The White Raven

by Robert Low

  'A woman, a dog and an old oak tree,' muttered Finn, taking the needle. Everyone silently finished the old saw for him — the more you beat them, the better they be. No-one said it aloud, all the same, not even Red Njal's granny

  Thorgunna snorted, clattering bowls and heaping snow in a cauldron to melt. 'Little Olaf, if you have a story now is a good time to hoik it out.'

  It was a pointed remark, since folk had grown so used to the boy's presence they had all but forgotten him — but now heads turned to where the boy perched, friend to prince and Goat Boy alike and he smiled into Finn's scowl, though it never reached either of his different-coloured eyes.

  'There was an eagle,' he began and I held up a warning hand to him, for his stories bit like a dog on the hand that feeds it and there had been enough discord. I said as much and he shrugged his bony shoulders under the dirty white cloak.

  'I will hear it,' growled a voice and we all turned to where Kvasir huddled, a cloth across both eyes, for his good one ached, he said, in the bright of the fire. He asked for the tale for Thorgunna's sake, I knew and I cursed him for it. Silently.

  'There was an eagle,' Crowbone began, once I had nodded agreement. 'Young and in the first of his strength. Long ago it was — do not ask me when — and in a place far from here — do not ask me where — in the time wyrm were still seen above ground and not curled in the secret earth on a bed of gold.'

  'If there is gold in it, this sounds like a tale I will like,' Finnlaith interrupted cheerfully, but Ospak nudged him silent.

  'There was such a wyrm,' Crowbone went on, 'and the eagle and the wyrm were friends, or so the wyrm believed, for he took pleasure in the eagle's company and was lavish with his generosity in his cosy hov, so that the eagle returned again and again.'

  'Heya,' agreed Hauk, grinning. 'I also have tasted the wyrm's generosity.' And he hoisted up his wooden cup to me, as if it was a mead-full horn and we were all in such a cosy hov.

  Others chuckled, echoing the sentiment; so the allusion to my name was well made and quickly, too. Nor was it hard to work out who the eagle was and I felt despair creep in and curl up in my belly. This would be his worst tale yet, for sure.

  'Each time the eagle flew away,' Crowbone went on in his wind-thin little voice, 'he laughed, because he could enjoy the hospitality of the wyrm in his hov on the ground, but the wyrm could never reach the eagle's eyrie, which was so far above the wyrm's place.'

  'Not enough eagle in you, either, Orm,' chuckled Red Njal.

  'The eagle's frequent visits, his selfishness and ingratitude became the talk of the other beasts and one thought it best to tell the wyrm of it,' Crowbone continued, ignoring the interruption.

  'The eagle and the frog were never on speaking terms, for the eagle was accustomed to swooping down to carry a frog home for supper, so the frog called on the wyrm and told him. The wyrm did not believe him, so the frog said, "Next time the eagle calls, ask him to give you a lidded cauldron, so that you can also send food to the rest of the eaglets in their eyrie."

  'So he did and the eagle brought a huge lidded cauldron, enjoyed a feast and, as he left he called out, "I will be back for the present for my eyrie." Then he flew away laughing to himself as usual. The frog said, "Now, wyrm, get into the cauldron. I will cover you over with fresh food, then the lid and the eagle will carry you to his hov in the high crags."'

  'I do not care for this frog much,' Finn grumbled. 'Sleekit.'

  'You are not yet done picking all your teeth,' Thordis told him and he shrugged, but fell silent.

  'Presently,' Crowbone went on, 'the eagle returned and flew away with the cauldron, little suspecting that the wyrm was inside, listening to every word the eagle said as it flew. They were as harsh as the frog had described, so that the wyrm was smouldering by the time the cauldron was emptied out into the eyrie.

  'The wyrm crawled from it and said, "Friend eagle, you have so often visited my home that I thought it would be nice to enjoy the hospitality of yours."

  'The eagle was furious. "I will peck the flesh from your bones," he said — but he only hurt his beak against the wyrm's scales.

  'The wyrm, saddened, said, "I see what sort of friendship you offer me. Take me home, for our pact is at an end." The furious eagle sank his talons into the wyrm's scales, which did not hurt the serpent one bit, and lifted him into the air. "I will fling you to the ground and you will be smashed to bits in your fall," shrieked the eagle. The wyrm closed its own fangs on the eagle's leg.'

