Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson

the house. “Now go, blacksmith,” he said. “Go and find whatever you need to find. And remember—you know fire. You’ve run a forge. Go.”
    “But . . . you’re hurt,” Audun said.
    “Yes, I am. But I’ll heal,” Fjölnir said. “I’ll heal faster if you’re not here to cause trouble and eat all my food,” he added with a grin. “Swear you will go.”
    “I swear. Thank you,” Audun muttered, but Fjölnir waved him off. He walked backward over the smashed door and out of the house. Turning around, his breath caught.
    The doors to the barn and both of the sheds had been broken. Six of the statues, half again the height of a man, had been dragged out into the yard and thoroughly destroyed. Audun bent down and picked up a piece. The detail in the carving showed a full-figured woman with flowing hair. Her fractured face looked back in sadness.
    The scraping of wood on wood made him turn his head, just in time to see the remains of the door to the old gray house slot back into place.
    A heavy loneliness settled on his shoulders like the yoke on an ox. Without a word, Audun got his bearings and walked toward the south.
    When he had been gone for a good while, the door to the house toppled outward and Fjölnir stepped into the yard, leaning on a sturdy walking staff. He put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loudly. Two large dogs came bounding from the forest. The smaller one, a white mastiff, sat down at the old man’s side. The larger, a gray wolfhound, stalked around him. Sniffing at his wounds, the beast growled.
    “Shh, Frec. None of that. There is no need to chase. Where they’re going there are plenty of wolves in the woods.” The old man smiled and straightened up, looking an inch or two taller and a decade younger. There was a military air about him now. “No, they’ll get what they deserve,” he said. “Come on. We have work to do.”
    He snapped his fingers and strode off into the forest, toward the east. The dogs fell in line behind him.
    Alone on a long, winding road heading south along Setr Valley, Audun tried his best not to let his mind wander. The sky above him was clear and blue, with only the occasional wisp of a cloud spread across it. After putting on Fjölnir’s old clothes he looked more like a migrant worker and less like a roving wild man, but he still dreaded meeting the next traveler. So he walked.
    Left, right, left, right.
    Why had he not been able to charge into the fray and save Fjölnir from the beating?
    Left, right, left, right.
    Had he . . . died on the wall?
    Left, right, left.
    What was that thing he could feel? The blackness in his chest?
    Right, left.
    His heart beat faster. Filled with an urge, a longing to move, Audun started running, away from the farm, away from the shame, away from the questions in his mind.
    The sun was past half-set, and darkness crept across the fields in its wake. The shadows had lengthened around him as he ran, and he was already winded and sore when he saw the fire. It was still just a dot, but it was clearly on his path. Breathing hard, Audun realized he could see white vapor coming from his nose and mouth.
    It would not be a good night for sleeping rough.
    His feet hurt from the running, as did his legs and back. He’d really given himself to it, enjoyed the raw feeling of cold air scraping his lungs, the soft ache in his legs. When he found his stride he’d decided that he was not allowed to stop; then he had started counting things as he went, anything to keep from thinking about everything. Slowing down now, Audun tried to gather his swirling, scattered thoughts. He waited for them to sweep him away, but they didn’t. Instead they were just . . . there, like a fire in a forge: a fire that could be stoked and controlled. Without thinking, his fingers brushed the girdle of his belt. It felt slightly warm to the touch. He pushed the thoughts away and tried to remember how to speak to people.
    It was almost