Unlike me.

But whoever named Ulfr could not have known his fate or character in advance. No one could anticipate the Norns.

‘The men are practising,’ said Folkvar. ‘I told them to.’

‘But not me, chief?’

‘I mostly practise alone, with stones and against the post.’

Folkvar meant small boulders for lifting and hurling, the upright oak post for straining against and striking. The post was a wrestler that could not be thrown, a warrior that could not be knocked down.

‘And I practise later than the others,’ Folkvar went on. ‘Do you know why?’

Ulfr looked down at Brandr, whose tongue lolled.

Because you like being alone, Chief?

He held back his answer, uncertainty like a half-clenched hand inside his guts, then spoke. ‘Chief, you are not the youngest among us—’

‘No. Nice of you to remind me.’

‘—but you don’t work alone to hide your weaknesses. So I believe it’s to let you watch the others at their practice, without distraction.’

‘Hmm. Perhaps. So, Ulfr.’

‘Chief?’

‘Come watch with me, and tell me what you see.’

From Heimdall’s Rock they could see down into the practice square. Some two dozen men were hard at it, some with training weapons bound with hemp sacking for safety. One twirled twin hammers solo, his opponents only in his mind’s eye.

‘Tell me of Hallsteinn,’ said Folkvar.

‘He is the strongest.’ Ulfr stared down, considering how intimidating the warrior would be up close. ‘His eyes become blank stone when he works hard.’

‘Losing himself in the fight?’

‘Yes. Brave as Thórr, but injuring others when he doesn’t mean to.’

‘All right.’ Big fists on his hips, Folkvarr mused, then gestured with his chin. ‘Tell me of Ormr.’

The man in question was using fast footwork to keep his opponent out of range and unbalanced.

‘Devious.’ Ulfr grinned as Ormr scooped his opponent’s ankle with one hand and whipped him to the ground. ‘Like that. Focused.’

‘So what would be their weaknesses leading other men into battle?’

Ulfr tried to read Folkvar’s expression.

Why is he asking me such questions?

But those grey warrior eyes gave away nothing besides proud certainty.

‘Hallsteinn might overcommit,’ Ulfr said finally. ‘Go berserker, and take everyone down with him. Honourable, but an honourable defeat, not victory, against a clever enemy.’

‘And Ormr?’

‘The opposite. He would be like the clever enemy, but—’

‘Tell me the truth of your thoughts, Ulfr the Wolf. I require this.’

‘Ah, he might hold back, unwilling to take the losses, so losing the chance for victory. But that’s only my thought, Chief.’

‘Which is what I asked for.’

Ulfr looked down at the practice area.

‘They could do with Kormr’s skills.’ He pointed at a smiling man who was making corrections to his partner’s technique. ‘People bond to him because he cares.’

‘And his weakness as a leader?’

‘I’ve never seen him, well, act ruthless.’

‘Is that part of being a leader?’

‘Yes,’ said Ulfr. ‘Especially if you act that way only when necessary.’

‘Hmm.’

‘If you could bind all their skills into one warrior, he’d be the man to follow.’

‘Good.’ Folkvar’s hand clamped on his shoulder. ‘Think on that. A chieftain is always alone, but has Kormr’s ready way with the clan.’

‘Er—’

‘Meanwhile, we could do with meat for our travels, while those remaining here would appreciate the same.’

Ulfr smiled.

‘Then Brandr and I will hunt.’

‘And in the silent moments, you might have time to think.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Begone now, young Ulfr.’

So Ulfr climbed down from Heimdall’s Rock, Brandr beside him, and when they reached level ground he began to jog, Brandr loping at his ankle, scanning the terrain by sight and feel, while a part of him tried to puzzle out the conversation that had just occurred, to decipher the implications.

Two weeks later, they were in a landscape of sweeping ice and rock, of lakes that looked like steel, surrounded by swirls of tough heather, brown-green and purple. Spectacular crimson streaked the wide sky. A distant column of steam rose from broken earth.

There were eight men and two hounds in the party, each warrior carrying a pack of supplies over his cloak, even Chief Folkvar.

‘So, the gathering,’ said Steinn, a lean warrior with a misshapen nose. ‘There’ll be drinking and contests, I take it? And maybe a few women?’

The others laughed.

‘And plenty of Sigurd’s hair to be won,’ said Folkvarr.

Ulfr smiled and the others chuckled, appreciating the chief’s quick comeback. At one level, Sigurd’s hair was a simple kenning, a two-word allusion, which in this case meant gold. But there were overtones, evoking images of blonde maidens, and the wordplay and poetry contests whose winners might well impress those very maidens.

He remembered what Folkvar had said in private: a chieftain needs to be alone, yet have an easy way with clan members.

But then, with the notion of maidens, his thoughts returned to the settlement where Eira lived alone in the volva’s hut, beautiful and gifted, still grieving for her brother, dead at Ulfr’s hand in an act of mercy. When he returned from this journey, would things be different? Or had she sundered him from her thoughts forever?

Two shapes came running through the grass: Brandr and Grigg, Steinn’s hound.

‘All’s well,’ said Steinn, and Ulfr nodded.

Both men understood their hounds, could read the nuances of gait and stance. Brandr and Grigg had been having fun but also working, sweeping the surroundings and finding neither enemy nor prey.

Hallsteinn was making the sign of the fist, hand pressed against the small Thórr’s hammer he wore on a leather cord. In the distance was a raven, a reminder of Othinn.

‘I think there’s another band of folk travelling,’ he said. ‘See? Beyond that lake.’

Ulfr tried to work out where he was looking, then gave up. The others shrugged.

‘What do we do, Chief?’ asked Skári.

His voice still caused Ulfr to tighten up, to imagine himself cutting the bastard down. But Skári had been ensorcelled, just like the others; he would not have killed Jarl otherwise - merely outlawed him. That was what he had said afterwards.

‘We walk and keep watch.’

Their pace had been a warrior’s distance-eating lope; now they slowed, letting the rhythm of motion recharge their limbs. Ulfr kept scanning the distant ground; finally he saw movement.

‘There are others ahead. Hallsteinn is right.’

‘You have the eyes of Heimdall,’ Chief Folkvar told Hallsteinn. ‘We have our own Watcher of the Gods.’

‘Unfortunately, I have the ears as well.’

‘You can hear the grass growing?’

‘Aye, and Ulfr’s farting while he sleeps.’

‘No,’ said Steinn. ‘That doesn’t make you Heimdall, my friend. They can hear Ulfr all the way down in Niflheim.’

‘You cooked the rabbits that Snorri killed,’ said Ulfr. ‘I blame the food.’

‘It’s all right, lad. You were just snoring like Thórr.’

‘Thank you, Vermundr.’

‘From both ends, mind you—’

‘Quiet now,’ said Folkvar.

They walked on, checking their weapons could be drawn or unslung as needed, becoming watchful now.

By a frozen river with steep banks, they drew near to the other party, who had stopped but kept their swords sheathed. Their cloaks were browns and greens, blending with the landscape.

‘Twelve folk,’ said Hallsteinn. ‘Three of them women.’

Most of them, in Ulfr’s estimation, stood like hardened warriors.

‘How can you tell from here?’ asked Snorri.

‘My godlike attributes.’

‘That wasn’t how it looked when we bathed in the lake.’