Thoryn was nimble, swinging his axe towards Sweyn’s chest, but his brother was speedier, arresting the blow and sending his own blade into Thoryn’s upper arm.
I cried out as Thoryn crumpled. He slumped to the floor, groaning and clutching the wound.
Sweyn gazed down at him. “’Twas my bargain, brother—to lead them here, bringing them up through the chasm in the cliffs. You must remember how we discovered the crevice leading to the cave, and the pact we made to keep all secret? Our special place, that no other knew of.”
Pulling his arm into his chest, Thoryn winced. “You’re no brother of mine but some changeling, sent to destroy what we’ve built.”
Sweyn pushed him lightly with his foot. “If you be right, then I truly owe Skálavík nothing and shall take from it what I see fit.”
Tipping back his head, Thoryn grimaced. “And you helped our enemy all along, I suppose, with that worm who set the longhouse blazing.”
“Oh no! That you have quite wrong.” Sweyn’s laughter was mirthless. “I found the sorry cur spying on us, right enough, on the edge of the forest, but it was I who shot those arrows. A rewarding hunting trip, indeed, for I caught a scapegoat for my misdeed, and broke his jaw before dragging him to our jarl.”
Hearing those words, the room swam before me. All this time, Eldberg had believed Gunnolf’s man responsible for the fire that killed his wife. On this basis, he’d attacked Svolvaen and blamed Eirik equally with his brother. But Sweyn had been the viper, waiting to send his venom to Skálavík’s heart.
Thoryn closed his eyes. “And what now, Sweyn? You must kill me, for I’ll not permit your foul villainy—not while I live.”
“Aye, brother, you’ll die, and the whore with you. Look how she quivers.” His voice dripped with contempt. “There shall be none alive to contradict my story.”
As Sweyn bent to Thoryn, placing his hands about his neck, I took the one chance I had. Flinging myself across the room, I plunged the shiv with all my might deep into Sweyn’s side.
He screamed in agony—in rage. Twisting, he tried to pluck it out, but I leapt forward again, jerking the blade free. He lurched to one side, disbelieving as the blood spurted from the wound.
I glanced at Thoryn. He was pale, but his lips moved, urging me to act.
On his knees, Sweyn was groping for the axe he’d let drop. Steeling myself, I jumped upon him and drove the shiv home again, clear through his neck.
With a cry of horror, I recoiled, watching as Sweyn fell. This time, there was no scream—only the gurgle of a man trying desperately to breathe. He struggled briefly before his head fell back, and he moved no more.
“Elswyth.” Thoryn’s voice rasped. “Help me!”
His tunic was stained crimson. He was weak, but conscious still. Where the blade had entered, the fabric was ripped and I tore it farther, to better see the wound. It was deep and the blood rising dark.
Grabbing the towels, I wadded one, pressing it to the open flesh, bidding Thoryn hold it while I brought the other cloth around, binding all tight. Pulling Thoryn, I brought him more securely into the corner. Even if he fainted, he would remain upright. It would give him more time. Though, if he lived, it would be the gods’ will, for I could do nothing more without needle and thread.
To find those, I’d need to leave where we were.
I’d need to reach the longhouse.
21
Elswyth
December 3rd, 960AD
Since Sweyn had entered, I’d paid no heed to the commotion outside. Now, I heard again the clash of metal and the screams of men slain—not immediately outside but farther down the hill. I was fearful to confront what lay beyond the door, but I needed to help Thoryn, and myself.
I wiped the shiv clean on Sweyn’s tunic and took a deep breath.
The cold was cruel after the warmth of the bathhouse, and I’d no cloak for my shoulders, but there was little time to think of comfort—only of action.
Wounded men, the dead and dying, lay between me and the longhouse but none to prevent me reaching it. The snow, falling gently, was already covering the bodies, the snow stained scarlet beneath them.
In twenty paces, I reached the great hall and paused for breath, leaning my head against the frame of the open doorway. From inside came the sound of furniture pushed aside.
Someone was there—moving through the space.
A Bjorgen warrior, greedy for spoils while his brothers fought? Or a Svolvaen man, who could lead me to Eirik?
