The Oathsworn Series Books 1 to 3

by Robert Low

  It was true and men hung on as if about to be swept away. The Elk … flew. It planed up one side of the swell, surfed down the other, kissing the water with the oars, sweeter and faster than anything, while the wind thrummed the walrus ropes and, if you leaned out, you could see parts of the crusted strakes not normally exposed except during careening.

  ‘Get your arse inboard,’ roared Valgard, catching me by the belt and hauling me in with a cuff. I did not care. I was exhilarated, drunk on the sheer beauty of it.

  Once, as a boy, I had dared to ride Gudleif’s best and fiercest, Austri, named after one of the dwarves who sit at the four corners of the sky. With no saddle or bridle or reins I sprang on him and he had taken off. His mane whipped my face, the wind ripped tears from my eyes, but I felt the surge of him under my thighs and calves, the sheer power and grace as we flew in a thunder over the meadow.

  Of course, the red weals of that mane had given me away. Gudleif had beaten me for it but, through the snot and tears afterwards, I was still mazed in the feeling. The Elk did the same for me that day, too.

  Gradually, as they grew used to the wonder of it, men relaxed – until Valgard had them watch the oars, lest one catch the water too hard and shatter.

  I lay next to the softly muttering woman, feeling the heat of her, watching the weathervane swoop and soar with the rise and fall of the swell in long circles, listening to the endlessly-repeated sound that went with it, from the creak of the mast stays, the thump as it shifted in its socket, the snake-hiss of the water under the keel, the deep-throat hum of the wind in the ropes, like a struck harp.

  Towards midday, I reckoned, a watery-eyed sun came up and everyone cheered; it was the first sun we had seen in a long time. Martin the monk watched Illugi Godi give thanks for it, his face dark as the black water under the keel. Einar watched Martin, stroking his beard.

  Gunnar handed out sour milk and gruel and wet-mush bread later, together with a half-cup of water. The woman’s dull-eyed muttering only stopped when she ate, but even that was half-hearted. She felt hot and I palmed her forehead, which was clammy.

  ‘How is she?’ demanded Illugi, suddenly appearing at my side. I told him and he checked, grunted, moved to Einar and spoke with him. He nodded, looked at the sky, then called Rurik and talked to him. My father rubbed a hand across his wild, thin hair – a sign I now knew spoke of his unease – and moved to the side.

  He studied the water for a long time, on both sides of the boat, looked at the sky, squinted at the weak sun, which was losing itself in a milky haze. He said something to Einar, who nodded and hauled Gudleif’s already tattered fur tighter round him.

  Water dripped from my nose and we ran on towards night, heedless of land, of skerries, of shoals, of anything. We were on the whale road.

  As the light thinned, Einar waved me to him and murmured to Ketil Crow, who fetched the monk. With Illugi Godi, we huddled under the little upturned faering which stood as the nearest thing to a shelter on the boat and which, of course, Einar claimed as his due.

  ‘Well, we are escaped, monk, and at no small cost. Now tell us why you should not go over the side as a sacrifice to Thor,’ he growled at Martin.

  I refrained from saying anything, because the taste of it was bitter in my mouth. The cost was Eyvind’s and he had paid it in full, betrayed by the man who had made much of oath-swearing. That and the fact that the time to have thrown the monk overboard was at the height of the storm, when Thor and Aegir needed an offering.

  Martin, wet and miserable and cold, with a great black bruise down one side of his face, sniffed snot into the back of his throat. Gone was the smooth, urbane scholar who had invited us to dine, but the drowned rat that remained still, he thought, had some teeth.

  ‘You would do well to treat me better, Einar the Black,’ the monk answered bitterly. ‘I hold the secret of what you want, after all.’

  ‘The god stone holds that secret,’ answered Einar coldly. ‘Between Illugi, who can ken the runes, and Orm, who reads Latin, I think we can prise out the secret. Give me another reason to keep your feet dry.’

  Martin glanced sourly at me and nodded, slowly. ‘I wondered how you had known of the stone. I had not thought a boy would have such learning, though.’

