The Prow Beast. Robert Low

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      They strained; Botolf suddenly took a step back and swung, the crack of his fist against Thorbrand’s ear loud as a whip – but the man was berserk and felt nothing, which fact Finn roared out as he picked up The Godi.

      ‘Feel this, then,’ grunted Botolf and he gripped and wrenched, so that Thorbrand was spun sideways, the great bear hide ripping free from him and left in Botolf’s hands. He flung it to one side.

      ‘Stand clear,’ yelled Finn, hefting The Godi.

      ‘Stand back,’ warned Botolf and went after Thorbrand, who had rolled over and over and now sprang up, as well as his useless leg allowed.

      ‘No bearcoat now,’ Botolf said, spitting on his palms. ‘More bare arse. Now we are evenly matched, skin to skin, leg to leg.’

      Thorbrand was madder than ever, a slavering wolf who howled out his rage from a corded throat and launched off his one good leg, straight at Botolf, who half knelt and took the rush of it in both hands, one at Thorbrand’s crotch, the other at his throat.

      Then he straightened, the muscles on him bunching so that it seemed they would split, lifted the kicking, screaming madman in the air, half-turned him like a haunch on a spit and brought him down on his knee, the one which had wood four inches below it, anchored to the ground as strong as any bone.

      The crack was a tree splitting; I thought it was Botolf’s leg until he levered Thorbrand off him. The man still slavered and howled, but not even his head moved, for the back of him was splintered and he was only voice now.

      ‘I am Botolf, by-named Ymir, strongest of the Oathsworn, on one leg or two,’ Botolf panted and spat on Thorbrand. ‘Now you know that, so you know more.’

      Finn moved in and mercifully silenced the raving screams, while I climbed wearily to my feet. The remaining man, pale and wary behind his shield, stood and said nothing, which showed that he was sensible and braver than his lack of fight seemed to suggest.

      There was silence, save for panting, ragged breathing – then Finn moved to Thorbrand’s axe, picked it up and handed it to Botolf.

      ‘Your prize,’ he said. ‘Next time, try not to throw it away.’

      Botolf reversed it, using it as a stick to lever himself upright; I saw blood on his breeks and pointed it out. He shrugged.

      ‘His, I think. He did not hit me.’

      He hirpled off to the cart, while Finn and I watched him go.

      ‘His great heart will be the end of him,’ muttered Finn softly, still breathing hard and we remembered the other times the giant had saved us. Then we looked at the last man, saying nothing until he swallowed into the silence of it, which must have been grinding his courage away.

      ‘I am Hidhinbjorn,’ he said, eventually. ‘I came at the request of Ljot Tokeson, to tell this Thorbrand what has happened.’

      ‘Tell us,’ I grunted and the weight of the shield was suddenly too much for him, so that he took a knee, resting his elbow – and still behind cover, I saw, which showed cleverness.

      ‘We had news from up the fjord. Styrbjorn fought his uncle King Eirik and Jarl Brand. Brand is sore wounded, but Styrbjorn is defeated and fled, so this enterprise is finished with, says Ljot.’

      ‘That is news, right enough,’ growled Botolf, trailing back from the cart. He looked at me and added: ‘Kuritsa is dunted, so that it will hurt by morning, but he is alive and not too done up.’

      I nodded; the bowman had done well, thrall or not.

      ‘This Thorbrand,’ Finn was saying, ‘knew all this?’

      The man nodded and shifted uncomfortably. ‘The bearcoats find Randr Sterki more to their liking than Styrbjorn.’

      That did not surprise me; Randr Sterki was not about to give up his revenge and the bearcoats would want something out of this mess. Hidhinbjorn saw that I understood and got wearily to his feet.

      ‘There is one, Stenvast by name, who has said that killing the queen and the bairn in her will rescue this venture. That way, he says, they keep faith with Pallig Tokeson, who is their sworn lord.’

      This Pallig was clearly Ljot’s brother and one with a weight of silver to afford so many bearcoats. I did not think he would be smiling at the way they were vanishing, all the same – unless someone was handing him buckets of money to make sure Styrbjorn had his due. King Eirik would hesitate to have the troublesome boy parted from his head if he was, in fact, his only heir; but I wondered how sorely Brand was wounded, for if his eyes were in the least open, Styrbjorn would die for what he had done and Brand would apologise to the king afterwards.

      Hidhinbjorn stood, taut as a strung bow, for he clearly thought he would have to fight, but I was bone-weary and blood-sick. To my surprise, it was Finn who waved The Godi casually at him to go away.

      ‘Next time we meet, Hidhinbjorn,’ he growled, ‘it had better be in a friendlier setting, or I will tear off your head and piss down your neck.’

      Hidhinbjorn acknowledged it with an unsmiling nod and put his back to us, which was brave and polite, rather than edge away. When he had vanished round the bend, I realised I had been holding my breath and let it out.

      ‘Aye,’ growled Finn, fishing out a rag to clean The Godi. ‘It has been an awkward day – and there is light left in it yet.’

      Back at the cart, Kuritsa was sitting up and wheezing, his chest bared to show a livid bruise where the shield rim had struck. He breathed in rasps and winced, so that I thought something might be broken there and told him to get in the cart, that we would take him to Bjaelfi.

      ‘That was a good shot with the bow. We will have to promote you, from chicken to eagle,’ I added and Toki chuckled.

      ‘Well,’ growled Finn, ‘rooster at the very least.’

      And we laughed, so shrill and brittle in the pewter day that little Toki was as deep-voiced as any of us, all bright with the relief of survival.

      Yet the blood on Botolf’s breeks was wet and the stain grew as we ground up the track to join the other carts. When Ingrid saw it her hand flew to her mouth and she called out for Bjaelfi, then huckled her big husband off, while little flame-haired Helga stood, solemn eyed, thumb in her mouth.

      The others crowded round, wanting to know what had happened and, for a moment, the faces swam as if under-water and I wanted badly to sit. Thorgunna saw it and chided me in out of the rain and I sat down, listening to it stutter off the canvas; it came to me then that they had not progressed far and had made camp while it was still light.

      I told them what had happened while Aoife and Thordis tended to Kuritsa, who was looked at with new, grudging admiration – but it was the news of Styrbjorn’s defeat which occupied them most.

      ‘At least the wee bairn is safe,’ said a familiar voice and Onund Hnufa shuffled painfully forward. ‘I kept trying to warn you, but all that my mouth would make was “bairn”.’

      I felt a flood of warmth, as if I had stepped in front of a hearthfire.

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