The Oathsworn Series Books 1 to 3

by Robert Low

  The air was full of shimmering ice particles despite a blue sky. The snow squeaked, the horses’ breath froze and we slid, in a panic of haste, across a sea that surged and swelled in pearl-white waves.

  ‘Are you well, Jarl Orm?’ he asked, peering at me this way and that from under his fur hat, his face pinched and pale with cold. ‘You took a hard dunt.’

  I felt it. Anyone who boasts of being knocked spinning by a crack to the head, then springs up the next minute to take his enemy by surprise is a toad-puffed liar. I did not want to move my head at all for the first hour after I had woken, for it made my belly heave. The lurch and sway of the sledge-wagon was barely tolerable.

  The light hurt and I shut my eyes, but I heard everything; voices I did not know, Geats or Svears from their accents. Martin, that cursed monk, with his rasping Saxlander bite urging them to move. And a Slav accent that sounded familiar, though I could not put a face to it.

  Eventually, I managed to open my eyes again – the tears had frozen them shut and for a brief moment of panic I thought I had been blinded. Wrapped to the eyebrows in his fur-trimmed cloak and goat-wool hat, Olaf huddled in the lee of horse-fodder and food bundles, watching me. There were little icicles on the strands of his hat and one from his nose that he did not want to remove, I knew, because he would have to unwrap himself.

  I leaned over and wiped it away and he smiled, shivering.

  ‘I thought you would die,’ he said and, at the moment, he was a nine-year-old boy. I managed a grin, though it felt as if my face was a mask and cracked when I did it. I felt clumps frozen in my beard and moustache.

  ‘I look better than you – is that your blood?’

  He shook his head. ‘Bleikr,’ he said miserably.

  The cold bit, but I was sweating by the time I had managed to sit up and look out of the sledge-cart to find we were slithering and fish-tailing through chest-high pale yellow grass, with the exhausted ponies stumbling in the snow. Up ahead, a man bulked by clothing was leading the little horses which pulled the cart. Turning carefully, I saw other figures, counting them without thinking. Seven in all.

  ‘Ha – now you are up, you can get out and walk,’ yelled a voice and I turned to see a black-bearded face, rimed with ice, glaring at me. He was bundled in a cloak and another was swaddled round his head, but he was red-faced and sweating with the effort of staggering after the cart. That was bad for him, I saw with some satisfaction.

  ‘Leave him where he is,’ rasped the familiar voice of Martin, stepping forward from behind him. ‘Safer where we can see him, Tyrfing.’

  Then he moved away before I could find words to curse him.

  I remembered the black-bearded one now; the German Tyrfing who had been one of Klerkon’s men. I saw a couple of others I recognized from that crew – then blinked as two faces I knew well lumbered up to put shoulders to the back of the sledge-cart and help the stumbling horses. They kept their heads down, to avoid looking me in the eye.

  Drumba and Heg, my own thralls – wearing warm furs and cloaks that were clearly stolen and with axes and knives in their belts. Drumba’s had been the Slav voice I had failed to recognize.

  Slavs – I cursed myself for a fool. I had only gone and brought these thralls back to their homeland without even considering that they would bolt for it first chance they got. Odin’s arse, they could even be a fart-length away from the home they had not seen in a decade or more. But who ever considers what thralls think?

  ‘Vladimir will track you down,’ I said to the tops of their wool-hatted heads. ‘You should have thought this out to the end.’

  Heg looked up, chin thrust out defiantly. ‘Better this than dying on some mad chase for a hoard of silver,’ he growled. ‘What would we get from that?’

  Nothing at all, being thralls. What had they been promised for this, I wondered? So I asked and Drumba gave the sledge-cart a final heave and stood, flapping his cracked, worn hands against the cold.

  ‘Enough,’ he said to the gap opening between us. ‘A stake for the future and a chance to be free.’

  ‘You will never be free,’ I shouted to the gap between us, sounding more sure than I felt, ‘and the only stake you will get will be rammed up your arse.’

  The pony ahead wheeled round at that and came alongside at a shambling half-trot, scattering snow fine as flour. The rider peeled back the cloak that covered his face, all but the eyes, which had been circled with great dark rings of charcoal, a steppe tribe trick against the glare from the Great White.

