“And none of your fellows fished you out?”
“No, and they will answer for it when I see them again,” said Ragnvald, scowling. They would have pulled him out if it had been just a game. He did not have Solvi’s gift of making friends with everyone, but he had been respected among the men. His stepfather had sent him out raiding with Solvi so he could prove himself worthy of taking over the ruling of his father’s lands, and Solvi had told him he had succeeded, that his stepfather would have a good report of him. And now it had gone wrong—Solvi had changed his mind, or never meant to help Ragnvald in the first place. The unfairness of it made his throat tight.
Belatedly he realized that the description of a man named Ragnar, rescued from the fjord with a cut throat, would be enough for Solvi or anyone from their ship to figure out he was still alive.
Ragnvald put his fingers to the wound on his throat, which bled more freely as he grew warm again. That one had not bit too deep; he could hardly wet a fingernail in it. He did not want to touch the wound on his face, which had begun to drip blood onto his trousers. He wrung out a corner of his shirt and tore off a strip of cloth to bind the cuts.
“You’re not a draugr, then, are you?” asked the fisherman.
Ragnvald smiled grimly. He must look like one of them, a walking corpse, with his throat and face bloody, his fingernails blue with cold.
“Not yet,” he said, “thanks to you.” Agi was still looking at him. This man fished in waters controlled by Solvi and his father. “Though I don’t know that King Hunthiof would thank you,” he admitted.
Ragnvald rummaged under his tunic and pulled loose the armband Solvi had given him. He weighed it in his hands briefly. It was thick and heavy, the silver fine like satin under his fingers. The body was thick twisted wire, each strand wider than that of the heaviest chain mail. The ends were worked into boars’ heads, mouths open in attack. It was a princely gift. Ragnvald had done a warrior’s work to win it, and he had worn it with pride since the feast when Solvi had given it to him. It was the only wealth he had, beyond the pewter pendant he wore and his cloak clasp. The only wealth he likely ever would have, if Solvi wanted him dead.
“Thank you for pulling me out of the water,” said Ragnvald, holding the ring where Agi could see it. He was warming now. His hand tingled with the anticipation of having a dagger in it. He could kill Agi now if he had to, and Agi must know that. “I would be grateful if no one knew I had passed this way,” he said.
“It was no game, young Ragnar, was it?” Agi said. His eyes lit covetously on the silver, but his voice held some kindness.
“I thought it was a game,” Ragnvald said. He wanted to tell Agi the truth, to try to explain himself, and the unfairness of what Solvi had done. Until he explained it to Agi, to someone, it felt as though Solvi had won. “But I was wrong. I have an enemy.”
Agi looked up at Ragnvald’s face and then to his right hand, tense and empty. “I am not your enemy. I’ll set you on shore and be glad to see the back of you. I won’t put you back in the drink, if that’s what’s got you fearful. You can walk to Tafjord along the cliff,” said Agi. “Or away. At least you still have your sword.”
Ragnvald put his hand on the wet leather that encased it. “Yes, I do,” he said.
“You can still die of cold,” said Agi abruptly, and started to take off his tunic.
Ragnvald was cold, but he thought Agi might mean to encumber his hands, and he refused the offer.
“Suit yourself,” said Agi. He took up an oar and started rowing them toward the shoreline. Ragnvald felt shamed by his refusal. He found another oar under a folded net, and rowed from his side as an apology. His arms felt boneless. The effort left him winded, but warmer than before.
When they reached the shore, Ragnvald put the ring into Agi’s hands. He stroked the silver with a cracked thumbnail. It might be the most wealth he ever held, or perhaps his hovel hid a trove of such treasure; it must sometimes wash up on his shores on the bodies of the dead.
“This is too much,” said Agi. He looked more kindly now as he glanced over Ragnvald’s bloody face, at wounds that still seeped. “My daughter can tend to your face.”
“I must go,” said Ragnvald. “Keep it.”
“At least take some food,” Agi quickly produced a bundle of bread and dried fish from the boat. Ragnvald accepted it mutely.
*
Agi showed him a way up the cliffs and left him to his climb. By the time Ragnvald reached the rim, he was too weary to go on. Above, stars had already started to wink out of the dark sky. He made a fire in the shelter of a rock scree and ate a few pieces of the dried fish Agi had given him. He had not been alone since—he could not remember—some boyhood journey into the woods, a proof of bravery.
He counted up the months he had been gone, marked in scratches on his belt. It was later in the year than he thought. The midsummer Sogn ting gathering would be soon, perhaps in as little as a week. Ragnvald should go there, rather than home to risk Olaf’s displeasure at returning without plunder. King Hunthiof and Solvi always came to the ting to recruit for their raiding trips and to show off their wealth. Ragnvald could sue for his share of the bounty, and perhaps even a payment for the wound Solvi had dealt him.
He had gone often to the trials with his father, when he was still alive, and even in the years he stayed behind at Ardal to defend it while Olaf and Vigdis went to the yearly assembly, they returned with tales of how the suits had gone. Each year one of the leading men of the district acted as law speaker, and recited a third of the full body of Norse law, the third they had memorized. Then men brought their complaints, the most serious to be decided first. A jury of twenty men who were not bringing suits were selected by lot, though the Sogn ting was small enough most could know in advance who would be chosen. A majority decided each case, and men often voted for their friends and family and those who had paid them more than for the truth, at least if there was any margin of doubt.