God of Vengeance (51 page)

She put the thong with the Freyja amulet back around her neck and clambered to her feet, balancing against the rock of the boat on the waves. Then she put a foot up onto the top strake, took one last look at the swan-breasted boat, hoping that her brother could see her.

And jumped.

‘Turn, damn your old bones, turn!’ Olaf growled.

With the rest gathered behind them out of sight, Sigurd and Olaf lay amongst the sea-lashed rocks on the western shore of the headland, looking out across the sound. To the east beyond hills and woods stood the highest ground upon which Jarl Randver’s hall sat. They could not see it from where they had put ashore, having done some more hard rowing to bring
Sea-Urchin
to a safe, secluded mooring, but they could see the hall’s hearth smoke hanging like a brown stain in the grey sky. They could be there in the time it takes to whet a good knife, as Kætil Kartr had said. Or drink two horns of mead, Svein had added.

‘Turn now, you stubborn goat,’ Olaf hissed.

Because if old Solveig did not turn
Sea-Sow
now, the first of Jarl Randver’s ships would be upon him. And those men would see that there were only two men aboard the high-sided ship. But even with the clever preparations they had made with
Sea-Sow
’s yard and sheets it was no easy thing for just two men to turn her so that she might run with the wind.

From the height of the rocks Sigurd could see Solveig running from tiller to bow and he hoped that the distance was yet too far, and his enemy’s dragons too low in the water, for the jarl’s thegns to see the knörr’s helmsman going up and down that deck like a washer-woman’s elbow.

And there was Runa. She was at the bow of a small boat, her golden hair shining through the thin rain, bright as a lamp’s flame against the grey fjord, and the sight of her had Sigurd’s heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer against the anvil of his breastbone. His belly was a snarl of coiling serpents rolling over each other and just like at the slave market he wanted to call out to her, to let her know he was there.

I’m coming, Runa
.
You are not alone, sister
, his mind whispered, as though the words could glide across that water like a stiff-winged fulmar and nest in Runa’s ear so that she would no longer be afraid.

‘Ah, there he goes and not before time,’ Olaf said, drawing Sigurd’s gaze from Runa to
Sea-Sow
as her yard came across and the ship rolled with the shock of it, looking dead in the water. But Solveig and Hagal would be working furiously, hauling ropes and tying them off, doing the work of five men. And yet, Jarl Randver’s lead ship, which was full of spearmen, was now less than three arrow-shots away from
Sea-Sow
and Sigurd could hear those men’s war cries amidst the gulls’ yowls and the surging sea.

Then
Sea-Sow
’s sail cracked as the wind caught it.

‘This is going to be as close as two coats of grease,’ Olaf said, as the round-hulled ship lurched forward and cut westward through the rain-shrouded sea, ‘but if anyone can give them the slip it’s Solveig.’

‘He’s done what we needed him to do,’ Sigurd said, proud of the old helmsman. ‘They both have.’

Thinking that Hagal had betrayed Sigurd by telling him of Sigurd’s plan, the jarl had spun his web and Solveig was the fly that had tugged the strings. Now perhaps as many as one hundred of Randver’s warriors were heading away from their lord’s hall, away from the jarl himself if he were not aboard that fine, dragon-prowed ship leading the race.

Sigurd and Olaf crawled away from the bluff and stood, their backs turned to the sea and their eyes on the faces of those gathered around them, warriors and oath-tied all. They looked like war gods in their brynjur with their gleaming spear blades, shields and some of their faces half hidden behind helmets. ‘Now we remember our fathers and honour those of our line going back to the beginning,’ Sigurd said, going from eye to eye, lingering a while on each to remind them of the oaths they had taken. ‘Now we weave a yarn for skalds. We will kill this ill-wyrded jarl and make ourselves rich in fame and silver.’

There were wolf grins in their beards and they would have beaten their spears against their shields, except that there was no point in letting their enemies know they were coming.

‘Hit them fast and hit them hard,’ Olaf said, tying his helmet’s strap beneath his chin. ‘I am thinking of Thór hurling his hammer at some big farting giant.’

