by Robert Low
Starkad was splendid, I had to allow. He was still handsome, but pared away, as if some fire had melted the sleek from him, leaving him wolf-lean, with eyes sunk deep and cheekbones that threatened to break through the skin.
Wound fever, I thought, seeing how bad his limp was – Einar had given him a sore mark, right enough, that day on a hill in the Finns’ land. The Norns’ weave is a strange pattern: Einar was now dead and Starkad was standing there in a red tunic, blue wool breeks, a fine, fur-lined cloak fastened with an expensive pin and a silver jarl torc round his neck. He was, it seemed, making sure I knew his worth.
‘So, Orm Ruriksson,’ he said. There was a shifting round me, the little sucking-kiss sound of eating knives coming out of sheaths. I placed my hands flat on the table. He had two others at his back – one with squint eyes – but I knew there would be more outside, ready to rush to his aid.
‘Starkad Ragnarsson,’ I acknowledged – then froze, for he was wearing a sword at his side and he and his men had dared swagger through Miklagard with weapons openly, which fact had to be considered.
Not just any sword. My sword. The rune-serpent blade he had stolen.
He saw that I had spotted it. He had a smile like the curve of that blade and, behind me, I felt the heat and the stir and heard the low rumble of a growl. Finn.
‘I have heard of the death of Einar,’ Starkad said, making no effort to come closer. ‘A pity, for I owed him a blow.’
‘Consider it Odin luck, since he would have balanced you up with a stroke to the other leg if you had met again,’ I replied evenly, the blood thundering in my ears, ringing out the question of how he came to be wearing that sword. Had he stolen it from Choniates, too? Had the Greek given it to him – if so, why?
Starkad flushed. ‘You yap well for a small pup. But you are running with bigger hounds now.’
‘Just so,’ I answered. This was easy work, for Starkad was not the sharpest adze in the shipyard for wordplay. ‘Since we are speaking of dogs – have you been back to sniff Bluetooth’s arse? Does that King know that you have lost both the fine ships he gave you? No, I didn’t think so. I am thinking he may not stroke your belly, no matter how well you roll on your back at his feet.’
The flush deepened and he laid one hand casually on the hilt of the sabre by way of reply. He saw me stiffen and thought it recognition of the blade and smiled again, recovering. In truth, it was the sight of his pale fingers, like the legs of a spider, sliding along the marks I had made on the hilt, watching them unconsciously trace the scratches, all unknowing.
‘Look …’ began the tavern-owner, his hands trembling as he wiped them over and over on his apron. ‘I want no trouble here …’
‘Then fasten yer hole shut,’ growled the squint-eyed man, his affliction adding to the savagery of his tongue. The tavern-owner winced and backed off. I saw little Drozd sidle away from us, as though we had plague.
‘King Harald can spare two such ships,’ Starkad went on dismissively. ‘I have been tasked with something and will travel to the edge of the world to obey my King.’
I mock-sighed and waved an airy jarl hand at a seat, as if in invitation to discuss this matter that troubled him. I hoped to get him closer, away from the door and the men at his back and the ones I was sure were outside. There would be a fight and blood, since they had weapons and we did not and that would bring the authority of the Great City down on us, but still …
He was polished as a marble step and no fool. ‘You are not what I seek, boy,’ he said with a sneer that refused my invitation. ‘Nor any of these who treat you like a ring-giver on a gifthrone, for all that you have neither seat, nor neck ring, nor even ship to mark you. No sword, either, since I took it.’
He drew back a little from his hate then and forced a smile into my face, which I knew was pale and stricken. I felt the Oathsworn behind me, trembling like ale at an overfull brim and Finn, quivering, barely leashed, finally snapped his bonds.
A bench went over with a clatter and he howled himself forward at Starkad, who whipped that sabre out with a hiss of sound, fast as the flick of an adder’s tongue. Finn, with nothing but his fists, came up two foot short of Starkad’s face, with the point of the rune-serpent sword at his neck. Someone squealed; Elli, I thought dully.
