by Robert Low
‘Who is it that keeps dragging the boat out of the water on rocks and gravel? The keel is no doubt scarred and there is no avoiding that – but any sailor with the least clever in him knows to lift the steer-oar off. It is worn nubbed and splintered from such dragging – my teeth look better.’
And he snarled blackly at them to prove the point, while Abjorn and Uddolf and the others who had sailed Black Eagle nodded agreement, which did not endear them to the men of Short Serpent. With the few old Oathsworn, there were three crews here, not one; that would have to change, I was thinking.
There was shamefaced silence, then Crowbone opened his mouth to speak – and I used the moment. I may not have had what King Eirik thought of as jarl-greatness in me, but I had enough to know the timing of such a thing.
‘While we are talking with Pallig here,’ I said to Onund, ‘replace the oar-strap. The rest will have to wait until we can beach her and sort it out – at which time the crew, I am thinking, will be carrying the steer-oar as if it was their own bairn.’
There were wry chuckles at that and Crowbone, furious at being interrupted, opened and closed his mouth; I was aware, somewhere behind me, of Alyosha, watching and listening. He said nothing, for I was leader here, even if Crowbone had not realised it yet.
‘I am sure Crowbone here will want you to build his next ship, Onund,’ I added with a light laugh. ‘When he is king in Norway. He plans to call it Long Serpent and make it the biggest boat in the world.’
‘I will be long dead by then,’ grumbled Onund and that raised a louder laugh; Crowbone’s mouth was working like a dying fish, but I was spared mentioning it by the arrivals from the fortress, moving along the shingle in an ungainly half-trot.
They were ring-coated, helmed and armed with shield and spear, about a dozen led by Ljot, who wore only coloured clothing and a green, fur-trimmed cloak, so I relaxed a little, for this arrival had been the awkward moment and it seemed to have passed off well enough.
‘Olaf, son of Tryggve,’ he said politely, bowing to Crowbone, for he had fixed his eyes on the boy and the rest of us were just well-armed retainers, he thought. ‘Welcome to Jomsburg.’
‘Olaf Tryggvasson thanks you,’ I said, before Crowbone could get his mouth working. ‘Jarl Orm of Hestreng is come to the Joms borg.’
Ljot finally saw me and jerked his head to me and back to Crowbone, confused; he had seen and recognised the ship and made assumptions from that. I nodded and grinned a wolf grin at him. Finn slung his shield on his mailed back and gave a bark of laughter.
‘Aye – here is your worst nightmare, Ljot,’ he snarled. ‘Crowbone is now one of the Oathsworn of Jarl Orm of Hestreng. We have come for our property.’
Ljot gaped and stuttered a bit, then looked at me with narrowed eyes.
‘If you plan trouble here,’ he began and I waved a silencing hand. Finn chuckled.
‘No trouble,’ I answered, ‘but this is for Pallig’s ears, not all these.’
Ljot glanced round at the ringmailed and gawping growlers he had at his back, Wends mostly, with a scattering of those tribal trolls who always gather round trade places. He nodded and led the way up to the borg proper, off the beach and tussocked grass and on to the raised half-log walkways.
I called Finnlaith over, just before I fell in behind them all.
‘Keep these thievers off the ship,’ I told him. ‘And keep the girl hidden.’
He nodded, then scowled. ‘Why we have her is not clear to me, sure,’ he grunted. ‘She is a strange one and no mistake.’
I had no quarrel with him on that and said so, which made him grin. Then he called up his Irishers, Ospak among them and I heard them chaffer and bang shields together, as if they had won a good fight, as we went off after Ljot.
I was glad of Finnlaith and Ospak, old Oathsworn who had arrived at Hestreng while Finn and I were with Jarl Brand. They had come ‘for the raiding’ and heard in Hedeby that there was trouble at Hestreng.
They had left Dyfflin some time ago and arrived on a trading knarr owned by someone who knew me and trusted that the half-a-dozen mad Irishers with their bearded axes and strange gabble were unlikely to cause harm to him or his cargo.
‘A timely arrival,’ Finnlaith had said, once beams and wrist-grips had been exchanged, ‘for sure. It is a sad thing, so it is, to see Hestreng reduced to ashes.’
