Raven: Sons of Thunder

by Giles Kristian

  ‘That piss-thin Christ slave is leading them,’ Osten said, meaning Bishop Borgon, ‘and he’s even waving a sword around.’

  ‘Pah!’ Olaf said. ‘I’d wager the bony bastard’ll cut his own leg off before he gets here.’ Borgon had been itching to fight us since the day Sigurd was supposed to be baptized and now he had his chance. Sigurd glanced at Serpent, perhaps thinking of the immense treasure hoard resting in her belly.

  ‘Then now is a good time to leave,’ he said. ‘Make ready to cast off, Uncle.’

  Now that we had really made enemies of the Franks, the only way for us was north, away from their heartlands and the snaking rivers along which they could ambush us a hundred times over. North meant downriver, and on any other day that would mean we could raise the sails, catching whatever wind there was and riding the current. But there was no wind to speak of and there had not been much rain, which meant that the river was sluggish and we would have to row or risk being caught by the Christians. Rowing drunk is not easy. Assuming you do not fall off your bench you really have to concentrate to stay with the rhythm, making sure your blade bites the water and doesn’t just knock the spume off the surface. But at least Penda and I were drunk enough not to know how weak we still were, which was just as well, and I think we matched the others stroke for stroke.

  In our wake the three Dane ships were moving well too, their shorter oars dipping smoothly, which was impressive given the state of the men who worked them. Rolf knew to push his men hard enough to keep close astern of Serpent and Fjord-Elk, riding the water we had broken, and because there were three of them they took turns to slipstream us. Luckily for them Serpent and Fjord-Elk were heavy with silver and arms and rich wares, so that we sat lower in the water than normal and were much slower. It would be unlucky for us, though.

  ‘Your skinny-arsed Danes are rowing well, Raven,’ Knut shouted from the steerboard. ‘But ploughing a river downstream is not the same thing as ploughing the sea.’ His lips were curled in the smile that always rested on his face whenever his guiding hands gripped the tiller which they had worn smooth.

  ‘I hope they get the chance to prove themselves, Knut,’ I replied, for none of us knew how far it was to the open sea or what we would find along the way. As for myself, beyond that I knew even less. We had fought great battles, made powerful enemies and woven schemes that Loki would be proud of. As warriors we had earned glory so that the name of Sigurd’s Fellowship would carry far, the tales of our deeds weaving around men’s hearth fires like sweet smoke to be inhaled by young and old. Our dragons’ bellies were so full of silver that we were all rich men now and Sigurd would likely become a king of his people, though he might have to kill a king first. For once out in the open sea the jarl would surely turn our prows north toward the fjordlands. Eventually I would set foot on the rocks these Norsemen talked of so fondly, and I truly believed that when I did the fog in my mind would clear and I would remember. I would know why old Ealhstan had found a heathen knife hanging round my neck. I would know that the fjordlands were my home. For why else had I obsessed with the oaks in the forest near Abbotsend if it was not some seidr memory of searching for the straight limbs from which to make the keel of a dragon ship like Serpent? Why did my heart beat with the rhythm of a sword against the back of a shield? Why did my breath measure against the plunge of spruce oars into cold water?

  ‘That was quick,’ Svein the Red on the steerboard side said, pulling back in the stroke with his inexhaustible strength. We looked over to see mounted imperial soldiers appear in the hackles of marram grass along the ridge of the east bank. There were five of them, scouts most likely, because they appeared lightly armed. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the blue cloaks galloped off north in the direction our prows were pointing.

  ‘That won’t be the last we see of them,’ Penda said. ‘Let me see some sweat, lads!’ Olaf yelled, for we all knew we were now in a race against the Franks, our oars against their horses, with the river as fickle as a god, favouring us on its straighter courses and the Franks with every bend. We lost ourselves in the rowing, letting bone, sinew and flesh loose in the relentless cadence that is as natural to a Norseman as breathing. But the pace was hard enough to dry my throat, make my heart hammer against my chest, and draw streams of greasy mead-sweat down my face. A quick glance back told me that the Danes were falling behind despite the extra weight in our holds, and I whispered a prayer to Thór that they might find the strength to keep up. For we had given them some poor spears and a couple of hunting bows but little else, and if the Franks caught them it would be a slaughter.

