Scouting

Faraldr and Gaetir go north. Ake, Leikr, and I take the southern path. We will meet again by the fire, tomorrow night.

We march for eight hours. The coast bends westward. Clouds shield us. The walking is easier.

We find a wrecked karfi. Splintered, upside down on the sand. The hull is intact.

Mail is stripped from the dead. Beneath the hull — Asfrid. Cold and still.

We light a fire at day’s end. We sit close. We speak.

Ake once lived as a bandit. Now he seeks to wash the stain. He sleeps poorly. Dreams gnaw at him.
Humble. Honest. Quick to anger.

Leikr is a tried víkingr. A rival blackmailed him. Treasure drives him. He dreams of gold, of land, of his drótt.

I speak of my sons.
Our games, our laughter.

Second watch. Footsteps. A dozen men walk past our fire. We rise and crouch on the ridge, hidden.

We move before the sun. We follow their prints.

The tracks lead into the sea. They must have taken a boat. Still unclear if they are kin or foe.

We meet Faraldr and Gaetir at the first camp. Gaetir is hurt. Faraldr does not speak.

I feel it break in me. A long minute of silence. Weren’t those men taking a boat?

They tell their tale.

They followed a trail inland. Came upon a ruin. They stepped within.

A woman screamed. Not flesh and blood — a vættr. It drove them out.

Gaetir bears two blackened handprints. Burned into his chest. The fingers are too long for any man.