  He had marked me, that was clear, and the knowledge of it made me shiver. He seemed, to me, far too calm and cool about it all. To Einar, also, I saw.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Einar and nodded to Ketil Crow and another burly man, Snorri, who had a god mark on his face almost the same shape and in the same place as the monk’s bruise. They grabbed Martin; he shrieked and struggled, but they wound a good rope round his ankles and hauled him up the mast a little way, where he waved wildly and swung.

  Einar stood, stretched, yawned and farted. Then he drew out a little knife I had not seen before, too small for a fighting seax and not his eating knife. He grabbed the little monk’s left hand and sawed off a finger at the first joint. Blood sprayed; the monk howled and jerked. Einar examined the digit, then tossed it casually over the side.

  ‘This is a magic knife,’ he said, bending close to the monk. ‘It can tell lie from truth and every time it finds a lie it will remove a finger until all are gone. Then it will start on toes, until all are gone. Then it will start on your prick and your balls …’

  ‘Until all are gone,’ chorused those in the know, with roars and huge, knee-slapping laughs.

  ‘Just so,’ said Einar, without the hint of a smile.

  ‘Let me down, let me down …’

  He babbled well, did Martin. He wet himself – we knew because it steamed pungently – and prayed for oblivion, but his White Christ didn’t hand him that, for it was well known that a man upside down, with the blood in his head, can’t faint. He pleaded, offered everything in this world and, by virtue of his knowing his god personally, the next.

  And he revealed everything. That Atil’s treasure existed. That the god stone didn’t matter, but the woman did. Vigfus, it seemed, had been sent to where the god stone originally stood, after Martin had found that the Christ ikon he sought had been taken there to be forged into part of Atil’s treasure: a sword, it seemed.

  This was part of the gifts given to Atil by the Volsungs when they knew the only way to defeat that almond-eyed snake of a steppe lord was by sacrifice and cunning – a final great gift, of swords and silver and a bride, one of their own, a seidr witch called Ildico. Who killed him on their wedding night.

  Martin, seeking clues, had sent Vigfus to find the forge, or any reference to swords or spears. Vigfus, who couldn’t find his arse if someone shone a light on it, failed to find anything, had seized the woman who now shivered and raved beside me because the local heathens seemed to hold her in high esteem, in an attempt to force the knowledge from them.

  They had attacked Vigfus, killed more than a few of his men, and forced him to flee back to Birka with only the woman.

  Martin, however, had seen the amulet she wore for what it was, had then remembered St Otmund and his mission, thought perhaps there might be a clue in his writings about the forge and sent us to Strathclyde. But there had only been reference to a god stone.

  ‘So,’ Einar demanded, while the monk’s blood dripped fatly on the deck and the snot ran into his eyes, ‘why are you now fearful of Lambisson, whose purse you have plundered for all this? If you are on the track of the Great Hoard, surely he would be pleased?’

  The monk hesitated for the first time. ‘I … he … we simply disagreed. On a point of principle … Let me down. I will be sick.’

  ‘A point of principle?’ Einar growled, narrowing his eyes. He reached for the mutilated hand and the monk howled.

  ‘No, no … wait, wait … the ikon. It was the ikon …’

  ‘That’s what Bluetooth wants,’ I said, suddenly realising. ‘This Christ charm. To convert the Danes with. For that bishop who wore the red-hot glove.’

  And Martin was sick, spilling it into his nose and his hair, choking on the
slime-green of it until Einar, seeing he might well die upside down, nodded to Snorri, who lowered him to the deck. Seawater was thrown over him until, shivering and wretched, he could breathe again.

  ‘Has Orm the right of it?’ demanded Einar.

  Martin, unable to do anything else, nodded and retched.

  ‘So,’ Einar continued, ‘Bluetooth knows nothing about Atil’s treasure, only that there is a god charm the Christ-followers revere. You did not tell Lambisson of it, but spent his money finding it for yourself …’ He was stroking his moustaches, thinking, thinking. ‘What is this Christ charm everyone wants?’ he asked, giving Martin a kick.

  The monk spluttered, wiped his nose, coughed out an answer. ‘A spear. Once. Thrust. Into the side of our Lord by the Romans.’

  ‘Ah,’ mused Einar.

  Illugi Godi nodded sagely. ‘Touched by the blood of a god, it would be a powerful thing.’

