Crowbone o-5

by Robert Low

  Crowbone stumbled to his knees over a body and started to lever himself up using one of his spears; then he paused at the sight of the little shape, unnaturally still and face down.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ panted Kaetilmund coming up to him, Rovald pounding desperately along behind him. Crowbone did not answer, merely stuck the butt of his spear under the small frame and rolled it over.

  Maelan, his youthful face a fretwork of blood and bone where a blade had punched him. Even his own da would not recognise him.

  Not that it mattered much — two steps further on was his da, who was past recognising anyone. Congalach lay on his back, staring at the sky, his sword still lashed to one hand, the other clutching the burst rings of the mail on his belly and the tarn of his own lost blood thick and dark around him.

  ‘Ah, shite,’ Murrough said as he came up and saw them. ‘A bad day for the Ui Neill and Gaileanga — are them the ones that did this?’

  Crowbone looked to where Murrough pointed his hooked axe and saw the tight group of men moving backwards steadily, shields up and protecting a man in their midst. Beside him, like a great tree in a field of long grass, was a bareheaded giant with a mass of tow-coloured hair.

  ‘Christ’s bones,’ muttered Mar, ‘he is even bigger than yourself, Murrough macMael.’

  ‘So he has further to fall,’ Murrough answered, though he butted the axe and leaned on it thoughtfully — but Crowbone was already waving them forward, for he knew the sight of a lord and his picked guards when he saw it and wanted them at his feet, for his glory as a prince.

  Kaup set out to unnerve them, capering in front like some great dancing draugr but Crowbone saw at once that these were better men, for they only hunched behind their shields a little more at the sight of a black warrior, gripped their weapons tighter and dared their enemies to come on them.

  So Crowbone sent them, surprised that his men went, howling and roaring. The lines smacked; men hacked and slashed at each other, bellowing curses and screaming. A gap opened and Kaup fell back out of it, blood pouring from a wound on his thigh and his mouth large and wide with the shock. The tow-haired giant burst out of it like a boar from a thicket, clattering his way through the hole.

  Rovald sprang forward and the giant’s shield swept him up and off his feet, flinging him back to gouge a trail through the muddy grass. Murrough roared, the great axe scything and the blade of it smacked the shield and staggered the giant, so that he had to let it go. He waved a sword wildly and backed off through the gap before it closed, away from the bright bit of the hooked axe. Murrough pointed it at him as he went, bellowing challenges.

  ‘Step back, step back!’

  Crowbone heard the man in the rear call this, while the giant yelled out a repeat of it until the men stepped back, away from the fighting. Some of Crowbone’s men followed up, but most stood where they were, panting and sobbing, no breath left to shout now. The lines slid apart, them leaving their dead and groaning wounded; Svenke Klak stabbed one viciously in the groin as he tried to crawl away and the man curled round the spear like a pinned beetle, coiling and uncoiling in a writhe of agony until he died.

  Crowbone stepped forward, Kaetilmund to one side of him, the banner whipping above his head. Rovald was being helped up and holding his chest, whey-faced, gasping and shamed that, yet again, he had failed to protect his jarl. Crowbone offered him a brief look and went on, the scorn slathered on him; it was clear the gods had stolen Rovald’s battle luck and he would not be Crowbone’s shield man after this.

  The lord of the Dyfflin men stepped out and looked at the fluttering banner.

  ‘I do not know it,’ one called out, ‘but I am after thinking it looks like the dove of peace.’

  ‘Exactly the opposite,’ Crowbone answered. ‘The Stooping Hawk of Prince Olaf, son of Tryggve, of the Yngling line of Norway’s kings. No dove and no peace for you unless you beg for it.’

  The man had a beard so pale it looked like clotted cream on his chin and his helmet was worked with brass or gold. He had blue eyes and a way of carrying himself that was so close to arrogance as to be a brother.

  ‘You say?’ he answered. ‘Well, I am Raghnall, Olaf’s son, wyrded to be lord of the Dyfflin Norse when my father dies, which will not be soon, I hope. This giant with me is Thord Vargeisa.’

  Vargeisa. An interesting name, Crowbone thought. It meant Wolf-Ember and was a dangerous name to have, but the man who owned it carried it lightly enough on his ring-mailed frame. His face was smothered with faded yellow hair, though the skin which could be seen looked to have been ploughed over and his eyes were small and set so deep they were merely tiny lights in twin caves.

