CHAPTER NINE

Lord Haldan rode back from the orchards enjoying the shades of autumn. Behind him, the hall-folk were gathering in the apple crop that should see them through to spring. The old oak trees standing outside the gate were a blaze of fire. On the hill, the beech wood shone golden in the sun.

Autumn’s fading beauty.

Many leaves had fallen. Winter’s bitter breath would soon be on them.

More than three months had passed since their return. The dead brought home were long dispatched on floating pyres, out onto the Western Ocean. With those left behind, they numbered four dozen. Many of his best.

Blood cannot go unanswered. Every lord knew it. But sometimes the answer seemed a futile cry against the wind.

Yet the line of Vendal the Grey lived on. His blood had flowed through the lords of this land for twelve generations. Haldan would see it last another twelve. Duty bound him to his fathers, as it did to his son and his sons after him. Duty binds

blood and land together. His folk served him; he served them. The land carried them all, fates interwoven, stretching into the mists of What Will Be.

He recognized Old Rapp the smith hurrying along the track at a stumble.

‘Lord Haldan,’ he wheezed. ‘We’ve ’ad a noble rider come.’

‘Who?’

‘None less ’n Karsten, lord of the Karlung lands.’

Haldan grunted. Karsten. The Dark Stone. Though most called him the Whisperer. He was distant kin, but that wasn’t reason to ride so far from his seat at Karlsted. Haldan hadn’t thought of him since that trouble with his son at the Feast of Oaths.

He found his kinsman in his chamber, sitting in his chair, feet on his table, drinking his mead. No less than I expected. The Karlung lords were earls, sworn to the headman of the Middle Jute clans, but had risen no higher, though many had figured they ought to. Karsten more than most.

Haldan had hardly entered than his guest was on his feet, lithe as an old cat.

‘Greetings, cousin,’ he said, clapping his shoulder. His cheerful manner made odd company with his whispering voice. ‘You look about as happy as a corpse.’ Karsten laughed, his one dark eye sparkling. The other showed nothing – milk white and dead.

Haldan gave a grudging snort. Karsten wasn’t the first to see something cold in his face. ‘Welcome, kinsman. Sit. Drink.’

Karsten nodded his thanks, resuming his seat, although refraining from swinging his long legs back on the table. Haldan stood six feet tall, but Karsten had some inches on him, and stood straight as a spear. Impressive for a man of fifty winters. He had been handsome once. Some might say he still was, but for his skew nose and leathery jowls running to fat, and the mottled scar in his neck. It was rumoured the arrow tip that had reduced his voice to a breathy whisper was still lodged there.

Haldan wasn’t one to spin out pleasantries. After pouring another drink, he asked why he was here.

‘You could say it’s to our mutual profit. I wouldn’t bother riding up here if it wasn’t.’

‘I’m listening.’ There was rarely anything mutual about any proposition of Karsten’s.

He smiled, sardonically. ‘I’m having a little trouble with my son.’

‘Don’t we all? Now and then.’ Haldan remembered Karsten’s son from the Feast of Oaths. A good-looking lad. Tall, like his father. Arrogant. Like his father. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘He’s sick.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’ No man wanted a sickly heir, though he didn’t see why it should concern him.

‘It’s no worse than what most men have suffered.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Love.’ Karsten raised his cup. ‘Here’s to it. We’ve all known it. Even you.’

Haldan snorted. ‘Long ago.’ Love and he had been strangers for many years.

‘Not so long you’ve forgotten how it goes. My son is sick as a goat for your brother’s girl. Inga – isn’t that her?’

The name took him by surprise, but immediately he knew he should have seen it coming. Should have guessed it the moment he’d heard Karsten’s name. Inga. This was a game he’d known must come one day, yet here he was, wrong-footed. Unprepared. ‘She’s too young to think of marriage.’