  ‘Forged now into a sword,’ someone said. The whole crew, I realised, was spellbound, for the monk’s answers had been screamed out for all to hear.

  A sword. Made from god-touched metal. It was saga stuff, mother’s milk to the likes of us. There were great things in the world: silver hoards, fine horses, beautiful women. But no prize was better than a runespelled sword.

  ‘And the woman? What is she to this?’

  Martin spat and heaved in breath. He looked like a rat fresh from a cesspit. ‘She is of the blood of the smiths who made the sword. She … knows where it is.’

  No one blinked at that, though some shot anxious glances back towards the woman, for a witch was bad luck on a ship. Bad luck anywhere, I was thinking.

  ‘Does Vigfus know this?’ Einar demanded and Martin, rocking back and forward, ruined hand cradled in his good one, shook his head and whimpered.

  ‘He knows of the god stone, though,’ Ketil Crow offered. ‘He will seek it, not knowing it will do him no good – nor us, for it will bring him in the same direction as we travel now.’

  ‘A runesword,’ growled Einar, ignoring him. ‘A man with that would be a hero king indeed.’ He looked around and grinned. ‘A man with that, a mountain of silver and a crew like the Oathsworn need fear no kings.’

  They whooped and cheered and pounded on each other, the deck, anything. As it died away and they went back to duties, or to huddle against the mirr, Einar turned, his grin fading as he saw my face, which I foolishly failed to disguise. Its black, scowling ugliness made him recoil a little.

  ‘That’s a face to sour milk,’ he noted, annoyed. ‘When everyone else laughs.’

  ‘Except Eyvind,’ I pointed out, ‘who is not here.’

  Then he knew, as did Illugi Godi who was close enough to hear and put a hand on my arm.

  ‘Eyvind broke oath with us,’ Einar growled. ‘He put us all in danger with his Loki curse for firing everything.’

  ‘An oath is an oath. The one I swore did not say that foolishness or a curse made it worthless and got you killed.’

  Illugi Godi nodded, which Einar caught. His scowl deepened. ‘I think you are smarting because you had to lose your breeks in the street,’ he said slowly. ‘It seems to me that your gift is in need of maturing before it is of use to me. It seems to me that you would be better staying with the woman.’

  He stared at me and I knew I had been mortally insulted and was entitled to be angry. But this was Einar and I was so new I squeaked still. I quailed under that glass-black gaze.

  ‘I will call if I need you,’ he added and jerked his head in dismissal.

  I stumbled away on watery legs and slumped down next to the woman. I heard Einar bark something angrily at Illugi and then there was silence, save for the creak-thump of the mast and stays and the hiss of the keelwater.

  My father and Einar then huddled briefly and Martin was dragged over to join them. It was clear that a course was planned.

  The sail came down, the shields and oars came in – you could not heel the boat over on a tack otherwise – then the men bent to it and hauled the Elk’s head round on to the new course, where the whole ship was rerigged once more and sprang into its mad gallop.

  I did not have to ask my father where we headed, for it was obvious: to the forge where the woman was taken. She was going home.

  The rain fell, the woman muttered and rolled her eyes up into her head and the Elk sped on, out along the whale road – and nothing was the same again.

  Four days later the woman was burning with fever and babbling and Hring was casting hooks on lines behind, baited with coloured strips of cloth in a forlorn attempt to catch fish.

  But, as Bagnose observed gloomily, they would have to be flying fish to catch up with the Fjord Elk. Meanwhile, the water in the stoppered leather bottles was being filtered through two layers of fine linen to get rid of the floaters.

  Then an oar snapped with a high, sharp sound as a blade finally caught sideways on to the waves. The shards flew, the butt end leaped up and the shield slammed back across the thwarts. A man howled as it cracked his forearm.

  And Pinleg, in the prow as lookout, called out, ‘Land!’

  My father turned expectantly to Einar, who glowered and said nothing. So my father gave a short curse, then yelled out, ‘Shield oars inboard. Sail down. Move!’

  For a moment, I thought Einar would leap to his feet, and braced myself to spring at him. But he only shifted, as if cocking a buttock to fart, then settled again, stroking his beard and staring blackly at the deck.

  The speed came off the Elk like ice melting under salt. It felt like we were wallowing suddenly.

