Raven of the Waves

by Michael Cadnum

  “Tomorrow,” said Gorm, “we will make a blood eagle!”

  “Yes!” said Torsten. His voice silenced everyone. He had not spoken since he had been filled with bear spirit. It was as though an oak had spoken. “Blood eagle!” rasped Torsten.

  Gunnar poked the fire. “Odin, be our guide,” he muttered. Lidsmod had heard the old lore of the blood eagle. Gunnar and other leadmen had spoken of it at the ale table, describing it as an ancient practice, rarely actually employed.

  “We will take the jarl,” said Gorm, shaking his fists, “and make an eagle of him for the glory of Odin!”

  26

  The stars trembled in the sky, as though suspended in water. The river whispered. Lidsmod found a seat beside Njord in the darkness.

  “Men like Gorm have their part to play. Don’t worry yourself,” said Njord to Lidsmod. “Some men think that someone has to suffer or the gods are not happy. To live is to pay. Some people say so, and it may well be true.”

  Lidsmod did not tell Njord that he thought Gorm’s love of violence had little to do with any divinity. Njord’s weathered, sunny outlook would never understand a man like Gorm, who was valued for his courage, if little else. Gorm had always been a quiet, aloof man, but the folk of the village remembered how Gorm beat a rival with his fists when a beautiful woman, gifted at weaving, declined his attentions. Gorm pummeled youths who beat him in footraces, and was so quick to ask payment for gambling debts that some men refused to sit at the feasting table with him.

  And yet Gorm had a touch with horses; despite his roughness, animals trusted him. This meant a good deal to his neighbors, who believed that animals, like spirits, could judge a man’s virtue. Lidsmod hoped that the coming battle would place him close to Gorm, where the bitter man’s uncanny sword work would protect his shipmates.

  A man shape climbed into the ship. Ulf said nothing, fumbling for his sea chest. Starlight gleamed off his bald pate as he hefted a honing stone in his palm.

  “Keeping Long and Sharp nameworthy?” asked Njord.

  Ulf gave the customary affirmative grunt of Spjothof. The dark shape of the sword left Ulf’s scabbard. The honing stone rang on steel.

  “Tighten the knots on the thrall,” said Njord to Lidsmod. “Gorm might convince the men they need to practice the ancient art. Who will make a better blood eagle, Gorm will ask, than the new thrall?”

  The Spjotmen were in the ships long before dawn. The black shapes of the prows cut through the last stars. The men rowed silently.

  Lidsmod was happy to row. He was convinced he was ready to kill, and he believed that today there would be more of a battle than in the first village. Torsten would not be able to kill an entire town ready-armed against him. In these times anyone could find himself swept into the Slain Hall, and this thought made the rhythm of the oars in the darkness especially chilling.

  Sometimes men cast lot twigs before a battle to discover whether they would live or die. Near Spjothof there was a special place, a shallow cave outside the village, where a seeker could talk to dead men. The spirits listened, and gave their answers in dreams. This was a spiritless land, however, as far as Lidsmod knew. A dream here was likely to have little meaning.

  The sun was not warm. Its light was like a bitterness in Lidsmod’s mouth and in his entire body, thumb and bowel.

  Gunnar turned and waved to the ships behind them. Raven sliced a wake to the riverbank, and the men dragged Raven up a beach of silt. The other ships joined the newest of them. Soon armed men tested their shield grips and stamped against the cold.

  Gunnar spoke, and the men were silent. The men of Raven would slip though the forest, where Ulf had spied the village the day before. The rest would march directly up the road along the river. The plan of attack was an ancient one, the Crab, in which a large pincer and a smaller one closed on a foe.

  Men adjusted leather straps. Some had been decorated with scarlet paint, because of all the colors, the finest in the world was red. Men straightened their helmet linings, the wool inner cap under the leather. Thongs were untangled, belts cinched. Before sunset the evening before one of the Spjotmen had seen a man dressed like a hunter, with a bow and quiver, running along the river as fast as he could, away from the Viking ships. Certainly the fighting men of the next village had spent the night in preparation.