Svein liked that from the grin splitting his red bristles. ‘We are the Tumult-God’s hammer,’ he said.

Hauk and his men stood as proudly as they must have done in their prime, their white or grey hair tied in tight braids and their beards plaited with silver rings. Floki was their opposite, taut-skinned, black-haired and just coming into himself as a man. His dark eyes gleamed like a predator’s with the prospect of killing. Svein and Bram Bear looked like warriors of legend, the kind of men whom jarls put at the prows of their ships and skalds put at the heart of their tales. Valgerd was pale and beautiful and deadly. Her fair hair hung in two ropes either side of her face, as did Sigurd’s own, so that it would not blind her when the blades were flying.

He wanted to tell her to be careful, to stay clear of the heart of the fray if she could. But he knew that would be like telling a fox to sit on its own tail in the chicken coop and so he said nothing.

They were more than ready, they were eager to be let loose to the fray. Sigurd could see it in their eyes. They wanted to prove themselves to him, and that staggered him, though he would not dwell on it now. ‘Whoever falls this day will drink the Æsir’s mead with my father,’ he said.

‘Save some for the rest of us,’ Bjarni said to no one in particular.

His brother lifted his spear to draw eyes to him. ‘And if you see our father Biarki . . .’ he stopped, frowning. ‘You will know him because he will be the one wearing the expression of a man who has been thrown from a cliff . . .’

Bjarni scowled and nodded.

Bjorn continued. ‘. . . then tell him that we are busy avenging him like good sons should,’ he said.

Sigurd turned to Olaf and they touched their spear shafts together. ‘Let us go and save Runa, Uncle, and give this jarl what we owe him.’

Olaf nodded and with nothing more that needed saying Sigurd hefted shield and spear and set off at a loping run across the rocks and tufts of tall grass, cutting across a boulder-strewn hill and following a flinty path up the rising ground.

Towards Jarl Randver’s hall.

THEY WERE PUFFING
by the time they had climbed the birch-thick reverse slope of the hill upon which Jarl Randver’s hall sat like some giant eagle’s eyrie.

‘Óðin’s arse, but all that iron puts ten years on you,’ Bram said when Sigurd joined him at the hill’s crest. ‘I’ve seen water go uphill faster.’

Sigurd would have bitten right back if he’d had the breath. Instead he dragged the back of his spear hand across his eyes, wiping the sweat from them. Besides which he knew Bram was saying it mostly because he and Kætil Kartr were the only ones not wearing a brynja and the Bear was the kind of man who would have you think that was by choice rather than anything else.

‘I am saving my strength,’ Sigurd said as Floki came up on his left shoulder. He had the sense that the young man would be at his side throughout what was coming. ‘Have you seen anyone?’ he asked Bram. The air up there was thick with the resinous tang of the woodsmoke leaking from the hole in the thatch below them.

Bram shook his head. ‘Looks like anyone who matters is still down at the wharf waiting for the young lovers.’

‘They will be across by now,’ Sigurd said, recalling how Randver’s son Amleth had been putting all his muscle into the rowing, the water being against him.

‘Aye,’ Olaf put in, breathing hard, hawking and spitting into the rain-soaked grass. ‘So if you want to do this the way you told me then we need to move fast. They’ll be back to soak their beards in Randver’s mead any time now,’ he said, nodding towards the path that led off from the hall’s south side and over the ridge down to the sea.

‘Floki, Valgerd, come with me. You too, Aslak,’ Sigurd said, telling Olaf to stay there and await his signal. Backs bent, keeping low, the four of them hurried down the hill between rocks and ancient tree stumps and hurled themselves against the west side of the longhall. Sigurd peered round the edge. All clear. He made his move and the others followed, so snug against the hall’s old staves that their cloaks snagged now and again and Sigurd could smell the resin in the wood. He stopped at the southern edge and this time when he looked around he cursed inwardly. There were two spear-armed guards, one either side of the hall’s pillared entrance way.

