Helgi took the homeward direction, urging Kol on as hard as the terrain permitted. Now and then he glanced back over his shoulder. He hoped he could reach home before the Ericssons caught up with him.
They had threatened to bundle him up in a woolsack and stone him to death! Death by stoning was the punishment traditionally reserved for people who had harmed others by using hostile magic. The accusation of witchcraft was ludicrous of course, and Helgi might have laughed at it, only it wasn’t a joking matter. If the Ericssons spread the word around that he was practising sorcery with some malevolent intent, they wouldn’t have much trouble recruiting a lynch-mob to go after him.
Thorgrim had voiced the opinion of many when he said it was a cowardly way to fight, and for once Helgi agreed with him. Few people were more disgusted by the notion of sorcery than he was. He and his family could claim to be victims of witchcraft. The thick fog that had surrounded their home and enabled Grjotgard’s forces to sneak up on them undetected had been conjured up by the witch Gunnhild—everyone knew that! As far as Helgi was concerned, witches were feared and despised for a very good reason. Normal methods of defence could not be used against magic and Helgi believed very strongly in fair play. If the Ericssons were accusing him of cowardly cheating, he would have to clear his name. He didn’t want people thinking he was a son of a witch.
As he rode, he thought about his quarrel with the Ericssons. They had started it … though perhaps he was more to blame for the way it had got out of hand. Next time they met, he would try to put an end to the feud for good. Perhaps the Ericssons would agree to a truce.
Not that he was going to apologise to them for anything he’d done.
It wasn’t that he regretted getting back at them; it was how he had done it that bothered him. He was at a loss to explain his own actions and he found that deeply troubling.
The collaboration with Kol had been slightly strange, though no stranger than the influence he had on Luomi. He simply had a way with animals. But the flying sensation at the ballgame … he had never experienced anything like that before. He had banged his head: he could have blacked out and imagined it. But Thorgrim had felt it too and accused him of attacking him. He hadn’t meant to attack him—or had he? Again, he’d been angry, he had wanted to retaliate. He didn’t feel in control of himself, and that was frightening.
But the feeling of being out of his body was quite familiar and ordinary to him. When he was very small, no more than four years old, he made an interesting discovery. Lying in his cot one night and drifting off to sleep, he became aware that he was looking down on himself from the rafters above. As soon as he was conscious of this sensation, it stopped and he woke up back in his body. He had this experience so regularly that he thought nothing of it. He had never told anyone about it, because he’d always assumed it was a perfectly natural part of falling asleep. But what if it wasn’t? It was difficult to know what counted as normal.
Still, he couldn’t deny that a number of strange things had happened to him recently. There was the nightmarish incident in the mound and the peculiar response of the sword whenever he drew it.
They were crossing the lava at Budir now, on a sandy path which bordered the sea. Kol was racing too fast; his own excitement must have communicated itself to the horse. He reined in the horse a little and tried to think calmly.
Malachi would say they were bad omens and he was not fated to live much longer. Helgi didn’t know what they portended, but he couldn’t pretend they hadn’t happened. He wondered whether there was something wrong with him. Was it possible to be ill without actually feeling ill? He wasn’t feverish, so if he was hallucinating it could only mean one thing …
‘No,’ he said firmly, out loud. ‘I’m not imagining things. I’m not going mad.’
Skeggi was dead and Thorgrim knew he had been attacked, which meant that both events had really happened, and that meant—what?
He glanced down at the sword, fear and excitement bubbling inside him. He had an obscure feeling that the sword could be the key to understanding what was going on. He didn’t know how far he could trust it. It was clearly a dangerous object. Surrendering himself to its power had been a terrifying ordeal, and for all he knew, he could be risking his life if he did so again. But when Skeggi tried to crush him in the mound, the sword had extricated him from his monstrous grip. It had saved him from certain death. It had split him in two in the process, but this hadn’t resulted in any permanent damage as far as he could tell.
He decided that as soon as he had an opportunity, he would try the sword again. And then, once he’d worked out what was going on, he’d be able to get on with his ordinary life.
The journey home was uneventful and they reached the Forge by mid-afternoon. Helgi took Kol straight to the stable to cool down after his strenuous exercise. Kol had to be unsaddled, rubbed down, and given hay and water before he could think of his own comfort. In his excitement, Helgi hadn’t felt the need to eat, but now he noticed he was hungry, really hungry, and tired. He thought he might even expire from lack of food.
