Raven of the Waves

by Michael Cadnum

  Crane cut through the water and joined Raven. Landwaster approached just as darkness arrived, the dark ship coalescing out of the twilight. Men stamped their feet and congratulated each other, the three crews mixing happily.

  Gunnar was impatient, but he knew that his eagerness would have to be controlled. He spoke with Egil and Berg, the lead men of the other two ships, and then gathered his own crew around him. “We need a few men to search.”

  That meant finding horses and food. What was necessary was a job of quick theft. Without horses, they would not be able to travel quickly over land.

  “I’ll go,” said Gorm.

  Men stirred. Gorm would need reliable companions to keep him out of trouble. Gunnar gazed around at the men, naming two more. Lidsmod guessed Gunnar did not want Gorm mixing with the men from the other ships. Many of them still hated Gorm for what he had done to Biter. However, Gorm knew horses and could handle them.

  Ulf was steady, and so was Eirik. They would be able to watch Gorm and see that he did not do anything foolish or dangerous. Gunnar spoke again: “And Lidsmod.”

  The young man’s heart leaped. Ever since he had spied the distant Landwaster he had sensed a growing confidence in him among his shipmates. They had always liked him, but now he had demonstrated his eyesight—and his luck. Sometimes even stalwart men had eyesight that was less than excellent. Opir the Boaster himself had once mistaken a floating, bloated sheep for a sea chest and rowed hard in his skiff through a hard rain to haul it in. Men laughed about this around the mead table, and Opir joined in with as much humor as he could muster.

  Lidsmod was thrilled—and uneasy.

  Gunnar took him aside and gave him a light ax, fit for cutting kindling—and for close combat. “Report to me on what Gorm does,” he said quietly. “But keep out of his way.”

  “The moon isn’t going to be up for a while yet,” grumbled Gorm. “We’ll fall into every puddle in this ridiculous country.”

  Lidsmod kept quiet and followed the three men. He thought he could smell horses, but he wasn’t sure. After the sea journey this fertile land was a wealth of smells. If only it weren’t all so flat. There were no features—merely wet, and trees so thick together they could not be penetrated. He smelled earth and stone. He smelled his companions, all sea and sweat.

  They strode through darkness, brambles and branches lashing their legs. Gorm muttered to himself, but Gorm was masterful at keeping quiet when the time came. Gunnar had blundered, Gorm knew. He had no idea where they were. Gorm was unlucky enough to be on a gold journey that was failing before it was even started.

  Searching for horses was the first thing fighting men always did. But this splashing and staggering around was like something little boys would do. A river took men deep into a country, Gorm thought. Far into it. They would not have to probe the coast. They could strike all the way into this new land. So why find horses? Gunnar did not have the imagination it required to gut this new countryside. Gorm would get what he wanted, with or without Gunnar.

  Ulf lifted his hand. “We’re nearly there,” he said.

  Lidsmod could scent it too—the fertile odor of livestock.

  Gorm tested his sword, loosening it in its scabbard. He tightened his sword belt. “We won’t need to use our blades,” breathed Ulf, “to capture horses.”

  The moon was well up. Ulf gestured for his companions to wait. Lidsmod kept his hand on the head of his short ax, snug in his belt.

  “What do you see?” Ulf asked Lidsmod.

  In the dark was a farm. There were human dwellings; Lidsmod could not tell how many. A few. There would be dogs. Lidsmod imagined men and women just beginning to sleep. This was a dark, flat, mean place.

  What a miserable little house, thought Lidsmod. Could people live in such a hovel? Most Spjothof folk would not let pigs live in such a dwelling. It was made of mud, and it was peaked like a squashed cap, so water would run down the moldy thatch. A shutter was fastened, but it hung crookedly. A line of firelight flickered.

  If there were golden riches in this new land, it would not be here.

  The men crept forward. Judging from the sound of sleepy conversation, humans lived in one half of the building—if you could call it a building—and the animals were kept in the other. The door half gave under a push, and the heat of animals breathed out at them. Ulf cut the thong that served as a latch.

