Ulrich stopped mid-stride and crossed to Einar. He snatched the snapped weapon from Einar’s hand and peered closely at it.
‘How did this happen?’ he demanded.
‘Ivar hit a Dubliner on the helmet with it and it broke in two,’ Einar said. ‘That’s how he got wounded.’
Ulrich frowned. He ran his fingers over the metal of the blade, feeling the rough edges of the break as if he could not believe what he was looking at. ‘That shouldn’t happen. These swords are supposed to be the best in the world. They cost an arm and a leg. Several arms and legs.’
Skar walked up to join them.
‘Ivar wants to speak to you,’ the tall Viking said.
‘Me?’ Einar said, puzzled.
‘Aye, you,’ Skar said. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t take your time either. He hasn’t got long left.’
Einar picked his way up the rolling deck to the dragon-carved prow of the boat where Ivar lay on his back, sheltered from the rain and spray by the side of the ship. Someone had laid some fur cloaks out for the old man to lie on so he was a bit more comfortable.
It was clear that Ivar was dying. His face was grey and the lines on it seemed deeper than ever. His upper lip twitched as stabs of pain racked him. Sweat stuck strands of his long grey hair across his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were closed and his hands were clasped to the wound in his stomach, which was a mess of oozing dark red blood that soaked his tunic and seeped onto the deck. There were flecks of bright red blood on his lips and in his beard.
Einar crouched down beside the old man. He was unsure what to do. Ivar seemed in such pain it did not seem right to prod him to get his attention. Perhaps sensing that someone was nearby, Ivar opened his eyes. For a long moment he regarded Einar without saying anything.
‘You wanted to see me?’ Einar broke the silence, uncomfortable at the way Ivar was looking at him.
‘I saw how you fought back there,’ Ivar said in a croaking voice, a half-smile sneaking across his lips. His eyes flicked towards the grey sky above and back to Einar again. ‘You have the gift of rage, the divine blessing of the Hanged God. Though some call it a curse. Ulrich should think about recruiting you for his band of maniacs.’
Ivar started to chuckle, then winced, screwing his eyes shut as a jolt of pain coursed through his body. As it subsided he opened them again and continued. ‘I will soon start on my journey to Hel’s Kingdom, Einar, but there is something I must tell you before I go.’
‘You fought bravely with a sword in your hand,’ Einar said. ‘Perhaps you will go to the Hall of Valour?’
Ivar shook his head. ‘Valhalla? That’s a place for Odin’s fanatics like the Úlfhéðnar and the poets who worship them. Even if the Valkyries came for me I wouldn’t go with them. Who would want to spend the rest of time surrounded by people like that? No. If there is anything beyond death I want to go into the mountain and join my forefathers who have gone before me. And perhaps one day I will see you there.’
‘Me?’ Einar frowned.
Ivar nodded. ‘I must get this off my chest before I die. My nephew betrayed me so I no longer need to keep faith with him. You’re a brave lad too, and you deserve to know the truth. The Gods know you’ve been lied to all your life. Einar; Jarl Thorfinn is not your uncle. Your mother, Unn, was an Irish princess, like Affreca but a full-bred Irish one from a kingdom in the north. She was stolen in a Viking raid and ended up in the slave market. I remember her. Beautiful she was. Always happy even though she was a slave. Smart too but too smart not to get herself into trouble. Thorfinn bought her and she became his bed-slave. She was well treated, for a slave. She never had to do any of the menial tasks the other slaves had to do. Her only work was to keep Thorfinn happy in bed. In many ways she had a better life even than Bergthora, Thorfinn’s wife. He let some important allies, noble friends or his bravest warriors have a go on her a few times but that was not a regular thing. Men like Thorfinn cannot show weakness like sentimentality but in his own way my nephew was good to her. He liked her. That was why he took it so badly when she ran away.’
The old man’s voice caught in his throat and he coughed, grimacing at the pain that the reflex caused him. A gout of fresh blood burst on his lips. Einar felt a moment of panic, suddenly desperate to hear the rest of Ivar’s message. He leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, using the hem of his cloak to wipe the blood from his lips.
