Under such circumstances, even the best of men would grow restless. The simplest squabble, a dispute over dice or rivalry for a woman, an ill-spoken insult or ill-timed jest could flare into violence as an ember into flame.
Now, though…
Kjarstan grinned, teeth a broad flash through his face-plate and a blond bristle of beard. His mail-coat, helm, and arm-rings gleamed in the morning’s thin light. It was a grey day and clouded, the land wet from recent rain and snow-melt, and the wind off the sea carried a damp, heavy chill … but spring had come.
Spring had come, as had the summons.
The king’s messenger went by ship around the headlands and along the coast, bringing word wherever allies could be found. But there were not ships enough to carry them all with their war-gear and horses. Kjarstan had sent Udr and Anbjorn, two of his own best warriors, back with the messenger as proof in good faith of his oath and intent; the others, almost sixty strong, would meet them again in a matter of days.
And then they would put an end to the armies of Gunnleif Guthnarsson. Gunnleif the outlaw, the traitor, the oath-breaker and kin-slayer.
“What say you?” Kjarstan asked his men now. “Are you rested and ready? Do your swords thirst and your axes hunger?”
Many throats as one bellowed back their affirmation.
“Will you see our foes flee before us, and fall to our fury?”
Again, they bellowed, and louder — so loud the skies shook.
“For Earl Kjarstan! Kjarstan and the king!”
“The king!”
“King Jorfyn!”
“For Thor, Tyr and Odin!”
“Death, death to Gunnleif and his craven piss-dogs!”
Yes, they were eager, they were rested and ready, and they would ride!
“We will have victory!” Kjarstan told them. “Victory and rich reward! Let us fatten our purses on Gunnleif’s stolen silver! Let us earn generous gifts, our king’s gratitude in gold! We’ll drape our women in amber and jet, and bring jeweled trinkets as toys for our children!”
Further back, where hovels and thatch-houses huddled around a log-timbered hall, the surviving villagers looked on with dull, beaten eyes. They would be hungry in the weeks to come; Kjarstan and his men had feasted well from their larders, drained dry their ale-barrels, and depleted their stores.
But such was their lot. They were farmers and swineherds, not warriors. Those who’d fought back had been slain. These remaining could count themselves lucky enough. They still had their lives, their homes were un-burned, and some even had their families intact.
If, of course, a few young widows and daughters would not be staying, preferring to follow those whose furs and fleeces they’d warmed through the cold nights…
If, perhaps, a promising youth or two had decided to forsake farm and field in hopes of proving his worth alongside the men from the north…
Well, such it was and so it would be.
“And,” Kjarstan said, slowly drawing his blade from its scabbard with a scraping hiss of metal, “we will make name for ourselves!”
His men roared their approval.
“Make name by action and deed, such that the skalds will long sing of us and see us never forgotten! To honor our fathers and theirs before them; to leave lasting legacy of pride for our sons and their sons and their sons’ sons after!” He swept his sword in a shining arc.
“Kjarstan! Kjarstan!”
“To battle and slaughter and glory!”
“We ride, my war-brothers…” He tugged on the reins so his horse reared up high, fore-hooves lashing the air. Then he kicked his heels into the beast’s side and set off at a gallop. “We ride!”
On groaning hinges, the door opened. Its draft flickered the candlelight and stirred dark wisps of hair escaped from the long plait hanging over Hreyth’s mail-clad shoulder.
She glanced up from the table, where was spread a wolf’s pelt with rune-marked bones scattered upon it. They were old, those bones. Time-worn and hand-worn, ivoried with age, shaped and polished. The runes set into them were blood-red, soot-black, and gold.
Egil stood in the doorway, his wide shape filling it. He was not a tall man, nor fat, but big just the same. Slab-thick with muscle, barrel-chested, brawny and strong. His leather coat seemed ever to strain at the seams.
“It’s happened,” he said. His voice was like that of millstones taught to speak — grinding and gritty, crushing the grains of thought into the flour of words.
Dread moved in her heart. Dread, but no surprise. “Where?”
“Along the high-hill river valley between Pedham and Langenvik.”
Her fingers brushed through silver-soft fur as she swept up a handful of rune-bones and poured them, with brittle clicks and clatters, into their bag. The bag she tied at her belt, which held also a sheathed seax — her short but sharp stabbing blade.
“How many?” she asked.
“Fifty.”
“Fifty?” At that, surprise did come, flavoring the dread, enhancing it the way salt enhanced the taste of a broth.
“At least.”
Hreyth touched the ash-wood amulet of Yggdrasil, the World-Tree, hanging around her neck on a cord.
Fifty at least.
She looked at Egil, the craggy outcrop of his nose, the knotted jut of his jaw, the broken expanse of his brow. His skull was bald, scar-gnarled, and misshapen. When he gave over to his battle-rage, there was no warrior more ferocious and feared, and his sword Life-Breaker had sent many men to the corpse-halls.
But his eyes, meeting hers, shared her unease.
“We must be quick,” she said, and reached for her cloak.
Kjarstan’s boldness and boasting, his promises of war-plunder and wealth as they brought death to their enemies, had carried them well through the first days of their ride. They talked and laughed, joked and sang. Every man of them, they knew, would win glory and fame.
Too long had they sat idle, wintering in their seized hall, feasting and fucking and throwing dice. Too long since they’d felt the crisp wind on their faces, heard the ring of steel and the clash of shield-walls. Too long since they’d slashed and stabbed, hewn and hacked, heard the screams of their enemies, smelled the blood-stink and shit-stink of gutted entrails.
Oh, there was joy in it — joy in war, joy in slaughter and carnage. A joy and a passion and a fire like nothing else. Whatever delights a man might take from riches, from meat and mead, or in the arms of a woman… only when he confronted death could he truly be most alive.
And if he should be struck down? If he should be pierced by sword-blades or spear-points, cut by axes, fall and be killed? A man could hope for no better end! Who would wish to die old and infirm, weak and feeble? To die of sickness, or drowning, or foolish mishap? A man must die well to earn his place at Odin’s table!
Away from the sea, into the high country, they rode. The coastline fell away behind them. Creeks tumbled down rocky clefts. Vales lay open, bleak and muddy, but beginning to green. Twigs budded. New grass grew. Snow lingered in the lee-shadows of ridges, dirty ice-patches un-reached by the sun. Now and then, hares scampered or a scrawny deer stepped. Once, they glimpsed a bear, lean and hungry, but not so hungry as to dare menace men and horses.
They made camp by night, building fires, setting watches, sleeping bundled in blankets and cloaks. Jugs of sour barley-beer they’d brought with them, bread and hard cheese, smoked fish. To those who’d come from Pedham, the few youths and women never before gone far from home, it was both a frightening and exciting adventure.