The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  Erik’s glare was enough to melt ice at a hundred paces, and the slave woman shrank back in terror. Mindful of not allowing Anlaf to sense his fears, the sea king forced a smile as he squatted beside his old friend and asked the question to which he already knew the answer: ‘feeling any better?’

  A dry laugh came from the huskarl’s throat, and Anlaf raised his gaze to fix his lord with a look of affection despite the pain. ‘Probably better than those lads we left in Dublin,’ he replied as Erik leaned forward to dab his forehead with a damp rag. ‘But other than that, pretty shitty all told.’

  Erik moved a hand to sweep back Anlaf’s hair, but try as he might he could not disguise the despair he felt at the hot glow from his huskarl’s brow. ‘It is fine Erik,’ Anlaf said. ‘You have never lied to me before and there is no need to start now. If the old girls are sharpening their shears of sorrow for old Anlaf, no man has ever spent his last hours on Midgard in finer company.’ Anlaf moved to point at his lord’s side. ‘The lads did a good job on you, that’s all I am thankful for.’

  Erik felt his side. The skin was tender where the flames had seared his flesh but there was little pain within his body, and he too was glad to recognise that but for Thorstein’s quick thinking and insistence that he deal with the wound they may well have been about to tread the rainbow path together.

  ‘It’s not the woman’s fault,’ Anlaf said as his eyes moved across to the place where she cowered in fear. ‘The arrow which took me was dirty; yours was clean.’

  Erik sighed as he recognised that it was true. It was a twist of fate that had spared him and taken the man who had never left his side since that far-off day when Harald Fairhair had led a fleet up Fjordane and changed their lives forever. Many bowmen dirtied the heads of their arrows before they loosed them against the enemy; even soil or grime from the roadway seemed enough to bring on a fever, and the shit of any man or beast was almost always fatal. Why the spirits which lived in everything should react in this way nobody knew, but they had all seen the results when a wound had enabled them to enter a body and all they could do was attribute a man’s survival or otherwise to Óðinn’s will.

  Erik moved to reply, but found that no sound came as a ball of sadness as large and hard as a fist settled on his chest. The sweet smell of decay cloaked the area amidships like a pall, and a fresh wave wafted up to grip Erik by the throat as Anlaf moved the blanket which covered his lower half gingerly aside. ‘Tell Helgrim that I will dance for him in Valhöll.’ He pulled a mischievous smile, despite the pain. ‘If he ever does a deed worthy of being among the chosen! In fact,’ he said as he pulled the cover back into place, ‘I will tell him so myself.’ Anlaf flashed his lord a smile, and a warmth came into his voice as he cast his worries to the winds and made a request. ‘Gather the boys if you would lord,’ he said with a wink. ‘I feel like a good drink.’

  ‘There,’ Erik said with a look of satisfaction, despite the grimness of the task. ‘That should be short enough to keep them from Loki’s ship of nails. How are you getting on over there?’

  Thorstein slipped a clipping into a small bag at his side, glancing up as he replied. ‘Just one big toe to go, lord. The old bastard let them go a bit; we could use this one as a grave marker!’

  Erik snorted as he moved Anlaf’s hand across to grip the hilt of his sword. It was the same weapon he had gifted his banner man years before, an ancient blade robbed from a barrow on the east coast of England, and Erik drank in its beauty for a final time as he waited for Thorstein to finish. Edged by shining steel, the length of the fuller was a swirling mass of stars, testament if any were needed to the skill of the weapon smiths who had walked Midgard in time long since passed from memory. But it was the grip which was the real wonder of the sword, the part which had moved the awestruck huskarl to name the weapon Bright Sun the day that Erik had passed it across from his gift stool. A golden pommel sat above hoops of bone and horn, and the sea king thumbed the dust from the piece as he admired it for the last time. Cells of blood red garnet flamed in a golden firmament as they caught the light of the westering sun, and Erik felt a kick of pride as he imagined the reaction of his father and grandfather when Anlaf crossed to their bench in Valhöll and told them who had honoured him with such a blade.

