Wayland padded through the forest with Syth and the dog in ghostly attendance. To their right the horned moon laid a silver trackway across the river. From the Vikings’ camp on the opposite bank came a ceaseless chopping and hammering. Day and night they laboured to repair their longship. When Wayland had spied on them the day after the battle, he would have sworn that the hulk was unsalvageable, its mid-section burned to the waterline. Returning the next day, he’d found that they’d already started replacing the strakes and yesterday they’d made good the starboard timbers.
He crept into a grove of willows and peered up through the tracery. Two plump silhouettes sprouted from a branch twenty feet above the ground. He turned to Syth, laid a finger to his lips and worked his way round until both roosting grouse were outlined against the moon. He dropped to one knee and raised the miniature crossbow Raul had made for him. The bow was drawn, an untipped arrow slotted in the track. He aimed low to compensate for the spring of the bolt at such close range. He loosed. A solid thump and one of the grouse fell flapping in its death spasms on the forest floor. Its mate uttered a cluck of alarm and shifted along the branch. Wayland reloaded and took fresh aim.
Missed. The bolt clattered away through the boughs. The grouse shuffled almost to the tip. Wayland loaded another bolt. The branch bobbed under the weight of the grouse. Wayland tried to adjust to the rhythm. No good. He shut his eyes, took a breath, raised the bow and loosed as soon as the grouse came into his sights.
Phut.
Wayland blinked. The branch was bare. The dog ran in to retrieve. He massaged the back of his neck. ‘That’s enough for tonight.’
‘How many have we got?’
Wayland counted the bodies looped around his belt. ‘That makes seven.’
Syth clapped her hands. ‘Six for the falcons. One for us. I’ll cook it right now.’
While she roasted the game, Wayland stared vacantly into the flames. He was worn out by his never-ending duties — tending the falcons, finding food for them, spying on the Vikings …
He ate his share of the grouse in silence. Across the fire, Syth watched him with eyes full of questions. He knew she was troubled by his moody silences, the fact that he hadn’t taken her in his arms since leaving Iceland.
‘This is half raw,’ he said, tossing the remains to the dog.
‘I know you’re tired, so I cooked it as fast as I could.’
Wayland lay down and pulled up a blanket. Syth settled beside him, not quite touching. He could sense her unhappiness. He remembered the rows between his parents and his relief when they made up. He rolled over. ‘It’s not you that puts me out of heart. It’s thinking of what we have to go through.’
‘It’s not only that,’ she said. ‘You’re worried that you’re stuck with me for ever and ever.’ She snuggled close, her breath warm on his cheek. ‘I might get sick of you first.’
Wayland bolted awake. Syth and the dog came tearing out of the sallows.
‘Old Horny’s in the river!’
Wayland grabbed his bow. ‘Old Horny?’
‘Black with horns and cloven feet, big as a house.’
Her eyes were huge and the dog seemed to have been seized by a fit, jaws gnashing, flanks trembling. Excitement not terror. He peered towards the river. Grey trees were beginning to gather out of the dawn. He heard water purling through a shoal.
‘Stay here.’
He strung an arrow and worked towards the bank. Glancing back, he saw Syth creeping behind him with one hand clenched between her teeth. He gestured at her to go back.
She shook her head emphatically.
Wayland reached the edge of the thicket. Twenty yards from the bank stood a diabolical misshape backlit by the paling sky. He’d never seen such a monster. Several different creatures seemed to have gone into its making. Its dewlapped head had a trunk-like snout, jackass ears and a crown of antlers six feet across. A bull’s humped shoulders sloped down to a puny crupper tipped with an apology of a tail. All supported on knobbly legs that looked too spindly to bear its weight. It looked up, masticating slowly. Water dribbled from its muzzle. It breathed a soft snort and lowered its head again. Wayland wormed back to Syth.
‘It’s not the devil,’ he whispered.
‘What is it then?’
‘Some kind of deer.’
‘Old Horny can take any form he chooses. Once when I was in the fen, I saw a flittermouse that-’
Wayland pressed a hand over her mouth and opened his eyes wide in warning.
She nodded and he took his hand away. He raised his bow. Syth clutched at him.
‘You’re not going to kill it.’
‘We’ve nearly finished the horsemeat. A beast that big will feed us for a week. Stay here and don’t make a sound.’