  The craft we saw on the river that morning were ploughed nose first into the reeds, their captains having desperately sought to get out of our way. Their crews watched us with awe and fear as we pushed past, grunting in rhythm, our oars beating like wings. Then we began to see folk along the east bank, not soldiers but ordinary Franks, farmers and craftsmen and even women, and this was a bad sign. It meant that the riders had already passed through their villages, alerting them to our flight, and these folk had come to the river to watch. Knowing that we could not risk stopping, some of the Franks loosed arrows that clattered on to the deck or looped over us.

  ‘Bastards,’ Penda grumbled when an arrow thwacked into the hull beside him. It was just as well we had mounted our shields along the sheer strake, for these afforded at least those on the steerboard side some protection. The sun was as high as it was going to get when Knut warned Sigurd, who was himself rowing with the rest of us, that two Frankish war ships were preparing to launch from a jetty up ahead.

  ‘This will be a close thing, Sigurd,’ the steersman warned. ‘They’re proper craft, of that I’m sure, but we might get past before they can cast off.’ He grimaced. ‘The beardless sheep fuckers are excited enough by the look of it.’ But Sigurd did not want to risk being caught with every man at the oars and so, even though it would slow us, he ordered us to form a fighting group.

  ‘Svein, Floki, Bram, Aslak, Bjarni, Raven, to the prow,’ he commanded, drawing his oar back through its port, ‘and you, Penda, you might as well come, seeing as you row like an English girl.’ We eight stowed our oars and grabbed spears and shields and hurried to Serpent’s prow and I saw that Bragi the Egg was forming his own fighting group aboard Fjord-Elk. ‘Now row, you whoresons!’ Sigurd yelled to those still at their benches, ‘row as though your fathers were here!’ The first Frank ship had cast off, its oars chopping sharply to take it out into the river. The channel beyond its bow would soon be too narrow for us and the Danes after us to pass through.

  ‘Bishop Borgon is aboard,’ Egfrith said, pointing at the banner of red silk flying at the ship’s stern.

  ‘Harder, you sons of thunder!’ our jarl roared, ‘your ancestors watch you now from the high end of Óðin’s hall. The All-Father rot your guts if you bring shame on them.’ At these words the men roared with effort, with the pain of near bursting lungs, for every man knew that if we got snared up in this river more Franks would come and we might never get out.

  But the second ship had launched now and we were not going to make it. I thumped my helmet down and we formed a small Svinfylking, the Swine Array wedge, with Jörmungand at the point, the beast’s head having been restored to its rightful place. I thought I saw Bishop Borgon, his thin arm raised as he shook a sword rather than a White Christ cross at the cloud-slung sky.

  ‘Get those shields up,’ Bram growled as the first arrows clattered into us and fell on the deck or deflected overboard. Normally we would get close enough to smell what our enemy had eaten for breakfast. Then we would throw grappling hooks and haul the ships together, fighting across the decks as we would on land. Not this time. An arrow thudded into Black Floki’s shield and the Norseman turned the shield in. With his sword he chopped the shaft off, leaving the iron head still embedded.

  ‘Half-cocked whoresons are eager to meet their god,’ Floki murmured, spitting over the side.

  ‘Brace yourselv
es,’ Sigurd bellowed, then Knut yelled for those on the steerboard side to pull in their oars and Serpent veered to port, heeling wildly. But it was not enough, and her prow thumped into the Frank ship’s forward port side. The sound of splintering wood tore the air. A roar went up and we threw ourselves to the steerboard side to meet the enemy, hurling our spears if the chance came but mostly keeping our shields up. For the Frank ship with its deeper draught sat high in the water so that they had the advantage of looking down on us. The men on our steerboard side were up now, defending themselves from arrows shot from deathly close range, but those on the port side were still at their benches, gripping their oars, unable to join us for fear of tipping Serpent. A Frank leant forward, yelling orders to his fellows further along, and quick as lightning I rammed my spear into his gullet, twisting it fiercely before yanking the blade free. An arrow tonked off my helmet and Svein the Red swung his great axe into a man’s shoulder, hooking him, then wrenching him over the sheer strake so that he fell between the ships, smashing his face on our hull before disappearing beneath Serpent’s belly. Sigurd cast his spear, which took a fat Frank in his fleshy neck, and the man screamed like a woman, clutching the haft as he fell back from view. Arrows thudded all around, sprouting from Serpent’s deck and men’s shields, and some even stuck in brynjas or were fouled in cloaks. I heard another great thump and knew that Fjord-Elk had passed portside and struck the second Frank ship. But a river doesn’t stop flowing just because men want to kill each other, and we were moving clumsily, sideways with the current, both vessels slowly but inevitably turning their bows downriver. Kalf staggered back, an arrow in his shoulder and his face a grimace of pain, and Halldor’s face was sliced open so that the flesh of his cheek with its bristling beard hung free, revealing the jawbone as his eyes widened in horror.