  'He should just have breathed on him,' shouted Onund. 'Smouldered him to smoke.'

  It was so unexpected an outburst from him that it brought gusts of laughter and the hunchback, unaccustomed to the attention, dropped his neck down and his hump up and went quiet again.

  'He would have singed the eagle's feathers, right enough,' offered Finn pointedly. 'Fried him up, there and then. Why did he not do that in this tale, little Crowbone, eh?'

  'And been stuck, unable to get home?' retorted Crowbone. 'The wyrm has much more clever in him than you, Finn Horsehead.'

  'That is why he is jarl,' added Gyrth pointedly to Finn, 'and you are not.'

  That brought more chuckles and catcalls at Finn's expense, which made him grin and scowl in equal measure. Then Kvasir slapped his thigh with one hand, sharp and loud and silencing.

  'I asked for this tale — now let us hear how it ends.'

  Crowbone acknowledged his marshalling with a slight bow, then cleared his throat.

  'The eagle groaned and moaned,' he continued. 'He demanded to be let go. He turned three times red and three times white, he threatened and then he begged to be released. "I will gladly do so when you set me down at my own home," said the wyrm.'

  Here, Crowbone muffled it out like someone talking and biting at the same time. It was so like Finn with his Roman nail in his mouth that thighs were slapped and appreciative roars went up.

  'The eagle flew high,' Crowbone went on. 'Then he flew low. He darted down with the speed of an arrow. He shook his leg. He turned and twirled, but it was to no purpose. He could not rid himself of the wyrm until he set him down safely in front of the door of his own hov.

  'As the eagle flew away the wyrm called after him, "Friendship requires the contribution of two parties. I welcome you and you welcome me. Since, however, you have chosen to make a mockery of it, you need not call again."

  'And so it is that wyrms took to the dark places of the earth, for they did not trust in eagles, or anyone else, not to steal from them.'

  'Share your wealth, or men will wish you ill in every limb,' Red Njal added, but did not have time to speak of his granny, for Dobrynya had stepped into the last lines of Crowbone's tale. He did not acknowledge that he had heard any of it, nor show that he knew what had been meant by it, only nodded to me and made a little movement of his fire-bloody beard to draw me apart.

  I went to him, while the mutter and growls and low laughs started behind me and my men, who had not missed the point of Crowbone's tale, fell to arguing over it.

  'The prince has decided that we must go to Biela Viezha,' Dobrynya said softly, giving Sarkel its Rus name. 'We will take all the horses we have and use them to haul out the carts of silver we have here and one with supplies. We will then get more supplies and carts and horses from Biela Viezha and return. I have sent Avraham and Morut ahead, to see how matters are in the fortress.'

  A clever move, to see if the garrison at Biela Viezha was willing. Now that Sviatoslav was dead there was no guarantee that this frontier fortress, so recently Khazar, would stay loyal. If it did, then it would be loyal to Jaropolk, prince of Kiev, not Vladimir, prince of far-away Novgorod.

  Dobrynya nodded blandly when I pointed all this out.

  'They will be loyal to profit,' he answered smoothly. 'Novgorod's prince is still a son of Sviatoslay. We will get supplies and horses, enough to use as a pack train. We will come back, take what we can from this place and organize boats to take us downriver to the Dark Sea, for it i
s clear that the ice has been broken that far.'

  Out and away, fast as raiders, that was what Dobrynya had persuaded his nephew was best. He was not wrong; we could not plunder the whole wealth of Atil's tomb, but even what we had now was a fortune. After a visit to Biela Viezha, though, the place would be no secret; scavengers would arrive in droves and the fighting would begin over who owned it.

  I nodded agreement, adding: 'As soon as I have seen to Short Eldgrim.'

  Dobrynya blinked a bit and I saw he was hoping to go at first light and that my hunting around in Atil's howe for someone he clearly thought dead was a waste of crucial time. To be honest, I thought this also and did not much care about Brondolf Lambisson, huddled in the dark with his cold silver. That and the fear of what Hild-fetch lurked there made me want to agree with Dobrynya — but Short Elgrim and the Oath drove me into the dark.

