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  Then, to Einar’s relief, they were under way again.

  The journey across the northern sea was both miserable and terrifying. Once in the open sea the ship ploughed up and down one huge wave after another. One moment it was tilted upwards to the point of capsizing backwards. The next it was pitching forwards to the point of her crew being ejected into the sea. Everyone except Ulrich vomited. Days passed as they sailed, driven by howling winds that filled the sail and lashed by rain that turned to sleet the further north they went. There was no sword practice now. Instead, Einar crouched on the deck like the others, hanging on to the sides for all he was worth, hoping to avoid a grim death. Sleep was near impossible, beyond the short bursts of exhausted unconsciousness that overcame all of them at some point, episodes that usually ended by the sleeper waking from a nightmare that the ship was sinking.

  All the while anxiety gnawed at Einar’s guts like he had swallowed a couple of live rats. Would the ship sink? Would they get back to Iceland in time to save his mother?

  Finally the weather calmed and the cold dawn light revealed a black shape, rising above the horizon.

  ‘Iceland,’ Ulrich said. ‘At least I hope it is. I’ve done my best to sail the right way through all that weather. At least the wind meant we’ve got here even faster.’

  Despite the cold and the wet, Einar felt a thrill of excitement. This could mean there was still time to save Unn.

  ‘Head for the south-west of the land,’ he said. ‘That’s where our farm is.’

  Ulrich steered the ship closer to the shore and before long they were tracking along the coastline, passing rocky, gorse-topped cliffs and beaches of both pebbles, shale and sometimes black sand. Einar grew more excited as they sailed, noting by the sight of familiar landmarks that they were drawing ever closer to his home.

  Finally the ship rounded a long headland that Einar recognised straight away.

  ‘Ness!’ he shouted its name with an enthusiasm that was met with surly looks by the Wolf Coats. He pointed at the cluster of low, turf-covered buildings that clustered on the top of the Ness. ‘That’s Egil’s farm. We’re nearly home.’

  His excitement was curbed all of a sudden as he remembered that Egil’s farm was near where he had met the travelling merchant, Thorkill Asmundarsson. The memory of Asmundarsson’s accusing gaze, locked on him as he fell to his death, rose before his mind’s eye. A stab of guilt ran through his chest. It seemed to him now like it had happened a hundred winters ago, yet it must have been not much more than a month.

  Then Einar saw the two ships beached beside the headland. One a large Viking warship and the other a sleek, fast snekkja like the one he and the Wolf Coats sailed in. Even at the distance they were away, Einar could make out the image of the Raven that fluttered on the banners of both ships.

  The Raven was Jarl Thorfinn’s standard.

  They were too late.

  Fifty-Two

  Einar was at the prow of the ship as it ground its way onto the shale of the beach. He leapt off into the shallows and began wading through the surf, his feet grinding on the tiny stones beneath. He was dressed for war; helmet, mail shirt and a round shield slung across his back. Behind him the ship ploughed itself to a halt, its dragon-carved prow rising high. The others began to follow him.

  Einar looked around. He sniffed the chill in the air and recognised the iron-cold tang of home. The other ships on the shore were deserted. There was no one on the beach or anywhere nearby. A couple of sheep looked askance at him from a coarse-grassed field a little way inland. The sky was grey as an old wolf and a few flutters of snow twisted in the wind.

  Movement caught his eye. A rider approached, a man trotting down from the headland on a little Icelandic pony. He was broad shouldered and wrapped up in a heavy woollen cloak. In one hand he carried a spear. Einar realised that home or not, he was an outlaw here. Anyone had the right to kill him if they so wished.

  Well, he thought, let them come and try. He would like to see Hrapp and Audun’s faces when they saw he was in the company of the fiercest band of killers to sail the northern seas.

  The rider got closer. The man pulled down his hood and Einar recognised the bald head and craggy brows of Egil, the farmer who owned the land at Ness. He was a strange old man who kept to his own business. He was still fit, even though he had lived past fifty winters. In his younger days he had been a Viking. In former years Einar’s mother had paid Egil to teach her son the basics of weapon fighting. Some people said Egil was a shape-shifter. Einar thought such stories nonsense, but even at that had always made sure he was off Egil’s land after dark.

  Egil stopped his horse a few paces away from Einar. He did not speak. Einar took off his helmet.

  ‘Egil?’ he said. ‘You know me, don’t you?’

  The farmer sat, impassive, on the horse.

  ‘Aye, I do,’ he said, after a few moments. ‘Last I saw you was when I watched you play Knattleikr on the ice at Midfjord not that long ago. You’re Unn’s son.’

