Fenrir c-2

by M. D. Lachlan

  Now the birds fell from the trees like leaves in a black autumn, mobbing the confessor’s body, shrieking and cawing.

  Leshii had made up his mind. The silks didn’t matter, nor did the mules. His life and whatever reward he could get for the lady were all he had.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re going.’

  He couldn’t move her. She was rooted where she stood, trembling, her eyes fixed on the confessor.

  That terrible woman was singing again over the coaxings of Hugin.

  Then the monk gave a scream unlike any other, a sound of torment, a high note in the music of hell. There was confusion and shouting. The Raven was up, shooing the birds away from the monk’s body. He hacked at the rope with his knife and the confessor collapsed like a bag of wet sand. Aelis, unable to stop herself, ran to him, pushing past the berserkers, rushing past Hugin, who had turned away from the confessor with his head in his hands.

  Leshii dashed after Aelis and then bent to try to control the weeping girl. ‘Remember,’ he whispered, ‘you are a mute, a mute. Say nothing or join this man in his torments.’

  He had been trying not to look at the monk, but as he pulled Aelis away caught sight of him. The confessor’s tongue was lolling from his head. It reminded Leshii of a piece of liver, slick and shiny with blood, and ragged at one edge. The merchant could only marvel at the sort of mind capable of doing what the confessor had done. Jehan would not give them a prophecy, no matter how they enchanted and tormented him, and had done the only thing he could to spite his captors and stop himself from revealing Aelis. He had opened his mouth to let the birds tear out his tongue.

  13

  The Reward of Honour

  A silence fell on the clearing when the Raven cut down the monk.

  Ofaeti walked over and looked down at the merchant’s boy, who was cradling the confessor in his arms. ‘Of your religion, I guess, son,’ he said. ‘Well, if that’s the measure of these men then we can all pack up and go home now. That is a man of iron, I’ll give him that. Eh, Raven? He did for you, didn’t he? Crippled, trussed, tied and enchanted, but he beat you at your own game.’ Aelis didn’t understand a word he said but caught the sentiment in his voice.

  She looked down at the monk. His blood was black and shiny in the moonlight, one eye swollen and raw. The bird had virtually removed the eyelid, though the eye itself looked intact. His face and ears were a mass of cuts, the white nub of a cheek bone showing through and a hole in his cheek exposing a tooth. She removed the remains of the horrible hand at his neck and threw it away. No one tried to stop her.

  ‘He won’t recover from this,’ said Leshii. ‘The wounds won’t kill him but they’ll turn bad. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘How much are god bones, by weight?’ It was the voice of Saerda. He gave a short laugh and prodded his boot at the monk’s side.

  Aelis was on her feet in a second. Without thinking what she was doing, she had pushed Saerda in the middle of the chest. He was taken by surprise and fell back over a tree root. He didn’t take long to recover, though, drawing his knife even as he tripped, regaining his balance before he hit the ground and springing to stab at Aelis. It was four strides between Saerda and the lady. He took two before Ofaeti, with surprising quickness, stepped across and dropped his shoulder into the thin man’s side, battering him into a tree. All the wind went out of him as he hit the trunk. He slumped to the floor and lay there panting.

  Ofaeti pointed at the monk and spoke: ‘This man has earned my respect for tonight. Let the boy care for him, if it suits his temper. If it’s a fight you’re after, Saerda, you needn’t be disappointed. I stand ready to oblige.’ Again, Aelis couldn’t grasp exactly what he was saying but the meaning of his words was clear enough to anyone.

  Saerda stood and dusted himself down, still trying to recover his breath. Then he gave Aelis a look that needed no interpretation at all, smiled and backed off towards the camp.

  It was night now and the big moon turned the clearing into a silver circle. Hugin said something in Norse to the merchant.

  Leshii shook his head. ‘I don’t think he knows we are here.’