When he came in, Gerda dropped the ladle in the cooking pot that she was stirring over the fire and hugged him tightly to her bosom.
‘It’s good to have you home again.’ She ruffled his hair and he flinched as she touched the bump on his head. ‘Ugh, what’s that?’ Gerda exclaimed, quickly removing her hand. ‘Helgi, your hair is all matted with blood!’
‘Stickball’s a rough game, Gerda.’
‘My brave boy,’ said Gerda, kissing him on the brow.
Helgi watched her stir the pot again and add a handful of herbs. The delicious smell was making his mouth water and his stomach growl audibly.
‘I’ll taste it for you if you like,’ he offered, eyeing the stew. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat all day.’
‘You should go and wash before you eat.’
‘Food first!’ Helgi groaned feebly. He sank down at the table.
‘So where’s that young lady? I was furious with her, running off without permission!’
Helgi explained that the others would be home shortly.
‘Tell us who won then!’ said Malachi, craning forward in his chair.
‘We did, of course. What’s been happening while I’ve been away?’
‘Your father’s got a visitor. They’re in the back room, talking,’ said Gerda.
‘Who?’
‘A stranger,’ said Gerda. ‘He turned up out of the blue this morning. Odd-looking fellow. He said he had some information for your father. From Norway. Anyway, they’ve been closeted in there all day, dreaming up conspiracies against the king, no doubt.’
Malachi made a disapproving face. ‘Very sinister he looked to me. All dressed in black, like an assassin. Must be one of your father’s informers … a spy or rebel come here to cause trouble.’
Helgi was intrigued. He went over to the door and bent his ear to listen, when suddenly it was flung wide open. Halfdan stepped out, almost knocking him over. He looked surprised to see his son. ‘Ah, you’re back!’ he observed, looking pleased but slightly distracted. He seemed too preoccupied to ask how the games had gone or even remember where Helgi had been; instead, he held out an empty jug for Gerda to refill. ‘Thanks, Gerda. And please bring us something to eat.’ Then he took Helgi by the arm and guided him into the back room, saying in a low voice which trembled with feverish excitement, ‘Helgi, come with me—there’s someone I want you to meet.’ Helgi was surprised to find himself suddenly invited into his father’s private sanctuary. Halfdan closed the door softly behind them.
The room was half dark; the corners lost in gloom. Nobody had thought to stoke the fire; a few glowing sticks of charcoal were all that served to warm the shadowy chamber. A single lamp burned low on the table, throwing craggy black shadows on his father’s face, which looked, Helgi thought, impressively fierce, like the heavily carved face of a temple god.
A shadow in the corner rose and lengthened and as Helgi’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he was able to distinguish the gaunt, stooping figure of a man dressed entirely in black. Helgi was struck by the hooded black eyes that glittered out of the hollow sockets of his face and by the cryptic marks painted on his cheekbones: three dark dots on either side. He wondered what they signified. The hems and sleeves of his coat were long and ragged, but he gave the impression of being poor by choice, as if he had pared his life right down to the essentials. He looked old—his pale, bloodless skin had shrunk back until every bone in his skull was sharply defined, his nose was shaped like a hawk’s beak, and light grey stubble covered his scalp and chin—but there was something cold, fierce, and inhuman about his eyes, perhaps because the irises were so large and black.
Halfdan presented Helgi to the visitor. ‘This is my son, Helgi; Helgi, this is Grimnir. He has come to help us in the fight and give us the benefit of his wisdom.’
Grimnir did not speak but extended a scrawny hand. His hand was ice-cold, papery thin, slightly repellent to touch. The skin on his arm and hand was stretched so thinly over the bones that it appeared translucent, like fine vellum. He stared at Helgi with a penetrating gaze that did not meet his eyes but focused on some point in between. Helgi looked away, feeling uncomfortable. It was an odd thing to do when being introduced to someone, he thought—to look straight through them like that without making eye contact.
Grimnir’s gaze then fell on the sword hanging by Helgi’s side; indeed, his whole attention seemed transfixed by it. Helgi shifted his travelling cloak to cover it, but not before his father, noticing Grimnir’s stare, caught a glimpse of the hilt.
‘Where did you get that sword?’ Halfdan demanded.
‘I won it—in a sort of competition while we were at the games. It’s just an old sword—not worth much. The owner didn’t need it any more.’
Halfdan gave him a hard stare, as if he had not been taken in.
