by Robert Low
Inside were only Oathsworn – all the women had been told to leave – and all of them were armed. Illugi had Ulf-Agar set down near the fire and bent to look at him, peeling off Skapti’s cloak. Skapti took it back, staring at the ominous stains with distaste, before bundling it up and moving to stow it in his sea-chest.
Einar put mailed guards on the door, then sat by the fire, elbow on one knee, stroking his moustaches. The Oathsworn spoke in low, quick tones, sharing the tale of the battle; now and then a sharp bark of laughter rang out.
There was a great thumping at the doors and everyone fell silent, half crouching in the red twilight like a pack of feral dogs, eyes narrowed. Steel gleamed. The thumping came again and a faint voice.
‘It’s Bagnose,’ said one of the mailed guards. Einar indicated to open the Hall door and Geir stumbled in, growling.
‘Fuck you, what took you so long? Thor’s farting up a gale out there and you keep me …’ Geir fell silent, seeing the red-lit faces of armed men all staring at him, seeing that something had happened.
Einar didn’t explain, simply summoned him. ‘You followed the little monk?’
‘I did,’ said Bagnose, looking round for ale. Steinthor, naked from the waist and strapped with ragged bindings, handed him one and Bagnose grinned and swallowed. Einar waited patiently.
‘He went to the Trade Harbour and a timber hov there. No, not a hov … a Christ temple of a sort. Half-built. He met someone there.’ He paused, grinning, and took another swallow, then saw Einar’s eyes growing dangerous. ‘Vigfus. Old Skartsmadr Mikill himself.’
Vigfus. Vigfus. The name was spread in mutters around the Hall until someone – Hring, I thought – asked the question I wanted to ask. Who the fuck was Vigfus?
Einar ignored it. ‘Has he a ship?’
‘A solid, fat knarr in the Trade Harbour. And maybe twenty or thirty men – good fighting men, too, fresh from Bluetooth’s wars, though these ones are from the losing side, I am thinking.’
Einar stroked his moustache for a moment, then looked up at Illugi. ‘Illugi Godi and Skapti and Ketil Crow: we will talk this out.’
‘We should get out of this hall,’ growled a voice from the back. ‘We are trapped here.’
‘What do you think will happen?’ Einar shot back.
‘Bluetooth’s man, this Starkad, will come. If we don’t come out, he will burn us until we do,’ answered one called Kvasir, nicknamed Spittle.
Einar laughed, though there was no cheer in it. ‘Bluetooth, last I heard, was King of the Danes and Norway. Birka belongs to the King of the Swedes. He might be offended if Bluetooth’s war hounds ran around killing and burning people in this main trade town.’
‘No king cares about Birka. Birka is its own master,’ Finn Horsehead pointed out. ‘Lambisson is master here, in the name of the King of the Swedes. If the king still is Olof, that is. Eirik was fighting him for it, last I heard, and since Eirik is also known as Victorious, there’s a clue as to which one to put your money on.’
There was laughter at that.
‘Lambisson it is who has allowed Bluetooth’s men into Birka with full steel in their hands,’ answered Valknut. ‘Which gives you a clue as to whom to put your wager on for treachery. He is a practical man for money.’
There was more grim laughter at that. Einar scanned the faces, seeing the half-fearful, half-savage looks and the eyes gleaming in the red firelight. ‘Stand out in the wind if you want,’ he shrugged. ‘But Illugi, Skapti, Ketil Crow and myself will talk this out. Quietly, over some ale, in this warm hall.’
There were mutters about holding a proper Thing over something so important and fresh arguments began. Someone – I was sure it was Eyvind – said loudly, ‘Burn.’
Geir Bagnose blew froth off his fresh horn of ale and began to skald, loudly and with feeling. I winced as I realised he was making poetry out of the rescue of Ulf-Agar and, though I knew why he did it, wished he didn’t. But men stopped arguing to listen.
My father slid in beside me and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You did well.’
‘I shat myself several times,’ I answered truthfully. ‘I should have waited … but he was screaming fit to shave the hairs off your arms.’
‘Aye,’ my father agreed, ‘he was bad handled at that—’ He broke off as men raised voices in appreciation of a particularly good kenning about ‘grim eye of the wyrm’, it being a clever play on my name. ‘Just as well Ulf is out of his head,’ he added. ‘He’ll hate this.’