  For the first time, the Raven fixed his eyes on Aelis. ‘Keep him warm for the night and give him water if he calls for it. He won’t die before tomorrow.’ He turned to Leshii again and said, ‘Tell the king what he said and that, one way or another, the monk will have given us all he has to give us by this time tomorrow. Now I need to think.’

  He walked back across the clearing, taking his sister by the arm and escorting her into the trees

  It was quickly obvious that Jehan was going to die. He was very cold and he shook. His wounds were awful, oozing stab marks across every inch of exposed flesh. Strangely, the birds had not pecked through his clothes. The habit and undershirt had put them off and they had gone only for the skin they could see.

  Jehan was delirious, clinging to Aelis’s hand, gargling and babbling. His tongue was terribly swollen like a fat blood sausage and he could hardly close his mouth. Aelis tended to him, dabbing his mouth with a damp cloth to keep it moist, squeezing in a little water. From away in the trees, from the direction of the Raven’s shelter, chanting came, low and indistinct, a smoke of words, just a tinge of them on the breeze.

  Leshii sat with her. He was a hard man who saw the world in terms of profit and loss, but even he had been shaken by the monk’s ordeal, she could see. A boy came running into the clearing and spoke to the Vikings. She saw the one called Fastarr nod and point towards her. The big fat Norseman came up and said something to the merchant. Leshii replied and the man went away.

  Leshii said, ‘I have to go to report to the king. He has sent for me.’

  ‘On what?’ She spoke low, careful to see if she was observed.

  ‘What the monk said under torture.’ Leshii did not dignify what he had seen with the name of magic. The man had been half killed and had nearly revealed what he had guessed — that the lady was near him. No prophecy to that, he thought. ‘You have to come as well. They were insistent. Seems like you might have more slave work to do down there.’

  She touched him on the arm. ‘The confessor is dying,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to stay here with him. Let me stay here.’

  Leshii shrugged and turned to the Norsemen and shouted something at them that Aelis didn’t understand. The fat one replied, shaking his head.

  ‘No, you have to come,’ said Leshii.

  ‘I will not leave him,’ said Aelis, averting her face.

  The merchant spoke to the berserkers again. There was a brief discussion between them. Then the fat one shook his head and made an odd gesture. She heard the king’s name mentioned.

  Leshii turned to Aelis. ‘Ofaeti says Sigfrid can fetch and carry for himself for one night. The priest has earned some comfort. The berserker will do your work for you if the king demands it. You look after the monk. If you can move him then go down the river to the woods by the ford. I will meet you there and I swear I will reunite you with your people.’ Leshii made to stand. ‘You have a friend there in the fat Viking, it seems, but I must be gone.’

  Aelis stood and nodded to Ofaeti. She was afraid, but inside her a certainty was growing. God had put her together with the confessor. And God, she thought, knew well his friends from his enemies. If anyone should be scared, it was the sorcerer and his horrible servants.

  14

  A Discovery

  Leshii and the berserks made their way back down into the camp, towards the house Sigfrid was using as his headquarters. The assault had been a substantial one that day and the Norsemen had taken many casualties. Fires blazed in the night, and the sound of rough music, pipe and drum, was cut through with groans and screams. Faces, pale and thin, loomed from the darkness. This, thought, Leshii, was what the land of the dead would be like.

  The house was visible from a way away under the bright moon, its checked roof gleaming in the silver light. Leshii was tired a
nd looking forward to the hospitality of the king. The advantage of dealing with monarchs was that — even in times of hardship — there was good wine to drink and good food to eat. He went in to find the king sitting on a chair in the centre of the room. It was no throne but had been put in such a position that it was clear it was intended to stand in for one. Leshii wondered if some formal court was taking place. In all his other dealings with the Norsemen they had rarely stood on ceremony, particularly in times of war.

  The king gave Leshii a curt smile and held out his cup to be filled. Leshii noted that the man who did so was not Sigfrid’s normal servant but the skinny berserk Saerda. So this was where he’d gone when he left the camp.