  A cow bulked against Lidsmod. She was warm and huge. Her wet nose brushed against his hand as he found a rope made of grasses and fastened it around her. Her hooves made a rustle in the straw as Lidsmod tugged.

  She would not move. It was like pulling an oak. A man’s voice said something, and a human figure marred the darkness. In their eagerness, the searchers had made the mistake of believing that a wall separated the human from the animal living quarters, but there was no such wall.

  The mud-house dweller stayed where he was, listening. The cow began to follow Lidsmod, and it was as though a portion of the dwelling detached itself and followed him through the night. Ulf and Eirik hurried after the cow. The voice called after them, unfamiliar words, and a bloused figure ran and stopped in the moonlight. Lidsmod understood the man’s confusion, and was thankful for it. What farmer expects to be awakened by four armed cow thieves?

  “So,” said Eirik dryly, “we can ride a cow through the countryside. We will terrify the bravest of men.”

  Ulf asked, “Where’s Gorm?”

  “Leave Gorm to his adventures,” said Eirik. “A cow wasn’t good enough for him. He wants blood.”

  The cow balked again, and Eirik and Lidsmod got behind her to push. She did not move.

  “Stick her with something,” said Ulf.

  Eirik drew his sword and pinked her. The cow stumbled, and the rope was whipped from Lidsmod’s hand as she bolted ahead of them. The men ran, Eirik working his sword back into its scabbard. A cow can be light on her feet when she feels danger, and a cow can run for a good distance when she has to. As he hurried forward, Lidsmod had time to consider the nature of cows.

  He had always had a good understanding of animals, and he did not blame her for running. Still, he did not like this race through puddles splashed with starlight, and when the cow began to slow to a trot, Lidsmod was glad. This would make a wonderful poem, he considered. No doubt Eirik would add this to his Raven saga. The star-cow, bolting through brambles, followed by the stalwart heroes through the night.

  Lidsmod snatched the grass rope. The cow rolled the whites of her eyes, and he patted her, speaking to her in the tone that had always calmed animals at home.

  Gunnar ran his hands over the cow. The searchers had done the right thing, but without fire they could not roast the cow, and no man was certain a fire would be safe.

  “It’s a mean, low place,” said Lidsmod. “No dogs, no horses that I could see. Hardly a place fit for men.” He did not have to say that there was certainly no gold.

  No search was a total failure, Gunnar explained. If a man found very little, he did not have to linger where he was. Gunnar was satisfied, and said so. They would leave at dawn and travel upriver.

  The missing Gorm, however, was a problem. A man like Gorm could cause alarm to be spread over the countryside. They were a small group of fighting men and would need surprise on their side.

  In the first light, Njord inspected Raven, showing Lidsmod that the caulking between the strakes remained in good condition. Near the prow a little work with a maul and some tar was required, but the ship was sound.

  The new country was a lurid green. It had been a long time since any seaman had seen such a flat, empty place. The river had been in flood recently—there were many dead trees along the bank. Terns worked the river, the white-and-black birds laughing to each other.

  Opir milked the cow, and many of the men had a taste of the warm, thick beverage. Gunnar unknotted the rope and slapped the animal to encourage her to leave. “We give the cow back to the land,” said Gunnar.

  Lidsmod knew why
. A gift looks for return. Perhaps the gods would remember this. The cow bounded out of the camp. It was not a camp now, really. Blankets were packed into sea chests. Men stood ready.

  “Gorm is off riding the Westland maidens,” Opir quipped, trying to sound unconcerned, “treating them like steeds.”

  Lidsmod could sense the tension in the men. No one wanted to be trapped here on a river shore to be slaughtered by farmers.

  When a lone figure slipped from a thicket, Gunnar half drew his sword.

  14

  It was impossible, at first, to recognize Gorm.

  He was muddy, all the way up his woolen leggings, and his tunic was clotted with gore. The blood was black, and even Lidsmod knew enough to reckon the number of hours since Gorm had killed.

  Gorm washed his clothes in the river, careful, like all the men of Spjothof, to stay as clean as possible, rinsing his pale yellow hair in the water.

