Varanger

by Cecelia Holland

  Beyond Chersonese he could just glimpse the dark blue sea; a cloud of smoke hovered just inside of the coastline over where he thought Volodymyr and Dobrynya were trapped. Probably he and Conn would have to supply them, eventually, although they seemed to have taken part of the town. South, the land rose to a sheer cliff face like a wall.

  He worked his way on down to the marshy low ground at the head of the cove, now well beyond the city, and slogged through half a mile of muck, sometimes knee-deep, spooking strange russet-colored ducks and setting birds to screeching in the trees. On the far side, the land rose again, open in places where the layered white rocks broke through the grass and brush. He passed a scattering of old bear shit, heavy with seeds. He climbed to the high point of this rise, and looked down at the city wall, now between him and the water.

  It was solid as the cliff face, with a round tower at one corner, and a massive double gate. The road that led away from the gate was small and empty. He realized that this wall wasn’t here to let people in and out but to fence the city off from the wild world; everything reached them from the sea. They were Greek; on the outside was not. He started down toward the wall, climbing over outcrops of rock, and came suddenly on a long wooden tube lying on the ground.

  It was wet, and overgrown with moss, and brush grew all around it; he had put his hands on it to climb over it before he realized what it was. He pulled some of the brush and long green swags of moss away. The wood was dark from years of soaking in water, streaked with a crumbly white mold. He looked up the hill and saw the pipe vanishing into the brush near the top, and then turned his gaze down and saw it curving away into the brush toward the wall. He remembered there had been no water on the low ground. Inside that wall was lowland.

  They had overcome that. He stood still a moment, admiring how they had overcome it. Then he felt his way along the tube until he came to a joint, and with his axe, broke through it. Water gushed out, a pure, steady stream. He directed the top end of the tube well away from the bottom end, so the water couldn’t somehow still find its way in, and then cut across the slope looking for more of the pipes. He found another four, and broke them all. When he was sure no more water was going into Chersonese, he went back the way he had come, toward his ship.

  Janka had killed a deer, and the crew had built a fire on the beach to cook it. The sun was setting when Raef arrived. They had brought in a cask of the wine and opened it and everybody was already raving drunk. The ship floated at anchor just offshore. He found Merike hiding out in the gloom, her face streaked with tears. She clung to him, sobbing, but he felt her over for hurts, even got her to let him look at her woman’s part, and decided nothing bad had happened to her; she was just frightened. She was glad to have him back, at least. He took her out on board the ship, got his fur cloak and spare shirt out of his sea chest, and made a bed for them inside the stern, where they coupled sitting up, which he had never done before.

  A day later a little cargo ship came down from the north, coasting along, and put into the bay. Before the captain realized his mistake Conn had laid up alongside him. He threw the sailors off, took the cargo of wine, and hulled the ship. Raef watched the sailors swimming off toward Chersonese, and wondered how much water the city had left.

  Merike would not let him leave her alone anymore. She followed him everywhere, went around picking mushrooms and looked for plants while he roamed along the land across the little cove from the city. He took to sitting on the high point of the ground, near the start of the wall, looking toward Chersonese. Something was poking at the edge of his mind, like a pearl inside an oyster, slowly growing from just a small irritating pinch to a bright golden glow. Gradually he realized that it was his basileus, somewhere inside that city.

  He wondered what he would say to Rashid, if he caught him. If one of the others caught him first, there would be no way to save him.

  He thought, oddly enough, of Rashid’s little red slippers, perhaps soon spotted with blood. He did not want Rashid to die and decided to offer the basileus to anybody who brought the Mahmettan to him alive. But he could not think what he would say to him.

  Merike came up beside him, and leaned on him. “What?” she said. “What?”

  He tried. He said, “Remember Rashid, the Mahmet who came to see me?” He took her hand, and turned the ring on her finger. Her fingers curled around his and she kissed him.