I held up my hand and leashed the others, which act gave me a measure of stone-smoothness, for Starkad noted that and was impressed, despite himself. I could hardly breathe; I wondered if he knew how deadly that blade against Finn’s neck truly was. Even just resting it left a thin, red line. For his part, Finn had froth at the edges of his mouth and I knew that one more comment and he would run his neck up the blade, just to get his hands round Starkad’s own.
‘I have heard tales of this blade,’ Starkad said softly. ‘It cut an anvil, I hear.’
‘Just so,’ I agreed, dry-mouthed. ‘Perhaps, Finn, you should come and sit by me. Your head is hard, but not harder than the anvil that blade was forged on.’
The rigid line of Finn softened a little and he took a step backward, away from the blade. Each step laboured, he unreeled from the hook of that runesword. I breathed. Starkad, smirking, waited until Finn was seated, then sheathed the weapon; life flooded back to the room with a breathy sigh.
‘You have the look of a jarl,’ I said into Starkad’s smirk, my chest still tight with the fear of what might just have happened, ‘but you should beware the jarl’s torc.’
‘You should only beware it when you do not have it,’ Starkad spat back. ‘The mark of ringmoney is the mark of a gift-giver, whom men follow.’
I said nothing to that, for Gunnar Raudi – my true father – had often told me that you should never interrupt an enemy who was making a mistake. I already knew the secret of the jarl torc Starkad was so proud of wearing. It was just a neck ring of silver, which we still call ringmoney, whose dragonhead ends snarl at one another on your chest.
The secret was that the real one was made of steel, carried by the men who wielded it for you. It hung round your neck, another kind of rune serpent, at once an ornament of greatness and a cursed weight that could drag you to your knees and which you could not take off in life.
I knew that from Einar, who had warned me of it as he died by my hand, sitting on Attila’s throne. Now I felt the weight of it myself – even though I could not, as Starkad had seen, afford a real one.
‘I seek the priest, one Martin, the monk from Hammaburg,’ Starkad went on. ‘You know where he is, I am thinking.’
I was silent, knowing exactly what it was Starkad sought. Not a silver hoard at all, but Martin’s treasure, the remains of his Christ spear, the one stuck in the side of the White Christ as he hung on the cross and whose iron head had helped make the sabre Starkad now wore. He did not know that and I leached a little comfort from the secret.
Now that King Harald Bluetooth was a Christ-man himself, he fancied this god spear to help make everyone in his kingdom stronger in the Christ faith – no matter that the Basileus of the Romans claimed such a spear already resided in the Great City. Like me, Bluetooth believed Martin had the real one.
‘He fled,’ Starkad added, when my silence stretched too far. ‘The monk fled. To here, I am thinking, and to you, since you are the only ones he knows.’
It was a good thought, for Martin had been with us for long enough, but Starkad did not know that it was not as a friend. My tongue was already forming the words to tell him this when the thought came to me that we could not – dare not – take him here. It was certain that the Watch had already been called and Starkad was measuring his time like a shipmaster tallies his distances, down to the last eyeflick.
Miklagard was a haven for Starkad; he had to be lured out of it.
‘East,’ I said. ‘To Serkland and Jorsalir, his holy city.’
I have my own thoughts on who made me gold-browed at that moment, to come up with a lie and the wit to speak it with such shrugging smoothness. Like all Odin’s gifts it was double-edged.
In the end, he bit the coin of it and decided it was gold. ‘Let this be an end of things between us, then. Einar is dead and I have no more quarrel with the Oathsworn.’
‘Return the sword you stole and I will consider it,’ I told him. ‘I once thought you a wolf, Starkad, but it turns out you are no more than an alley dog.’
He had the grace to redden at that. ‘I took the sword the same way you took my drakkar – because I could and it was needful,’ he replied, narrow-eyed with hate. ‘It stays with me because you and your Oathsworn pack cost me dear and I will count it bloodprice for the losses.’
‘Not the last losses you will have,’ Kvasir interrupted angrily. ‘We are not finished with you – take care to keep beyond reach of my blade, Starkad Ragnarsson.’
‘What blade?’ sneered Starkad and slapped his side. ‘I have the only true blade you nithings owned.’