‘My friend, I understand – I do.’ Karsten leaned back, running fingers through his sandy hair. ‘I told my son the same. Told him that would be your answer, but he wouldn’t listen. No surprise, there. I remember what it’s like to feel that burn. The passion soon cools once you dip your beak in other pails.’ He gave a conspiratorial wink of his good eye. The dead gaze of the other was disconcerting. ‘“Go, drink your fill,” I said. “Come back in a couple of months and tell me how you feel about this girl then.”’

‘And here you are.’

‘Here I am.’

Haldan remembered the fight at the Feast of Oaths. It hardly boded for a propitious bond between their families. ‘All this from one encounter?’

‘One?’ Karsten looked confused. ‘Two – so far as I know. He was so taken with her he rode straight back here after your son’s feast. I believe you were off fighting.’

Did he just? The gall rose in Haldan’s throat. He didn’t like surprises. Least of all from a man like the Whisperer. His ignorance must have been plain to see.

‘This was news to you?’ Karsten rapped the table with amusement. ‘You see! Young love must have its secrets.’

‘Young love and old power – they have secrets both. Some might call them lies.’

‘That’s a little hard-hearted, cousin.’ Karsten turned out his hands. ‘So you see, I’ve come a-begging. Begging you to save me from my lovesick son. I swear I’ll go mad if I have to listen to his bleatings all winter.’ His shoulders shook with breathy laughter. But when Haldan didn’t laugh with him, he added, ‘You do understand me?’

‘It would be simpler if you spoke plain.’

‘As you wish, kinsman. I ask for your niece’s hand for my son. Consider this a formal offer.’

There it was. Haldan nodded stiffly. ‘Come – let’s drink.’ He stood and held out his cup.

‘Gladly,’ returned Karsten, rising with him.

‘To the blood we share.’

‘To the blood.’ The cups clattered and they drained them.

‘You honour me to ask this. I know you don’t ask lightly. But I must refuse you.’

Karsten nodded, wiping delicately at his lips. ‘I honour you, yet you dishonour me, is that it?’ His mouth screwed into a smile, but his dark eye glinted, hard and mirthless. ‘The girl may be too young now, but that is hardly a reason. She will be of age soon, as I understand—’

‘My answer now is no.’ Haldan heard the edge in his own voice. Sharper than was wise. A man’s honour was bruised easier than an apple in this kind of business. ‘If your lad is so moonstruck, let’s see if his passion outlasts the winter. Meantime, I shall speak with her.’

Of that, dear Inga may be certain.

‘Listen, Lord Haldan.’ Karsten weighed heavy on the word.

As you should. Karsten was an earl, who answered to his overlord. Haldan answered to no man.

‘I know you’re a man who won’t be swayed once he’s picked his course. But perhaps you’d take a word from an elder kinsman. I don’t say wiser, but one you can trust.’

Haldan trusted no one. It mattered little whether he was kinsman or foe.

‘It’s better to agree to this now,’ Karsten went on. ‘The match would serve both our families. A union between Karlung and Vendling blood would bring you power. And. . .’ He barely concealed a smirk. ‘Power, you certainly need.’

‘The Vendlings have power enough.’

‘Is it so? Tell me, kinsman – who are allies to the Northern Jutes?’

‘A people’s power doesn’t rest on its allies. I could call on a thousand spears if it came to that.’

‘As many as a thousand?’ Karsten’s eyebrow rose in feigned admiration. ‘And all of them bog-farmers and rabbit-skinners. Truly, a fearsome host.’

‘The Amundings found us fearsome enough.’

Karsten snorted. ‘A heap of corpses was your father’s legacy. Don’t be as blind as he was. You need friends of steel.’

‘My father left the world bloodier than he found it, true. But men followed him. That’s legacy enough for me.’

‘Your father had a talent for making enemies at every turn, that much I grant you. Difficult to keep faith with a man who so loved the stench of death.’

‘It was his allies who broke faith.’ Haldan felt his temper fraying. He’d been a young man then, not much older than Hakan, but he still remembered the taste of bile when they realized Koldir, son of Kelling, had betrayed them. Never trust a Dane. Koldir had promised them twelve warships, and sent them two. Rotten skiffs filled with rotten men – all of them spears that fell cheaply. The Vendlings could have finished the war that day, could have ended the feud with the Amundings once and for all, if Koldir had but kept his word. Instead, there was a deal more blood before the killing was done. ‘My father never forgave the Danes their betrayal. Afterwards, we never doubted it was best to stand alone.’

