Crowbone (16 page)

The Galgeddil lord had a long-nosed face, neat with trimmed beard and bewildered blue eyes. Somewhere, a mother loved that face, but Crowbone, shaking with anger and fear, snarled it all out on the long nose and blue eyes in a furious flurry of wet-sounding chops.

When he surfaced from this, it was all over. A few horsemen were bolting for it, riderless mounts following after. A horse hirpled, one leg skewed. A man dragged himself, coughing and cursing, until Kaup, grinning, dragged his head back by the sand-and-blood-crusted hair and slit the terrified screams out of his throat.

The aftermath saw men retching, or panting, open-mouthed with disbelief and mad exultation that they had survived. Some did this after every fight and no-one thought the worse of them for it; the unaffected considered it booty-luck, since they were hunting, unopposed, in crotches, under armpits and down boots for hidden valuables, paddling in blood and all unconcerned. There was a rich choke of spilled shite and new blood.

Staggering a little, Crowbone went to the dead lord’s horse, which was flailing sand and screaming, and cut the life out of it in two weary strokes. The ending of the screams was like balm.

‘Good fight,’ said a voice and Crowbone turned to see the great grinning face of Murrough wandering towards him, hook-bitted axe over one shoulder, tossing a fat purse in the other. He looked at the dead man in the blood-soaked white cloak and nodded admiration.

‘I thought he had you – but you fooled him entirely,’ he added. Crowbone kept his lips sewed on the fact that he had thought the man had him, too. Mar loped up and searched the lord swiftly, came up with hacksilver and trinkets and handed that and Murrough’s fat purse to Crowbone, looked at the sword briefly and left it alone.

That was all a good sign, Crowbone thought. Not that Mar knew how matters worked in the Oathsworn – that they shared all, though looted weapons and ring-coats were the jarl’s to give or keep – but that he did it easily enough. Of course, everyone hid a little, running the risk that they might be found out and pay the price for it, which began with losing all you had and greeting the Oathsworn’s other true friend, pain.

Crowbone tried not to look at Mar, or the ruin of the Galgeddil lord’s face, fought to look smooth as a blue-glass cup as he turned away to bawl at Kaetilmund to leave off plundering and get to the ship.

He picked up the lord’s sword; it was a solid Frankish blade fitted with down-curved iron quillons and a fat three-lobed pommel above a braided leather grip. Basic and workmanlike, it was not the ornate sword of a little lordling, but one used by a fighting man; still a fearsomely expensive item all the same, since it had one purpose only and that was killing people. A luxury, then, to folk who used blades for chopping wood, or fish, or chickens. Beyond that, though, it was the mark of a warrior and increased in worth because of it; men without one watched Crowbone as he hefted it, hoping they had been noticed enough to warrant the gift of such a blade.

They tallied the losses as well as the gain – a man dead and four hurt, one almost certain to lose his hand. The dead man was curled on himself, skewered on a spear, the splintered haft showing ash so white it was almost too bright to look at. His face, half-turned to the last dying light he had ever seen, held only slack jawed astonishment that made him look stupid, which he had not been in life; Crowbone remembered him, shooting wit like arrows and laughing with the joy of what he was and who he was with.

‘Fastarr,’ said a voice and Crowbone turned to see Mar looking at the dead man. He pulled his helmet off, ran a hand through the sweat-damp iron tangle of his hair.

‘His name,’ he explained. ‘Fastarr, by-named Skumr. A boy we picked up in Jutland when we were the Red Brothers. Said he had seen fighting, but I did not believe him. He wanted to go far-faering, all the same, and was pleasant company.’

Crowbone stared. He had never heard his name and that shook him a little, for he knew it was an important matter to know the names of men prepared to die for you. He felt a jolt run through him, like a blow badly blocked, when he realised he had never spoken to this boy, whose by-name, Skumr, meant ‘brown gull’ and was a name given to one who chattered as noisily as that bird.

‘Well, now he is
farlami
,’ Mar declared. ‘So also is Kari Ragnvaldrsson, I am thinking.’

Faring-lamed – a term used as a wry joke as much as a small comfort of words. Not dead, just
farlami
, unable to go further on this journey.

