by Robert Low
There was no firm shieldwall to hit, though. We ploughed, roaring, through men who were already scattering in all directions, jogged past the fire, hacking sideways at anything that came too close and, when we hit the water, splintered apart and kept going for the ship. I saw Gunnar Raudi grab a man and heave him up, then leap, miss and splash back down into the water.
I was knee-deep and thrashing through it, blinded by spray, hauling Hild along, trying to keep both of us upright while that damned spear-shaft she would not let go of took both her hands and left me to support us both. Men sprang for the sides and the anchor rope, swarmed up … we were going to do it.
I gained the side and hauled up and over, then reached down for Hild, while others were wildly dragging themselves, panting and dripping, over the side of the massive ship. My father was screaming at men to get to the oars, for others to get the sail-spar hauled up off the rests.
And I saw the men on the shore forming, swiftly, expertly. They had no armour, only some had helmets, but all had a shield and a sword or an axe or a spear. They were veterans, were Starkad’s men and not about to be shamed by the loss of their ship without a fight for it.
The shieldwall formed with a slap and a roar and then they were jogging forward and I knew, with a sick lurch that made me so frantic I almost tore Hild’s arm out of her socket getting her aboard, that they would be on us before we gained enough distance.
Then, suddenly, something broke from the shadowed shallows to our right. There was a blood-chilling shriek, a burst of spray and a blur of movement. Like a troll on wheels.
Pinleg came in a shambling run of screaming, whirling death. They didn’t know who it was, but they knew what it was and the shieldwall almost fractured there and then. When Pinleg hurled on it, slashing, biting, screeching, it did, like a still pool hit by a stone.
‘Haul away, fuck your mothers!’ roared my father and the oarsmen, panting, soaked, white with fatigue and riven with panicked frenzy, dug and pulled, dug and pulled.
The sail clattered up, the wind filled it and the great serpent drakkar slid away into the night, away from where the ends of the shieldwall closed, from where swords rose and fell and the bundle of men, like a pack of snarling dogs, stumbled this way and that over the beach, through the fire, hacking and slashing.
One or two tried to break off and run at us, but Bagnose and Steinthor fired at them and, though their strings were soaked and the arrows went wild or short, it made Starkad’s men think about it.
We slid into the dark, further and further, faster and faster, until only the red flower was left to mark the place.
That and the shrieking of Pinleg, so that we never heard him die. It was generally agreed that if we didn’t hear it, it probably never happened and that he is fighting still, on that beach.
The rowers gave up quickly, exhausted. They barely had the strength left to haul the oars inboard and stow them; one or two even fell down where they were and slept. Certainly everyone collapsed into some sort of deathlike sleep, even Einar.
But Ketil Crow and Illugi and Valgard stayed awake in shifts, manning the steering oar of the huge drakkar and plotting a rough course by the stars until my father was more himself and could turn his talent to it.
And I saw it all, dull-eyed and slumped in some strange almost-sleep, hearing the shrieking of Pinleg, seeing the astonished look on Skapti’s face, made strange by the great, bloody point sticking straight out of his mouth.
By dawn, we were alone on a gently heaving swell, hissing over it steadily, the grey light brightening into a cold, crisp, clear day. One by one the Oathsworn grunted stiffly into this new day, as if astonished they were there at all.
And then we saw what we had got.
It was perfect, from the graceful swan-necked, lavishly carved bow and stern, down the grey-painted strakes of the hull, up to the huge belly of the sail, sewn in strips of three colours – red, white and green – so that the ship looked like some bright banner, sluicing along the swells, hissing through their breaking tops like a blade.
There was carving everywhere, even cut in fluted chevrons on the oarblades, which added to their bite and recovery, I was told. Panels, carved and painted, shielded the steersman from the weather and the steering oar was carved in whorls, to aid the grip. And the weathervane was gold – gilded, Rurik corrected, but no one listened. It was gold, could only be gold, in this marvellous ship.