The beast hadn’t moved. There was no wind to carry their scent and the current jostling down the shoal must have smothered their voices. The beast was standing almost head-on to him. Wayland waited for it to present its flank. He could make out the gleam of its eyes. It shifted its position and sighed. A melancholy misfit oppressed by its solitude. Wayland sighted behind the withers. Only a shot to the heart would bring down an animal that size.
He knew he’d hit his mark from the hollow sound the arrow made as it struck. The beast grunted and plunged forward, its hooves throwing up spray. The dog hurled itself into the water.
‘Leave it, fool!’
Wayland drew another arrow and set off along the bank in pursuit. The beast was galloping towards a spit choked with willows and birches. It had almost reached it when it stumbled and sank down on its front knees. The dog whimpered and paddled faster. The beast groaned and regained its feet. It staggered forward and then stopped again, legs splayed, head drooping. Deaf to Wayland’s commands, the dog surged up and sank its jaws into a hind leg, aiming for the hamstring. Spray exploded and the dog went sailing through the air to land fifteen feet away.
‘I told you!’
The beast swung its head towards him. Gouts of blood poured from its mouth. It gave a sorrowing grunt and then it settled on its hindquarters and flopped over.
There was a ringing in Wayland’s ears. The dog swam up to the carcass, apparently uninjured. He puffed out his cheeks and turned. Syth was standing a few feet away, staring in awe. He drew his knife.
‘I’d better check that it’s dead.’
It lay on its side, blood darkening the water around it. He looked into its eye and saw his reflection, growing duller with each passing moment.
The dog was watching him with a sheepish expression. He kicked out at it. ‘You’re lucky it didn’t break your back.’
He dragged the beast into the shallows and tethered it by a line to a tree. Syth walked around it, studying it from all angles, but she wouldn’t come within touching distance.
‘Run back to camp and tell Raul to bring the boat.’
She turned and bounded away, her limbs whirling in the way that always made him smile.
‘Better make that two boats.’
She ran on the spot and then darted off, the dog racing after her. Wayland looked again at the beast and his smile died. He ran a hand through his hair.
The new-risen sun lay like a chalice in a hollow on the horizon. He lay down with his hands behind his head. Above him, birch leaves winked like gold coins. He felt like a murderer.
The sun was shining in his eyes when he woke. He rose yawning and peered towards the Viking camp. The sounds of labour had stopped. The Vikings had dragged the longship out of the water to continue their repairs, and from here it was hidden by the curve of the bay.
He was about to turn away when a jerky movement caught his attention. Up over the trees fringing the bay rose a pale spar. Wayland grimaced. A mast swinging upright.
A creature in the forest gave a pained scream. The cry came again, from further off. He scanned the trees behind him. There were bears and wolves in the forest. He’d seen their spoor.
When he looked across the river again, the dragon ship was gliding out into the bay, its new timbers in bald contrast to the rest of the hull. Oars stroked and then rested. Even if it wasn’t fit to take to the open sea, the Vikings could use it to block the company’s escape. The oars dipped again and the longship reversed back into its lair. After a while the hammering and tapping started up again.
Wayland looked upriver and saw the two boats approaching. When Raul saw the beast he pushed his hat high up his scalded brow.
‘How many arrows did it take?’
‘One. Do you know what it is?’
‘Elk. I’ve seen them on the Baltic coast. Good eating. Smoked, it will keep us fed until we reach Norway.’ He noticed the grouse at the base of the tree. ‘And you’ve got grub for the falcons.’
‘It isn’t enough.’
‘Kill some more tonight.’
Wayland shook his head. ‘The Vikings have repaired the longship. They’ve even made a new mast.’
Raul scanned the enemy shore. ‘A mast ain’t no use without a sail.’
‘It doesn’t matter. They still control the river.’
The company slept on Shearwater out in mid-river — a precaution against its capture by Drogo and Helgi’s men. Come sunrise next morning, her crew brought her in close to the Icelanders’ camp, dropping anchor in five feet of water. The refugees jostled on the bank with their provisions and the few trade goods they’d saved. Vallon lifted a hand.
‘Before you board, some rules. First, all food goes into a common store.’
Voices rose in dissent and a few individuals clutched their bundles to their chests.
‘It’s up to you. Keep your own food, go your own way. Richard’s in charge of the stores and will make sure everybody receives fair shares. You can appoint one of your own people to help him.’
The grumbles subsided.
