Tomb for an Eagle, Ch. 1

Tomb for an Eagle, Chapter 1

EIN

I

'Odin's bloody beard!'

Ketil tilted his head slightly. The soldier fell silent at once, but rubbed his stubbed toe vigorously. Ketil listened. In the crisp starlight, eye-wateringly cold, he could hear only the incessant wind, and the waves slapping on the shore. Threads of smoke still twisted through the air, and his clothes were thick with it. He glanced up the beach. He could just make out Thorfinn, stocky and dark, slipping forward, his own commander, the man to whom Ketil owed his fealty. Somewhere further inland Thorkell Fostri and Einar, two long ghosts of men, would be stalking their prey, moving in parallel, Thorkell Fostri sniffing the air like a hound. Kalf had taken his men ahead, the other prong of the pincer. After a moment, Ketil lifted a hand for his own few men to follow, keeping them down near the waterline. Somewhere ahead was their prey. Rognvald had to have seen them. He had to know they were coming, and why. He had run, after all.

Running away on these rocks would be a fool's game at night. Rognvald would be hiding somewhere, hoping that between them they would miss him. He would have covered his head, no doubt, to stop the starlight fingering his bright gold hair. Ketil scanned the lumpen darkness, his feet feeling each step, his fingers flexing and easing round his sword pommel, so that the cold did not numb them before he had to fight. Behind him a man slipped and gasped, but did not cry out: Ketil smiled to himself. They were learning.

Then, in the surge of wind and waves, one sharp sound cut through. A dog, barking.

They were there in seconds, surrounding the little hollow in the rocks, but standing back, letting the senior men do their work. Kalf had doubled back as expected, blocking the way, eyes glinting, darting from man to man. Thorfinn stood solidly in charge, sword at the ready, but it was Thorkell Fostri, pale and sharp, who leaned down and seized the crouching figure by the shoulder. The hood fell from Rognvald's golden head, and he made an effort to calm his breathing, Ketil could see, while the little lapdog who had betrayed him growled threats at his master's attacker. For a moment only the lapdog moved. Then, stiffly, Thorfinn nodded. Rognvald's eyes widened, bright blue in his white face. And Thorkell Fostri struck.

He made sure, running his sword right through with a crunching, scraping sound that everyone there knew too well. Blood bubbled dark through the robe Rognvald had grabbed to disguise himself in his escape, and the blue eyes dulled even as he sucked in a last, desperate breath and sagged, slicing unfeeling hands on the sword blade. After a moment, Thorkell Fostri bent again, took firm hold of the sword in his skeletal fingers and pulled it free with a nasty little liquid sound that the waves almost, but not quite, drowned. He wiped the sword with a rag, fitted it back in his sword belt, drew his knife, then snatched up the incredulous lapdog.

'No,' said Thorfinn, breaking the silence between them. 'Enough.'

He reached out his hand, and took the little dog from Thorkell Fostri's thin arm. Tucking it under his own, he gave Rognvald one last look before turning and slithering away over the rocks, back to dry land. He passed Ketil without seeming to notice – why would he? But Ketil saw his face, black and white in the starlight. It was empty.

Thorkell Fostri and Einar, insubstantial again, slipped silent in his wake. Their men had melted into the darkness of the machair. Kalf followed. He stopped fractionally, as though surprised to see Ketil. Their eyes met: Kalf's were still dancing, then his gaze slid away and he moved on, after the others. Ketil turned abruptly and stared for a moment at the waves: the tide was on the turn. Then he glanced back at the soldiers behind him, and jerked his head. There was a body to clear up.

Papa Stronsay, at Christmastide two years ago. Papa Westray for the burial. The names repeated in his head like a bad taste at the back of his throat. Things that should not have happened, deeds that should never have been done. That was the last time he had set foot on Orkney, mainland or island. But now he could see the islands growing through the fog – oh, he remembered the fog. If he had held to the old traditions he might have thought he was in Nifelheim. As it was, he peered distrustfully at the green grey shadows of land ahead. Islands were unchancy places, neither one thing nor the other, where evil could slip in unnoticed through the cracks in the world. Surreptitiously, he slipped one hand under the mist-damp folds of his cowl, and crossed himself.