They were boys, good-natured lads most of the time, with hardly sixteen winters behind them. And already they have innocent blood on their hands, he thought. ‘Get your gear together. We’re moving out.’
It was three leagues back to Osvald’s hall. Dunsgard stood on a rise above the south bank of the Dagava river, overlooking its sluggish brown waters. From this stronghold, Osvald ruled the Livi – a tribe that had long ago settled the shores of the Gulf of Estland, which lay straight across the East Sea from Sveäland. The Livi called Osvald king. Erlan reckoned the man unworthy of the title.
It was to Dunsgard that he had sailed in the last days of autumn, turning his back on the ghosts that haunted the Uppland halls and the fame he’d won at Bravik. Except that some memories were not so easily left behind. Many a night, before sleep overtook him, he heard phantom echoes of the sword-song over that blood-soaked plain. Other times, it was a gentler shade who came to torment him. Lilla, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms now, whose beauty lingered like an ache in his bones. He could still recall the taste of her, the brush of her fingertips in his palm. Wasted thoughts, all of it. She was the reward of another man now. A better man.
Erlan had left because he was a man of honour when honour was all he had left to him. That being such a man meant he was also a fool was the bitter lesson of it. Honour had left him friendless, loveless, lordless, homeless. A killer for hire, forced to accept the meat and mead of the first lord whose hall he came to, in return for his oath. Gods, he was not yet twenty winters old, yet so damn weary. As if all the blood on his hands was a load weighing him down. Blood that he had spilled in exchange for what? Bread and beer? Was that all?
His hand went absently to his chest where his silver amulet used to hang. . . At least Lilla was where she was meant to be. While she was in the world, somehow there was hope. Of what, he wasn’t sure. But so long as she lived, then so must he.
The gnarled gables of Dunsgard rose ahead of him, stone-still in the mist swirling off the Dagava’s muddy waters. The rain had stopped. A dreary dusk was closing in around the palisade that crowned the hilltop. The three riders kicked on through the gateway, crossing to the stables to dismount into a cold slop of puddles. Already the sound of revelry was leaking out from the mead-hall into the yard.
‘He’s early to his ale-skin tonight,’ chuckled Leikr.
‘He’s early to his ale-skin every night.’ Erlan jumped down into the mud. The old wound in his ankle jarred and sent a jolt of fire up his leg into his groin. He sucked in his breath, remembering with bitterness the lesson his father had meant to teach him as a boy. Instead he’d made his son a lame-foot. A cripple for life. ‘Hand me the sack there,’ Erlan growled irritably at Leikr. The youth tossed him the knapsack that contained the few valuables they had taken from Osvald’s debtor. A few bits of hack-silver, some cheap jewellery. It was far short of the debt the farmer owed, but it was all they had. Erlan felt no better than a thief. He tossed Leikr his reins. ‘I’ll see you inside.’
The mead-hall was the usual miasma of sweat and smoke and stale beer, the dirty rushes strewn about the floor unchanged for weeks, making the place reek with decay. It was a scene all too familiar to Erlan. He had spent the whole winter here, listening to the songs and stories and listless talk of the men in Osvald’s retinue. They were like caged wolves, with little to do but drink and eat and swive their way through the dark months, waiting for the spring. And none took to this winter work with more commitment than Lord Osvald himself.
Erlan flung his cloak over his shoulder and wove his way to the high table, around bodies already sunk into an ale stupor and hall-hounds coiled under the benches hoping for a scrap of mutton to reach the floor. At length he stood before Osvald, the noble King of the Livi.
His new oath-lord was slouched behind a long table scattered with the ruins of his supper. At first Osvald didn’t notice him; his nose was buried in the fulsome bosom of the bed-thrall sat astride him, his hand busy under her robes which had ridden up to reveal a pale, puckered thigh.
‘My lord?’ Words on his tongue that irked Erlan like stones in his shoe.
Osvald removed his mouth from the woman’s teat and squinted past her. ‘Erlan Aurvandil.’ He snorted. ‘You took your time. Well?’
Erlan dumped the knapsack on the table. Osvald shoved the bed-thrall off him and shooed her away with a slap to her rump. He seized the bag and tipped out its contents over the discarded platters. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s all he had.’
Osvald’s nostrils flared. ‘Then why the Hel didn’t you bring him here before me?’ He was still young, under thirty winters, though already he had the look of a man gone to seed. His teeth were blunt nubs of brown and yellow. His flaxen hair was thin and dull, his beard two greasy yellow braids. ‘If he can’t pay, he should be taught a lesson.’
‘He won’t be learning any more lessons.’
The expression on Osvald’s face changed from irritation to understanding, then wry amusement. ‘Go on.’
‘They were armed. Things got. . . complicated.’
Osvald sniggered. ‘You’re a cold son of a bitch, Aurvandil. Hah! Maybe that’s why I like you.’ Abruptly he lurched to his feet and thumped his fist on the table. ‘Give ear, you pack of ale-washed hogs! Stir yourselves, you wastrels!’ Slowly