He turned to Floki and gestured for him to go all the way back around the hall and wait for his move. Floki nodded and loped off, hunched like a wolf following a scent. Sigurd looked towards where the worn path led over the hill’s edge, holding his breath to give his ears the best chance of hearing voices or feet coming up the trail. He knew he was taking a risk, that Randver’s people could appear at any moment. And if they saw him and his men they might retreat back down to the ships taking Runa with them. Which was why he wanted to lay a trap for Randver as Randver had done for him.

When he thought Floki must be in place on the hall’s other side, for he would not be able to see him because of the entrance way, he counted four long breaths.

Then he ran.

The guard turned, eyes bulging in shock as Sigurd’s spear plunged into his belly and burst from his back. Valgerd’s spear ripped his throat out before he could scream and Sigurd saw Floki doing a much neater job, burying his short axe in the other guard’s head, dropping him in the blink of an eye. Then they were inside, their eyes adjusting to the flame-orbed gloom, and a dozen thralls holding trenchers and jugs stood frozen as though turned to stone by some powerful seiðr.

‘Keep your mouths shut and you will live,’ Sigurd told them, as Valgerd herded them to the back of the hall which was partitioned off by a thick hanging of woven wool that had once been a ship’s sail.

Sigurd turned to Aslak and told him to fetch the others and dump the bodies out of sight. ‘And see what you can do about the mess we made,’ he said, for his and Valgerd’s spear-work told its own story in the blood that spattered the rain-glossed mud outside.

Valgerd and Floki were already coughing and Sigurd tried to swallow the snag of it in his throat as he looked around his enemy’s hall. The walls were draped in pelts and skins and the benches around the edge were piled with furs.

‘Gods, this is as smoky as a dragon’s cave,’ Floki sputtered, lifting his shield through the grey pall, smoke billowing in its wake.

‘My father’s hall was bigger. The roof was higher too,’ Sigurd said, striding over to Jarl Randver’s seat, thinking it strange that Runa had been living in this dark-timbered place, beneath that old thatch. ‘I had expected something better from Randver.’ Something more imposing, he thought, from a man of the jarl’s ambition. No wonder the man had had his eye on Eik-hjálmr.

‘Still, he is a generous jarl by the looks of all this,’ Floki said, wide-eyed in appreciation of the three long tables, all of them so laden with platters and bowls of food, some of it still steaming, that had they been ships they would have been in danger of sinking. ‘It will taste good after the fight,’ Floki said, grinning.

Sigurd would not agree aloud about Randver’s generosity but it was true enough, he thought grudgingly, his mouth watering at the sight and smell of the huge pig, spitted and glistening above the central hearth. Its fat was beginning to drip into the flames with a rhythmic hiss that sounded like a serpent’s breath from some tale told to frighten children.

It will burn on one side with no thrall to turn it, he thought, stepping up and seating himself in the jarl’s high seat that was halfway along the east side where the stave walls bowed out so that the middle was wider than the ends. He blew out the fish-oil lamp hanging beside him and leant his shield against the seat’s left side where he could grab it quickly.

‘He will not like that,’ Valgerd told him, eyes glinting within the holes in her helmet’s guard. That was understating it, Sigurd thought, laying the spear across his knees and trying to appear as self-possessed and at ease as you could in another man’s seat in another man’s hall. The hall of a jarl who led the raid in which your mother was murdered.

‘Good of the rancid badger’s arse to lay on a feast for us,’ Olaf said, striding into the hall, not coughing like the younger ones. ‘Everyone in the back there,’ he barked at the others, pointing his spear to the back of the hall where the old sail hung from the beams. When he drew level with Sigurd he stopped and locked eyes with him as the rest flowed past like water around a boulder. ‘You sure about this, lad?’ he asked in a low voice.

Sigurd nodded. ‘Keep them quiet back there, Uncle,’ he said and Olaf dipped his head, hefted his shield and went to join them. It was a risk, Sigurd knew, sitting there as far away from the partition as he was from the door. Randver’s hirðmen could rush him or fill him with spears before Olaf and the rest had a chance to join the fight. It was reckless. Foolishly so. But it was also impudent and bold and would make a skald grin in the telling of it, and Sigurd could not resist it.