The caravan moved on under trees silhouetted against the cloudy sky. Yngvar and Hakon walking by their horses, Hildigunn and Eyolf in the carriage, the men scattered around them. Eyolf had not spoken a word since that forced “do it”. But the hushed voices of the men mumbled ceaselessly.

“Twenty years ago... he and... Gorm's father... handmaid...” whispers came, “Gunnarr... Gunnarr who? Something about his nose... Wide-nose or... Crooked-nose...”

It was at that moment that Eyolf finally stirred. He grasped his forehead, his fingers pulling at his carefully braided hair, his broken fingernail bleeding again a red smudge on his temple. He breathed out and in, repeatedly, forcefully, like an enraged ox, like struggling to push back into oblivion a distant memory of anguish.

“Flatnose... Gunnarr... Flatnose...” he grunted.

Some of those around turned to him, exchanging confused, panicked glances. But their wait for elucidation lasted little. For Eyolf lifted his head from his palms and took off – no, tore off – the cape on his shoulders; unaware that it was fastened with a brooch and chain, he tore at it until the cloth ripped around the pin and he threw it on the crates. He shot up to his feet:

“Halt!” he ordered the men, coarse-voiced, and they halted. “Turn back! Turn back to his farmstead and... burn it – burn it to the ground – kill everyone, if you must – but capture Gorm and his father Gunnar Flatnose!”

Silence met his words. No one dared answer; all looked towards Yngvar, who only gritted his teeth and moved on, ignoring his order.

“Turn back, I said! What, did you think I'd bend over and let that fucking worm get away...? let him believe that he's taken advantage of me...? that he's deceived... Eyolf Sólhrafn?” the seiðmaðr shouted, incoherently – he, the orator, the motivator – his heavy breathing indicating an avalanche of thoughts in his head ending his utterings abruptly. “No! You will capture them and... bring them to me!”

But Yngvar signalled the men:

“Proceed.”

All fidgeted in confusion at the contradictory orders. But Eyolf's eyes flashed:

“What... did you say?” he sprang down from the carriage and dashed directly at Yngvar, lodging his hand like a claw in his shirt. “How dare you disregard my command?”

But Yngvar's cold mien turned into a scowl and his voice to a snarl:

“I take no commands from you. Now... get your hand off me.” Eyolf conformed, but Yngvar stepped closer to him, closer and closer, his tall frame eclipsing the seiðmaðr's like a mountain. “You... let yourself blackmailed like that... easing King Olaf the job of publicly discrediting you for your lies and filthy acts. Embezzlement... and...” he shook his head, a grimace of utter disgust distorting his lips, not even bringing himself to name that licentious act, “how low can you sink? And now you want to launch a hasty attack that will start an all-out war to cover up your gross mistake...”

“Yes, I made a mistake - twenty years ago!” Eyolf snapped. “I started from nothing, and look what I've accomplished! Now...” he shoved a finger under his nose, “now... you know, Yngvar of the Ynglingar: I never had famous mothers, heroic fathers, rich uncles and ships and kin names that go back to Oðinn...”

“... and now, in your boundless arrogance,” Yngvar went on, aggressively ignoring him, his voice louder with each word, coming closer to the seiðmaðr until his back was against the carriage and he had no more room to stand back, “you dare give orders to me and my men and you expect me to clean after you!”

Eyolf lay a hand on his chest to keep him at a distance, heightening his tone as well, although it wavered subtly in conviction: “Isn't this what you're here for? Isn't fighting for me part of our deal?”

But Yngvar lowered his head until his coal-lined eyes fell upon Eyolf's hand – flashed at it in utmost revulsion – and he growled:

“Take... your... hand...”

There was a loud whistle. It made them both stop mid-uttering, mid-gesture; Eyolf took his palms away from Yngvar's shirt as quickly as if it had burned his hand. Each took a half-step back. Hakon, who had whistled, stepped between them:

“Hey! What in Hel are you doing?” he shook his head. They both became aware of the men's hesitant but prying glances. Hakon led them both a few steps away. “Think a moment: succumbing to blackmail, letting ourselves handled like that, it makes us weak – us, Yngvar, not only Eyolf; and we need to show nobody screws with us. If we can't handle a corrupt booze-dealer, how can we handle the fuckin' King? But an open war is not the way – it can't be done.” Eyolf crossed his arms and glanced aside, and so did Yngvar. “Say we get rid of Gorm - it would profit not only your reputation, but also our business. But then what? Who'll be in charge to replace him?”

“Bragi. He'll answer to us if we promise him the reigns of the business,” said Eyolf.

“Bragi was sent to you as spy, can't you see? To seduce and distract you from their scheming at our back! It was a game of power.”

Eyolf scoffed. “Pff! Please, Hakon, don't offend me! Fucking is always a game of power, especially with men. And since I'm in this game, you'll have to trust me on this: Bragi will be ours. I'll deal with Gorm and his father too, but I need you to put us face to face.”

Hakon's expression suddenly enlivened:

“Thorkell's sons... that bunch of raiders-turned-aspiring-landowners. Gorm and his kin have an years-long feud with them over land, they say Gorm owes them money. I heard they wouldn't want their swords to catch rust, so they hire them to whomever pays. If we offered them a business deal, I'm sure they'll be happy to oblige... The result is the same, but we keep our names clean, we keep you two - our would-be king and our famous seiðmaðr - sheltered from such dirty deeds.”

Yngvar's brow furrowed:

“No. They are unruly, brutish, unreliable. Even as hired assassins. We can't get others involved in this, too many people know already. But... we can use their feud. Thorkelll's sons surely knew about our meeting today, they knew Gorm would have fresh sacks of silvers to pay them what he owes... so when an accident happens and Gorm's farm burns, people will look for someone to blame...”

A smirk flourished on Eyolf's face. Hakon rubbed his beard, nodding energetically:

“Yes... yes, it's doable!” He elbowed Yngvar. “Just like old times.”

The displeasure in Yngvar's tense frown at the thought of another deceit could still not extinguish the focus in his eyes at the prospect of strategies and thrilling exploits. Eyolf showed a haughty satisfaction in not being the only one who employs deceit every now and again, while Hakon was downright cheerful.

While Hakon stepped away to communicate their instructions to the men, Yngvar took another look back at Eyolf: absently, the seiðmaðr was holding the finger with the broken nail between his lips, eyes fixed somewhere in the ground. Then he chuckled - a sad, pensive chuckle – and spoke, partly to himself, partly to the man observing him silently:

“I always wanted more. Never enough. Never said no. Until one day when I did... to someone who wouldn't take no for an answer.”