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as before?”
    “Yea. In fact, today we spare any who are weaponless.”
    Tork frowned. “A bear can do great harm even without sharp teeth. Have a caution, my friend.”
    “We will decide later if they pose any threat. Besides, they will all be sold into thralldom, as before, except for those women and children that our men choose to keep, or those with particular talents. A blacksmith, for example, would not be turned away, nor a leather worker, which we sorely need. Remember, no battlefield rape, or death will be the penalty. And all plunder shall be shared.”
    “As you wish.” Tork recognized, as he did, that some of the men resented being forbidden the slaking of lust on enemy women, but it was a tiny bit of civility in an uncivilized world that Brandr insisted upon before the berserk rage overcame him.
    A short time later, Brandr walked with careful silence over the dewy ground toward the men in battle gear who were moving into a tight svinfyklja or swine wedge . . . a triangular formation whereby the point faced the enemy. They brandished fierce weapons of all kinds, some in leather helmets but most with cup-shaped metal ones with nose and eye guards, even neck flaps, carrying round wooden and brass shields, only a few in chain armor, like him and Tork. They would be on foot rather than horseback because of the rough terrain. Usually, a chieftain let his men form a shield wall around him, but Brandr insisted on leading the point forward. When they were ready, he raised his right arm high, one of his hirdsmen raised the bear flag, an archer sent up the arrow of war, and Brandr howled like a wolf, then shouted, “To the death!”
    Tork joined in, yelling, “Hew them down! Death to the Sigurdssons!”
    “Luck in battle!” many of the men hollered to each other, followed by loud war whoops.
    And Brandr began the chant that they all picked up, “Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance!”

The sins of war brought one blessing to him . . .
     
    Many hours later, they had set up camp far from the stench of battle. Corpses and hacked bodies littered the once serene valley. Vultures were already at work.
    The last of the Sigurdssons were dead, including Sigurd One Hand, who had taken Brandr’s sword through his black heart and wore a blood ring around his thick neck. At the end, Sigurd had taunted him with the way in which he had tortured his family before killing them. “Your mother’s thighs were white”—Sigurd had smiled at him through rotted teeth—“and then they were red.”
    Later, Brandr had put a blood eagle on Sigurd’s back, hacking the ribs open from the back along the spine, then reaching in to pull the lungs out, like wings. It was a horrid practice, long put aside by many Vikings. His only excuse was that he had still been in a berserk rage.
    Though hours had passed, his ears still rang with the sounds of battle . . . the clanging of swords, the whistling of arrows, the slap of leather, grunts, and death cries. His broadsword had nigh sung with magic today. A killing magic.
    Weary beyond imagination, he yearned to sleep the winter through. But there was too much to do.
    After a fine meal of fire-roasted boar, ale and mead were being inhaled like air as the men made merry, bragging of their brave feats. ’Twas the way of warriors after battle.
    “The captives,” Tork reminded him as he drew him toward the tent where four dozen men and women huddled, their hands tied behind their backs. Already tied about their necks with leather thongs were thrall amulets with the runic symbols pronouncing, “I belong to Brandr,” never to be removed without permission on pain of death. Toddlers and very young children sat at the thralls’ feet, tears staining their mud-streaked faces.
    Brandr noted that six of the women sat off to the side, apart from the others, who had been fettered with their hands behind their backs and linked by a thin rope to each other, like beads on a necklace. Two of the six held babes