Raven of the Waves (14 page)

A deer tick hurried along the beast's flank, like a drop of steel. Already the parasite knew the host was dead.

“Well killed,” said Opir.

Gorm let the buck fall. It was a heavy load for one pair of shoulders. Gorm acknowledged the compliment with a snort. “I can loose an arrow nearly as well as you can talk.”

“Then you are truly a mighty hunter, Gorm!” chimed Opir.

Eirik had also returned with a buck, young and sleek. It had been well killed, too, although a throat cut had been needed to finish it. The graceful neck slumped, black muzzle brushing grass.

Gunnar knelt over the coal cusp. He shook a pale fragment of charcoal over three brown leaves. He breathed on the charcoal and it flickered, barely pink. He breathed again, and it reddened. He breathed again and touched it with birch shavings. The first wood-scented smoke lifted into the air, a sweet smell, better than summer flowers. Soon the fire crackled, dancing in men's eyes, and the venison sizzled.

Floki lifted his spear. He took a step toward the forest and turned his head to listen. He hissed and pointed into the darkness.

Someone was coming.

Hands crept toward sword hilts. Grips tightened around spears.

Ulf appeared out of the darkness. Floki's spear fell across him, blocking his way, and its shadow broke in a folded line across his chest.

“Look at you,” laughed the big bald-headed man, glancing around at the camp. “An army could cut off your heads and hand them to you.”

Gunnar and the other two leadmen took Ulf aside. Their voices were low. Venison spat over the fire. Men leaned forward, eating hungrily and trying to overhear what Ulf was saying.

The leadmen were finished talking. Ulf knelt by the thrall. “How is our little Leg Biter? Still alive, I see.”

He listened to the story of the thrall's escape seriously. “I wonder if you are brave, little Leg Biter, or if you are another fool.”

“He's brave,” said Opir. “Like Opir himself, only he can't swim any better than an ax head.”

“Or any better than you.” Ulf smiled.

“Wiglaf can't swim at all,” said Lidsmod.

“But he knew that, surely, when he took to the river.” Ulf studied the thrall. “He wants his old neighbors, not his new ones.”

“He thanked me for saving his life,” said Lidsmod.

“He thanked you!” Ulf leaned back, impressed. The men of Spjothof took a poor person's thanks, a dignified gift of words, seriously. “Perhaps he is not stupid. A life is worth something—a walrus ivory pin, or a whistle, at least. But this thrall has nothing to give but his good speech.”

Ulf fumbled in his tunic and brought forth a bone whistle. He played it for a moment, and every man hushed at the tune. It was a song precious to Heimdall, the mysterious god who was the father of all men. It reminded them all of their home.

Ulf played for only a short while. He studied the thrall for a moment. “You see, little Leg Biter—we can do more than kill. When you learn to speak true language, you will learn things to make you proud.”

Wiglaf drank in the strangeness of these men. They were like a race of golden bears, and everything they did surprised him. One man would laugh like a forest devil, and another would give Wiglaf a piece of meat—with a smile, like an old friend. Lidsmod would talk in a reasonable voice, and then Gorm would mutter what sounded like a curse, and a man with a singing voice the good abbot would have admired would break into song.

The whistle and the exotic, sour tune had surprised Wiglaf most of all. There was something startling, unpredictable in the nature of these men. Wiglaf prayed to Father Aethelwulf in Heaven for the courage to survive these brutal, confusing strangers as the whistle started up again, and the man with the glorious voice sang.

“Sleep well,” said Gunnar to all of the men. “Ulf reports there is another village half a morning away.”

“It has a gold fortress,” said Ulf, pausing in midtune. “A much bigger fortress than the last one. There were no men in the fields. No women in the streets.”

“They'll sleep badly tonight, shivering in the spear hall,” said Opir.

The men agreed. The village would not sleep tonight, but the men of Spjothof would.

“More fighting tomorrow,” said Lidsmod to the thrall. He doubted Wiglaf could understand, but it eased Lidsmod's anxiety to tell him. “More fighting, and more blood. I think I am becoming used to it.”

“Tomorrow,” said Gorm, “we will make a blood eagle!”

