‘Behold, the great hero of Bravik!’ cried Osvald. Erlan’s skin prickled with discomfort at the many eyes upon him. ‘If the reports are to be believed, he slew nearly the whole of Sigurd’s army single-handed. Including the wretched Kin-Slayer himself! It was this man who put Ringast Haraldarson on his twin throne. The King-Over-Us-All.’ His thin lips curdled into a sneer. ‘No matter that but two moons before, the Wartooth and his brood of sons had been lifelong foes of this hero’s oath-sworn lord.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Such loyalty is admirable. I should mark it well.’
Erlan turned away, now seeing Osvald’s intent. What he’d said was a twisting of the truth. By the time Erlan had gone over to the Wartooth, his ‘oath-sworn lord’ Sviggar had been murdered, and Erlan himself half-roasted alive.
‘No, no – don’t go, hero. No need for modesty.’ Osvald gripped Erlan’s shoulder. ‘There is more, is there not? They say you slew a horde of monstrous fiends besides, in the freezing drifts of winter. Is it not true?’ A groan rose around the benches – more jeer than acclaim. Erlan shrugged off Osvald’s hand, his eyes full of scorn.
‘And still there’s more,’ laughed Osvald, enjoying Erlan’s discomfort. ‘One tale has it our hero journeyed into the depths of the Earth and plucked from some dark hole a highborn maid. The very maid who now sits beside our overlord as Queen of the Twin Kingdoms. We know not whether he journeyed into her dark hole!’ When the laughter had died away, Osvald wiped his lips. ‘All this – and yet the man’s a cripple.’ This time the laughter had a vindictive edge to it. ‘You are a marvel, Erlan Aurvandil. Truly! So drink, you puppies, drink! Drink to this hero who does honour to my hall! What hope my enemies, hey, with a man like this by my side?’
Osvald threw back the contents of his ale-horn. A few drank without enthusiasm; most slumped back against the walls into their own thoughts or idle talk. Osvald sank into his chair, a sour grin smeared across his face.
Erlan leaned over the table. ‘Next time you want to scrape the bottom of the barrel,’ he said in a low snarl, ‘do the fucking job yourself.’
‘Are we beneath you then, great hero?’
‘That work is beneath any man.’ Erlan turned away.
‘Lest you forget, Aurvandil,’ Osvald called after him, ‘you swore an oath to me.’ Apparently done amusing himself, he clapped his hands and summoned back his bed-thrall.
Aye, thought Erlan, hobbling to a place far below the seats of honour. I swore an oath. One he now bitterly regretted. But with the hard grip of winter closing over all the north, he’d had little choice but to make it. Not if he didn’t want to freeze to death.
He flopped down on the bench beside the twins who were already sating their hunger on heels of black bread draped with strips of hog fat. It was basic fare in Osvald’s hall, even if it kept a man alive and his belly full. But Erlan didn’t feel like eating.
Adalrik bid him welcome with bulging cheeks and tipped out a cup. ‘You promised you’d tell us the rest of them stories one day, Erlan,’ the lad said, refilling it from the ale-pitcher and passing it to him.
Erlan nodded his thanks and took a swig. ‘There’s not much to tell.’ That was a lie. ‘Nothing good anyway.’ Closer to the truth.
‘You’re still alive, ain’t you?’
‘For what that’s worth in this dungheap hall,’ he muttered. ‘No offence.’
The boy shrugged. ‘A dung beetle’s happy enough on his dunghill ’cause he knows no different. That’s your trouble, see. You’ve been spoiled.’
‘Spoiled? Hah!’ Erlan had to laugh at that.
‘You’ve seen too much of the world. Well, Leikr and me, we ain’t going to stick around here for ever. Are we?’
‘Damn right.’ His brother grinned, tapping their cups together.
‘Come on, Erlan,’ urged Adalrik. ‘If you tell us your tales, Leikr here will put you in one of his songs.’ Leikr fancied himself a skald. Mostly he used his rhymings and kennings to win favours from the bed-thralls that Osvald kept about his hall like house-hounds. He had a sweet voice but not much invention. The lad’s attention had drifted back to a couple humping away on the other side of the hall. ‘Is that Finna there?’ he asked absently. ‘Think she’d do that with me?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Adalrik.
‘Why not?’
‘’Cause she knows you’ve got a cock like a baby worm and breath like Aska’s arse!’ Adalrik folded into gales of laughter; Leikr scowled and kicked him under the table. Adalrik yelped. This happened a lot.
Aska was a long-limbed wolfhound. At the sound of his name, a mass of fur stirred under the table and prodded his nose into Erlan’s lap. Erlan peeled a stray strip of fat off the table and dropped it into his mouth. The dog gulped it down, gazing up at him with a single, grateful eye.
Aska was a stray Erlan had picked up when he left the halls of Uppsala. At first, Erlan had named him Kai after his murdered friend, but that soon felt too uncanny so he changed it to Askar – the name of Kai’s father – and finally to Aska which simply meant, Ash. Erlan scratched at the top of his head.
Leikr had that moony look on his face that meant he had a question burning. Erlan took another swig of ale. ‘Come on, out with it.’
‘Do you think that the woman came back? You know. . . And saw what we’d done?’
‘I’d rather not think about it. You shouldn’t either.’ He tapped Leikr’s cup with his, then sank the rest of his beer. He still had the cup to his lips when a voice sounded at his shoulder.
‘Do you mind if I sit with you, friend?’ Erlan looked up from the rim of his cup into a small face with hollow features