‘I’m not going to use it. I’ve already got Footbiter,’ Helgi said, in a tone of aggrieved innocence.
Any objection Halfdan had been about to make was forestalled because at that moment Gerda brought in a tray of food. She set it down, stuck a few sticks of birchwood on the fire and fanned it into a blaze, and quickly departed.
‘You shouldn’t wear a weapon if you have no intention of using it. A man who goes swaggering round the neighbourhood armed to the teeth is likely to be challenged,’ Halfdan said in an even tone.
‘May I see it?’ cut in Grimnir.
His voice was quiet but compelling. It had a dry, rasping quality. Helgi handed the sword over, careful only to touch its sheath. Grimnir took hold of the hilt and withdrew the sword. At once, Helgi could see misty shapes beginning to swirl and seethe on the surface of the blade. Grimnir glanced at Helgi sharply. Helgi kept his face totally impassive. ‘He knows,’ he thought, ‘but I mustn’t let on that I know he knows.’ There was a tense silence as Grimnir examined the sword on both sides.
‘Unusual hilt,’ Grimnir remarked. ‘The design is crude. I shouldn’t worry, Halfdan. He seems a sensible lad, and I doubt whether he could do much damage with this even if he wanted to—it’s in such poor condition. The blade is almost rusted through in places.’
Grimnir sheathed the weapon and handed it back to Helgi. Helgi stuffed it away quickly. It was almost as though they had conspired to hoodwink his father, he thought.
Halfdan motioned everyone to sit down at the table. He passed around a pitcher of ale and ladled out three bowls of fish stew.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Halfdan said, eyeing his son, ‘you ought to resume your duelling lessons with Jorund—with a wooden training sword, mind, not that rusty old thing.’
Helgi smirked at his father. Halfdan really had no idea what he got up to. Jorund, who had taught him the basics of duelling just before their exile, had helped him brush up his skills several times since then. Still, Helgi couldn’t help marvelling that his father was suddenly taking an interest in his welfare and education. Was this Grimnir’s influence?
Helgi kept glancing at Grimnir throughout the meal. His behaviour was certainly odd. He ate and drank nothing, but sat staring intently into empty space just past Helgi’s right shoulder, like a cat distracted by some invisible prey. Helgi had to fight the urge to look behind him. He grew so acutely conscious of Grimnir that when Grimnir made a sudden movement, he actually jumped. From under his cloak, Grimnir took out a thin clay pipe. He reached inside the neck of his robes and pulled out a small drawstring bag which hung around his neck. He filled the bowl of the pipe in a measured fashion with yellow shreds of dried leaf from the bag; then he tucked the bag away and held the pipe to the flaming wick of the oil lamp. The leaves started to smoulder, producing a heavy, tranquillizing fragrance. Grimnir put the pipe to his mouth, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes. Faint tendrils of smoke issued from his nostrils. Helgi watched him in open fascination.
‘Grimnir has brought news from home. There have been grave developments,’ Halfdan told his son.
‘Really?’ Helgi sat up straighter and assumed an inquiring and serious expression. He was delighted to be discussing grave political developments with the big men.
‘King Harald Greycloak and his brothers have killed Earl Hakon’s friends in the south of Norway,’ said Halfdan. ‘They’ve done away with Tryggvi and Gudrod, the lesser kings who ruled in the Vik. Hakon held talks with them recently, and when Gunnhild got to hear of it, she suspected they were plotting against the king. So she sent her sons to eliminate them before they could make a move, and King Harald has laid the whole of the Vik under his own command.’
‘It was a foolish and destablizing action,’ said Grimnir. ‘I counselled Gunnhild against it, but she would not listen to me. Now I fear there will be rebellion in the south and that the men of the Vik will look to their neighbours across the water for help.’
Halfdan raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean, the Danes?’
Grimnir nodded.
‘How were Tryggvi and Gudrod killed?’ asked Helgi.
‘By subterfuge,’ replied Halfdan, with a grim expression. ‘The king’s brother, Ragnfrod, took his ships around the Vik and east to Folden. He sent an invitation to Tryggvi to go raiding with him over the summer in the east in Sweden. Tryggvi went to meet him, but took only one ship for he had heard that the king’s brother had few men with him. But when he got there, the king’s men slaughtered him and the twelve men who were with him.’
Helgi was appalled. ‘What a rotten trick to play!’