  ‘Oathsworn, you called out,’ he rumbled. ‘You do not look much, in rotting ringmail as you are. Are you true Oathsworn, or just liars? If you are, show me this Finn I have heard of, who fears nothing.’

  ‘Oathsworn we are,’ Crowbone replied firmly, ‘though neither Finn nor Jarl Orm Bear-Slayer are here — you need not be grateful for it, all the same, for the ones who are here are mine, the Oathsworn of Jarl Orm’s friend, Prince Olaf. I can show you some of their heroes — Murrough, who chewed the shield from your arm with his axe is one. Or myself, better known as Crowbone. Do not concern yourself much about the state of my ringmail, for I will certainly have yours by the end of this fight.’

  They had heard of his name by the looks they exchanged and the sun of it swelled him with a fierce fire. Crowbone looked up at the sky, then to right and left, where men ran, or knelt plundering bodies.

  ‘This day is lost. The Irish are in the right and left of you, at the behind and the front of you. If you do not give in, you will have to run and you will all die. If you stand and fight, you will all die.’

  Raghnall spat and twisted out a grin.

  ‘There is another ending to this tale,’ he answered. ‘We can kill you renegades and go our way.’

  ‘Not possible,’ Crowbone declared, shaking his head. Raghnall let out a bark of laughter, shaking his own head, but with admiration.

  ‘A stripling you may be,’ he said, ‘but you have the balls of a man, for sure. However, I am the lion here.’

  ‘You never saw a lion,’ Crowbone countered quietly. ‘I have. Once, in the days when animals spoke, such a beast went for a walk with his friend, the Fox. Lion began to boast and talk big about his strength. Fox had, perhaps, given him cause for it, because by nature he was a flatterer. But now that Lion began to assume so many airs, said he, “See here, Lion, I will show you an animal that is still more powerful than you are.”

  ‘They walked along, Fox leading the way, and met first a little boy. “Is this the stronger animal?” asked Lion. “No,” answered Fox, “he must still become one.”

  ‘After a while they found an old man walking with bowed head and supporting his bent figure with a stick. “Is this the wonderful stronger beast?” asked Lion. “No,” answered the Fox, “but he has been.”

  ‘Continuing their walk a short distance they came across a young hunter, in the prime of youth and accompanied by some of his dogs. “There you have him now, O king of beasts,” said Fox. “Pit your strength against his, and if you win, then truly you are the strength of the earth.” Then Fox wisely made for the shelter of nearby rocks to see how matters would turn out.’

  ‘Is this a long tale?’ demanded Raghnall, ‘for I am growing thirsty and have some good ale back in Dyfflin.’

  ‘You will never drink it,’ Crowbone declared, then cocked his head and went on with the tale. The yellow-haired giant stood, silent and droop-lipped as a bairn, listening.

  ‘Growling, growling, Lion strode forward to meet the man,’ Crowbone said, ‘but when he came close the dogs rushed him. He, however, paid but little attention to them, pushed and separated them on all sides with a few sweeps of his front paws. They bowled away, beating a hasty retreat toward the man, who pulled out a bow and shot an arrow, hitting Lion just behind the shoulder, but still the king of beasts came forward
. The hunter pulled out his steel knife then and gave him a few good jabs. Lion retreated, followed by the flying arrows of the hunter, up to where Fox hid, watching. “Well, are you strongest now?” asked Fox.

  ‘The Lion shook his maned head, blood pouring from his wounds. “No, Fox,” he answered. “Let that beast there keep the name and welcome. In the first place he had about ten of his bodyguard storm me. I really did not bother myself much about them, but when I attempted to turn him to chaff, he spat sharpness at me, which took root and burned. When I tried to pull him to the ground he jerked out one of his ribs with which he gave me some very ugly wounds, so bad that I had to get away, chased by more burning roots. No, Fox, give him the name.”

  ‘So saying,’ Crowbone finished, ‘the Lion slunk off and admitted his lesser quality.’

  ‘A good tale you tell,’ Raghnall admitted, ‘and I see why you have done so — more Irish are coming to help you now.’

  ‘I do not need them,’ Crowbone answered as Raghnall backed off. The giant blinked once or twice and grinned a great uneven tombstone cave at him.

