speak, but all that came out was a hoarse wheeze. Valgard’s smile flickered for an instant. “Let me see if I can explain this,” he said. “King Olav has told us that for a man to accept the faith, he needs to be . . . what was it?”
“Christened,” Finn said.
“That’s right. Christened. And this involves pouring water over the head. We thought about this and figured that the more heathen you are, the more water you will need. So we have this”—Valgard gestured to the trough—“and we have you. And we’re going to keep christening you until you believe. Do you believe in our Lord Christ?” He expected the tough-looking raider to spit and snap like the others had—either that, or accept his circumstances and lie. Some men had a bit of sense in the face of death, but among the captured raiders that hadn’t appeared to be a highly valued trait.
Neither of these things happened. Much to Valgard’s surprise, he noticed that the prisoner’s lips were quivering. The man was crying silently, mouthing something. “Put him down. Check the straps.” Finn lowered the prisoner to the floor and quickly did as he was told. When he’d examined the wrist and ankle straps to his satisfaction, he nodded at Valgard. “Good. Would you bring us something to eat? He’s not going anywhere, and you could use the rest.”
Finn lurched to his feet, favoring his right leg. “You staying with him?”
Valgard rose alongside the big soldier and put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think we should leave him alone. You go—I’ll be fine. You’ve made sure he’s all tied up.” Watching the concern in the eyes of King Olav’s captain as he left the house, Valgard had to fight to suppress a smile. It had taken fewer than four days since the fall of Stenvik to bring Finn over to his side. The fact that he’d made the big warrior dependent on the mixture that soothed his aches helped. Mindful of the lessons learned from Harald’s descent into madness, he’d gone easy on the shadowroot this time.
Still, Valgard felt the last days deep in his bones. The aftermath had been hectic—much to everyone’s surprise, the king had refused to put the captured raiders to the sword. He’d extended the same mercy to the men of Stenvik, explaining to Valgard that he wanted to show all of them the way of the White Christ first. Valgard had nodded, smiled, and done his best to patch up those most likely to survive—including his current visitor.
The man on the floor looked to be around forty years old, with thinning hair the color of an autumn field. Calloused rower’s hands and a broad chest suggested he’d spent his life sailing; weatherworn and salt-burned skin confirmed it. He’d probably killed a lot of people, Valgard mused. This wolf of the North Sea who now lay trussed up on the floor of Harald’s old house had most likely raped, terrorized, and tortured with his group of stinking, bearded brothers, like all raiders. Apparently he’d followed someone called Thrainn, who’d been a brave and noble chieftain. But most of the brave and noble people Valgard had ever heard of shared the same trait—they were dead.
He knelt back down beside the man on the floor and waited, listening to his captive’s ragged breathing.
“She’ll . . . kill me,” the bound man whispered.
Valgard’s scalp tingled, and the breath caught in his throat. Was this it? He fought hard to keep his composure. “Who?” he asked.
“She is . . . she is the night . . .”
Working carefully, Valgard eased the bound sailor up into a sitting position. Heart thumping in his chest, he chose his words carefully. “She was . . . with Skargrim, wasn’t she?” The sailor shuddered and nodded. “And she would kill you.” Again, the sailor nodded, and when he tried to look around, Valgard said, “There’s no one here. You are safe. Five thousand of the king’s soldiers are camped around Stenvik. No one will attack us.”
This did nothing to ease the sailor’s fears. “She could do anything. We are all in her power.”
Fighting to control another surge of excitement, Valgard asked, “Who was she? Where did she come from?”
“She raised the dead,” the sailor muttered. “She was beautiful . . .”
“And she came with you?”
“Not us. Skargrim. Someone told me she murdered Ormar with his own knife. She was the magic of the north. She’ll find me. I can’t. I can’t abandon