‘He played his part,’ I argued. ‘He was defending my back in the end, armed only with a hot forge-iron.’
‘Let’s hope Bagnose puts it in, then,’ my father chuckled, then raised his voice as Geir stopped to take another pull at his drinking horn.
‘Well done, Bagnose. Now that the Hakon’s skald, the Plagiarist, is silenced by the death of his king in Norway, there’s service there for a good court versemaker.’
Geir raised his horn in acknowledgement, wiped his lips, then stuck the tip of the horn in the earth floor to keep it upright while he continued extemporising verses.
‘Just thank the gods he isn’t Skallagrimsson,’ my father added and I hastily made a sign against the evil eye. Egil was a famous poet, but a man with blood behind his eyes and a great elk head with beetling brows that, it was assuredly reported, you could hit with Thor’s hammer and not dent. He was also as mad a killer as a wounded boar and not a man whose ale-elbow you wanted to nudge.
Which reminded me of our predicament – and questions I had. ‘Who is Starkad? And this Vigfus? And—?’
‘One foot first, then another,’ my father answered, leaning closer and dropping his voice. He ticked them off on his blunt, splintered-nail fingers. ‘Starkad Ragnarsson is one of Bluetooth’s best, a man loved by women and feared by men, as they say. He is possibly the only man Einar fears, so we should fear him, too. He has the reputation of a good boar dog – once he has sunk his teeth in, you will never get his jaws out save by slaying.’
I mulled that one over moodily, while my father raised another finger.
‘Vigfus – no one has ever called him anything else. Apart from Skartsmadr Mikill, Quite the Dandy, which he hates. It seems he always dresses in the dark, as they say, for he has a worse way with clothing than Skapti Halftroll and the Oathsworn have had dealings with him before … certainly we know his like. He always manages to have some band of followers, all hard men, not to be trusted.’
‘Like Einar?’ I offered wryly and my father frowned and shook his head.
‘No, lad. Einar believes in oaths; he will hold to them. Vigfus is as treacherous as a snake with a foot on its tail.’ He sighed and scrubbed his chin. ‘There are too many players in this game,’ he added gloomily.
‘What game?’ I retorted. ‘We don’t know what we are playing.’
‘No, I don’t understand it,’ agreed my father, then shot a sideways, almost sly look at me. ‘Einar thinks you are a deep thinker,’ he went on, rubbing his beard. ‘What do you make of it all?’
I considered it. This King Bluetooth had heard there was something, enough for him to find two ships and armed men, for he had also heard the Oathsworn were involved and knew them as grim men in a fight.
He must have learned that before the Oathsworn came for me in the Vik – that already seemed an age, another life. I looked back on it and saw this boy stuffing gull eggs in the hemmed loop of his tunic and, though I knew it was me, he was already a stranger. In so short a time I had become a man and a killer of men.
‘Aye, just so,’ agreed my father. ‘We were with the Danes of Hedeby, then headed for the Vik, since it was on the way to Strathclyde. But no one was loose-mouthed in Hedeby – and after that we came for you, word having reached me.’
‘Can you be sure of that? I remember Pinleg spoke of Atil’s treasure on the beach at Strathclyde – how many more knew in Hedeby?’
He made a mouth like a cat’s arse and scrubbed one hand through his thinning hair, wh
ich was answer enough. ‘And Vigfus?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Why should Lambisson have just the Oathsworn sailing for him? But there must be a good haul at the end of it, to be worth the outlay on more than one band, for men and ships are not cheap.
‘It is possible that he is making sure no one group knows everything about what he seeks – even if it really is Atil’s treasure – only a little part of it. And he won’t be happy that Starkad is here. He will not want the likes of Bluetooth setting his hands on whatever it is he seeks.
‘But I am thinking this Vigfus is not Lambisson’s man. He is Martin’s man and the Christ priest takes such pains to meet him in secret that there is the stink of treachery in it.’
‘Just so,’ said Einar’s voice behind me and, turning, I saw him, black as a scowl in the firelight. Behind him, Skapti and Ketil Crow were moving among the men, talking in urgent, quiet voices, clapping shoulders. Bagnose’s epic – thank the gods – had been brought to a halt.
Einar hunkered down beside the pair of us. ‘You have the right of it again, young Orm,’ he said. ‘Now we know the players of this game, we must find out what the game is.’
