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.