Wolves of War

by Martin Lake

  ‘Why the secrecy?’ he asked, bending to look more closely at the metal on the anvil. It was like no sword he had ever seen before. The blade was a little over half the length of a normal battle sword but that was not the most peculiar thing about it. For it was incredibly thin and not flat like a normal blade but rounded.

  ‘It looks like a darning needle,’ Leif said in confusion.

  Sigurd smiled grimly. ‘It’s to be called Snake,’ he said. ‘You must have been sent by Odin for I was ready to call you to sing its birth song.’

  ‘Who on earth would want such a weapon?’

  Sigurd glanced around nervously and put his fingers to his lips. ‘You must not breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  Leif was intrigued. ‘Of course not.’

  Sigurd took a deep breath. ‘It’s for Ivar.’

  ‘But why? He has Havoc. Havoc is a marvellous sword.’

  ‘As this will be.’ Sigurd held the blade up and examined it like a man might look at his bride when she shows herself naked for the first time.

  ‘But the shape of it?’

  Sigurd replaced the blade on the anvil. ‘Havoc is too heavy for him.’

  Leif frowned. ‘But it’s not heavy. You said yourself it’s the best-balanced sword you’ve made.’

  ‘But it’s too heavy for him. He sought me out the day after the battle and told me that wielding it was proving too taxing. His strength is failing, Leif, although he wants none to know it. Not even his brothers.’

  ‘And he thinks to fight with this?’

  Sigurd nodded.

  Leif picked up the blade and examined it closely.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he said, at last. ‘I stood close to him in the battle and he barely used his sword. And when he did it was with great economy, as if to preserve his strength.’

  ‘He will need little brawn to wield this,’ Sigurd said. ‘I designed it to be used with cunning and guile rather than muscle.’

  ‘Then it’s perfect for Ivar,’ Leif said. ‘Snake, you say. A fitting name, I think.’

  Sigurd grunted. ‘So come up with a chant which praises the hidden qualities of a snake and the dangers it presents to its foes.’

  ‘And none are to know of this?’ he asked.

  ‘None.’ Sigurd paused. ‘Apart from us two. Ivar told me that you were to sing at its birth. And you are to take it to him tonight.’

  Leif sighed, pulled up a stool and began to ponder the words for a chant. It was a challenging task.

  At last he came up with something. An anxious glance showed him that Loki was nowhere to be seen, and he began to chant in time to Sigurd’s taps.

  He told of a snake that was sired by a dragon. It was so fiendishly clever it could curl up its wings to hide them and confuse its enemies or use them to soar the skies. So slippery-tongued it could make a man admit to any wrong-doing and any maiden invite it to lie with her. So powerful of mind that it could remember every slight or insult and feed them on the promise of revenge.

  The brothers stopped hammering and chanting at the same time. They had created a masterpiece of venom and nobody was to know of it.

  The walls of the city were made even stronger and new quays dug in the river to accommodate the fleet more easily. Word of the defeat of the Northumbrians carried across the sea and warriors and traders from Norway, Denmark and the northern isles descended upon the city. A flourishing slave market was set up and it soon proved competition for even Dublin’s well-established trade.

  Leif was told to join one of the many parties sent across the country to capture folk for the market. Sigurd refused to go, presumably because Nerienda forbade him to bring yet more pretty wenches to compete with her whores.

  Aebbe was equally unhappy at Leif’s going on these ventures; she had been a slave herself, if only for a little while.

  ‘But the extra money will be useful,’ he said, rubbing her stomach. It was now round and tight and he could sometimes feel the baby kicking.

  ‘Don’t you earn enough from being a Skald?’ she asked.

  ‘Enough for you and me. But we have my son to consider.’

  She did not reply although she made it clear that she still opposed slaving and any part he played in it.

  The women were not the only ones to argue against such ventures. Wulfhere pleaded with the Vikings not to send out the hunters, saying that it was more important to allow people to stay in their villages and tend the farms than to sell them as slaves. They would not listen to such seeming good sense. They thought that money in the hand was better than crops growing slowly in the earth.