‘And the rules,’ I offered.
He looked at me, cold-eyed. ‘There are no rules.’
‘None?’ I asked, far too boldly. ‘What of the oath we swear – is that not a rule?’
‘It is an oath,’ he replied with a thin smile, ‘which is different. You are young and will learn the difference. I was young once and walked by myself. I counted myself rich when I found a comrade I could trust. And I could only trust one who would swear an oath.’ He turned to my father then. ‘Rurik, take the Trimmer and the men Ketil Crow is picking. Make the Elk ready for sea.’
‘In this gale? I’d be hauling her higher up the shingle …’
‘On the dawn tide, we must be gone from here.’
‘To where?’
Einar looked at him for a moment, then grinned. ‘The whale road.’
My father ran his age-veined hand over his face, saw Einar’s face, blank as stone, nodded and got up. He wanted to speak of hidden rocks, but saw it was pointless. Einar wanted away, in any direction – and fast.
I realised men were moving, swiftly and efficiently to pack, moving sea-chests and gear. Some were stripping off their mail, which I thought strange.
‘Here’s the way of it,’ Einar said to me quietly. ‘Men will make the Elk ready, others will take all our gear to the Tyr Grove, a place of birch trees not far from here. Illugi Godi knows it and will lead them.
‘I will need a few, enough to make a good group in the dark. And Orm, the Bear Slayer. We will fetch the little monk and be on our way before anyone knows the better.’
I blinked and swallowed.
Einar clapped me on the shoulder. ‘And we will walk through the gates with only our eating knives and friendly smiles, to try and meet with Lambisson and the little monk, for good sound reasons. Of course, once we do, we will make sure the little monk stays.’
I swallowed again. ‘And Lambisson?’
Einar shrugged, his mouth in a twisted grin, then rose and moved to give Ketil Crow some urgent, low-voiced instructions.
In a daze, I collected my cloak, realised it was filthy from the warehouse and tried to brush some of the worst off. I thought of using my knife to scrape it, but when I attempted to pull it from the sheath, I found it was stuck fast. When I eventually wrenched it out, I saw it was gummed with dried blood.
I remembered the man’s eye, felt the suck as I pulled the knife out. I had not been aware of it at the time, being eager to cut Ulf-Agar free, but the gods never forget and made me remember it now. I knew it was Loki’s doing when I felt the sick rising in me.
Bagnose grinned at me, hefting a sea-chest and helping Steinthor with another. He winked as he bustled past. Two others were making a seat out of two spears and a cloak, to fetch Ulf-Agar away.
Some saga hero, me. Sitting trembling in the midst of this preparing host, trying not to throw up all that lamb and wild garlic over my salt-crusted boots.
Einar came over, holding a long seax in a soft leather sheath and a handful of leather bindings. He handed it to me, then undid my tunic belt, hiked it up and undid the strings of my breeks.
I clutched them to me, but he indicated, grinning, for me to drop them. Loud hoots of laughter greeted this. Then he started to show me how to strap the foot-long seax to the inside of one thigh, high up under my balls. Red-faced, I stopped him, fumbling the thing on myself, aware of my prick shrinking under the stares.
‘You’ll impress the women when you sit,’ rumbled Skapti.
‘But not when erect,’ growled Kvasir Spittle from the crowd and everyone laughed, the high, savage laughter of men about to stare Thor in his red-bearded face.
I hauled my breeks back up and Einar nodded, looked around the company and raised one hand. There was a short, deep-throated ‘hoom’ and then only the noise of men moving, gear clattering, feet shuffling. In seconds, it seemed, the hov was empty, with not so much as a discarded strap-end to show anyone had been there.
Hring and Skapti came up, carrying the spear and cloak bed I thought made for Ulf-Agar. Eyvind was there, and Ketil Crow, Gunnar Raudi and Einar, who looked at me and said, ‘Lie down and be dead, Orm. But give me that amulet from your neck first.’
Bewildered, I lay on the contraption and was bundled up in two cloaks, swathed head to foot, along with four long, naked swords. Einar grinned down and, just before he covered my face, said, ‘Remember: be still and dead, Orm Ruriksson. There’s more than one way to kill the bear.’