  ‘You haven’t brought your boy with you, merchant.’

  ‘He is tending to the monk. The Frank has had a rough time of it today,’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘I said he was to be brought here.’ Sigfrid was pale and clamped his jaw tight, as if trying to bite down the anger that was rising inside him.

  ‘One servant’s like another,’ said Ofaeti. ‘I’ll stand the boy’s place, if I have to.’

  ‘I said the boy was to be brought, now bring the boy, fat man.’

  ‘It’s an hour up the hill,’ said Ofaeti. Then he looked at the simmering king and said, ‘I’ll go, I’ll go.’

  ‘Good. Bring him and make no fuss about it. Do not alert the Raven.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ said Ofaeti. He turned and went out of the hall, gesturing at Fastarr to come with him.

  The king took up his wine and swallowed down his temper. Then he spoke to Leshii in a more even voice. ‘So what did he say, the saint? What revelations did he bring forth?’

  Leshii glanced about him. The warriors in the king’s house seemed almost to crackle with excitement. All eyes were on him and Leshii had been in enough losing deals to know when it was time to call it quits and get out. This was one of those moments. However, while the king was there, there was no question of that.

  ‘Come on, merchant, what did he say?’

  Leshii wondered if he should lie but thought better of it. Latin was spoken widely enough for the king to have heard from elsewhere. The truth was the only safe course.

  ‘He said she was here,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Leshii could see that behind the king’s light manner was a boiling rage. ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘I am not a magician, lord.’

  The king stood, so quickly that Leshii almost leaped backwards. Sigfrid was clearly only just managing to keep a hold on his fury.

  ‘Oh, but you are, merchant, you are. I have heard that I knew you as a child — my men here tell me. But I have no memory of you. Have you wiped it away?’

  Leshii was relieved. If that was all this was, he could talk his way out of it.

  ‘I merely said that your renown was so great that I knew of you and your father as a child, even in my home beyond the Eastern Lake. They sing of your deeds there. Perhaps your warriors misunderstood me. My command of your language is not so sure.’

  ‘It is good enough to lie in,’ said Sigfrid.

  Leshii said nothing, as he guessed whatever he said would not do him much good.

  The king clapped his hands together. ‘Good Saerda,’ he said, ‘show our esteemed guest what you found in his packs.’

  ‘You gave your oath not to touch them!’

  ‘Nor did I. Saerda caught a boy trying to steal from them,’ said Sigfrid. ‘A thief opened your packs, merchant, not one of my warriors. And why are you so keen that no one should see your wares? It’s an unusual merchant who doesn’t display his goods.’

  ‘I prefer to be there when they are displayed, my lord, or I find I get a rather poor price for them, nothing being the poorest price I know.’

  ‘There are worse payments than nothing at all,’ said Sigfrid, tapping at the hilt of the sword on his belt.

  Saerda shot a brief smile towards Leshii and dragged one of the packs forward. It had been opened. Leshii felt his heart beginning to race as the berserk reached within and pulled something out. There was a flash of pale gold in the candlelight. Aelis’s hair.

  ‘What’s this, merchant?’ The king’s voice cracked in his anger.

  Leshii breathed out slowly and spread his arms wide. He needed to calm himself.

  ‘I bought it from a peasant woman on the way here. It will make a fine wig; any of your warriors would be proud to take it to their wives.’

  The king set his jaw. Then he took something else from the bag, something small enough to fit into his fist. He held out his clenched hand.

  ‘What do you think I have in here?’

  ‘I am a low man and would not like to guess the minds of kings,’ said Leshii.

  ‘A good answer. Mine is better. Would you like to hear it?’

  ‘If it pleases you.’

  ‘I have your death, merchant.’