‘You had little choice.’

‘You had a choice though,’ returned Haldan. ‘You Jutes of the Middle Lands have plenty of kin among my people. But I don’t recall one of you raising so much as a fart to help your kinsmen.’

‘You do me wrong, cousin. I tried to persuade Lord Arve to raise our spears. But he said he wouldn’t help a folk who’d broken faith with King Harald Wartooth.’

‘Piss on the Wartooth! Piss on the rest of you – whipping boys to that old boar.’ Haldan slugged back his mead, and poured himself another. ‘Baah,’ he growled. ‘It’s all past now. The web is woven. One thing my father did right: he freed us from any overlord.’

‘And how long will that last?’ For once, the sardonic expression was gone, and Karsten’s jowls were flushed with sincerity. ‘Listen, cousin. I stood before King Harald’s high seat at Leithra, not one month ago. Listened to him railing about the Skaw, that it should be his. Heard him spit poison about you pitiful Northern Jutes.’

‘Harald speaks of us?’

Fifteen years, Haldan had been lord of the Northern Jutes, subordinate to no other. He had long since stopped fearing King Harald Wartooth, the Danish overlord, would come to force fealty on him once more. Was that time coming to an end? Blood will run in the furrows. The vala’s words boded ill. ‘We’re no enemies of his. Neither are we allies, nor vassals. We’re nothing to him. If ever we have need to raid again, it won’t be Danish lands or Danish harbours. How do you think we have managed this long? When the wolf sleeps in his lair, only a fool goes in to wake him.’

‘If you’re not his vassal, then by his reckoning, you are his enemy,’ urged Karsten. ‘I know you’re not as blind as your father. You can’t sit up here with your head in the sand.’ His dark eye flared. ‘The world is coming to you, cousin! Don’t you see that? Maybe not this year, maybe not next. But it’s coming

– like it or not.’

Haldan’s wintry eyes were staring right through his kinsman, already far away, lost in slaughter.

Was there always more?

‘Let them come. We will fight. Fight like a bull-bear raised from Hel, if we must.’

‘Now you sound like your father. He was always too quick to fight. Look where that got him.’

Haldan scowled. ‘What would you do?’

‘Why fight when you can get what you want by talk?’

‘You mean like you? With a honeyed tongue in every lord’s ear?’

‘I’d have it in every lord’s arse if it would get what I want.’

Haldan laughed. ‘Shouldn’t an earl have more honour?’

‘Don’t speak to me of honour, cousin.’ He tapped beside his dead eye. ‘I’ve seen enough of blood and honour and oaths and all the rest. They got me no closer to what I want.’

‘What do you want?’

He held up his palms and smiled. ‘I have five sons. I want silver, and I want land.’

‘You think I can bring you those?’

He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me. Listen. You cause the Wartooth no trouble – so you say. But you could.’

‘Go on.’

‘His gold chests grow heavy from the trade up and down the East Sea and through the Juten Belt. If you wanted to, how much do you think you could disrupt that?’

‘We don’t want to. I give them no cause for quarrel.’

‘Maybe. Now. But if you don’t, another could. Your son. Or his. The Danes have overlooked you till now, but they will come for your lands one day. I’d wager my head on it. Sooner or later, the Skaw must come under oath to the Danish Mark.’

‘Never in my lifetime. I swore it.’ That was a black night. And a black oath. The rain had whipped their faces as they fled the shores of Raumarika, his father’s blood dripping dark from his fingers, leaking from the wound Arnalf Crow-King cut in his chest. That was when his father had cursed Koldir to the blackest chasms of Hel, had sworn not another grain, not a ring of gold, not a sliver of silver would ever go to King Harald’s hall again. He swore enmity with the Danes, and made him do the same. ‘It was the last thing I ever promised my father. I can never kneel, even if they do come.’