  “Rashid,” she said, in a voice that said she had no idea what he was talking about. “That?” She pointed across the cove, where the drowned dragon was clearly visible in the blue water. Raef was surprised to see they had gotten all the black scum off. The place beyond, with its crowds of buildings, its thronged street along the beach, looked as busy as ever.

  He said, “No. That is Chersonese, remember?”

  “Chersonese,” she said, and her accent made it a different word. He shrugged, He said, “Rashid is in Chersonese.”

  She laughed, looking away, leaning on him, holding his hand. “Rashid,” she said, with a little laugh.

  He guessed it seemed as useless to her as it did to him, to talk. He put his arm around her, and thought about what he could possibly say to Rashid.

  Janka killed every time he shot, and retrieved his arrows carefully. He set very clever snares, so they had a constant supply of meat, and now lots of wine. They took to coming onshore every afternoon to eat and drink, and going back on board the dragon at night to sleep. Every night, fewer of the crew made it back on the uncomfortable ship, and one night they all stayed off, even Raef and Merike.

  She was tired of the ship, and complained and whined every time about going on board.

  Raef felt itchy about them all being on the beach like that, with nothing around except the darkness of the night. He thought they ought to set out sentries, but they were all too drunk to talk to, especially Conn, dancing around the fire, his hair flying. The other men swooped joyously after him. They were all Varanger now, Oleg ‘s guardsmen as well. Raef took Merike off higher on the slope, to a grassy place, and lay down with her.

  Still he could not sleep, even after he had glutted himself on her. The moon rose, half eaten, and the woman slept deeply beside him, but he could not shut his eyes. He felt something creeping along inside his brain, like a worm in his skull.

  He got up, went off to piss, looked down at the beach, where the fire had died. The men were sleeping around it, lumps in the pale moonlight, silent. But on the slope above them, like the worm in his head, something was creeping along.

  He yelled. He was too far away, he would never reach them first. “Get up! Get up!” He ran with long bounding strides across the slope and tripped and fell headlong, and rolled with one motion back to his feet and running “Get up!” But the men creeping up over the top of the slope heard him, too, of course, and they charged down on the sleeping camp.

  Conn heard Raef’s voice through a bleary fog of wine, and wanted not to heed it; but he pushed himself groggily up on one arm. Somebody crashed into him. He screeched, struggling up, scrabbling around him for his sword. Something pounded on him between the shoulderblades, driving him down. He bellowed again, knowing what was happening, seeing everything gone, everything lost, in a single stupid drunken moment, all this flying through his mind in an instant, and then he got his feet under him. He stood up, flailing around him barehanded, dodged a long lance, and with his fist knocked the lancer behind it flying.

  That settled him. He leapt toward the lance on the ground and snatched it up, and seeing nothing before him but strangers pounding his sleeping crew he stabbed into a back and then into another back, wading forward into an ocean of enemies. They wheeled toward him. He swung the lance around waist-high at them. Then Raef charged in from behind them, bellowing, and the enemy circle broke.

  Leif suddenly leapt in front of him, throttling a man down with his two hands. Just beyond the fire, two Greeks in white shirts were beating with swords at something limp on the ground, and Conn dashed at them, got one thr
ough the body, lost the lance. and ducked under the wild sword stroke of the man left standing. The return stroke whistled by his ear. He dove forward, drove his shoulder into the swordsman’s waist, and flung him down on his back. Something slit his side. Still lying full length on the twisting body, he reared up and got the sword arm, smashed it down on the ground, and with all his strength bending it over drove the sword through the chest under him.

  Turning, he saw it was Oleg they had killed. Oleg lay there on the ground, torn with bloody wounds.

  He let out a howl. He swung around, looking for somebody else to fight. The Greeks were running away. They were racing back up the slope toward the ridge between this beach and the cove, some limping, some carrying other men. Raef had stopped to help one of the Varanger; a lot of the crew were sitting on the ground. Conn bellowed, “Come on!” and charged after the Greeks.

