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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

“Your nailed god is no use to you here,” Gudrun said to him. He must have understood her, for he grew pale.

Gudrun stepped close to Sygbald. The men around him pulled back from her, as if to touch her would burn them. Drosten and Bealdwulf, who were supporting the injured man, tensed, but they did not move.

With slender white fingers Gudrun probed gently at Sygbald’s chest. He winced, unable to stop himself from crying out.

“I will help your friend,” she said. “His rib is broken. And it has damaged one of his lungs.” She closed her eyes and inhaled of the forest air, as if sniffing for something. “He might yet die, but I will do my best to save him. Follow me.”

Gone now was the air of mystery she had cultivated since her sudden appearance on the path. In its place was an abrupt pragmatism. Clapping her hands, she flicked her braid over her shoulder and, sweeping past us, she strode along the path. For a moment, we watched her white hair swishing across her back.

The raven cried again and I thought for a moment that I spotted its black shape flapping between the trees, following Gudrun as she walked.

Sygbald coughed and whimpered with the pain.

“Come on,” said Runolf, his voice cracking. “You heard her.”

Half-carrying Sygbald, Drosten and Bealdwulf set off after Gudrun. The rest of us fell into step behind them. None of us dared speak as we walked in silence towards the lair of the witch.

Forty-One

Gudrun led us to a small hut. It was in a glade, surrounded by soaring aspens. The trees were so densely thronged around the building that light from the sun would only reach the hut at midday. When we arrived, the sun was at its zenith and the moss-covered shingles of the hut’s roof seemed to glow in the bright daylight. Smoke oozed from a small hole in the roof. The day was so still that the smoke drifted and hung about the roof, giving the impression that it was steam emanating from the sun-warmed moss that draped the timber tiles and eaves.

Gudrun’s hair flashed brilliant in the sunlight. The heat of the sun felt good on my face after the shadows of the forest, but Gudrun did not linger there. She hurried across the clearing and entered the building. It was dark inside and I glanced toward Hereward and Runolf, nervous of approaching in case unseen enemies lay in wait for us.

Runolf understood my hesitation, but shoved past me impatiently.