The door opened in a blast of wind and rain and a head hissed urgently at Starkad’s back. It did not take much to know the Watch was coming up the street. Starkad leaned forward at the hip a little and his lip curled.
‘I know you, Kvasir, and you, Finn Horsehead. You also, boy Bear Slayer. I will find out the truth of what you say. If you spoke me false here, or if you get in my way, I will make you all unwind your guts round a pole until you die.’
He backed out of the door while I was still blinking at the picture he had placed in my head with that last one, for I had heard of this cruel trick.
There was a surge, like a wave breaking on a skerry, and I hammered the table to bring the Oathsworn up short, while the others in the tavern scrambled to be out and away. Finn hurled one luckless chariot-racing fan sideways, then stopped, sullen as winter haar.
‘We have to kill Starkad,’ he growled, sitting. ‘Slowly.’
‘Is this sword so valuable, then?’ asked Radoslav. ‘And who is this priest?’
I told him.
‘What holy icon?’ demanded Brother John when he heard my brief tale of Martin and his spear.
‘A spear, like Odin’s Gungnir, only a Roman one,’ I answered. ‘The one they stuck in the Christ when he hung on the cross. Only the metal end is missing from it.’
Brother John’s mouth hung open like the hood of a cloak, so I did not mention that the metal end had been used in the making of the runed sabre Starkad had stolen to feed the greed-fire of Architos Choniates. I did not understand why Starkad had the sword, all the same.
‘Another Holy Lance?’ Brother John was a flail of scorn. ‘The Greeks-who-are-Romans here swear they have one, tucked up in a special palace with Christ’s bed linen and sandals.’
I shrugged. Brother John snorted his disgust and added, scornfully, ‘Mundus vult decipi.’
The world wants to be deceived … I wasn’t sure if it was a judgement on Martin’s desires or on just how genuine the spear was. But Brother John was silent after that, deep in thought.
‘Concerning this sword …’ Radoslav began, but the Watch piled in then and the tavern-owner went off into an arm-wave of Greek. There were looks at us, then back again, then at us.
Eventually, the Watch commander, black-bearded and banded in leather, peeled off his dripping helmet, tucked it in the crook of his arm, sighed and came towards us. His men eyed us warily, their iron-tipped staffs ready.
‘Who leads?’ he asked, which let me know he was no stranger to our kind. When I stood up, he blinked a bit, for he had been looking expectantly at Finn, who now showed him a deal of sarcastic teeth.
‘Right,’ said the Watch commander and jerked a thumb back at the tavern-owner. ‘Not your fault, Ziphas says, but he still thinks you brought armed men to his place. Scared off his custom. Neither am I happy with the idea of you lot blood-feuding on my patch. So beat it. Consider it lucky you have no weapons yourselves, else I would have you in the Stinking Dark.’
We knew of that prison and it was as bad as it sounded. Finn growled but the Watch commander was grizzled enough to have seen it all and simply shook his head wearily and wandered off, wiping the rain from his face. Ziphas, the tavern-owner, still smearing his hands on his apron, finally left it alone and spread them, shrugging.
‘Maybe a week, eh?’ he said apologetically. ‘Let folk forget. If they see you here tomorrow, they will not stay – and you don’t spend enough to make up the difference.’
We left, meek as lambs, though Finn was growling about how shaming it was for a good man from the North to be sent packing by a Greek in an apron.
‘We should follow Starkad now,’ Short Eldgrim growled. ‘Take him.’
Finn Horsehead growled his agreement, but Kvasir, as we shrugged and shook the rain off back in our warehouse, pointed out the obvious.
‘I am thinking Starkad’s crew are now hired men and so permitted weapons,’ he observed. ‘Choniates will stand surety for them here like a jarl.’
Radoslav cleared his throat, cautious about adding his weight to what was, after all, not much of his business. ‘You should be aware that this Starkad, if he is Choniates’ hired man, has the right of it under law. We will have warriors from the city on us, too, if blood is shed and not just the Watch with their sticks. Real soldiers.’
‘We?’ I asked and he grinned that bear-trap grin.
