taught Ragnar his weapons and had followed him in
his southern ventures. More recently, he had been weapon master to Bragi and Haaken. He
would be missed and mourned. Even beyond the enemy banners.
“How did Bjorn warn them?” Haaken asked.
“We’ll find out,” Ragnar promised. “You boys rest. It’ll be hard going. Some of us aren’t
going to make it.”
Six of them reached Draukenbring.
Ragnar gave the steading a wide berth, leading them on into the mountains. Then he
brought them home from the south, down a knee of the peak they called Kamer Strotheide. It
was a pathway so difficult even Hjarlma and Bjorn would not think to watch it.
Hjarlma was waiting. They could see his sentries from the mountain.
Bragi looked down only long enough to assure himself that Hjarlma had indulged in no
destruction.
His mother’s witchcraft was held in great dread.
He did not understand why. She was as compassionate, understanding and loving a woman
as any he knew.
Slipping and sliding, they descended to a vale where, in summer, Draukenbring’s cattle
grazed. They then traveled by wood and ravine toward the longhouse. They halted in the
steading’s woodlot, a hundred yards from the nearest outbuilding. There they awaited darkness and grew miserably cold.
The inactivity told on Ragnar most. He got stiff.
Bragi worried. His father had grown so pale . . .
His mind remained a whirl of hope and despair. Ragnar believed he was dying. Yet he went
on and on and on, apparently driven by pure will.
It darkened. Ragnar said, “Bragi, the smokehouse. In the middle of the floor, under the
sawdust. A metal ring. Pull up on it. The tunnel leads to the house. Don’t waste time. I’ll send Soren in a minute.”
Sword ready, Bragi ran to the smokehouse, stirred through greasy sawdust.
The ring was the handle of a trapdoor. Beneath, a ladder descended into a tunnel. He shook
his head. He had known nothing about it. Ragnar had secrets he kept even from his own. He
should have been called Fox, not Wolf.
Soren slipped into the smokehouse. Bragi explained. Then Haaken, Sigurd and Sturla
followed. But Ragnar did not come. Sturla brought the Wolf’s final instructions.
The tunnel was low and dark. Once Bragi placed a hand onto something furry that squealed
and wriggled away. He was to remember that passage as the worst of the homeward journey.
The tunnel ended behind the wall of the ale cellar, its head masked by a huge keg that had
to be rolled aside. It was a keg Ragnar had always refused to tap, claiming he was saving it for a special occasion.
The cellar stair led up to a larder where vegetables and meats hung from beams, out of the
reach of rodents. Bragi crept up. Someone, cursing, entered the room over his head. He froze.
The abuse was directed at Bragi’s mother, Helga. She was not cooperating with Hjarlma’s
men. They, after the hardships they had faced in the forests, were put out because she refused to do their cooking.
Bragi listened closely. His mother’s voice betrayed no fear. But nothing ever disturbed her
visibly. She was always the same sedate, gracious, sometimes imperious lady. Before outsiders.
Even with the family she seldom showed anything but tenderness and love.
“Banditry doesn’t become you, Snorri. A civilized man, even in the house of his enemy,
behaves courteously. Would Ragnar plunder Hjarlma?” She was overhead now.
Bragi could not repress a grin. Damned right Ragnar would plunder Hjarlma. Down to the
last cracked iron pot. But Snorri grumbled an apology and stamped away.
The trap rose while the doeskin larder curtain still swayed from Snorri’s passage. “You can
come up,” Helga whispered. “Be quick. You’ve only got a minute.”
“How’d you know?”
“Ssh. Hurry up. Hjarlma, Bjorn and three others are by the big fireplace. They’ve been
drinking and grumbling because your father has taken so long.” Her face darkened when Haaken
closed the trap. Bragi
his southern ventures. More recently, he had been weapon master to Bragi and Haaken. He
would be missed and mourned. Even beyond the enemy banners.
“How did Bjorn warn them?” Haaken asked.
“We’ll find out,” Ragnar promised. “You boys rest. It’ll be hard going. Some of us aren’t
going to make it.”
Six of them reached Draukenbring.
Ragnar gave the steading a wide berth, leading them on into the mountains. Then he
brought them home from the south, down a knee of the peak they called Kamer Strotheide. It
was a pathway so difficult even Hjarlma and Bjorn would not think to watch it.
Hjarlma was waiting. They could see his sentries from the mountain.
Bragi looked down only long enough to assure himself that Hjarlma had indulged in no
destruction.
His mother’s witchcraft was held in great dread.
He did not understand why. She was as compassionate, understanding and loving a woman
as any he knew.
Slipping and sliding, they descended to a vale where, in summer, Draukenbring’s cattle
grazed. They then traveled by wood and ravine toward the longhouse. They halted in the
steading’s woodlot, a hundred yards from the nearest outbuilding. There they awaited darkness and grew miserably cold.
The inactivity told on Ragnar most. He got stiff.
Bragi worried. His father had grown so pale . . .
His mind remained a whirl of hope and despair. Ragnar believed he was dying. Yet he went
on and on and on, apparently driven by pure will.
It darkened. Ragnar said, “Bragi, the smokehouse. In the middle of the floor, under the
sawdust. A metal ring. Pull up on it. The tunnel leads to the house. Don’t waste time. I’ll send Soren in a minute.”
Sword ready, Bragi ran to the smokehouse, stirred through greasy sawdust.
The ring was the handle of a trapdoor. Beneath, a ladder descended into a tunnel. He shook
his head. He had known nothing about it. Ragnar had secrets he kept even from his own. He
should have been called Fox, not Wolf.
Soren slipped into the smokehouse. Bragi explained. Then Haaken, Sigurd and Sturla
followed. But Ragnar did not come. Sturla brought the Wolf’s final instructions.
The tunnel was low and dark. Once Bragi placed a hand onto something furry that squealed
and wriggled away. He was to remember that passage as the worst of the homeward journey.
The tunnel ended behind the wall of the ale cellar, its head masked by a huge keg that had
to be rolled aside. It was a keg Ragnar had always refused to tap, claiming he was saving it for a special occasion.
The cellar stair led up to a larder where vegetables and meats hung from beams, out of the
reach of rodents. Bragi crept up. Someone, cursing, entered the room over his head. He froze.
The abuse was directed at Bragi’s mother, Helga. She was not cooperating with Hjarlma’s
men. They, after the hardships they had faced in the forests, were put out because she refused to do their cooking.
Bragi listened closely. His mother’s voice betrayed no fear. But nothing ever disturbed her
visibly. She was always the same sedate, gracious, sometimes imperious lady. Before outsiders.
Even with the family she seldom showed anything but tenderness and love.
“Banditry doesn’t become you, Snorri. A civilized man, even in the house of his enemy,
behaves courteously. Would Ragnar plunder Hjarlma?” She was overhead now.
Bragi could not repress a grin. Damned right Ragnar would plunder Hjarlma. Down to the
last cracked iron pot. But Snorri grumbled an apology and stamped away.
The trap rose while the doeskin larder curtain still swayed from Snorri’s passage. “You can
come up,” Helga whispered. “Be quick. You’ve only got a minute.”
“How’d you know?”
“Ssh. Hurry up. Hjarlma, Bjorn and three others are by the big fireplace. They’ve been
drinking and grumbling because your father has taken so long.” Her face darkened when Haaken
closed the trap. Bragi
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