When Crowbone went to him, Kari was pale with blood-loss, cradling his smashed hand, which was wrapped in the tail of his own tunic. His sword hand, too. Crowbone offered him thanks and promised him wealth enough and then told him he was done with the Oathsworn and that he would be left on Mann when he found someone to stand in his stead, his oath fulfilled.

Crowbone turned from the stricken look on Kari’s face, knowing the man would have given the other hand to stay, but he was spared the awkwardness of argument by the arrival of Rovald, nursing his shoulder and spitting sand.

‘You have not had a good day of it,’ Crowbone pointed out and Rovald, knowing that he had failed to protect his jarl when he was bundled aside like old washing, flushed a little and went tight-lipped, which at least kept him from saying something stupidly dangerous.

Instead, he nodded to where a lone figure moved steadily towards them, almost seeming to glide because his feet were hidden by the flap of his long robe.

It was brave of this Domnall, Crowbone thought, to plooter through the gore-muddy sand towards snarlers filled with victory and blood-fire. He said as much aloud, so folk would get the point of it; the snarlers grinned their wolf grins, cleaned their clotted weapons in the sand, ignored the priest and hefted their dead and wounded off towards the Shadow.

‘You have slain the Lord Duegald,’ Domnall said and his face was pale. He clasped his hands together and bent his head to pray.

‘Once,’ he heard a voice say, ‘a Raven was overtaken by a Fox and caught. Raven said to Fox: “Please, pray first before you kill me, as the Christmann does.” This was the time when beasts had voices, you understand.’

Domnall, astonished, opened his eyes and stared at Crowbone, who stood with his legs slightly apart and his silly woman’s dress tucked up into his belt at the front, so that it looked as if he wore baggy, misshapen breeks. The priest saw that those odd-coloured eyes were dull, like misted beads.

‘Fox asked: “In what manner does he pray? Tell me.”

‘“He folds his hands in praying,” said Raven and Fox sat up and folded his paws as best he could, which meant letting go of Raven. “You ought not to look about you as you do. You had better shut your eyes,” added Raven and Fox did so. Raven flew away, screeching, into a high tree.

‘“Pray away, fool,” he said and Fox sat, speechless, because he had been outdone.’

Domnall stared. Crowbone blinked and shifted, then smiled at the priest.

‘Pray away, fool. When you open them, your prayers and your prey will both be gone and all this will be a dream.’

‘God is not mocked,’ Domnall said sternly and Crowbone laughed as he turned away, hefting his sword on to one shoulder.

‘Of course he is, priest,’ he called out as he went. ‘His son was sent to promise an end to wicked folk. Odin promised an end to the ice giants. I see no ice giants, priest – but the world is full of wicked men.’

Domnall could still hear the laughter as the swaggering youth reached the tideline and was hauled up the strakes of the Shadow by willing hands.

The embers whirling round their ears from the dying fires of the borg, the people of the White House crept out from hiding to stand at the side of Domnall the priest while the black ship unleashed itself from the land. The blood-red mourn of sail sped it away after the
knarr
, the plumes of ash and smoke trailing over them both like curled wolf tails.

Holmtun, Isle of Mann, a day later …

THE WITCH-QUEEN’S CREW

THE wind hissed out of the dark, thick with sea-salt and fear, for it was a raider’s wind, one that could drive dragon-ships straight down the throat of the town and folk huddled, seeing them out there in the dark. The three men moved closer to the flattening flames of the brazier; the youngest stared over his shoulder at the comfort of the gate they guarded.

‘A raw night,’ said a voice and men turned to stare at the cloaked man who limped up. The nearest to the visitor was an old man whose hair wisped like white smoke in the dark and he half-lowered the point of his suspicious spear a little. Next to him, a man with a timber leg struggled to get off the log he squatted on. The boy, his face bright with firelight, squinted at the newcomer, who was no more than a dark figure, blooded here and there by the flames.

Erling came up, slow and easy, then flourished a leather flask out from under the cloak and unstoppered it.

‘As well you have me, then, to take the chill off,’ he grunted and passed it over. ‘Thought you lot could use it. Done this meself an’ no-one cares, do they?’

The old man hesitated, then laid the spear down and took the flask, tilted it and swallowed.

‘You have the right of it friend,’ he said, hoarse with the spirit’s grip on his throat. He passed it to the timber-leg, who raised it in a grinning salute to Erling before swallowing.

‘You with the masons, then?’ asked the youth and Erling nodded.

