by Robert Low
‘You robbed a church,’ Ulf went on and Ogmund finally had had enough. The casual trio, the whole raid, had him ruffled as a wet cat and Ulf taking on the mantle of leader here was more than enough.
‘When I need you to speak, Ulf Bjornsson,’ he said, low and harsh as grinding quernstones, ‘I will find a dog and have it bark.’
Someone snickered at the back and Ulf jerked his reins so hard the horse threw up its head in protest and scattered bit-foam.
‘You lead here?’ demanded Gudrod and Ogmund nodded. The man with the squashed nose laughed, a high, thin sound. Ogmund saw his top lip stick to his teeth; that sign of nerves gave him a little comfort. He realised, suddenly, that the man had no bone in his nose, which gave it the look.
‘There was no harm done in the church,’ Gudrod went on easily in that hollow-helmet voice. ‘It was a misunderstanding. We sought enlightenment only, not riches. A priest decided that we were not Christian enough for him. And here is me, baptised and everything, as fine a Christian as yourself, whoever you are.’
‘Ogmund Liefsson, of Jarl Godred’s Chosen,’ Ogmund replied automatically, cursing himself for his lack of manners.
‘Godred? Is that Godred, son of Harald? The one who is called Hardmouth much of the time?’ demanded Gudrod, his light, amused tone still apparent even filtered through the ringmail over his mouth. ‘Does he still bellow like a bull with a wasp up its arse?’
A few men chuckled and Ogmund turned a little to silence them.
‘What enlightenment?’ demanded Ogmund, deciding to ignore Gudrod’s question. ‘What brings the last of Eirik Bloodaxe’s sons all the way to a wee chapel in the wilds of Mann? Is your mam looking for a priest to confess her sins to?’
The implication that there was no-one closer who would absolve Gunnhild did not wing its way past those behind Ogmund and there were more chuckles, which Ogmund was pleased to hear.
Gudrod may have scowled under his helmet, but only he knew. The hands shifted, spreading wide in a graceful gesture, like a smile.
‘We sought a priest, certainly,’ Gudrod replied. ‘Though it appears he is not to hand. So we will leave as peacefully as we came.’
‘Ha!’ roared Ulf. ‘You and your handful will get what you deserve — the end of a rope.’
The head turned to him and even Ogmund felt the wither of those unseen eyes.
‘Whisht, boy,’ said the metal voice. ‘Men are speaking here.’
Ulf howled then and Ogmund heard the snake-hiss rasp as he dragged his blade out.
‘Stay!’ he roared out, but Ulf had blood in his eye and was kicking the horse, which had started to doze and was now sprung awake. Shocked, it leaped forward and, without stirrups, Ulf swayed off-balance, so that his sword waved wildly.
‘Od,’ said the flat-nosed man. ‘Kill him.’
The beautiful boy-man moved like silk through a finger-ring. Ogmund had never seen anything move so fast — yet he saw it clearly enough, like a form in a storm-night, etched for an eyeblink against the dark by a flash of lightning. The figure flicked the sword up and out of the belt-ring with the fingers of his left hand, swept it from the air with his right, took one, two, three steps and leaped, turning in the air as he did so, bringing weight to the stroke.
There was a dull clunk and a wet hiss, then the man called Od landed lightly on his feet and turned to stride, unconcerned, back to where he had started. Something round and black bounced once or twice and rolled almost to Ogmund’s feet.
The horse cantered on, then tasted the iron stink of blood, squealed and tried to run from it, so that the body on its back, blood pluming from the raggled neck, tipped, slumped and finally fell off into the broom.
There was silence. Ogmund looked at the thing at his feet and met Ulf’s astounded left eye; the right had shattered in the fall and watery blood crept sluggishly from the severed neck.
‘This is Od,’ Gudrod said in his inhuman voice, waving one hand at the angel. ‘He is by-named Hrafndans.’
Ravendance. It was such a good by-name that men sucked in their breath at it, as if they could see those black birds on branches, joyously bobbing from foot to foot as they waited for the kills this youth would leave them. They looked at this Od, then, as he took to one knee, sword grasped by the hilt and held like a cross, praying. It was when he licked Ulf’s blood from his blade that they all realised that it was Tyr Of Battles, the Wolf’s Leavings, he was praying to, dedicating Ulf’s life to the god. There was a flurry of hands as they crossed themselves.