Ivar recovered and gave Einar a look of acknowledgement. ‘Then your mother fell pregnant. Some men sell their bed-slaves when they get pregnant or make them leave the infants out on the heath to die. Maybe that was why she ran away. I don’t know if he would though. Perhaps he would have treated you well.’
‘Me?’ Einar gasped.
Ivar nodded. ‘You would always have been a bastard though, second in line to Hrolf even if Thorfinn acknowledged you and brought you up in his household. Perhaps Unn did the right thing. Hrolf is not your cousin, lad. He is your half-brother. Jarl Thorfinn is not your uncle. He is your father.’
Einar felt his dizziness increase. Already crouching, he dropped down onto his knees on the deck. He shook his head, trying to come to terms with what Ivar was saying.
‘Which makes me your great-uncle,’ the old man went on. ‘Before you were born your mother disappeared. We still don’t know how she did it. It was in the middle of the night. She just disappeared from Jarl’s Gard in Orkney. The gates were shut and guarded. None of the watchmen saw her go yet somehow she spirited herself away. Thorfinn took it hard. Many men already thought him foolish for treating her so well, and then she made it worse by running away. Thorfinn vented his anger on the guards who were supposed to be watching the gates that night. Ripped their lungs out he did. Blood-eagled them and left their corpses on the rocks outside the Gard for the crows. He swore an oath in public that when he found Unn and her child they would both be offered to Thor in sacrifice, their backs would be broken across the sacrificial rock. He had men searching for her for nearly a year. The whole island and the neighbouring ones were all searched. Every house, every barn, every ship. We never found her.’
Einar thought about the Christians’ secret meeting place in the underground mound and wondered how many more there were scattered around the islands.
‘He sent ships to Ireland looking for her. Her homeland was under his rule but she wasn’t there. He had men scouring the land in Scotland, the Shetlands, even as far as Norway but it was like she had simply vanished,’ Ivar said. ‘He never thought of Iceland though. None of us did. No one in their right mind would go there and why would Unn? It was full of Norsemen like us. Now I realise just how clever she was. Then, eighteen winters later, you walk into Thorfinn’s hall.’ Despite his pain and weakness, a wry smile spread across Ivar’s face. ‘My nephew is not a good man. He is sly and driven by bitterness. He betrayed me. This is why you need to know the truth.’
‘Why didn’t anyone say anything when I arrived?’ Einar said, feeling anger starting to burn within his chest. ‘Why did you all carry on this mockery that I was Thorfinn’s nephew?’
Ivar’s face became serious. ‘Thorfinn did not want you knowing the truth. It was clear you did not know and he did not want you running back and warning her that he now knew where she was. You were supposed to die in Ulster. What I didn’t know was that I was supposed to be killed too. What I don’t understand is why after all this time did she do it? Why did your mother send you to Thorfinn? She must have known what would happen.’
‘What do you mean, what would happen’?’ Einar growled. His throat felt tight and thick with saliva.
Ivar looked him directly in the eyes. Einar could see the man was troubled by what he was about to say. He felt like he was in a dream where he knew what was about to happen but there was nothing he could do about it.
‘As we sailed from Orkney to rescue you in Ulster your father was preparing to send a warship to Iceland, crewed by his best men, his Hearth Men,’ Ivar said. ‘Their orders were very clear
. Kill the woman and burn the farm. If she isn’t dead already, Unn will die soon. Such is the price for making a powerful man look stupid.’
Einar’s mouth fell open. He felt the anger draining from him and it seemed as though a heavy weight had descended onto his shoulders. He slouched, shoulders sagging, trying to come to terms with the old man’s words.
‘My nephew breaks oaths when it suits him but that one was very personal,’ Ivar said. ‘And very public. To let your mother live, even after all this time, would have made him look weak and weakness makes other ambitious men think they might have a chance of taking the jarl’s high seat.’
Ivar grimaced as another bout of pain gripped him.
