“Help!” Another voice was shouting now. “Help! Murder!” His prayer at an end, the little brother was making his own contribution to the general commotion, cracked ribs or no. “Help! They’re killing the Wolfskin!”

“Silence that fellow!” hissed someone, and there was a thud, and the priest’s shouting halted abruptly.

“Curse you!” Eyvind gasped, kicking up and back with his two feet together, and hearing a pained grunt as the random blow struck vulnerable flesh. “Curse the lot of you, you piss-weak vermin! Fight like men, damn you! Or do you save your blows solely for holy men and captives in chains? Free me of these shackles and I’ll gladly take on the lot of you, and by Thor’s hammer, when I’m done there’ll be just enough left of you to throw a dog a bone or two for his supper! Let me up, curse you! Somerled! Somerled, come down and face me, come down and face the truth of the oath you once swore! Come down, brother!”

“Quick!” someone said sharply. “Give me that hammer! You, shut your big mouth! Nobody’s coming to save you, not Thor, not Somerled, not anyone. You’re a dirty traitor, and a liar too.”

A boot connected with Eyvind’s jaw; he felt the blow vibrating through his skull, and a splintering of teeth. Blood filled his mouth; it became impossible to form words. Nonetheless, he went on making noises, since that seemed the only form of resistance left to him. Someone was sitting on his legs, holding them down however hard he strained to free himself.

“Sounds like some crazy wild animal,” someone grunted. “Takes them like that, I’ve heard. Wolfskins, I mean.”

“Shut him up, will you?” This one’s voice was shaking. “He’s giving me the creeps, howling like some mad dog. Where’s the cursed hammer? One good blow to the back of the skull should do the trick—ah, here it is—”

There was an instant of silence, in which Eyvind drew a single long breath, and caught a single image in his pain-wracked head. My hand in yours…Now the blow would fall, and this agony would be over.

There was a crash, and a sudden flood of light as the door at the end of the hallway was thrown abruptly open.

“What in Odin’s name do you think you’re doing?” The voice was Somerled’s, needle-sharp and dangerous. “Get that fellow up at once, and bring him out to the hall. We have at least some modicum of fair play here, one hopes.”

“But—” someone spluttered.

“What has happened here?” This was another voice, Olaf Sveinsson’s, in which the shock was almost palpable. “Has this man been beaten?”

There was a brief silence, during which Eyvind felt his hands released from the grille. The iron bracelets remained; the heavy chain between them, two handspans long, prevented much in the way of movement.