Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson Page B

in Jomsborg,” he added, winking at Ulfar. “Still have, in fact.”
    Ulfar swallowed and fought hard to not feel for his sword. His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly the old man’s military bearing made sense. “That’s . . . good,” he said. “So—”
    “Hold on.” The old man turned away from Ulfar and appeared to be listening to something. “Good boy,” he muttered. “Good boy.” Moments later, Ulfar spotted a white speck in the distance. The dog was coming toward them at full speed. Gestumblindi stopped walking and focused intently on the dog, Ulfar forgotten.
    As the big animal drew closer, Ulfar noted a brown stain near its jaws. A bit nearer, and he could see the stain was moving, bouncing in time with the bounding dog.
    Closer yet, and now Ulfar could see that its jaws were wrapped around the neck of a hare.
    It was only when the dog was skidding to a halt in front of them, the joy of speed and power shining in its eyes, that Ulfar saw the captured hare blink and continue to struggle. It was still alive.
    “Oh, good boy, Geraz!” Gestumblindi said and scratched the big dog behind the ears. It thumped its tail in response, beaming with pride and gazing at its master.
    Something in the tall man changed. “Now—kill.”
    A wet crunch. The hare stopped moving.
    A heartbeat, and Ulfar remembered to breathe again.
    The hare fell from Geraz’s jaws to the old man’s feet with a thud. “That’s food for tonight, I think,” Gestumblindi said, with all the pride of a new parent. He scratched the big dog’s head, picked up the hare, and started walking again. Ulfar had to shake himself—the sharp stench of the hare’s blood, shit, and fear stung his nostrils and lingered where it had died.
    “Where was I? The Jomsvikings,” Gestumblindi continued when Ulfar caught up. “That was an age ago, though,” he added. “I’m long done with that life. I was a pup, like you.” The dog at his side barked once, and the tall man reached down to scratch its head. “Yes, yes. You were a pup, too, once. Way too long ago, you bucket of lard.” Geraz appeared to be quite happy with the attention and the tone of his master’s voice, and less worried about the insults.
    “How did you manage to leave the Jomsvikings?” Ulfar asked.
    The tall man winked. “I had more important things to do.”
    Ulfar’s mind raced. “How—?”
    Gestumblindi smiled and took his time before replying. “It does sound improbable, doesn’t it?”
    “Yes,” Ulfar said. “I mean, the Jomsvikings never lose.”
    “We’re never on the losing side,” the old man replied, grinning. “There is a subtle difference, but as the winning side tends to tell the tale, it’s one that is rarely thought about.”
    Despite his concerns, Ulfar smirked. The old soldier had an instinct for putting people at ease. Much like Sven , Ulfar thought, and his smile faded. The graybeard from Stenvik had made him feel at home, for a while at least.
    “However, there is a need to . . . to find new blood. From what I heard about last night,” Gestumblindi continued, “in the longhouse, I’d say you can handle yourself.”
    Ulfar frowned. “Not like one of the Jomsvikings.”
    Gestumblindi turned toward him. “Don’t sell yourself short, Thormodsson. You have . . . you have something, I think.”
    The day was mild, but Ulfar still felt as though the air around him had grown colder. The compliment left a bitter taste in his mouth.
    “I don’t—”
    “So I would like to extend you an offer. Join my side, and you will get the fight of your life, with spoils unimaginable and—”
    “No.”
    Gestumblindi stopped and turned to face him. Sensing a change in his master’s stance, Geraz growled low in his throat.
    Ulfar took a measured step back.
    “No?” The old man eyed him with something . . . intrigue? Anger?
    “I cannot,” Ulfar said. He felt light headed. The ground tilted around him.
    “Why not?” Gestumblindi said. His