Then he had brightened a little and said that now that the Ui Neill had arrived, the war against those who had done it could commence and made out that he had come all the way from Dyfflin just for that.
The truth, of course, was that the Irisher lands were in flame – again – and the Ui Neill were not getting the best of it. Meanwhile, the Norse in Dyfflin laughed at the Irishers quarrelling over who was king of the dungheap, when they controlled the trade and so the wealth.
‘But sure,’ Finnlaith had added, when he had finished bewildering me with all their names, ‘we will go back presently and sort this Brian Boru lad out.’
Meanwhile, he was back with his old oarmates, enjoying the craic at the entrance to the Odra and thinking it a good day, even with the rain sifting down on him, because he had friends, a bearded axe slung on one shoulder, a handful of silver in a pouch under his armpit and the prow beast telling him where to go.
I envied him as we clattered over the slick walkways through the town, all smells and curious people, to where the buildings thinned until there were only a few scattered round the meadow. Mounded above it, the Joms borg itself squatted like a troll moody over his lost bridge.
Finn nudged me as we went, pointing out the forge and the mill – and the Christ church, where a priest, his brown robe caught up between his legs to make short, baggy breeks, worked a patch of vegetables, looking up only once at us. Most of the folk we saw, including the leather-clad guards on the gates, were Wends.
Pallig waited at the threshold of the hall, surrounded by three women; the youngest – barely a woman at all – he presented as his wife and a thumb-sucking boy he proudly announced was Toke, his son.
‘No women allowed at all,’ Finn whispered scornfully to me and then laughed at the lies of skalds.
I had expected a different look to Pallig, for his brother was of a good height with no belly on him and reasonable in his looks, making the most of them with his neatness. All of which made his name – Ugly – a joke. Pallig, on the other hand, was sow-snouted, bald save for a straggling fringe of dirty flax and had a paunch that trembled like a new-shelled egg yolk.
Ale was brought and bread and cheese. Crowbone sat apart, chatting animatedly to Pallig’s wife and, after a scowl or two, Pallig decided that he was too young to bother with. We sat on benches and Pallig, beaming and jovial, hooked one knee over the arm of a high seat and spread his hands expansively. No-one was fooled; he and the cat-wary Ljot were ruffled by the arrival of the Oathsworn and, for all his bluster, Pallig was not sure he could handle such trouble if it came to a fight.
Still, he played a tafl game of being unconcerned.
‘Welcome to my hall, Orm of Hestreng,’ he announced. ‘The Oathsworn fame has travelled far and wide and is almost as great as my own. It is an honour to have you here.’
Then, unable to resist it, he peered at me and gave a little laugh. ‘You look a little battered – was it a rough crossing?’
I said nothing, for the high seat he was on, like a perilously perched pig, had the familiar carving on the back, of Thor arrogantly fishing for the World Serpent. He saw me look and smiled, for it had all been planned that way.
‘You admire my high seat? It is very fine.’
‘I know it well,’ I answered. ‘It belonged to Ivar Weatherhat until recently. Then my arse was on it until Ljot came to Hestreng.’
Pallig feigned surprise.
‘Then you must have it back,’ he declared expansively.
I shook my head and his smile wavered a little, for refusal had not been in his design. But I knew how the game was played and had shoved words
around the board with better men than him.
‘Keep it,’ I countered. ‘For Ivar had it and was burned out of all he had and I had it and enjoyed the same luck. The Norns, as they say, weave in threes. I can always get another seat.’
‘Once you get another hall,’ Ljot offered, with a dangerous sneer that made Pallig shoot him a hard look. I felt Finn shift a little beside me, to ease his hilt nearer his hand.
‘Oh, that is being built,’ I said lightly. ‘It will be finished by the time we return to Jarl Brand with his fostri, the boy Koll whom your man Leo took.’
The brothers exchanged looks then, no doubt remembering – as I had intended – the Oathsworn tales of unlimited silver. Then Pallig, in an attempt to counter this unexpected move, slathered a vicious smile on his face and waved one hand. Men came forward – two of the bearcoats I had last seen sidling away to burn Hestreng, I noticed – and Styrbjorn between them. He was pale, but smiling and wore good coloured clothing and his hands were unbound, though he had no more than an eating knife on him.
