Page 92 of Tears of the Wolf
Ielda continued. “Doesn’t matter too much. We took enough silver to live like kings until next spring.”
“I see that.” Cenric gestured to the smoky storehouse.
“It’s bad news for you, Hyldishman.” Ielda shook his head. “People paying Valdari to kill aldermen? Means your country is a pile of peat moss ready to burn.”
For all he appeared to be a drunken fool, Ielda was right. If someone had wanted Paega dead and had wanted raiders to take the blame for it, that meant there were larger webs being woven. Aelgar had barely stabilized his rule. For someone to be trying to kill off his aldermen, an alderman with kingly blood no less, was a bad sign.
And why Osbeorn? One child in three made it to adulthood. Brynn’s son had only just reached his first year. It seemed excessive.
“It’s good news for me!” Ielda cackled. “Lots of work for mercenaries.”
Cenric did his best to bury his impatience. How to find out which man had killed Brynn’s son?
They couldn’t drag Ielda’s entire crew back. Neither King Ovrek nor the jarl of Kyrna would stand for that and they didn’t have the manpower to do it. A life for a life, that was the way of Valdar.
“You sure you weren’t hired by an impatient son wanting his inheritance?” Cenric thought he did an excellent job of sounding bored.
“No.” Ielda shook his head, spittle flying as he did. “Old man lost his first batch of sons in the war. He had a new one by some wife a third of his age. Wasn’t hard for Svendi finished that one off.”
Svendi. How obliging of Ielda to give them a name. They didn’t even have to ask.
“Though, the brat looked barely a year old. You wouldn’t think a man that age could still get it up.” Ielda shook his head. “I think his thanes must have been topping her behind the old man’s back.”
Cenric chose to ignore the insult to his wife. His prey was close.
“Svendi?” Hróarr screwed his face up as if he was thinking. “With only one eye?”
“Svendi has his eyes,” Ielda coughed. “As many as you.”
Hróarr stroked his beard, contemplative. “I always get your men mixed up. Which one is missing his eye?”
“That’s Svein. My brother.”
Hróarr made a grunting sound of understanding. “Then which one is Svendi?”
Ielda pointed a drunken finger across the barn to a pair of men playing tafl. “That one,” Ielda slurred. “Both eyes.”
Hróarr squinted. “The left one or the right one?”
“Right one!” Ielda was getting frustrated.
Cenric marked the man on the right—carrying two swords, one longer than the other. His beard was braided in two forked strands bound by tiny silver rings. A lot of men had started doing that after Ovrek became king of Valdar.
Cenric made sure not to stare at Svendi for too long. He was going to enjoy what came next.
Loyalty was like a good palisade. It gave order to the world and protection from chaos, but it could also be used by your enemies to trap you if you weren’t careful.
In Svendi’s case, a little more loyalty might have served him well.
Hróarr and Cenric left Ielda groaning in the corner to slink over to the tafl table and their prey.
Arm of iron and tongue of silver—that was a line from an old song about Havnar, the First of Fathers. He was a great warrior, poet, and persuader. Hróarr must have been blessed by the First of Fathers tonight.
Cenric faded into the background, letting his younger cousin use his reputation as a successful mercenaryto their full advantage.
It took a few drinks, a couple coarse jokes, a skillful balance of flattery and insults, and Svendi was ready to join Hróarr’s ship. Though in fairness, Svendi took very little persuading to leave.
Before the night’s stew was finished, Svendi trailed along, Hróarr’s massive arm around his shoulder like the oldest of friends. Svendi had collected his shield and the satchel that probably contained all his worldly goods. He was walking away into the dark with a band of strangers.