  Thorstein had trimmed the last of his old friend’s nails, and Erik listened in as Sturla Godi plundered his word hoard to recite the tale of Naglfar, the Nail Farer, and the part the ship made from the untrimmed nails of the dead played at Ragnarök:

  ‘With jötun-rage the world serpent writhes,

  Jǫrmungandr beats the sea,

  the tawny eagle screams: tears corpses;

  Naglfar is loosed:

  that ship fares from the North laden with the folk of Hel,

  Loki its styrisman, as Fenris wolf leads the monster-kin to war.’

  Erik took a rearward pace, nodding his thanks to Sturla as Thorstein reached his side. It was usual for the Hag of Death to oversee the ceremony, but Sturla had offered to stand in her absence and he had played the part well. Helgrim and Kolbein had brought the death clothing, and Erik ran the preparations for Anlaf’s entombment through his mind to ensure that nothing had been missed. The finery had taken ten days to prepare as was custom. Each of Anlaf’s shipmates had sewn at least a stitch in the shirt and breeks using the gold thread which Erik had carried in the Draki for years for just this purpose, although he had hoped never to use it. Anlaf’s thigh had all but gone now, eaten away by the rot and decay caused by the arrow wound, and it was with a sense of relief that the trews finally hid the sight and smell of the thing as they slipped into place. Sturla had returned to the place where the woman whose attempts to treat the wound had hastened Anlaf’s death. In the time they had been on the island every man in the Draki’s crew had taken her to his bed, and the life-seed which she now held within would speed the pair to the afterlife. A door frame had been constructed from driftwood cast onto the beach, and Anlaf’s closest friends had raised the woman’s head above the door head three times as was customary. Each time the thrall saw further into the afterlife, until finally she had shared her vision of Anlaf entering Valhöll.

  Reassured of their friend’s final destination, the preparations had continued. Now, with a mind befuddled by the herbs contained in the ritual ale, the woman was singing happily as she was led across to the place where Anlaf’s pyre was being ringed by shields and the accoutrements of war, and Erik slid the knife from its scabbard as Sturla slipped a noose around her neck and pulled it taut. Erik stepped in as the first signs of alarm began to show on the thrall’s face, but the look was replaced by one of shock and bemusement as the blade slid into her body just beneath her breast. Angled upwards, the dagger allowed just enough time for the sacrifice to utter a gasp before it cleaved her heart, and her eyes widened to look at the sky for a final time before the light of life fled them.

  Erik glanced across to the place where Thorstein stood grim faced. ‘Here,’ he said as the thrall’s body slumped against him. ‘You were Anlaf’s greatest friend. It is fitting that you lay the girl at his feet.’

  As Thorstein lifted the body and carried it away, Erik looked out to the west. The sun had dipped below the horizon as the horses fled the wolf and the sky was a crimson glow; closer to hand the surface of the sea was a sheet of beaten copper as the gods in Valhöll paused at their drinking, lowering their horns as they watched the flames come close. On Midgard Erik felt a surge of pride despite the mournfulness of the moment that he could give his old friend a worthy send-off.

  Taking up the brand Erik thrust it deep inside the pyre. Within moments the fats and oils hidden there had ignited, and the first petals of flame appeared to ring the body of the man he had known since he was a boy. Sturla moved in to chant a dirge as the lonely rock resounded to the thunderous sound of spears and axe heads hammering a thousand shields, but Erik held up a hand to stop him and mined his own word hoard as he recalled a childhood verse:

  ‘Wh
o can sail without the wind?

  Who can row without oars?

  Who can bid farewell to a friend

  without shedding tears?

  I can sail without the wind,

  I can row without oars,

  but I can’t bid farewell to a friend

  without shedding tears.’

  The men’s mood was still skittish despite his encouragement, and Erik turned to Kolbein with a frown. ‘Perhaps if I scoff at their fears they will see how foolish they are being?’