“Yes!” said Torsten. His voice silenced everyone. He had not spoken since he had been filled with bear spirit. It was as though an oak had spoken. “Blood eagle!” rasped Torsten.

Gunnar poked the fire. “Odin, be our guide,” he muttered. Lidsmod had heard the old lore of the blood eagle. Gunnar and other leadmen had spoken of it at the ale table, describing it as an ancient practice, rarely actually employed.

“We will take the jarl,” said Gorm, shaking his fists, “and make an eagle of him for the glory of Odin!”

26

The stars trembled in the sky, as though suspended in water. The river whispered. Lidsmod found a seat beside Njord in the darkness.

“Men like Gorm have their part to play. Don't worry yourself,” said Njord to Lidsmod. “Some men think that someone has to suffer or the gods are not happy. To live is to pay. Some people say so, and it may well be true.”

Lidsmod did not tell Njord that he thought Gorm's love of violence had little to do with any divinity. Njord's weathered, sunny outlook would never understand a man like Gorm, who was valued for his courage, if little else. Gorm had always been a quiet, aloof man, but the folk of the village remembered how Gorm beat a rival with his fists when a beautiful woman, gifted at weaving, declined his attentions. Gorm pummeled youths who beat him in footraces, and was so quick to ask payment for gambling debts that some men refused to sit at the feasting table with him.

And yet Gorm had a touch with horses; despite his roughness, animals trusted him. This meant a good deal to his neighbors, who believed that animals, like spirits, could judge a man's virtue. Lidsmod hoped that the coming battle would place him close to Gorm, where the bitter man's uncanny sword work would protect his shipmates.

A man shape climbed into the ship. Ulf said nothing, fumbling for his sea chest. Starlight gleamed off his bald pate as he hefted a honing stone in his palm.

“Keeping Long and Sharp nameworthy?” asked Njord.

Ulf gave the customary affirmative grunt of Spjothof. The dark shape of the sword left Ulf's scabbard. The honing stone rang on steel.

“Tighten the knots on the thrall,” said Njord to Lidsmod. “Gorm might convince the men they need to practice the ancient art. Who will make a better blood eagle, Gorm will ask, than the new thrall?”

The Spjotmen were in the ships long before dawn. The black shapes of the prows cut through the last stars. The men rowed silently.

Lidsmod was happy to row. He was convinced he was ready to kill, and he believed that today there would be more of a battle than in the first village. Torsten would not be able to kill an entire town ready-armed against him. In these times anyone could find himself swept into the Slain Hall, and this thought made the rhythm of the oars in the darkness especially chilling.

Sometimes men cast lot twigs before a battle to discover whether they would live or die. Near Spjothof there was a special place, a shallow cave outside the village, where a seeker could talk to dead men. The spirits listened, and gave their answers in dreams. This was a spiritless land, however, as far as Lidsmod knew. A dream here was likely to have little meaning.

The sun was not warm. Its light was like a bitterness in Lidsmod's mouth and in his entire body, thumb and bowel.

Gunnar turned and waved to the ships behind them.
Raven
sliced a wake to the riverbank, and the men dragged
Raven
up a beach of silt. The other ships joined the newest of them. Soon armed men tested their shield grips and stamped against the cold.

Gunnar spoke, and the men were silent. The men of
Raven
would slip though the forest, where Ulf had spied the village the day before. The rest would march directly up the road along the river. The plan of attack was an ancient one, the Crab, in which a large pincer and a smaller one closed on a foe.

Men adjusted leather straps. Some had been decorated with scarlet paint, because of all the colors, the finest in the world was red. Men straightened their helmet linings, the wool inner cap under the leather. Thongs were untangled, belts cinched. Before sunset the evening before one of the Spjotmen had seen a man dressed like a hunter, with a bow and quiver, running along the river as fast as he could, away from the Viking ships. Certainly the fighting men of the next village had spent the night in preparation.

Lidsmod, wearing a helmet and carrying a sword but no shield, felt icy. He did not speak or meet any man's eyes. His sword caught sunlight prettily enough, but the hilt was wrapped with sheep's hide, many times around, as though its most recent owner had much smaller hands than an earlier, perhaps long fallen, bearer of this weapon. Like any youth of his village, Lidsmod had hacked with wooden swords and knew the basics of blade work. He also guessed that this heavy, capable weapon was destined to have no excellent repute. Nevertheless he spoke to it under his breath, as was normal for a fighting man, and asked the sword for its loyalty, thanking it for finding its way into his hand.

