Heroes of the Valley by Jonathan Stroud

hands; the wind was strong and tore him from his footholds. Eagles pecked his ears. Night fell and Svein climbed on. At dawn the killer began throwing rocks, which Svein dodged by swinging out one-handed. He got to the top and slew his brother's killer with a single sword-thrust, then climbed back down and returned to his House, where he took up his plough as if nothing had happened. 'I have had a walk around,' he told his mother. 'Now I am back.'
    The men Arnkel sent after the killers returned before dark, dust-stained and despondent. They had ridden hard all the way to the cataracts, but down-valley horses are light and swift, and the Hakonssons had long since passed the Snag. This set Arnkel raging until he frothed at the mouth. He picked up a trestle table and threw it against the wall, so it broke in two; he took the knife that had killed his brother and stabbed it into his own hand, into the palm that had clasped the hands of Brodir's murderers. Even Astrid fled from him and Arnkel remained all night alone in the hall.
    Morning came again. Bright sunlight shone through Halli's window and across his counterpane. There was a smell of fresh air and wild flowers. When he woke from deep sleep, Halli lay still a while, staring at the triangles of light upon the plaster wall, at the black beams in the ceiling, at old Katla snoring in her corner chair. When he moved, his shoulder ached, but the poultices his nurse had given him had soothed the damaged muscles, and he could move his arm freely once more.
    His memories of the previous day were fragmentary – little more than shards of shock, confusion and pain. He had raised the alarm, yes: after that – what had he done? Little enough.
    Just stood by as the House sprang into action. He had been a bystander, ignored by all save Katla, who fussed and cosseted him and confined him to his bed.
    Time to change all that. Halli rose, dressed slowly, wincing at certain movements, and went to the hall. The sun was already high, but a hush lay on the House. His father was sitting in his Law Seat, head on his breast. His wounded hand was black with dried blood. He had not bandaged it. Around his shoulders hung his formal cloak, a sombre, crumpled silver-black. He was very still and silent. At his side stood Halli's mother, speaking softly in his ear.
    A few people worked in remote corners of the hall, preparing flowers for Brodir's vigil, but no one dared approach where Arnkel sat.
    Halli marched right up. 'Father, I wish to have a sword.'
    Arnkel did not raise his head. His voice was low and quiet. 'Why?'
    'Simple enough. I intend to avenge my uncle.'
    For a long while Arnkel did not speak. At last he said, 'My son, there are no swords. All were melted down. Save the ones the heroes hold, up on the hill.'
    'Grim could make a blade.'
    'Oh, Grim will do that, all right!' His mother's voice was shrill and furious; it cut across the muted hubbub of the room so that all activity stopped. 'Even now he makes the sword that Brodir will take into his cairn, to help guard us from the Trows. But there are no swords for the living , as well you know! The Council forbids it, as is right, just as the Council will resolve this matter peacefully, to our eventual satisfaction. Let there be no further talk of avenging, you stupid boy.'
    Halli shrugged. 'It is well-known you never cared for Brodir, Mother. Father – what of you? Your rage and grief echo my own.'
    Arnkel stirred then; he sat a little higher. 'Halli,' he said wearily, 'treat your mother with more respect, or I will beat you here and now.' He pulled at his nose and looked towards the fire. 'And I ask you not to speak to me again of vengeance, or swords, or the honour of Svein's House. Your impulses are good – I understand them, I share them! We all do.' At this there was a snort from Halli's mother. 'You have already done what you could – your bravery in the stable was admirable. It is not your fault you are no warrior. But the way to