“Yes, Galtung, a rare thing. But the…shite. It’s too small. If this was done by a winged creature that became too heavy to fly, or even something that might leap over the fence, surely expelling that did not much help it lighten?”
“Hmm,” said Rey slowly. “I agree with you, Twig Arms.”
“I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
Rey ignored him. “The lack of blood and corpses suggests the sheep were devoured whole. ’Tis curious indeed. Perhaps we will glean more answers when we?—”
“I, for one, amnotdigging through shite, Galtung.”
Rey glowered at him. “You asked for my help. Do you expect me to do everything?”
“Only the parts that involve shite,” said Vig smartly.
“The same as always, Vig,” said Rey, disapprovingly. “Content to sit by while others dirty their hands.”
“And you’re the same sour man who turned his back on his kin!”
“Kin,” repeated Rey, frost spreading through him. “My kin are dead, Vig.”
“Harpa,” spat Vig. “You have Harpa.”
Rey laughed, a caustic sound. “Harpa cares only for her weavings.”
“And Runný?” exclaimed Vig. “What of the twins?”What of me, he did not need to say. “No. You cast them aside easily enough in favor of chasing glory.”
“Chasing glory,” repeated Rey, numbly.
Vig raked his hands through his hair, irritated. “What else would you call it? You left this place, while I—” As Vig’s voice trailed off, Rey understood.
“This hasn’t a thing to do with my leaving,” he said slowly. “You are bitter about your own situation.”
Vig huffed but did not reply.
“You always were a man of words, not deeds,” continued Rey. Vig had prodded his wound, and Rey was eager to hurt him in turn. “In truth, you are content to cower in the north, while good men and women die for our cause.”
“Cower?” sputtered Vig. “I haveduties, Galtung! You would never understand.Iam the man of the house. I have kin who depend on me, my mother and sister. My brothers?—”
Rey’s mind clamped down in a futile effort at self-preservation. But memories flooded forth—a stone placed on a burial mound. An owl blinking down at him. Harpa, weaving at her loom, as though nothing had happened. Vig, holding Snorri on his lap. How was it fair that Vig had three brothersanda sister, while Rey had nothing. No one.
But it seemed Vig was not done. “I’d rather be happy in the north than live a life of misery in the south.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Rey, anger flaring.
“It means you’ve chosen a cold, bleak life and begrudge that I have not.”
Rey trudged on. “Don’t concern yourself with my life.”
Vig scoffed. “Fine, Galtung, keep your empty, miserable life. Deny yourself the thing you want?—”
Rey whirled on him. “Speak plainly, Vig. I haven’t time for games.”
“I see the way you look at her,” Vig pushed. “You can deny it if you want. Or you can have her if only you?—”
“Enough!” Rey bellowed so loud the air seemed to shake. Anger rushed through his body, boiling his blood.
Tense silence hung between them as they made their way to the edge of thepasture. Rey wanted to drive his fist into Vig’s jaw. Wanted to curse him. Wanted to ride down the mountain on Horse and never set eyes on his former friend again.
But as they reached the forested fence line where the horses grazed, Rey’s eyes snagged on the trunk of a tree on the edge of the clearing. Immediately, his anger turned to confusion, then fear. Carved into the bark was a symbol—a straight line, with two downward slanting arms.
