Forged in Blood

by Ken Hagan

  Beyveen leaps up like a salmon and disappears through the thundering screen of water.

  *

  I must have missed her falling: I saw her swallowed up, but missed when she fell. One moment she was beside me, laughing — the next moment gone. I feel a pang of loss. Sick with fear, with shock — with a shiver of dread of what I might see down below — I lean over the edge. I scan down into the falls. My eyes follow the rush of water. Can’t see a thing through spray and mist. The motion of the rushing water makes me dizzy.

  Beyveen must have been gripped by the force of the water, her body tossed like a broken branch over the falls, hurtled down, crushed to death on a boulder, on an edge of rock.

  ‘Kregin!’ Someone from above shrieks my name.

  Foolishly, I look up, not believing Beyveen is above the falls, but that someone else is there. Blinking into the spray above my head, I see only a fallen pillar of stone; two uprooted trees, the gush of water; spray drifting off the lip of the falls. Again the voice calls, this time bossy, cheerful, insistent. ‘Jump, Kregin, Christ’s sake, jump! I am behind the falls — trust me — I will catch you!’

  A surge of joy, when moments before it was dread, sends a shiver through my limbs. I leap like a salmon. I leap to Beyveen. I leap to her within the falls.

  *

  Outside are the falling waters, an ever-present shuddering upon the ears. A watery shield of green light encloses us within. Wafts of spray, wisping inward from the waters, spill mist-like into our eyes. Behind the falls — inside the hidden cave — a bed of quivery lichens, waterlogged and warming, rubs under our bodies. Beyveen kisses my neck, holds her lips to the scar — knowing now from where, and by whom the scar came. Her limbs tighten around me, cool, wet, enfolding. Her naked flesh is full to my touch, firm and yet yielding.

  FIFTH PART

  Chapter 37

  Lord Lodin works alongside us at Ekvith. His presence at the shipyard keeps every man on his toes. Not that we have cause to fear Lodin’s wrath or need his rod on our backs. Newly-minted coin in our purse is reason enough for our labour. But even without Lodin’s daily silver, we would gladly have run to his call to defend our haven, our rivers and our estuary. The warring men of Linn-dubh — outsiders unwelcome from the north — are a curse and a threat. We don’t stop to question what we do, or why: it is enough to know that we have nothing to fear from Lodin and all to fear from them.

  Shoulder to shoulder, the Custodian toils with us on the ships and, if we spare a thought for him at all, we think only to admire the old man’s striving and purpose, and to follow his efforts, which appear to us still youthful and manly. Lodin’s sweat, as well as ours, is spent in common cause against the hated outsiders. And soon, our blood, too. Our hate and dread is reserved for Glun Iron-knee and the warrior hordes that will descend on us from invading long-ships. Hate catches our throats. We taste the hate; it is heart-felt — though, when I think of it, dread is too strong a word for our would-be enemies. A seafaring man, who carries war-axe or blade to defend himself, won’t admit to more than a nagging unease when hostilities loom ahead — an unease, which every man senses, when faced by an unknown fate in a conflict that he cannot avoid. We wonder, as we labour on our ragbag of ships, with what size of fleet Amlavson will come up the estuary, and what mischief he has in mind for us, when — as he must expect — Lodin will refuse to cooperate with the invasion inland against Osri.

  Sheep trading and river-tolls put wealth in Lodin’s treasury. The Custodian and his grasping ways are known at Vadrar-fiord to Erse-man and Ostman alike. But with his greed comes our good fortune. His control of the three rivers is welcomed by skippers and crewmen, who sail trading ships in and out of haven; by wherrymen who ferry sheep and gather tolls; and by Erse clansmen who raise livestock along the three rivers. We may not like Lord Lodin, but we have the measure of his greed.

  To Vadrar-fiord the Erse happily drive their sheep and cattle for barter, and the fishing-curachs bring fish to market. The shipment of wethers and wares builds the season’s divvy in skippers’ purses. Vadrar-fiord is the haven where lubbers and crewmen spend their coin and drink their ale. Herding and fishing, trading and barter, haven and fort — everything that holds up the peace of the three rivers — all are threatened by the men of Linn-dubh.