  Ricsige was also opposed to it and tried to persuade Echberht to remonstrate with the brothers. But he had no stomach for such dissent and kept silent.

  One thing Ivar did allow was to send the foraging parties as far distant from York as possible. But this was not due to the effectiveness of the English pleas, merely a continuation of his previous policy.

  So it was that Leif found himself journeying once more along Dere Street, although this time with a dozen men led by Thorvald. Ricsige also travelled with them. Perhaps he was glad to get away from York, Ivar and Echberht.

  At Catric they took a smaller road to the west and headed into barren uplands which remained cold and bleak even though spring had come. After a weary day’s trek they began to descend from these high moors and the following day came upon a green land dotted with many lakes. A small village lay a little to the north of the nearest lake.

  The people here were short and dark of hair and not of English stock.

  ‘Brythons,’ Ricsige said. His voice was full of contempt. ‘They have dwelt in these lands for many years and are akin to fairy folk, hardly men at all. They were here long before my ancestors arrived and they claim they will be here long after we’ve died out.’

  ‘And you let them say that?’ Thorvald asked in surprise. ‘Why haven’t you Northumbrians conquered them? They seem a feeble people.’

  ‘They might look feeble but they aren’t. They are as hardy as thorn trees which stand against the snow and icy winds. Ugly, of little merit, but with strong roots. It is not worth our while to grub them up.’

  ‘But they are strong?’

  Ricsige nodded.

  ‘Then they will make good slaves?’

  ‘For a season or two. They are like stupid beasts and can be driven hard. Then, too often, they lose all taste for life and fall into a state of craven weakness. The secret is to work them to their utmost for a few years and then, when they have little strength left, sell them on cheap.’

  ‘I think Ivar will find a use for them,’ Thorvald said. ‘Leif, take Skegg and Gorm to the top of the valley and, when I blow my horn, charge down upon the village.’

  ‘And what will you be doing while I ride to what may prove to be my death?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting at the far side of the village to capture those who might make the best slaves.’

  Leif gave a broad smile. Attacking a village unawares would be safer than waiting to catch a horde of fearful folk.

  He led Skegg and Gorm to the top of the valley and they kindled torches. He had long thought that fire was more terrifying than any weapon made of steel and his experience of smithy work meant that he was far happier with flame than sword. They kindled one torch each and waited for Thorvald to give the signal to attack.

  It felt like they waited for an age. Skegg and Gorm did not speak at all, merely sat their horses as placid as cows. Leif, on the other hand, studied the village keenly. It was made up of a dozen huts so poorly made they might well have been erected by foxes or bears. It would take no time for the flames to consume them.

  On the far side of the village were a group of women, carding wool and singing. They little knew what doom was to befall them.

  Thorvald’s horn sounded and Leif and his men galloped down the slope towards the village.

  The women were looking to the west, trying to see who was blowing the horn. Because of that the t
hree riders came upon them unawares, waving their burning brands like demons and screaming at the top of their voices. The women looked petrified, threw down their work and fled down the long slope.

  They didn’t see the rest of the Vikings until it was too late. Nets were flung over the women, snaring them like a shoal of fish. Some managed to evade this and swerved, desperate to escape. But Thorvald had kept two men on horseback and they blocked their path. The women ran to right and left like hares cornered by hounds.

  In a moment Leif was amongst them and Thorvald gestured to him to chase a handful of women breaking away to the south. It was the work of moments. Leif caught up with them and called them to stop. They could not understand the Viking tongue but they understood the menace in his tone, right enough. They flung themselves on the ground, their hands upon their ears, screaming at the top of their voices.

  ‘Tie their wrists but don’t harm them.’ Thorvald ordered. He tilted the face of one of the women and scrutinised it. ‘Not a beauty but good enough for a bed-slave, I think.’

  ‘Take your filthy hands off her,’ came a voice from behind.

  Leif turned and gasped in surprise.

  Standing to one side of a clump of trees was a tall woman dressed in mail-shirt, her cloak billowing in the wind, a slim sword resting upon her shoulder. Beside her stood another woman in leather hauberk, with a seax in her hand. A little further down the slope were a couple of dozen warriors with spears, battle-axes and swords.