  ‘To oars.’

  Stiff, wet, we climbed up and took position on our sea-chest benches. I hauled with the rest of them; the head of the Elk came round, slowly, slowly, and she started to inch her way across the swell, rolling like a drowned pig now, all grace gone.

  We slithered into the shelter of a bay, with a low, grey headland where tufts of harsh grass, tawny as wheat, waved softly and patches of green showed through the russets and yellow. Seaweed and lichens crusted the stones studding a beach of coarse, wet sand, meadow-grass was already sprouting shoots beyond that and there was a flush of green shoots on the birch and willow clumps. Two small rivers trickled together to empty into a shallow tidal estuary.

  We splashed ashore, dragging the Elk a little way up the sand, as far as we could on shaky legs and on that tide. Birds sang and the resin-tang of life was everywhere. When the sun came out, everyone was cheered; Bagnose began more verses and the Oathsworn swung back into the rhythm of things.

  But nothing was the same.

  Shelters were built, short-term affairs of springy branches roofed with wadmal cloth, the stuff we used to repair tears in the sail.

  Some men took off on a hunt, having spotted deer slots, Steinthor and Bagnose among them, quartering ahead like hounds. Hring and two others dug trenches in the sand shallows to catch tidal-trapped fish, while I scuffed along the wide curve of the beach, gathering dulse and mussels until my back ached.

  By nightfall, fires were lit and everyone had eaten well. The hunters had come back with some small game and a wild duck, shot in mid-flight by Steinthor, who claimed it was a lucky strike, though others disagreed. Bagnose, on the other hand, had missed and was still grumbling about having lost the arrow.

  People began to dry out clothing and I had managed to wrap the woman in something warm, in a dry hut where a fire was lit just for her, since Einar knew her value. He had also paired Martin and me to make sure she lived and if ever anything spoke of his anger with me, that was it.

  I was less angry than I thought I would be. Caring for the woman was a lot better than the back-breaking task I would surely have been given: four hours of bailing out the Elk for Valgard.

  And there was something about the woman. I had stripped her with the monk’s help, although he was less than helpful since he insisted on doing it with his eyes averted, which was awkward, to say the least.

  In the dim, gloomy light of the horn
lantern, guttering because the whale oil in it was thick and old, she was fish-belly white, so that the bruises and welts stood out on her skin.

  Illugi Godi, when he arrived with a wooden bucket of cold seawater for compresses, sucked his teeth and glared at Martin when he saw it.

  ‘Vigfus,’ sighed the monk mournfully, hugging his ruined hand under one armpit. ‘He misused her, I am afraid.’

  She lay, feverish, open-eyed and staring, but seeing nothing. I cleaned a lot of the filth from her, saw the flare of cheekbones and the full, ripe lips and realised she was a beauty.

  ‘A princess, perhaps,’ Martin agreed, wringing out the cloth. From outside came the mutter and growl and bursts of raucous laughter that marked contented men relaxing. I wanted to be there. My father was there and I saw, with a sharp pang, that I didn’t fit with him, or them. That perhaps I never would.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I said. ‘I will watch her if you fetch food.’

  Martin scrambled to his feet, wincing. I could almost feel the throb of that wounded finger, which he should have had cauterised, lest it fester and the rot spread so that his hand or even arm might need to come off. I told him so and he paled, whether at the idea of losing the limbs or having it seared with a hot iron, I did not know. Both, probably.

  The woman stirred on the pallet of soft rushes and cloth, spoke again in that infuriating speech, so near to something I could understand, yet still foolishness. Her eyes opened; she saw me, stared, said nothing.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked. Nothing.

  ‘I am Orm,’ I said slowly and patiently, as to a child. ‘Orm,’ I added, patting my chest. ‘You?’ And I indicated her.

  Her mouth moved, but nothing came. After all that babble, I thought wryly, now there is no sound at all.

  Martin reappeared with two bowls of what smelled like meat stew. There was bread, fire-dried and with most of the mould cut off, and his arms were full of leather cups and a matching bottle.

  The woman saw him and thrashed wildly, backing away. I held her, made soothing noises, but her wild eyes were fixed on him and she bucked and kicked until, exhausted, she couldn’t move.