  *

  Lodin — like the rest of us at Ekvith — takes only bread and water during the day for refreshment. He doesn’t stop for meat or anything heavy till dark, when he shares a night meal and some grainy ale with Thrandt and his family in the shipwright’s lodge. He will leave off working, as we do, only to relieve himself in the forest. Before returning to his place of work — he has been given the oily task of tarring lower strakes around the keel — he may stop to speak with Thrandt. The master shipwright is under orders to report every setback and delay, as we struggle with aged timber and spare parts — timber stripped damp and warped from old frames — to cobble together our fourth and fifth, and now our sixth fire-ship. Thor only knows where we will find wood to finish a seventh! We have no time to fell raw oak in the forest and trim fresh timber to shape. Exchanges between Lodin and Thrandt on the progress of work last no more than a moment: a brisk decision, a nod of understanding, before both men bend their backs again to their labours.

  *

  In less than a week, five long-ships have rolled off the slip-way. Each has been rowed down-river to Vadrar-fiord and lies in readiness at the jetties. I have volunteered each evening as one of the forty night oarsmen: all of us are keen to get our hands on extra silver. As the saying goes: ‘Better to die rich than poor!’ These five long-ships were constructed years before. They were more or less sea-worthy, but for want of buyers — for lack of harriers in the safe waters of the three rivers — they lay un-launched at the shipyard. The long-ships had hulls already caulked, their holds decked out, cross-thwarts fitted with rowing-benches. But before each ship’s launch a long day of horse-power and man-power was needed — thirty horses, and more than seventy men — to haul them out of their sunken mud-holes in the clearing, wheel them over a track of roller-logs, and send them skidding into the water.

  Vermund and Stein did some minor repairs, replacing here and there a warped strake or nailing down a loose deck-board. Only two of the five long-ships were masted and rigged before launch, kitted with a pulley and set of oars. The other three are not meant to be sailed. As part of Lodin’s plan of defence, once the two ships are furnished with canvas and sail-ropes — to be fitted on the jetties at Vadrar-fiord — Thrandt and Hakon will sail them north on an-Bharu. Three long-ships will be given neither mast nor sail. Their decks have been filled with a ballast of clinker-pebbles, and topped with hearth-stones. Fires will be stoked onboard to boil up a seething liquor of pine-tar and mutton-fat. The hulls will be used as fire-ships; towed by wherries across the mouth of an-Shuir, and set ablaze on the river. A boom of blazing ships to block any attempted passage west to Vadrar-fiord: this will be the Custodian’s ‘warm’ greeting for Glun Amlavson.

  There will be seven fire-ships in all. Thrandt aims to have four more fire-ships brought to completion: four floatable hulls constructed from the eleven remaining ships — or rather from eleven ‘half-ships’, mere shells that stood unfinished for years at the shipyard, ghost-ships awaiting their unforeseen fiery doom.

  ‘For these last four I can’t be my usual fussy self,’ Thrandt admits to Hakon. ‘Providing that the hulls float long enough to burn Iron-knee’s beard, providing they can divert him, his long-ships and his harriers north — that is good enough for me!’

  *

  Ingvar Lodinson has gone missing. He has not been seen by his family, or by anyone, for more than a fortnight. Lord Lodin had wanted his son to travel with Deasún to Inis-tioc, and agree with Dunchad a shared battle strategy against Glun Amlavson, but Ingvar didn’t show up at the jetties on the day of our voyage north from Vadrar-fiord. We lost the morning tide waiting for him. Later the same day, at the approach of evening tide on
the estuary — and with no sign of his son’s return — Lodin reluctantly sent orders for Hakon to set sail on the Meuris without Ingvar on board.

  His mother Aghamora is distraught. She believes a terrible misfortune may have befallen him, though — when she stands at evening on the jetty, inspecting and praising the most recent ship that we have rowed up from Ekvith — you wouldn’t think she had a care in the world. No doubt at heart she is buoyed by that news that Clithna is to have a baby, Aghamora’s and Lodin’s first grandchild. After Ingvar’s furious argument with his father, the young man went off in a rage, carrying only hunting axe and spear. To go off on a hunt, unaccompanied by friends and servants, is unheard of for him — and, more curious still, he set out without a horse. In her private moments Aghamora imagines all manner of calamities for her headstrong son, and has confided her concerns to Hakon. They have an opportunity to talk every morning at length, when Skip visits Aghamora at the fort, bringing Lodin’s regular news to her from Ekvith

  Aghamora worries that Ingvar may lie delirious at the foot of a crag up in the mountains, his legs broken in a fall; or that he has been mauled to death by a pack of wolves; or that, caught unawares on open heath at night, he has sunk in a bog and drowned. She accuses her husband — not to his face, but behind his back — of being too hard on the ‘boy’; of pushing him beyond endurance. ‘No wonder,’ says she, ‘poor Ingvar ran off. He was at the end of his tether.’ In tears, she has spoken to Hakon of her anxiety for what the young man might be capable of in a rage, to what foolish extremities he might be driven in mindless retaliation against his father.