  ‘Yell away, young Orm,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘No-one can hear you who cares much.’

  Thorkel. He grinned at me and I almost hurled myself at him from the cart – but even the surge of anger in me made my head hurt and I swallowed it back.

  ‘This is the worst luck you have had,’ I said to him. ‘Which is a feat, considering your life to this point. The Norns hate you, Thorkel, for sure; they are unpicking the threads of your life.’

  He scowled a little at that, then shrugged. ‘No. I am thinking this is where my luck changes. We will sell you and the boy to Jaropolk, which is surer money and safer, too, than chasing down this hoard across a frozen steppe.’

  So that was it. Martin’s idea, clearly – though what did the monk gain?

  Thorkel shrugged when I asked. ‘Away with his holy stick and no part of your quest,’ he said, looking over to where Martin trudged, two bundles wrapped and slung on his back, wild hair flying. He had to be freezing in his tattered robes and big leather shoes, but gave no sign of it other than the hand that grasped his staff, which was blue-white.

  ‘You believe this? After all you know of that monk?’

  Thorkel frowned, then brightened. ‘We will know soon enough, when we reach Kiev.’

  ‘You will never reach Kiev.’

  He chuckled then and reined the weary pony round. ‘Well, it will be a hard run, right enough,’ he admitted, ‘for Vladimir will want you back, since you know the way to Atil’s hoard, while Sigurd Axebitten cares what happens to Crowbone. But we will beat them and what will they do when Sveinald has you?’

  I wanted to spit a clever answer back at him, viper-venomed and fast, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth at what he had said.

  It was true enough. They had a head start and even if little Vladimir, all bright-eyed with silver greed, flogged horses to death he would not get to us in time. Olaf saw all that flicker across my face and hunched deeper into his cloak as the wind hissed and rattled the frozen grass.

  The Oathsworn would keep coming, though, relentless and grim and driven. I pointed that out to Thorkel while reminding him that he had broken his oath. He frowned, for he remembered the words of it now and I twisted the knife of that in him.

  ‘May he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.’

  He winced and looked over to where Martin trudged and I knew the monk had persuaded him that embracing the White Christ would save him from Odin. It came to him that Christ would need to have considerable powers to save him from the wrath of the Oathsworn.

  The power of that oath suddenly washed me; before, I had always been the one forced to action by it, hag-ridden to risk myself to rescue the stupid I had shackled myself to. This was the way of things, I had thought. Now I was the one depending on the oath and for the first time in my life I felt the sun-warm glow of it, the exultant certainty that I was not alone.

  He saw me smile knowingly from the ice-tangle of my beard and, scowling, tugged the pony round and forced it back to the head of the column.

  There was silence for a long time after that, while the short day died and the steppe reeled away, featureless save for some wolf tracks, which excited everyone. But you could see a long way and nothing moved, not even the chill blue air.

  Then, as the sun died at the end of the short day, squeezed into a great orange-red pillar by the cold so that it seemed to hold the sky up from the edge of the world, we stumbled up to a stan
d of birch trees, bloodied in the dying light.

  We stopped then, for here was wood for fires, though it was almost too frozen to be cut never mind burn. Thorkel had stuffed the tops of grass inside his tunic, which kept him warm during the march and thawed out to provide tinder, so he made a fire, careful and slow, as if he was rubbing a fainted maiden’s hand to bring her back to life.

  There was heat and food, after a fashion, but the cold seeped through for all that and the horses whimpered and scraped hungrily at the ground, for there was little food for them.

  ‘They will die soon,’ muttered Heg and Drumba shushed him.

  ‘We will make it to Kiev,’ rasped Martin, hunched by the fire. Thorkel and the others, the melted ice glistening like pearls in their hair and beards, spooned gruel or stared at the flames, enduring.

  ‘There was once a rich man,’ said Crowbone softly, ‘who lived in Kiev long ago, do not ask me when.’

  ‘Enough,’ warned Martin and crossed himself. ‘Your stories are spawned by the Devil himself, for how could a boy like you know so many and so well?’

