“Join my ships, then. You will do as a rower. But not with Muirtach. Come to my tent this evening and my marshal will find you a place.”

Ivar looked down for a moment, considering. “There is a notch on your blade. I did not see Flann put it there. Whose blade was it?”

Shef hesitated an instant. But with these men the bold course was always wisest. He spoke loudly, challengingly. “It was the sword of Sigvarth Jarl!”

Ivar’s face tightened. “Well,” he said, “this is no way to wash women or sheets. Let us be on our way.” He turned, pulling Godive with him, though for an instant her face remained fixed, looking agonizedly at Shef.

Shef found himself staring up at the bulk of Viga-Brand. He slowly pulled off the amulet.

Brand weighed it in his hand. “Normally I would say keep it, boy, you earned it. If you live you will be a champion one day; I say it, Brand, champion of the men of Halogaland.

“But something tells me the hammer of Thor is not the right sign for you, smith though you are. I think you are a man of Othin, who is called also Bileyg, and Baleyg, and Bölverk.”

“Bölverk?” said Shef. “And am I a doer of evil, a bale-worker?”

“Not yet. But you may be the instrument of one who is. Bale follows you.” The big man shook his head. “But you did well today, for a beginner. Your first kill, I believe, and I am talking like a spaewife. Look, they have taken his body, but they have left the sword and shield and helmet. They are yours. It is the custom.”

He spoke like one setting a test.

Slowly Shef shook his head. “I cannot profit from one I gave to Naströnd, to Dead Man’s Strand.” He picked up the helmet, threw it into the muddy water of the stream, hurled the buckler up into a bush, put his foot on the long thin sword, bent it once, twice, into unusability, left it lying.

“You see,” said Brand. “Thorvin never taught you to do that. That is the sign of Othin.”

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Thorvin showed no surprise when Shef returned to the smithy and told him what had happened. He grunted a little wearily when Shef finally told him that he would be joining the contingent of Ivar, but said only, “Well, you’d better not go looking like that. The others would laugh at you—then you’ll lose your temper and worse will happen.”

From the pile at the back of the smithy he dug out a spear, recently reshafted, and a leather-bound shield. “With these you’ll look respectable.”

“Are they yours?”

“Sometimes people leave things in for repair, don’t come back for them.”

Shef took the gifts and then stood awkwardly, his rolled blanket and few possessions on his shoulder.