  Leif followed him, Leif and Bjorn the Christian. They went puffing up to the crest of the ridge and across the broken rocky ground there toward the capstan. The Greeks were already halfway across the cove, rowing in a pack of little boats; they had left two or three other boats on this shore, just below the capstan, their oars sticking up like wings.

  Conn’s chest was heaving. He realized he was bleeding down his side, and looked down. In the slanting moonlight he saw the gash along his ribs, a layer of shirt, a layer of skin and then a black layer of blood.

  He pointed toward the little boats below them on the beach. “Go get me one of those boats,” he said.

  Bjorn was bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. The cross around his neck dangled under his chin. “No use,” he said, between gasps. “They’re gone.”

  “Get me the boat,” Conn said, with a few other words for emphasis. He went over to the capstan.

  The bar was solid, immovable. He remembered heaving at it with Oleg, and a hot terrible grief came up into his throat. He had made a mistake. Raef had known, had not told him. No: he remembered, painfully, Raef saying something. His mistake. So Oleg had died. Oleg, and others.

  He leaned his shoulder against the capstan and pushed. Nothing happened.

  The base was buried under a pile of rocks. He began to throw the rocks aside. Leif came up beside him to help, and then Bjorn.

  “I said to get me the boat.”

  “We did,” Bjorn said. He picked up a chunk of the white rock. Some of the guardsmen came up to help them. They were uncovering the frame of wooden timbers that held the capstan wheel. More of the men came up and they cast away rocks. Raef came up.

  “Harald’s dead,” he said. “Oleg, I guess you know. Three other guardsmen. Four Greeks.”

  “Help me,” Conn said.

  “Stand back,” Raef said.

  He had his axe, and he began to strike at the timbers of the frame; the other men gathered around him with swords and axes to bash in turn at the wood. The chain clanked. The capstan began to tilt. There were so many men trying to strike the frame that they had to line up for it, on one side, but on the other, Raef went the whole time at it with his axe. Finally the chain clanked twice, two timbers popped apart, and the capstan wheel shrieked, tore free, and sailed off into the cove.

  Nobody cheered. Conn was not looking at anybody. Leif, Bjorn the Christian, and a guardsman named Vyorek carried off the fishing boat down toward the beach. The others went wearily along in the same direction.

  He knew they all blamed him. He knew it was his fault.

  Raef stood beside him, silent, his long body slack. Conn said. “He told me once that he wanted to die for the Knyaz.”

  Raef laid one hand on his arm; he said nothing. Maybe he blamed himself too. That was perversely comforting. Conn started down toward the ship, his cousin at his side. The moon was sinking down behind the ridge to the west, and the sun was rising. The men with the four-oared boat had just reached the beach. He watched them carry it out on the little waves, light and nimble.

  He said, “You think you can take this cockleshell in to bring off Volodymyr and Dobrynya to meet me in the dragon?”

  “Probably,” Raef said. “Are you all right? Merike can maybe do something.”

  Conn felt the pain in his side for the first time, and laid his hand against the wound, slick with blood. “It isn’t bad. Just a slice off my ribs. Let’s go get Volodymyr.”

  Dobrynya said, “We took several houses, and a fountain, but now that’s gone dry. They’re pounding us day and night with arrows and their slings. I’m trying to build a wall, but the ground’s all rock, and we can’t find any more water. Or any more food, other than the paltry amount you were able to get us. We got into a granary in that first rush but we’re running out of that, and there’s no meat.” His hair was pulled back and tied with a cord and his skin was ruddy with sunburn, his lips cracked.

  Volodymyr said, “We have to attack them again. That solves everything.”

  “If we succeed,” Dobrynya said, forcefully; this was a old argument with them, now, Conn guessed. The affection between them had worn to grit, that rubbed them both raw, and yet neither one could stop and let the other lead.