‘King Harald was responsible for Gudrod’s death. He sailed to the Vik and reached the town of Tunsberg during the night. He learned there that Gudrod was staying at a farm not far away so he and his men went up there straightaway and drew a ring round the house. Gudrod and his men came outside and there was a short fight in which Gudrod fell and many men with him. Gudrod’s son, Harald the Grenlander, has fled east into Sweden. There are precious few men left in Norway who are brave enough to oppose the king now. The earl has lost two of his mightiest allies. He needs our help now more than ever.’
‘Does this mean we’re going home?’
‘Yes. As soon as we can.’ Halfdan pushed his empty dish away and asked, ‘Is Hedin back yet? I need to talk to him.’
‘He should be back by now. I went on ahead of him.’
‘Good. Grimnir, if you’ve had enough, I want to show you the ship. Helgi, why don’t you come with us?’
The two men rose from the table and Halfdan extinguished the oil lamp. They went outside and walked down to Arnor’s boathouse which lay on the beach above the harbour. Helgi followed at a respectful distance, but his mind raced ahead, wondering what Grimnir and his father were planning. Grimnir stalked silently by Halfdan’s side. With his eyes alert for movement but devoid of human expression, his prominent nose, and his tattered garments flapping in the breeze, he reminded Helgi of an oversized crow. He was curious to know what else Grimnir had offered his father in order to gain his trust. His father’s nervous energy, his suggestion that Helgi should practise his duelling, their inspection of the ship—this must mean that preparations for the expedition were already underway. Would he be expected to fight? Bloody images of his father defending the burning hall flashed before him, filling Helgi with a sick fear.
The boatshed, which had been built out of materials found on the shore—stone, turf, and driftwood—stood in isolation, its open end revealing the black bulk of the Swan, which rested inside on her rollers, which had been wedged in place. Grimnir walked inside and inspected the high sides of the hull which were solidly built of pitch-dark oak. The curved lines of the overlapping strakes, twelve planks aside, converged elegantly on the stems at either end. The graceful curve of the forestem terminated in the head of a swan, but otherwise the ship was plain, functional, and unpretentious. The mast, which was hewn from a straight-growing pine tree, had been lowered so the ship could be stored over winter; it lay inside the ship, supported on crutches. There was a hold amidships and the planks on the half-decks fore and aft were worn smooth and shiny. Her white sail, which was quilted in a diamond pattern and reinforced with leather and rope, had been stowed in the hold.
‘She’s a good size, almost fifty-five feet long. A sturdy beast. She can carry twenty-four tons of cargo. She bore up well on the crossing when we ran into a gale off the south of Iceland.’ Halfdan patted her side affectionately, as if he were the proud owner of a trusty workhorse who had trekked up and down the coast with him for many years.
Grimnir looked suitably impressed. ‘She’s a splendid vessel.’
‘She needs a few repairs to make her seaworthy, of course. We’ve got the rest of the winter to recaulk her and patch up the leaks. The sail needs mending, the rigging needs to be overhauled, and the timbers could do with some fresh tar—I’ll get Jorund and Audun onto that. The better she looks, the more likely we’ll attract a capable crew.’
‘How will you man her?’
‘It only takes a crew of six to sail her but we’ll need a few more men than that for this kind of expedition.’
‘Next time you’re in Reykjavik you should recruit some fighting men,’ said Grimnir. ‘Plenty of seafarers and raiders settle there for the winter and they’ll be looking for work.’
‘I don’t want rumours of our expedition reaching Norway ahead of us. I’d prefer to handpick a small band of local men whom I can trust. I’ll have a word with my nephew Hedin. He’s a bit of a celebrity round these parts. Once he’s on board, everyone will want to enlist. We’ll have a stampede on our hands. Helgi, run up to the Manor and tell Audun I’ve got work for him to do on the ship—see if Arnor can spare him. And tell Hedin and Arnor that I’d like them to come over tomorrow night for a drink.’
When Helgi got to the Manor, he found Hedin and Audun stabling their horses after the journey. To his relief, they were sharing a joke and appeared to be back on amicable terms. Audun looked pleased to see him. ‘Embla’s gone back to the Forge to stable her pony. She was worried about you travelling back on your own! But you got back all right.’ Helgi nodded. ‘What about the Ericssons?’ he asked Audun.
‘We didn’t meet them on the way. We were afraid they might have caught up with you.’