  ‘I am,’ Einar said. ‘These ships—’

  ‘You let that chieftain’s son make a fool of you,’ Egil interrupted. ‘Lost your temper.’

  ‘I know, but this is important—’

  ‘Now you’re an outlaw,’ Egil went on regardless. ‘Outside the law. Any man in Iceland can kill you without fear of penalty. However I am not here for that reason, I am charged by Hrapp to keep guard on this part of the coast. To watch out for Vikings. And outlaws.’

  Einar looked at him for a moment, unsure how to read the expression on his face. Egil’s eyes were hard but there seemed to be a little smile playing on his lips. Behind him he was aware of Affreca and the Wolf Coats fanning out into a semicircle. They all wore mail, the Úlfhéðnar had their Wolf Cloaks on above it. Their shields and swords were at the ready. Affreca unslung her bow from her shoulder.

  Despite being outnumbered, Egil seemed unmoved.

  ‘These men are—’ Einar began.

  ‘Oh I know what they are,’ Egil said. ‘Úlfhéðnar. I knew men like them when I fought for kings in Norway. I saw the Rage take you that day on the ice, Einar.’ The older man gazed straight into Einar’s eyes with cold, grey eyes that had a faraway look in them. Einar felt a strange chill course down his spine. ‘It used to grip me too, back when I could still do deeds that grabbed the attention of the Gods. These men are Odin’s warriors. I’m glad you’ve found a company of wolves who share your nature. Make the most of it, lad. No one else understands the gifts of the Hanged God.’

  ‘You were an Úlfhéðinn, old man?’ Skar asked.

  ‘A berserker,’ Egil said with a little shake of his head. ‘When the Rage took me I could not control it. But that was long ago. This is today. What is your business here?’

  Einar pointed at the other two beached ships. ‘When did they arrive?’

  ‘Last night,’ Egil said. ‘I invited them to stay in my house. There’s a lot of them so I had to put some of them in the barn. A surly lot they were. Orkneymen and Dubliners. Not very talkative but then they had been on a long and hard voyage to get here. Why anyone would travel in winter is beyond me.’

  ‘They left no guard on their ships?’ Ulrich said.

  Egil poked himself in the chest with his left thumb. ‘You’re looking at him. Like I told them, what could possibly happen to them on a deserted beach in Iceland in winter? They paid me to keep watch while they went about their business.’

  ‘And what is that business?’ Einar said, his throat felt tight and his voice was strained.

  Egil shrugged. ‘They said it was with your mother, Unn. They asked the way to her farm.’

  ‘And you told them?’ Cold dread pooled in Einar’s stomach.

  ‘I did,’ the farmer said.

  Einar was starting to find his little smile irritating. He began marching away up the beach. He had no desire to waste any more time talking to the weird old man.

  ‘I told them to go by the Marker river,’ Egil said.
>
  Einar stopped. He spun around. Egil’s smile was broader now. Almost a grin. Einar found his own face breaking out into a similar expression.

  ‘You told them to go by the long way?’ he said.

  Egil nodded. ‘I thought our Goði should know about these visitors, so I sent a thrall to him first thing this morning, before the others left by the river path. I thought it might give Hrapp time to work out what he wants to do about them.’

  ‘You sly old troll!’ Einar laughed.

  ‘What’s got you in such a good mood all of a sudden?’ Affreca asked.

  ‘I know a much shorter route,’ Einar said. ‘We can still make it.’

  Fifty-Three

  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.

  Fifty-Four

  Einar came to a halt, thankful to be able to finally rest. Despite the cold air and the thickening snow he was sweating and gasping for breath. The Wolf Coats in comparison seemed hardly affected. It was some consolation to see that Affreca’s face was as red as his own and she was also panting. The pace they had jogged across country had been tremendous and all in full armour. Now they had emerged from the track on the little hillside above Einar’s mother’s farm, not far from the bank of the frozen river.

  Looking downhill, Einar felt a pang of nostalgia at the sight of his home, mixed with a deep sense of relief that the farm was still intact. They were not too late.

  Ulrich touched his arm. Einar turned to see the Wolf Coat had a finger to his lips. He signalled to the rest of the company and they all dropped to their bellies on the ground, seeking cover from whatever Ulrich had noticed.

  ‘What is it?’ hissed Skar.

  ‘There are warriors down in the river, where it loops round behind the farmhouse,’ Ulrich whispered. ‘About nine or ten of them.’

  ‘Waiting for us?’ Einar asked.

  Ulrich shook his head. ‘They’re crouching on the ice just downriver from that frozen waterfall, facing the house. They’re watching the house and have their backs to us.’

