Botulfr blinked, surprised. “They aren’t part of the empire?”
“When there is nothing left to inherit, men seek land outside your father’s realm. Or we join his armies…” said Olaf with a flash of smile. “What else? There are more blámenn thralls sold in Dyffin than ever. Old Sigtrygg Silkbeard sees to that, king of the dark and the fair, indeed! Vilhjálm Baesingr was granted the lands around Parisborg. And of course, this one’s brother is causing trouble as usual.”
Olaf darkened as he pointed out the prince through the smoke.
“Is the east at peace?” asked Gest.
“Who can tell? I’ve heard King Jarisleifr is building more forts to prevent the Kangar getting close to his Golden Gates. Built with Kangar gold I imagine,” said Adils.
“Jarisleifr the Lame is king?!” Harald spluttered.
“These few years past. And married to the fylkir’s sister, the boy’s aunt, to keep the peace and keep the silver flowing. The sons of Ragnar may have obeyed their father, and chosen one of the royal blood as Overking, but the sons of Rurik dispensed with tradition and murdered their way to the throne.”
“Ragnar’s law—”
Adils interrupted. “—is honoured more in the breach than in the observance these days. By the time the fylkir sought to end the feud, four princes had their throats cut. Jarisleifr was the last man standing, and the only candidate for the Thing. The lands are drenched with blood and heartsick for it.”
“Then the King of the Rus is no friend of ours,” said Olaf.
“No, neither Holmgard or Kønugarðr are safe for the whelp. Long gone are the days when a man can sail seeking safe harbour in the east.”
Askr wasn’t amused. “That’s as it should be. We should be strict in observing the law.”
“In which case, petty kings and their lapdog jarls should not be allowed to contest the heritage of our forefathers, laying their hands upon kingdoms like they were Kristin baubles and trinkets,” said Harald.
“Who doesn’t have some great injury to avenge? That used to be the law,” Gest said.
“If every Norseman could carve himself a kingdom, there’d be no loyalty to anything but the axe. Better that we keep to our oaths,” Askr said, before changing the subject. “And what of the Grikkir?”
“Jarizleifr refused all their ambassadors, saying there was no gladness among them, only sorrow—and a great stench. If you are headed there, you have a long journey ahead. It takes a month or more to reach Nýgarðr,” said Adils. “From there, three months more to reach the mouth of the Nepr and Grikk waters. You’ll need something warmer than your bare legs for the winter.”
Olaf was irritable. His eyes were watering.
“Well, we have plenty of time before the frost comes and the rivers freeze. The problem isn’t the season or the distance, it’s the cargo. We may be plying the backwaters of the empire, but this passage still starts and ends at court in Uppsala. Who knows what traders, or soldiers, are making the journey. If they recognise the fylkir’s son…”
“We could wait till winter, then use sleds,” Gest suggested.
“With me as the horse I suppose,” Harald growled, cramped, crotchety and half-smoked in the small space. “Tell me when you old women have figured out the plan. I am going to sleep by the ship.”
Adils watched him go and then went to his larder.
“All the more for us!” he grinned, producing a stout barrel. “One thing hasn’t changed. Drinking is still the joy of all Rus. Anyway, I doubt you can drag the byrding, even on wheels. There are fifty leagues of hauling ahead of you. Most travellers use dug out log canoes downstream.”
“I remember. We have to manage the rapids too when we get south of Kœnugarðr,” Olaf grumbled.
Botulfr was curious. “Rapids?”
“Seven. All with amusing names,” Askr said, without the faintest trace that he found them funny. “Don’t Sleep, Roaring, Always Violent, Laughing, things like that. The river turns south and the land falls away steeply. You just carry the ship around them.”
Adils passed around ale in simple wooden cups. “Named after the Khagan who rules there, no doubt, or perhaps his daughters, the fifth one is Belching. What is your plan when you reach Miklagard?”
“What we all once did best: plunder and reave,” Gest grinned.
“You don’t mean to sack the Great City? Even Helgi the Seer didn’t manage that with a fleet of two hundred ships.” Adils was clearly skeptical.