‘You should know that Od is only one of my crew. Nor did I come from Orkney on a little faering,’ Gudrod said. ‘I am the son of Queen Gunnhild and King Eirik Bloodaxe, after all.’
Ogmund licked his lips. Once he had had to beat a horse until it bled before it would cross a tiny rivulet to the green sward on the other side, and when it did so, the leap took it into the sucking bog that had only looked like a firm bank. Ogmund had spent a long, sweating time hanging on while the horse plunged and struggled itself back to trembling safety, knowing that if he fell in his ringmail he was doomed.
He felt that same fear now, glancing round at the trees where men were hidden, he was sure. How many ships would Bloodaxe’s son bring from Orkney? His sister was married on to the jarl, in the name of God — how many ships would he not bring? The trees hid long hundreds of men in Ogmund’s mind.
‘So we will leave,’ Gudrod ended, his voice cold as the metal rings which hid his face. ‘You will not stop us.’
Which is what happened. Ogmund considered the sight of them vanishing from him, then stirred Ulf’s head with one foot.
‘Gather this up,’ he said. ‘We will take him back and tell everyone that he died for pride and stupidity and that the three miserable bandits who raided were actually a prince of Orkney and many ships of men. Though they outnumbered us, our fierceness chased them off.’
The others agreed, because they had been too feared to fight and knew it, a secret shame they did not want out in the world. It began to rain a little, a cooling mist that refreshed Ogmund as he watched Ulf loaded like a sack on to his uneasy horse. Ogmund smiled to himself, careful not to let it show on his face; it had not been such a bad day.
Two miles away, the three miserable bandits rested on a knee and Gudrod took off the helmet, so that he could raise his face, like a bairn’s fresh-skelped arse, to the cool mirr of rain. His short, curled beard pearled with moisture.
‘No Drostan,’ Gudrod declared. ‘But at least we learned something from those monks — old Irish-Shoes is here on Mann, in Holmtun.’
‘Aye, well — the church in Holmtun was where Hoskuld said the priest lived. Olaf Cuarans will have him,’ Erling said with a certainty he did not entirely feel. ‘His hand is closer, after all — he rules here as well as Dyfflin, no matter what Hardmouth Godred MacHarald thinks.’
‘You would think that the priests of this place would know this Drostan,’ Gudrod said, baffled. ‘What news he brought — of a dead companion — is worthy of being written down by them who scratch down everything that goes on. If they did, they kept that writing hidden well — there is no mention of a monk called Drostan coming to them with news of two dead in the hills. You would also think that Godred Hardmouth would know that and tell his Chosen Men.’
Erling shrugged, having no explanation for any of it. Truth was, he had never thought to find any monk or priest and that tales of Eirik’s famous axe were just that — tales. As for searching out writings — well, none of them here could read and if the monks had admitted to it, the document they scribbled on would have to have been taken to someone who could unravel the Latin of it. He kept his lip stitched on all this, all the same, for Gudrod was Eirik’s son and the Witch-Queen his mother.
‘Olaf Cuarans is where we go next,’ Gudrod said, settling the helmet in the crook of his arm. ‘Old Irish-Shoes wants my da’s axe, that is certain and he is sleekit as a wet seal — it would not surprise me if he told no-one his plans, not
even his hard-mouthed jarl here.’
Erling swallowed thickly at the idea of sailing into Holmtun proper and facing the might of the Dyfflin Norse.
‘Is that wise, lord? Orkney and Ireland have never been friends.’
‘My mother wishes it,’ Gudrod said and his tolling bell voice was as hard metal as if he still wore the helmet, ‘so we must find a way.’
‘She will have me be a king yet,’ he added bitterly and ran one hand through the iron raggles of his thinning hair. ‘Since I am the youngest.’
Erling got stiffly to his feet, saying nothing, though he knew that Gunnhild’s youngest had in fact been called Sigurd, by-named the Slaver. Klypp the Herse had killed him some time ago, after Sigurd forced himself on his wife while a guest in his hall. Gudrod was not so much Gunnhild’s youngest as the only one of her sons left alive.