‘It is a mark of my clan that when you save a man’s life you are bound to keep helping him,’ he declared. ‘Anyway, I want to see this wonderful sword called Rune Serpent.’
I thought to correct him, then shrugged. It was as good a name for that marked sabre as any – and it was how we got it back that mattered.
‘Which brings up another question,’ said Gizur Gydasson. ‘What was all that cow guff about the monk going to Serkland? Has he really gone there?’
That hung in the air like a waiting hawk.
‘If force will not do it, then cunning must,’ Brother John said before I could answer, and I saw he had worked it out. ‘Magister artis ingeniique largitor venter.’
‘Dofni bacraut,’ Finn growled. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, you ignorant sow’s ear, that ingenuity triumphs in the face of adversity.’
Finn grinned. ‘Why didn’t you say that, then?’
‘Because I am a man of learning,’ Brother John gave back amiably. ‘And if you call me a stupid arsehole again – in any language – I will make your head ring.’
Everyone laughed as Finn scowled at the fierce little Christ priest, but no one was much the wiser until I turned to Short Eldgrim and told him to find Starkad and watch him. Then I turned to Radoslav and asked him about his ship. Eyes brightened and shoulders went back, for then they saw it: Starkad would set off after Martin and we would follow, trusting in skill and the gods, as we had done so many times before.
Anything can happen on the whale road.
TWO
After Starkad’s visit to the Dolphin, we moved to Radoslav’s knarr, the Volchok, partly to keep out of the way of the Watch, partly to be ready when Short Eldgrim warned us that Starkad was away.
There was a deal to be done with the Volchok to make it seaworthy. Radoslav was a half-Slav on his mother’s side, but his father was a Gotland trader, which should have given him some wit about handling a trading knarr the length of ten men. Instead, it was snugged up in the Julian harbour with no crew and costing him more than he could afford in berthing fees – until he had heard that a famous band of varjazi were shipless and, as he put it when we handseled the deal, we were wyrded for each other.
But he was no deep-water sailor and every time he made some lofty observation about boats, Sighvat would grin and say: ‘Tell us again how you came to have such a sweet sail as the Volchok and no crew.’
&n
bsp; Radoslav, no doubt wishing he had never told the tale in the first place, would then recount how he had fallen foul of his Christ-worshipping crew, by drinking blood-tainted water in the heat of a hard fight and refusing, as a good Perun man, to be suitably cleansed by monks.
‘The Volchok means “little wolf”, or “wolf cub” in the Slav tongue,’ he would add. ‘It is rightly named, for it can bite when needs be. My name, schchuka, means “pike” for I am like that fish and once my teeth are in, you have to cut my head off to get me to let go.’
Then he would sigh and shake his head sorrowfully, adding: ‘But those Christ-loving Greeks loosened my teeth and left me stranded.’
That would set the Oathsworn roaring and slapping their legs, sweetening the back-breaking work of shifting ballast stones to adjust the trim on his little wolf of a boat.
Trim. The knarr depends on it to sail directly, for it is no sleek fjord-slider, easily rowed when the wind drops. Trim is the key to a knarr as any sailing-master of one will tell you. They are as gripped by it as any dwarf is with gold and the secret of trim is held as a magical thing that every sailing-master swears he alone possesses. They paw the round, smooth ballast stones as if they were gems.
Knowing how to sail is easy, but reading hen-scratch Greek is easier than trying to fathom the language of shipmasters and I was glad when Brother John tore me from a scowling Gizur, while we waited for Short Eldgrim.
The little Irisher monk was also the one man I seemed able to talk to about the wyrd-doom of the whole thing, who understood why I almost wished we had no ship. Because a Thor-man had drunk blood and offended Christmen, I had a gift, almost as if the Thunderer himself had reached down and made it happen. And Thor was Odin’s son.
Brother John nodded, though he had a different idea on it. ‘Strange, the ways of the Lord, right enough,’ he declared thoughtfully, nodding at Radoslav as that man moved back and forth with ballast stones. ‘A man commits a sin and another is granted a miracle by it.’