What is a grendel doing here? Bjorn thought as he moved in front of Sigurd and Ullr, axe already drawn and shrugging his shield from his back. His father had told him of the strange creatures which ruled over England before, though he had not expected to run into one so soon.

  It is just as father said, he thought. A troll but covered from head to toe with hair.

  “Stay behind me,” he commanded, but Sigurd did not listen and ducked inside the steading where the prisoner was being held. “Bacraut,” Bjorn swore under his breath.

  “I am King Edmund of East Anglia and you have something that belongs to me, heathens,” the grendel shouted from the top of the hill. His voice carried, though it was not as deep as Bjorn had expected from the look of him.

  Edmund was a large grendel, a troll. Warted flesh, a well-fed belly and thick, bulging muscles stuck out even through the finely made armour he wore. The gold around his neck, wrists, and fingers was the stuff of envy and Bjorn thought that they would be quite the prize if he managed to kill him.

  Yet, despite his battle readiness, Bjorn sensed something. He could not explain how, but somehow he knew that this man was far more powerful than he was. He knew that he would not be able to win against him, not yet, and that frustrated him all the more.

  Peering above his shield rim, Bjorn frowned at the grendel and runes appeared before him, the world freezing.

  Grendel:

  All djoful are powerful in their own right, but grendel are a cut above most. More fearsome and ancient than even the mighty dragon, the grendel benefits from its human-like thought-cage and ability to act using logic and battle-wit whilst wielding weapons with monstrous muscularity.

  It is believed that the grendel were first created by the union of Cain and a Jotun princess. Cain is known to the Christians as one of the first humans and the first on Midgard to commit murder, slaying his brodir out of jealously. He was banished from Midgard and cursed with a life of wandering. In his banishment he is said to have fathered children with a Jotun princess and some of them found their way back to Midgard, continuing to spread their seed and rule over the lands of England.

  I do not know who this Cain is, Bjorn thought. But Jotun are fierce. If their blood runs through his veins then I will need to get stronger before I can kill him. He clenched his teeth, realising that this also applied to Aella. His revenge could not wait, so he would have to get strong fast.

  “Do you not speak the lord’s tongue, heathen? You could at least tell me who you are.” Edmund the grendel shouted after time resumed and no one had replied. He waited another moment as Bjorn glared at him, then with a deep sigh said, “Who… are… you?”, though much slower.

  “I am Bjorn Ragnarsson,” Bjorn shouted back.

  “Ah,” Edmund replied, trotting his horse a little closer as his tense archers continued to hold their drawn bowstrings. “So the savage does speak our language then? How quaint. Well, Bjorn Ragnarsson, might I ask what such a small group of Danes are doing so far away from Daneland?”

  “Denmark,” Bjorn corrected. “We are just passing through here on our way to Northumbria.”

  Edmund looked at the blood-stained grass below the hill, littered with corpses, and frowned.

  “Do you always slaughter the inhabitants of the places you pass through?” He asked, eyes glinting dangerously.

  “Only when they attack me,” Bjron replied, his shield still raised and covering his vitals from the readied, twitchy archers.

  Edmund nudged his horse with his boots and it trotted closer still, decamping the hill and reaching the flat ground where much of the previous battle had taken place. Eyes level with Bjorn’s, he glanced at the slain villagers and furrowed his brow.

  “Forgive me for my scepticism, Dane,” he began. “But I find it unlikely that the unarmed farmers, women, and children of this meagre settlement would dare have the gall to attack someone as well armed as yourself.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “They did not,” Bjorn replied quietly, eyes locked onto the grendel, axe haft gripped tightly. “We found them like this, and were set upon by them,” he nodded towards the dead soldiers.

  “I see,” Edmund said thoughtfully. His appearance of ease was unsettling and though Bjorn refused to take his eyes off the foeman to his front, he was acutely aware of Ullr preparing to strike from his rear. Her muscles were coiled tighter than Jormungandr. “Well, I suppose that’s by the by for now. As I said before, you have something that belongs to me and I would see it returned.”

  “And what might that be?” Bjorn replied, but before Edmund could answer, the sound of a door being slammed open filled the tense silence which clung to the hillside.

  “Move it, Saxon!” Sigurd commanded as he forced the naked, bound and beaten prisoner through the doorway. Still using the pilfered sword as a crutch with one hand, the other was wrapped around the prisoner’s neck, a seax blade clutched in Sigurd’s fist and pressed so tightly into the man’s gullet that a thin line of blood clung to it.