‘Orm Bear Slayer,’ he acknowledged with a nod. Pallig watched my face and, finally, I turned into his pouched gaze.
‘King Eirik would like Styrbjorn returned to him,’ I said. ‘He is confident you will not oppose him in this.’
Styrbjorn laughed, showing too many white teeth.
‘I am sure my uncle would like me to walk into his mouth and be eaten,’ he replied, ‘but, as you see, I am among friends.’
Pallig said nothing and even Styrbjorn was not convinced by what he said so confidently.
‘The king speaks of mercy and forgiveness,’ I said. ‘He will pay weregild to Jarl Brand for what was lost. He swears no harm will come to you.’
Styrbjorn’s whole body seemed to sag a little, then he straightened, beaming.
‘Well – so it is, then,’ he declared to Pallig. ‘A king swears it, so it must be true.’
There was silence and Styrbjorn blundered on into it, like a ram in a thicket. ‘I will put myself at the mercy of my uncle and king, so bringing this affair to an end. You have my thanks, Pallig, for your hospitality.’
There was a heartbeat of silence, then Pallig broke contact with my eyes and looked at Styrbjorn, as if just noticing that he was there at all.
‘I can see that you have served your purpose,’ he growled. ‘So now you have, it would be best if you stayed silent. Better still if you waited somewhere else for the grown men to finish their business.’
Crowbone could not stifle a snort of delight at Styrbjorn’s look, which was ugly and red, tight around the eyes and mouth. He drove to his feet, clattering over the bench; the ringmailed men on either side of his shoulders clamped him with hands hard as wolf bites, so that Pallig waved them to be still.
‘You forget who I am, Pallig,’ Styrbjorn said, his mouth twisted and wet. ‘You would do well to remember it.’
‘Who are you?’ Pallig challenged. ‘Nephew to King Eirik, no more than that. If he wishes you back and swears not to kill you, then he is a fool – and a fool is easily parted from money. Will he pay to have you back, do you think?’
He looked at me as he spoke, but I made my face a cliff and, with a scowl, he turned back to Styrbjorn.
‘You are a nithing boy, with no men and less ships and such battle luck as to attract none. Besides, the Great City has disowned you.’
Everyone was too occupied in marvelling at the colours Styrbjorn was turning in his rage to notice the real import of that last bit, but I did. While the bearcoats hauled the youth off, I pilled some bread idly and thought matters through.
Leo the monk was gone.
It came to me then that perhaps King Eirik and I and everyone else had woven the tapestry of this in the wrong colours. After a while, I asked: ‘So, where did the Greek monk go, then?’
Pallig frowned for a moment, then glanced at Crowbone. He was wondering, no doubt, if tales of little Olaf’s bird-magic were true and that, somehow, the monk’s arrival and departure had been seen by some seidr-possessed crow on a branch. Crowbone grinned at him and I saw the realisation flash in Pallig that he had been the one to give it away, like a bad move in a game of tafl.
‘Gone back to the Great City,’ he said, scowling. ‘Down to Ostrawa and into the Magyar and Bulgar lands.’
The old Amber Road; I had not thought that trail still existed and Ljot, while his brother fumed at his slip and poured ale to cover his annoyance, explained that it was not much of one, not for boats unless they flew, nor carts. Pack horses could make it and men with small loads, so it was usually little stuff that got carried that way – amber and furs, or the cargo that carried itself, slaves.
‘Small boys and monks?’ asked Crowbone. Pallig managed a laugh.
‘Aye, probably slaves by now, or dead. They went together and the monk hired some men – Sorbs – as guards.’
So there it was. Pallig had not been the final destination of the fleeing Leo. The little turd of a monk was heading for home, though it was unlikely he would ever reach it, as Finn pointed out.
‘Sorbs,’ he said and would have spat if there had been anywhere to do it without offending. Pallig cocked an unapologetic eyebrow.
‘What is this monk to me now?’ he said. ‘He came, he invited us to fight for Styrbjorn and he came back when all had failed. I do not expect him to return in a hurry to invite us again. He took the boy with him, thinking to use him to control Jarl Brand and through him influence King Eirik since Brand is his right arm, as everyone knows.’
He stopped and laced his hands across the trembling belly, frowning.