There was more: all the crew had left their sea-chests on board. There were clothes and jewellery and money and armour and weapons. There were rings and eating knives and cloaks with fur collars, for this was Bluetooth’s dreng – his chosen men – and nothing was too good for them.
There was another huge bolt of cloth, too small for a sail, but in the same striped colours, which my father revealed was for use as a tent when anchored.
There were barrels of stockfish, salted mutton and water. There was even a specially built firepit in the centre of the tiny cargo space, with solid firebricks and a slatted iron grill, so that you could have hot meals and never need to stop or slow down.
The only things missing were the proper carved prowheads, which were probably still back on the shore, removed as was custom.
‘First chance we get, lads,’ Einar promised as the booty was divided up, ‘we will have new elk heads made. For no matter what this ship was, it is the Fjord Elk now.’
They all cheered and, after everything had been found and argued over – even though there was three times as much as any one of the remaining Oathsworn could have used – Illugi Godi supervised the boiling up of mutton on the marvellous firepit and everyone ate a hot meal and agreed it the best they had ever tasted on this most marvellous of ships, which carried some 140 and could be sailed by three.
‘Though the gods put fire in your arses if we hit a flat calm and you have to row her,’ Valgard growled when he heard this. Which thought made everyone quieter, for it was a heavy beast of a boat to be rowing crew-light.
‘Don’t worry, there will be others joining the Oathsworn soon enough,’ Einar told them and again they cheered. And he had, it must be said, brought them from the wolf’s jaws to a rich prize, so that, like me, they almost forgot that his doom had brought it on them and that men had died.
But even so, the four remaining Christ-followers now reverted to Thor’s hammer and were shamefaced that they had ever considered the White Christ, for it was clear to all that some gods still favoured Einar and the Norns were having to unravel some of what they were trying to weave for him.
Still, there were many, like me, who sat pensively, wondering just what we had won from Koksalmi. A useless old spear and a madwoman raving about a treasure hoard only she could find for us. And this marvellous ship and its riches.
We had lost much to weigh against that: Martin the monk had escaped, while Skapti and Pinleg and more besides were dead.
Worse than that, I was thinking, there is only so long you can fend off your wyrd when it is laid on you.
NINE
We stood with heads bowed on the headland, where the wind hissed in from the sea, bringing the smell of salt and wrack and watched as the sweating men Illugi had hired shifted the man-sized stone into position, heaving on ropes to pull it upright.
It shunked softly into the pit dug for it, where lay spearheads and rings and hacksilver, all given by the Oathsworn as an offering to Pinleg and Skapti and the others we had left behind.
Illugi, who had overseen the purchase and sacrifice of three fine rams – one for Pinleg, one for Skapti, one for all the rest – turned to where I stood, with Hild, Gunnar Raudi and a few others. And Pinleg’s woman, Olga, a big, blonde Slav with fat arms and the faint hint of a moustache.
She was not beautiful – standing beside the pale, fey Hild she looked as solid as a heifer and as handsome – but she had a strong face and her chin was set, even if her eyes were damp. Her hands, with their chafed-red knuckles, gathered the heads of two tawny-haired children into the
warm comfort of her apron. A boy and a girl, they were clearly bewildered by all this and their mother’s obvious grief.
‘What would you have on it?’ Illugi Godi asked as the mason stood by, head cocked attentively.
‘His name,’ she said, tilting her chin defiantly. ‘Knut Vigdisson. And those of his children, Ingrid and Thorfinn.’
Knut Vigdisson. It came as a shock to realise Pinleg had had a name, like any other man. And named after his mother, too. A good Norse name, like those of his children, though his wife was a Slav here in Aldeigjuborg, that great cauldron of peoples.
Knut Vigdisson. Pinleg was a stranger to me with that name. Still, he had one – Skapti didn’t even have that, only the one the Oathsworn had given him. Halftroll.
Illugi Godi nodded and then asked, politely: ‘May we add something on our own behalf?’
That was for form. If it was agreed, the Oathsworn would pay for the stone, which would stand on this spot and shout Pinleg’s and Skapti’s fame in the ribbon of runes waiting to be cut, and commemorate the others lost with them.