‘And what if they do?’

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me.’

‘Friendship with the Karlungs cannot harm you. Indeed, it could do you much good. I have the ear of Lord Arve. Add to this that Harald favours me even over his Danish earls. I am sworn to him, but a war between the Jutes of the North and the Danes gains me nothing. The Karlungs could prove your surety against the Danes.’

‘Our surety? You mean you would stand with us against the Danes?’

Karsten gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘It need never come to that, kinsman. But I would put the full weight of my words at your back.’

Haldan considered this. The weight of Karsten’s words. What good are they?

‘If war were to come,’ Karsten went on, ‘how do you think your thousand spears would fare against the Wartooth’s ten thousand?’

Haldan’s jaw tightened. It was a grim thought.

‘Fight him and you condemn your people. Where will the blood of Vendal the Grey be then?’ He snorted. ‘Nothing more than a stain in the dirt.’

Haldan peered into his kinsman’s cold, dead eye. ‘And friendship with you would stop that?’

‘Listen, oath or not, one day you may have to kneel.’ Haldan could almost hear his father’s growl of protest. ‘But better you’ve a friend who can persuade Harald kneeling is enough. Without that, he’s like to take your head, together with your son’s, and grind his boot on the neck of your people till they choke.’

Must it come to this? There was truth in Karsten’s whisperings. How long would the world leave his lands in peace? Raiders would come – those choosing the Viking way. Vikings would always come. But a king? A forger of realms? A greater lord to make him kneel? Sometimes steel and shield were not enough to throw back the grasping hands of greedy men.

‘And the price of your friendship is Inga.’

Karsten threw back his head and laughed. ‘For my son to stop his moaning – aye, that means a good deal to me. For that, I would offer friendship.’

‘Inga is beautiful,’ Haldan mused. Worthy of a lord. Worthy even of a king. Yet, with Inga, it was never simple. He was very fond of her. . . more than fond of her, but. . . No – no good would come from dwelling on that. ‘I owe it to my brother to make the best match I can.’

‘Your ward has her charms, I’ll grant you. But when all’s said, she is nothing but the daughter of a dead younger brother. She brings no lands.’

Haldan smiled to himself. The Whisperer was bargaining now, and he was crafty as a Wendish fishmonger when it came to striking a deal. ‘Why so easily swayed by your son’s whining then? What do you really want?’

‘Something of value to us both. Vindhaven.’

It was Haldan’s turn to laugh. ‘Vindhaven! Friend, Vindhaven is destroyed. Surely word reached you? We burned forty good men avenging the blood those Vikings shed.’

‘We heard.’ Karsten sniffed. ‘May the Spear-God be grateful for the gift.’ Instinctively, his hand went to his dead eye at mention of the god. ‘Vindhaven may be destroyed, but it can be rebuilt.’

‘Its people were slaughtered to the last child. The harbour is burned. Only ashes and blood remain. If it can be rebuilt, work certainly won’t begin till spring.’

Karsten leaned closer. So close Haldan could smell the mead on his breath. ‘And what if I offer to seal my son’s pledge to your ward with timber and turf enough to rebuild it all, and the men to do it? Now. Quickly. Before the first snows.’

‘Why would you do that? Vindhaven isn’t on Karlung lands.’

‘Maybe not. But it lies not far to our north.’ His dark eye shone. ‘Think on it. A restored market harbour could bring you much prosperity. Great wealth even. Vindhaven could become a name to rival Rerik. Or even great Riba in the south.’

Haldan stroked the knotted remains of his ear.

Vindhaven was certainly a wreck. Its destruction had weighed heavy on his mind, he had to admit. They needed a market harbour. Without it, there might be trade along the long, empty strands skirting his realm, but it would be scattered, haphazard. Without it, it would be a hard winter on meagre provisions. They would cope – they always did – but come the spring, it would take time to rebuild Vindhaven. Time his folk could ill afford when they should be sowing their crops and looking to their flocks. And time before the traders came back.