  As Skip gets up to leave me, he taps his nose in a gesture of secrecy, to stress the need for my discretion — though by now he has got the whole story off his chest. ‘What I have been telling you about young Ingvar — keep it to yourself — you understand, Thralson, don’t you? Things are on knife-edge for Lodin. Aghamora wouldn’t want any of this getting out.’

  *

  None of this family stuff about Ingvar and his mother has leaked out at Ekvith — leastways not from me — and besides, there is not a soul here other than Hakon that I can talk to. None of my crew-mates are working on the fire-ships or the rowing-crews — only I am here. Skip has the rest of our crew gainfully employed at Vadrar-fiord. Halpin and Dantzk are on permanent ship-watch aboard the Meuris. They patrol the now-deserted jetties. With time on their hands, Skip has asked them to make a strict log of tide-times on a measuring-stick. Hakon says the exact timings of the tides will be critical for floating out the fire-ships into Glun’s path. Baldr and Kru are in the rope-works, where Baldr’s knowledge and skill has come in useful. Lodin’s sail-makers work day and night to complete rope-coils and sails for our two navigable long-ships. Hrut was sent by his father to Vadrar-fiord to cast ship-nails in the iron-smith’s shed. Thrandt fears the smith may bodge the job on his ship-nails because he has such heavy demand at the forge for axe and blade. The master shipwright believes that the presence of his son will keep the iron-smith on his toes, while the nails are cast for Ekvith.

  Fjak has taken a job close to young Thrandtson, butchering and salting meat in a neighbouring slaughter-yard. Everyone — including Skip — was amazed at how willingly Fjak took on the slaughter work. Fjak has a busy time of it with the butcher’s axe. Huge quantities of mutton-fat will be needed to fuel the fire-ships. Along the river hundreds of salt-caked carcases are being hung out to dry. Above Vadrar-fiord the air is thick with acrid smoke from rendering fat.

  *

  As for where Lodin’s son might have gone to, you can’t stop folk at the shipyard from speculating on his whereabouts and what he might be up to. Sumpter-men, up at Ekvith with teams of horses to move the ships, are a breed to themselves, older men by and large, and prone to gossip; from their talk it is clear they admire Ingvar’s get-up-and-go. Word has spread among them that the young man has gone off to raise a scratch force of warriors for the defence of Vadrar-fiord.

  ‘That young Ingvar is a firebrand.’ An Ostman slips me a bright silver lodin — this is what the sumpter-men call our newly-minted coin from the treasury. The man is gasping for a draught of ale and has paid me to walk his team of six sumpters to a shallow drinking-ground at the river-bank. ‘Mark my words, Thralson. The boy won’t let grass grow under his feet. He will be back with a thousand men, two thousand maybe.’ The sumpter-man is confident about the young man’s success in recruiting a troop of warriors. He slips me a second new coin. ‘Stay with the horses,’ he says, ‘there’s a third lodin in it for you if you bring them back.’

  I haven’t the heart to dent his cheerful spirits or say anything that might make him less flush with his coin. A warrior force of the number he talks about could only be sought from up the coast — the most likely haven for mercenaries would be Vaes-fiord — but from wherever they came, they would have to be brought in by ship. And most people, who sighted Ingvar on the night he disappeared, say he took off on foot with hunting-axe and spear.

  *

  On the night Ingvar stormed off, he was reported as leaving on foot, heading into the forest, or so the story went until this morning. At first, we heard that it was Sae-Unn, who caught sight of Ingvar, while she toiled late in the evening by the pine fires, distilling black pitch to caulk the ships — but now today, when challenged about it, Thrandt’s wife denies that she ever saw the young man at all.

