“All right,” Sweyn said. He stood, stooped under the awning, and went to gather his captains.
They sailed in the murk of a foggy, rainy dawn, Conn and Raef in the dragonfly leading the way. Sweyn had each of the captains put a torch on the prow of his ship, so that they could stay on course in the gloom. Behind the dragonfly the row of fuzzy lights stretched away until the fog swallowed them.
The sea ran northward here. The beach lay just off the steerboard side; Raef tracked it by the sound of the surf. He felt the land ahead of him for a long seamless stretch of sand. The rain lessened, and the air turned colder, icy on his face.
He felt the land sink, ahead, and the sea running over it.- The tide was rising and the water was rushing in over the land, threaded through a single deep channel only a hundred feet wide. The fog was thick around him, although at the mastheads the sun shone warm and bright. He said, “Pick up,” and when Conn lifted his oars out of the water, Raef pivoted the ship around to face the land. “Rough water,” he said.
Conn said, “Let’s go.”
Ahead of them the shore lay in a broad flat stretch of sand and fen. Where the sea had broken through the water was pouring in, fighting to get in, and it jerked and tossed the ship like a leaf, crashed white up over her shoulder and drenched them, and flung them sideways, the bow rising. Rowing hard they got around and skated down along the slope of a wave and over a boiling pothole into the narrow channel. Abruptly the channel turned in a wild thundering crash of surf, something buried in there forcing the surging water sharply off to the right in a great slick bulge. Shouting back and forth, hauling the oars through the violent water, they kept the ship out of the foam and lined up with the race; then abruptly the dragonfly was skimming out onto a broad, open stretch of water, with the last of the fog seeping up into a cloudless blue sky, low flat shores in the distance to the north, and a headland to the south. The wild water sank down beneath the surface; around them the water turned glassy smooth, and they drifted along on a still lake.
Far off, on the shore, geese were honking in great numbers. Down in the south rose the thin smoke of a village. Raef’s neck prickled up; he thought irresistibly of his home, of the island, lost forever. He shook that off. Turning to the east he stared at the distant flat shoreline, feeling for the way through. Behind them the other ships were bolting in through the channel and spilling across the surface of the bay.
Raef settled down to his oars. “Come on.” he said. “This is just the start.” He bent to the stroke, leading them on.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E
The Limfjord lay in a watery chain across the top of the Danish peninsula, opening narrow at its east end from the German Sea, and spreading west, here broadening into bays and coves and there running narrow between headlands until it dissipated into the sands of the country’s western edge. King Bluetooth with his army had taken over a village on the southeastern shore, where the lowland swamps gave way to a stretch of beach fit to haul ships out on. The village was only a few huts, some barns and sheds, a church, and a hall, which was now Bluetooth’s court. Hakon sent his men on to find him somewhere to sleep, and with the bishop Poppo and the wizard he went into the King’s hall.
It was jammed with men, most of them eating something and all of them drunk. A few torches burning here and there kept the place barely lit up enough to move around in and so smoky Hakon’s eyes began to sting. He lost the wizard almost at once, but now Poppo also wanted to see the King, and he led the way up to the high seat.
It was empty. On a cushion on it sat the crown of Denmark, a thin round ring of gold.
Hakon growled under his breath, balked. He wanted to rid himself of Poppo at least. He turned and looked around for the wizard. Then Skull-Grim Egilsson loomed up out of the crowd.
The King’s berserker stood head and shoulders taller than the men around him. With his misshapen head and thick black thatch of hair he looked like a troll. He saw Hakon and came toward him, pushing men out of the way with his huge hands.
“So you’re back,” Skull-Grim said. His voice was like gravel jumbled in a bucket. His glance took in Poppo, still frowning at the empty high seat, as if Bluetooth might take shape from his disappointment. “The King will want to see you. Come with me.”
“Good,” Hakon said. “Come, my lord Bishop. Where’s that damned wizard?”
Skull-Grim led them off. “Wizard.”
“Corban Loosestrife.”