  He glanced down the ship at Raef, who was staring moodily toward Chersonese, as if he could will himself there. The fishing boat lay in the lee of the dragonship. The rest of Conn’s crew was transferring skins of water from the dragonship into the littler boat, along with some of the wine, the rest of the bread, the honey, and two forequarters of the deer. Every time Conn looked at the little boat, he thought of Oleg, and his chest hurt.

  Dobrynya said, “We can’t attack them yet. We have to get closer—build the wall closer, to get us some cover to attack. They’ll cut us down like sheep if we charge across the open ground.”

  Conn said, “I want to attack them now.”

  Volodymyr reared up, his face shining. “Yes! From both sides?’

  “Take the food back in,” Conn said. “Feed your men, get them ready, and head for the city. I’ll go back up and go in through the cove.”

  Volodymyr said, “You are a true Varanger. We’ll do it. Uncle, agree to it.”

  Dobrynya was staring at Conn. “You’re mad. They’ll have made more fire by now. And we can’t signal each other, with the city between us. We’re losing men, too, and there’s bad talk. They think the gods have turned on us. Even Pavo may not obey us.”

  “I don’t need a signal,” Conn said. “I’m attacking. You two can do as you please.” He thought of Oleg and his throat swelled painfully. Volodymyr was already climbing over the side of the dragonship, into the fishing boat. Dobrynya hesitated a moment, staring at Conn, and followed after. With the cargo there was room only for him and Volodymyr and two other Sclava, and they all set to the oars and started off, the prince and the posadnik bending their backs with the others.

  A big wave lifted the dragonship and rolled on. The boat rocked up sideways over it and slid away, already nearly in the grip of the crashing surf there. At the foot of the cliff, on a pebble beach only a few inches wide, half a dozen Sclava waited. Conn hoped they had managed to offload the cargo without losing much of it. He turned to Raef.

  “What do you think?”

  Raef was still watching distant Chersonese. “I want to get there. I want to see that place. Let’s go.”

  Conn clapped his shoulder. “Your turn to row, then.”

  C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N

  Conn rowed out to sea, into the teeth of the wind, zagged back to the north to pick up the right approach into the fjord, and sailed down toward Chersonese. The sun was past the height of the sky when they set the mast. Raef sat then at the helm, and Conn beside him.

  “Do you think Volodymyr will attack?” he said, eventually.

  Raef shrugged. “Whatever happens will happen.” He had not taken his eyes from the direction of Chersonese all morning. “Once they’ve had some of that wine, they’ll come.”

  He was sitting easy there, Merike behind him, but Conn could not stay still and walked up the length of the ship,
going from man to man, making sure they were ready, armed, brave, eager. He said all the names of their dead to them, Oleg’s first.

  He said Vagn’s name and realized he was standing almost where the boy had died, putting out the fire on the ship. That had saved them, really, that boy’s sacrifice, and yet everybody had already forgotten him. Ahead, the dark mass of the coastline rose above the churning white foam, and the fjord opened up before him, a gap of blue water in the surf. He felt the ship shiver under him, and knew the wind was changing. The world pulsated around him, all alive.

  He turned toward the stern, toward Raef, who nodded at him. “Down mast,” he said, and went to the bow to unlash the stay.

  They swung the mast down into its crutches and brought out the oars. Conn, looking back from the bow, saw how smoothly and quickly they did this, saw also there were only twenty-eight of them now, and went back through them moving them around to balance the work. Raef came up to the bow with him afterward, and they took the two front oars. Janka climbed up onto the dragonhead with his bow.

  They stroked across the deep indent of the mouth of the fjord and through the mouth of the cove; on the point, some men were milling around where the capstan had been, and these Greeks saw the ship coming and began to scurry around with purpose, dragging something forward.

  Raef said, “One of those slings. Pull hard and to backboard.”

  Conn shouted, and the dragonship shot ahead into the gap, going left more than straight, angling toward the town. Janka cried out sharply, “They load! They load!”

  “Is it fire?” Leif cried, two benches upship from Raef. Somebody else wailed. The oars rose and fell as even as music.