Varg dropped a ladleful of cold porridge into his bowl.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Svik said to him. The warrior was sitting against a tree, the first hint of dawn lancing through branches into the glade they had camped within and tinting his features with gold.

“It’s cold,” Varg complained.

“There are worse things than cold porridge in this world.” Svik smiled up at him. “You will most likely be meeting some of them soon.”

“That does not make me happier, if that is what you were trying to do,” Varg told him, still staring at the porridge.

Glornir had ordered no fires as they had moved into the foothills before the Bonebacks.

In truth Varg was used to eating much worse: the food and rations on Kolskegg’s farm that had been given to the thralled farmworkers had been little better than the slop fed to the pigs.

It is strange how quickly we become accustomed to better things. It was not so long ago that hot porridge with cream and honey was a feast beyond compare. Now it is… normal.

“Here, have some of my cheese,” Svik said, slicing a wedge from a hard round sitting on a trencher at his side. “Please take it, before your mood infects me and I cut my own throat.”

“In that case, don’t eat the cheese,” Røkia said to Varg, nudging him with her elbow as she slopped cold porridge into her own bowl. “This could be the answer to my dreams.” She gave Svik a cold smile.

“She loves me really,” Svik said as he shook the cheese at Varg, who took it and sat beside the slim, gleaming warrior.

“You really do like cheese, don’t you?” Varg observed.

“Cheese saved my life,” Svik said.

“Oh no, not that story again,” Røkia said, rolling her eyes. “Do not ask him how.”

“How?” Varg asked Svik.

Svik grinned and shifted, making himself comfortable. Other Bloodsworn were gathering around, Einar pushing through them to sit close to Svik and Varg.

“I love this story,” Einar said.

“That is only because one of your kin is in it,” Røkia said.

“I am not a troll,” Einar said, giving Røkia a hurt look, “I just have big bones.”

Røkia raised an eyebrow.

Torvik came and joined them.

“Svik is a great tale-teller,” Torvik whispered to Varg.

“When I was young,” Svik said, “I had two older brothers, and we lived in a steading on the eaves of a forest. One day when it was still early my two brothers came running out of the trees, frightened for their lives. They had gone to cut wood for our winter store, but a troll had come upon them and threatened to eat them.”

“Trolls are nasty like that,” Einar whispered to Varg.

“Being both proud and practical, even if I was only young, I thought that this was not an acceptable situation,” Svik said. “We needed the wood stores for winter or we would freeze, and also I did not like the thought of someone threatening my family. So, I set off into the woods, remembering to take a round of cheese with me in a small hemp sack, as I might be gone a while and become hungry.”

“Sensible,” Einar commented.

“I found the dead wood and cut timber that my brothers had begun working on, their axes and saws and other tools left where they had dropped them. There was no sign of a troll, so I picked up an axe and continued with the hard work. Before long I grew tired and so stopped for a break. I sat on a log and took out the cheese to eat some, but as I did so I felt the ground tremble and heard branches snapping, and turned to see a troll striding towards me, his antlers and tusks lowered.”

“As all know, that means the troll was angry and wanted a fight,” Einar whispered to Varg. “Trolls are very territorial.”

Varg nodded.

“I must confess,” Svik said, “I was scared at the sight of this troll. I had only seen fourteen or fifteen winters, and this troll was bigger than Einar, and I could clearly see that he meant me harm. In my fright I just stood and stared at the creature, still holding on to the cheese.”

Varg looked around. There was at least a score of Bloodsworn gathered close, more joining them, eating their porridge and listening with smiles on their faces. Skalk was there, with Olvir and Yrsa, the three of them listening intently.

“The troll was striding towards me, but then it stopped,” Svik continued. “It just stood there, staring at me. More precisely, staring at my hand. I looked down and saw that in my fright I had made a fist, and in my fist was the cheese. I was squeezing it. In fact, I had squeezed it so hard that the whey was pouring from it, making a pool about my feet. The troll blinked. ‘You are strong for a small one,’ he said. ‘I have never seen someone crush a rock to dust with their bare hands.” Svik smiled at them all. “Trolls do not have the most clever about them,” he said, tapping his temple with one finger, “and this one thought that I had crushed a rock in my fist. Thinking that this could work to my advantage I did not enlighten him to the truth. Instead I explained, very politely, that I was cutting wood for my winter store and that it was best not to make me angry, or late. The troll was so scared that I would turn my rock-crushing fists upon him that he offered to help me.”