  Lidsmod, wearing a helmet and carrying a sword but no shield, felt icy. He did not speak or meet any man’s eyes. His sword caught sunlight prettily enough, but the hilt was wrapped with sheep’s hide, many times around, as though its most recent owner had much smaller hands than an earlier, perhaps long fallen, bearer of this weapon. Like any youth of his village, Lidsmod had hacked with wooden swords and knew the basics of blade work. He also guessed that this heavy, capable weapon was destined to have no excellent repute. Nevertheless he spoke to it under his breath, as was normal for a fighting man, and asked the sword for its loyalty, thanking it for finding its way into his hand.

  Njord would stay with the thrall. “If he tries to escape,” Gunnar said to Njord, as he ran a finger across his throat so that the thrall would understand.

  Njord flourished a fish-scaling knife. “Chin to hip, like a haddock.” Njord held the knife in his teeth and tightened the boy’s tether so that such gutting would not be necessary.

  Two men from Crane would stand guard. It was dangerous to leave such a light ship guard, but every hand was needed. Even my own, thought Lidsmod.

  “Lidsmod, you’ll win a shield today.” Ulf grinned.

  Gunnar lifted his sword, and the men of Raven followed him into the forest.

  27

  A empty field stretched between the forest and the village. The earth was dark, recently plowed, clods gleaming.

  The village was deserted, but the spear hall just beyond the town was closed tight, all of its shutters sealed; a breath of smoke lofted from the center of its roof.

  Ulf slipped and fell into the mud, but the bulky warrior was soon on his feet again. Men grunted with the weight of leather armor and with the weight of their own muscle as they quickened their pace, approaching at a trot and, at last, an all-out run.

  No fighter met them. They swept through the first dwellings. Doors and shutters splintered. Pots were dented or crushed. It did not take long to determine that these houses were empty and that they held no treasure. Someone started a fire in a thatched roof, and it smoldered, the wet stuff burning poorly.

  A dog yammered at them, and Floki lanced it. One moment it was barking, and then it was not. It had been a yellow dog; now it was red. The spear pinned it to the mud.

  The dog was the only warrior visible. Pig wallows were abandoned; goose pens held only feathers. The men from the other two ships swirled about, and Gunnar called, “The gold fortress!”

  This gold fortress was near the center of the village, as though to seek protection from the houses around it. It was larger than the first gold fortress, and also better timbered. It had a stone tower, but this tower was complete, as thick around as four hall oaks, and nearly as tall. Opir and Trygg axed the door to white splinters, and even then they had to chop at cross timbers that blocked the way.

  Steps echoed.

  The hall had been stripped. Nothing gleamed; nothing caught the unshuttered sun.

  Gorm danced up and down. “They have stolen it! They have stolen all of it and dragged it to the great hall where they are all hiding!”

  This was, Lidsmod guessed, probably the truth. A cry rose. “To the hall!” the men called. Warriors streamed toward the hall, a tide of armed men.

  An earthwork barrier surrounded the building, a low, sloping wall, the height of a man. It was not tall enough or in any way imposing enough to be impressive. Even as the men charged up the modest slope to the seemingly empty moat that surrounded the hall, the earthwork did not look dangerous.

  But a dozen helmets appeared at the lip of the barrier, and black arrows filled the air. A spear hummed past Lidsmod, and another punctured Eirik’s
shield. He was unhurt, but paused to shake the spear free of his linden-and-leather shield. Gunnar called out a command.

  Ulf was the first to see what Gunnar wanted. The two ran around the hall and leaped into the moat behind the earthworks there, as Lidsmod joined them. The hall guards here were not children. They were trained men, who had been told to wait until they were attacked. A great jarl, Lidsmod reasoned, must command this hall. Only the men of a proud jarl would fight so well.

  Ulf and Gunnar both staggered under the blows of sword and spear, and Lidsmod fell backward. He was on his feet at once, but could not find space to swing his blade. It was the first fighting Lidsmod had ever shared, and yet he did not take a moment to notice what was happening, to shape it into story verse. Other sea warriors crowded behind Lidsmod, but only three or four men could stand side by side within the earthwork.

  These guards had frightened brown and green eyes, and pale, tight lips. They began to hesitate. They were afraid to strike further lest they leave themselves open for counterblows. They were disciplined, Lidsmod saw, but he doubted that they had ever killed before.