Skull-Grim’s gaze sharpened. “He’s with you?”
“Was,” Hakon said. “He’s back there somewhere.”
Skull-Grim’s face settled, but he said nothing more. They went out the back door of the hall. The rain was still coming down. The sun was just setting, and the sky was a low gray ledge under which the camp lay in a thick murk like a coating of fungus. Skull-Grim took them down across the village, away from the packed and boisterous hall, to the little wooden church. Even here the King’s men had made their camps, sleeping in the churchyard among the graves. Hakon tried not to think this was an omen. He followed Skull-Grim across the churchyard to the church.
Skull-Grim pulled the door open. “Go on.” He stood back.
Hakon grunted. All this hugger-mugger made him nervous. He himself loved to scheme, but he preferred everybody else to face him square and keep matters simple. He turned to Poppo and said, “Go in there.”
Poppo said, “I know the abbot here.” He peered around, hopeful. Hakon put one hand on him and thrust him into the church and went after him.
This place was dry, at least. He went slowly up the center of the church, looking toward the altar; another high seat was set before it, just outside the rail. Poppo stood in the center of the little square room, fluffing at his beard with his fingers, his eyes darting around. Suddenly in Hakon’s ear Bluetooth spoke.
“You finally got back. What were you doing?”
Hakon spun around. Bluetooth was standing in the shadows just behind him; they must have walked right past him. Skull-Grim came in, and a moment later lit a candle, up near the altar, and then another on the side wall. The King stood fast, tall and gaunt, swathed in a dark cloak. His eyes were sunk deep in the pits of his face.
Hakon said, “I was looking for the bishop Poppo. He turned up in Hedeby, and I brought him back here.”
“Poppo,” said Bluetooth. “Oh, yes, there you are, Bishop.”
Poppo stalked forward, his grave saintly face mellowed in the candlelight. “My lord, as always it is excellent to see you. But you must have other things on your mind than this misunderstanding. Please, if you would, order this”— he shot a look at Hakon—”this man to let me go on my way. I was on my way to Bremen for a very important meeting when he detained me.”
The King walked past them, into the flickering web of the candlelight, and sat down in the high seat in front of the altar. He kept his cloak wrapped tight around him. He cut his hair, now, like a Christian. He settled himself in the big carved chair as if those waiting on him could wait forever. Skull-Grim went off and came back with a drinking cup, and the King drank. Finally he lifted his eyes.
“Let him go, then, Hakon,” Bluetooth said.
“Thank you, my lord,” Poppo said, in an oily voice.
Hakon said, between his teeth, “He’s deep into something, not good. That’s why I brought him back.”
“Let him go. Poppo, go.”
“My lord.” The Bishop went back out of the church.
When he was gone, Bluetooth said, “He bores me. He’s past his usefulness now anyway. I will have a Dane for a bishop, as soon as I can find one I trust who can say the Mass. Now, listen, I have much for you to do.”
Hakon said, “You’re making a mistake letting him go. He’s been spying on you for the Germans.”
“He spies on the Germans for me. Besides, Otto is in Italy. I have other interests.”
“I see that.” Hakon could not keep still; he wanted to go out and seize Poppo and shake him until all
his secrets fell out. He paced up and down, making himself concentrate on the King. “You have drawn up a huge army here now. What do you mean to do?”
“You will know everything in due time. Enough now that you do what I set out for you. Today I had word of a fleet in the Kattegat, which I think to be Palnatolci.”
“Ah,” Hakon said, alert.
“I must have good knowledge of him, at the least, and better he is routed at once. You know what to do, and you have the men and ships to do it. Take your fleet and go out there and find him. Then do whatever is necessary. Do you understand me? Now, go.”
Carried along in this, Hakon almost said again, “Yes, Sire.” The words stuck in his throat. He turned his head, looking straight into Bluetooth’s eyes, and said, “I brought someone else back from Hedeby.”
In the heavy bones of his face Bluetooth’s eyes gleamed like water. He gave a low growl. “So? Who?”
“Corban Loosestrife.”