  ‘I like them,’ argued Heg and Thorkel grunted.

  ‘Who cares what you like?’ he said. ‘You mistake yourself for a man.’

  ‘He is a man, as am I,’ growled Drumba. ‘You mistake us for the thralls we were.’

  ‘So all dogs fight,’ Crowbone said with a sad sigh and a shake of his head. ‘Once it was not so.’

  ‘You call me a dog, you brat?’ rumbled Tyrfing.

  ‘If it yaps like one,’ Crowbone said and I was wishing he would keep quiet, for my head would not take another good thumping.

  ‘I will yap you, boy,’ grunted Tyrfing and made to rise.

  ‘Enough of all this,’ snarled Martin. ‘Leave the boy – have you understood nothing? We need him and Orm alive.’

  ‘Of course, all Christ priests are like cats,’ little Olaf said and heads came up.

  ‘Why cats?’ demanded Thorkel, pushing more wood near the flames to thaw it out enough to feed the fire.

  ‘There was once a rich man,’ Crowbone said, ‘who lived in Kiev long ago, do not ask me when.’

  No-one spoke when Olaf stopped and he looked up from the fire and into all their faces.

  ‘This man,’ he went on, ‘lived in a fine izba. High walls hid it from view. He had no family and his only company was a cat and a pack of dogs. He never went out to work. He did not even go out to buy food. No-one ever visited him. Naturally, everyone was very curious – especially the thieves.

  ‘One night, a thief sneaked into a neighbour’s courtyard and peeked over the walls. He saw a wonderful place, of bathhouses and granaries and a forge. In the centre was a house fancy enough for the emperor of the Great City.

  ‘The curious thief climbed over the wall and crept into the house, which was filled with fine furniture and rich hangings – a real jarl’s hov. In a high seat of gold-studded wood sat the old man, richly dressed, wearing gold rings on his arms and round his neck.

  ‘There were feasting benches and a great table carved from a single piece of shining wood and the old man sat in his high seat, with the cat and all the dogs opposite, like they were his guests at a feast – but there were neither plates of food on the table nor any thralls to cook and serve.’

  ‘I know how that feels,’ grunted a man from behind Thorkel.

  ‘I know now how it feels to be the missing thrall,’ answered Heg with a chuckle.

  ‘Shut your bungholes,’ growled Tyrfing. ‘This at least takes my mind off the cold.’ He gave a harsh look at Martin, who wisely clamped his ruined gums.

  Crowbone smiled and went on with his story and I wondered why, for there was no reason to raise the spirits of this band.

  ‘The old man smiled at the dogs and asked: “What do you want to eat tonight?” The dogs gave a bark and the old man nodded and drew out a Christ amulet from a small box, one of those fat crosses with the dead god nailed to it and said: “As you like it, as I like it, I would like some rich stew.”

  ‘A big golden bowl of fine lamb stew popped into the air above the table and landed with a clank in front of the dogs. The smell was delicious and they happily began to slurp down their food.’

  ‘You turd,’ growled Thorkel, ‘I see your plan now – you are trying to kill us with longing for what we do not have.’

  ‘Pagan imp,’ growled Martin angrily. ‘The holy cross is not some Devil’s magic-maker.’

  ‘The old man asked his cat – let us call it Martin,’ declared Olaf, ignoring them both. Martin scowled but said nothing.

  ‘The cat merely licked its paws, so the old man wished on the amulet and a big steaming carp appeared. With a disgusted look at the dogs, the cat began to eat daintily.

  ‘Then the old man wished up his dinner on the amulet and the platters with it, all gold, crusted with jewels and a huge drinking horn banded with silver for him to drink his fine wine.’

  ‘Blaspheming imp,’ spat Martin. ‘Enough – God will not be mocked.’

  ‘Shut your hole,’ snarled Tyrfing, shivering now, his inner layer of clothes having been soaked with sweat, now freezing. ‘I like the sound of such a drinking horn and what it might contain.’

  ‘At the end of this feast,’ Olaf went on, ‘the old rich man yawned and wished the dirty plates all away, then he and his pets slept – though it was the cat who ended up in the rich man’s bed, covered with furs and fine linen. The dogs tried to crowd in, but Martin the cat yowled until the rich man scattered them off, leaving him and the cat alone in the huge comfortable bed.

