his eyes fixed on Svik's feet before him, using the echoing slap of Svik's feet on stone to set his rhythm, like a drumbeat for rowers. Sweat stung his eyes, was running down his back but he ignored it. He was not sure how long they had been running through the tunnel, all track of time swallowed by the darkness, his head filled with only one thought.

Brák Trolls-Bane. He had hoped to find him during the ambush , had searched for him, felt his frustration rising with each passing moment, because he had known that they were only there for a brief time.

Strike fast, strike hard, get out alive had been the order, and that had been what had happened. They had sown death and destruction until Lik-Rifa had arrived, and then retreated.

But he had not found Brák, which gnawed at his soul.

I will find him. I will kill him.

Slowly he became aware that there was more space around him, more light, torches burning in high sconces on the wall. He looked up and saw that they had left the tunnel and had entered the underground corridors of Wolfdales, Glornir leading them on, slowing from a jog to a walk. The ground began to slope upwards, wide steps as the slope became steeper, and soon they were entering the great chamber. The first thing Varg saw was Ulfrir, standing in the shadows of the huge tree that dominated the hall.

Well done, vicious child , he heard Ulfrir's voice in his head.

Elvar was moving among the wounded that were being taken to one corner of the chamber, Varg seeing many carried by comrades, their bodies blue-tinged and rigid, bitten by frost-spider's fangs. Many others were already lying or sitting on cots, thralls tending to their wounds. Varg saw Dagrun, Jarl Orlyg's son, blood sheeting one side of his face, sitting and having a scalp wound cleaned. Elvar's warriors were close to her, watching over her: Berserkir , drengrs , the Battle-Grim, Uspa and Silrie. A linen bandage was wrapped around Elvar's forearm, bloodstained and dirty, and others around her bore the marks of battle, but as Elvar walked away from the wounded she was grinning, Varg seeing in her the joy of coming through battle with your life, the joy of a battle fought and won.

Not that we have won the war, or even a great victory, but we have drawn first blood, let our enemy know that we have teeth.

Glornir slowed as he walked into the chamber, Vol at his side. Elvar saw them and strode over. She looked at the Bloodsworn filing into the chamber, saw two wounded being carried, one slung over Einar's shoulder, another frost-spider-bitten and carried between two warriors. Varg saw Elvar's eyes taking it all in, counting those on their feet and those being carried.

"You did well," she said to Glornir, "brought all your crew back, none left behind."

"Aye," Glornir said, weariness in his voice, part of the exhaustion that filled you once the fighting was done.

"And Lik-Rifa has learned she cannot just walk right up to us without a care in the world."

"Aye," Glornir grunted again. "We have bloodied her nose, for sure." He paused. "We saw her," he said.

"Lik-Rifa?"

"Aye. The dragon. She was … angry." A smile touched his lips, and Elvar grinned.

"Good," she said. "Tend to your wounded, eat and drink." She gestured to long tables and benches that were set out before the dais, looking like a mead hall before the jarl's seat. Carcasses of deer and boar and cattle were turning over spits, fat dripping and sizzling, cauldrons bubbling, the tables set with jugs of ale and mead, bowls of creamy skyr and thick curds, trenchers of hare and goose, salted cod, herring in brine, platters of fresh-cooked bread and steaming vegetables being carried over. Varg's belly growled.

Varg sat with a wooden plater piled high with food. Warm, fresh-buttered bread, thick slices of venison and pork, turnips and cabbage and onions, a cup of juniper-spiced mead in his hand. He took a long drink and breathed out, feeling its warmth seep through him.

R?kia sat one side of him, Svik the other side and Einar opposite him. Most of the Bloodsworn were sitting at the food benches around them, though Varg saw Orka walking away with her son Breca, both carrying platters of food and drinking cups. They left the chamber, walking into the corridor that led to the Bloodsworn's sleeping chambers.

"A good scrap," Einar said cheerfully as he ripped into a chunk of bread, butter dripping into his beard.

"Aye, it was," Svik agreed, using his eating knife to neatly cut and skewer a slice of meat. He looked up at Varg.

"We will find him," he said.

Varg looked at him. Nodded.

"Find who?" Einar said.

"Brák," R?kia said.

"Ah, that nieing ," Einar grunted. He looked at Varg and shook his head. "Now that is one who will not meet old age."

"No, he will not," R?kia growled.

Varg looked around at them all, touched by the emotion in their voices, the way they would make his task their own.

"I am fortunate, to have such friends as you," Varg breathed.

"Friends?" Svik said. "We are more than that, brother, far more."

We are Bloodsworn, closer than kin. We are pack.

"That is a truth," R?kia said beside him. On impulse Varg reached out and squeezed her hand. She tensed but did not pull away.

Svik raised an eyebrow and smiled.

Einar leaned forwards, his bench creaking, and wrapped one huge hand over Varg's and R?kia's.

"Friends. Kin," he said. "We look after our own."

Varg saw servants bringing fresh food to the table, all with thrall-collars on their necks, and up on the dais Berserkir guards stood around Elvar. Ulfrir in the shadows, the glint of iron about his neck, too.

