Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson

the smaller one started, squirming away from the point of the sword.
    “You say that one more time and I will spit you like a pig. I didn’t rape anyone. Your little slut friend was begging for it, and she’s pulling you along by the cock to make things happen in this shithole so she can have a thrill,” Ulfar said. “Now get the fuck out of my way so I can leave you sheep-fuckers to it.” The larger one shot him a baleful look as he stood up, but he stepped out of the way. “And drop the stick,” he added. “You, too,” Ulfar snapped at the shorter one, who looked reluctant to let it go. “Get some sense, boys.” Exhaustion hovered at the edge of his fury. “Just . . . get some sense.”
    The big man grabbed his brother by the shoulder and pulled him aside, and Ulfar walked out of the longhouse with his sword drawn.
    Something moved quickly in the shadows to his side, just at the edge of his vision. Still tingling from the fight, Ulfar spun around, seized the hand holding the rock and pulled the arm down hard across his knee, dragging his surprisingly light attacker off balance. He felt the snap and heard the rock tumble to the ground. The piercing scream was loud enough to save Anneli’s life—Ulfar’s sword stopped a finger’s breadth from her neck.
    “You bastard,” she sobbed in the darkness. “You fucking bastard. You broke my arm.”
    “Oh, you poor thing,” Ulfar snarled. “Want me to kiss it better?” He sheathed his sword and kicked the prone figure once for good measure. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered as he walked away from the form sobbing in the shadows. Behind him he heard the commotion as the doors opened. Somebody shouted something after him; he didn’t care. He hawked, spat, and walked on.
    The faint moonlight quickly turned the nameless town into just another shade of darkness, and he covered the first few miles quickly, cooling his blood. It took him a good couple of miles more to realize that he was slowing down.
    He was hungry, hung over, and angry at everything.
    And he still stank.
    Veering off the road, he found a thick-leaved bush and crawled under it. Mangled visions floated before his eyes; he imagined spearing Anneli, ripping open her throat, and throwing her off a wall somewhere in front of a thousand helpless brothers. Sleep caught him and gave him dreams of Lilia.
    EAST OF VALLE, WEST NORWAY
    OCTOBER, AD 996
    Sunrise brought another headache and a woolly mouth, an aching bladder, and a back all knotted from the hard ground. I’ll never speak ill of any bed ever again , Ulfar thought as he crawled out from underneath the bush. It was the kind of thing Geiri would love to tease him about. Retracing his steps, he found the road again. It led to the east, which suited him just fine. He started walking.
    Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Ulfar opened his mouth to speak.
    Then he blinked.
    Geiri wasn’t there.
    He would never be there again.
    Ulfar looked around and took a deep breath. Then another. He touched the rune that hung from a string around his neck, and his lips trembled for a moment. “How . . . ,” he started, but there was noone there to talk to. He hadn’t asked Audun to follow him. Nobody could tell him what to do. His chest tightened, and the pain behind his eyes settled into a dull, steady throb.
    There was nothing for it but to start walking.
    There was a world around him, but he didn’t notice, didn’t care. Right foot, then left. Simple. Right foot, then left. The rhythm of it lulled him, sang him into a daze. He didn’t need to think—he just needed to walk. Right foot, then left. Right, then left. He tried not to think about what would happen when he reached his destination, or what he was walking away from.
    “Hail, traveler!”
    The shout made Ulfar stumble and blink. Then he swore and turned around. He’d been walking half-asleep, oblivious to his surroundings.
    Luckily the man behind the voice was a good hundred yards away. He was