‘If your lot would fix the yett,’ the old man grumbled, ‘we would be in the dry and warm.’

He got the flask back and held it a longer time at his lips before handing it back to Erling. He hefted it for a grinning moment, then handed it to the boy.

‘Your ma will flay you,’ the old man declared and the boy bristled.

‘Old enough to stand here with my arse frozen,’ he said, trying to be gruff. ‘Old enough to hold a spear.’

‘Aye, right enough,’ Timber-Leg added bitterly. ‘If the raiders come, old enough to die at this gate, too – so old enough to drink.’

‘They say the Witch-Queen’s son is out there,’ the old man added softly.

‘With some sort of shapechanger,’ the boy added, eyes moist and bright with drink that choked him and which he would not admit did just that. The course of it in his blood added to the raw thrill of stories brought back by Ogmund’s men.

‘They say he can kill in an eyeblink. Maelle saw it happen when Ulf died.’

Timber-Leg snorted.

‘Shapechanger my arse,’ he spat bitterly. ‘Not that one is needed here – all the good men are gone to Olaf’s army at Dyfflin, save for Ogmund. Him and a handful in a fortress with a broken gate. And us. Old, crippled and over-young – what are we likely to do against sea-raiders?’

‘Not much for your part,’ answered the boy scornfully, ‘but I have two good legs and can use a spear.’

‘Enough,’ snapped the old man angrily. ‘Ghile-beg here has seen fighting which you have not. It is more than likely that if the raiders come, you will not be dancing this time next year.’

He turned to Erling and seemed surprised to find the flask still in his hand. He raised it in toast and drank, then smacked his lips and scowled back at the boy.

‘No more for you. You are already at the moment when rudeness seems wit.’

Erling laughed and shook his head in mock sorrow.

‘If the Witch-Queen comes, with her son and the shapechanger,’ he declared, ‘it might be better to be gone away. But that is unlikely. After all – what would bring them to Holmtun that is worth the taking?’

The old man spat angrily in the flames.

‘Some prisoner,’ he declared. ‘Dragged into the borg to be put to the question by Ogmund.’

‘He should have taken him to Olaf in Dyfflin,’ Timber-Leg declared, ‘but wants to wave answers at the king and the jarl, to show his cleverness.’

‘Aye,’ said Erling, stretching a little so that the cloak slackened round his body. A shadow flitted like an owl in flight and only he noticed it. ‘This is as I had heard it and so it is a sore struggle of task you have, lads, and no mistake. You seem brave boys, all the same, and we have shared drink this night, so it is all a right pity.’

The old man held the flask up to his lips and realised it was empty as he lowered it.

‘Pity?’ he demanded owlishly, handing the empty flask back to Erling. ‘What is a pity – other than that this fine flask is empty?’

He handed the empty flask back to Erling, who took it with one hand and came up with the other full of bright, winking steel.

‘This is,’ he said and gave three quick, sharp blows into the old man’s ribs, catching the body close to him so that the shocked eyes, rheum-bright and bewildered stared into his own. The last breath tickled the hairs in Erling’s nose.

‘And he is,’ he added with a nod to Timber-Leg, holding the old man in the crook of one arm before letting him slide to the cobbles. Timber-Leg whirled as the dark figure spirited out of the blackness behind them; he had time to see an angel’s face, bloody with firelight, before a great scythe of light stole his sight forever.

The boy whimpered and backed away, the horror robbing his throat of sound. Od came out of the darkness towards him, his head cocked to one side like a bird studying a beetle. He waved the sword to make the boy twitch and dance.

‘Do not play with him,’ Erling ordered sharply and Od gave a little shrug and struck like an adder.

Erling whistled and now the dark spilled out men, Gudrod striding at their head over the unguarded raising-bridge, through the broken yett and over the three bodies and blood, into the borg of Holmtun.

In the deep of the place, Ogmund stood slick with sweat before the hanging figure of Hoskuld, the trader’s naked body dark with streaks of blood and shit. Ogmund was thinking he should have called Murchadh down to do the heavy work with the whip and hot iron. He did not like the burning feeling he had down one arm, nor the rasp when he tried to breathe – but the lure of winning for himself the information everyone sought was too strong. It was an advantage to have this place empty of fighting men save for his own ship’s crew.