On the Cold Coasts

but did not protest. It was evident from the faces of those present that they sided with Helgi.
    Thorkell spoke. “You both have a point, but the best thing would be to ambush the English, if at all possible, before they can inflict more damage. Besides, we may well meet Jon Palsson and his troop as we travel north on Hofdastrond. Either that or those English villains will, should they have continued north.”
    “All right,” said the magistrate curtly. “Let us prepare for the journey.”

TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON
    Fear begins at the nape of the neck, settles in, and makes the hairs stand on end. Then it trickles down the spine and sets all muscles on the alert, preparing them to fight or flee when the body is face-to-face with an antagonist. It also seeps into the chest, making the heart beat faster and the breath come in spurts.
    Thorkell Gudbjartsson ran a gloved hand down the back of his neck, tightening his cloak around him. He shivered, despite the thick, stiff leather armor of cowhide, lent to him by the magistrate, that he wore beneath the heavy wool of his cloak. On a broad chain around his neck, he wore a large silver-lined rood; perhaps the English might show respect for a crucified Christ, even if they did not spare infants. Though that was far from certain.
    Heading up the procession were Helgi, Bjorn the magistrate, and Thorkell, unarmed but carrying an emblem for the troop, as he had promised Ragna. That emblem had caught everyone’s attention, and the men had looked at one another in some surprise, for they knew it, even though it was ancient. It had twelve stripes, the number of the Icelandic districts, alternating silver and blue. Missing, however, was the red lion of the Kingdom of Norway, holding an axe in its claws, which had been placed over the Icelandic colors for over a hundred and fifty years. Yet no one remarked on this, not even the king’s magistrate, who occasionally gave the emblem—and its carrier—a worried glance, looking a bit like he’d eaten something very sour but was trying his best to swallow it anyway.
    The heavy clouds had been swept away from the moon, so they were able to find their way fairly easily. Helgi led the group, holding a torch and keeping a vigilant eye on the trail ahead, a grim expression on his face. The mail shirts of the men who rode near the front reflected the light from the flame, and a low clamor merged with the sound of hooves, as sword holsters, pikes, crossbows, and quivers clashed with armor, breastplates, and brigandines. Some of the men carried gauntlets and even metal helmets that they had bought from the English. Others wore old homemade helmets, without rims, with protection extending down between the eyes and over the nose. Some of them hardly had any protection—they were farmhands, armed only with wood axes and their own physical strength.
    Here and there on the trail, they spotted fresh horse manure, which could have been dropped by the horses of the Holl people the day before—or anyone else’s, for that matter. At any rate, there wasn’t enough to signal that more than six or seven horses had passed that way.
    Having forded the Hofsa River, Thorkell signaled for the men to stop. Daybreak loomed on the horizon. The night would soon be gone.
    “From here it is only a short distance to Holl,” he said. “Evidently the English have not yet boarded their ship. They probably decided to rest overnight, and they cannot be far away. I should think it best for two men to go ahead: one down to Hofdavatn Lake, the other the shortest route along the mountain slope to Holl. They can have a quick look around. If we’re in luck, we can catch them unaware.”
    The men looked at each other uncertainly. Who was willing to go ahead? Thorkell glanced around and waited a few moments. “I’ll go to Holl,” he said when no one volunteered.
    Helgi shook his head. “No. I’ll go. You go down to the lake,” he said.
    Thorkell nodded in agreement. “Let us meet back here within the hour.” He rode to a large boulder, loosened two bags that were hitched on each side of his pommel, and placed them on the rock. He handed the emblem to Bjorn, who took it from him with a sullen expression. It was best to have as little as possible with him, should he need to take off at a gallop.
    “Don’t touch the packs,” he warned the group, then drove his spurs into the sides of his horse and bolted into the dusky light of the morning.
    This was