“I do not call it ‘without a fight’ when more than a hundred of my men are killed,” Isgrimnur growled.
Brindur spat on the floor. “This is war, not the squabbling politics of court. If we do not destroy these creatures in their final hole we have wasted those dead.”
Vigri cleared his throat. “I do not say that Brindur is right, my lord, but I do not say he is wrong, either. We came to finish with these corpse-skins once and for all. If you set out to burn the wasp’s nest, you must finish the job or they will just make more wasps.”
Isgrimnur snorted. “These are not wasps. These are not beasts. These are ancient creatures more cunning than we are, and they are certainly not cowards. Do you think we have seen all their tricks?”
“They are running out of feints,” Brindur said as flatly as he might have said “the sky is blue,” or “blood is red.” “We saw no faces in the fires this time, no shadows or ghostly voices. Just arrows and stone walls.”
“And a very large rock which destroyed our catapults and our ram,” said Isgrimnur. “As well as killing a dozen or more of our men. But we will miss the ram more than any of the rest.”
“The Bear is not dead,” Brindur declared. “His iron head still wants to bite. There are plenty of trees here. We will build him a new body and knock down the fairies’ front door.”
Isgrimnur turned to Vigri, since it seemed as if the jarl and Sludig were the only sane voices left. “What do you think?”
Vigri looked weary. His armor was almost as bloody as Brindur’s. “What do I think? That this is a dreadful chore, my lord. But we have taken it on and we cannot leave off yet. That is what I think.”
Isgrimnur sighed. “I suppose you are right.” He reached for the bowl of ale one of his carls had set out on top of a wooden chest and felt the letter that he had thrust into his belt earlier, now scratching against his belly. “Ah! Of course! I have some news that slipped my mind in the clamor. Good news, at that.”
“Praise Usires!” said the jarl. “Pray do not keep it to yourself, my lord. That is something we need more than food or drink.”
Isgrimnur nodded. “When first I heard from you, Vigri, telling of the siege you had begun, I sent out messengers to the nearest thanes, Alfwer of Heitskeld, Helgrimnur Stonehand, and several others, asking help from everyone within a fortnight’s march.”
“Alfwer,” said Brindur, and although he did not spit again, he might as well have.
“Never mind Alfwer,” said Isgrimnur with a tight smile. “I have not heard back from him anyway—doubtless he is busy counting his cattle. But the messenger to Helgrimnur came back just this morning.” He paused to take a drink.
“Please, Your Grace!” said Vigri. “What good news? You are tormenting me.”
Isgrimnur could manage only the weariest of smiles. “I beg your pardon, my friend. Helgrimnur writes to say that he had already mustered men to send to Erkynland, but when they were not called for, he released them for the spring planting—or such as it was this year, with the fields all frozen.” He opened the letter, smoothing it on his knee. “Yes, here. But when the Norns began to make their way through the nearby lands, he summoned his warriors back, clever fellow. He has half a thousand men under arms, ten score of them experienced fighters. Now, the happiest part—he is sending them with his sister-son, Helvnur, who also leads nearly a hundred mounted men. The messenger said Helvnur and his men are only a few days behind him. They did not expect to find us already so far north.”
Vigri clapped his hands together. “Aedon be praised—that is excellent news indeed!”
“I would rather it were ten times that many, but it will surely help.” The duke smiled again and raised his ale bowl in a toast. “By my beard, Helgrimnur is a good man, and I will not forget it!”
“Is there a chance that we may hear back from any others?” Vigri asked.
Isgrimnur shook his head. “Not before we cross into the Norn lands, I think. But Helgrimnur’s muster makes up for the numbers we have lost so far.”
“As long as these new folk don’t get between me and the creatures I’ll be killing, they are welcome,” said Brindur. “I have a mind to lay my hands on the queen of the fairies herself. Maybe she’ll grant me a wish before I strangle her.”
Isgrimnur hurriedly made the sign of the Tree. “Trust me, Brindur, you don’t know what you’re talking about. She would freeze the marrow in your bones if you met her.”
“We’ll see,” said Brindur. “In any case, my sword needs sharpening again. Fairy armor makes a blade dull, and fairy bones are worse.”
“Even with more fighters, the next part will not be easy,” Isgrimnur warned. “God save me, none of this has been easy.”
“You think too much, my lord,” said Brindur, and it was hard to tell whether he meant sarcasm or honest reproof. “See the enemy. Kill the enemy. That is the whole of our task.”
“Ah, such simple bloodlust reminds me of an old friend,” Isgrimnur said, half-amused, but a moment later the memory turned sour. “The White Foxes killed him in Aldheorte Forest.”
“I hate to disagree with you, Thane Brindur,” said Vigri. “But I would like to add another task to your list: Return alive.”
“I hold to an older tradition, my lord,” said Brindur. “I would like to live, but I would rather see our enemies dead. I will look down happily from the feasting halls of our ancestors if I take enough of the whiteskins with me.”
Isgrimnur had heard enough. He had men to bury, if the living had managed by now to make a big enough hole in such icy ground. He reached for the ale and took a long draught, then took another before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “God grant us victory,” was all he said.
Endri was not dead, but there were moments now that Porto could almost wish the Norn arrow had killed him outright.
One of the Rimmersgard surgeons had cut deep into the young man’s back to remove the black dart, and sluiced the wound with strong spirits. At first it seemed that Endri would recover, because the arrow itself had stuck in his shoulder blade instead of slicing through to his lungs and heart, but whether because of the foul airs of the Nornfells or some poison on the arrowhead, the wound did not heal. At first it was only obvious by the fevers that shook his body and the pains that made him cry out as he slipped in and out of restless sleep. But by the time a full day had passed Porto could see a black stain beneath the skin that had spread outward from the original arrow wound into a blotch bigger than his hand. It was hot to the touch, and the skin seemed almost lifeless beneath Porto’s fingers.
“Can you feel my touch here?” he asked as he probed at the lumpy area around the wound.
“Yes. But it’s no worse . . . than any other part of me. I hurt all over. God help me, Porto, it feels like my blood is on fire in my veins!”
“You should not have risked your life for me,” he said, then regretted it.
Endri tried to sit up but failed, slumping back. The light of the campfire made the whites of his eyes seem as yellow as a wolf’s. “No!” He struggled to take a deeper breath. “You are my only friend. Don’t . . . don’t be foolish. You would have done the same . . . the same for me.” The effort of speaking had exhausted him, and he closed his eyes again. His chest moved up and down in little jerks.
What are we doing here? Porto wondered. What are we doing in this cold, empty place, out at the arse-end of nowhere? It would be different if we were fighting for Ansis Pelippé, to protect our own folk.
As if he had heard Porto’s thoughts of home, Endri opened his eyes. For a moment he looked around wildly, as if he did not know where he was, but when he saw Porto’s face he calmed. “I want to go back,” was what he said. “Back to Harborside.”