It was only when most of the water running along the keel had been scooped out that one of the men spoke.
“Where is Tönne,” he asked, to all and yet to no one. This was Gizur, a good bow man who Yrling had picked up within Ribe. Gizur had straightened up, and was standing near the mast, his wet clothes dripping. He looked up and down the length of the drekar.
Tönne was gone. He was a friend to Gizur, but little known to the others. Now all saw he had been swept overboard.
They stood, and grasping the gunwale for steadiness, scanned the seas on all sides. The water was too rough to see much beyond the nearest waves.
“Tönne!” cried Gizur, a call answered only by the creak of wood beneath them, and the slapping of the waves against the hull.
No one spoke. Yrling had one thought, recalling his act of sacrifice at Ribe: that Njord did indeed exact an Offering.
Few slept that day, and then only from exhaustion. All were still wet, with no way to dry out until the Sun might show itself. Their possessions were soaked, those of them who had not lost them overboard. The scant food stores were ruined, the remaining loaves a soggy, salt-water soaked mess, caked in one corner of the chest which had housed them. Bjarne, looking at this, doubted that even the rat would be tempted. A few apples, rapidly browning, were found, rolling about the knee-braces, and precious few boiled eggs. These were counted out and divided so that each man got one egg and half a mealy apple. This was their only provender that long day, though some chewed also on the tough flakes of dried cod. By lucky chance the remaining barrel of water had remained sealed; they would not die of thirst, Yrling had declared, in attempt to rally their spirits.
In the long dusk Yrling heard the men muttering. He stood at the steering oar, looking out over them in the gloaming. The sail was still furled tight against the spar; mayhap they could lift it in the morning; the wind had calmed so he no longer need fear for the safety of sail or mast. They had been battered and blown so far, they must sight land on the morrow. He wondered if they might have overshot all Angle-land, and that Frankland lay before them; he was certain they were still heading on a southerly course, and it was not beyond reason that the currents had carried them more South than West. Whatever land they sighted, he knew he must make for it. He had no choice.
Yrling stayed long at the oar that night, letting Une sleep until he himself must meet rest. He wrapped himself in his damp blanket in the very stern under Odin’s eye, and fell into sleep, one no less profound for the trouble he felt. It was nearby voices, loud and rising, that roused him. Dawn was breaking on another grey morning, but the air was dry. Yrling sat up to see a line of men before Une, who held the steering oar. Yrling stood up.
Une was blunt of speech, and now loudly upbraided those who had come in challenge to face them. Yrling saw Gizur foremost.
“What is this,” Yrling demanded, stepping to Une’s side at the tiller. His action reasserted his claim as captain and ship-owner, and his words were more growl than question.
“Free Danes, who hold that you do not know what you are doing,” came the angry retort.
“We have no food, and soon no water,” said another.
“And Tönne is dead,” said a third. This was Gizur.
Yrling looked to him. Gizur was smaller than any of the others who had signed on for the adventure, but sinewy and fast. Like many smaller warriors, he was a master of the bow, and had showed this to Yrling when they had met, sending a well-fletched arrow whizzing through the air to strike a protruding post-end at the top of Ribe’s palisade wall. This won the attention of the nearby guards as it met its mark, forcing both Gizur and Yrling to look coolly about them and walk away as if innocent of the offending arrow’s origin.
Now five of his twenty men stood angrily before him, and one of them was Gizur. Yrling knew how swiftly mutiny could spread amongst ship-bound men; he had heard the tales. He was no less hungry than the rest, but it was he who led them into this, resisted turning back to Ribe at first setting out, allowed them to spend the extra days beached on the barrier island, eating what was needed now.
The five standing before Yrling were empty-handed. The spears were secured along the hull where they had been all voyage, but all wore their knives. If any had tried to pull a spear the time for words would have passed.