‘This Styrbjorn business was ill-paid. It is not good to have such a stain on your fame,’ he grumbled and looked at me. ‘You know how it is, Jarl Orm – this is just red war and the way such matters are done. Having poor battle luck is bad for the fame at Joms.’
‘Perhaps you will think differently, when such red war visits you one day,’ I told him and watched his eyes narrow.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I am sorry you were caught up in this and for your losses. I want no trouble from you. I will pay blood-price for what was done at Hestreng and it is this – I will permit you to leave and tell King Eirik that he can have that useless lump Styrbjorn if he offers me a fair price. Then you should go back to Hestreng, fasten the peace-strings on your hilt and be grateful the Northmen of Joms are not turning out on you.’
This was enough for Finn, who leaned forward with his face as hard and ugly and grim as a hidden rock in a sound.
‘You wobbling nithing,’ he began. ‘All your Northmen are Wendish trolls and never saw a decent vik…’
Before I could act, Crowbone laid a quiet hand on Finn’s arm, which made the man blink from his rage and look round. The boy shook his head and smiled; Finn subsided like a scrap-fed hound, to my amazement.
The spell of it broken, I stood up and nodded.
‘As to Styrbjorn,’ I said with a shrug, ‘you may do as you see fit – but when we leave we will go upriver, not down.’
Ljot shook his head and Pallig made a pig-grunt of sound.
‘Not good,’ Ljot said, then smiled a rueful, apologetic smile. ‘Look you – I know Jarl Brand’s boy was taken and that he was your fostri, so it will sit hard with both of you. The boy is gone, all the same – almost certain dead or a slave of the Sorbs or the Wends or the Pols, which is all the same thing. That monk was a chief of the gestir of the Great City’s emperor, but it will make no difference – those skin-wearing trolls along the river are all supposed to be Christ men, but they will kill him, just the same.’
Gestir, he had said. Well, it had been obvious enough, but it was good to have it said out loud. There are two kinds of oathed men in a king’s hall. The first are the great louts, like those standing guard at Pallig’s door. The second are the gestir, clever men who can spy and make trade agreements and treaties and more. Leo the monk, it seemed, was one of them, working for the emperor in Constantinople and so a man of consid
erable skills – among them, I was sure, the ability to deal with skin-wearing trolls along the Odra.
‘Besides,’ Pallig grumbled. ‘I do not want you going upriver. You will cause upset in a boat like that and interrupt the trading.’
He dipped one finger in his ale and drew a wet, wiggly line on the table.
‘Here is the Odra, flowing south from the mountains beyond Ostrawa to us in the north. It is a frontier land. Here we are at the mouth of it, where are the Wends, who you call trolls and the Saxlanders call Wilzi and others call Sorbs. There are many small tribes of them, on both banks of the river, but most are subject to the Saxlanders on the west.’
He stopped and sucked his wet finger while we all peered at the wiggly line as if it were about to come alive on the table and snake along it.
‘On the east bank are more Wends and Sorbs and such, but also the Pols of Miesko, who are coming north pretty fast – only last year they beat the Saxlanders at Cidini which is very close to us. Now the Saxlanders and Pols glare at each other across the river and the trade on it is a fud-hair away from being ruined.’
He frowned and wiped the wiggly snake away with a sweep of one hand, breaking the spell on us.
‘No-one will want to see a raiding boat such as yours on the river,’ he added. ‘Otto’s Saxlander forts on the west bank will think I sent you up to cause trouble. The east bank has Pol forts who will think the same.’
‘Not that you will get that far,’ added Ljot, almost beaming with the finality of it, ‘for there are other tribes, who will eat you.’
No-one spoke for a long heartbeat, then Pallig cleared his throat and spread expansive arms.
‘Well, there is the way of it,’ he said, then beamed. ‘I would not wish you to sail away from here feeling less than well-treated so I invite you and the young Prince Olaf here to be feasted in my hall tonight.’
I agreed and smiled, which was hard work on the cheek muscles since I was working against a lot of scowl. There was the arrogance of these brothers, the problem of Styrbjorn and how to free him and, worst of all, the thought of what the Polanians – the ones the brothers scornfully called ‘Pols’ – would do if they found the Mazur girl they thought safely hostaged in a foreign land with the daughter of their king.