It was still dark when he stumbled over the bodies of Engus’s sentries, each slain quickly and, he suspected, silently, so they could not alert others. The moonlight shone on their tunics of bold red and blue and green, on their dark eyes open in surprise and the blood staining the earth beneath them. The killing had a Wolfskin’s mark on it, efficient, professional. There would have been no running to raise the alarm, no signaling the isolated settlement on the Whaleback with smoke or flame, with flag or banner or shouts of warning. By now, perhaps, Engus’s folk were sleeping, worn out by prayers and tears, little dreaming what horror the dawn might bring. Eyvind had passed the western margin of the big loch, and now, not so far off, he could hear the great, deep roar of the sea. He forced his feet to move more quickly, knowing he must be close to the headland that jutted out toward the Whaleback, knowing somewhere near at hand Somerled and his forces must be waiting for first light. He was no longer tired, though every corner of his body seemed to have its own particular kind of pain. Something was keeping him awake, something was keeping him moving, the same thing that made his thoughts swarm and seethe in his head. Let him listen to me, he told himself. Just let him listen.

He heard them just before they moved in, one on each side and one looming up before him, quick as some wild predators. There was just time to say, “Friend—” before a hand was clapped over his mouth, and his arms were improbably twisted behind his back. Pain scythed through his shoulders; he could guess who had grabbed him. Once, he would have heard them earlier; once, he would have put up a good fight against any man foolish enough to try to attack him thus. Now he could barely stay on his feet. The moon had hidden behind a cloud; he hoped they would not kill him as they had those others, before they saw who he was.

“What’s this?” hissed Grim’s voice in his ear, and the vicelike hold was abruptly released. It was, perhaps, the sheer size of the captive that had revealed his identity. “Eyvind?” The tone was of incredulous joy.

“Great Thor!” Erlend removed his large hand from Eyvind’s mouth and gripped him by the shoulders instead, his touch now speaking welcome, not capture. “It is you!” He was holding his voice low; the darkness and the hush told of a covert camp, the preparation for dawn’s surprise attack. “By all the gods, they told us you were a walking corpse, a thing of light and shadow to be seen only in visions! This is wondrous!”

“Where have you been?” Holgar asked sharply. “Where have you come from?”

“I have to speak to Somerled. Now, straightaway. It’s urgent.”