Yrling let his eyes lift to those who now ranged behind the five challengers. Sidroc, taller than them all, was first he spotted. He had been awakened by the noise of dispute just as his uncle had. He had lain awake a long time before sleep had finally come, listening to a murmured but growing dissent about him.
His nephew stepped closer, almost behind the five, awaiting any sign from his uncle, that he come forward and stand next him. Yrling gave none. He would not force a confrontation, if none was needed.
Now as Sidroc moved closer to its source, he became aware of Jari flanking his shoulder. You will be my brother, Sidroc thought, thinking of the moment they would fight shoulder-to-shoulder. He did not expect it to be against other Danes, on his uncle’s own ship. Yet there Jari was.
Sidroc flicked his eyes to Toki, like all the men now standing and staring at the group in the stern. He would have liked Toki to have glanced his way, telling him he stood ready, but Toki’s blue eyes were fixed on those staring down his uncle.
Yrling had also spared a moment to look at Toki. Most of the men already liked Toki, he knew this. But he knew Toki to be reckless, and his yellow-haired nephew did not like either Une or Jari. Yet Yrling must wager that Toki would join his cousin and stand by him in any dispute. The bond of blood must be stronger than Toki’s petty dislikes. Yet he saw Toki cast quick looks from side to side, as if gauging the depth and seriousness of the dispute.
Une, already at his side, would not fail him, this he knew; and of Sidroc, untried as he was, he had no doubt. Jari was also untried, but huge, and if he was like his older brother, would be fearless. And Jari had taken up with Sidroc.
Gizur spoke again. “Tönne is dead,” he repeated. The flatness of his tone suggested that Gizur looked not to cast blame, but instead sought explanation.
Yrling had man-craft enough to read this. He lifted his hands, as if holding the enormity of the sea. His next words were as firm as he could make them.
“Njord exacted his due; that is all. The ship is sound. We are nearly at Angle-land.”
It was not quite enough.
“You do not know where we are,” one of the challengers countered.
“We will reach Angle-land today,” Yrling declared.
Or tomorrow, he thought. He kept his face from showing this concern, kept his hawk-like eyes moving from face to face.
He and Une were the only ones facing the bow, every other man was turned towards them. Thus it was Yrling who saw the other ship.
It had to have been caught in the same gale as they were, and in the chop of the water was hard to see. It was in fact the action of its yellow-dyed sail being raised, and filling with wind, that made Yrling notice it; it stood out against the greyness of the seas. He was at enough of an angle to it to name it for what it was, a Danish war ship, a drekar, one of thirty or more oars. It moved smartly along, all unwitting that it had been spotted.
Yrling began to laugh. Some of those who faced him gaped. He lifted his hand, forefinger extended.
“We are going to take that ship,” he announced.
All whirled about, some almost turning into Sidroc and Jari as they did so. Eyes which squinted against the morning light saw the ship Yrling spotted.
“Hoist sail,” he called. “We will stay behind and to her port side, unseen as long as we can.”
Men sprang to action. “Unloose the spears,” Yrling went on. “If all goes well we will not need them, but have them at your sides. Shields, off from the gunwale. Hide them well in the prow; cover them with hides.
“Fill every bucket, every pot with sea water, have them ready so that at my call you can cast i
t back, as if we floundered.
“Gizur. Sidroc. Toki,” he called next. The three came to him, one who he knew as a crack-shot, the two younger untried. One life had already been lost; he must show that he would risk his young kin to win this ship.
With Une at his side he detailed his plan. They would near the ship, pleading distress. While Yrling engaged them in talk at the stern, they would close the distance as much as they could.
They had but one grappling hook tied to a length of hempen line, and one gaff, its iron hook broad enough to catch the inner edge of another ship’s gunwale. The grappling hook could be thrown a fair distance, but the reach of the gaff was only as long as its wooden shaft. To Sidroc would be given the task of throwing the grappling line, and pulling the two ships near. Toki would be called upon to extend the gaff and help pull the hulls together, closing the distance between them.