  Thorvald straightened and stared at the woman. His right hand moved slowly to loosen up his fingers, ready for battle.

  ‘What’s this woman to you?’ he asked, gesturing to the peasant.

  ‘She belongs to me,’ the woman in the mail-shirt answered. ‘They all do.’

  Thorvald crossed his arms in a belligerent fashion. ‘You’re Norse?’

  ‘Half-Norse. My mother was Irish. If it’s any concern of yours.’

  ‘No concern of mine,’ Thorvald said. His eyes strayed to the warriors behind her, calculating their likely strength and the odds of any battle.

  ‘If they belong to you then I apologise,’ he said at last. ‘I thought they were merely peasants for the taking.’

  ‘They are. But I took them first.’

  At that moment the sun broke through the clouds to reveal a longship drawn up on the shore of the lake.

  Thorvald saw this and saw what he had to do. ‘My name is Thorvald,’ he said, spreading his hands in an appeasing manner. ‘I am the steersman of Jarl Guthrum and fight in the army of Ivar the Boneless.’

  ‘I know Boneless,’ the woman answered. ‘And he knows me.’

  ‘Then we are friends,’ Thorvald answered.

  ‘I did not say that Boneless and I are friends.’ She did not sheathe her sword. Thorvald’s hands flexed even more.

  ‘My name is Kolga,’ she said.

  ‘The goddess of the icy wave,’ he said.

  She gave a smile every bit as cold. ‘Better than a stream of piss.’

  Thorvald half turned to Leif. ‘You talk to her,’ he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Why me? You’re our leader.’

  ‘You’re a Skald. You have a way with words. I get the feeling she will skewer me with hers.’

  Leif stepped forward reluctantly, as certain as Thorvald that this strange woman would best him in debate. Not that he minded that. His chief fear was that she would choose to attack and, if she did, they would either end up dead or join the women as her slaves.

  He licked his lips nervously, wondering how to begin.

  ‘I am Leif Ormson,’ he said. ‘Skald to Ivar the Boneless.’

  ‘You I have not heard of,’ she replied. ‘His last Skald was Sigenoth who he flogged to death.’

  It was the first time Leif had heard this alarming fact.

  ‘My back is unmarked,’ he said with a gracious nod.

  ‘And what makes you think it will remain unmarked?’ she said. ‘Dead men suffer wounds on their back. Slaves bear the marks of the scourge.’

  He could find no answer to her words.

  She gestured to her followers who strode towards her.

  ‘It is one thing for Ivar the Boneless to scourge his Skald. Quite another for someone else to attempt it for him.’ Leif said this with a hint of a threat. A tiny hint, not too much to alarm her, but hopefully enough to give her pause.

  ‘Where is Boneless now?’ Kolga asked.

  ‘In York.’

  ‘That’s miles away.’

  ‘Yet he sent us here. His reach is long. He has conquered the Kingdom of Northumbria and placed a yes-man on the throne.’

  Her eyes narrowed at this, her mind calculating.

  ‘How many warriors does Boneless lead?’

  ‘A thousand men, my lady. But others join him daily, such is his fame.’

  ‘And his brothers, the two fools?’

  ‘Halfdan and Ubbe are with him. As are Jarls Sidrac, Frene, Osbern and Guthrum.’

  ‘A mighty host,’ she murmured.

  She glanced back at her ship. ‘I too am a Jarl,’ she said. ‘I am the daughter of Bjorn Blackbrow.’

  Leif had heard of Blackbrow. He was a crazed killer of holy men and elderly goats.

  ‘And is your father well?’ he asked, although he had no interest in the answer.

  ‘He is dead.’ She stropped her sword and then sheathed it. ‘We had a disagreement about a woman. She was too beautiful for him to bed.’

  ‘But not for you?’

  ‘I take what I want. Man, woman or youth.’ She smiled. ‘And you, Skald? Have you a woman? Or a boy, perchance?’

  ‘A woman. She is with child.’

