Winter's Fire: (The Rise of Sigurd 2)

by Giles Kristian

  ‘I know this ship,’ Golden-Fire’s skipper called across before any other greeting. He wore a helmet and mail but had not drawn the sword which hung at his right hip. ‘Even without her prow beast mounted I know her. This is Reinen, which belonged to Jarl Harald of Skudeneshavn.’

  ‘You have that right,’ Moldof said, stepping down from the steering platform and striding across the deck towards the man. The rain hissed like dragon’s breath and they would have to get close to hear each other above it. ‘And who are you?’

  The skipper was a short man and must have been impressed by Moldof though he gave no sign of it. ‘I am Estrith whom men call the Left-Handed.’

  ‘Why do they call you that?’ Moldof asked, his face as straight as its ugliness would allow.

  Estrith frowned as though deciding whether Moldof was teasing him or was just as stupid as he looked. ‘I think you might suit the name even better,’ he said, cocking an eyebrow.

  ‘You can keep it,’ Moldof said, unimpressed with the byname.

  ‘This is Golden-Fire,’ Estrith said, slapping the ship’s sheer strake, ‘and we are Jarl Hrani’s men.’

  ‘I did not know Randver’s son wore the jarl torc now,’ Moldof said.

  Estrith glared up at the giant. ‘He will soon enough,’ he said, ‘and he will be a great jarl. As great as his father perhaps.’

  ‘That should not be hard,’ Moldof said, which could have brought him trouble if Estrith had not chosen to ignore it.

  The warrior next to Golden-Fire’s skipper leant in close to Estrith and whispered in his ear while Moldof waited patiently, rain sheeting down his brynja like water down a cliff.

  Estrith stiffened and waved the man away. ‘I know who you are,’ he said, raising his voice above the seething of the sea. The fjord looked like it was coming to the boil. ‘You are Moldof, King Gorm’s champion.’

  Moldof nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Well met, Moldof,’ Estrith said, ‘I am honoured to meet the man who almost beat Jarl Harald.’ He was a cocky one, this Estrith, as small men often are, but Moldof was wise enough not to pick the insult out of that. ‘What are you doing here?’ Estrith asked. ‘The last I heard, the outlaw Haraldarson was riding Rán’s daughters in this very ship. We have been looking for him.’ He scratched his short-cropped beard. ‘I don’t mind telling you I thought the Norns had spun me a silver wyrd when I saw this ship and recognized her. I’ve seen her gallop under sail, though I’d wager Golden-Fire has her for speed.’ He nodded towards the other ship off Reinen’s larboard side. ‘Storm-Steed would leave us both behind, I fear,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest, ‘but under oar I’d put my men against any crew in the world.’ He frowned. ‘So, Moldof King’s Champion, what are you doing in Sigurd Haraldarson’s ship?’

  Moldof raked the men of Golden-Fire’s shieldwall with his eyes, then looked back down at their skipper.

  ‘I am the king’s man and do not have to explain myself to you, Estrith Shit-Hand,’ he said.

  Estrith’s eyes bulged at that but he kept his anger stoppered like ale in a flask. ‘You would be unwise to throw insults around, Moldof, for all your reputation,’ he said. ‘It strikes me that you have barely half a crew there, and are yourself perhaps only half the man you used to be.’

  ‘And yet I am still twice the man you are,’ Moldof said, and Olaf, who sat on his bench near Reinen’s stern so that all Estrith could see of him was the back of his rain-soaked head, gave a low grunt of disapproval.

  Some of Estrith’s warriors growled insults but none were loud enough to be heard above the sibilance of the rain on the sea. In truth Moldof knew he could stand there and tell them each in turn that they were the shit-smeared runts of rancid boars and they would almost certainly do nothing about it, for their lord was a nearly-jarl whereas Moldof’s was a king, and Hrani would only wear the jarl’s torc if King Gorm all but placed it round his neck.

  ‘So where is Sigurd Haraldarson?’ Estrith asked, changing tack to save face.

  ‘What is it to you?’ Moldof replied and this time Estrith sighed.