  Leshii swallowed. He had thought, in the safety of the clearing with the lady, that he had lived a long life and would not mind leaving it for the chance of riches. Now his life seemed very short indeed. Strange thoughts came into his head. I haven’t done anything, he thought. I haven’t lived. He had walked the silk trails with a camel, gone to the frozen shores of the north, seen the Holy Roman Empire and the southern olive groves, but, facing his own death, he saw the reality of his life. He had done all these things alone. He thought of his mother. She was the last person he had really loved, been willing to die for. That, he realised, was what he meant when he told himself, I haven’t done anything. He had never replaced that love — with that of a friend, a woman, a child. Trade had been everything to him, and now here he was in his last deal, trying to bargain for his life.

  The king came over to where Leshii was standing and opened his hand. In it were two fine lady’s finger rings, one with the single lily of the Margrave of Neustria on it, the sign that would announce the wearer as a high-born woman, a descendant of Robert the Strong. The Vikings had suffered at his hands and eventually killed him, so they knew his crest very well.

  ‘Taken in payment for silk, my lord. Who has made a story from some tresses and a few baubles here?’ He glanced at Saerda.

  The king seemed to think for a second.

  ‘Where was this trade made?’

  ‘Just the other night, lord. A strange fellow brought these things, tall and clad in a wolfskin. I did not like him much but he seemed willing to pay a good price for-’

  The king held up his hand. ‘We will see,’ he said. ‘Your boy will be back before the night is out and we’ll see what tales he has to tell.’

  ‘He is not a talkative fellow, sir,’ said Leshii.

  ‘He’ll say enough, whether he speaks or not. If he is, as I suspect, the lady I’m looking for, then I’ll gut you here on the floor myself.’

  There was a commotion outside and a man entered the hall, short of breath. It was one of the berserkers who had met him on the hill on the first night — a tall, wiry man with a scar that ran across his cheek and sliced off the top of his ear. He was carrying something over his arm. It was a bundle of wet cloth.

  ‘What do you have for us?’

  The berserker threw the cloth down. It hit the reeds with a squelch. It was stained but anyone could see it was the fine silk and brocade of an expensive dress.

  ‘Found where the merchant had his camp,’ said the man. ‘It’s Frankish, my lord, and no mistake.’

  ‘Exactly as worn by the lady we pursued,’ said Saerda.

  Sigfrid drew his sword and strode forward as Leshii threw up his arms to try to fend him away.

  15

  The Agonies of Confessor Jehan

  Voices, and pressures in his head. Dizziness, confusion and pain. The confessor had known the Raven was trying to enchant him but he had struggled against it.

  They had come at him, knowingly or not, through his weakness for human touch. He had felt the woman holding him, the brush of her hair against his face, heard the beaut
y of her singing and, against himself, had drawn comfort from her embrace.

  It was a woman — he could tell from the shape of her, the softness of her thin arms, even the sound of her breath. He had tried to get away from her at first, to move as best he could, but he was so cruelly tied it was impossible. The pain at his throat from the rope was awful, the Raven’s chant hypnotic, the woman’s voice entangling his thoughts like a coil of smoke from an incense burner entangles a sunbeam. He could have resisted them all, remained as himself fully present in the agony of the rope, had it not been for her touch.

  He began to lose track of time. He would drift away from the pain, and her embrace would seem like the warmth of a fire after a long cold journey in the wind and rain. Then the constriction at his throat would begin to dominate his thoughts, his whole consciousness condensing to that tight band around his neck. After a while he couldn’t tell who was asking him the questions, or if he was replying. He seemed to be somewhere else, not in the clearing at dusk but somewhere much darker. He was underground, he could sense it. The air felt close on his skin, damp and cold. Was this hell? Voices were around him. He recognised one as his own but, bizarrely, he couldn’t tell which one it was.

  ‘Where will we find her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl who was with you in the church at Paris.’

  ‘She has always been with me.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She has come to me.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I must fortify myself for the struggle ahead.’

  And then he moved, the rope dug into his neck and he choked. He felt hands adjusting his position, alleviating the tightness slightly. The odour of putrefaction was in his nostrils, the horrid voice of the Raven in his ear, resuming that blasphemous chant.