‘No Icelander is allowed to carry arms on the ship without my permission. Hand over your weapons as you board. They’ll be kept ready for immediate use, but if any man takes up a sword without my say-so, I’ll treat it as mutiny.’ Ignoring the fresh wave of protests, Vallon turned to Garrick. ‘Bring her in. Load the horses first.’
When they’d been lowered into the hold, the Icelanders began filing onto the ship. Raul and Garrick collected their weapons. Hero and Richard gathered in the provisions. As one man jumped to the deck, Raul seized him by the arm, reached into the man’s tunic and pulled out a small sack. He opened it and sniffed the contents. ‘Barley,’ he said, and cuffed the smuggler across the deck.
The stern deck filled. Caitlin stood arguing at the foot of the gangplank with Tostig and Olaf, Helgi’s men.
‘We haven’t got all day,’ said Vallon.
Tostig looked up. ‘We won’t lay down our swords.’
‘Then stay here. You’ll be doing me a favour.’
Caitlin said something Vallon didn’t catch. Tostig and Olaf climbed the plank in a fury, hurling down their swords so violently that Raul had to use both hands to wrench them from the deck.
Dressed in a plain wool shift, Caitlin mounted the plank with her maids. Hands helped her down and the Icelanders parted before her.
Only the two Normans remained on the bank. ‘Fulk will hand over his sword,’ said Drogo. ‘You know I can’t surrender mine.’
‘I understand,’ said Vallon. ‘Garrick, raise the plank and leave Drogo with his honour unblemished.’
‘You were glad enough of my sword the night we fought the Vikings. You’ll probably need it again before this journey is over. I give you my word that I won’t raise it against you until we reach a place of safety.’
Vallon glanced at his company, saw Raul shrug. He turned back to Drogo. ‘I accept your promise. Now get aboard. We’re wasting the tide.’
The Icelanders crammed the stern deck. Raul stood on a thwart to count them. ‘Twenty-three. Captain, even if we could rescue the prisoners, there ain’t no room for them.’
Vallon nodded, then called for silence. ‘Most of you were sailing for Nidaros, but we don’t have enough food and water for such a long voyage. We’ll take you to the nearest haven. From there you’ll have to make your own arrangements. In the meantime, here are some more rules. Some of you know that I campaigned against the Moors in Spain. I noticed that our Muslim enemies enjoyed better health than the Christian armies did. The Moors avoid fevers by washing their hands before handling food and after attending to the wants of nature.’
Raul was translating. ‘Not sure they follow you, Captain.’
‘Tell them to shit in the buckets provided at the stern and rinse their hands afterwards. No personal cooking fires. Meals to be taken in shifts.’ Vallon lifted a hand. ‘One last thing. The foredeck is reserved for my company. Nobody steps on it without my permission. That’s it.’
Father Hilbert called for attention. ‘Before we commit ourselves to the perils that await us, let us fall to our knees in earnest supplication of God’s mercy and forgiveness for all the grievous wrongs-’
‘Say your prayers on the move,’ said Vallon. He nodded at Garrick. ‘Hoist anchor.’
Shearwater rowed to within a mile of the Vikings’ camp before their lookouts blew a warning.
‘Keep to the left bank,’ Vallon ordered. ‘Raul, prepare to hand out the weapons.’
‘They won’t be able to launch their ship in time,’ Wayland said. He’d returned from last night’s prowling to report that the pirates had beached the longship for further repairs.
The tide bore them downstream at strolling pace. The bay came in sight.
‘There they are!’
The Vikings streamed down to the shore, yelling and shaking their weapons. One group dragged behind them the roped and wretched prisoners. Their captors herded them to the water’s edge, where they fell to their knees, raising arms in supplication, beating their chests, tearing their hair.
‘We must save them!’ one of the passengers shouted, and other Icelanders took up his cry. Many were relatives or neighbours of the captives.
‘Keep going,’ Vallon said.
‘There’s Thorfinn,’ said Raul. ‘Christ, he’s a big bastard.’
Naked to the waist, the Viking chief ran into the river, pushing out the longship’s boat. He jumped into it as Shearwater drifted below the lower edge of the bay. The boat soon appeared behind them, rowed by four men. Thorfinn crouched in the bow, shouting at the oarsmen to dig deeper and faster.
‘What’s he after?’ said Raul.
‘I believe he wants to negotiate.’