  ‘We are allies, Moldof, and we all seek the outlaw’s death.’ He held out his palms. ‘If you can tell me that Sigurd is dead I will be grateful. We will row back to Hinderå and get out of this pissing rain. The gods know we would all welcome a fire and some hot food.’ He gestured at the men in Reinen’s thwarts. ‘None of us should be out here at this time of year.’

  Now Moldof nodded his head, the rain still cascading from his helmet’s rim and dripping from his wild beard. ‘I found Sigurd and what was left of his crew skulking in Jarl Hakon Burner’s great hall up in Osøyro,’ he said. ‘I challenged the lad to a fight and to his credit he accepted. We fought. I killed him.’

  Estrith’s brows arched at that, though he did not dispute the account. Even one-armed, he must have thought that Moldof was fierce and experienced enough to beat a young man, for all the talk of Sigurd being god-favoured.

  ‘Did the lad fight well?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as well as his father,’ Moldof said.

  ‘Lucky for you,’ Estrith said, ‘or else you would have no arms left and would eat your dinner like a dog.’

  ‘Men are always brave when standing in their own ship,’ Moldof said.

  Estrith ignored him. ‘Where is the body? I am sure the king will want to see Harald’s whelp’s corpse with his own eyes.’

  Moldof stared at Estrith. The rain hammered down and both crews were soaked and miserable-looking and longed to get under a roof. Then Moldof shrugged his massive shoulders, shook his head and looked over his shoulder. ‘Bjorn, Bjarni, bring the body here so that Estrith can get a bone in his breeks and we can be on our way.’

  The brothers left their benches and went to the open hold. After some grunting and cursing they struggled over to Reinen’s side with a burden wrapped in animal skins. ‘Over there,’ Moldof said and they nodded, hefting the burden over to the mast step where they laid it down. ‘Careful,’ Moldof growled. ‘My king won’t be able to drink his mead from the lad’s skull if you put a fucking hole in it.’

  Bjorn cut the ropes tying the bundle and Bjarni pulled the skins away from the head end and Estrith murmured something to the men around him. They all leant forward, crowding up to Golden-Fire’s side to get a better look at the young warrior who had killed their jarl and defied their king.

  And there he was. Sigurd Haraldarson, corpse-pale and naked, the rain bouncing off his face and chest, running in rivulets through the dark blood that was smeared across his flesh.

  And Sigurd held his breath, which was a joy compared with breathing in the stink of the fish guts which Svein had slapped over him before they had tied him up in those skins.

  ‘That is him,’ Estrith confirmed. ‘I saw him once when he came with Jarl Harald to Örn-garð.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where are you taking him? I am sure Jarl Hrani—’ he corrected himself, ‘soon-to-be Jarl Hrani, that is, will be grateful to see the corpse for himself. It would be my honour to escort you to my lord’s hall.’

  Moldof shook his head. ‘My orders are to take the body to some witch in Stavanger.’

  ‘Ah,’ Estrith said as if he understood.

  Moldof laid it out for him anyway. ‘All that talk about the lad being Óðin-kissed,’ he said. ‘Bollocks if you ask me. He died easily enough. And I’m sure my king does not believe a word of it either. But some people see the gods’ work in a wet fart. These people will only be satisfied after this Stavanger witch has worked her seiðr on the corpse.’ He made a show of touching the iron of his spear blade then, which suggested he still had his fears despite his brave talk. ‘She will weave some spell that will make him unrecognizable when he enters Óðin’s dwelling place.’ He grinned for the first time since meeting Estrith. ‘The Allfather can’t favour him if he doesn’t even know where he is.’ Then he turned his head and spat into the thwarts. ‘And even if the witch’s magic does not work . . .’ he turned and looked at t
he still body by the mast step. ‘If I meet the lad when I go to Valhöll I will kill him again.’

  Sigurd was glad of the small motion of the ships as they clumped together, for it was unlikely that anyone would notice his shallow breathing, though he wished Bjarni would throw the skin back over his face. A man like Estrith had likely seen enough corpses to know the difference between a dead face and one trying to look dead.

  ‘So these are Sigurd’s men?’ Estrith said, jerking a finger towards those taking their rest at Reinen’s benches.

  ‘Were Sigurd’s men,’ Moldof corrected him.