“Why bother remembering a past that cannot be made into a present? We leave here paupers, but in the east, we’ll fight for whoever pays us most and make our fortune. We’ll return home as kings. Literally, in the prince’s case,” Olaf lectured. “Let’s face facts, the only way to reclaim his birthright is to change men’s minds with silver. But no, not Miklagard itself. The castles around the Grikksalt maybe. The plan is evolving, frankly. This isn’t a table game with every move prescribed.”
“We can’t wait here until the Rus winter freezes our pricks,” said Gest. “Momentum is our friend. Stay here and sooner or later, someone sells us out. No one will look for the prince outside the empire, least of all inside the Great City. With Askr’s help, he’ll speak Grikk by then. We can take our time to consider next steps.”
“I feel for our skald, I do.” Olaf was wracked with coughing. “I would rather be a swineherd, understood by the swine, than a poet misunderstood by princes. Adils, how do you live with this smoke?”
“It’s good for the fish. Provisioning for winter starts early. As Gest said, the Marshall of the Snows is a mighty foe, but he might just be your best ally in the days ahead.”
WITH ADIL’S HELP, THE TRAVELLERS planned the journey ahead in meticulous detail.
The cataracts of the Nipr were a hazard. They had proven the perfect place for raiders to launch ambushes against Rus traders, especially at the portages, when there was no choice but to haul boats along six miles of rocky trails to clear water.
Deadliest of all was the crossing at the Ford of Vrar. A bowshot in length, a dozen Torkmen tribes had crossed the great river here over the years, each fleeing a greater, more savage horde. Some had settled and carved new kingdoms of their own, but most had warred with their neighbours and been ground into dust. The oldest of sagas described these great migrations and the heroes who marshalled them. Some even said Óðinn and Frey began their wandering in far off Asaland and crossed over the river there themselves.
In years of peace, the ford was dangerous, but not often deadly; however, no-one could be certain as to the current state of affairs. The present warlord, the Khagan of the Kangar, had been in the pay of the Rus, the Grikkir, and the Bolgarar, often at the same time. His men fought in rippling waves, archers on fleet steppe horses, firing a continuous stream of arrows as they galloped back and forth across the ford. Their wheeling, whinnying circles had been the end of many an expedition in the past two years.
Having heard all this, Olaf decided to make their way as far as Kœnugarðr, then wait for the snows as Gest had suggested, for the Kangar would then ride their horses and wagons to winter pasture, to the south, in the deserts of Bolgaraland. They would then drive horse-drawn sleds onto the frozen river and give a wide berth to the treacherous areas, even if it meant travelling through the ice-bound marshes.
The hird spent one last evening with the old warden before saying their farewells. Instead of forcing the pace, they rowed south leisurely. The summer was a time for roving and reaving through foreign lands, so it was rare to meet other travellers; when they did, Olaf or Gest would share news and greetings while Botulfr busied himself with the cargo or his lessons. Some days they would rest and hunt elk in the pine forests beyond the long sandy banks or waste time hallooing at women drying hay in gaps between the trees. In the wetlands, Harald would amuse them all by wrestling the great pelicans, who clacked and squawked even more than the big Viking.
“From the Ravaging Tide to the Prince of Pelicans! Have you met your m
atch, Harald?” Gest yelled.
“If you fish-bellies want a Rus bride, you only have to ask.” Harald enjoyed the sport. “Watch out, this one bites more than the likes of you can handle.”
Botulfr sat down next to Gest. “Did he really storm a Frakkar castle on his own?”
Watching him grapple with great birds for fun, nothing seemed implausible. The bear-shirts were possessed by Óðinn in battle, and for that reason, they were the champions of the fylkir’s armies. These were men who rushed forwards without armour, slavering like wolves, biting their shields, felling enemies left and right.
Gest delighted at the memory. “Harald is a great fighter, but also owns a wolfish cunning. He’s a second son too, incidentally. His brother Halfdan inherited, so Harald took the bear-shirt. The forts he stormed, Frakkar and Serkir—he didn’t discriminate—well, let’s just say they made him a rich man in his own right. If he didn’t take them alone then, certainly, it was against the odds.”