“You will be amidships,” Yrling told them. “We will come up alongside. I will be at the stern, where their captain should also be. I will be calling to them; they will be looking at me, and your throw may be able to catch them by surprise.”
His nephews stared at him, open-mouthed, alert, hanging on each word. They were being singled out for tasks, which if well achieved, could greatly aid the scheme’s chances of success.
“Já,” breathed Sidroc, a single word of assent conveying the distinction he felt. Toki too uttered agreement, his blue eyes flashing as if he already pulled upon the gaff.
Yrling nodded back at them. Their exposure would be great; he saw this. They would need both hands, each of them, to do their jobs; could hold no shield nor weapon if the suspicions of the other ship were roused. He turned to Gizur.
“You will stand behind me, behind me and Une. We must look unarmed; but hidden behind us they will not see your bow. I will step away suddenly, and you will send your arrow into the captain’s heart.”
Gizur gave answer in a single exhalation of breath, an “Ah!” that showed his approval of such a daring plan, and his own part in it.
Their sail was now billowing full as they bore down on their target. Men were dipping buckets and cauldrons over the side, re-filling them with the same cold salt water that they had laboured mightily to free the ship from yesterday. A new and humming energy rose from the ship, one felt by all, an energy that sharpened the senses and directed all action.
Yrling’s eye fell on the dragon head crowning the prow. It was a separate piece of wood, its base slotted to fit between the prongs of the rising beam of the bow. He had paid a Ribe wood-carver a whole handful of hack-silver for it. Like all mast-heads it could be removed for safe-keeping from storm or theft. This dragon had seen a gale and come through admirably, but Yrling knew he should hide it now. A ravening dragon did not serve his purpose.
He left the steering oar to Une and moved with Sidroc to the bow. Sidroc stood on a chest, reached up, and with a wooden mallet tapped the pin which held it, so that he could pull the carved head free. He lowered it into Yrling’s waiting arms.
Without the gaping mouth of the dragon foremost, the aspect of the ship was changed. “Now we look almost a fishing boat,” Yrling said. Their shields, now stowed inside the ship, would not betray them either. Yrling went on so all might hear. “But she is still the Death-day,” he told them. Yrling now pointed to the stern, and the carving of one-eyed All-Father. “And Odin watches us still, expects our best.”
They were close enough now to have been sighted by the yellow-sailed ship. But they offered no war-whoops, sent no arrows through the air to assail them. They could see the figures on the war ship standing and at the ready.
From a long way off Yrling began hollering at them. He had resumed his place at the steering oar in the stern, and bellowed across the waves. As he did a few of his crew began tossing water over the gunwale, and making good show of it.
“Tar!” cried Yrling, to his counterpart on the other ship. “Captain and brother, we need tar!”
They sailed up to the war ship, a ship of fully thirty oars, as boldly as if their lives depended on it. Each side of their target was hung with the shields of the men within, an impressive display of discs painted red, blue, black, and yellow.
“Tar,” called Yrling again, making his need known. The men before him flung out buckets of water, proof of their distress. If they could not re-caulk their ship, they would sink.
“We have fish!” he cried out, as inducement. The storm both vessels had been through was great enough that this story might be believed: they were but a stout fishing craft, blown far off course, taking on water, but full too of fish. They could well pay for a small cask of tar.
They were near enough to see heads turn, and talk exchanged at the steering oar of the war ship. Whether the war-chief thereon planned to aid them with tar, or seize their ship for the fish he thought it held, Yrling did not care. They only needed to grow close enough to enact the rest of his plan.
“Captain and brother, give us tar!” Yrling called. “Cod and herring will be yours.”
They were now coming alongside, and looked out on an able-looking crowd of men. Their captain stood, as Yrling did, at the steering oar, easy to pick out by the fine tooling on his dark leathern tunic, and a broad and bright bracelet of silver on the wrist that steadied the tiller. He was above Yrling’s age, of thirty years or slightly more, his flesh well set on his bones, with a long, light brown beard and hair of the same hue resting in plaits on his shoulders.
