Eyvind set to with what strength he could summon, noting absently the bracelets of raw flesh around wrists and ankles, the finger that was probably broken, the continuing ache in the jaw. From time to time, blood still trickled in his mouth; he spat, and went on. The line of spears still stood in earth by the point, and on the tidal island the limp forms of Engus’s warriors still lay dotted on the grassy slope like some bright flowers of springtime, vivid in their brave tunics of red and blue and green. There were many birds there, circling above the fallen men, eager for whatever morsel they might scavenge in the hungry times of the nesting season. Eyvind shuddered, remembering Ulf. No time for thinking; it was close to low tide, and he must work quickly. He could not do all that must be done; the rites of farewell, the manner of laying to rest, that was for Nessa and the remnants of her own people to decide. But he could undo this act of sacrilege. He could set things out properly, so that the bodies of the fallen ones lay in some semblance of wholeness. He could cover them until the proper rituals might be enacted. There was enough time, he judged, before the incoming tide washed across the causeway once more, sealing the Whaleback safe from the shore.

The wooden spears were long, and had been thrust in with considerable force. There had been a rage in his people that day. By the time he had wrenched out the first and lowered its pathetic burden to the ground his hands were shaking, and he realized this would be a slower job than he’d thought. A pick or lever of some kind would help, and a bag, for each of these poor, decaying things was part of a man, and must be carried across to the island with a modicum of respect. One could hardly grip them by the hair, as if transporting a carcass for the pot. Eyvind searched inside the darkened corners of the small hut, finding, to his surprise, a pile of fishy-smelling sacks, a shovel or two and a dangerous-looking bar of heavy iron, with a pointed end. Someone, it seemed, had been here with the same intention as himself. Indeed, the longer he stayed on the shore, the more he felt that prickling of the scalp, that shiver of the spine which suggests others are nearby, unseen, watching. Foolish. There was nobody there. The only eyes that observed his labors, his wrenching out of each cruel stake, his careful stowing of their trophies into the waiting sack, were the empty eyes of the slain: brave old man, sturdy warrior, fierce-hearted boy. Their faces held nothing now but the creeping shadow of decay. What they had been, four days since, was wiped away. Even so had Somerled erased these people’s future. So quick: as quick as the time it took a lad to swim across the Serpent’s Neck and back again, or sweep a winter roof clean of snow.