The rowers strained to catch up, keeping out of crossbow range. Four or five Vikings scrambled along the bank behind them. The boat drew level and Thorfinn cupped his hands around his mouth.
‘Raul, tell the Icelanders to be quiet. Garrick, bring us within earshot.’
Shearwater steered to starboard.
‘That’s close enough.’
Thorfinn stood up. ‘Hey, Frankish. Where are you going? You think you’ll sail around the North Cape? No, you’re too late. Hey, Frankish, listen to me. Even if you get round the cape, you’ll starve before you reach the nearest settlement.’
‘You understand what he’s saying?’ Raul asked.
‘I get the drift.’
‘Hey, Frankish, let’s talk.’
‘Raul, what do you think?’
‘I say we keep going.’
‘What about you, Hero?’
‘I think we should find out what he has to say. We know the journey down the Norway seaboard is dangerous. The currents are treacherous and the mountains fall straight into the sea. Thorfinn knows those waters. We might get some useful information out of him.’
Vallon faced downstream, the forest sliding away on each side. At this rate, they would meet the sea before noon and then their fate would be determined by nothing more complicated than wind and weather.
‘Heave to.’
‘Captain, we ain’t going to get nothing out of Thorfinn.’
‘Anchor in the middle of the channel. Wayland, tell Thorfinn to approach.’
The Vikings stroked towards Shearwater and backed water about a hundred yards off.
‘Come closer,’ Vallon shouted. ‘I can’t hear you.’
Thorfinn mimed rowing motions. ‘You come to me.’
Vallon looked for a way to end the impasse. Not far downstream the current divided around two smooth tongues of rock separated by a deep channel. After many false starts and cross-purposes, Vallon made it understood that he and one other would parley with Thorfinn and another Viking delegate, each pair to occupy a separate boulder.
Thorfinn waved agreement. ‘You go first, Frankish.’
‘Come with me,’ Vallon told Wayland. ‘Leave your bow.’ They climbed into the spare boat, rowed down to the boulders and climbed onto its polished surface. Wayland kept hold of the boat. Thorfinn put ashore to offload his men, then he and one of his lieutenants headed towards the rendezvous.
The Viking chief stood in the bow dangling his axe from one hand. Its crescent-shaped blade must have weighed fifteen pounds, yet he hefted it as casually as if it were an item of cutlery. In addition, he wore at his waist a plain broadsword and carried at the back of his belt a short stabbing blade or scramasax. He leaped on to the rock, appeared to trip and teetered at the edge of the channel. He recovered himself and looked up, his jaw split in a splayed ochre grin.
Vallon frowned. ‘He’s clowning.’
Thorfinn’s grin died. He raised his axe one-handed and pointed it at each enemy in turn, sighting on them with eyes as cold as a gull’s. He was built on a prodigious scale — close to seven feet tall, with thighs like wine tuns and a chest slabbed with muscle. Years of axe- and sword-play had made a hump of his right shoulder. Across his naked torso marched a fantasy in woad — winged eagles, writhing serpents, warriors on horseback. He let the axe head drop to the stone with a clang.
‘You are in bad trouble, Frankish.’
‘Not as bad as you. We have a sound vessel and plenty of fresh meat. You have neither.’
Thorfinn aimed his axe at the Viking camp. ‘We’ve got a living larder.’ He gnashed his teeth. ‘Hungry wolves take big bites.’
‘No sail or cordage, though. Without them, you’re going nowhere.’
Thorfinn dropped to his hams and peered at Vallon over the haft of his axe. ‘All right, Frankish, I’ll trade you four prisoners for the sail from the Icelanders’ ship.’
‘I don’t want your prisoners. I’m already carrying more Icelanders than I can cope with.’
Thorfinn said something to his lieutenant before turning back. ‘What I say is true. You can’t return around the North Cape. Ask the Icelandic captains.’
‘I’d rather hear it from you.’
‘The autumn winds will be against you. They’ll crush you against the rocks. They’ll drive you into the Maelstrom.’
‘If that’s the case, what are you doing so far east?’
Thorfinn wiped his nose. ‘We didn’t choose to land on this coast any more than you did. We were on an expedition to the Faroes when the storm blew us round the cape.’
‘That shows how fickle the winds can be. Winter is still a few weeks off. All we need is two or three days of easterlies and we’ll be back in the open ocean.’