‘I’m sorry I was the one who had to tell you this. I am sorry I was a part of it, too,’ he continued. ‘from what I’ve seen of you on this journey you’re a good lad. One of our own blood. Brave as your father but without his darkness. Can you forgive me, Einar?’
With supreme effort, the old man moved his right hand away from the wound in his gut and held it towards Einar, palm open in expectation of him clasping it. Einar felt tears stinging his eyes.
‘I… don’t know.’ he said.
‘Einar,’ Ivar said. His eyes were filled with agony but also grim determination. His hand still hovered in the air. ‘I deserve revenge for what my nephew has done. You are my great-nephew. The duty falls on you. Thorfinn has sent men to kill your mother. You now have double reason. You are Thorfinn’s son. You have every right as Hrolf to the Jarldom of Orkney. Take it. Teach those bastards a lesson. Revenge Unn and me.’
Einar gritted his teeth. He felt the fire in his heart blaze high once more.
‘Aye,’ he said and stood up, grasping Ivar’s bloody hand. The old man sighed and the light in his eyes seemed to fade. He went limp, his hand dropping from Einar’s. The knuckles rapped off the deck as Ivar lay, his eyes fixed and staring, a final trickle of blood running from the side of his mouth.
For a few moments Einar stood above the body, staring down at it. His mind was awash. A maelstrom was inside him, churning his thoughts to spinning mayhem. He looked out at the heaving sea and the bleak sky, realising that he was now utterly alone in the world.
Thirty-Seven
Before the end of the day three other men on the ship as well as Ivar were overwhelmed by their wounds and died. As the sun sank behind the clouds towards the sea they came to a small island. Ulrich was happy that they had lost any pursuing ships and there was little prospect of them being followed in the dark, so he beached the ship and the remaining crew clambered out onto the small sandy shore.
Scouts quickly revealed that the only inhabitants of the little isle were sheep and a few goats. The burned-out ruins of a stone building stood a little way from the beach. The crew did their best for the dead men with what they had available. They built the outline of a ship in stones at the top of the beach and dug out the sand, then laid the corpses inside. Ulrich performed some chants for their departed spirits then the sand was shovelled over them. By the time they finished, the short, early winter day was coming to an end. As darkness began to smother the sky, they lit a fire with scavenged brush and driftwood and slaughtered one of the sheep. Soon the greasy aroma of roasting mutton was on the wind.
The smell made Affreca’s mouth water. She stood near the fire, unsure where to put herself. She knew no one in this band and was painfully conscious of being the only woman as well, and an outcast with no protection at that. A few of the wilder-looking men in the crew had begun to throw looks in her direction that made her nervous. She doubted she would even be offered meat unless there was someone to include her. Einar was the only person who had shown any fellow feeling toward her. Now the heat of battle and the frantic escape had faded she could appreciate that he had saved her life. He had not said a word since the old man died and she had not seen him at all since they landed.
She resolved that wherever Einar was, she needed to find him.
After a short walk up and down the rocky shore she still had not found him. There was enough light from the rising moon to see if anyone was there but the beach was empty. Looking around she caught a flicker of light coming from the ruined building and headed in that direction.
The broken walls stood black against the night sky. As she got closer she saw the light was from a fire inside that cast its orange light up and around the blackened stones. Arriving at the arched doorway, she realised what the place was. It was an old Christian temple, burned by her people from Dublin in the time of her grandfather.
Inside, a fire burned in what had been the middle of the temple. The smashed remains of the stone altar of the Christians still stood at the far end of the long room. Einar sat on the ground with his back to the altar, elbows on his knees and head bowed between them. As she approached he remained motionless, seeming oblivious to her presence. She leaned over and placed her hand tentatively on his shoulder.
Einar looked up. His eyes were dark and she could almost see the emptiness inside him.
‘Are you all right?’ she said tentatively. She did not know him well enough not to be embarrassed by such intimacy.
‘What do you care?’ Einar said.
‘You can’t just sit here moping,’ Affreca chided.
Einar opened his mouth to retort but at that moment two more figures entered through the shattered doorway. First Ulrich, then Skar. Ulrich had Sigurd’s leather bag over his shoulder.