  The big styrisman pulled a face and shrugged. ‘You can try, but why bother?’ He dragged his gaze away from the great expanse of sea which surrounded them and looked his lord in the eye. ‘There are no downy balled lads in this crew Erik,’ he said. ‘Every man knows full-well which direction he would need to steer to make landfall, and even have a rough idea how long it would take.’

  ‘Then why are they so jumpy?’

  Kolbein gave a shrug. ‘You know how men get, even experienced seamen when they sail out of sight of land. What with losing a man like Anlaf in such a way it plays on their nerves.’

  A sudden stab of concern caused the sea king to drop his voice. ‘They think that the gods or my luck have deserted me?’

  The styrisman moved to lay his lord’s fears. ‘No!’ he exclaimed with a smile of reassurance. ‘And even if they did, everyman here would sail to Avaldsnes and storm king Hakon’s hall without a moment’s hesitation if you gave the order. Let them be,’ he said. ‘The seven days have passed since we burned Anlaf and the lads have drunk the funeral ale. You did the right thing making Sturla the new banner man, Thorstein is too ravening; they need to know that he has their back when the going gets tough. We did right by Anlaf,’ Kolbein said with a smile, ‘and he sups at Óðinn’s benches, even as we worry about sea monsters. His ashes lie in a mound with a Bauta stone at its head, within hearing distance of the sea.’ He chuckled. ‘Would that I could be promised such a resting place when my time comes!’

  An image came into Erik’s mind of the cairn stone they had erected marking Anlaf’s barrow back on Lundy, Puffin Island. Sturla had proven his value again, carving the man’s memorial in runes so that the rainbow billed birds and all who visited that remote place would know the worth of the man whose ashes were laid to rest there. It had been the final act which had confirmed to him that the Romsdaler was the right choice to replace Anlaf Crow as banner man. Every warrior knew that the battle flag was far more than a warlike design used to identify the king’s position in the mayhem of battle, a rallying point around which an army strove for victory or fell in death. Along with the sigil raven banner of Óðinn, the flags were imbued with both the wizardry of the hooded god and the warlike spirit of the leader himself, and Sturla had proven time and again with his knowledge and wisdom that he was god-favoured.

  ‘No lord,’ Kolbein said, interrupting Erik’s thoughts. ‘If the lads want something to worry about, that should do the trick.’

  Erik looked, out beyond the bows to the south-west. A smidgen of charcoal grey drew a line on the horizon, and Erik turned back as he caught the concern in his styrisman’s voice. ‘You think that we could be in for a bit of a blow?’

  Kolbein’s eyes flicked from Erik’s flag at the masthead and out around those of the fleet. Finally he held out a hand, teasing the air through his fingers as he gauged its qualities. Erik looked outboard as he did so. A flock of seabirds were beating their way northeastwards, lower down a gaggle of razorbills were also making for land. Erik nodded in agreement as his huskarl turned back with a frown. ‘Yes, lord, I do.’

  13

  SKULI’S DIP

  Another roller drove beneath the stern, lifting the ship as it ran before the storm. The stern rose high as the Draki buried her prow, and Erik braced again as he stared straight down into the depths of the trough. A sea chest had broken loose, skittering across the deck, and Erik watched with casual detachment as the owner hooked his legs around the heavy casket and held on grimly. He could imagine the crewman’s desperation; the chest would hold everything of value that the man possessed: war gear; loot; nicknacks and keepsakes from home. For the moment his crew mates were hanging on tightly to the ropes which secured them to the vessel as the deck lifted and they barrelled down the slope, but the moment the ship bottomed out they would have the opportunity to heave it over the side before the following wave hit and there would not be a thing the owner could do to stop them. Every seaman knew the dangers the runaway posed, not only to the wellbeing of his neighbours, but to the integrity of the ship itself. Built to handle the rigours of years of heavy use, a seaman’s chest could easily break a limb or dash a man’s brains if it broke free in heavy weather, and although it was unlikely that it could occur on a well found ship such as the Draki, it had been known for loose cargo to punch a hole clean through the side of a ship once the pitch of the deck gave it momentum. The men busily baling the bilge were already keeping a wary eye on the thing as they reappeared at deck level to exchange their full pails for empty, but the owner was holding on tight and it looked as if he was winning the battle.