  ‘You have a pretty mouth,’ he said. ‘With it and your cheeks I will make a purse.’

  ‘You look like a troll-woman I knew,’ Crowbone yelled out as the giant trotted after Raghnall. ‘Her name was Cat’s Eye and I sent her running with just a few sharp words.’

  Men who had heard the story roared their approval. Raghnall’s Chosen set their shields with a slap and moved swiftly forward, eager to finish the business and escape. Crowbone’s men met them with a roar and a crash. Men struggled, locked boss to boss, faces within kissing distance behind shields, blades stabbing and thrusting and hacking.

  Kaup felt the shadow fall on him and looked up at Crowbone looking down. The pain in his thigh was a deep, distant throb now and he felt light-headed, wanting only to lie back and look at the silver-streaked pewter of the sky.

  Crowbone looked at the rent in the Burned Man’s breeks, saw the purple flesh parted like a lipless mouth, high up inside his thigh; his boots were half-a-foot length from the man, yet he squelched in Kaup’s blood. Red he saw, as anyone else’s.

  ‘A bad wound,’ Kaup heard Crowbone say, felt rather than saw the man squat beside him. ‘Too high up to tie off and blood pouring from it. If you have a god, Burned Man, I think it is time to pray to him.’

  Kaup wanted to reply but felt too weary even to speak. He thought of his home and the far away of it brought a choke into his throat, for he knew he was dying and wondered if God minded him having fought for heathens. He made a dismissive wave of one hand, as if to say that he had suffered worse and would get through this, too, but all Crowbone saw was the fingers of one hand flutter briefly.

  He straightened, sighing; he had liked the Burned Man.

  Rovald hirpled up, his face the colour of old narwhal horn and wheezing a little.

  ‘You keep falling over when you should be shielding me,’ Crowbone said, but the joke of it was lost on Rovald, who only felt the shame of having failed twice.

  The Irish arrived, but they were farmers with spears, looking for plunder now that the battle was clearly won and did not want to get in a new and dangerous fight, so they hung about the edges, or slunk away to search bodies. The great battle, or what was left of it, was now lost and everywhere Crowbone looked he saw dead, or shrieking, groaning wounded and the only ones moving swiftly were the plunderers, flitting like flies from body to body.

  But in this part of Tara the clatter and clash and grunt went on. Men shrieked and went down. Mar staggered out from the pack, clutching his cheek and cursing, then saw Kaup and gave a great cry, stumbling to where the Burned Man lay.

  ‘The battle is not yet done,’ Crowbone said and Mar looked up at him, misery and flaring anger in his eyes.

  ‘He is already dead,’ Crowbone pointed out gently and Mar blinked, nodded wearily and climbed to his feet to get back in the fight. Just then, the end came.

  Raghnall’s men broke, like a quarry stone chisel-hit in the sweet spot; the Oathsworn surged forward after them, howling their triumph. The giant, roaring and flailing, sent men scattering on either side and Murrough closed on him with a great bellow of his own, but was shouldered off his feet as the giant forged forward, straight at Crowbone, sword up and the slaver trailing from his mouth.

  Crowbone’s first spear took the giant in the thigh, a slicing stroke that opened a great tearing mouth that trailed gore as the giant ran. The second shunked into Wolf-Ember’s side, bursting rings apart and biting deep, but the giant simply tore it out in the next step and hurled it back.

  It smacked Rovald as he hirpled desperately forward, went through the shield and into his ring-mailed body hard enough to make him grunt and tumble backwards. Wolf-Ember kept coming and Kaetilmund dropped the point of the spear and thrust it, banner and all, so that the cloth of it furled round the giant’s head, blinding him.

  Crowbone had his sword out now and stepped once, twice, spun to avoid the blundering flails of the giant and cut just once. His stroke frayed one end of the banner and went into the back of the giant’s neck, so that he arched and howled, falling like a crashing oak. Blood flushed up the length of the blue banner, even as Kaetilmund wrenched it away.

  It was then that Crowbone realised that Wolf-Ember had been forging a path for Raghnall to reach him.

  The son of Olaf Irish-Shoes had the eyes of a mad rat in a blocked tunnel and a fistful of vengeful steel. When he saw Wolf-Ember go down, he gave a great howl and a savage leap into the air, both hands on the shaft of an axe.