  Gunnar crashed his shield, boss against boss, against the shield of the tallest man. The man pushed back, strong-legged and stubborn. Gunnar’s sword sliced through the air in a circle and rang into the man’s helmet. Keen had done its work. No helmet of iron and leather could stand up to a proud sword.

  Still the stubborn man did not fall but fought back, sword against shield. Gunnar struck three more times before the swordsman fell, his dark skull matter bursting from his helmet.

  Ulf killed a guard with one blow and then, as he struggled to free Long and Sharp from the sinews of a neck, another man stabbed at him with a long blue sword, and another, with a dark, forked beard, slashed with a shorter knife, neither man strong nor accurate, but together troublesome.

  Ulf took a deep breath and gave a great cry. “Spjothof!” he cried, so that the men of this place might know the name of the village their slayers came from. At the sound of the name of Ulf’s home, the blue sword came alive, and Ulf pressed his enemy to the wall.

  Lidsmod stayed close to his oar mate, sword heavy in his hand. Ulf hammered with shield and blade. A shield could be an excellent weapon, and Ulf knew how to use it. He struck with his shield and struck with his sword, in an alternating, relentless rhythm.

  Lidsmod struck at a shield thrust before him. More hall guards crowded around Ulf and Lidsmod, driven around the hall by the attack of the Spjotmen. Lidsmod fought blindly, Ulf beside him, both of them attacking a blur of iron and leather. Lidsmod could not draw a breath to cry the name of his home. Both men staggered, their shields hammered by ax and sword. Their backs were to the earthworks. Let Frey support them, prayed Lidsmod, the earth power at their backs and in their legs.

  Blood whipped across shields. A human bear roared, and steel cracked into bone.

  28

  Torsten was at work, slashing, ripping. Three men down, then five. Gorm appeared beside him, slipping past Ulf and Lidsmod. Gorm killed quickly, silently. He stabbed at throats, thighs, crotches, plunged at eyes, butchering men as they buckled.

  There was a cry above them. A white-haired warrior stood on the roof of the hall. He lifted a sword and called to his men in their tongue, speech the Spjotmen could nearly understand. His men fought harder now, and yet Torsten slaughtered them easily. Gorm too had little trouble, parrying, lunging, dirt churned to blood-soaked mud at his feet.

  The white-haired warrior called again, urging his men. Gorm laughed and leaped, grasping the edge of the roof with one hand, clutching at the thatch, hauling himself up and onto the roof.

  The white-haired warrior turned to face Gorm. The old man had a sword in his hand but carried no shield. Gorm straightened in surprise. The man’s eyes were white with milky film. He was blind—Gorm was about to fight a blind man! This, Gorm knew, was the great jarl who had planned this defense. This was the proud man who would be sacrificed to Odin. This would be the blood eagle.

  It was too easy. Gorm stepped to the nobleman’s side. The old warrior was not weak, but Gorm closed his hand over the man’s sword fist and tripped him. The jarl fell, staring about with his sightless eyes.

  The hall guard ran, struggling over the earthwork, fighting to escape. They ran toward the forest; many of the Spjotmen followed, although the fleeing men were fast and reached the forest long before the Spjotmen could catch up.

  The silence was a shock.

  Birds cheered in distant trees. A black bird, nearly like a raven, called at the far edge of the sky.

  “Bind Torsten,” Gunnar snapped. The berserker struggled, and more men fell upon him, holding him down. At last Opir joined in, and Torsten stopped roaring.

  Lidsmod surveyed the blood-slicked dead. His sword was hacked in one place, a silver nick. A man had slashed at Lidsmod and Lidsmod had stabbed back, striking nothing. But he was satisfied. He had been attacked, and had fought back.

  It was enough for an evening tale. “He attacked me, sword against sword, and I stood my ground,” Lidsmod would say during a long fireside winter years from now.

  But the battle had been nothing like a saga. The wounded had bawled. Men had fought bravely only until they could run. Spearmen had wept. Men had died quickly, or had been hacked bit by bit.

  “Find yourself a shield,” said Ulf.