Thorfinn stood up. ‘Suppose you did round the cape. There are no settlements between here and Halogaland. That’s my country. This year the harvest was poor. How do you think my people will treat you when you come ashore begging for food and shelter?’ He clucked his tongue and drew the edge of his axe across his throat.
‘I’ve no reason to believe anything you say.’
Thorfinn regarded him thoughtfully. ‘The Icelanders say you’re travelling to the Varangian Way.’
‘The Road to the Greeks,’ said Wayland.
‘Suppose we are.’
‘There’s only one way to reach it.’ Thorfinn felt in his belt purse and took out a stub of pigment. He wetted it in the river, knelt on the boulder and began tracing a shape on the stone. First he drew what looked like the outline of a thick thumb, and then from the base of the thumb, he added a squiggly V.
‘What is that supposed to show?’
Thorfinn placed his index finger on the beginning of the line and jabbed it up and down.
‘He’s saying it marks the spot where we’re standing,’ said Wayland.
‘Ja, ja. Hit.’ Thorfinn pointed east, put his finger on the starting point and moved it in three arcs to the end of the thumb. ‘After three days’ sailing the land turns south into Danger Bay. The Rus call it the White Sea.’ His finger described half a dozen more arcs before reaching the bottom of the V. ‘Six days’ sailing and you come to the head of Danger Bay. From there a river takes you south through the forest to Holmgard.’
‘Holmgard’s the Norse name for Novgorod,’ Wayland said.
Vallon was intrigued. ‘You’ve travelled this route.’
‘Of course. For furs and slaves. The last time two summers ago.’
Vallon eyed the drawing, an unknown landscape dimly forming in his mind. ‘Danger Bay, you called it.’
‘Skraelings live on its shore. Lapps. Nomad fishermen and reindeer herders. On our last expedition they captured three of my men. I never even saw them taken. Their wizards can assume whatever shape is agreeable to them.’
‘Is there food along the way?’
‘At this season the shores swarm with wildfowl and the fish jam the rivers so tightly that there isn’t room for them to swim upstream.’
‘How far to Novgorod from Danger Bay?’
‘From one new moon to the next.’
‘A whole month?’
‘Listen, Frankish, it would take you three months to sail to Novgorod through the Baltic.’
‘He’s probably right,’ said Wayland. ‘It took us three weeks just to reach the Orkneys.’
Vallon turned back to Thorfinn. ‘Describe the journey overland.’
Thorfinn took up his chalk again. Working on a fresh area of rock, he drew a vertical line, followed by a small circle. ‘You follow a river south until you reach a lake.’ He drew another line and then a large circle. ‘Another river and another lake called Onega, so big you can’t see across it.’ He slashed another vertical and followed up with a circle so large he ran out of space. ‘One more river brings you to Lake Ladoga, even larger than the last. Follow the southern shore and you are in the land of the Rus.’
‘What’s to stop us from finding the route by ourselves?’
‘A hundred rivers flow into Danger Bay. Only one of them takes you to Holmgard. All the others lead to the grave.’ Thorfinn jabbed his chest. ‘I know the right river.’
‘Is that the route you’re taking?’
‘It’s the only way left to us. Even if we had a sail, our keel’s too weak to risk the ocean. Hey, Frankish, give me your spare sail and we’ll voyage south together.’
Vallon stared upstream. ‘Does this river have a name?’
Thorfinn shrugged. ‘You can call it what you like.’
‘It flows from the south. Wouldn’t it bring us to the same place?’
Thorfinn shook his head. ‘A day upriver it divides. One fork goes west, the other has rapids that can only be passed in small boats.’
‘Will we be able to take our ship to Novgorod?’ Another shake of the head. ‘Your knarr draws too much water.’
‘We need to consider what you’ve said.’
Thorfinn gave an expansive wave. ‘Take your time, Frankish.’
Vallon turned to Wayland. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘The route’s probably more difficult than he makes out, but he wouldn’t offer to guide us unless it was passable. What I don’t understand is why.’
‘Simple. First, unless we give him a sail, he and his men are dead. Second, he wants our passengers for slaves and our trade goods for booty. Since he can’t seize our ship, he hopes to herd us like lambs to slaughter until we’re close to market. That way, he doesn’t even need to feed us on the journey.’
‘A truce wouldn’t last that long. One wrong word, one small setback … Also, it would mean abandoning Shearwater. If the overland route proved to be impassable, there’d be no way back.’