“How so?”
“Olaf and I were with him near Jorsalaborg, at a castle that defied the fylkir’s siege for weeks. Harald kept proposing this absurd plan. We all thought he was crazy, driven mad by impatience, but he went ahead anyway, cursing us as curs and cowards. What he did was this: he caught some sparrows, set them alight near the walls. Tapers, I think he used. He made them into tiny flying candles. Then he let them go and watched them fly back to their nests in the castle thatch.”
“And it worked?”
“He was the first man into the smouldering rubble! He’s touched by the Trickster God, that one. Another time, in Kípr, he pretended to be dead, before the siege was even started. He had me parlay and demand a Kristin burial, alleging that he was a recent convert. Well, the Kristins loved that and couldn’t open the gates quick enough. As soon as the priests brought him inside their fort, Harald resurrected himself like the Hvíta Kristr himself. He opened the gates from the inside and that was that. I suppose he was the first man over the walls that time too.”
The prince laughed. “He’s not just teeth and snarls then.”
“Olaf is relying on Harald’s wiles in the weeks to come. Harald pretends he doesn’t understand the Gael part of him, but the truth is, they are a great double act. Ruses, stratagems, and ploys are meat and drink to them. So, we’ll raise a warband and maraud our way to riches. We’ll hire more men in the Great City. The Grikksalt is full of pirates doing the same, but none can hold a candle to our little crew.”
“And you’ve all sailed to Miklagard before?”
“Not all the way there, no. Close, yes, but always from the west, through the Norvasund. And always with fifty ships or more.”
“But you’ve seen Grikk soldiers, up close?”
“Close enough. Thankfully, they bathe more than the Frakkar.”
Botulfr hesitated before venturing his next question. He tried to make himself sound nonchalant, but ended up a muddle of words.
“I look like them, do I? Grikkir, I mean?”
“Listen, my Prince, don’t think badly of it. Tork, Grikk, Blamen—they are all slave races as far as the jarls are concerned. But then the jarls are old men, set in their ways. They tell themselves the wolf does not play with the dog, and that is an end of it.”
Gest leaned back against his thwart and combed his hair for a few moments.
“Are you concerned?”
“My mother was murdered. I think I should be.”
Gest shrugged.
“I’ve spilt enough blood to know it’s all the same colour inside. You’ve nothing to fear from us. And believe me, I know what problems foolish uncles can cause. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for family embarrassing me as a child. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Take comfort in that.”
They lapsed back into companionable silence, watching Harald’s latest conquest unfold.
WHEN SUMMER DREW TO A close and the Rus men returned to the fields to harvest the grain, the travellers found a fishing hut a few miles to the north of Kœnugarðr. The three hirdsmenn travelled to the fort to organise the transport and provisions for the winter part of their journey.
Askr and Botulfr had stayed behind, planning on reading and study. But with summer rains behind them, the temperature had dipped sharply, and the priority was to ensure they always had a warm fire. To that end, the skald had showed Botulfr a fungus called touchwood that grew on tree bark. He’d boil it for several days in urine then pound it into something resembling felt. The result would smoulder into a fire even with damp wood.
Botulfr grasped the Latin and Grikk easily and pored over the manuscripts. The hut was dry and roomy, which meant that the skald could unpack his bag fully, something he had been loath to do while on the river, for fear of damaging the contents. Together, they thumbed through the bindings and cases, making a rough inventory.
“Why do you care so much about those old scratchings?” Botulfr asked.
“Have you ever been to Saxland?” the skald asked. He hummed as he worked, as if composing a song.
Botulfr shook his head.
“Those books remind me that I was born a stone’s throw from a very different life. From Brimarborg, where I was raised, you can see the Frakkar border forts all along the Veisa and Sax-elfr rivers all the way to Verden. This parchment has a certain smell. Some of them are damp now, but to me, that dusty, oily scent is redolent with betrayal.”
“I don’t understand. How can you smell betrayal?”
“Perhaps you can’t. You are too young to understand. I seem to have a nose for it. Time for some fresh air. If you’ll excuse me, my Prince.”
