At some point, the spear sucked free of the wound, and the blood-streaked stag ran on, faster for a while. Ulfr dipped to retrieve the weapon, slowing for a moment, before resuming the rhythm of the chase, heartbeat and footsteps in time with the chanting in his head, the mesmeric hunting song he memorized as a child of five, some twelve summers ago.

He was smiling and Brandr’s teeth were bared, hunters together, doing what they were born to do, bound by love, sharing joy in the toughness of the moment.

It was late afternoon when the stag failed to clear a rock, stumbled and went down. It lay on its side, kicking, saliva frothing at the sides of its small mouth, eyes wide as Ulfr leaned over, one fist against his chest as he uttered the words of Thórr’s blessing. So clear and dark and insightful, those eyes—

Now.

—that seemed to fill with mist, like the surface of a lake at dawn, while the final breath was hoarse, drawn out, lasting beyond the final kick of limbs.

‘Thank you,’ said Ulfr. ‘You honour us with the treasure of your gift.’

His knife-blade was of bronze, and it sliced deep and fast, so that slick hotness bathed his hand, blood steaming in the still-cool air, as he cut the liver free. He sliced it into nine pieces, tossed two to Brandr and bit into one, thanking his prey for the warm life it gave him. Blood trickled down his chin, and he wiped it.

Afterwards he made a dry heather fire using flint and iron, wrapped the remaining liver pieces in mud and put them to cook. Returning to the stag’s body, he unwound cords from his waist - cured sinews from the bear he slew last winter with Hallsteinn’s help - and bound its legs together.

Then he sat with knees drawn up by the fire, one arm hugging Brandr close, sharing warmth while the liver cooked; and the carcass of its former owner stared with lifeless eyes.

Night was a grey-black cavern, clouds like shrouds obscuring the stars, and the moon’s glow was dull. Ulfr passed the village boundary, the dead stag heavy on his shoulders, Brandr trotting at his side. Ahead, the long halls were cast into silhouette by orange-lit smoke from the fire-pit that lay beyond. There was a thunk of axe-head in wood, then another, followed by sarcastic laughter. Ulfr wondered who was winning the competition, who was losing, and how much they had bet.

Then a moan resonated through the night and he stopped, the carcass pressing against the back of his neck. He squatted down to shrug the weight off, almost springing into the air with release as he stood once more, freed of the burden.

Brandr snarled.

‘With me,’ said Ulfr.

Was that a raven’s shadow passing overhead through night-time clouds?

‘Me next,’ he heard. It sounded like Tófi’s voice, followed by: ‘Good aim.’

This time there was a definite cry.

‘You whimper like a girl.’ That growl could only come from Thórrvaldr, bear-like warrior and the village’s weaponsmith. ‘Your manhood’s next. I like to aim for small targets.’

‘That’s too small even for you,’ said someone.

What in the name of Niflheim was happening? Ulfr circled his shoulders, trying to loosen the bands of pain, and tossed his spear from one hand to the other. Then he strode past the single men’s living-hall and halted, taking in the firelit drama that was worse than he had feared.

Jarl, his friend and Eira’s brother, stood bound to the hall’s doorpost by leather ropes, his shoulder split apart, jagged white-grey bones soaked in sopping red, gashes and wounds across his torso and bare thighs, a leather gag in his mouth, the terror of Hel in his eyes.

An axe sailed end-over-end through the air and smacked into Jarl’s stomach, burying its iron head, splitting his liver. Ulfr thought back to the stag, then pushed the memory aside.

‘What’s going on?’ he called.

Behind the men he knew, a cloaked man pulled down the brim of his hat, and slipped back into shadow. Then a tall warrior with long moustaches and braided hair stepped in front of Ulfr. It took a moment to recognize him: Skári, who had gone a-viking as far as Hibernia, normally emotionless, his expression odd and twisted in the firelight.

‘Young Jarl,’ he said, ‘took himself a lover. Over the mountain, as if that would stop us finding out.’

‘A lover?’

‘But not a girl, see? This one pokes men. How disgusting is that?’

‘I don’t—’ This made no sense. ‘Stop now.’

‘Too late for that. Too late for shit-dick here.’

Another axe, another thunk - a butcher’s sound - and a gagged scream from Jarl, eyes wide as he stared at Ulfr, then nothing as he slumped, head down.

Too late for life.

Jarl was suffering but there was no healer who could deal with such wounds, except perhaps in the old stories, not in the hard reality of the Middle World.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ulfr.

He took two paces forward as he threw.

So sorry, my friend.

The spear cracked through ribs, ripped the heart apart and pierced the wooden post. Death was immediate. Ulfr thumped his fist against his chest, then raised it, offering the sign of Thórr’s hammer to the disembodied shade.

Soon enough, poor Jarl would begin his journey to Niflheim and the kingdom of Hel.

I’ve killed Eira’s brother.

How could poor Jarl, no matter how far he strayed from warrior ways, deserve this? Even some of the gods - the darker gods - were shapeshifters and gender-changers: Óthinn as much as Loki, the All-Father and the Trickster, both evil as much as good, ruthless and tricky. Was it any wonder that some men followed those ways instead of the bluff, straightforward lives of ordinary warriors, the children of Thórr?

The village’s foremost archer, Ivárr, was approaching with bow in hand. He looked at Jarl, then at Ulfr, and nodded.

‘No one deserves that,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

‘But you didn’t try to stop them.’

‘What, fight the whole village? Defy the chief’s orders?’

Everything was awful.

‘Folkvar ordered this?’

‘Yes, or so they said.’ Ivárr moved his chin to indicate Thórrvaldr and Snorri. ‘They were at a feast with the poet, and someone said what Jarl had been up to. I’d been outside to piss, and when I went back in for another mead—Anyway. They’d already hammered Jarl to the ground.’

‘Feasting with the poet? Jarl’s the poet. Or was.’

‘I mean the other one. He—The other one.’

Lines of puzzlement deepened on faces all around: Ivárr and Snorri, Hávarthr and Ormr, Vermundr and Steinn and Thórvalldr, glancing at each other or down at the ground, puzzling something out.

Far off in the distance, disturbing chords of music sounded: da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da.

‘Do you hear that?’ Ulfr knew as he formed the words that they were pointless. ‘Never mind.’

He would ask Eira. She would know what the music meant. Except . . . except she had a slain brother to mourn, riven by axes and killed by his spear, and how could this have happened?

‘We were ensorcelled,’ said Ivárr. ‘Does everyone agree?’

There were both shakes and nods of the head, and many frowns.

‘I guess.’ Thórrvaldr inhaled, expanding his barrel chest, then blew out. ‘Maybe we were.’

‘So who was this poet?’ said Ulfr.

‘Poet?’

‘I thought there was—Ivárr, you said the feast was for a poet, yes?’

‘I don’t . . . know.’

Ulfr looked from warrior to warrior, seeing only confusion.

‘Whatever happened, it’s fading.’

‘Um.’ Steinn rubbed his face. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing now.’

Then Steinn jumped back, blood fading from his cheeks, raising his hand to point at Jarl’s bloodied corpse.

‘Gods, what is this?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘What—? No. I had a dream that we killed him. But we couldn’t have, because . . . because . . .’