  His pause was brief, then he nodded and smiled. We clasped wrists on it and he went back to his little eagle, sitting at the fire and laughing with silver-nosed Sigurd. Crowbone was now there, sitting with his uncle — and Kveldulf, which I did not like.

  And Jon Asanes, which I liked even less.

  It was the heart of ice, that dread tomb. So cold it froze flame, as Finn had once promised and even he now saw the raw, gleaming power of it as he slid down the knotted rope with his nail in his teeth and one hand clutching a guttering torch.

  I held its twin, clutched the rune sword in my other hand — I would not have gone down into the maw of that hole without that blade — and waited for him. The flicker of torchlight turned the rime-slathered place into a bounce of sparkles, like the sun on moving sea, as we turned, half-crouched and prepared for anything.

  I had been in this place once before, but Finn never had and I saw his jaw slacken so that the slavered Roman nail fell from it, hitting the frosted floor. It should have clattered out echoes, but that place sucked sound in and he only noticed it was gone from his mouth when he breathed, ragged and gasping.

  The rope trembled when he let it go, a thin hope that led back to the patch of pale light and the world of the living. Here, though, there was only death, grinning from the huge, silver throne, leprous with cold; I could hardly bring myself to look at it.

  When I did, I saw the faded brocade of once rich robes, laid neatly on the throne as a cushion for bones, including the skull that smiled welcome. Atil's skull.

  'Einar?' Finn managed at last from lips that trembled and not from the cold of the place.

  I shook my head. There was a scatter of bones in front of that great ice-slathered throne and some of them belonged to Ildico, the princess who had killed Atilla — one forlorn wrist and forearm, five centuries yellowed, hung still from the shackles that had fastened her forever to Atil's last seat.

  The others belonged mostly to Einar; I saw a skull, still with long straggles of black wisping it, all that remained of his crow-wing hair, and pointed to it it. Swallowing, Finn made a warding sign and fumbled to pick up his Roman nail.

  'Heys, old jarl,' he whispered, as if afraid to speak aloud. 'We have come back, as you see. Treat us kindly.'

  I did not think he would, much. I had left Einar sitting on that throne, skewered by me but dying even as I finished him. Atil's remains, swaddled in those rich robes, had been torn from the seat by Hild in her frantic eagerness to seize one of his two rune swords.

  Yet now they were back, neatly placed and Einar had been scattered like a dead dog at Atil's feet. I peered and poked warily, found and rolled other skulls into the light of the torch — Ketil-Crow, Sigtrygg, Illugi, who had all died here.

  I said their names, the sound of my voice falling like snow off a roof, dull and soft.

  'And her, Bear Slayer?' Finn asked, tucking the nail down one boot, recovering a measure of his old swagger. 'This one looks a little small to be any head I remember. Perhaps this is Hild.'

  Ildico, I was thinking, as he held up the yellow grin and empty sockets of her, whose arm was still fastened to the throne. I did not think we would find Hild, for I did not think she was dead. Someone had restored Atil to his throne and made a clear gesture with the bones of intruders. I did not think Lambisson had done it and said so.

  That made Finn frown and think and not like what he came up with. He held the torch up higher, shifting the light on the dark paths between tall cliffs of bulked blackness. I saw his face the moment the truth hit him, knew that he was about to ask where all the silver was hidden, when he saw it.

  He gasped aloud and sank to his knees with the sheer scale of it. All that bulked blackness WAS the silver, age-dark and heaped up like old lumber. Bowls, ewers, wine pitchers, statues, plates, cups, most of them decorated with embedded gems, half buried in seas of coins and armrings, fastened together by age and ice.

  There were shields, too, spearheads, blades, even bits of armour, crushed together with great platters fixed with mother-of-pearl, silver statues of animals with gold fangs, dancing girls poised on alabaster bases, gleaming, cold-frozen birds with amber eyes and ivory wings.

  Under our feet was a massive auroch horn, banded in silver and jasper, a necklace of silver with porphyry stones, a great two-handed silver cup studded with deep-green serpentine, the mask from an ancient helmet, fixed with staring amethyst eyes.