  ‘Then they too are outlaws and must answer for the killing of Jarl Randver.’ For the first time since the hulls had come together Estrith’s left hand fell across his body to the sword at his hip.

  ‘My king has spared their lives in return for the oath they will swear to him,’ Moldof said, as if the words tasted foul on his tongue. ‘What else was there for them? They are King Gorm’s men now.’

  ‘That will be a sour draught for my lord Hrani to swallow,’ Estrith said, putting his hand back on the sheer strake.

  Moldof shrugged. ‘My men have rested enough. Heave away so that I can go and find this witch. I’ll wager you will want to get home to tell your lord that he may sleep easy in his bed now knowing that the Óðin-favoured boy is dead.’

  Estrith bristled at the implication that Hrani had been afraid of Sigurd. ‘It will be good to get out of this rain,’ he said, as another peal of thunder rolled across the grey sky. Then he gave the order for his men to release the lines and waved to the skipper of Storm-Steed, assuring him that all was well. Bjarni covered Sigurd’s face, tying the skins up again, then he and Bjorn hefted Sigurd back to the hold whilst Aslak and Floki untied the ropes and threw them across to Golden-Fire.

  The ships started to move apart and Reinen’s crew got their oars back in the water to hold her prow pointing south until they were given the order to row.

  ‘Pay my respects to the king,’ Estrith called as the grey sea spread between the hulls and the rain lashed down upon it.

  ‘Why?’ Moldof called back. ‘Does the dog care for the respect of a flea?’

  Estrith spat a curse at him then, emboldened by the distance between himself and the great spear in the giant’s hand. But Moldof had already turned his back on the man and was telling Solmund to renew their previous course.

  And inside his fish-gut-stinking skins Sigurd lay as still as a dead man, listening to the plunge of the oars, the creak of the timbers, and the thunder god raging in the east.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHEN THERE WAS enough wind they hauled Reinen’s sail up the stout pine mast and when there was no wind they bent their backs to oars, rowing under the waning moon until the nights were dark as pitch again and the risk of tearing open the hull was too great. On those nights they snugged up to the coast, running mooring ropes from Reinen’s bow to trees or rocks on the shore while keeping her off those rocks by dropping two anchor stones over the stern. They ate little in order to save what they had, though whoever was on watch would sit with a line and hook in the water, so there was almost always fresh fish the next day. They huddled under skins and furs and Crow-Song told them tales to help the long nights pass: stories of long-dead kings and heroes, of monsters and great hoards of silver, and more often than not these tales were about the few or the brave defeating their more powerful enemies.

  With the cold and damp burrowed deep into the marrow of their bones they would set off again into the dawn, long before the first pale light spread its wings over the eastern horizon.

  It was slow and arduous, wet, cold and miserable, but every wave they put between themselves and their enemies was to the good. On the fifth day after the encounter with Hrani’s ships, Sigurd had them run Reinen up a secluded beach, the scrape of the keel on the shingle a welcome sound to all.

  The beach was short, the pebbles giving way to rocks that rose steeply to a thick wood, yet it was all but hidden by a gull-thronged outcrop which stretched out into the fjord and it was as good a place as any to light a fire and get a broth bubbling over it.

  ‘It’s too late,’ Bjarni said, rubbing his hands and staring at them, shaking his head. ‘Cold as a frost giant’s bollocks. I’ll never get the feeling back in them.’ He held them to the fire over which an iron cauldron full of herring, shellfish and garlic bubbled, its steam making Sigurd’s mouth water. ‘It is a pity for all the girls who will never again know the pleasure that these hands can give.’

  ‘I think I can hear them weeping,’ Bram said, frowning, then scratched his bearded cheek and let out a raging fart. ‘No, no. My mistake.’

  Bjarni stretched his neck to look over at Valgerd, who sat hugging her legs on the other side of the fire. ‘Though I am willing to give them one last try, if you are interested, shieldmaiden,’ he said, wiggling his fingers and grinning.

  ‘Why not try me?’ Valgerd said, then winked at Runa beside her. ‘For I was just thinking that this stew would be improved by some meat.’

  ‘It would only be kind to leave him one finger,’ Runa said, ‘so that he can still pick his nose.’

