Melcorka glanced at Astrid. “Your presence will be welcome, Astrid, but your hand on my man's leg is not. Remove your hand or I will remove your arm.”
Astrid stepped back. “He is your man, Melcorka, yet he is not the man for you.”
“Are you coming?” Halfdan asked. “Death is holding open the door for the Headhunter, and I have yet to find him.”
“We're coming,” Bradan said, giving Astrid a final wave.
Mounting small hardy garrons, they travelled northward and westward, making their presence known to everybody they met. They slept in small settlements of Norse longhouses or Celtic roundhouses, or under the star-broken abyss of the sky. Everywhere they travelled, Halfdan asked for the man known as Headhunter, and Bradan asked about a house built on human bones.
People shook their heads or avoided their eyes, refusing to speak of the evils that had befallen the land.
“They are scared to speak,” Halfdan said.
“They are scared even to acknowledge the fact they are scared,” Bradan said. “These people are so used to fear they think it is normal.”
“We will try to remove that fear,” Melcorka said.
“Tell me of this house built on human bones,” Halfdan said. “I have not heard of it.”
“We don't know,” Melcorka said. “We only know that a man who lives there might hold the key to this evilness.”
“A house built on human bones,” Halfdan said. “That could mean two things. It could mean a house with foundations on human sacrifice, or it could mean a house built on top of a battlefield.”
“Either is possible,” Melcorka said. “I had not considered the battlefield. Are there many in the Norse territory?”
“We are a warrior people,” Halfdan said. “And the Picts and Albans resisted. There are many battlefields in Thorfinn's jarldom.”
Melcorka nodded. “I can understand that. Do you know of any battlefields where a house now stands?”
Halfdan pursed his lips. “No. I can't. I'll think about it, Swordswoman, and see what I come up with.”
“Ravens,” Bradan said, as they rode across an area of moorland. Patches of nettles showed where people had once farmed the land, while the tumbled stones of cottages marked small tragedies that history would never record.
“They are following us,” Melcorka said.
“We are drawing near to the Headhunter.” Halfdan gave his opinion. “The ravens sense fresh meat.”
The moor rose before them, broad in the south but rising to a heathery ridge that boasted a view of distant blue-grey mountains to the west, and ended in a pass between granite hills. At the entrance to the pass, a man sat astride a black horse, watching them approach. A double row of stakes stretched behind him, marking the route upward, with a round object crowning each stake.
“That will be the Headhunter.” Halfdan touched the sword at his waist. “Now I will either send his head back to Thorfinn, or feast in Valhalla tonight.”
“If he is the victor, Halfdan, I will avenge your death,” Melcorka promised.
“You avenge it if you must, and Bradan will tell stories of my deeds, so men will remember me for ever.”
Bradan nodded. “Warriors will speak your name for generations to come, Halfdan One-eye.”
“Hold there!” the stranger shouted, “and tell me what business you have in my land.”
“Your land?” Halfdan pushed his horse leisurely forward, her hooves rustling through knee-high heather. “Jarl Thorfinn owns this land.”
“Oh, very melodramatic,” Bradan said. “Why do warriors have to talk like that?”
“So the world remembers them,” Melcorka said, with a smile. “It is easier to recall a short, supposedly clever statement than a reasoned argument.”
Bradan smiled. “You are too intelligent to be a warrior, Melcorka.”
“And you are too adventurous to be a scholar, Bradan.”
“I have claimed this land!” As the stranger warrior rode closer, Melcorka saw the array of human heads that adorned the saddle of his horse, each one tied by the hair.
“Look behind him,” Bradan murmured. “Look at the stakes.”
Melcorka looked and frowned. What she had taken to be globes were human heads, some so fresh the blood still smeared the stake on which Headhunter had impaled them, others rotting and the oldest with the skin stretched over eyeless, noseless skulls.
“The Headhunter's trophies of battle,” Bradan said.
The Headhunter advanced as far as a small knoll, where he halted his horse and hefted a large axe. “Come and die, stranger!”
“I am Halfdan One-eye,” Halfdan said, spurring forward, “and I will kill you now.”
Melcorka watched with a critical eye as Halfdan trotted to meet the stationary Headhunter. With his sword pointing forward like a lance, he spurred upward, dodged to his right at the last moment and swung a backhanded blow that the Headhunter blocked with the handle of his axe.
“An iron handle to his axe.” Melcorka said. “That is interesting. No swordsman can chop that in two, and the axe has a spike at the back and on top as well. That will be a very lethal weapon.”
“If very heavy to wield. The Headhunter will hope for a short fight,” Bradan said.
Halfdan trotted past the Headhunter, turned his horse and tried again, swinging his sword left and right to confuse his enemy. When he came close, he feinted right, turned left and swung overarm, only for the Headhunter to block again, laughing.
“You are very slow, Halfdan One-eye. It is no wonder you carry a scar on your face.”
“You are right,” Halfdan said. “I am slow, and I do have a scarred face.” He walked his horse a good hundred yards away, turned and spurred, increasing his speed to a trot, then a canter and finally a gallop, with his sword pointing straight ahead. At the last possible moment, he altered the angle of his blade to cut at the Headhunter's horse and galloped past. Halfdan's blade sliced into the neck of the horse, so it reared in sudden pain, throwing its rider. The Headhunter crashed down with the heads on his saddle bouncing around him as he scrambled for his axe.
Halfdan walked slowly toward him and dismounted. When he smiled, the scar on his face seemed