  Reassured, Erik switched his gaze to the masthead where Hauk was about to take his turn as lookout. Olvir had been sent aloft earlier, and as the ship bottomed out in a thunderhead of spray for the hundredth time that morning Erik watched as the man slipped free of the bindings which held him secure and slid to the deck. As the bows reappeared and the ship began to shake the seawater from her flanks, Olvir leapt the runaway sea chest and pounded aft to make his report. Helped by the gradient of the deck he was up alongside his lord in moments, and Erik reached out an arm to scoop him up safely, handing the hirdman a rope to tie himself off before the impetus carried him over the stern to certain death.

  Olvir cuffed the misting from his eyes as he caught his breath, before flashing his lord a smile and a lighthearted comment: ‘good catch!’

  Erik clapped the Vestfolder on the shoulder, as the seawater which had found its way inboard followed him aft to slosh around their ankles. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Still no sign of land thankfully, but three skei,’ Olvir replied. ‘The Sea Stallion, Reindyr and either the Auk or the Bison.’ He turned his head aside as a gust snatched his breath away before turning back with a grin. ‘Sorry lord, you deserve better than a lookout who cannot tell a sea bird prow from a bull’s head!’

  Erik snorted. ‘I am surprised that you could see anything in this.’ He looked outboard as the sea fizzed and seethed alongside. Spindrift snaked from the wave tops and the air was a witches brew of wind-driven spume; at deck level visibility had dropped to little more than a ship’s length.

  ‘You can see a lot further from the mast top lord,’ Olvir replied with a rearwards flick of his head. ‘About half a mile or so I would guess, especially when we are cresting a wave.’

  Erik nodded. ‘Any sign of the knarrs?’

  ‘Not that I could see, I tried to peer aft as well as I was able when we climbed out of a trough.’ He gave a shrug, bracing against the roll of the ship as she began to climb again. ‘It was a lot harder looking into the wind, but they could have been hidden behind a roller or left far behind by now.’ Erik clapped the man on the shoulder, indicating that he rejoin his friends amidships with a roll of his head even as his mind sifted the information he had delivered. It was true that the traders and their valuable cargo could have been outrun by the sleek warships to the point where they had passed beyond sight, but the instinct honed to a keen edge by a lifetime spent outdoing enemies gnawed at his bones like a hungry hound. Skuli, the owner of the knarrs was a dog with an insatiable hunger for wealth, and although he knew where the man’s hall and family were located, hundreds of thralls would fetch a tidy price; enough perhaps to take a chance and slip away if the opportunity presented itself. The image came of the trader retelling the tale of his outwitting Erik Haraldsson at Hakon’s hall in Avaldsnes, and the scenes of laughter which would ensue as his half brother accepted tribu
te and rewarded the man with land to resettle his family back in Norway. Erik only pushed the scene away with difficulty as he forced his mind back to the present.

  Once the storm front had overtaken the fleet the skei had had little option but to put as much sea room between them as they dare without losing sight of at least a few of their number. Unable to tack or turn in the conditions without running a very real risk of capsizing due to the nature of their long narrow hulls, the longships had shortened sail and run before the wind. Slower but more weatherly the trading ships had quickly fallen astern, and Erik had been forced to watch in impotent frustration as the weather closed about them and they slipped from view.

  Kolbein had been listening to the exchange from his place at the tiller, and he cupped a hand to his mouth to call above howl of wind and roar of waves. ‘Don’t worry Erik, we will find them once this has blown over.’ He made a show of craning his neck to peer aft. ‘This is a piddling affair, we have survived far worse. It will have blown itself out within the hour, mark my words.’

  Erik nodded as he too saw the first signs of lightening in the sky astern. ‘Let us hope that your dead reckoning is sound then.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I have had my experience of being driven ashore. Once in a lifetime is enough for any man, I doubt that the gods will come to our rescue a second time.’