Every evening he asked the old woman, in signs and gestures, in words half understood, Is it time yet? And every evening she answered him in the same way, Not yet. Wait a little longer. But there came a time when there could be no more waiting.

Maybe there was a trace of spring in the air that day. Rona spent a lot of time watching the sky, and even more time staring into her small fire and muttering to herself. As Eyvind sat polishing his helm and sword, he caught her gaze on him, sharp, shrewd, as if somehow measuring him.

“I will do what I can,” he said, though she could not understand his words. “Everything that is in my power. I’ll try to protect her, to help her. It’s just that—”

He fell suddenly silent. Rona froze; her old ears had heard it too, a footstep not far away, a man’s boot set down where it should not be, inside the border of the women’s place, on the western margin. Shadow began a low growling, deep in her throat; Eyvind silenced her with a quick gesture. He rose to his feet, listening as a hunter does. Rona sat motionless.

Another tiny sound, to the east this time. He thought there were four of them. Either they were quite skilled, or he was losing his touch, to let them come in so close. Four. Very well, he had no choice but to confront them before the old woman was harmed. He rolled his eyes at her, then jerked his head toward the howe: Go in there, quick, hide. No need to worry about her making a noise, she moved as if she were a ghost, in complete silence and with remarkable swiftness. He tried to convey the same message to Shadow, Go, guard her, but Shadow would not obey. She stood by him, teeth bared, moving her whiskery muzzle from side to side as if to guess which enemy would dare strike first.

The footsteps came closer, stealthy but unmistakable. At least four, maybe five. Eyvind put on his helm. He took Biter in his right hand and his sword in his left, and moved into a dark corner behind the water barrel. Something inside him was saying, Let it not be Holgar. Let it not be Grim. Let it not be Erlend or Thord. Let it not be my brother. His fingers tightened around the axe, and then something flew in a great arc through the air, a ball of fire, a torch, and flames were suddenly crackling from the heather thatch of Rona’s cottage, and armed figures ran into the women’s place from both sides at once.

“Find the girl!” someone yelled. “Check the place before it burns down. Kick the door open!”

“I’m not going in there!” another man shouted. “What about the witch? Smoke them out, that’s safer!”