What if they rebuilt it now – and bigger than it was – in time for the first trading in the spring? What if it flourished? His folk would prosper, might even grow rich, and a rich folk was secure. A rich folk could raise more spears to keep their lands safe. Safe even from King Harald if he ever came. The Vendling blood would be stronger.

And when I’m gone, Hakan will be secure.

‘This is your bride price?’

‘If it’s agreeable to you.’

‘What would you have in return?’

‘Half the market rights.’

‘Half?’ exclaimed Haldan. Why was he surprised?

‘A small return,’ smiled Karsten. ‘Given the investment we would be making.’

‘Your memory must be failing, kinsman. Did you forget this isn’t your land? And you expect half the market revenues?’

‘Half seems fair. Vindhaven is not ours, but it lies not far from our lands. A word from me, and every skinner, every smith, every craftsman in Middle Jutland would bring their wares to your markets. That’s a lot of trade.’

Haldan pulled at his beard, considering. ‘A place that prosperous would have to be well defended. I would have to provide the men.’

‘Come – these are details. I offer you friendship against the Wartooth, a new market harbour that will make what stood there before seem a piss-sodden pig pen, and the goods to fill it.’ He snorted. ‘Take your head out of your sandhill, cousin! It’s only fair the Karlungs have something worth our while in return. And all this sealed by a marriage bond. Your brother’s beautiful daughter, and my son and heir.’ He suddenly laughed. ‘Why, I would even be in your debt for shutting up Konur’s whining.’

All this, and yet a shadow of doubt remained in Haldan’s heart. That scrap between their sons at the Feast of Oaths. To others, it might have been nothing but a drunken brawl, but he’d seen something else in it. Seeds of hatred. Who knew how those seeds would grow? Hakan must have the best chance I can give him. He would have battles enough without a feud brewing with the Karlung blood. Inga would grow into a woman of calm counsel, he was sure. She could be the ice to cool the heat between their sons. It were better she were there.

‘Settle for a third. And I will provide half the men to build.’

Karsten’s good eye flitted between his own. ‘So it is,’ he nodded at last. Then chuckled. ‘For a third, it’s you who should be asking for a daughter of mine, if only I had one to give. Ha! A third then – and Karlung and Vendling will be joined together by new blood.’

‘And one thing more.’ Haldan fixed his gaze on Karsten’s dead eye.

‘Well?’

‘If the Wartooth ever makes war on us, you forsake your oath to him and stand with your kin.’

For a long time, Karsten didn’t answer. But at last, he seemed to make up his mind, and held out his hand.

Haldan took it.

And the match was made.

The place was a mess.

A row of pits, half-filled with foetid water and charred stumps – the wreckage of the dwellings that had stood there before.

Vindhaven. . . what was left of it.

The smell of embers lingered, together with the tang of rotten flesh. In front of the wreckage of the meet-hall was a circle of rain-soaked ashes. The fire had blazed high that day. Hakan remembered the stench of burning bodies, drifting on the wind to where he lay hidden. Drizzle settled on the bristles of his beard. He kicked at a potsherd in the mud.

‘A fine fucking shithole they left this place,’ said Dag to no one in particular, sifting through the blackened remains of a smithy with the butt of his spear. Something caught his eye. He bent and picked it up, turning it over. After a moment, he flung it away.

‘Bloody magpies. They haven’t left much. Won’t be nothing worth a toss in all this mess.’

‘What do you expect?’ Hakan answered. ‘It’s three months since this was done.’ Though it felt like a lifetime. Burned, flattened, finished. But that hadn’t stopped the mud-folk living along the Sound from salvaging anything useful that the raiders had left behind. Down to the last rivet. They were welcome to it. They were alive.

The raiders were dead.

‘Those boys knew their business, all right.’ Dag had done his share of raiding down the years, so he should know. The other men were wandering among the burned-out dwellings clustered along the Sound’s northern shore. Dag leaned on his spear, eyeing the ruins of the gangway collapsed in the water. He snorted and spat a gobbet of phlegm in a well-practised arc. It landed on a patch of ground, stained darker than the rest.

