“No.Er, no, but thank you.It’s Eyulf.”
“Is he sick?”
“No.”Hengist shuffled hisfeet.“Two or three times today he’s come to me, though.He’s beenstanding on his toes and making faces, doing his sign for…”Contracting his brows, Hengist managed a pale imitation.“His signfor Vikings.Your pardon, Brother Fenrir.And he keeps pointing outto sea.”
Cai went cold.He tucked his handsinto the sleeves of his cassock and took a few steps down thetrack.From here, Fara’s great flank blocked the seaward view.Hewanted to tell Hengist not to fear—that Fara had been stripped ofall of its few assets in the raid that had brought Fenrir to theirshores, that there was nothing left to take, not even the memory ofa legend.But the truth was that this season often brought down alast flurry of raids before winter weather set in, and themonastery’s grain stores were full.
“All right,” he said atlast.“Thank you.I should think Eyulf’s been having his nightmaresagain, but we’ll post extra lookouts tonight.”
He watched Hengist jog away back tothe crowd of villagers and monks gathering in the field for theirafternoon’s labours.When Fen came and put his arms around himfiercely from behind, he didn’t look at him.
“I am not going to lead,”he said grimly, “because leading means you have to pick a side.”Bitterness rose up in him, sharp as bile.The balance of theequinox was fleeting, wasn’t it?And after it came the long nights.“Where will you be, Fen?If the raiders come—whichside?”
Fen’s grip tightened.“I will be atyours.”
Feint, parry, thrust.Cai hadlet the battle drills slip over the past weeks, in the flurry ofthe harvests, but Eyulf had given him a healthy reminder.The poorlad was perched on top of a crumbled wall now, scowling andtwitching and glaring out to sea.Cai hadn’t been able to getanything more from him, and three days had passed since theharvest.He might have seen avikingrsail on the horizon, or only a passing merchantship.Or maybe some memory ghost had risen up in his addled brainto scare him, but Cai wasn’t taking the chance.
Feint, parry… He was partneringMarcus, another of Aelfric’s cleric’s.Laban hadn’t been seen sincethe night of the pyre, despite the best search Cai could spare forhim, and the rest of the Canterbury men had come to a cleardecision over which side their bread was buttered on.They visitedtheir captive master when he asked but kept their distance—worebrown robes and took up quiet roles in monastery life.Marcus wasgood with a sword.Roman blood in him to match his own, Caithought, clapping him on the shoulder and pointing out to him theman he should take on next.
That left him face-to-face with Fen.They didn’t fight in the drill yard, unless it was to demonstratesomething, both of them usually kept too busy instructing theothers.But they both had done the rounds of every other man thisafternoon.They squared off against each other mockingly.Fen waswielding his wolf’s-head sword, Cai his favourite from the hillfortforge.No one trained with his blade sheathed in sackcloth thesedays.That time had gone.
Fen leapt, and Cai took the force ofhis blow down at the root of his sword, jarringly, sparks flying.Muscles wrenched in his back with the effort of defence.Brightanger splashed through him.He knew what Fen was doing—theirencounters, demonstration fights, had become too ceremonious.Theywere too well matched.They would end up in a dance out here, eachaware of what the other would do next, their shared glances sendingsignals of brotherhood, not challenge.Now Fen had hurthim—deliberately called up the fire from his blood.“Very well,” hegrowled.“Guard yourself, Viking.”
Fen took his first sword cut on therim of his shield.He made it look easy, though Cai could tell fromthe force of his recovery that the strike had told.He pounced backat Cai with battlefield violence.Their weapons clashed again.Anequal strength, Cai would have sworn, and yet in the moment whenhis own would have run out, there it was—the simultaneous meltingof Fen’s.
“Don’t you hold back onme!”Cai ordered, slipping out from under the lock.
“Do you think I woulddishonour myself?”
Cai grunted under the impact ofa new attack.“You might try not to dishonourme.Fight me!I have to know.”
“What?You’ve already facedme in battle.”
And run you through.Cai missed his nextthrust entirely and almost fell.“Not a fair fight.An ambush inthe dark.”
“The best way to deal withmy kind, I promise you.”
“Don’t…” Whipping round, Caiblocked three rapid feints.He did it well, but the fourthbroughtBlóðkraftr’s tip to his throat, and he froze, gasping.
“Don’t what,monk?”
“Call yourself that.Mykind.”
“Don’t tell me with onebreath to be what I am, and with the next forbid it.”
Up on the wall, Eyulf uttered a long,dismal groan.Instantly Fen put up his sword.Cai swallowed.Adelicate stinging told him the blade had just broken his skin.Marcus had leapt up onto the remains of a parapet and was gazingoff to the horizon, shielding his eyes against the sun.
“Marcus,” Cai called, nottaking his gaze off Fen’s.“What can you see?”
“I’m not certain.There’s afret, and… Wait.I see sails.”
“What shape are they?Howmany?”
“Square.Five.No, seven.No—oh,Domine adiuva me…”
“Marcus?”
“Yes?”