“The Irishman.” The King’s voice changed, rougher, urgent, and his gaze abruptly switched away. Hakon blinked, startled, catching a sudden tinge of fear from him. The King licked his lips. Words burst from him in a muttered rush. “I meant to kill him in Jelling. Why did I not? Something crossed it. I should have realized what that meant.” Then Bluetooth swung back toward Hakon again, his eyes fierce, intent, desperate, and he said, “Kill him.”
Hakon said, “I tried to, once, and it didn’t work.”
Bluetooth’s hands jerked up, his fingers working, claws of hands, clutching the air. His voice snarled. “He is an agent of the Lady. Kill him.”
Hakon took a step back. “As you wish.”
“And find Palnatoki and deal with him.”
“Yes, Sire.”
He turned and went out of the church. His chest felt clamped around with bands of steel. He remembered the King’s hands, flexed like talons, grasping the empty air. He thought, He is afraid of the wizard. Knowing that seemed of little use.
Skull-Grim was nowhere in sight. Hakon went back around to the front of the church, through the graveyard full of sleeping soldiers, and on across the village to the hall. He hoped he wouldn’t be able to find Corban. He thought not being able to kill him the first time was probably a sign of something. The feeling would not leave him of steel wrapped tight around his chest. The rain was lessening somewhat; the crowd still packed the hall, and without trying to get inside the door he decided he had looked enough for Corban and went off down toward the beach.
He has set me on Palnatoki; now who will he set on me?
He shuddered that off. He was still too useful to Bluetooth for that to happen. He calculated how he would know when Bluetooth had decided he was no longer useful. He walked with long strides down the slope toward the water. The beach curved along the bottom edge of the bay; west of the village a low flattopped headland rose like a wall behind the stretch of sandy gravel. Along the row of dragons, torches glimmered in the rain, and he picked out his own ship, Sea-Hound, down at the far end.
It would be good to take his ships and go out. He could make a quick, clean victory over Palnatoki, and then back to Norway, home, and free.
He thought, Too bad Bluetooth let Poppo go.
He thought briefly of going out and finding Poppo and beating the truth out of him. Corban had talked of a map of Hedeby. Whatever was going to happen would happen there, at Hedeby.
From the ocean islands to Gardarik, the wealth of the whole world depended on Hedeby.
The rain had finally stopped and the wind was rising, clean and cold. The face of the headland rose up on his left, giving some shelter. He walked down along the row of his dragons, nodding and speaking to the few men there. With every step the urge grew in him to get these ships and men away from here, away from Bluetooth. Poppo seemed as good an excuse to him as Palnatoki, maybe even better, since it was his own idea. He came at last to his ship, and found his captain there, with a few others, sitting around a little fire on the stony shore, and before they even stood up he was giving them orders.
Corban saw right away that Bluetooth was not in the hall; he found some bread and a cup of ale and went out again, into the rainy darkness. In the center of the village a crowd had built a fire and was packed in around it. Corban stayed away from the mob, circling around through the village, wondering where Bluetooth was. He dropped the empty ale cup and ate all the bread, since food was so easy to come by here.
He saw Poppo come out of the little church across the way and followed him around to another house in the churchyard, and soon after that men brought horses up to the door and Poppo came out, with a few other men in churchman’s robes; they got on the horses and rode away. Corban trailed after them on foot to the edge of the village and watched them hurry away down the road south.
He wondered what would become of the Lady if the Germans took Hedeby. He thought maybe she would make the best of things.
He raised his hand up to his throat, where Benna’s arms gripped him She was heavier and lighter at the same time. She was always weary now, left him seldom, often seemed asleep, even in dreams. She seemed asleep now. He walked back to the village, looking for someplace to rest and set himself to helping her.