Hakan recalled the line of villagers kneeling just there; the noise of the blade carrying with the stench. Schuck. . .

‘This is going to be one bastard job,’ sighed Gunnrek, a burly bondsman from south of Vendlagard, with a beard so thick up his cheeks Hakan mused whether an ancestor had rutted a she-bear.

‘My father said the Karlungs will send men to help. It’s all agreed.’

‘Well, if we’re here and they ain’t, that makes us the dopes.’ Dag scratched at a scab on the back of his neck. ‘Better save ’em some shit to do.’

Hakan reckoned they would be along soon enough. The way his father told it, he wanted a close eye on the Karlung men; on everything they did and wanted to know. Apart from that, he hadn’t told Hakan much – that they were rebuilding Vindhaven; that he’d accepted an offer from Karsten to partner them in the work; that he should get there at once. His father wanted as much done as possible before the snows came. When Hakan had asked what was the Karlungs’ upside, his father just glowered. A thriving Vindhaven would profit both their clans, he said. They both wanted it done fast, and they had reached an agreement. That was all he needed to know, and he had better bury any trouble with the Karlung lad. When he’d opened his mouth to protest, his father lost his temper. There was no talking to him then.

Still, reluctantly, Hakan had promised to bury his grievances. There were more important things at stake, Haldan said, with that solemn look of his. ‘I’m trusting you, son. This could do our folk great good.’

Thus, cleaning up this wreckage was the task of a lord. Funny how it feels more like scrabbling around in a mire of shit. . . Maybe that’s often the way.

His father had given him half a dozen men. The first day was miserable. They worked all day under a leaden sky. By nightfall, the place looked as bad as ever. After the second day, at least he could see a difference. They burned the remains of the bodies first, then threw on the debris after them, putting aside any wood worth salvaging.

The jetty was foul work: up to their waists in slime, hefting out broken shivers of half-burned timber onto shore, while a sharp easterly spat rain in their eyes and chilled their bodies to the bone. When night fell, they used what they could of the shelter that had survived, sleeping round a fire under sheepskins.

By the fourth day, Hakan could at least hope that if the snows didn’t come early, they might soon start planning how to rebuild the place. His father had said it was to be the greatest market harbour in all the East Sea; looking at the bereft shoreline, that was hard to imagine.

Well after noon, the sun had wormed through the clouds, scattering shards of light onto the dreary waters of Odd’s Sound.

He left off dragging a length of wattle towards the pile of salvaged wood and called to Dag, ‘Two days and we’ll have broken the back of this.’

‘Maybe,’ Dag grumbled. ‘No thanks to those Karlung whoresons.’

‘They might have to feel the prick of your knife, Dag,’ said Aldi, a younger lad, fond of stirring. ‘If they do ever come. . .’

‘Baaah!’ Dag growled back. ‘They should send some women up here instead. Happy to give them a feel of a prick, all right.’

There were a few chuckles. Gunnrek came up, flung a slab of turf into the fire. ‘You can ask ’em yourself,’ he said, jutting his chin off west.

The others turned and saw a horse trotting along the path, its rider joggling on top.

‘One man?’ hissed Dag. ‘What fucking use is that?’

The rider wore a long hooded cloak, face in shadow. But Hakan knew him at a glance. ‘Earl Karsten’s son.’ Aye – one man. And the last man in the Nine Worlds he wanted to see.

He snorted, remembering his promise to his father, and called up a cheery greeting.

Wouldn’t he be proud?

‘Good day, Hakan,’ answered Konur, pushing back his hood. He looked down at the other men’s sweat-stained faces, warily. After all, he was one. Hakan had six, and Dag’s glowering eyes were like to throw any man off his stride.

‘Old Karsten’s got giant’s blood, has he?’ said Dag.

‘Eh?’

‘You’d have to be one strong sod, tha’s all.’

‘Why’s that?’ replied Konur, puzzled.