  Crowbone saw it in a fixed flash, watched his doom come down on him and marvelled at it, for this was the way he had himself killed both Klerkon and Kveldulf. The gods’ jokes are seldom funny, but you can always hear them laugh if you listen, he thought.

  Two blurs passed him. One was yellow and low to the ground, a fast snarling bitch who ploughed into the shins of the leaping Raghnall. The second was faster still, a bird-whirr of sound that stirred the wind on Crowbone’s cheek and took Raghnall in the throat, snapping his head back.

  The heir to Dyfflin crashed to the feet of Crowbone, the yellow bitch’s jaws locked in his leg as it snarled and wrenched. The axe wyrded for Crowbone’s skull spun harmlessly over his head and skittered through the bloody mud.

  There was no resistance from Raghnall, not even a sound, for the arrow that had taken him in the throat had ripped the voice and the life from him in one. His eyes were wide with surprise and his mouth worked once or twice then froze; after that the only movement from him came because the yellow bitch was jerking him to and fro and growling deep in the back of her throat.

  ‘Leave off,’ Crowbone snarled and the hound let go and slithered backwards on her belly, bloody jaws on her paws, tail moving uncertainly. Crowbone was only mildly surprised that the animal had obeyed him, but his mind was elsewhere. It was on what he hoped he would find when he turned his head — his legs, he knew, were not up to the task of moving at all from the shock. He hoped he would find Vandrad Sygni, nocking another arrow and grinning at him.

  It was as bad as he had thought. No Vandrad Sygni — but back across the slope they had come down, over all the dead and groaning wounded, all the way back to the copse of trees — Odin’s arse, a hundred long paces or more — a small figure perched in a branch and waved her bow at him. Crowbone knew for certain it would be the same branch where the exhausted bird had sat, staring at him with a prophetic black eye.

  ‘By The Dagda,’ said Murrough admiringly, hefting his axe and testing the distance between its edge and Raghnall’s neck, ‘that wee woman of yours can shoot, Crowbone.’

  Tmutorokan on the Dark Sea, that same day …

  Orm

  The walkway planks were hot beneath their boots and the resin smell from the sun-cracked roofs was as rich as the cackle of strange tongues. There was a stir in the crowd at the woman who was offered; anyone with a trader’s eye would admire the skill of the dealer.

 
A long fall of linen the colour of old slate covered the figure but it was clearly a woman who tugged slightly at the end of the thin line fastened carefully round sheepskin cuffs to her wrists, so the rope would not bruise the flesh.

  The dealer, a Khazar Jew smiling the last of his teeth at the crowd, hauled a ratty fur hat off his head in a glorious bow, then pulled the veil away with a flourish; she stood before them naked, unable to crouch or use her tethered arms to hide herself. In the end, she stood in a slight curl, halfway between shame and defiance.

  They were enthusiastic, the crowd, even though the day was hot. Orm caught Finn’s eye and the slave-master turned the docile merchandise this way and that with a practised hand as he called out to the crowd in Greek, which was the tongue of traders.

  ‘This one is a certified virgin. A captive princess from the far regions beyond the Khazar Sea, you can see from her shy ways that she has never known the hand of a man.’

  You had to admire him, Orm thought to himself. She had almost certainly been humped full of at least one bairn and by a horny-handed farmer, since she was as much a captive princess as Finn was. Nor did she come from beyond the Khazar Sea and had clearly been told to fasten her mouth or it would be worse for her — whoever bought her would be surprised at the amount of Slav she knew.

  The dealer took his fingers, heavy with bright-stoned rings, and grimed them through the woman’s thick, dark hair. In the crowd, the Arabs and Jews, rivals in anything and everything that could be bought and sold, shifted expectantly.

  ‘This incredible shade of night is her hair’s natural colour,’ he said, then took her firmly by the chin and raised her face up. ‘And this has had no help from dye pots.’

  He turned and leered a little as he stroked the hand down one naked, flinching flank.

  ‘These delicate white curves speak for themselves. This is a rich ornament, worthy of any bek or jarl or sheikh. It is only due to chance and my own financial misfortune that such a rare creature is being offered at all, for I was keeping her for the Basileus in the Great City himself. I am stabbing myself in the heart to offer this to you.’