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Thorir Treebeard’s camp was a gathering of tents and campfires on the bare landscape of the island. With no trees around, the heavy rain drumming against the grass and the tents was as good a cover as they’d get.
“Lofarr did well spotting the camp,” he told Solver, who was crouching beside him. “I should have gotten him last sennight. Now he has five ships.”
“You fought well when we chased them away,” Solver said cheerfully. “It is not going to be an easy task. This is why the king chose you.”
Behind them, all fifty of Einar’s men waited, rain dripping from their beards, their armor and weapons glistening.
“You should not have come, Solver,” Einar said. “I cannot watch your back in a skirmish. Stay back in one of the ships.”
Despite being a skald, Solver had a better sword than Einar’s. No doubt a gift from Harald.
“You do not need to worry about me, Einar,” Solver said. “I must observe the battle to commemorate it in a poem. For your grandchildren and great-grandchildren to listen to before they go to sleep.”
Einar shook his head. “Watch then.”
He gave a signal, and his men advanced, staying low. The outlaws probably outnumbered his men, but Einar hoped he had the element of surprise.
It was clear that the camp was in a victorious post-raid sleepiness. Men were drunk and tired. They’d eaten, had their women, and had just satisfied their hunger for violence. They were probably all sleeping or passed out from mead.
There was one sentinel sitting by the campfire with his head low. An empty cup hung from his hand, rainwater dripping from the edge of it. Einar gave a silent signal, and one of his men cut the sentinel’s throat without a sound. The camp was full of snoring and the quiet buzz of voices under the drumming rain.
Einar gestured, and the men spread through the camp to the tents. On Einar’s signal, they would cry out to give the outlaws a warning and allow them to grab their weapons and meet their deaths like warriors.
Einar believed every man deserved a chance, even an outlaw; although, few people shared his opinion.
Outlaws didn’t just raid. A common farmer went raiding from time to time to make his fortune. Outlaws had done something so dishonorable—like backstabbing, murdering their jarl, or raping someone’s wife or daughter—that they could not be members of civilized society.
A lawful man had the right to kill an outlaw on sight. A slave’s death would need to be repaid. But an outlaw was nothing.
Einar froze, listening outside the biggest tent, which must belong to Thorir.
“How did you just appear out of thin air like that?” a man said from within. “I need to know. Please, before you die, you must tell me.”
“I told you I have no powers,” said a woman. “I’m not a witch. You are wasting your precious sacrifice on a regular woman. Just let me go.”
Einar frowned. A witch? A sacrifice? Was Thorir so out of his mind that he was planning to sacrifice a völva? He quickly nodded to Lofarr, who passed by him with ten men to surround the tents farther away.
Thorir continued, “Do you want me to send you to Odin with your beautiful face carved in runes? I’ll get the answer from you.”
He wanted to torture her, that Loki’s son.
“Oh my God, Thorir, or whoever you are. If you touch a hair on my head, you’ll be missing at least one ball.”
He respected the woman—she was not about to give in easily.
“Did Odin send you?” Thorir asked. “Einar, who chased us away from the Mainland last week. They say he is a direct descendant of Odin, fifty generations down. But I do not believe he is the only one. King Harald commanded Einar to come here. I, on the other hand, do not report to kings. I am free. I create freedom for my men. I want the only law on these islands to be my word. If that does not make me a descendant of gods, I do not know what does.”
Einar’s back prickled from cold sweat. Having heard this, he realized how dangerous and insane Thorir was in his speech and motivations. His men’s boots slumped gently across the wet grass of the camp as a dozen more moved to the tents to his left.
“It is a pity to kill such a woman. I am tempted to just keep you for myself as my bed slave.”
“Ha! That is not going to happen. I’d rather sacrifice myself to Odin,” the woman said.
A loud slap split the air, and the woman cried in pain. Almost immediately, something heavy and wooden crashed. The last of his men took positions around the tents on the other side of the camp. They were ready.
“Shut up! You are my way to Valhalla!” Thorir shouted.
Rage and worry for the brave woman rose in Einar like a geyser.