Njord would stay with the thrall. “If he tries to escape,” Gunnar said to Njord, as he ran a finger across his throat so that the thrall would understand.

Njord flourished a fish-scaling knife. “Chin to hip, like a haddock.” Njord held the knife in his teeth and tightened the boy's tether so that such gutting would not be necessary.

Two men from
Crane
would stand guard. It was dangerous to leave such a light ship guard, but every hand was needed. Even my own, thought Lidsmod.

“Lidsmod, you'll win a shield today.” Ulf grinned.

Gunnar lifted his sword, and the men of
Raven
followed him into the forest.

27

A empty field stretched between the forest and the village. The earth was dark, recently plowed, clods gleaming.

The village was deserted, but the spear hall just beyond the town was closed tight, all of its shutters sealed; a breath of smoke lofted from the center of its roof.

Ulf slipped and fell into the mud, but the bulky warrior was soon on his feet again. Men grunted with the weight of leather armor and with the weight of their own muscle as they quickened their pace, approaching at a trot and, at last, an all-out run.

No fighter met them. They swept through the first dwellings. Doors and shutters splintered. Pots were dented or crushed. It did not take long to determine that these houses were empty and that they held no treasure. Someone started a fire in a thatched roof, and it smoldered, the wet stuff burning poorly.

A dog yammered at them, and Floki lanced it. One moment it was barking, and then it was not. It had been a yellow dog; now it was red. The spear pinned it to the mud.

The dog was the only warrior visible. Pig wallows were abandoned; goose pens held only feathers. The men from the other two ships swirled about, and Gunnar called, “The gold fortress!”

This gold fortress was near the center of the village, as though to seek protection from the houses around it. It was larger than the first gold fortress, and also better timbered. It had a stone tower, but this tower was complete, as thick around as four hall oaks, and nearly as tall. Opir and Trygg axed the door to white splinters, and even then they had to chop at cross timbers that blocked the way.

Steps echoed.

The hall had been stripped. Nothing gleamed; nothing caught the unshuttered sun.

Gorm danced up and down. “They have stolen it! They have stolen all of it and dragged it to the great hall where they are all hiding!”

This was, Lidsmod guessed, probably the truth. A cry rose. “To the hall!” the men called. Warriors streamed toward the hall, a tide of armed men.

An earthwork barrier surrounded the building, a low, sloping wall, the height of a man. It was not tall enough or in any way imposing enough to be impressive. Even as the men charged up the modest slope to the seemingly empty moat that surrounded the hall, the earthwork did not look dangerous.

But a dozen helmets appeared at the lip of the barrier, and black arrows filled the air. A spear hummed past Lidsmod, and another punctured Eirik's shield. He was unhurt, but paused to shake the spear free of his linden-and-leather shield. Gunnar called out a command.

Ulf was the first to see what Gunnar wanted. The two ran around the hall and leaped into the moat behind the earthworks there, as Lidsmod joined them. The hall guards here were not children. They were trained men, who had been told to wait until they were attacked. A great jarl, Lidsmod reasoned, must command this hall. Only the men of a proud jarl would fight so well.

Ulf and Gunnar both staggered under the blows of sword and spear, and Lidsmod fell backward. He was on his feet at once, but could not find space to swing his blade. It was the first fighting Lidsmod had ever shared, and yet he did not take a moment to notice what was happening, to shape it into story verse. Other sea warriors crowded behind Lidsmod, but only three or four men could stand side by side within the earthwork.

These guards had frightened brown and green eyes, and pale, tight lips. They began to hesitate. They were afraid to strike further lest they leave themselves open for counterblows. They were disciplined, Lidsmod saw, but he doubted that they had ever killed before.

Gunnar crashed his shield, boss against boss, against the shield of the tallest man. The man pushed back, strong-legged and stubborn. Gunnar's sword sliced through the air in a circle and rang into the man's helmet. Keen had done its work. No helmet of iron and leather could stand up to a proud sword.