Askr grew prickly when the Saxon Wars or its various protagonists came up in conversation. It occurred to Botulfr that the selection Askr had stolen wasn’t just for his education. Reading the text was meant to help him understand his enemy, but perhaps it might help him understand his companion more.
He thought better of probing the subject directly, so he fixed on a more oblique approach. He rifled through the manuscripts, looking for one particular scrap of vellum, an old letter, written around the time of Ragnar. The words of this author spoke across the centuries of an enemy he barely recognised, careworn and cultivated, but very human. It was just what he needed.
He followed Askr down the short path to the river. The skald was already busy, cutting wood for the fire, hefting his axe one-handed, presumably for his exercise rather than efficiency.
“I was just looking,” said Botulfr, “and we don’t have a copy of the Kristin Bible?”
“Too incendiary. We already have the touchwood,” Askr laughed.
Botulfr waited for Askr to place a new log. “Well, would you like to hear me read something else?”
“What have you in mind?”
“I have grown quite fond of Alkuin of York. I have one of his letters here, addressed to Bishop Higbald.”
The skald stopped swinging the axe and leaned on it instead, obviously tickled.
“And why quite fond, my Prince? Has the spirit of the sage visited you, accompanied by a host of heavenly angels?”
“In a way. We have a lot of his scrolls. I admire him, how he saw himself as a mentor and confessor to all manner of men, dashing off letters to every parish of the realm. He cared about his flock. He was trying to save them.”
“No,” said Askr. “Treachery and nothing more. Don’t get enamoured of them. They are parasites, whatever they profess.” The skald punctuated the comment by splitting another log.
“But he has this evident love of books. He talks of them as invaluable treasures and goes to great lengths to collect all the knowledge he can. Is that why you kept so much from that time?”
“I’ll grant you,” said Askr, “without Alkuin, we’d have lost precious knowledge. For that, we are in his debt. But as a scholar? The man was a plagiarist and a rassragr, whose only real thought was to be buggered by his students. Go back to the Codex of Tertullian, De Superstitione Saeculi perhaps—that was the last
time a Kristin did any thinking. By Alkuin’s time, it was all Divine Providence and ceremony, with conversion at the point of a sword or else impaled on a monk’s prick.”
Botulfr had clearly hit a nerve, but he decided to get to the bottom of the matter.
“Imagine what he’d think now. All his demons come home to roost.”
Jorvik and the whole of Northumbria, in fact, had been under Norse rule for one hundred years or more, although Alkuin had not lived to see it.
“There is no need to imagine. That letter you have there tells you all you need to know. ‘You who survive, stand like men, fight bravely and defend the camp of God.’ He’d have his brethren carry on the struggle from the hedgerows and hills.”
“Isn’t that how the Saxar defeated Karl the Butcher?”
“Yes, but Thorr didn’t demand we stop drinking ale, counting silver, or wearing anything more comfortable than a sack. Why the sudden sympathy for these Frakkar mares?”
“Why the hatred for them?”
Askr’s only reply was to shoulder more wood. After a few minutes, the prince tried another approach.
“Where did the Kristin God go?”
“What?” Askr flashed him an irritated look.
“It says here, in Alkuin’s letter. ‘O Lord, spare thy people and do not give the Gentiles thine inheritance, lest the heathen say, Where is the God of the Christians?’”
“Who says he went anywhere? Who says he isn’t right there, in your hands? That’s the real power of the Hvíta Kristr. He is inside those pages, in every chapter and verse. Be careful because, from there, he can leap inside your mind. That’s how he works.”
Botulfr dropped the parchment and eyed it suspiciously. The skald smiled ruefully.
“Ragnar’s greatest gift to the North was the idea that the word of god is the god, or at least, his commands. What army can survive without a great commander? That is why we burn their priests and their Bibles. But it is also why Ragnar kept the Kristin texts he stole, and why we skalds keep them still. To remind us of those who were murdered in the name of the Kristin God. Four generations of my family, since you were wondering, converted or murdered or both.”
The All Father Paradox Page 6