‘I expect they will sooner or later,’ said Helgi. ‘Listen, I’ve told my father I won that sword in a competition. He wouldn’t let me keep it if he knew it came from Skeggi’s Mound, so please don’t tell him.’
Hedin shrugged and said, ‘Fine by me.’
Helgi’s wish to keep his escapade quiet had little to do with fear of his father. If the sword was known to have come from Skeggi’s Mound, it would acquire a legendary aura, or the status of a desirable antique, and everybody would want it. He felt it was his responsibility to prevent the sword falling into the wrong hands. It was his sword and it had secrets that only he could unlock—though he suspected that Grimnir knew more about the sword’s remarkable properties than he was prepared to admit.
Hedin said he wanted to thank Helgi for coming to his aid, and invited him to pick out a gift from the bag of treasures looted from the grave mound. Helgi reached in and pulled out a naked broadsword.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Hedin. ‘An interesting choice! Look at the maker’s mark.’
One face of the blade was engraved with small, neat runes. ‘Ulfberht,’ Helgi read aloud.
‘Ulfberht is a highly respected brand,’ said Hedin, with a knowledgeable air. ‘Genuine Frankish blades from the original workshop sell for an absolute fortune these days! Sadly, this one’s a rip-off. See how the name has been etched into the blade, and not inlaid? The scabbard is missing too, which lowers its market value even further. Still, the blade itself is in pristine condition.’
Helgi thanked his cousin for the gift and told him about the gathering at the Forge planned for the following night. ‘My father’s very excited about something—I think it’s to do with our plans to return home.’
Hedin raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Much as I’d like to help, I’m not sure his schemes are very realistic,’ he said.
‘He’s had some fresh intelligence. There’s a man staying at our house. They’re planning to repair the ship and recruit a crew over the winter.’
‘What’s this man’s name?’ Hedin asked him.
‘Grimnir.’
‘Grimnir? That can’t be his real name!’ cried Hedin. ‘No parent would call their child that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Helgi.
‘Because—it’s a name that the god Odin uses when he want to travel undercover, incognito. Grimnir: the Masked One.’
‘Hedin knows all about aliases,’ said Audun teasingly, nudging Helgi with a sly wink.
Hedin shot him a baleful look, but continued: ‘Haven’t you ever heard of “The Sayings of Grimnir”? Most of us Icelanders know the verses by heart.’
‘Not poetry again!’ groaned Audun, pretending to tear his hair out in exasperation.
‘The trouble with you, Audun, is that you have no fine feeling,’ snapped Hedin. ‘Just ignore him, Helgi, and I’ll tell you the story. A man who calls himself Grimnir arrives at the hall of a king, and asks for hospitality. The king has reason to suspect him of being an evil sorcerer in disguise. He interrogates his guest, and tortures him by refusing him food and drink and placing him between two great fires. His visitor refuses to talk, but finally on the ninth night, he breaks down and confesses his true identity. He says…’
Hedin struck a dramatic pose and declaimed:
‘I am called Wanderer,
Warrior and Helm-wearer …
Weak-eyed, Flame-eyed …
Mask and Masked One,
Maddener and Much-wise;
Broadhat, Broadbeard, War-father …
Father of All, Father of the Slain
… by many names have I been known
since I went among the people.
‘Then the king realizes the terrible mistake he made in mistreating his guest, and goes to pull Odin away from the fires, but he slips and falls on his sword and thus the god takes his revenge.’
Audun snorted with laughter, but Helgi felt a thrill of fear. Gerda had told him bedtime stories about how Odin travelled about the world wearing the disguise of an old man, one-eyed, grey-bearded, with a staff and a wide-brimmed hat. The god had acquired all kinds of secret wisdom and could grant victory to his followers, but he was also treacherous, prepared to withdraw his favours at any moment, and to send his favourites to Valhalla when they fell.
‘That’s really weird … I wonder what our visitor means by calling himself that,’ Helgi mused.
‘Tell me,’ whispered Hedin, coming closer. ‘Is Grimnir missing an eye? And does he have two pet ravens among his baggage? Perhaps your father’s struck a deal with the Lord of the Gallows himself. Bartered his soul for victory. He’d do anything to get his estate back, I reckon.’
Helgi didn’t think this was funny.
‘He looks like a raven himself actually. He’s a bit sinister.’
‘There you are then! The Raven God!’ cried Hedin triumphantly. ‘Tell Halfdan I’ll certainly be there tomorrow night. I’m curious to meet this so-called Grimnir.’