Laughter rippled around the ring of warriors, loudest from Olvir and Yrsa. Varg found a smile splitting his own lips.

“What happened then?” Einar asked, excited as a bairn the morning of his name-day.

“You know what happens next, you oaf,” Røkia said rolling her eyes.

“I like the way Svik tells it,” Einar grunted.

“After we had cut and split all of the wood the troll invited me back to his cave for some porridge,” Svik said. “I feared to insult him by saying no, and so I went with him. His cave was big and dark and damp, but there was a store of treasure within it: weapons, coins, rings of bronze and silver that he had taken from the warriors he had slain. The troll put a pot of porridge over the fire, and soon it was ready to eat. ‘How do you fancy a competition?’ the troll says to me, a cunning look to his eyes. ‘Let us see who can eat the most porridge?”

“‘Of course,’ I answered, knowing that if I declined I would insult the troll and enrage him, but inside I was shaking, as I knew that if I lost the competition the troll would see that as weakness and most likely kill me.” He looked around; all were leaning forward now, their bowls of porridge forgotten.

“When the troll went about finding two bowls and spoons for us to eat from, I quickly took the hemp sack that my cheese had been in and stuffed it up my tunic, the bag’s mouth hidden close to my neck. The troll returned with two bowls, each as big as that pot there.” Svik pointed to their porridge pot, as big as Varg’s shield. Warriors whistled and shook their heads. “The troll filled mine and gave it to me. It was so heavy I could not lift it, so I let the troll just set it between my legs on the ground. And then we began to eat,” Svik said. “I could see the troll was enjoying his meal very much, making all kinds of slurping sounds, and soon I was feeling full. So, I checked that he was not keeping a close eye on me, and then I poured a spoonful into the hemp sack under my tunic. I did this time and time again, until the hemp sack was bulging, and still the troll continued to eat.” Svik pulled a face. “I was at a loss, frightened for my life, and full to bursting as well. And then I had an idea.” He held a finger up, looking at each face around him.

“‘I am so full,’ I said to the troll, ‘I do not think I can eat another mouthful.’

“The troll smiled at me, porridge dripping from his teeth. ‘There is a fate for winners, and one for losers,’ the troll said, and I knew full well what he meant by that. Slowly, I put my hand to my belt, where I had a small sharp knife. I drew it. The troll frowned at me and tensed, ready for my attack. But instead I turned the knife on myself and stabbed myself in the belly.”

There were gasps around the circle and Svik re-enacted the strike, pretending to plunge a blade into his gut and saw it across his belly, doubling over, his face twisted in pain. Then he sat straight and smiled. “But instead of my entrails falling out, all that spilled on to my hands was porridge. I had stabbed through my tunic into the hemp sack below, then sliced it so that porridge poured out.”

Murmurs of approval around the glade.

“‘Ah, that feels better,’ I said, and immediately began to eat more porridge from my pot, cunningly spooning it into the top of the sack. With each pretend mouthful more porridge would leak from the hole in my tunic.”

Einar smiled broader than the sun, nodding at the clever of it.

“The troll stared at me with eyes wide and big as two plates. He nodded respectfully. ‘You are a man who takes his porridge-eating seriously,’ he said, and then with a sigh and a shake of his head he went back to eating from his own bowl. Eventually I could see that he was becoming full. He started to wriggle and shift and pull faces. ‘I cannot believe this,’ the troll said at last, ‘but I think I am to be out-eaten by a human. My belly is so full it feels like it will burst.’

“‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I understand how you feel. No one likes to lose an eating competition. Especially to such a small and inconsequential human such as me.’ The troll nodded and scowled, agreeing. ‘It all depends on how much you want to win, and how far you are prepared to go,’ I said, and looked down at the knife-slash across my tunic, and the porridge that was still leaking from it.

“The troll stared at me, and his scowl turned to a smile. ‘I am as brave as you, little man, and I am prepared to do what I must to win.’ And with that the troll pulled his own knife of flint from his belt and slashed his belly open. To this day I can still see the confusion on his face as his guts spilled out on to his lap, instead of his porridge.”

There was a silence around the glade, and then laughter erupted, Varg’s voice joining them all, though Einar laughed the loudest, slapping the ground with a big slab of a hand. Olvir and Yrsa wiped tears of laughter from their eyes, Olvir bending over, hands on knees.

“And so, that is why I try never to go anywhere without a round of cheese,” Svik said as the laughter died.

“Ah, but that is deep-cunning,” Einar said, still rocking back and forth with mirth.

