Folkvar gestured around the village.

‘Do you see any kings here?’

‘No, Chief.’

‘Then we pay in honest metal, not coinage.’

‘Aye, Chief.’

There was feasting, but not for Ulfr. He had eaten a little, while one of the travellers declaimed an Eddic poem – about Týr sacrificing his hand so that the hell-wolf Fenrir, offspring of Loki, would be bound in chains – but with too much skaldic cleverness and not enough feeling. Or perhaps this was not the time to celebrate anything.

From the longhouse eaves, a cat stared down at him, not bothered by Brandr or anything much. By a trader’s cart, two figures sat hunched and bound near the front, while a woman sat on the ground by the rear wheel. All three were thin. Their heads were bowed.

Thórr’s blood.

Ulfr returned to the feasting, then came back with three bowls of stew and a skin of sourmilk. The thralls muttered thanks in something that was not the Tongue. Ulfr offered the drink to the woman first, and that was when he heard the scrape of blade from scabbard.

Roaring, he spun to his right and thrust low and long, left fist to liver, slammed the top of his head against nose and teeth, then hammered down. The attacker dropped, but he was still alive. Ulfr shifted, ready to stamp down.

‘Hold, warrior!’

Two traders with spears were standing back. Their comrade on the ground was curled up, breathing fast and groaning, his sword forgotten. Brandr, next to him, growled at the newcomers.

I’ll kill you all.

But then Folkvar was among them, and Vermundr was coming from Ulfr’s left, Hallsteinn from his right.

‘Peace, Ulfr. Eira would have wanted peace.’

‘Agh.’ He pushed out a breath. ‘Agh.’

‘Let it go past you.’

‘No—’

But he forced another exhalation.

Hold.

The imminent berserkrgangr began to fade.

‘He was feeding your thralls as a kindness,’ Vermundr told the traders. ‘He had no interest in the woman.’

Ulfr nodded, staring at the downed man.

I still want to kill you.

Then he shook his head, teeth clenched and shoulders moving, and turned away, then stalked away from the firelight and humanity, only his war-hound at his side as always.

The next morning, he readied Kolr for travelling. The black stallion stamped down, wanting to be on the move. Brandr kept clear of his hooves. The last thing to fasten in place was the crystal-headed spear that Heithrún had given him.

‘Folkvar thought you’d be off on the hunt,’ came a low voice.

‘Hallsteinn?’

‘The same.’ Hallsteinn came out of the gloom, bearing a blanket-wrapped sword, his war-hound Griggr beside him. ‘You’ve friends here, and a chief that appreciates you.’

‘Even though I nearly killed a trader?’

‘He drew first and he’s still alive.’ Hallsteinn grinned. ‘I call that lucky.’

Usually the man with the unsheathed weapon was the man who won, but Ulfr understood what Hallsteinn meant. No one had died; no one need cry blood vengeance. If Folkvar could be diplomatic enough, the traders might even return some time.

‘Best if I’m gone before they wake.’

The liver punch would have done damage, and be painful days in the healing.

‘Not without this sword.’ Hallsteinn unwrapped it. ‘From the chief.’

‘What?’

‘He wanted to do it all ceremonial, like. Take this with you, but when you come back he’ll present it to you himself in front of everybody. That’s what he said.’

There was a belt threaded through the scabbard, and its buckle was a wolf’s head, inscribed as Ulfr.

‘Draw the blade,’ said Hallsteinn.

Ulfr did, and its runes matched the buckle’s inscription.

‘Be the wolf,’ added Hallsteinn.

Ulfr looked at him.

I already am.

He sheathed the sword, and tied the belt around his waist.

For the next day and the next, making distance was everything, solitude his goal. Part of the time he rode Kolr, other times he walked alongside the stallion. When riding, he upped the pace to a trot for measured periods, while Brandr rode Kolr, lengthwise across the saddle in front of Ulfr, war-hound and stallion taking to the arrangement as if they had been doing it for years.

But he would not rely on the stallion. Riding was not like sitting on a stool, but still, Ulfr needed to keep his legs in shape by running. Many a battle was preceded by a full day’s run or more to reach the battleground. Besides, only in movement could he forget.

It was the beginning of the second evening when he came across the injured wolf.

‘Hold, Brandr.’

He slipped down and used the reins to hobble Kolr. Then he crossed to the dark-grey shape, and stared into those circular irises, pale as bone.

‘Hush, my brother.’

The foreleg was broken, but dark blood, spilled from a raking gash, was the greater problem. Much had poured out, and the wolf was weak, too weak to—

No!

—attack, but a shape was flying at Ulfr’s throat and he fell back, smashing forearm into fangs and then Brandr was there, snarling and rending—

She-wolf.

—making room as Ulfr rolled, the sword coming free, chaos all around like the swirling Ginnungagap before the worlds began, and then he could see his target and the blade went in, hard and deep, stopping the heart.

‘By Thórr.’

He pushed himself up from the she-wolf, and moved on hands and knees to the male.

Dead.

Even as his mate had fought, the male’s spirit had slipped out, unable to hang on.

Norns be damned.

There had been no need for this, for the male’s injury or the female’s confusion as she fought for her mate. There was no need for any of the harsh tricks the three dread sisters played on humanity. Perhaps they existed, but no one would ever worship them.

If I could kill the three of you, I would.

He checked that Brandr was unwounded, save for scratches. Then he made a small fire and sat down cross-legged, his back to the flames, looking at the two dead wolves.

Ulfr stared down at the part-grave, part-cairn. His friends, like Hallsteinn and Vermundr, would not understand his honouring the wolves like this. Burial, though not without skinning them first.

Folkvar’s wrong about me.

It would be nice to fit in among the others, but part of his spirit was solitary, and people recognized it. Chief Folkvar, perhaps because his own abilities set him apart, seemed to consider Ulfr as an heir, as someone capable of command. It was an over-estimation: aloofness was not the same as superiority.

Medium wise should a man be,

Never too wise.

No man should know his fate in advance;

His heart will be the freer of care.

There were catchier verses among the best-known poems. There were some that stirred a warrior’s blood, and others shining with cleverness. But this call for ordinariness was something that Eira used to sing.

‘I know my fate, so damn you, Norns.’

Blood and death and hatred.

And my heart is not free.

Bound to a rock, like Fenrir or Loki, was more like it.

Yet while he imagined a solid rock and a fell creature tied to it, what he saw in the distance was very different: a moving mass of soil and stones, misshapen, squat yet huge, far bigger than a man. Something rippled in the air in front of it, then twisted out of existence.

‘You’ve let him escape again!’

It was the troll, and it was hunting Stígr.

‘NO!’

In the distance, the troll stopped moving. Then it, too, began to rotate, pulling the air with it until it was gone from sight—

Bastard creature.

—before rearing from the earth two spears’ lengths away.

‘Shit and blood.’ Ulfr leaped for the reins. ‘Shh. Brandr, come. Shh now, Kolr.’

Blowing into the stallion’s nostrils, he held the big head, wrestling against the strength of equine neck muscles. Hobbled, Kolr could not run, but he might still rear and fall.