Halfdan looked at Onund as he spoke. You know a great deal about these people, don’t you? he thought. That’s a helpful thing…
Then Halfdan’s thoughts were racing off in another direction.
A sister…Odd’s only sibling still in Fevik…still just a child. The daughter born to his mother who died giving birth to her.
How much would such a girl be worth to Odd?
Chapter Three
How do men call thee?
Thy king confides in thee,
since in the ship's fair prow
he grants thee place.
The Poetic Edda
Harald Thorgrimson crouched low, his legs adjusting unconsciously to the slow roll of the ship as he examined Fostolf’s red, sweat-sheened face. Dragon was a little to windward of the rest of the fleet and near the back of the pack. Only Fox trailed behind. It had nothing to do with Dragon’s sailing qualities or Harald’s ability to coax speed from her; she was simply a smaller ship than the others were, and hence a slower ship.
The fleet had been under sail for hours, hoisting their long yards and hauling sheets aft as soon as the rowers had backed the vessels off the beach. The wind was from the west, twelve knots and coming just over the ships’ larboard quarters. The sea was moving in long, easy rollers with a slight ruffle on the surface kicked up by the breeze. The sun was warm and the sky dotted here and there by high white clouds. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.
It was, however, a perfection that Fostolf, burning with fever and nearly delirious, could not appreciate. He had begun to feel sick the night before, his stomach inexplicably twisting up with nausea. The Northmen had just sacked a bountiful monastery and were well supplied with an abundance of fresh meat and ale. They were not eating the half-rotten stores that would tend to make a man sick, yet here was Fostolf, half-bent with discomfort. And along with the nausea he felt sharp pain in his gut that came and went like a knife stabbing him from the inside.
He kept the pain to himself as best he could, with only the occasional audible groan escaping. In the dark hours he had started vomiting, staggering off as far from the fire as he could get before heaving up on the sand. By dawn he was sweating with fever, his head lolling side to side, the soft groans coming at regular intervals.
Thorgrim and the others had gathered around the man, prodding him and discussing the case. The Northmen were skilled in treating such things as broken bones or the gaping wounds left by edged weapons or the damage caused by any of the many accidents that happened on shipboard. But this was different. This was the sort of internal malady brought on by evil spirits. It could not be fixed with splints or stitches or bandages. There were probably plants or herbs of some description that could have helped, but none of the men knew what those might be, or if they even grew in Engla-land, so they made no mention of them.
Instead, Thorgrim found some dried bones and carved on them the runes that would drive the spirits away, if the gods chose to help. He laid them on Fostolf’s chest and pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. And that was about all that he could do.
The gods might help Fostolf or they might not. That remained to be seen. But there was no question that the gods were giving the rest of them the gift of fine weather, with the wind just right for driving them east, ever east. Harald knew that his father hoped it was a sign that the gods would allow him to go home. He also knew that Thorgrim would never say such a thing out loud or even dare think about it too much. Nothing would ruin a man’s luck quicker than that.
Instead, Thorgrim ordered the ships underway as if there was nothing at all to be hoped for. They strapped Fostolf to a plank and carried him aboard his ship, Dragon, with as much care as possible. They laid down on a bed of fur and blankets, but his pain seemed only to grow worse, his grasp on the world around him more tenuous.
Now, with the coast of Engla-land passing down the larboard side and several miles off, Harald squatted next to Fostolf and frowned as he looked at his flushed face. He reached out and pressed his fingertips to the man’s forehead and was startled by the heat that came off his skin.
He felt pity for the man. This was not how a warrior such as Fostolf should leave Midgard, the world of men. Harald was sincerely unhappy to see Fostolf die this way. His pity was genuine. And that was good.
He feared that he might actually delight in Fostolf’s death, and that was not a proper thing to feel, not when the man was a fellow warrior, a man with whom you had stood in the shieldwall and in whose company you had braved the worst that the sea could dole out. A man should never long for his fellow warrior’s death, even if his death could mean finally achieving the thing he longed for most: command of a ship.
