Valhalla
Ylva dragged Bron over to the wall and sat him beside the three-fingered man. She loosened Freki’s leash and gathered him in her arms before she collapsed beside Bron and stared into what was left of the fire.
The air grew steadily colder.
You were wrong about everything, Geri said.
Ylva didn’t look up to see him sitting in the shadow. She didn’t want to think about it, but what he said was true. She had been wrong about why Mother went into the trader’s hut, and she had been wrong about who had killed her. She had even been wrong about why the three-fingered man had been tracking her. And maybe – maybe – she had been wrong about Cathryn and Bron too. Had they really been planning to sell her, like the three-fingered man had said?
So much had happened, but nothing had changed. The man who murdered Mother and Geri was dead, but it didn’t make any difference to anything. Ylva didn’t feel better. Sadness and anger still flooded her veins, pumping through her body as if they were the only things keeping her alive. Tears threatened to well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks, but she bit them back and refused to let them come. There was a time for tears, Mother had told her, but this wasn’t the time.
‘You came a long way to find out the truth,’ the three-fingered man muttered. ‘And revenge is a heavy thing to carry with you. Dangerous too. It always turns around to bite you.’ He closed his eyes and laughed quietly. ‘You’re one tough little girl, but you came all this way for the wrong man.’
Ylva turned to look at him; at the arrow lodged under his ribs.
‘And I came all this way to be killed by a child.’ His throat rattled as he tried to laugh. ‘If I’d known, I would’ve just found some more slaves, gone back to my ship in Jorvik, and sailed away. Taken my chances with the winter seas. But I chased after the thieves, and the gods put an arrow in me. That’s revenge for you.’
‘I put it there, not the gods,’ Ylva said. ‘I could pull it out if you want.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s probably the only thing keeping me from bleeding to death.’
Beside Ylva, Bron slowly took his right hand from beneath the cloak. With effort, he spiralled his finger above his head, and ran the claw of his hand down his hair as if he was combing it.
‘I don’t understand,’ Ylva said.
Bron continued to make the hand-speak. He repeated the same movements but they were sluggish and painful.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ylva said. ‘I still don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.’
Bron took a deep breath. ‘Witch.’
‘Witch? You’re calling me . . . oh. You mean the Witch,’ Ylva said. ‘The one Cathryn told me about. She can help?’
Bron nodded.
‘Is she close?’
Bron held up one finger.
‘A day to get there?’
He nodded.
‘Do you know the way?’
He nodded again.
Ylva got to her feet and went to the door. She pulled it open and looked up at the sky, but the clouds were thick and she could see no moon or stars. It would be too difficult to travel – too dangerous. ‘We’ll set off at first light,’ she said. ‘I’ll build up the fire to keep us warm until then.’
‘You’ll save him, even though he wants to sell you?’ The three-fingered man watched her.
‘I don’t believe that,’ Ylva said.
‘You mean you don’t want to believe it. Anyway, the boy will need more than a fire to keep him alive.’
‘He’ll live,’ Ylva told him.
‘I’m not so sure. Shame. He’s worth a lot of silver.’
Ylva grabbed her axe and held it in her fist. She pointed it at the three-fingered man. ‘You might not have done what I thought you did, but I still don’t like you. You’re a slaver, and you were hunting my friends. If you make me angry, I might change my mind about killing you.’
‘You haven’t got it in you,’ he mumbled. ‘But I’ll probably be in Valhalla by morning anyway.’
‘I can only hope.’ Ylva replied.