This did not, he thought to himself sullenly, give him the right to put them all in danger.
‘Next time,’ he said bitterly, ‘we will take all the crew with us, I am sure.’
Gudrod only grunted, something between laughter and scorn, then jerked his fleshy chin towards Od, who was picking the congealed blood from the blade as he cleaned it, sucking his fingers now and then. He looked up and smiled blandly at Gudrod and Erling from under the dagged black curtain of his hair.
‘We have your heathen dog,’ Gurdrod said and then unlooped a small bag from his belt and grinned. Erling sighed.
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘we should be moving on. There is no time for hnefatafl.’
‘There is always time for ’tafl,’ Gudrod replied, unfolding the cloth and placing the counters. ‘Anyway, it should not take long — you are a poor player.’
Erling sighed, then turned to look at Od.
‘Do not do that,’ he said. ‘You will be sick.’
Od smiled like a summer’s day, his lips bright with blood.
‘I am never sick,’ he answered.
THREE
The Frisian coast, a little later …
Crowbone’s Crew
Crowbone lay on the lip of the seawall, peering through the grass and meadow flowers. Bees hummed and, next to him, Kaetilmund lay, chewing a stem and squinting across the neat fields to the raised mound and the houses on it.
A terp it was called, a mound heaped up above the floodplain in case the earth dyke that Crowbone lay on was not enough to keep out the sea. The fields might be awash, but the Frisian folk of this place would keep their homes dry on an island of their own making.
‘What is that one doing?’ Kaetilmund demanded and Crowbone had to admit, for once, that he did not have any idea. The thrall had an axe and looked to be trying to cut a section from a branch that had a slight curve at one end to use on the pole lathe next to him. An old man was watching him, unconcerned, perhaps to make sure he did not use the axe for anything but woodcutting, though the thrall was not having a deal of success with that.
He cut once, twice — then the head flew off the axe and he went and fetched it, stuck it back on the haft and bent over the thick branch again. One, two, three — and the head flew off the axe. He went to fetch it. The old man shook his head in sorrow and spat.
The idiot thrall, small and dark and ragged, was not what occupied Crowbone. He and Kaetilmund had come to see if this was the place the snake-boat raiders had launched from and, if so, how many men they had left.
By the time the Swift-Gliding had been worked to shore with a makeshift steerboard fastening of poor bast rope there was the raid-thrill on all of Hoskuld’s crew, which made the Oathsworn laugh. Thick as linen on those who had never had much chance for raiding, it set them to staring at the land with their hands flexing, as if grasping hilt and shaft. They no longer saw wave or water, only riches and fame and Gjallandi, as grinning and glaured with it as any of them, clapped their shoulders and spoke of gold, boasting of old exploits and new ones to come.
Crowbone and Kaetilmund had gone ahead and now it was clear there were few, if any, fighting men left in the Frisian place. There was the idiot thrall who made Kaetilmund chuckle and that was interesting enough. There was the white-haired Frisian who watched him and the man in the cage nearby.
There was the strangeness that Crowbone studied, his head cocked to one side. The man had been imprisoned for a time, it seemed, and was hard to see into the shadows of the cage. Yet he was a man in a cage and, every now and then, the idiot thrall would stop and peer in, as if anxious, then go back to doing what clearly was fretting to Kaetilmund.
‘Odin’s arse, man — fix the fucking axehead,’ he muttered, as if the thrall could hear him. The thrall thought up a new way and tried many little, fast strokes, since large ones simply loosened the axehead faster. That caused the branch to shift sideways and, after chasing it for a few steps, the thrall put a foot on it and kept cutting, so that Kaetilmund sucked in his breath and at once by-named the idiot No-Toes, since he predicted that as the most likely outcome.
Then the thrall changed the branch round and this time, when he put his foot on it, he did it on the curved end, so that it flew up and smacked his shin. The old man shouted something; Kaetilmund stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing aloud and the effort squeezed a fart from him.