  ‘They must be part of the raiding party Thorfinn sent,’ Skar said. He shot a glance at Einar. ‘It seems we got here just in time.’

  ‘Two ships hold more than ten men,’ Ulrich said. ‘A lot more. The rest of them must be somewhere else nearby.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Einar asked Ulrich.

  ‘Do?’ the hushed but insistent voice of Atli came from behind his shoulder. ‘We are supposed to be here to warn the old woman then get out, remember? You’re not suggesting the eleven of us take on two whole shipfuls of Vikings, are you?’

  Before anyone could answer, a shout came from down the hillside. They all raised their heads and saw a man had appeared above the river bank on the far side of the farm. His helmet and mail gleamed through the falling snow. His round shield had the Raven of Orkney painted on it and he brandished his drawn sword above his head. His blue cloak swirled in the buffeting wind.

  ‘Hrolf,’ Einar said, recognising his half-brother even at that distance.

  Behind Hrolf a line of armed men also rose from the cover of the river bank. They let out a bloodcurdling roar and began to charge towards the farmhouse. A couple of startled farmhands, in the yard before the longhouse, dropped their burdens and turned to flee. At the same time the men in the river behind the house also stood up.

  ‘Follow me,’ Einar shouted.

  He jumped to his feet. Heedless of whether or not anyone actually did come after him, he sprinted down to the river though the falling snow and skidded down the bank to the edge of the frozen water. His shield slung across his back, a long-handled axe gripped in both hands, Einar ran for a few steps then jumped onto the ice. He wobbled slightly then got his balance and in a moment was sliding, half crouched, downstream towards the frozen waterfall and the warriors beyond it.

  The waterfall was a mere step in the riverbed, not much more than the height of a man’s chest, but it was enough that for a few moments Einar was airborne. When he hit the ice again he was going even faster.

  Despite his helmet the wind roared in his ears and his eyes watered. He was sliding far faster than he could run. If he lost his balance he knew even the chainmail and leather he wore might not save him from broken bones. It felt as though he was flying as fast as one of Affreca’s arrows and closed the distance between himself and the warriors downriver in moments.

  Three of the warriors had already scrambled up the bank to intercept the running thralls as Einar reached them. He did not even attempt to stop but instead swung his axe two handed as he shot past. The weapon whooped through the air with the sound of a swan flapping its wings. The intricately patterned long blade crashed crossways into the back of the tallest warrior’s head as he was starting to climb the bank. It sheared through the metal and the man’s skull, smashing out his back teeth so they shot out his mouth onto the thickening snow. Einar let go of the axe handle as the warrior dropped like a stone.

  Einar kept on sliding down the river but threw both feet sideways so he came to a c
urving stop out of striking distance of the remaining six warriors still on the ice. As they turned to face him he unslung the shield from his back and slotted his left arm into it. He drew his sword.

  The Wolf Coats and Affreca had not followed him down the ice. Instead they were running down the hillside at a less insane pace. He was going to have to deal with these men on his own for a time.

  The three who had gone to stop the fleeing thralls still had no idea what was going on behind their backs. That changed when Affreca stopped running, raised her bow and loosed an arrow. It streaked down the hill and struck one of the warriors dead centre in the back. The arrowhead shattered the rings of his mail shirt and plunged deep into the flesh beneath. With a cry he dropped to his knees then pitched forward onto his face. His two companions were still turning to see what the new threat was when Sigurd and Skar ran headlong into them, shields first, bowling them over. Both Wolf Coats, in practiced unison, stopped, placed one foot on either side of their victims, then finished them off with downward stabs of their swords.

  ‘Run,’ Skar growled at the startled thralls fleeing from the farm. He flicked his head in the direction of the hill. They did not need telling twice.

  On the frozen river the remaining six warriors fanned out into a semicircle, then began to advance on Einar. Two slipped and fell straight away. The others wobbled as they tried to steady themselves. Einar smiled. Unlike him, it was clearly a long time since their last game of Knattleikr. He powered forward, using long, sweeping strides, pushing his feet along the ice as he picked up speed. He was aiming at the man furthest right, who attempted to both steady his legs and prepare to defend himself at the same time. At the last moment Einar switched direction with ease, pushing off his right leg so he swooped in a short curve across the others and away again. He slashed his sword as he passed. The blade caught one of the warriors across the side of the face. He cried out and fell backwards. Einar darted away, then back, sliding past one of the men who had fallen. He was on his hands and knees, trying to get up. Einar hacked the long blade of his sword as he passed him, dealing him a fatal blow that divided the back of his neck.