  ‘Uncle, get this shit bucket off us!’ Sigurd yelled, slamming his sword against a Frank shield. Then I saw Cynethryth at Serpent’s stern and the short Englishman Wiglaf pleading with her to stay behind his shield. But the girl was pointing eastwards and when Wiglaf saw what had caught her eye his face said it all. At least three, but maybe more, smaller Frankish vessels full of armed men had cast off from the jetty and would soon pour arrows and spears into us from the steerboard side.

  A spear streaked from the enemy throng and bounced off my shield boss. Then Olaf and Bram Bear were amongst us, hefting oars which they rammed against the enemy hull, leaning, heaving with all their might, trying to push the Frank ship away. Grabbing oars Bothvar and Yrsa joined them, so now instead of fighting some of us covered those men with our shields because they were horribly exposed. Asgot, Ulf and Gunnar were hurling the poorer-made spears we had collected, trying to keep the Franks’ heads down, but neither we nor the enemy had thrown grappling hooks, which made me think these Franks were not so sure they wanted to be tied to us any more than we wanted to be tied to them.

  The Danes had caught up now and began trading arrows and spears with the smaller Frankish boats, which was good for us, but Rolf was wise enough to keep his prows pointing downriver to avoid getting ensnared amongst the Franks. There was water now between Serpent and the enemy ship and Olaf spurred his party to one final, enormous effort, bawling at them to shove off from the Frank ship which, he yelled, had been made by the blind half-wit sons of a one-armed troll. Bram and the others needed no encouragement, and with the increased distance between the ships half the men on the port side grabbed their oars and took to their benches whilst the rest of us each chose a man to cover with our shield. Then the oars were in the water and we were moving, arrows and some spears still clattering around us.

  ‘Raven!’ someone yelled. ‘Raven!’ And I looked round to see the giant, Bishop Borgon’s bodyguard, ploughing his way through the Franks to get to the stern where men still fought, the ships being as yet no more than an arm’s length apart.

  ‘What does that big bastard want?’ a Wessexman named Ulfbert said, sheathing his sword and grabbing a spear which he hurled towards the giant Frank, just missing his face. Then Borgon’s man was standing on the sheer strake, Norse arrows whipping past him, and even though the gap between the vessels had widened he seemed about to jump for it.

  ‘Overgrown arse maggot must be crazy,’ Penda said, wide-eyed.

  ‘I am here, you big dung heap!’ I yelled, standing up on the mast step and thumping my sword against my shield. ‘Here, you boar-faced troll fucker!’

  The Frank saw me and a grin spread across his face even as a Norse arrow bounced off the iron scales at his shoulder. Instinctively, the Norsemen at Serpent’s stern stepped back, creating space before the tiller, their shields raised still, though the missiles had thinned now. Then the giant bent his powerful legs and threw out his arms and leapt, landing with a thump aboard Serpent. It was an impressive jump given his size and all his war gear and it was a sign of respect that the Norsemen had allowed him to make it when they could have lined the deck and bounced him to the dark depths.

  ‘He’s mine!’ Svein the Red bellowed, striding towards the Frank, who spared his former ship not a single glance as our oarsmen at last put some water between us. The Franks lined their ship’s sheer strake, staring at us from beneath their helmets, their swords and spears still in their hands. Then orders were screamed and they took to their own row benches, thrusting their oars into the river to take up the chase.

  ‘No, Svein,’ I spat, gripping Bjarni’s shoulder for he too had stepped forward to fight the man who had taken his brother’s head. ‘This fight is mine.’ Fjord-Elk was free, I saw, the ship she had been fighting backing oars now, not wanting to get caught between two dragon ships, and this allowed the Danes to slip past so that we were now the trailing vessel. The giant grinned at me, beckoning me forward with the short axe in his left hand.

