“It doesn’t matter if you win—it only matters that you make a stand,” he said. “I am Arran, son of Hodd, son of Lotar Vale, and this is my land.”
“Right . . . You do know that if you just ran away they’d probably ignore you?” I said. Somewhere just behind the conversation Aslaug’s screams scratched to get through. Run! The message bled out into each pause. I didn’t need instruction—running filled my mind, top to bottom. “Well . . .” I glanced once more at the doorway to the roundhouse, imagining it thick with fur cloaks inside. “We should . . . go.” A look at the ridge revealed half a dozen figures now, close enough that I could make out their round shields. I started walking to galvanize the others into action.
“May the gods watch you, Arran Vale.” Kara bowed her head. “I will do my best for your grandson.” She spoke the words as if she were playing a role but in the unguarded moment as she turned away I saw her doubts—her runes and wisdom perhaps as much a facade as my title and reputation. She started to follow me. Dig deep enough into anyone and you’ll find a scared little boy or scared little girl trying to get out. It’s just a question of how deep you have to scratch to find them—that and the question of what it really is that scares the child.
“Shit.” I saw the boy, running toward us down the long and gentle slope of the valley’s southern edge, a ragged child, red hair streaming behind. Snorri followed my gaze. I picked up my pace, angling to intercept the boy’s path, though several hundred yards still separated us. Kara veered left to cover that approach should he try to evade me.
Only the Undoreth stayed where they were. “Snorri!” I called back.
“Get him to safety, Jal.” A raw tone that stopped me in my tracks.
“Come on!” I turned back, beckoning them on. Tuttugu stood beside Snorri, axe in hands.
“It matters that we make a stand.” Snorri’s words reached me though he didn’t raise his voice.
“Christ.” They’d bought into the old man’s nonsense. I could understand it from Arran, addled by age and a step from the grave in any case . . . but Snorri? Had Baraqel stolen his mind? And what the hell was Tuttugu staying for?
“Kara!” I shouted. “They won’t come!”
A score and more of the Hardassa advanced down the northern slope now in a rough skirmish line, their cloaks of tartan, of wolfskin, and of bear blowing about their shoulders, shields low, axes held above the heather, their iron helms robbing any expression.
“Take the boy!” She started back toward Snorri.
“Wait! What?” Her face didn’t look like someone preparing to argue Snorri out of it. “Hell.” With Aslaug screaming at me to run, my own instincts screaming louder still, and Kara telling me to do it . . . I ran.
The little bastard dodged round me but I managed to overhaul him in a dozen paces and catch his hair. We both went down amongst the tussock grass. The kid couldn’t have been more than ten, skinny with it, but he had a desperate strength, and sharp teeth.
“Ow!” I snatched my hand back, putting knuckle to mouth. “You little fucker!” He scrambled away, earth showering me where his toes gouged at the ground. I lunged after him, getting my feet under me and charging half a dozen steps—well aware I was heading in the opposite direction to the one I wanted to go in. A tussock caught my foot and I went down, diving, arms stretched. My fingers closed on the kid’s ankle as my face hit the grass.
The air exploded from my lungs and refused to return. I lay, gripping the boy tight enough to break bones and desperately willing myself to draw breath. Lifting my head, I could see, past the black spots swimming in my vision, to the line of Hardassa, closing around the three men before the hut. Kara stood halfway between me and the fight.
This was it. We were all going to die.
With a shout the Hardassa advanced, spears and axes raised, shields on high.
Snorri’s battle-cry rose with those of the Red Vikings, that old note of violent joy ringing out. He didn’t wait for them to close but launched himself toward the biggest of the enemy. The attack took the Hardassa by surprise, so confident were they in their numbers. Snorri leapt, setting a foot to the boss of his foe’s raised shield and climbing above him as the man braced himself, then collapsed beneath the weight. Snorri rode the shield down, swinging his axe in an arc that smashed it through one helm, another, and sent the third spinning away.