Old Grim had left, taking his knife and his common sense with him. Following his departure, a few other Jarls men who remembered the sound of the Torsion Spikes shredding the York gate exchanged nervous glances.
"My wife... she likes the new paper," one Jarl muttered, shifting his weight. "She says it is good for lighting fires."
"And my son," another whispered. "He is learning to count. He counted my cows yesterday. I have three more than I thought."
They looked at Einar, who was standing by the fire pit with the manic energy of a man betting his life on a pair of deuces. They looked at the Saxon priest, Wilfrid, who smelled of foreign incense and treachery.
They decided they had left the oven on. Without a word, six more Jarls turned and slipped into the darkness, following Grim's path away from the treason.
Einar saw them go. He didn't stop them. He didn't even blink.