"We do. And yet we are fighting for those who would enslave us," he muttered.

"Be careful," Svik said, glancing around.

"We fight for Elvar and yet, just by being here, we risk being thralled. The Tainted fight with the dragon for their freedom. Should we be fighting for a slaver?"

"I understand why you say this," Svik said. "But it is more complicated than that."

"Lik-Rifa is insane," R?kia said.

"Lik-Rifa has stolen Tainted children, as good as thralled them," Svik said. "Speak to Orka's son."

"They took Refna and the others. And they still have Bjarn, Uspa and Berak's boy," Einar rumbled. "I do not like people who steal children and use them as slaves." His brow knotted in a thunderhead scowl.

"They slew my Revna," a new voice said, Gunnar Prow, who was sitting close to them.

"And my brother," Halja Flat-Nose said. "They slew Vali."

"And Thorkel," Svik said.

"We owe them a blood feud," R?kia snarled.

"Aye, fair enough," Varg said, "Lik-Rifa is not one to fight for, as you say." His eyes tracked an úlfhéenar with an iron collar about his neck walk to the food bench and fill a trencher. It was Frek, the warrior who had been assigned to guard Prince Hakon when the Bloodsworn had taken him as hostage.

"Much has changed in Vigrie, Hakon dead, Helka dead, Jarl St?rr dead. We sit here and eat with a severed head and talking ravens and a resurrected wolf-god . " He looked at the iron collar about Frek's throat.

"Why can there not be a way for that to change, too," he muttered.

"Change how, though?" Svik asked him.

"Thrall-collars," Varg said, resisting the urge to put a hand to his own neck, where he knew the old scar was, faded, but never gone. "They are a curse. Vigrie is changing, all are saying, the world upside down. So why can the thrall-collar not change, too? Why can we not just … throw them away."

"What, and make the Tainted free and thrall everyone else?" Svik said with a half-smile.

Varg thought about that.

"No," he said, "why not make all freedmen, and just pay those who labour for a task. Like we pay a blacksmith, or a farmer."

Einar frowned.

Svik and R?kia just looked at Varg.

The tramp of many feet and they all twisted on their bench to see a handful of Berserkir leading a large group of warriors through the chamber towards the dais, over a hundred of them. They carried blue shields with red sails painted upon them. A man strode behind the Berserkir , ahead of the warriors, a gold torc around his neck, silver rings on his arms, grey hair and beard braided, his barrel chest and wide belly straining his brass-gilded brynja , a shield slung across his back. With a scraping bench Glornir was rising and striding over to him. The Berserkir parted for him and Glornir grinned, offered his arm to the grey-haired man, who laughed and gripped Glornir's arm.

"I should have known you would be here," the man said, "now I know I made the right choice."

Glornir turned and led the old man before Elvar, who was seated on her chair upon the dais, Ulfrir at her side.

"Jarl Elvar, I bring before you Jarl Logur of Liga. He has been a good friend to the Bloodsworn."

"And I shall be a good friend to you, if you will have me, Jarl Elvar," Logur said. He looked around, saw Ulfrir standing behind Elvar.

"I am in need of friends," Elvar said.

"You can never have too many friends," Hrung called out, startling Jarl Logur.

"Ah, I have heard tales of St?rr's talking head," Logur said as he stared at Hrung.

"I would like to hear them," Hrung said with a wide grin. "Perhaps over a jug of mead or two."

"I like you already," Jarl Logur grinned. His eyes moved on to the others on the dais.

"Is this the wolf?" he said.

"He is," Elvar said, Ulfrir regarding Logur with his amber eyes. Logur stared at him, looked him up and down, then his eyes flickered to Skuld and her red wings, and on to Grok, who had his beak in a barrel of pickled herring, and finally back to Ulfrir.

"Well, it looks like Vigrie is caught up in a skáld-song saga, the father of all family feuds, and all of us along with it." He rolled a shoulder, bones cracking and grinned. "I understand, I always hated my sister, though I never had a war-host this big to help me kill her."

"It will be a skáld-song," Elvar said, "of that there is no doubt."

"Well, I would like to be in it," Logur smiled.

"If Glornir Shieldbreaker speaks for you then you are welcome," Elvar said. "We have just bloodied Lik-Rifa's nose and are celebrating. You and your oathsworn are welcome to join us. Please, sit and eat."

"With pleasure," Logur grinned. "It's been hard rowing since we sailed from Liga, so we have worked up an appetite."

Glornir led Logur and his crew to the food benches, and all returned to their seats.

A beating of wings and Kló flew into the chamber, flying to land on the dais close to Elvar.

"Kló has news," the raven squawked, then she saw Grok feasting on his barrel of pickled herring. "Kló hungry, too," she rasped.

"News first, then food," Elvar said.

"Good news and bad," Kló said, bobbing her head. "Good news, many dead from your attack, make Lik-Rifa angry. Make Lik-Rifa very angry. Make trees shake."

Laughter and cheers rippled through the hall at that.

"Bad news, Kló see new warriors joining Lik-Rifa."

"What new warriors?" Elvar asked.

"Tainted. Many Tainted."