Yrling looked to Sidroc, standing at the broadest part of the ship, his hands holding the coiled line of the grappling hook. He was partially screened by Toki, at whose feet lay the gaff, ready to be taken up. As Yrling had hoped, all eyes were on he himself, calling out as he came up even with the stern of the other ship.
Sidroc watched the distance between the two brown hulls narrow. He would have one chance to hurl the hook and catch it within the nearing warship, and he must be able with a solid pull to bring it at once within reach of the gaff Toki would extend. He nodded to his cousin, who moved off.
Their crewmates who seemingly bailed water were also back near Yrling, ranged nearer the stern, catching the eye of those who watched from the war ship.
Sidroc let another moment pass. He took a long and slow breath. Tyr, he called within him, make true my arm.
Sidroc stood alone, allowing clear aim for his throw. He reared back and let loose. He saw the black iron claws of the hook fly through the air, the hempen line tied to it sailing after. He watched it vanish over the hung shields, behind the straked planking of the other ship’s hull. Then he gave a yank. The sharp points of the hook found home in the oaken planks of that hull. He pulled with all his might.
Toki was now at the gunwale, lunging forward, gaff pole fully extended. Oaths and calls arose from those amidships on their target, cries of surprise at the flung hook. Yrling, at his oar, called out again, eyes trained on the war-chief.
“Cod and herring I have for you,” he taunted.
The other captain looked down his own ship to see the line tethering it. He was beginning to speak when Yrling and Une stepped apart, and Gizur, arrow nocked and waiting, sent an arrow into his breast.
Cod and herring and something more, thought Yrling.
The face of the war-chief still wore his scowl of surprise. The impact of the arrowhead made a thump, a muffled echo of the heart beneath it which it had suddenly stopped.
The captain rocked forward with the roll of his ship, and fell, face down, over his own steering oar. A shrill two-part war cry was sounded near the fallen man, and those nearest him gave out with yells of protest. Metal flashed as a sword was drawn. But Yrling already had a light throwing spear in his right hand, and all too quickly sunk it in the body of a second man.
An instant later the two hulls smacked together, Sidroc and Toki able to bump their ship up broadsides. It knocked some of the men on both ships to their decks, but Yrling and many of his crew were over the sides and
swarming the other drekar. They had rapidly taken up spears, and those who had swords had the naked blades extended. Yet they felled no more men. The astonishment on the war ship was so great that they met little resistance; both their captain and his second in command were dead, sprawled in a bloody heap beneath the tiller.
Sidroc, having leapt over, spear in hand, stood with Toki and Jari, staring at the men they had overcome. This was a ship they had taken sudden possession of, through the audacity of their own captain. The treachery was such that those on both sides who witnessed it would in years to come laugh in admiration. Indeed, they may have done so then, if Yrling’s men had not been light-headed from hunger and the sudden rush of action.
No one was laughing now, not even Yrling, who had been grinning at the war-chief when the arrow was fired.
“Who is his kin?” Yrling bellowed. He was standing over the body of the dead captain. “Tell me, or more will die.”
Even under this threat no voice was raised, no hand pointed. At last one yellow-haired man spoke, he from whose throat the shrieking war-cry had issued. The man had brandished a spear perilously close to Yrling’s head, but it now lay on the deck where he had dropped it in surrender.
“He had no kin aboard, and no brother at home.”
“And this one?” Yrling returned, prodding the body of the second man with his foot.
The yellow-haired man shook his head, nej.
Yrling was satisfied. The thirst for vengeance would be slight. He studied the man who had responded. He had perhaps a year or two more than his nephews, and had a broad, open face, one which did not look overly troubled at this new turn of events.
“Brave enough to fight. Smart enough to speak,” Yrling answered. “What is your name?”
Sidroc the Dane Page 27