  Svein frowned at me and I knew he wanted to command me to stay out of his way whilst he introduced the Frank to his two-handed, long-handled axe. Instead the Norseman bit his tongue so as not to make me seem less in the Frank’s eyes, though his own eyes protested loudly enough. ‘This big lump of troll snot has already felt my blade bite his flesh,’ I said. ‘Now I’m going to spill his rancid guts and throw them to the fish.’ I hefted my shield and strode towards the Frank, my guts twisting with fear. I suddenly needed to relieve myself and could have filled a bucket. This warrior who carried no shield was enormous, as big as Svein, and he moved with the confidence of a man who kills without breaking stride. Furthermore, by jumping aboard Serpent he must have known he had spun his own doom, meaning he was either fearless, stupid, or crazy, none of which helped me much.

  ‘Take him, Raven!’ someone called from his row bench behind me.

  ‘Gut the whoreson!’ shouted another, amidst a rolling thunder of encouragement as Norse and English arms pulled the oars.

  I glanced at Sigurd, who grimaced but nodded, perhaps knowing that I had to face this man to make up for the death of Bjorn who had given his life for mine. That was why Bjarni had stepped back too, however much he hungered to kill the Frank himself. This was my fight and everyone knew it. But I could not have been more afraid if I had been lashed to a boulder and thrown overboard.

  Black Floki, Svein, Bjarni, Penda, Olaf, Sigurd, and Knut at the tiller were the only men not rowing now. As a sign of respect for the Frank’s bravery they sheathed their swords and gathered by the rearmost row benches, which were unmanned at present, though Bjarni placed himself and his shield in front of Knut to protect the steersman who was busy with the tiller. The Frank ships were holding off our bow, their captains, and Bishop Borgon I shouldn’t wonder, keen to watch the coming fight, though I imagined Borgon was spitting teeth at his man’s foolhardy action. Even if the giant killed me, the bishop must have known he needed to find a new bodyguard.

  ‘Cut him a new arsehole, Raven,’ Black Floki snarled.

  ‘Rip the ugly dungheap’s balls off, lad,’ Olaf said, scratching his bird’s-nest beard.

  I whispered to Óðin to be wit
h me and I kissed my shield’s rim. Then, setting my jaw and swallowing the lump of fear in my throat, I stepped forward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE FRANK HAD A FACE THAT LOOKED AS THOUGH IT HAD BEEN carved from a rock and I knew how Beowulf must have felt when he faced the monster Grendal. I remembered Black Floki telling me that when fighting a man much bigger than you you should go for his legs. ‘Cut the fucker’s legs,’ he had said, ‘and it’s as easy as chopping down a tree.’ But trees don’t fight back, I thought to myself now, wondering how I could get to this Frank’s legs without being speared or chopped in half by his wicked-looking axe.

  ‘God be with you, lad,’ Father Egfrith called, making me grimace, for I wanted Óðin with me, or brave Týr Lord of Battle, not Egfrith’s puny god of peace.

  ‘Come, little man,’ the Frank said in English through black teeth. I stepped forward and his spear streaked for my face but I got my shield up in time and it struck with incredible force for a one-handed thrust. There was little room to manoeuvre, meaning I could not lead him around to leg-tire him. That spear came again and again but each time I managed to stop it with my shield, which was desperate work. But the Frank was smiling still as though it was no more than a game. His arrogance bit deeper when he reversed the spear, using its butt to hammer my shield and even scything the shaft through the air like a harvester, slamming into me from the right and left, sweeping for my head and legs. I swung wildly, trying to hack into the shaft but hitting nothing but air. He struck my right shoulder a blow that numbed the whole of my sword arm and it was all I could do to keep my fingers curled round the weapon’s grip as I stepped back, watching for his next move.

  The next strike put a dent in my shield boss and the one after that glanced my left eye, gouging the flesh and making it stream. A finger’s width to the right and the spear’s butt would have crushed my eye socket. Then the Frank was too slow pulling the shaft back and I scythed my sword into it, knocking it aside, but he stepped inside and swung the short axe. I flung my shield up to meet it. There was a terrible crack as it cleaved into the limewood and stuck fast, the blade jutting through a hair’s length from my forearm.