We had agreed it earlier with the carver. Their names and Pinleg’s children’s names would be added to the simple testament that they were the Oathsworn of Einar the Black, who raised this stone in their honour and then, simply: ‘KrikiaR – iaursaliR – islat – Serklat’. Greece, Jerusalem, Iceland, Serkland.
Others wanted something like ‘They gave the eagles food’ or something even more dramatic and never mind the expense, but Illugi held to what had been agreed earlier at a meeting of everyone, Einar included. I had not realised, until then, how far-fared the original Oathsworn band had been, or how long they had been on the whale road.
Hild said, as we turned away from the windswept headland: ‘You lost friends over this matter. I am sorry for it.’
Surprised – she had not volunteered so much speech since the forge mountain, weeks before – I blinked and tried to think of some polite reply, but failed. So I said what I thought, which Illugi Godi always said was best. Experience, even then, with so few years on me, had taught the opposite.
‘I was wondering if Skapti had anyone to mourn for him besides the few of us,’ I said. ‘If he had a name other than Halftroll, I never heard it uttered.’
She nodded, hugging – as always – the ruined Roman spear-shaft to her. ‘It is hard to lose friends,’ she agreed, sadly.
I took a slight breath, formed up and charged. ‘You would know. You have lost your mother and all your friends. You can never return to the village you came from. Not that you would wish to, I suppose, considering what they had planned.’
There was a pause and I wondered if I had gone too far, too soon, but she nodded, blank-faced. We walked on down towards the road that led back to the smoke-stained wooden sprawl of the town.
Behind, I could hear Gunnar Raudi and the others raucously toasting the stone, the carver, the helpers and the dead as was only right. Ahead, Olga walked, solid and ponderous, beside the tall, spare figure of Illugi, nodding as he spoke. On either side, the tawny-haired boy and girl, unaffected by the death of a father they had barely known, scampered and laughed in the spring sun like new lambs.
‘At my first bleed,’ Hild said suddenly, ‘my mother told me a secret that her mother told her. Then she gave me to the tanner’s wife. Not long afterwards, she offered herself to the forge mountain, as my grandmother had done, for it was expected.
‘They were not bad people in Koksalmi, but they believed in the power of the smiths. The village had been chosen, long before, to be the place where something great would happen, to ensure that the Old Gods survived for ever.’
‘The Vanir, you mean?’
‘Older still.’ She fell silent and I saw her knuckles whiten on the spear-shaft, so I tried to comfort her.
‘Still, you are safe now. You have faced the curse of the forge and are better for it.’
‘Better?’
Confused, I waved a wild hand. ‘When first we met you were … sick. Now you seem well again. Calmer. I am glad of it.’
We walked on in silence for a moment, then she turned and laid one hand on my arm. ‘Do you like me, Orm?’
Flustered, I felt my face flame. I started to stammer and saw the strangest thing in her eyes. Sadness. I stopped, unable to say anything.
She leaned closer to me. I felt the butterfly wing of a kiss on my cheek and then she pulled back. ‘You have been kind. But keep clear. Do not try to … love me. Or you will die.’
Her gaze was as sharp as the spear that had once graced the Roman shaft she held fiercely in both hands and, for a moment, I wondered if she would try to stick me with the nub end that was left. Then she whirled and dashed along the road in a flail of skirts. As she passed Illugi Godi and Olga, they looked back at me, both united in the surety that I had offended her in some way.
Not long after, as we came to the sea gate of the town, Olga gathered the purse Illugi gave her – Pinleg’s share – and her children and went off. Illugi Godi came to me and jerked his head at where the faint roars drifted; Bagnose was composing verses in a good skald saga for the dead of the forge mountain. ‘Should you not be there?’
‘I was tasked with looking after Hild,’ I replied moodily.
He smiled. ‘It seems our captive princess does not wish to be looked after,’ he replied. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing,’ I answered sharply, then sighed. ‘I don’t understand women. Well, not this one, anyway. She seems to like me – then looked as if she’d stick me with that spear.’