  ‘The thief waited patiently until the old man and his pets had begun to snore. Then he sneaked in and stole the amulet. The next morning, the old man woke and found his amulet missing. He hid his face in his hands and wept. “I am ruined. Ruined! And I am too old to go looking for the thief.”’

  ‘Sounds like Thorkel,’ I said and he curled his lip at me. Olaf laid a hand on my arm and I wisely obeyed and kept quiet.

  ‘Then the rich man felt something wet on the backs of his hands and he looked up to see that it was his cat and all the dogs licking him. He put his hands on the dogs’ heads, one by one. “Will you be my strong legs and go and find him?” They howled and yelped.

  ‘The old man looked at Martin the cat. “Will you be my clever mind and get the amulet?” And the cat licked his hand.

  ‘So the loyal pets left. They looked all over the land, from Aldeigjuborg to the Great City, from the lands of the Livs and Ests to the wild steppe of the Khazar Jews and beyond, even to where silk comes from. They lived by their skills and their wits. The dogs sniffed around in alleys for things that people threw out. Sometimes, they had to fight the other beggars for it, but the pack was strong and always won – and always shared what they had with the cat.

  ‘The cat learned how to leap up through kitchen windows and steal food. Often Martin would eat most of it inside the house and only bring the leftovers to the dogs.

  ‘Eventually, the animals heard of a rich man who had appeared out of nowhere, who lived on the other side of the mighty Dnepr. “You dogs are strong enough to bear me,” the cat said. “One must carry me.”

  ‘The strongest of them agreed. “But do not dig in your claws,” he warned and crouched. The cat leaped on his back and the dog slipped into the river, the pack following. The water was so cold and swift that the dog soon grew tired.

  ‘“I cannot do it,” the dog groaned, leaking blood, for the cat had not spared its claws. “Then another must,” the cat urged. “Think of home. Think of hot meals and soft furs and linen.”

  ‘So the next dog took the cat and went on until he was too tired and the next after that. Eventually, in this way, the cat reached the other bank and the dogs climbed out exhausted. “Now for the amulet,” the cat said, not tired at all and sped up the hill without waiting for the slow, wet, weary dogs.

  ‘By now Martin the cat was an expert at sneaking into houses and crept silently into this fine one, h
iding behind a richly-decorated seat. The thief strode by in a robe of silk embroidered with gold. Around his neck hung the Christ amulet on a golden chain – but he was not as careless as the rich old man. Two guards accompanied him at all times.

  ‘Going outside, the cat just stopped the dogs from blundering inside. “We will have to use both your strength and my wits to get the amulet,” explained Martin.

  ‘“Anything for the old man,” the loyal dogs promised.

  ‘They waited until the thief went for a walk in his garden. The dogs suddenly darted out from bushes, bowling over the startled guards and leaping on the thief.

  ‘“Stop them,” the thief shouted frantically. The two guards could not use their swords because they might hurt their employer. Instead, they tried to pull the dogs away. A huge fight raged.

  ‘Into this, the cat shot, a small streak of fur. Perching on the rich man’s chest, Martin pressed both front paws against the Christ cross. When the thief reached for it, the cat bit his hand so he snatched it back. Silently, the cat wished, “As you like it, as I like it, I would like to be back home with the amulet.”

  ‘As the cat began to fade from sight, the dogs barked anxiously. “Wait for us, wait for us,” they howled – but the cat vanished from sight and, next moment, was back in the old man’s hov. The old man lay in a ragged robe on a pile of straw. He had sold everything to pay his debts. Through the window, the cat could see that the garden itself had fallen into ruin.

  ‘“Thank the White Christ, you have come back,” the old man said. “I was near death here. Now give me my cross.”

  ‘Instead, the cat picked up the Christ amulet in her mouth and ran off with it, leaving the old man cursing. He never saw Martin the cat ever again. Months later, as he lay dying, he heard barking at his door and, suddenly, a handful of mangy, limping hounds burst in, tired, and dusty, all torn ears and scratches.