As they lifted Fostolf over Dragon’s side, Thorgrim had called Harald over to him. They stood apart from the others. “The gods may yet heal Fostolf,” Thorgrim said, “but I doubt they will.”
Harald nodded.
“Even if they do, it’ll be some time before he can be master of Dragon again. Herjolf is second to Fostolf, a good warrior, a good sailor, but he’s too foolish by far to be master of the ship.”
Harald nodded again. Herjolf was a few years older than himself, a strong, burly young man with a wide smile and an easy laugh. He was a joker and the other men found him very amusing. But Thorgrim had little patience for men who were amusing and Harald knew he would show Herjolf no preference. He felt a spark of hope and possibility spring to life in his breast, but he kept his face stoic.
“I know you’ve wished for a command of your own,” Thorgrim said, “and you’ve been good about not asking for it. You did good work when you took command of the ships back at Loch Garman. I know you’re an excellent mariner.”
“I learned from the very best of mariners,” Harald said with a smile, but Thorgrim only grunted and did not smile in return.
“I want you to take command of Dragon,” Thorgrim continued. “I’ll make it clear to the others, to Dragon’s company, that that’s my wish. Even if they’re unhappy about it they’ll keep their mouths shut.”
“Yes, father,” Harald said. He paused for a moment, unsure if he should say what he wished to say, then decided he would. “Thank you.”
Thorgrim nodded. “It’s not a gift, you’ve earned it,” he said. “Earned the chance. But understand this: even though I can make you the master of the ship with one word, it’ll be up to you to show the others that you deserve it. That you’re the right man to have his hand on the tiller. And it may not be permanent. If Fostolf recovers I’ll give the ship back to him.”
“Of course,” Harald said, but he did not think that was likely, and he knew that his father did not think so either.
Harald was not sure how he should feel about all of it. From the moment Thorgrim announced that he would be the temporary master of the ship, Harald felt a roiling sensation of delight and trepidation, confidence and uncertainty, concern for Fostolf’s life and fear that that his concern was in no way genuine. It was an odd mix of feelings, like the wind blowing against the direction of the waves.
The men of Dragon took the news well enough. They liked Fostolf but they could see that he was in no condition to command, and likely never would be again. And they liked Herjolf, as most did, but Harald had the sense they would not have been pleased to have him as master of the ship. They could see his shortcomings in that regard.
As for Herjolf, he did not seem in the least unhappy about the change. He had never struck Harald as one who was eager for command. In truth, he seemed relieved to not have to take on such a responsibility. His wide smile never faltered as Thorgrim announced the new arrangement.
So Harald took his place on the small afterdeck, hands on the tiller, the wood warm and smooth under his rough palms. He ordered rowers to the benches and others over the side to give the ship a shove out into the water. He waited as the other ships got underway: Sea Hammer and Oak Heart, Blood Hawk, Black Wing and then his own ship, Dragon.
He heard echoes of his fathe
r’s voice as he called for the rowers to back water, for the men under the bow to heave, for the larboard side to pull, the starboard to back water so the ship turned in place like a dancer. He reveled in shouting, “Cast off the gaskets on the sail! Hands to the braces and halyard!”
All through the morning the fleet held its steady course south-east, following the fairly straight coastline. High, white cliffs flanked the beach where they had spent the past few days, but soon those yielded to a jagged, broken shore, as if the gods had picked up the land and snapped it in two and set the northern half back down again. But along the edge of the low, sandy cliffs were miles of flat beach, and that was a comfort to mariners on an unknown shore. If the wind were to suddenly rise and shift and drive them aground, they would at least not be dashed against the ship-killing rocks.
But the wind showed no inclination toward such bad behavior. It remained westerly, driving the fleet steadily on toward a great headland they could see off in the distance. The men of Dragon sat on their sea chests and talked in low voices or gamed or slept. There was not much else for them to do.