  Gunnar knelt as Gorm washed, and Lidsmod could hear Gunnar’s taut voice. “Every man in the land will have a sword waiting for us now.”

  Gorm did not answer at once. He lifted his dripping head. Water trickled down his face. “They were in my way. I was searching.” Gorm knew he had more knowledge of this land than any other man now. “It was only a man and a woman, and a child. An infant. Hardly a killing. No one saw me. They’ll think trolls did it.”

  Gorm was pleased. It had been the best night in years, he told himself. There had been sweet darkness and the smell of just-spilled blood, a smell like the sea, but deeper, richer. His sword had sung against bone. It was a delicious feeling. No man from Spjothof could be as silent as Gorm, or kill so well.

  “But no gold,” added Gorm. “Nothing like it. Not even copper or brass. Wood and leather, and cracked, worn-out examples of that. I spied into other dwelling huts. No horses. A few swords of no great value. I was quiet, Gunnar. They did not wake, or even stir. You wanted a search—I searched.”

  Every man was listening now. Gunnar asked, “No gold fortress?”

  Gorm grinned at all the attentive eyes, pleased to be admired. “A fortress, and a few men asleep. If there was gold there, I didn’t see it. There were goblets and other strange objects of half lead. Some were inset with stones. I cut them out. Look, here they are. This opal stone may have some value.” Men had first claim to what they found, but secret hoarding was condemned.

  Gunnar fingered the opal stone. It was pretty, but any Rhineland trader had offered thousands prettier than this.

  “We’ll be low in the water with gold in a few days,” said Gorm. “I think it’s a good thing there was no treasure here. This means there’s even more gold in another place. They must store it all together. In a few nights, we’ll be wealthy men.”

  The wind carried the ships up the broad river. The current was sky gray. The banks were a distant blanket of land on either side of the river. The men of Landwaster manned oars to try to keep pace with the other two vessels.

  “They died like lambs,” Gorm said. “Like rags I wiped my sword on.”

  The men of Raven honed swords, worked leather, and listened.

  “They didn’t fight,” continued Gorm, “and the woman didn’t even struggle. I mounted her, and then I cut her throat. It wasn’t even pleasure. It was too easy. This is going to be so simple—we will all grow fat. We will wear out our man parts and get so lazy we won’t know how to man an oar. The ships will sink under the gold—”

  “Look, I’m Gorm,” said Opir, “rutting everything that moves.” Opir made an excellent imitation of Gorm. His eyes flicked back and forth, and his tongue hung out.

  There was laughter.

  “There’s no need to be afraid of these people,” said Gorm, steel in his voice. “They don’t even have sweat baths—”

  “I know what Gorm’s telling us,” said Opir. “He’s warning us that these women stink.”

  Some men laughed; all were amazed. Could it be these Westland men and women never bathed? Men discussed it. Perhaps the people the four had encountered the night before had been people of little virthing—worth. Perhaps they had been thralls, the lowest sort of slave.

  Lidsmod kept quiet, listening. He eyed the banks of the river. The entire country could not be made up of thralls. There had to be jarls and fighting men. There had to be karls—men who owned land and weapons and would not welcome thieves.

  The wind grew weak. Every ship showed oars, the wooden paddles churning the current.

  Opir gave a loud hiss. He pointed.

  A river craft, with one man.

  An ugly boat, a vessel like a cooking pot. The river man gawked at them briefly and then turned his attention to his own business. A roll of gray netting lay at his feet. The man plainly had seen trading ships before, and he appeared to assume that these were three sea freighters. His lack of surprise was a good sign, Lidsmod thought. Where traders came and went there was also gold coin. But then perhaps the river man was not certain about these ships—he kept looking back, his face the color of ram leather.

  Njord chuckled. “We don’t look quite friendly, do we?”

  The river man began to row hard. It was truly a ridiculous boat, like a nutshell. Raven and Crane raced toward it, the two ships skimming the water. Trygg fixed an arrow to his bowstring, and fired the silver splinter high into the air.