First he went to the church, having often spent the night in churches when there was no place else, but the door was barred. There were Vikings sleeping all over the churchyard, between the rows of the humped graves, under wooden markers. He went back out to the common, where the light of the bonfire cast everything into a deep flickering flow. Unconscious men lay thick around the fire; a last remnant of the crowd still stood in clumps in the warmth, passing cups and talking. He went toward the hall, which was also still stirring. He shied from the noise, bending his course to go between it and the big barn next to it. As he reached the corner of the barn, he felt her wake suddenly, and she nudged him, hard.
He turned. The common was a confusion of shadows against the billowing flames of the fire, but his eye fixed at once on the monster shape moving toward him, man-like, but too big, too massive-headed to be a man, and coming fast after him.
His whole body tingled. He turned and ran, looking around for someplace to hide. He heard Skull-Grim pounding after him, every stride closer; he would catch up before Corban reached the corner of the barn, and midway down the wall, Corban stopped and wheeled and flung himself back hard at the big man’s knees.
It was like crashing into a tree. His shoulder hit bone and muscle with a jolt that jarred him to his heels. He felt the giant sway, off balance, and bounded up, darting back, but Skull- Grim’s hand closed on his left arm and held him.
Corban swung around, facing the berserker, twisting in his grip, but Skull-Grim held him fast. With the fire behind him Corban could not make out his face. Skull-Grim’s free hand clenched down on his other arm, and he knew the big man meant to kill him.
She flung herself forward. In a bolt of heat she hurtled into Skull-Grim’s face, and with a howl he reeled back, letting Corban go, clutching at his eyes, thrashing his arms, trying to fight her off. Corban whirled around and raced for the edge of the barn.
There, he stopped, gasping for breath, and cold. Cold. She was gone.
He groaned. He felt her absence like something torn out of his body, an unendurable void. He wheeled around, looking back; Skull-Grim had sunk to one knee on the ground back there, shaking his head, rubbing at his eyes. She was not besetting him anymore, but she had to be there somewhere. He had to get Skull-Grim out of the way before he could look for her, and he sprinted down and threw himself headlong into Skull-Grim’s side.
This time he knocked the giant over. Skull-Grim roared, sprawling flat, his head jerking around toward Corban. His eyes alternately screwed up and bugged out, still half blinded. His arms flailed out and Corban dodged and ducked and ran behind him, got him by the coarse black hair and dragged him down. Skull-Grim roared at him again, savage, and heaved himself up onto hands and knees again, but Corban kept hold of the great head, both han
ds fisted in the giant’s thick hair, and wrenching with all his weight he brought the big man down again, slamming his head to the ground. Then once again with all his strength he yanked the head-boulder up again, smashed it on the ground again.
Skull-Grim groaned and lay still. Corban wheeled, his hands outstretched, feeling through the air around him, close to the ground, groping around in the cold dark. The firelight fluttered over the ground, catching on shadows. The air was cold and empty. He sobbed. The ache spread up from the pit of his stomach into his chest. His eyes hurt.
“Benna,” he said, low. He scrambled around, swinging his hands through the air, just above the ground now, she might have fallen, she might be lying on the cold ground, hurt. “Benna.”
A warm feathery touch grazed his cheek. He swayed, loose in the knees with relief, his eyes aching. She gathered herself around him again. He felt her weaker than ever before, thin and fading, but she was back, that was enough, and he carried her off to find somewhere safe, where she could rest.
The fog was thick as frozen wool around the dragonfly; Raef pulled his cloak up over his head. They had come up against the breast of Sweyn’s dragon, and he could hear the men above him in the other ship, but he could not see them.
The dawn was coming. He sensed that like a thin singing in the air, a quickening.
Above his head, Sweyn said, “Now, this is the plan. Their ships are all drawn up on the beach, up there, very spread out. I will go in first, with the small ship, there, and one dragon, and all the men I can fit into it. You keep the other ships back here in the channel. I and my men will hit the very end of the line of their ships. Likely there won’t be many men on board, the way the weather’s been. We’ll capture the ships, as many as we can, and get them under oars. Bluetooth will come off the beach and attack us, coming around like this from the east”—Raef imagined him curving his hand through the air—“and when he comes past the mouth of the channel, the rest of you will take him from the rear.”
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