By turns they would check on Fostolf to see if there was anything he needed, or any comfort they could provide, but he was growing increasingly delirious with fever. It cast a pall over the ship, like an evil spirit roaming among them. No one cared to see a shipmate suffer, and in particular the man who had led them, and led them well. They all felt a sense of impotency: no one knew what to do to help the man, or indeed if there was anything that could be done.
It did not sit well with the Northmen, a warrior like Fostolf leaving that world in such a manner. As he grew weaker, Herjolf fetched Fostolf’s sword and placed it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around the grip. No one knew if this would have any influence on the Valkyrie, the Choosers of the Slain, but they figured it would not hurt. Fostolf, after all, had offered his life to the gods many times on the field of battle. That should be worth something, they reasoned.
Harald struggled to maintain his stoic, somber aspect. He was the new man aboard the ship, and the new master as well, and he understood that his attitude must be in keeping with the others’, that he needed to share in their worry and grief. But it was not easy.
His soul was singing a song of joy; his entire body felt light, as if every time the swells lifted the stern end of the ship they were buoying him up further. The wind and weather were perfect, and he was at the tiller of his ship, his own ship, his command. The men he saw forward, they were his men, and at any word from him they would leap to their feet and act on his orders.
He was eighteen years old and in command of this swift, well found ship and its complement of thirty hardened warriors. He had to remind himself, again and again, to not let his delight show.
“Harald!”
Harald pulled his eyes from the bright horizon. Herjolf was kneeling beside Fostolf and there was an unhappy look on his face. He jerked his head to call Harald over to him.
“Vegeir, take the helm,” Harald said to the man closest to him, and when he did Harald moved forward as quickly as dignity would allow. From the look on Herjolf’s face he guessed that Fostolf was dead. But he wasn’t. Not quite.
Harald squatted down beside the dying man. He could see right off why Herjolf had called for him. Fostolf’s face was bathed in sweat, his skin was pale and waxy. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open and his breath was raspy and irregular. Harald felt a sadness that he did not anticipate. He had been a’viking for more than three years and had seen far more men die than he could ever recall, but he did not remember ever seeing so pitiful a death as this. Fostolf, a hard man, a dependable warrior, was dying in delirious agony and no one even knew what was killing him.
Harald and Herjolf exchanged looks, then Harald reached down and pressed Fostolf’s fingers tighter around the grip of his sword. And as he did he heard Fostolf take a sharp, rattling breath, hold it, and then exhale, blowing out the last of his life. The fingers under Harald’s hands went limp and Fostolf’s body seemed to relax, and Harald felt the sadness redouble. He was master of Dragon now, but there was no joy to be found in that thought.
Harald ordered Fostolf’s body wrapped in a linen cloth and set aside with as much dignity as possible, then he took his place at the helm once more. The bright blue sky, the high white clouds, seemed all out of place with the sadness that swept over the ship, and those men who had no work to do, which in those conditions was most of them, stared out toward the horizon or down at the deck or talked among themselves in soft, fragmented sentences.
Herjolf made the rounds of the men, speaking privately with each, then came aft to where Harald stood at the tiller. “You know,” he said, “there’s mead stowed down under the deck, abaft the mast. I think we should break it out, give the men some drink.”
Harald made a grunting noise. He was not sure that was a good idea, and he was not sure he cared to have Herjolf making suggestions in that way. “Perhaps,” Harald said. “But not now.”
It was some time past noon when the fleet rounded the headland toward which they had been sailing all day, leaving it a few miles off their larboard sides. Whatever was beyond that point had been hidden until then, but as they came around they could see that the land tended away toward the north-east where it ended in another headland which once again hid the rest of the coast from view. But not entirely. There was open water straight ahead of them, but at the far edge of the horizon a dark line suggested that there was more land there, which Harald guessed was either Frankia or more of Engla-land’s southern coast. The latter he thought most likely.
Not that such things were his concern. He might be master of Dragon now, but his father still commanded the fleet. Harald’s job was to run his ship as well as he could, and to follow his father’s orders.
