John Gwynne

pink, hairless skin

She knew well enough that the braggarts like Guðvarr were not the real warriors. It was the ones who never threatened violence…

“I am blood. I am death, I am vengeance,”

Can the sun be cold, or the sea be dry, or the wolf become a lamb?”

“Our choices decide the future. Who we trust, who we love. And our choices will determine what comes of the treasures we find at Oskutreð. Kin are not the answer. Blood is not the answer.”

Uspa looked at her with pity and sympathy in her eyes. She shook her head.

“To be young and naive,” she said. “Blood is always the answer.”

For my darling Harriett,

surely there can be no more tears left in all the world,

for we have wept them all over you.

“Where is my son?” Orka asked Myrk.

Myrk frowned. “Are you moon-touched, old woman?” she asked, “what business is your son to me?”

Yrsa leaped in front of the Galdurman and swept the spear wide with her shield, stepped around the charging horse and stabbed up with her sword. A gurgled scream as the rider toppled backwards, blood spurting from her throat.

He’d felt a rush of horror, of grief, and then a wave of rage. Friends were new to Varg and he prized them beyond all gold.

“Are you Guðvarr?” the man asked him.

How do you know that? As if I would tell you, you snivelling oaf.

The man’s eyes bored into him with a fierce intensity.

“Yes,” he rasped.