‘Ah! The Icelander,’ Ulrich said as he approached the altar. ‘Just the man I wanted to see.’
He dropped the bag on the top of the broken altar and lifted out the four precious Ulfbehrt swords. Three were whole and the fourth was the broken stump of the weapon Ivar had wielded.
‘Tell me again what happened to this sword,’ Ulrich went on, holding up the broken one. When Einar did not respond, he cast a questioning look at Affreca. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Affreca said. ‘He’s been like this since the old man died.’
‘I thought they didn’t get on?’ Skar said.
‘My mother is dead,’ Einar finally spoke. His voice sounded hollow. ‘Ivar told me before he died.’
Ulrich shrugged. ‘My mother died when I was twelve winters old. It’s part of life, lad. Get used to it.’
‘It was my fault,’ Einar spat through gritted teeth. His voice dripped bitterness like he had a mouthful of vinegar. ‘I’ve caused her death through my own ignorance.’
The other three exchanged glances. Skar made a face.
Affreca sighed. ‘I wish my father was dead and by the Gods would be happy if it was my fault.’
Einar dropped his head again, shaking it once from side to side. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘None of you do.’
‘True,’ Affreca said. ‘But in case you haven’t noticed, we’re up to our necks in shit here. My father will have ships scouring the sea for us and warriors searching the land. He’s not the sort of man to just let us get away, I can assure you. We can’t afford to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. Mourn later. Now it’s time for action.’
Ulrich looked at the princess, a wry smile on his lips. ‘You’re all heart, your worshipfulness. But you’re right. Also we have more to worry about than your father. If that bastard Hrolf gets back to Orkney, Jarl Thorfinn will be out to get us as well. There’s no way he’ll let us just sail through his territory and back to Norway to warn the king what he’s up to.’
‘Even if we did,’ Skar said, a frown creasing his brow, ‘King Eirik will also have questions about how we didn’t know about this. One of the reasons he sent us to stay in Thorfinn’s house was to try to find out what he was planning.’
Ulrich pointed his finger at Skar. ‘That’s who really worries me. He’s not the sort of man who likes failure. He sent us to get forty of these swords as well, and now it looks like there’s something wrong with them too.’
Skar, Ulrich and Affreca turned their attenti
on to the weapons that lay on the altar.
‘Even if they were all fine, we can’t go back to Dublin to finish the deal,’ Skar said.
Affreca narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to the altar. She ran her fingers over the runes stamped into the blade of the broken sword.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘This one is different.’
Ulrich frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t see it.’
The princess held up the broken sword. ‘These shapes are letters that the Christians use. I learned them growing up. My father paid Christians to teach me.’
Ulrich looked disgusted. ‘Why?’
‘The Christian monks are some of the most learned men in the world,’ Affreca replied. ‘They use the letters like we use runes but the symbols for the sounds are different. Also there is no magic in them. These swords have two Christian crosses and the letters U, L, F, B, E, R, H and T.’
‘I know that, your high and mightiness,’ Ulrich scowled. ‘That is how they spell out the name of Ulfbehrt, the wizard who makes them.’
‘Yes, but the three whole swords have a cross, then the letters of Ulfbehrt and then another cross,’ Affreca said. ‘The broken one has a cross, then the letters U, L, F, B, E, R and H, the second cross, then the final T.’
‘It’s a fake!’ Ulrich said, his eyes widening in realisation.
‘Ricbehrt!’ Skar said. ‘That cunning bastard. He swindled us!’
Both men looked at each other.
‘This makes things even worse,’ Ulrich said, smacking the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘On top of everything else this will make King Eirik think we’re complete idiots.’
Skar nodded. ‘Aye. What are we going to do?’
There was silence for a moment, then Affreca said, ‘Ricbehrt is the weapon dealer they call ‘The Merchant of Death’, isn’t he?’
Ulrich nodded.
‘My father knows that he keeps a secret hoard of the weapons he sells in a cave somewhere in Ireland,’ the princess continued.
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