On the Cold Coasts

the day.
    He slowed his horse as he approached Hofdavatn Lake, glanced around, but saw no sign of men or horses. There was old manure on the trail leading to the low turf farm south of the lake; no one could have gone there in the last few days. A frosty vapor hovered above the large lake, wrapping the surroundings in a gloomy mist and hiding the Hofdabaer farm just beyond it. The great cliffs of Gusthnjukur peak, above Holl, were just visible. There was no sound, save for the occasional squawking of birds on the lake. He heard the chilly laugh of the Great Northern Diver. Livestock slept in the fields; nothing amiss there. The English must have headed northward from Holl, along the side of the mountain. Thorkell hesitated a brief moment, then headed onward into the band of fog that lay low over the land. He pricked up his ears in the silence. It was probably most sensible to head toward Holl; it would be easier to trace the path of the English from there. His horse appeared to sense the tension of its rider and yanked its head, champing at the bit.
    Heading up the small foothill between the borders of Holl and Vatn, Thorkell’s horse stopped and refused to go further. Thorkell urged it on, impatiently. It would not budge. At that same moment, he heard the sound of men’s voices coming from the darkness. Were they speaking English or Nordic? He leapt from his horse and walked over to the slope with his head down, then fell on his hands and knees and crawled the last bit of the way. On the other side of the slope was a large, deep basin. Six tents formed a circle around a pyre. To the east of the tents, closer to the mountain, there was a group of horses. Three guards meandered about on the slope, talking gibberish. He caught the odd word; it was English. It sounded like they were bickering. One of them was holding a large ferrule with a wooden handle over his shoulder. A culverin. Thorkell cursed under his breath.
    He crawled slightly closer on his belly. Each tent could contain five or six men. Where was that godforsaken Father Jon now and his thirty brave men who had promised to come to Enni this Monday morning? Had they deceived him? He wiped beads of sweat from his brow and turned. Those English villains would get a rude awakening, with or without Jon Palsson.
    A few moments later, he came upon Helgi on the trail below Holl. Kristin was with him, seemingly unhurt, although there was blood splattered on her dress. Helgi had found her hiding inside the barn, terrified.
    “What about the others—the old couple and the domestics?” asked Thorkell. Helgi looked despondently at the mountain, avoiding his pitying, inquisitive gaze. “Dead. All of them,” he said in a husky voice.
    Kristin’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, and her hands trembled. At first she could respond to their questions only in single syllables, but before long they were able to get the full story. She had taken her horse up to the storage shed and had just finished removing the saddle when she heard screaming and saw the men attack the old couple with axes in front of the house. She had not seen where they came from, everything had happened so fast, but they must have been hiding behind one of the farm buildings and waiting for them to arrive. She had run into the storage shed and nearly tripped over the bodies of the domestics who lay on the floor, near the door. At that dreadful sight she had fainted. No doubt this had saved her, for when she came to, she heard one of the Englishmen come into the storeroom to look for survivors. She had not dared to stir—perhaps she had not even been able to—but lay perfectly still, paralyzed by fear, where she had landed on top of one of the corpses. The man had gone into the attic and checked every corner, cursing and shouting. She had held her breath, and by the grace of God he had not noticed her.
    “Why didn’t you go for help when they were gone?” asked Helgi.
    Kristin stared at the ground. “I couldn’t find Ingvaldur inside,” she whispered. “Maybe they took him. Einhildur was—I was too frightened…” Her voice broke, and she began to cry. Helgi put his arms around her. “Michael went to Enni for help and took Ingvaldur with him,” he said softly. “Our boy…” He stopped in mid-sentence. Thorkell looked at him intently, shook his head, and put a finger to his lips. Not now.
    “Time is of the essence,” he said. “We must hurry if we want to catch the English off