He hoisted his bag of souvenirs onto his shoulder and left the stable. When he had gone, Helgi gave Audun his father’s message about the work that needed doing on the ship.
‘I’m glad you and Hedin have made up,’ he added. ‘Would you like the sword I pulled out of the bag, Audun? It’s too heavy for me, and anyway, I’ve already got Footbiter. I’d like to give you something to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’
Audun took the sword, examined it and weighed it in his hand. The steely-iron blade was broad, flat and double-edged, with a shallow groove running the entire length and fading out a couple of inches from the point. The handgrip, which was bound in old, sweat-stained linen thread, tapered towards a nut-shaped pommel, and the cross guard was of a type known as ‘spike-hilt’, with pointed tips.
‘It’s a fine blade. Well balanced with good cutting edges. I’d be honoured to accept it,’ said Audun.
Later that afternoon, once he had unpacked, Audun went over to the Forge to talk to Halfdan. He wanted to volunteer for the expedition straight away while his resolution was still firm. Gerda told him he would find Halfdan in his den. Audun tapped quietly on the door and slipped inside.
Halfdan and the man Audun guessed was Grimnir had been engaged in discussion, but they broke off as soon as he entered. Halfdan leaned back in his chair, smiling at Audun, and introduced him to Grimnir. Then he spent several minutes outlining the work that needed doing on the ship. Audun listened, making mental notes with one half of his mind, and running through the request he had to make, and what Halfdan would say to it, with the other half. At length, Halfdan got to his feet and made a move towards the door to show him out.
It was now or never. Audun suddenly felt sick and lightheaded. ‘Sir, before I go,’ he said, ‘with your permission, I’d like to come with you—on the expedition to Norway.’ He had rehearsed this moment half a dozen times in his mind, and perhaps for that reason, the words sounded unnatural to him when he spoke them aloud, as if a stranger had uttered them.
Halfdan let go of the door, which swung back slowly, and looked at Audun with sudden seriousness, as if assessing his capabilities. Audun stood up straighter and met his gaze, trying to project a confidence he did not feel.
‘This is a hazardous operation,’ Halfdan said sternly. ‘I need men I can count on—men who are courageous, skilled at arms, and prepared to carry out orders, whatever the risk to their personal safety. I would prefer to recruit seasoned warriors.’
‘I can handle a sword, sir, and I’m good at most sports, including wrestling.’
‘But not experienced in combat,’ said Halfdan with an air of finality. ‘Can you sail a ship? Have you ever crossed the open sea before?’
‘No sir, but …’
‘So, you know nothing of fighting or sailing. I can’t for the life of me imagine what use you could be to us, or why you should even want to come!’ said Halfdan with a scornful chuckle.
Audun had been prepared for rejection, but he felt his insides shrivel up nevertheless. He reached for the door and was about to make a dignified exit, when he saw that Halfdan was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. He seized the chance to assert himself.
‘I’m looking for a challenge, sir,’ he said, looking at Halfdan with wide, earnest eyes. ‘The tougher it is, the better. I’m not likely to get another opportunity like this. I’ve had some basic training and I’ve worked out how I can improve on that. Jorund’s agreed to give me some instruction …’ His voice tailed off under Halfdan’s hard stare.
‘You’ve been in trouble recently, from what I hear. I don’t want any troublemakers on my ship.’
‘I promise to behave. You won’t have any cause to regret taking me.’
Halfdan nodded and seemed satisfied. The lad was determined at least. ‘I like your attitude,’ he said. ‘Whether you have the right temperament for this kind of work remains to be seen, but I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. You’ll be learning on the job and you’ll be tested to the limit. This is a big decision for you. Are you sure you don’t want to sleep on it?’
Audun willed himself not to flinch from looking Halfdan in the eye. ‘No, sir, I’ve made up my mind.’
Halfdan’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Welcome aboard, then,’ he said, offering Audun his hand.
Audun shook it, giddy with relief that he had not been turned away. He was hardly able to believe that he had made such a decisive change to the course of his life. It had been so easy, but there was no going back now.
After he had shown Audun out, Halfdan turned to Grimnir and smiled. ‘An expedition tends to pick up speed like a runaway cart,’ he said. ‘We can expect many more fresh young faces at our door over the next few weeks.’
‘Boys eager to become men,’ remarked Grimnir drily.
The Adventures of Helgi the Viking 