Glornir strode into the glade, his brynja gleaming in the fractured sunlight. “Are you trying to announce to every vaesen for a hundred leagues that we are here?” he frowned. “On your feet. We are moving out.”

The camp burst into movement. Torvik jumped up and offered Varg his hand.

“Come on, brother, there’s no lamb for the lazy wolf,” Torvik said to him with a grin.

“I’m not lazy,” Varg said as he climbed to his feet, though he was thinking on the fact that Torvik had just called him brother. It flooded his thought-cage with memories of Frøya, who had called him brother their whole life together. She had been his only friend, the only person he could trust, and now she was gone. Torvik calling him brother reminded him of her, and sent conflicting emotions swirling through him. Part of him felt guilt at the reminder of his sister and his unfulfilled oath. Another part of him liked it. It made him feel as if he were no longer alone in this hard world.

Varg helped break camp and get kit and camp gear packed and loaded on to the three ponies they had taken from the farm. As the sun clawed over the rim of the world they moved out, Torvik and the other scouts following Edel into the foothills ahead of Glornir and the Bloodsworn. Varg walked with his shield slung across his back and his spear in his fist. Shadows stretched long and dark through the wooded hill, the Bloodsworn falling into a loose column both before and behind Varg. They were moving through a land of tree-cloaked hills and shadow-dark valleys, of sun-drenched meadows and rivers winding and glistening like jewel-crusted serpents that coiled through the land. The new-risen sun blazed bright as Varg stepped out on to a hillside of rolling meadow and left the trees behind him. It had been eight days since they had left the ship and deserted farm behind and now the Boneback Mountains filled the horizon, towering high and wide as far as he could see. Snow-capped peaks and dark-green slopes of thick-forested pine looked like white hair and a moss-covered cloak across the shoulders of an ancient, colossal giant. The days were becoming longer as they moved further north and the year approached the summer solstice, when daylight would hold the darkness at bay for a whole month.

In the distance he saw Edel and her hounds leading the scouts, crossing a stream and disappearing into the woodland beyond. Closer ahead of him he saw Glornir walking with Vol. He increased his pace, striding through green grass and purple heather and, as he drew closer to them, he saw that Vol was leaning towards Glornir, her jaw moving.

“She should have reached us by now,” Vol was saying, Varg catching the words snatched on the wind. Glornir just marched on and said nothing in response, using the shaft of his long-axe as a walking stick.

“We should be looking for her, not walking into the Bonebacks with Helka’s whoremaster,” Vol said, louder.

Glornir looked at her. “We are the Bloodsworn, warriors for hire. This is what we do.” He tugged on his grey beard. “I worry for her, too, but Vigrið is a large place, and we do not know where to look. She will have to find us. I have made no secret of our path, where we have stayed—”

Varg slipped on a patch of sun-dried grass, the ground dusty, then righted himself, Glornir and Vol turning to look at him.

“What?” Glornir said to him.

Varg increased his pace until he was walking alongside them.

“The akáll I spoke of,” he said.

“No,” Glornir said. “Perhaps there will be a time, if you have what it takes to become one of us, but that time is not now.” He glowered at Varg. “I have explained this to you. Do not ask me again.”

Varg opened his mouth, feeling anger stir in him, urged on by the urgency in his gut, the need that he felt every waking moment. To honour his oath. To honour and avenge his sister.

“Do not,” Vol said to him, raising a hand. She stared at Varg, too, but without Glornir’s anger. If anything, he saw pity in her eyes. His footsteps faltered and he dropped back, walking alone, his head downcast. The anger in his gut stirred, frustration fanning its flame. It was like a sleeping forge, the coals hot beneath the ash, waiting to flare with a fresh blast of air from the bellows.

Perhaps there will be a time, you say. But when will that time come, if ever? Am I wasting what little time I have left on a task that means nothing to me? What are Jarl Helka’s people to me? I never knew them, never cared for them, he thought. A knot of emotion rose into his throat. Frøya is all that I ever cared for.

He heard voices behind him, turned and saw Skalk striding through the meadow with Olvir and Yrsa. He blinked tears from his eyes, and with an act of will pushed the emotion bubbling within him away, into the deep dark corners of his soul.

A Galdurman, a voice said in his thought-cage. One who can perform an akáll…

Skalk must have felt Varg’s eyes, for he looked at him, and Varg returned the gaze.

This time Varg did not tell that insistent voice in his head to be silent.