Yet when at the door, I heard a voice calling to me.
‘Kjaran, wait.’
I turned and looked on Sigrid. She glanced back at Ragnar, sat by the fire in the longhouse.
‘Will you return?’ she said to me.
‘I do not think so.’ I looked down at my hand, my good hand, and I saw that it did not tremble. ‘I will see Gunnar again. And I shall save his son. And that will be enough.’ As I spoke the words I thought of that burrowing embrace Kari had given me that morning. Had he known then? Had he sought to say farewell, but had not found the words?
‘Are you afraid?’
‘No.’ I met her gaze. ‘It is an easy thing to go to death, and to know it will bring joy to one that you love.’
She said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘That is not true. For I did love you, once.’
‘But not now.’
‘No.’
‘And never again.’
‘I do not think so. But I did love you once. Truly, with all that I am. And perhaps that may mean something to you.’
‘It does.’
I took in the flaxen colour of her hair. The whetstone edge of her jaw, those eyes with the touch of green at the centre. The way her hips had felt against my hands on that one night so long ago. I remembered it all then, and knew that I would not forget.
I was weary before I began. The killing lust had left me and I felt only the longing to rest – to lay down my head and close my eyes and let the killing be over for one day at least.
One last ride to the battle, I told myself. One more time and then it shall be done. Then there will be nothing but rest.
How would they have thought, those men who hunted men? What paths would they have taken? In places the snow had settled and I found horse tracks there. This was strange country to Thorvaldur, but he had Kari to guide him and none knew better the hidden places of this land than a boy. I struck north, past the beach where Gunnar and I had found the whale, and for a moment, amidst the storm-tossed surf, I thought I saw a figure there, raising a hand in greeting to me.
Wait, I told him. I shall come to you soon.
There was Laugar to the north; perhaps Björn and his men would stop at the hot spring before they set sail. And then they would go to the west, towards the mooring beyond Kambsnes. To climb the hill and look upon the Salmon River Valley one more time before they took to the sea.
I found the horses wandering free at the base of the hill. Cast to roam as they wanted, for their riders did not expect to need them again. There upon the ground, the marks of feet in the mud and slush: those of a man, those of a boy. Like a father and a son, walking together. And I scrambled up after them, binding my shield to my maimed hand as I ran, twining the strands of leather and cloth together.
Atop the hill now, a burning fire in my lungs, a hate in my heart. There, ahead, a figure lying upon the ground. So still that I might have mistook him for a twisted tree root in the shape of a man, a patterned rock playing tricks upon my eyes, a murdered man left unburied. But my eyes did not lie. Thorvaldur lay upon the ground, his hand upon a spear, his eyes on the valley beyond.
I came forward, one foot before the other, my shield before me, as soft as I could walk. A shift of weight and the shaft of the spear was resting on top of my shoulder, saving my strength for the throw. For all my caution, he heard me coming.
‘Kjaran,’ said Thorvaldur as he turned his head to face me. If he felt any concern at my levelled spear, his face did not reveal it. ‘Kari said that you would come. That you would find us. I did not believe it.’
‘Where is the boy?’
‘Not a boy any more, but a man. For he will fight with us in the feud. That is what you wanted, is it not? That is why you gave him back his father’s sword.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He is close. He is where he should be.’
‘I shall kill you,’ I said.
‘Perhaps. But it will do you little good.’ He pointed down. ‘Look there.’
In the valley below I saw Kari standing tall. One hand resting atop the shield that was propped up beside him, the tip of the sword in his belt dragging against the earth, for he was not tall enough for it to hang true. He wore a black tunic: the colour of killing. There was no mistaking what he intended.
He saw me then, through the curtain of snow. He smiled at me and waved and was a boy once more.
I wanted to call to him. To tell him to run, to hide. To forgive me. But the words caught in my throat, for I saw, around a turn in the valley, beyond the sight of Kari below, a group of men approaching. I heard the wicker of their horses, the distant familiar chatter. I could not hear the words, but even at that distance I recognised some of their voices. The men who had hunted me through another storm. Björn, his brothers, and those who stood beside them.
I went to ground and lowered my head, feeling the wet grass against my forehead, like a cooling touch against a fever. When I looked up once more, I saw Thorvaldur with his hands held up, palms to the sky. He tilted his head and he smiled.
‘The snow blesses us,’ he whispered. ‘A white blessing from the White Christ. Perhaps we may win this battle after all.’ He extended a finger towards the warband. ‘And look. There are only six.’
‘We are outnumbered. He is a boy. I am maimed.’
‘I am worth two of those men. Kari is worth two of those men. But are you?’
‘We must get away from here.’
‘It is too late for that.’
I knew that he was right. ‘We could have waited.’
‘What need is there to wait? You promised me killing, and your faith. You would give me only half a bargain?’
‘I spit on your White Christ. I curse him. A coward’s god.’
‘And yet I am the brave man and you the coward if you will not fight today. You can curse my God, if you want to. But if you do, I shall not fight with you.’ The mad smile went from his face as suddenly as it had sprung upon him. ‘Pray to Him, Kjaran. Do it now, for we do not have much time. He will tell you what to do.’
I put my hands against each other. I closed my eyes and I prayed.
I could feel the closeness of death – like hands closing about my throat, a sharp coldness sliding between my ribs, touching against my heart. Death has a taste, I had learned: a dry taste, like iron upon your tongue. It has no smell at alclass="underline" the sweat and stink of the world falls away, leaving nothing behind.
I prayed to the White Christ and his father to give me strength in battle, the courage to destroy my enemies, to grant me vengeance for friends long dead. And it was but a moment before I felt the cold hand of God upon my shoulder.
My eyes opened. The world shone a little brighter. The taste of death grew dull, and I could smell the earth and the air once again. He would fight with me; I knew then it was as the priest had said. That this was a God of revenge.
I wanted to sing to Him then, and I thought to give a soft chant that the wind would swallow. I thought to give Him a new song, but I could not find the words. I tried to think of the old songs, ones that I had repeated a hundred times before, and though the words came close to my lips they would not leave them, like a river almost in flood that cannot break its banks.
My songs belonged to the Old Gods, and I had abandoned them. My new God was one worshipped in silence. I would never sing again.
Below, the warband turned the corner, and their talk and their laughter ceased. Björn and the others swung down from their saddles, came forward and faced the boy in silence. I do not think that they recognised Kari at first: they thought him dead, and his burned face gave them little to find familiar.