‘Why else would your father send one man to do the work of a dozen?’

Konur grunted without mirth. ‘You seem to like a jape. For a miserable-looking bastard.’

‘Believe me.’ Dag’s hand coiled around the haft of his knife. ‘You don’t want to find out what makes me look happy.’

True enough, thought Hakan. ‘One more man isn’t much use to us.’

‘My father’s mustering a gang. They’re waiting for a man he reckons the best builder in his lands. He sent me ahead to get the lie of the place. Or leastways, to make a start of it.’

‘We already made a start, case you hadn’t noticed,’ said Dag.

‘Well, he’s here now.’ Hakan offered up his hand. ‘Alone or not – you’re welcome.’ They shook, neither smiling. ‘We’ll put your horse with the others.’

Konur slid down. Hakan collected his cloak and beckoned Konur to follow, while the others went back to work.

‘Been here before?’

‘A while ago now,’ Konur nodded. ‘Looked a lot different back then.’

Hakan gave him a sideways glance and saw he was making a joke. ‘The folk who lived here probably would have thought so too. Only there aren’t none of them left to say so.’

‘Aye – a bad business. Still, the way my old man talks, it could soon be back to how it was. Better even.’

Better? Tell that to the women lashed to that mast. Small comfort for them.

After tethering Konur’s horse with the others, Hakan offered him something to eat. But Konur said he’d rather take a look around.

‘Best place to start is up there.’ Hakan pointed to the shallow ridge to the north of them.

It didn’t take them long to get up there. The ridge was hardly a fine lookout, but at least they stood high enough to survey what was left of the little settlement.

Odd’s Sound snaked east, widening out to the open sea, its shores bounded by reed beds. Except on the north side, a distance beyond the settlement, was a shallow sweep of dirty sand. Ideal for unloading goods from trade ships, fishing boats, skiffs. . . craft of all sizes and shapes from around the East Sea and beyond.

Naturally, the little harbour of Vindhaven had grown up close by. For generations it had sat there, happy enough. Until it turned out the beach was just as good for a ship of war, Hakan told Konur. Probably they landed pretending to be traders. Or slipped ashore under cover of night. Whichever, the scattering of corpses suggested the tradesfolk had been taken by surprise.

Hakan described where everything had been before. The forges, the smithy stalls; barns for drying skins and furs, barns for grain and hay; spinner stalls, tanning vats, butchers’ slabs; cookhouses, a brewery, and small dwellings dotted at the western end of the settlement, each hardly more than a hovel sunk into the earth. Amid all these had stood the meet-hall, where feasts would roar, and visiting traders could find a roof for a night.

Konur snorted. ‘Look at it now.’ Blackened stumps, refuse pits, timber, charred and splintered. Spaces empty as eye sockets in a skull. ‘What happened?’ Hakan told him all he’d seen.

They sat there a while. Konur wanted to know how the story went on: of the pursuit and the battle on that northern fell. He listened, and afterwards he too told of his experiences in ‘Skogul’s Storm’, as he called it. Bloody combat – skirmishes, raids. For once, he just told it how it was, best as he could remember. Hakan found himself interested, almost forgetting the hatred he’d nursed for Konur since the summer. Since their childhood, come to that. Forgotten the sharp stab of jealousy as he’d watched Konur lead Inga out of the hall.

The hour was late. Twilight shadows were falling. The others would be finishing up. They strolled back down the slope.

Suddenly, Konur laughed. ‘You know, I’d pegged you for a mule-headed arse. I was sure we’d be enemies, you and I, and there was nothing doing. But. . . you’re all right.’

Hakan grunted. ‘Could be, you are too.’ They twitched a grin at one another. Would you look at us? My father will throw a bloody feast.

‘Makes me almost glad we’re to be close kin.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘What do you think?’ exclaimed Konur, suddenly beaming. ‘My betrothal, of course! To your cousin.’

Bile suddenly soured Hakan’s throat. ‘My cousin? You mean Inga?’

‘Of course to Inga! Don’t know any other cousins of yours I’d care to marry.’

