Hrolf lay on his front on the coarse, hardy grass. The flurry of snow that had started earlier was turning to a heavier fall that was beginning to lie. Beside Hrolf lay Bjorn, Thorfinn’s champion who had been in command of the expedition until Hrolf had caught up with his ship. Bjorn was a giant of a man with a scarred face, broken nose and shoulders like the beam of a ship. Hrolf could sense the anger and potential for violence emanating from the man and was glad he had him on his side, as well as the other fifty-five men from the crews of his father’s and his own ship. They all crouched behind him, down the slope that ran up from the Marker river. They were armed and ready for war, shields at the ready, helmets on, weapons drawn.
Hrolf cautiously poked he head above the top of the bank. He saw beyond it a flat stretch of land with a scatter of farm buildings clustered round a long, turf-roofed longhouse. From what the crazy old man had told him this must be Unn’s homestead. The hard-frozen river looped around the property and a track led away from it up towards a range of low hills beyond. A couple of thralls moved between the buildings.
This would be easy.
‘Bjorn, tell Grettir to take nine men and follow the river bank round to the far side of the farm,’ Hrolf said to the big champion. He kept his voice low in case any of the thralls overheard. ‘Make sure they’re not seen. When we attack from here they can stop anyone trying to escape from the back.’
Bjorn nodded and slid off down the bank to relay the orders. Crouched on all fours so as not to be seen from above the river bank he looked like some sort of grotesque, ungainly spider. Hrolf saw him whispering in the ear of Grettir, another of Jarl Thorfinn’s most trusted warriors. Grettir nodded, pointed at nine men around him and gestured that they should follow him. All ten of them slipped right down the bank onto the thick ice of the frozen river and began to track its path upstream.
Hrolf waited to give Grettir’s party enough time to follow the river round the property and ready themselves. There could be no mistakes this time. No one must escape the coming slaughter. They were only fighting one old woman and her servants but he would take no chances. He felt excitement at the chance of the coming action. There was no nervousness. The only thing he had to worry about was someone slipping up and the old woman escaping. The memory of his father’s angry gaze sent a little chill through his belly and he vowed that would not happen. Not this time.
Fighting Einar and Ulrich’s Wolf Coats would be a different matter, he knew, but he would still have the upper hand. Once the old woman was dead they would lay an ambush in her farm and he could not wait to see the look on Einar’s face as he walked into it. Then he, Hrolf would show him that he was his father’s true heir. He would slaughter his ridiculous half-brother. But that would be for another day. Today he would kill Einar’s mother and he could not wait.
Satisfied that more than enough time had elapsed to let Grettir and his men get into position, Hrolf eased his sword from its scabbard. He signalled to his men. As one they stood up.
It was time.