  It splashed beside the homely boat. The man had a peaked cap, the shape of an elbow. A man in Crane was spending arrows into the river too. It was a waste of arrow wood. Raven reached the man first, and Floki leaned between the shields and speared the man so hard that the point of the spear passed through him. It punctured the bottom of the boat, and the nutshell filled with blood and water, and sank.

  No one spoke. No one was interested. The river man was unimportant to the seamen. He had been there; they had killed him. A river fisher was dead. No one cared except, perhaps, Trygg, who cursed his bow.

  But Lidsmod could think of nothing else, his grip hard on the oar. Lidsmod had never seen a man killed before.

  Lidsmod saw the boatman’s face, even now. His slack, suddenly death-stupid face. And Lidsmod wondered at the carefree faces of his shipmates. Did none of these suddenly unfamiliar men feel the same, sickening chill? Lidsmod felt himself shrink. His grip on the oar was weak. Lidsmod Littleax. Lidsmod who did not want to kill.

  The rowing quickened without any command.

  There was a town, a squat, low town with a few low, ugly river craft. There was a tower, and a line of ugly roofs obscured by the smoke of cooking fires. It was distant, across the wide river, and no face showed to observe the three ships.

  They rowed hard.

  When the drab town was behind them, men muttered—too many people. But certainly a gold fortress was there. Perhaps on the way back they would share some blows with the city people after they knew how well these men could fight. They would see how badly these river women smelled.

  But not now.

  The riverbanks were lined with trees, and within these just-leafing trees there were almost certainly unfriendly eyes. The birdsong was sour, the pasture walls that ran along the river made not of clean, ax-sharpened wood, like the fences of Spjothof, but mist-gray, mossy stones.

  It rained, and then stopped raining. The sky cleared, and there were soft clouds, white as Njord’s hair. This was a very foreign sky, thought Lidsmod. This was a river-country sky. Unless they took keel to land again soon, and took some gold into their hands, the men would become uneasy.

  They were parting the river water well now, Raven coursing far ahead of the other two ships. The very ease with which Gorm had taken lives last night made this land all the more mysterious. Some of the men began to sense a trap, and Lidsmod guessed what each oarsman was whispering to his mate: danger everywhere. They were not afraid for a moment, they convinced themselves. They were wary.

  But they were growing apprehensive. The men of Spjothof did not have leaders, except for those men who were naturally most capable. If a leader became confused,
or if he became tired, another replaced him. There was no shame in this. If one man could not lead, another would do the job. Gunnar, however, would be the land commander. He had proven himself against the Danes, and even Egil, leadman of Landwaster, listened when Gunnar spoke.

  Lidsmod tried to fashion a quiet prayer. Thor was the provider of strength. He gave the fat herring, and he gave the field alive with lambs. He gave rain, and he gave vigor to the arm of man. Battle, of course, belonged to Odin, and so did the special strengths and twists of fortune that battle incurred. Poetry was Odin’s, and the bear spirit of a man like Torsten. Power, sky power, and the power of the strong fist belonged to Thor. Lidsmod considered asking Eirik to fashion a song that would catch the god’s ear.

  Lidsmod was first to see the boy on the riverbank.

  15

  The boy carried a shepherd’s crook, and a dog tended the sheep.

  The youth stared and ran at the sight of Raven. He stopped up-slope, staring hard again at the river.

  The young man ran again, scattering sheep, and there was something strange about his gait, something awkward, one arm much thinner than the other. An alert shepherd, thought Lidsmod. A creature with enough wits to be worried.

  Njord steered the ship toward the bank. “Smart lad,” said the helmsman. “Wiser than the river man.”

  But the shepherd’s haste had told the men of Raven they were close to a settlement. Even in his inexperience, Lidsmod knew that fleeing goosemaids and panicked harvesters always ran in the direction of their homes.

  The afternoon sun showed fewer trees. Cattle had worn paths along the bank. The smell of hearth smoke reached the river, the odor of green, unfamiliar wood. Some of the trees had been cleared recently, the white ax cuts still unweathered on the stumps.

  Raven’s keel sliced river bottom, and the men worked her out of the water as far as she would go and lashed her to a big tree.

  As the other ships came up, Gunnar told Ulf to search alone, quickly, and see what lay before them.