  *

  At the request of Aghamora, the broth-women from Vadrar-fiord have moved cauldrons and stalls from their usual pitch in the lanes inside Lodin’s fort, and installed their pots of steaming broth at Ekvith. They provide the ship-builders with a nightly meal at dusk. Fish-wives and cockle-women followed their lead, and it wasn’t long before the brew-master turned up from haven with bread and ale. Now a bustling market of victuals and wares has got going within the shipyard clearing, made lively at night by the brew-house girls and a stock of costly barley ale. At dusk, Lodin’s treasury-man doles out silver for each day’s sumpter work and for our labour on the ships.

  No credit can be had at Ekvith market — no barter, no hack — strictly silver coin.

  *

  ‘A pity that we don’t have an invasion every summer.’ The brew-master gives me a knowing wink, and hurriedly ladles watery ale into my pot.

  ‘We are on our last fire-ship,’ I retort. ‘All being well, it will be finished by day-after-tomorrow. Next week at the brew-house I will drink your ale at a quarter of the price.’

  ‘You can afford it,’ the brew-master replies smugly. ‘You are flush with Lodin’s coin. Besides, moving to Ekvith for the emergency has cost me a small fortune. While I am here, loyal to the core, doing my bit for Lodin, I lose custom at the landings.’

  I laugh sourly. ‘What custom? Not from crewmen or wherrymen! There’s not a single trading ship moored at the landings. No cargo in or out, and no sheep or bales of wool. I was at the haven last night. The piers are vacant, apart from two old broken wherries. We rowed our fire-ship in — found an empty berth straight off.’

  ‘Move along, Ostman,’ shouts the brew-master. ‘Can’t you see I have pots to fill?’

  *

  On the subject of Ingvar and his sudden disappearance, the broth-women are not as gullible as the sumpter-men, though when they greet us at dusk, while serving the broth, their coarse gossip is every bit as flattering of the young man’s intentions.

  ‘Young Ingvar has Erse blood like us.’ The hag at the cauldron wipes a drip from her nose. To the light of the fire under her cauldron she holds a new-minted coin proffered by a sumpter-mam for his broth. She frowns as if the small coin he has given her is too dull to be real silver. The treasury coin is so new that it is still coated with clay from the mould. She licks off the clay and bites the coin between her toothless gums to test for hardness. Satisfied at last, she ladles broth into the man’s ale-pot — he is ahead of me in the line of hungry workmen. The hag rabbits on. ‘The lad may have an Ostman for a father, but his mother, Lady Aghamo
ra — she has brought the boy up to follow good Erse customs. He is one of us, by Jesus, never fear!’

  ‘That’s why he fecked off on his own,’ says a neighbouring hag. ‘Into the forest, into the hills, into the wild — that’s where our young hero has gone.’ With the edge of her finger-nails she scrapes broth that sticks to her stirring blade — the broken-off handle of a camán — and returns the scrapings to her cauldron.

  ‘Aye,’ says a third hag. ‘If a warrior bloods himself on a wolf, on a deer, and then on an eagle; if he hunts and kills all three in that order, there’s no foe on this earth, no warrior alive, who can puncture his flesh on the field of battle — it is known as the ‘hunter’s spell’.’

  ‘Ah, but he must stay pure from women-folk too.’ The first hag winks at me as she grabs my coin. ‘If a man dips his wick on battle-eve, death surely awaits him: the ‘hunter’s spell’ will be broken.’

  Chapter 38

  A hot summer evening at Ekvith and the fire burns low in Thrandt’s lodge. Still daylight outside. Sae-Unn lights the tallows within the darkened hall; dim light flickers upwards and quivers cobwebs on the rafters; the fire gives off no flame.

  Thrandt lies sleeping under a bench at my feet. Sae-Unn kicks her husband on the heels of his boots — an attempt to wake our host — but Thrandt doesn’t respond. There will be no waking the shipwright. He is exhausted from a long day’s work and has drunk his fill of ale. He snores quietly on the floor. Vermund and Stein are asleep too. They went to their bunks as soon as they downed their bracks and barley. Sae-Unn is left to take care of Thrandt’s ale-swilling guests.

  The gable-doors are open. A heavy smell of pine-tar clings to the air and penetrates the hall; a babble of shouts and song carries from across the shipyard. More noise tonight than usual. This is the last night at Ekvith for the brew-master and his brew-house girls. Broth-women and wares-men intend to break up their stalls at first light. Tomorrow they will return to their usual haunts at Vadrar-fiord. A wherryman has been sent for — he will carry them, with pots, trestles and bundles of wares, downriver on the ebb-tide.