Hakan could only gape, incredulous.

Konur wasn’t blind. ‘By the fires!’ he crowed. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’

Hakan shook his head, dumb as an ox.

Konur laughed, long and loud. ‘This is too good! The son of the great Lord Haldan, and he hasn’t told you he plans to marry off his ward.’

A thousand thoughts burst like a storm in Hakan’s head. ‘H-how?’ he stammered.

‘It’s all arranged, friend. What do you think all this is for?’ He swept a hand over the burned-out dwellings below them. ‘Our fathers agreed on it. Mine brought my offer to yours – this was the price they settled on. Did Haldan really not tell you?’

Hakan stared stupidly about him at the pathetic piles of refuse, the broken timber, the stinking puddles. His father couldn’t have traded the most precious creature in all the Nine Worlds for this. And to this son of a whore!

‘No,’ he growled, anger swelling in him. ‘No!’

‘No?’ repeated Konur, his grin faltering for a moment.

‘She. Detests. You.’

‘Paah! Didn’t seem that way when I visited her.’

‘What visit?’

‘She didn’t tell you that either?’ crowed Konur even louder. ‘Seems there’s a heap of secrets up there at Vendlagard.’

Hakan shook his head, heat searing his blood.

Konur gave a curling sneer. ‘I’m guessing she didn’t tell you what we did, while you were taking care of your fearsome raiders, hey?’ He winked, evidently enjoying himself. ‘Tasty little piece, Inga.’

‘You’re lying,’ Hakan snarled.

‘Am I? Why would I lie?’

‘Inga would never— not with you.’

‘Why not?’ he roared. ‘Still, I can’t say she didn’t need some persuading at first. But in my experience, most women enjoy a bit of a struggle. Excites ’em.’

‘What did you do to her?’

‘Come, you’re a man of the world. You don’t imagine I’m going to settle for one hive for the rest of my days if I haven’t tasted the honey, do you? Still, I don’t see what that’s to you.’

‘She’s my cousin.’ She’s my everything, fucker!

‘Your cousin? Hel, I couldn’t give a toss of Frey’s cock who stuck it in my cousins. You’re welcome to ’em.’

Hakan’s hand was quivering with rage.

Suddenly Konur’s face lit up, his mouth twisting into a spiteful grin. ‘Oh my! You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?’

Hakan felt his body stiffen. Suddenly their secret seemed plain as the day.

‘That’s it! Of course! That’s why you got so mad at your stupid feast. Well, don’t fret – she was quite enjoying it by the end. Nice to know your wife’s a good fuck before any vows are spoken.’ He made to tap his cheek, but Hakan knocked it away, grabbing his tunic.

‘I’ll fucking kill you before I see Inga married to you – you understand?’

‘Get off me,’ snarled Konur. ‘Your father’s already agreed. It’s sealed. There’s nothing you can do.’

Hakan’s hand was sliding under his cloak to the haft of his knife, hate burning in his belly. The blade was halfway drawn before Konur saw the danger; he snatched desperately for his hilt.

Suddenly, another voice spoke, sharp as iron. ‘Friendly little chat, is it?’ They stiffened and Dag appeared out of the gloom. In the twilight, the dog-faced killer looked made of shadows himself. Hakan felt a hand clamp over his knuckles, shoving the knife back in his belt.

Konur’s eyes darted, fear flickering wildly on his face.

‘You got some place else you need to be?’ said Dag.

Konur snorted, steel scraping back into its sheath. ‘I’ll leave you folk to your mud pies,’ he muttered, with a last resentful look.

Hakan watched Konur’s silhouette dissolve into shadow, fury still hammering in his head. They stood, wordless, listening. A short while later, they heard hoofbeats thudding away west.

‘Short visit,’ said Dag. ‘Anyone would think he didn’t like our hospitality.’

‘He’s a cunt.’

‘Yep – the world’s full of ’em, boy. You better get used to it.’ Dag slapped his shoulder. ‘Come on, I’m bloody starving.’