  This was not the Ulf that Lidsmod knew. He was spattered with gore, and he looked larger than the usual Ulf—swollen, powerful. It was eerie to hear the voice of Lidsmod’s friend coming from this battle beast.

  Lidsmod could not speak. He had seen Ulf at work, killing. He felt he did not know Ulf again, or any of his friends. And he did not recognize the great feeling in his heart—exultation, half composed of relief that he was unhurt, and half heady with pride. Their enemy had run so hard!

  “Here’s a stout leather-and-bronze shield,” said Ulf kindly, showing Lidsmod how to wrap his fingers around the grip.

  The hall door was made of black timber. Opir and Trygg axed it, the high sweet song of steel twisting in wood resonating as men watched, swords poised. There was a roar as the door fell inward, and the Spjotmen stormed the hall.

  But quickly they ran out again, spears clattering behind them, a band of defenders still maintaining a stronghold deep within the interior.

  Lidsmod panted beside the door. A spear had just missed him. The shaft had whispered into his ear like the lusty woman he dreamed of sometimes, whispering his name as he mounted her. He was giddy with the knowledge that he had nearly eaten a spear, and he crouched for a moment outside the hall, feeling a shaky sensation very much like joy.

  “Three men could hold off a hundred,” said Ulf.

  Gunnar considered. He lifted Keen. “Follow me!”

  Lidsmod did not look back. Perhaps two men followed Gunnar, perhaps thirty. Lidsmod lifted his all too heavy blade, and rushed the darkness.

  A spear slammed into Lidsmod’s shield. The point punctured all the way through the wood, and the weight of the spear dragged the shield down. A spear sang off Lidsmod’s helmet, a sharp, painful blow. He struck at nothing, and at nothing again, whirling, slashing, until he met iron with his sword.

  The Spjotmen were with him then, and it was quick work. There were only a handful of hall guards, boys and withered, scrawny men whose heads rattled in their helmets. They fell at once. There were five men in black robes, men from the gold fortress. They knelt, offering their heads to the steel; two men from Landwaster killed them.

  Later Lidsmod wondered if he had touched flesh with the edge of his sword, and told himself that he had nipped a forearm and cut a helmet so badly that the man wearing it cried out.

  He had not killed, but each breath was wonderful—he had survived!

  Riches.

  It was like dream gold, beautiful, seeming to radiate silence and power. The flames of the hall fire glittered in the gold and garnets and sapphires. The arms of the seafarers were laden with the heaviness
of treasure.

  “But no women,” Opir taunted Gorm. “The women knew that Gorm the stallion had arrived. They ran away!”

  But the gold was enough to please anyone, Lidsmod thought. Men carried it to the edge of the village, where Eirik sorted it at Gunnar’s direction. There were figures of the bleeding man; images of golden suns bearing faces with dark eyes; images of torture—of suffering, gashed sides. This was solemn treasure, the treasure of a people who had seen violence and understood it. But there was something more here, a presence Lidsmod could not name. If the men and women of this field-strewn land paid homage to this tortured figure with nails through his hands, perhaps these treasures had power.

  Perhaps some unknown divinity guarded such hoards. These images must have some magic, Lidsmod considered uneasily. Black-robed men alone without weapons could not think to protect these golden, hilt-shaped objects. Lidsmod’s mother had told him tales of mountain sprites and of the voice of Thor itself in thunder. Lidsmod guessed there was some charm at work in these golden prizes, or some spirit that defended them.

  These sheepskins covered with runes, these chalices blistered with opals and amethysts—Lidsmod did not trust these objects. Perhaps the Norns had special love for such gold themselves. The figure they saw dying on the sword hilt of gold: what could he be but someone who was being tortured? Perhaps he was a warning that whoever stole this gold would suffer such a death.

  “Blood eagle!” cried Gorm.

  The old jarl was dragged, bound and naked. His white, wrinkled body was tied to a post. His hands were lashed before him, around the green wood pole, and Gorm approached, his sword bright in the sun, to make the eagle.

  Men gathered, cheering. Odin had been generous—there had been great slaughter, and not a single Spjotman hurt. The men knew that Odin would love the death of this great jarl. This man was blind, a handicap Odin would appreciate, and he had been brave. This was a worthy foe, and a fit gift for the one-eyed god.