  Finn lifted each one, letting them fall from fingers numb with wonder and cold, then unearthed a half-bent silver plate, big as a wheel, crowded and leaping with ornamental life —palm leaves and lilies and grapes, silvered birds clinging and fluttering among branches, all twined together into an endless network of gleaming buds and plumes. Coins spilled from it like water, a ringing chime of riches.

  He knelt, this man who never bowed the knee and his head and his shoulders shook as he wept at the sheer immensity, at the fact that, after everything that had happened and all who had died, the wild hunt of the Oathsworn ended here, now.

  I was not sure whether he wept for those who had died, or what we had found, or that we had found it at all after all our trouble. Nor did he. It was a sky-cracking moment, seeing Finn shed tears.

  Eventually, he laid the great wheel of silver plate reverently down and fumbled The Godi out its sheath, stood it point down on the silver-litter and clasped his hands on the hilt, head bowed.

  'All Father, one of your own gives thanks this night,' he said. 'Warrior he, faithful he, with companions you know and who walk with you already and who died here. To them I say: "Not now, but soon." To you, I give our thanks and your names.'

  Then he started to recite them, grim and cold names, one by one. As godi, I should have been more reverent, but I had experienced One Eye before and did not think he deserved all this for bringing us here — we had already paid dearly and were not finished, I was sure of that. Distracted, I looked round and saw, from the corner of my eye, a balk of wood and moved to it across an ice-slither of floor.

  It was the collapsed mouth of our old tunnel, the one we had dug into the side of the howe when first we had arrived here with Einar leading us. I remembered Illugi, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground a step away from here, calling on the gods — who were deaf to him by then — to aid us all against the black fetch that was Hild. It had splashed, I remembered, for the howe was flooding . . .

  It had not flooded, all the same. The timber sticking from the wall was from the cart-planks we had used to shore up the tunnel and I remembered floundering in the sucking mud, felt the crushing panic of it while Hild sliced through the supports with the scything rune sword she wielded in her desperate, savage, snarling desire to get to me. The water had been flooding in then, pouring down the balka as it always did when it rained on the steppe, making a lake here, save in the drought of really high summer.

  I laid a palm on the cold, slick freeze of that timber. In there, she was. Her efforts had brought the tunnel down, sealed the howe and left only a slick of water inside it in the end. If she had died, she lay only a few feet away, perhaps only inches, still grasping the other
sword; I touched the wall, but it was iced as tempered steel, too hard to dig out the truth of it.

  'Vafud, Hropta-Tyr, Gaut, Veratyr,' intoned Finn, then finished, unclasping his hands from The Godi's hilt and climbing to his feet like an old man.

  'By the Hammer, Orm boy,' he kept saying, shaking his head. 'Just look at it.'

  I blew on my numbed fingers and laid the other hand, lamb-gentle, on one shoulder; he blinked once or twice, then took up his torch and sword and puffed out his cheeks.

  'Well, I have stood here and seen it for myself,' he said and his eyes were bright when I met them. 'All the silver of the world. Now I know. Now I know, boy.'

  We moved down between the frowning balkas of riches, guttering torchlight throwing eldritch shadows and bouncing diamond-sharp darts back from the hanging icicles that made a silver hall for a warlord's hoard.

  From his mouldering brocade cushion, Atil grinned and watched us go with his dark, dead eyes.

  We found Lambisson a little way down one of the rat-nest passages — or, rather, he found us, for he was crouched in the dark and we came up in the red glare of torches. He was sitting on a pile of scraped-together spoil, all the lighter stuff such as coins and neckrings, little items you could put in a bucket. He looked like a mad frog on a stone.

  'Brondolf,' I said to him, companionably and stopped well short of him, beyond blade reach, for he was just a shadow against the dark to me and I did not know what he had in his hands, or where Short Eldgrim was.

  'You must be Orm Bear Slayer,' came the voice, a whisper of a thing, faint as a Norn thread in that place. Finn moved closer, held up the torch and we saw him more clearly.

  Lambisson was all but gone. The white raven had made a wasteland of his dreams, turned his mind to silver-white while tearing his face to a raw sore and he was so thin his fine tunic hung on him like a drying net on a beach. Hunger and sickness had leached his life away and he no longer resembled the Brondolf Lambisson I had seen, seal-sleek and confident in his fancy mail and helm on a hillside long before. That man was dead; this one surely would be soon enough.