Crowbone did not laugh. Memory washed through him of another time he had lain hidden in the grass, a memory dark as Munin’s wings. Lying in the grass above Klerkon’s summer settlement on Svartey, the Black Island, having run away yet again. Of course, being an island, there was no escape from Klerkon, the raider who had taken Crowbone and his mother and killed his foster-father. For all that, escape was what Crowbone had done more than once and, each time, hunger had driven him back to see what he could steal — and each time he had been captured he had been punished more harshly than before.
They had seen him this time, too, so that he had crouched down and pretended to be dead, not moving, not breathing, hidden in the long grass and so small at eight that he could easily be missed as they swished a way towards him.
Then a fart hissed out of him. He thought that was good, for he knew that the dead farted, sheep and men both and so would add to his subterfuge. Then the hand had gripped him like a vice and one of Klerkon’s men, Amundi Brawl, hauled him up, laughing about how the smell had given him away.
Klerkon, his goat-face twisted with anger, had thrown Crowbone back to Inga, Randr Sterki’s wife, snarling at her to make sure the boy knew he was a thrall and not to let him loose again. Inga, furious at having been so embarrassed, fetched sheep-shears and a seax, then cropped Crowbone’s head to the bone and beyond, flicking off old scabs and scraping new wounds until the blood got in the way and she gave up.
‘There,’ she said, wiping her hands clean on dry grass brought by her own son, the grinning Eyvind, full of his ten years and malice at his ma’s tormentor.
‘Now,’ Inga said, ‘you will be fixed to the privy by a chain and stay there until you learn that you are a nithing thrall.’
‘I am a prince,’ he had spat back and she had smashed his mouth with a scream of rage. He had wanted his mother, then, but she was already dead, kicked to death by the man who had put his bairn in her. It was him, Kveldulf, who fastened Crowbone to the privy and left him there.
Revenge. The day Orm and the Oathsworn had come to raid Klerkon and freed him, the day Klerkon’s own precious bairn went against the side of a wall and had the life broken from it with a snap and a last wail, that day he got his revenge.
Inga, begging and pleading, snarling and fighting, as the Oathsworn held her down and someone — who had it been? Crowbone squeezed his head, but could not remember clearly. Red Njal, maybe? Finn? No matter — the man who had broken his way into Inga had stabbed her first and a frantic Eyvind had died trying to save her. Orm had taken off the back of his head with a sword-stroke.
Crowbone had bent to Inga as the men had left her, choking in her own blood on the flank of a dying ox.
‘I am a prince,’ he had said, his breat
h wafting the dying flutter of her eyelashes. ‘You should have listened.’
Princely revenge. He shook the memories from him and shoved them back in the black sea-chest he kept in his head. Stuffed full, it was, of all those matters a prince finds expedient and necessary. Lesser men are allowed to brood on them, Crowbone thought, but princes who would be kings cannot afford them. Vladimir had taught him that, having learnt it from his own father, the harsh Sviatoslav.
‘Thor’s hairy balls,’ Kaetilmund hissed with delight. ‘We have to have this thrall, Crowbone, just for the joy of watching him.’
Crowbone stirred out of the past and peered down. The thrall had cut his length of wood and fixed it to the lathe, wrapping the rope round it once, then twice. It was clear the lathe-grip was faulty, for when he pumped the footboard, the lump of wood spun obligingly — then flew off like an arrow from a bow, straight into the open doorway of a house. There was a shriek and a clatter, followed by a scream of woman who lunged out and proceeded to shriek at the old man, who in turn took to battering the thrall round the head and shoulders, grunting and red-faced with the effort.
The thrall took it all, half-curled, like a rock in a storm. When it had washed over him and the woman went off, panting, he got wearily to his feet, fetched the lump of wood, wrapped it in the rope and fastened it on the lathe.
‘No, no,’ Kaetilmund declared with glee. ‘Surely not …’
But he did. He pumped the footboard, the lump of wood flew off and smacked the side of the house, then bounced, scattering chickens in an irate din.
Crowbone turned and grabbed Kaetilmund’s shoulder, signalling that they should slither away, as the woman burst from the house with fresh howls.
There were more shrieks when men from the sea came down on them not long after, grey and snarling as wolves. Shrieking and running, dragging stumbling bairns by the wrist, what was left of the little terp went out across their mean fields like scattering sheep.