Ragnvald would be one man, his word against Solvi’s, but if he went now, Solvi would not have time to hear of his plans, might even think Ragnvald had died in his attack. Egil might even be there—he said he went most years. Solvi would not arrive in time to bribe the witnesses and jury, to intimidate those who would not be bought. The wound that Solvi had dealt him would serve as a witness. Ragnvald tried to keep his fingers from testing it, his tongue from probing the rent in his cheek.
He put his cloak over his head and tried to sleep, but now that he had thought of it, he could not stop imagining the trial. He would tell the law speaker his intentions to sue, and the law speaker would ask what injury or insult Ragnvald intended to sue over. There were several possibilities, and Ragnvald thought through all of them, traveling down each path, and all of their pitfalls, before coming back to the beginning again. He ran over possible testimony in his mind, picturing himself in the circle of witnesses and jurors, speaking the truth of what Solvi had done. Hilda would be there, she would see that he had grown into a man, a man who would take what was owed him, a warrior, not a coward.
Ragnvald slept eventually, and was woken by the blood throbbing in the wounds on his face. The day grew warmer as he walked. The frost that rimed the grasses of the high meadows melted as morning air touched it. Dew soaked through his soft boat shoes, chilling his feet. The curve of the land wanted to draw him farther south, and home. Home to Svanhild and his mother. Home to Vigdis, with her sighs and smiles, her glances aimed at Ragnvald alone. Home to Olaf and his disappointment. The paths to the ting grounds at Jostedal were harder, deer trails through forests that gave way to cairn-marked lines on bare rock.
This was the country where he had grown up: pine forests and green valleys, the sea only glimpsed in the distance on clear days. The holdings were small, the men who farmed them never venturing farther from their hearths than the midsummer ting. Men like Agi the fisherman, who counted on their kings to protect them from raiders, had left Sogn, a few more each year. They did not trust Olaf to protect them.
Ragnvald’s father had ruled all the farms around Lake Ardal, and his grandfather had held all of the Sogn farmlands. Their bodies now lay in Sogn land, the same blood that Ragnvald shared mixing with the soil. Olaf’s people had not left their bones in the land, and so they could not defend it as Ragnvald’s could.
Ragnvald ate the remainder of Agi’s bread as he walked, and continued until near midnight, when the sun was only a faint orange glow on the horizon, and the sky above was deep blue, studded with stars.
In the dimness, the farm before him looked like any other: a long, low hall, nothing more than a dark shape, denser somehow than the two outbuildings that flanked it. Ragnvald had pushed his hunger as far as he wanted to. He would wait for the farm to awaken so someone could feed him. He was still early for the midsummer ting; if need be, he would do some work here to pay for what he ate, while he planned how to get what Solvi owed him.
He walked down the valley to the farm, thinking of little but the meal he would soon have, and the farm’s women who would serve it to him: proper women with long hair and swaying hips. The voyage had been long, with only ugly, half-bearded boy-warriors to look at. One of the thralls Ulfarr captured—previously a serving girl at an Irish farm—had been beautiful, until she tried to escape. Ulfarr beat her and shaved her head, and she was not as beautiful after that.
Ragnvald was not sure later what warned him; perhaps the quiet that lay over the farm felt deeper than that of sleep. He already had his hand on the hilt of his sword when he heard a woman’s low moan, a despairing sound.
Ragnvald eased his sword out of its scabbard. He tiptoed between the buildings, stepping over stones in his way. The woman’s crying made him want to attack immediately, but he could not advance without seeing how many he faced. As he drew closer, he heard more clearly the sounds of three people: a woman trying to hide her pain, a man’s grunts, and a child’s whimpering.
Perhaps it was only a marriage gone awry. But if this were going on inside the walls of the hall, he would not hear it so well that he could picture this woman, like one of the Irish thralls taken against her will by a raider.
He came upon them behind the horse barn, which stood open, its entrance a great black mouth in the dark. The man thrust and grunted, his buttocks white like mushrooms growing under a log. The woman turned her head to the side. Her assailant gripped her face to turn her toward him. A cruel man, then, wanting humiliation as well as satisfaction. Ragnvald’s foot crunched on a pebble. He froze. The man did not notice, but the woman did. She glanced at the sword in his hand and blinked slowly.
Ragnvald swung hard, putting his anger at Solvi into one blow. He hit too low, and it stuck in the back of the raider’s neck, lodging itself at the top of the man’s spine. Blood flowed out over the woman’s face. Ragnvald rushed to the man and pulled him off her. If he was not yet dead, he would be soon, Ragnvald’s sword still buried in bone.
The woman screamed, then covered her mouth with her bloody hand. Ragnvald whirled toward a scrambling noise behind him, grabbing for his sword. His panic gave him the strength to pull it free, but the noise was only the woman’s child, coming to investigate, eyes wide and dark. A brave child, even if he had whimpered earlier.
The dying man made a sound, and Ragnvald went to stand over him, sword in hand, in case he needed another stroke. The man held his bleeding neck, as blood pulsed between his fingers. His hand could not cover the whole of the wound.
“You fool. I did not come alone. My men will be back,” he croaked.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” said Ragnvald, tired and stupid.
“I will haunt you,” he said, spitting. “I will visit your dreams and—”
“Perhaps,” said Ragnvald. “Perhaps your friends don’t value you as much as you hope.” He already felt the after-battle effects, the shaking, the strange lightness that made everything seem unreal. He stepped on the man’s other arm, bent down and pried the raider’s hand off his wound, waiting for the blood to flow out and take his life with it. It happened soon enough.
The woman sat up and pulled her skirt down to hide her nakedness. Dark blood covered her face, making her eyes stand out white. Ragnvald’s hands were bloody too. He wiped them on the dead man’s trousers. The woman’s son still stood back from her, frightened of her appearance.
“I am Ragnvald Eysteinsson,” he said. “I will look after your son while you clean up.” He spoke in a low voice, trying to calm her and himself. She looked at him blankly. “You should wash your face and hands, so he recognizes you again.”
“My daughter,” said the woman, with a harsh laugh. “It is as well she sees what is coming for her.”
Ragnvald helped the woman to her feet, then introduced himself to the child. “You are safe,” he said, although he feared that the dying man was right, and his friends would return if he did not join them. How many raiders could he protect this woman and her daughter from?