He had a pretty good idea of what thoughts were turning over in Thorgrim’s mind at that moment. There were really two choices that Harald could see. They could continue to follow the coastline and discover if and where it joined up with the lands on the horizon, or they could strike out across open water and hope to reach the far shore before night was on them. He looked up at the sun. He looked out over the water. He made a guess as to which Thorgrim would choose.
And he guessed right. Half a mile ahead he saw Sea Hammer turn to larboard, her sail bracing around to set on the new course. His father was following the coast because he gauged it was too late in the day to make the crossing to the far side. Harald felt a sense of relief. He did not care to be caught in the dark on an unfamiliar shore, or any shore for that matter. He certainly did not care to spend a night aboard the ship in the company of her former master’s corpse.
Herjolf had been sitting on the sheer strake just forward of the afterdeck, and as Harald turned he stood and stepped closer. “I’m sure you didn’t know this,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, “but Fostolf has…had…a small horde of silver. There, under the deck, with his other things. I think it would much improve the men’s mood if we were to divide it up among them.”
“No doubt,” Harald said. He felt the prickly sensation of wariness and uncertainty. It made sense that the late captain’s wealth should be shared by his men. It would certainly help to lift the gloom. But it did not feel quite right.
“I think we should wait until we get to shore, see what Thorgrim says about that,” Harald said, hating the words as they left his mouth. He was master now. He should make decisions on his own. Not ask for his father’s help.
“As you wish,” Herjolf said, a hint of his irrepressible smile on his face. “Your father’s a fair man, that’s certain. He’ll want to share it out with all the men of the fleet, would be my guess.” There was a note of disappointment in the words, Harald felt certain.
They continued on for some time more, with the sun sinking down astern of them. Finally Sea Hammer turned again, turned further to larboard, and the ships astern of her dutifully did the same, with Harald turning Dragon in the wake of Oak Hear
t, the ship immediately ahead of her. He could see what they were making for: a strip of sandy beach, an inviting place for the ships to run ashore for the night.
One by one the narrow vessels ground up on the sand and the men tumbled over the side and landed knee-deep in the surf. They waded ashore, bringing anchors and lines with them, and once the ship was secure Harald followed behind. As he made his way up the beach he saw Thorgrim standing just above the wrack line, waiting with arms folded. His father spoke just one word. “Fostolf?”
Harald shook his head. Thorgrim nodded.
News of Fostolf’s death spread quickly along the beach, and the mood turned somber among all the men, just as it had for the crew of Dragon. “Fostolf’s men…your men…should see to his pyre,” Thorgrim said to Harald.
Harald, aware that his father was watching, turned and ordered the men of Dragon’s company to arrange a funeral pyre. Soon a great stack of driftwood had been built some distance from the ships, the beach being well endowed with that material. Fostolf’s body was dressed in his mail shirt and helmet and laid on top of a bearskin at the peak of the wood pile. His sword and spear were laid at his side, and his shield set over his chest.
Thorgrim carved runes into a plank from Dragon’s deck and placed it beside Fostolf’s body. There were a few live animals aboard the ships, part of the plunder from the monastery, and Thorgrim selected the most robust of the goats. This was slaughtered and the blood collected in a bowl. Then Thorgrim stood beside the pyre and called on the gods to welcome Fostolf and guide him on his journey as he used a small tree branch to scatter the blood over Fostolf and the pile of bleached and twisted wood.
It was fully dark by the time they kindled flames and lit the ends of torches and used the torches to set fire to the driftwood that supported Fostolf’s body. It caught quickly and spread upward and the men backed away, step by step, as the flames grew higher and hotter. Soon the entire thing was a great blazing mass of heat and light and Harald guessed it would be visible many miles out to sea, if anyone was so unlucky as to be caught at sea at night. Inside the flames, Fostolf’s body made a dark outline, human-shaped, visible for some time, and then it, too, became part of the fire, indistinguishable from the rest.
The Midgard Serpent Page 3