  Her face lost something of its hardness. ‘Freyja’s blessing on them both.’

  ‘I thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re very gracious. I shall tell my wife.’

  She clasped him on the shoulder. ‘I would have you act as Skald to me, Leif Ormson.’

  He swallowed hard. He had no wish to offend her but even less desire to anger Ivar.

  ‘I cannot, my lady. I am sworn to Ivar.’

  ‘Not for ever,’ she said, chuckling at my discomfort. ‘Only as long as it takes us to travel to Jorvic.’

  ‘Jorvic?’

  ‘It’s our name for York. Yes. I have a mind to join with Boneless. It may prove amusing.’

  Later that day they learned that Kolga was a more impressive leader than they had first thought. Eight more longships sailed in on the evening wind. She led two hundred and eighty men; more than most of the chieftains in Ivar’s army, twice as many as Guthrum or Frene.

  ‘It will take too long to sail around the island,’ she said. ‘We will journey with you across the moors.’

  She glanced at the slaves who were tending the fires and cooking the food. ‘If you’re hunting for slaves you must have a market for them.’

  ‘In York,’ Thorvald answered. ‘Ivar set up a market as soon as we arrived. It’s flourishing.’

  ‘Then I shall sell these slaves there rather than take them to Dublin. And a few I shall give to Ivar as a peace-offering.’

  Leif wanted to ask why she needed a peace-offering but thought better of it.

  He could not keep his eyes or thoughts from Kolga. Even more than Ivar, she appeared to have a natural air of power, it hung about her like a cloak and could not be gainsaid. At supper that night she was brought the finest cuts of meat and supped only the best wine. And when she retired to bed she took two people with her, the woman in the leather breast-plate and a huge man with vivid blue eyes and ready laugh.

  They broke camp the next morning. Kolga’s horse was brought to her from her ship, a fiery stallion she called Blood. Two men struggled to walk it up the slope for it kicked and snorted like a bull. But it quietened at once when she touched it and allowed her to glide into the saddle without a murmur. A dozen of her chief men were also horsed, including Vafri, her male lover and her female one, Asta.

  Kolga bade Leif rid
e beside her and tell her of Ivar’s expedition and all that had transpired since he led the fleet to England. Throughout the journey she never gave any indication whether she was impressed by his deeds or indifferent.

  It took five days to retrace their route for the slaves were not inclined to hurry and needed constant hounding. Leif thought that Kolga would be incensed by this but it did not trouble her.

  ‘I don’t want them ruined or surly when we come to sell them,’ she explained. ‘That was just the sort of mistake my father made.’

  They arrived at York a little after noon. Word spread of their approach and as they entered the gates they were welcomed by Ivar, Halfdan, Ubbe and several of the jarls.

  Kolga drew to a halt and regarded Ivar with an enigmatic glance.

  He looked discomforted but forced a smile upon his face.

  ‘Welcome Kolga,’ he said. ‘I had not thought to ever see you again.’

  ‘Hello, Boneless,’ she said. He winced at her using only his nickname. ‘Clearly Frigg has greater wisdom in the matter of our meetings than you do.’

  He grunted although it was unclear whether in agreement or dissent.

  ‘You are welcome to tarry here for a space,’ he said. His voice gave no sign of whether he desired the idea or loathed it.

  ‘Tarry?’ Kolga said. ‘I do not intend to tarry, Boneless. I have come to join you in your escapade. I shall require a hall for my followers and me.’

  She gestured to Vafri who led a dozen slaves to them.

  ‘And here is a gift to you, my friend,’ she said. ‘Brythons, swart and stupid but good workers and willing bed-mates.’

  ‘You would know about that,’ Ivar said.

  ‘What is good for the ram is good for the ewe,’ she said, smiling at his sneers.

  ‘And what if I do not wish you to join with me?’

  ‘Your wishes hardly concern me. Besides, you have two brothers who I could ask.’

  He turned without a further word and strode away.

  ‘You are welcome, Kolga,’ Halfdan said, holding her horse while she dismounted. ‘And your men and slaves even more so.’