Then they reached Gudbrand’s hall and surrounding fields. Its outbuildings were hardly visible against the dark hill behind them, save for a circle of light. The bow of the ship crunched against the bank. It sounded terribly loud to Ragnvald, as he strained his ears in the silence. Heming leapt out front. Ragnvald followed him, landing softly in the grass, Oddi by his side. Ragnvald held his sword in front of him, tip up, but low so his arm would not give out before he had a chance to drive it into flesh. All around him he could sense the watchful tension of the other men. Heming breathed low and even, as if he did this every day. On the other side of him, Oddi was taut as a new-strung bow. Ragnvald forced himself to loosen his grip. His hand tingled as blood returned to it.
Somewhere in front of him was Harald, leading the raiding party. Ragnvald kept his eyes fixed on Oddi’s leather belt, which had been polished recently enough that it was a spot of gray in the darkness. He did not want to creep up too close behind him.
Hakon and his younger sons went with the main force, over the open slope that led up to Gudbrand’s hall. Ragnvald and Hakon’s older sons would come around through the grove, and attack from the other side. If they could, they meant to barricade the meeting kings inside the hall, and threaten to burn it unless the kings swore allegiance to Harald.
Ragnvald’s party had the longer journey, picking through the darkness at the water’s edge. He heard the shouts of battle, sword upon sword, the crash of shields, and then shouts of victory. Harald’s voice carried above all the others, calling out the numbers of his slain.
In front of him, Oddi’s shoulders slumped with relief. Ragnvald was not sure later what made him turn. Perhaps a branch snapped, and attracted his attention. Ragnvald touched Oddi’s back. When Oddi turned, Ragnvald jerked his head toward where he had heard the noise and laid a finger on his lips. He took a step toward the dark shape of a grove of trees. This would be the sacrificial grove for the hall, rich and well watered with the blood of animals and men. An auspicious place for defenders to wait, so they could deliver more deaths to the gods.
Ragnvald touched the charm at his neck, praying for bravery. If the gods favored him, then they would help him when he fought on their ground.
“Men,” he whispered to his companions, “in the trees.”
Heming nodded, a movement Ragnvald felt more than saw. They could not risk more speech. Their footsteps took them into the shadow of a hollow in the hill, and Ragnvald jerked his head to the right, and followed the darkness of the low ground, hoping that Oddi and Heming stayed close behind him.
A silhouette detached itself from the grove of trees, moving stealthily along its margin. Ragnvald wondered if their plan was to allow Harald’s men freedom of their farm and then kill them during the celebrating. It was what Ragnvald might do, though it would put their property at risk. The grove was small—perhaps they only had a few men. Those that remained hid here, to defend the hall as best they could. Ragnvald circled around behind the enemy. A cloud passed over the moon, plunging the field into darkness. Ragnvald drew his dagger with his other hand. He could kill left-handed if he had to.
Oddi and Heming were still a few steps behind. The bulk of Hakon and Harald’s forces cleared the crest of the hill, their thick-armored forms making dark shapes against the sky. Ragnvald could hear them still: sounds of excitement, of carelessness. They believed they had won.
The twang of loosed arrows filled the night. Men screamed. The sound chilled Ragnvald’s blood. Hakon’s force had brought no bows. Were all of them now caught in a trap? Ragnvald lost the shape of the man he tracked for a moment, until his silhouette blocked the slimmer trees. Ragnvald continued walking forward as if he had not seen the figure that paced him.
The man came closer, slightly behind Ragnvald, so close that Ragnvald could smell the meat of his dinner. He waited until he heard the hitch of breath that preceded the man’s attack, then turned and thrust his dagger up into the man’s throat. He died without a sound, choking on steel. Ragnvald eased him to the ground. He wiped the blood from his hands on the man’s tunic.
Ragnvald glanced up at the hall, through the trees. The clouds had cleared, and now moonlight showed him figures with bows clinging to its thatched roof. How long had they been waiting there? Did Ragnvald’s boy captive have a friend, one who had escaped and told of their coming?
Whatever other men remained in the grove had not yet emerged. Ragnvald guessed they would not until the barrage of arrows stopped. Ragnvald motioned for Oddi and Heming to follow him. A gap between two boulders served as the gateway to the grove—a perfect choke point. Ragnvald pantomimed climbing, and Oddi took his meaning, scrambling up one of the rocks. The sound of fingers prying at dirt seemed loud, even against the yells of men pierced with arrows, but no attack came.
In the grove, a half circle of figures, hardly moving more than stumps of wood, crouched facing the two boulders. Now, hidden in the shadow of the rocks, the advantage of darkness was with Ragnvald’s party. Nearby a bird flapped, surprised from its nest, and made a low call. One of the heads of the waiting men came up, but a harsh hiss told him to stay seated.
A signal. They were waiting for a signal. Ragnvald sheathed dagger and cupped his hand around his mouth, making the sound of an owl. His heart thudded in his chest. He drew his blade again slowly.
“That’s it,” he heard a voice say.
“Floki was supposed to make a raven’s call,” spoke a voice, young and uncertain.
“Floki’s an idiot.” An older man, this one.
“Do you think they got them all?” whispered the young one as they crept toward the shadow where Ragnvald hid.
“No,” said Ragnvald, pitching his voice low and gruff as the older warrior’s had been. The older warrior whirled to face him. Ragnvald saw the glint of bared steel a moment before the sword crashed into the rock where he had stood.
Then all was chaos. Ragnvald could not tell if he struck friend or foe—he lashed out with sword and dagger, finding trees as often as he found flesh. He heard a crash and a howl and hoped that was Heming ambushing one of the men from above. That was not Oddi’s yell, nor Heming’s, so some worthy damage had been done. He tried to keep himself behind the men leaving the grove, so his blade would only harm enemy flesh, but he found himself pulling his swings, hoping he was not wounding kin or friends.
He fought in close with one strong man who got a few shallow cuts in on him before Ragnvald stabbed him through the stomach. He fell moaning, and when his noises stopped, all was quiet. It was the sort of silence Ragnvald had heard before in battle, a moment when all the earth seemed to pause. Ragnvald peered into the darkness. No one stirred except his friends.
“How many did you get, brother?” Heming said to Oddi.
“I’m not sure,” Oddi answered. He sounded winded. “I feared I’d cut one of you.”
“Me too,” said Ragnvald, glad Oddi had said it first.