I felt him place something on my chest, then rocked violently as I was lifted. I heard the wind hiss and thump round the houses of Birka, but felt nothing through the swathe of cloaks. I smelled sweat and piss and blood, though, felt the weight of the wool, heard sounds dull almost into stillness and the night transform into a hotter, dryer blackness, clutching me like an eager woman.
I was not happy with it, the lurch and sway and the press of the wool and the feel of trying to suck air through it, thick as gruel. My eyes were blinking sweat; the edge of one blade, I swore, was slicing into my thigh with every stumble they made. I felt my lungs contract and my heart was banging against my ribs like a door in the wind.
We stopped. Someone said something, too indistinct in the wind. Then Einar, gloomy and sombre, announced: ‘One of ours is dead … a Christ-follower, as you can see. We need your little monk to speak properly over him and do what rites the Christmen do.’
The answer was gruff, almost offhand and I heard Einar spit. ‘It happened no more than an hour ago – in the town you are supposed to guard. Where were you, then, when the men from the drakkar had their swords and axes out, running riot in the streets?’
The guard grunted, shamed to silence. Another voice sounded, much closer. ‘Stabbed, was he?’
‘Stuck through like a pig,’ agreed Skapti sorrowfully.
I felt the cloth twitch back and the guard grunted. I lay, muscles frozen, willing my closed eyelids not to quiver. The cloth twitched back and Gunnar’s growl came low and fierce: ‘Have a care and respect, little man.’
‘No offence,’ I heard the guard say hastily. ‘I remember the boy from earlier. A shame. Pass through – though I think it unlikely you will get much from that monk, who somewhat lacks the proper hospitality all Christ-followers are supposed to have.’
‘Our thanks,’ Einar replied and the corpse bed lurched on.
‘Tell the guard at the door that Sten passed you,’ the guard called after and again Einar called his thanks.
Beyond earshot, he turned and hissed anxiously to the others, ‘Where’s Eyvind?’
No one knew. Muttering curses under his breath, he led us up the steps, to where another guard stood at the hall door. Einar recited the same story, used Sten’s name and, suddenly, there was a flash of blinding light as the cloaks were peeled back. I almost lost a finger in their rush to get th
e swords out in that empty antechamber.
Einar held up one hand. ‘Quiet, as you would tickle trout from a stream, or your woman’s fancy. We grab the monk, give him a dunt – no more, mind – that will lay him out as dead, then put him in the corpse bed and trust the guards don’t see, in the dark, that we are one more walking out than walking in.’
It was a good and daring plan, as everyone agreed afterwards. But, as Gunnar Raudi pointed out, plans are like summer snow on a dyke and rarely last more than a few minutes.
Which is what happened when we sneaked into the room where Einar, Illugi and I had dined. It seemed an age ago, but the dishes were still there.
And so were the soft-slippered servants, clearing them away.
‘Fuck—’
It was all anyone had time to say. There were four of them, all O-mouthed and frozen. There were six of us and they were still scrabbling on the polished floor when our nailed boots scarred a way to them and steel flashed in their faces.
Three died in a welter of sprayed blood and muffled shrieks. The fourth found Skapti sitting on him, driving the air from his body, slamming his head casually and rhythmically into the floorboards. I hadn’t even moved, found I had stopped breathing and started again with a savage, hoarse intake.
‘The monk?’ demanded Einar, leaning down to the dazed, battered thrall. His shaved head was bleeding, his eyes rolling. He had shat himself and Skapti, sniffing suspiciously, stopped sitting on him in a hurry, which had the added effect of allowing the man to breathe and talk.
‘There …’
Gunnar Raudi and Ketil Crow sprang forward. Skapti whacked the flat of his sword on to the thrall’s head, which slammed it back into the floorboards. Blood seeped from the thrall’s ears, I noticed.
Skapti moved on and probably thought he had been merciful in only knocking the man unconscious. I reckoned, from the rasping breath and leaking blood, that the man would almost certainly die. Even if he didn’t, he’d probably be witless, like old Oktar, who had been suspected of releasing the white bear at Bjornshafen.
The following summer he had been kicked in the head by a stallion and blood had come out of his ears. He had survived, with a big dent and no mind enough to keep him from drooling, so Gudleif had had him sacrificed, in the old way, his blood sprinkled on the fields, as a mercy. Another wyrd death to lay at the den of that bear – and, of course, at the feet of my father.