‘I know.’ Vallon made a calliper with thumb and forefinger and clamped it across his forehead. He gazed at the ship upstream. All the passengers were watching, wondering what fate was being hammered out for them. ‘It’s difficult. What would your decision be?’
Wayland looked at the forest, looked at the sky. Vallon waited. He was struck by the incongruity of their situation — negotiating with a barbarian on a rock in the middle of a nameless wilderness river.
‘It’s the falcons,’ Wayland said at last. ‘If we go by the seaway, they’ll die. All it would take is a few days without food. If the land described by Thorfinn is half as rich in game as he says … I’ve come a long way for those falcons. If it was up to me, I’d risk the overland route.’
‘So would I, for various reasons. One of them being that Drogo won’t move against us while he’s got the Vikings to worry about.’
Thorfinn was squatting on his islet, probing inside his mouth.
Vallon faced him. ‘There are conditions.’
The Viking rose shaking his head. ‘First you give me the sail and cordage. Then maybe we’ll talk again.’
‘I’ll give you half a sail.’
‘Nei!’
‘Half a sail and enough cordage to rig it. In return you’ll hand over the women prisoners and four of your men as hostages. We’ll give you six men in exchange. Each set of hostages will guarantee the safety of the other. Once we reach the head of Danger Bay, we’ll release them.’
Thorfinn’s jaw hung loose. He leaned forward, eyes squinting for trickery. ‘Why six of your people?’
‘Because the Icelanders are a burden and the fewer I carry, the easier my life will be. I’ll even supply rations for the six hostages.’
Thorfinn went into huddled council with his lieutenant. Finally he turned.
‘I won’t part with the women. Why do you want them? They’re not your kin.’
‘Unless you release them, I won’t give you the sail.’
‘Then we’ll all perish.’
Vallon looked at Wayland. ‘I can’t jeopardise the lives of twenty for the sake of two. There’ll be other opportunities to save them.’ He faced Thorfinn. ‘We’ll settle the women’s fate another day. The other terms aren’t negotiable.’
Thorfinn smiled as if contemplating a sunny prospect behind Vallon’s head. ‘Give me six strong men who can ply oars.’
Raul hailed them.
‘The tide’s on the turn,’ Wayland said.
‘How soon can you make your ship ready?’ Vallon asked Thorfinn.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘We’ll make the exchange at the mouth of the river. If we’re not there, it’s because we’ve caught a wind from the east.’
A storm of outrage burst upon Vallon when he returned to the ship and announced his change of plan. The refugees surged forward. Raul pushed them back. Drogo shouldered his way to the front.
‘You have no right to gamble with our lives.’
‘Whatever course we take is a gamble.’ Vallon waved his arms. ‘Quiet! Hear what I have to say.’
The uproar diminished. ‘You all know my story,’ Vallon said. He pointed at Drogo. ‘You know that this man pursued me to Iceland to exact revenge for a harm that exists only in his mind.’ He pointed at Caitlin. ‘You know that this lady’s brother challenged me to combat for an imagined slight to her honour. Even so, I rescued Drogo and Helgi.’
The crowd was stone silent. ‘You wonder why? Because abandoning them would have condemned all of you to death. God knows I’m no saint, but faced with the choice of saving my own company and leaving innocents to die, I chose the Christian course. That’s still the course I follow. The alternative, the easier path, would be to hazard the voyage around North Cape and set you down at the first convenient haven. If I did that, most of you would starve or be cast into slavery. The path I’ve chosen will be dangerous. Some of us won’t reach the end, but I believe that it offers the best hope.’
Vallon hadn’t finished. ‘You pleaded with me to rescue your neighbours and kinsmen. Now you can turn words into deeds. I need four men to travel with the Vikings as hostages. No harm will come to them.’
Words go only so far. Shearwater was nearly at the estuary before the Icelanders had badgered and browbeaten four of their number into standing surety.
Wayland frowned at Vallon. ‘You promised Thorfinn six hostages.’
‘The other two will come from my company. Garrick.’
The Englishman flinched.
‘If you go as hostage, you might find a way of saving the women prisoners.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The rest of the company stared in dismay. Vallon’s gaze travelled over each in turn. ‘I need someone to spy on the Vikings. Discover their strengths and weaknesses, learn their habits. After suffering so many setbacks, their morale won’t be high. We might be able to bring a few of them over to our side.’ His gaze passed over Raul and dwelt on Wayland before switching.
‘Hero. I’m sending you.’