  Bjorn heard gasps and a few whispered words pass the lips of the soldiers on the hill. He could not make out everything that was said but he was certain he heard the words “savages” and “barbarians”. He would have grinned if the situation was not so dire. Instead all he could think was that when the gods were handing out clever, Sigurd must have been last in line.

  Edmund’s facial expression did not change, though his impassive eyes flickered momentarily at the appearance of the prisoner and Sigurd. His upper lip twitched, but just for a moment, and then he spoke.

  “The first time I met a Dane,” he said. “He told me that your people did not take prisoners.”

  “You must have misunderstood him then,” Bjorn said with a slight snarl to his voice. “My people take prisoners from every battle, they are the right of the victors, it is our way. However, they do not remain prisoners. They become thralls.”

  “And is that to be the fate of this man here?” Edmund asked, his horse stepping closer.

  “No,” Bjorn said. “His fate was to die.”

  “I see,” Edmund said calmly, his composure never wavering as his horse moved further forwards, almost within striking distance of Bjorn’s axe. “You said you were heading for Northumbria, is that correct?” Bjorn grunted his affirmation. “Then perhaps a trade? The north is a fair ways travel on foot, especially when your man there cannot do so without balancing on that dirty sword. Horses would make the journey much faster.”

  “And why would you give us horses when there are so many more of you than us?” Bjorn replied. “As you said, we are few. You could just kill us and be done with it.”

  “Call it a diplomatic offering in the hopes of furthering Christian-Heathen relations,” he said and a slight smile tugged at his lips, but just for a moment.

  “What is to stop you from trying to kill us once I release your man?”

  “The same thing that is stopping you from killing me right now,” he said, glancing to Bjorn’s axe arm which was hidden behind his shield. “Curiosity, and maybe just a smidge of honour.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I don’t see any reason why you would,” he shrugged. “But, if you refuse then I suppose my man will get his throat slit and then my archers will stick the lot of you like pigs. You might take me down, if you’re fast enough, but your companions will certainly die in the process. After all, shields can only protect from a single direction.”

  Bjorn’s eyes widened and before he could prevent it, he was glancing around. Behind him, Ullr stood with her own shield up and behind her, Sigurd used the prisoner as a shield, but it was what was further behind which truly shocked him. Standing on the roofs of the few structurally intact steadings, were more archers.

  How did they get there without making a sound? He thought, gritting his teeth as he looked back at Edmund, a smug expression on the king’s face now. He has outwitted me. Bacraut.

  “It looks like we will be taking your deal after all,” Bjorn said, supressing the urge to launch his axe at the grendel’s face, consequences be damned.

  “Splendid!” He said, smiling and throwing his arms out dramatically. “I do so enjoy the conclusion of a negotiation. Captain! Fetch me three horses and prepare the wagon. It appears we will need to transport a wounded man.”

  ***

  “I do not know what you said, brodir,” Sigurd said, his face beaming as they rode at the side of the swan-road. “But you must have a magic tongue to have gotten us out of that one. Surrounded on all sides, outnumbered, and my brodir, the great Bjorn Ironside, still managed to trick the Saxon king into giving us horses. Yet another skald tale to add to your collection.”

  Bjorn grunted, diligently watching the treeline, the road ahead, the rear, anywhere an attack might come from. He had already tasked Hrafn with scouting from the sky and Ullr was on high alert as well.

  He honestly had no idea what had just happened. It made no sense. Why would Edmund the grendel have let them live? Furthermore, why offer them horses? He could not make heads nor tails of the events that had just transpired.

  Initially, he had wondered if their prisoner was somehow important to the king. That idea quickly left his thought-cage when he saw how carelessly he was tossed into the back of a wooden cart. Moreso when the captain had spat on him and told him that he would be punished for allowing himself to be captured. People who are important to kings are not treated that way by mere soldiers.

  Why then? He wondered. What could he possibly have gained by allowing us to live?

  “Bjorn!” Hrafn squawked from above and he looked upwards towards the circling, black bird. “There is a boat ahead, past the bend in the swan-road. It is sailing towards us.”

  “Fukka!” Bjorn swore. “Is it the Saxons?”

  “No,” Hrafn replied, swooping down and landing on the horses’ neck in front of Bjorn. “It is your brodir.”

  “Bjorn,” Sigurd asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why are you talking to your pigeon again? People will think you galinn-touched.”