comfort. Only the gods heard the words he whispered into the darkness.
TWO
Somerled departed with no sign of anger and no trace of tears. He thanked Ingi in tight, formal words. He glanced at Eyvind and touched his right hand briefly to the inside of his left forearm as if to say, Donât forget . Then, as abruptly as he had arrived, Somerled was gone.
A vow was a vow. But it was easy to forget when the days were warm and bright, and there were so many things to do: wrestling, or swimming, or playing a game they called Battlefield, which involved a very hard ball of straw-packed oxhide and ashwood paddles. Battlefield led to bruises and fierce rivalries and, on occasion, broken bones. When Eyvind went hunting, he took Sigurd or Knut or one of the other boys with him, and they did well. He swam across the Serpentâs Neck and back again without coming up for breath. In the evenings, he worked with knife and wood, and made a little weaving tablet with a border of dogs on it. He thought he might give this to Ragna, who did not have one of her own. But he remembered Sigurdâs joke about the ten children, and he noticed the way Sigurd had stopped pulling Ragnaâs pigtails, and now made chains of flowers for her instead, and he slipped the small carving away in his pocket.
Three years had seemed forever when Eyvind was not quite twelve, but the seasons passed quickly enough. Sometimes Eirik would visit, and now, as Eyvind grew closer to being a man, his brother began to teach him new skills. There were some techniques you could not practice on a friend, in case you took it too far and maimed or killed him: a little twist of the neck, a thumb applied very specifically, a particular jab to the lower back, or a squeeze to the groin.
And there were refinements in the use of weapons. A Wolfskin had tobe able to be two men, Eirik told him as they rehearsed axe flights against the bole of a great pine in the forest, well out of sight of the house. One was the warrior who leaped first from the longshipâs prow, screaming Thorâs name, so fearsome of aspect, so wild of manner that none dared stand against him. That was the crazy man all feared, the frenzied fighter reputed to chew holes in his own shield, so fierce was his rage for battle. That was one man, and one side of it. But a Wolfskin could not be all raw courage and no skill. His life was likely to be short enough; there was no need to let pure stupidity make it any shorter. In between the viking seasons were times when other qualities came into use: the ability to guard oneâs nobleman and patron, to fight his feuds on land, and to play hard as well, for a Jarl liked to see his chosen band of elite warriors in demonstrations of skill, be it in horse racing, or wrestling, or challenges of other kinds. So, said Eirik, Eyvind had better polish up his swordplay and his mastery of staves, and try unarmed combat with someone closer to his own size and strength than those puny lads down at the farm. The two brothers pitted themselves one against the other, and Eirik won every time, which was only to be expected. Still, he tended to be a touch breathless at the end of a bout, and he watched his younger brother with the trace of a smile, as if something long suspected were being proven true.
In the autumn, the dark thrall-woman, Oksana, had another fair-haired babe at the breast. In the following spring, Somerled came back. This time he was visiting at his own request, until his brother should return from another expedition southward toward the kingdom of the Franks. If Ulf did well, the silver he brought home would buy the services of fine boatbuilders and bring his oceangoing longship closer to completion. He might lay aside enough to purchase the skills of a master navigator; he might even begin assembling his own force of Wolfskins. A good share of the seasonâs booty would go to the Jarl in tribute, of course, but that was part of the whole process,
TWO
Somerled departed with no sign of anger and no trace of tears. He thanked Ingi in tight, formal words. He glanced at Eyvind and touched his right hand briefly to the inside of his left forearm as if to say, Donât forget . Then, as abruptly as he had arrived, Somerled was gone.
A vow was a vow. But it was easy to forget when the days were warm and bright, and there were so many things to do: wrestling, or swimming, or playing a game they called Battlefield, which involved a very hard ball of straw-packed oxhide and ashwood paddles. Battlefield led to bruises and fierce rivalries and, on occasion, broken bones. When Eyvind went hunting, he took Sigurd or Knut or one of the other boys with him, and they did well. He swam across the Serpentâs Neck and back again without coming up for breath. In the evenings, he worked with knife and wood, and made a little weaving tablet with a border of dogs on it. He thought he might give this to Ragna, who did not have one of her own. But he remembered Sigurdâs joke about the ten children, and he noticed the way Sigurd had stopped pulling Ragnaâs pigtails, and now made chains of flowers for her instead, and he slipped the small carving away in his pocket.
Three years had seemed forever when Eyvind was not quite twelve, but the seasons passed quickly enough. Sometimes Eirik would visit, and now, as Eyvind grew closer to being a man, his brother began to teach him new skills. There were some techniques you could not practice on a friend, in case you took it too far and maimed or killed him: a little twist of the neck, a thumb applied very specifically, a particular jab to the lower back, or a squeeze to the groin.
And there were refinements in the use of weapons. A Wolfskin had tobe able to be two men, Eirik told him as they rehearsed axe flights against the bole of a great pine in the forest, well out of sight of the house. One was the warrior who leaped first from the longshipâs prow, screaming Thorâs name, so fearsome of aspect, so wild of manner that none dared stand against him. That was the crazy man all feared, the frenzied fighter reputed to chew holes in his own shield, so fierce was his rage for battle. That was one man, and one side of it. But a Wolfskin could not be all raw courage and no skill. His life was likely to be short enough; there was no need to let pure stupidity make it any shorter. In between the viking seasons were times when other qualities came into use: the ability to guard oneâs nobleman and patron, to fight his feuds on land, and to play hard as well, for a Jarl liked to see his chosen band of elite warriors in demonstrations of skill, be it in horse racing, or wrestling, or challenges of other kinds. So, said Eirik, Eyvind had better polish up his swordplay and his mastery of staves, and try unarmed combat with someone closer to his own size and strength than those puny lads down at the farm. The two brothers pitted themselves one against the other, and Eirik won every time, which was only to be expected. Still, he tended to be a touch breathless at the end of a bout, and he watched his younger brother with the trace of a smile, as if something long suspected were being proven true.
In the autumn, the dark thrall-woman, Oksana, had another fair-haired babe at the breast. In the following spring, Somerled came back. This time he was visiting at his own request, until his brother should return from another expedition southward toward the kingdom of the Franks. If Ulf did well, the silver he brought home would buy the services of fine boatbuilders and bring his oceangoing longship closer to completion. He might lay aside enough to purchase the skills of a master navigator; he might even begin assembling his own force of Wolfskins. A good share of the seasonâs booty would go to the Jarl in tribute, of course, but that was part of the whole process,
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