‘She is a strange one,’ agreed Illugi, ‘even allowing for the wyrd of her life so far.’
‘Strange, too,’ I mused, ‘the way she babbled like a child when first we met. I could understand one word in five, if that – and only because it was like the Finn tongue, but different. She has a secret told to her by her mother and, it seems, told mother to daughter back into the mists. But she has no daughter herself and was so badly handled by Vigfus that it has addled her. She is more to be feared than ever, I am thinking.’
‘Yes,’ mused Illugi. ‘And the way she clutches the spear-shaft, like a child with a doll.’
We passed into the town proper, on to the wooden walkways between herds of huddled houses.
‘Martin the monk told me he found the girl through the writings of that Otmund,’ he went on, ‘the one who was made a saint and whose church we raided. He wrote about the villagers and their beliefs and managed to convert some of them.’
In which case he was a braver man than I, for I would not have argued with any of the people of Koksalmi. Not without an army at my back.
Illugi chuckled, but it seemed bitter. ‘Brave or stupid,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Those unconverted ran him and his followers off. I believe then that those who had stuck to the old gods took this god stone away, for they knew others like Otmund would come and seduce more villagers to their lies. The White Christ is winning.’
I looked sharply at him and saw his worried face. Then it cleared and he smiled.
‘But Martin believed that the girl would lead him to the Great Hoard somehow, being linked to the sword the smiths made for Attila. The stone, he reasoned, was not necessary.’
‘Martin is a rat,’ I spat, ‘and I wouldn’t trust him to tell me a dog’s hind leg was crooked. Anyway, Atil’s hoard is a tale for children.’
‘No,’ answered Illugi. ‘That part is true enough. When Atil was dead, never having been beaten in battle – because, it was said, of his fabulous sword – his men carried him into the steppe and howed him up in a burial mound made from all the silver taken from those he had conquered. They say it was so tall, snow formed on the top.’
There was silence while we both tried to wrap our heads round that monstrous idea of riches, but it was too much and made my head hurt. It all made my head hurt and I said so.
‘True,’ Illugi agreed, ‘That Christ priest, Martin, seems to be able to swallow it all down, though, but you are right abou
t him being untrustworthy. He thought to cross Lambisson with a false trail using the god stone. Perhaps he wants the treasure for himself.’
I shook my head. Treasure of that sort did not interest Martin, that much I knew. The Spear of Destiny, as he called it: that was what Martin wanted. With that he would become a high priest in his religion, and convert even more to the Christ cause.
Illugi frowned when I spilled this out, but he nodded. ‘Aye, you have the right of it, I am thinking. He will be back after that shaft, so we must keep a close watch on it.’
‘On Hild,’ I spat, bitterly, ‘for she will not relinquish it without a struggle. It is some sort of talisman to her now.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Illugi mused, then frowned. ‘It is possible there is some Christ magic in it, a subtle, seidr sort of magic that will turn her to the Christ side. Still, a risk we must take if we are to keep her content, for she will not lead us to the hoard if she thinks we are being false with her.’
This sucked my breath away, said so matter-of-factly. Lead us to the hoard? She could no more lead us to a hoard of silver than I could kiss my own arse and I said so.
Illugi’s eyebrows went up. ‘Martin seemed certain of it,’ he answered.
‘Martin, we agreed, was a Loki-cunning, crook-tongued, sleekit-as-a-fox horse turd who could not be trusted to tell you a raven was black,’ I roared back at him, hardly able to countenance that he believed this.
‘He believed his Christ charm, the spear, was in the forge and he was right about that,’ Illugi answered mildly. ‘Have you noticed anything about that, young Orm?’
The wind having been sucked out from my sails, I floundered. ‘Noticed what?’
‘The spear-shaft that Hild will not relinquish. The wood is blackened; the rivets are rusted.’
‘It is old – if Martin is to be believed,’ I replied pointedly and he looked steadily at me.