  ‘He can use this,’ Valgerd said, pulling her wicked sharp scramasax from the sheath in the small of her back. It was the same knife with which she had taken off Loker’s arm up in the Lysefjord.

  ‘It’s funny but I think they are thawing after all,’ Bjarni said, clenching his fists, still smiling.

  ‘Unlike some around here, hey brother,’ Bjorn said, nodding towards Valgerd. This got some low chuckles from those around the flames, though the shieldmaiden did not seem to mind.

  Sigurd was relieved, if not a little surprised, by how readily the men had accepted Valgerd into the crew. They were all guilty of letting their eyes linger a little too long on her, none more than Sigurd himself, but no man had let lust get the better of him. Partly this was out of respect for Sigurd, he knew, but partly it was because Valgerd had earned her place amongst them. For all her beauty she was no less a warrior than any of them. She had fought and killed with them, and perhaps bonds forged in the blood-fray could be stronger than men’s desires. Or perhaps they feared her, and if so they were wiser than they looked, for Valgerd was a killer.

  And yet Sigurd wanted her. If their eyes met he would look away more often than not, but now and then he held her gaze and on those times he would feel the blood rush to his groin and his breeks would seem to shrink.

  ‘Look away, Sigurd. No good can come of it, lad,’ Olaf murmured by his ear now, leaning forward to feed more sticks into the fire.

  Sigurd felt the rush of heat in his cheeks but did not bother to deny it. Olaf had been around long enough to see such things without even looking. Still, Sigurd hoped it was not so obvious to the others as well.

  ‘I’ll fetch more wood,’ Sigurd said, climbing to his feet, avoiding Valgerd’s eye as though his life depended on it. He walked back down the shingle to look for driftwood, knowing that whatever there was had already been gathered. Then he stood at the land’s edge, where the sea lapped at the rocks and seethed down amongst the shingle after each gentle swell. Beside him Reinen loomed in the dark, her scent, of pitch and pine and foul bilge water, overpowering the tang of the salt-encrusted wrack which the sea had coughed up on to the beach. He felt the breeze on his right cheek and knew that the clouds were thin enough that they could have left the oars in their trees and sailed east by the light of the stars.

  Not tonight, he thought. Let them enjoy the fire and the hot food in their bellies. They deserve it. And in any case, Solmund and Olaf must have felt that breeze even before him, having ploughed the sea-road more often than he, and yet neither had mentioned it.

  ‘The fire reminds them of home,’ a voice said. ‘Of the past.’

  He turned and there was Valgerd standing there looking out across the dark water, her loose golden hair catching what little light there was. Sigurd wondered how he had not heard her walk across the small sto
nes but put it down to the shieldmaiden’s soft boots and the breathing of the sea.

  ‘I think Bjarni has his eye on you,’ he said, cringing inwardly at his own words because he remembered that Valgerd’s tastes lay elsewhere. Her last lover had been a woman, the völva from the sacred spring whom she had been sworn to protect.

  She raised an eyebrow, a half smile on her lips. ‘Bjarni is more in love with his own right hand, I think,’ she said, then nodded towards Reinen sitting beyond the sea’s reach above the high-tide line. ‘It is hard to sleep sometimes for the beat of his hand beneath the furs.’

  Sigurd had no answer to that.

  ‘His are not the only eyes I feel on me,’ she said after a while. Sigurd wondered if the water lapping on to the beach was deep enough to drown himself in. ‘Runa would like you to marry me, I think,’ she said.

  ‘And what does Runa know of such things?’ Sigurd managed.

  ‘Whereas you know all there is to know about such things,’ she said.

  He did not bite on that hook. Besides, she was right. He had more experience of the blood-fray and the vagaries of the gods than he had of women.

  ‘I know that when I am jarl I will be expected to take a wife who brings an alliance as her dowry,’ he said.

  ‘Is that what you want? A peace cow and a high seat in your own hall?’

  What he wanted was Valgerd but he did not say it.

  ‘I want to kill my enemies and avenge my kin,’ he said. Which was also true. He shrugged, watching a far-off patch of sea which shimmered like molten iron beneath a gap in the cloud. ‘If I end my days in a hall surrounded by sons and daughters and loyal hearthmen I will be surprised.’