The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  They exchanged a look which confirmed that both men were fully aware just how lucky they were to be standing there that day. Five years had passed since the storm which should have claimed their lives, and Erik’s mind went back to that night even as the Draki buried her bow again to send tendrils of spume whipping along the deck. For once they had missed the telltale signs of an approaching storm until it was too late; darkness had fallen before they could gain a safe haven and they had been forced to run before the rollers as they had this day. Unable to turn aside, Erik recalled the fear and consternation which gripped the crew as the lookout had made the terrible cry that all seamen feared:

  Surf! Directly ahead!

  Njörðr the sea god had smiled that day on Erik Haraldsson and his hird, guiding the ship away from the rocky shoreline and carrying the hull into the calmer waters of the only cove for miles around; it was a thing which still haunted his dreams and he had no desire to experience such a thing again.

  Erik crabbed across as the ship angled skywards and began to climb again. ‘Here,’ he said with a smile, ‘take a break. I think that you have done most of the hard work for today.’ Erik took the tiller as his styrisman moved across to join Helgrim and Thorstein at their stations. Both men were ready to leap to the big handle in the blink of an eye should the man at the helm be incapacitated or swept overboard by a rogue wave, and although it looked as if the worst of the storm had passed Erik was gratified to see that their concentration never wandered for an instant despite the mayhem all around. Gripping a handle worn smooth over countless sea miles, Erik braced as the Draki bounded forward and the thrill of steering a ship in heavy weather smothered his fears. The sky above was brightening by the moment now as the windstorm moved on, the sea began to calm, and the howl of the wind through the sheets and stays began to lessen. He already knew that Arinbjorn, Thorfinn Ketilsson and either Gauti Thorodsson in the Bison or his own son Harald in the Auk were close by. All the men in his fleet were experienced seamen, and he fully expected that they had remained within sight of at least the closest ship to their own despite the best efforts of the storm to scatter them. They would reform within the hour once the windblown spray fell away and visibility improved; Erik cast a look of impatience outboard and wished the storm away.

  The ships rolled like drunks in the heavy swell, and Erik clung to the forestay as he called across the gap and concern began to gnaw at his guts. ‘And you let them leave alone?’

  Thorfinn Ketilsson caught the hint of admonishment in the king’s question and he drew himself upright, his chin jutting forward defensively as he replied. ‘Yes lord, I judged it better to keep the fleet intact rather than scatter the ships in unfriendly waters.’ He cast a look at the sky as he spoke. The storm had blown over as quickly as it had arrived and the sun was an indistinct smear in a wish-wash sky; away to the north a thin white line showed just how far the ships had been driven, but the wind had swung around to the north-west and they were free of any danger of falling foul of a lee shore. It could only be the English land of the West Saxons, the very same coast from which king Edmund had dispatched his fleet to waste Strathclyde a month or so previously, and Erik acknowledged his man’s decision with a nod of acceptance before snapping a question to the men at his side. ‘What do you think?’

  Helgrim was the first to reply, and the big huskarl fixed his lord with a look as he confirmed Erik’s own suspicions. ‘Something is afoot, I can feel it in my guts.’

  Erik’s eyes moved across to Thorstein just as the man added his own conclusion. ‘No man would turn a skei beam on to rollers of that size unless he was either a fool or there was a pressing need, and Gamli is nobody’s fool.’

  Sturla and Kolbein were already nodding their agreement, and Erik turned back towards the place where the Reindyr seesawed alongside as he reached his decision. ‘Pass the word from ship to ship. Spread out into a skirmish line and stay within sight of those on either beam. We sweep southwards, and the first to spot either the Okse or the knarrs unfurls their colours from the mast top and leads us to them.’

  The crews jumped to it and within moments the two ships were drawing apart. The Sea Stallion and Harald Eriksson’s Auk had closed on the larboard beam, and Erik crossed the steering platform, moving a hand to his mouth as he hailed them. ‘It looks as if Skuli and his ships are making a break for it and Gamli has gone after them. Form a scrimmage line and pass the word; if you see a flag flying from the masthead that will be the signal that they have been spotted, hoist your own colours to alert those next in line and reform the fleet.’

  As the two skei bore away Erik was pleased to hear the crack as the sail of the Draki was unfurled and sheeted home. Within moments the familiar creaks and groans filled the air as the sail bellied, rigging of horsehair and walrus hide took up the strain, and the long sleek hull overcame inertia to send seawater seething along her flanks.

  Thorfinn was already giving the Reindyr its head, the skei curving away to the south-east as it made to intercept what must be Arnkel’s Iron Beard and his shipload of Orkney men. The pale sunlight was flashing from oar and steering blade alike as they struggled to make headway against the wind, and Erik allowed himself a smile despite the tenseness in those surrounding him as he imagined the relief on the faces of the crewmen as the bluff jarl-brother gave the order to lay-to and wait to see what all the fuss was about.

  Within the hour the ships to either beam appeared hull down in the swell to those on deck, with just the billowing sail and the point of movement glimpsed at the mast top betraying the lookouts clinging to their lofty perch. Erik had sent Olvir back aloft the moment that they had set course southwards, the Vestfolder having proven time and again that his eyesight was as sharp as any pin.

  The chalk cliffs of Wessex soon melted from view as the wind swept them south, and Erik’s eyes went from mast head to mast head as he awaited the flash of colour which would have them racing to converge. With the storm spent and the wind at their backs the skei flew, shrugging off the enfeebled attempts of the waves to push them away to the east. Kolbein was back at the helm, and Erik paced the steering platform as the sun finally broke free of the clouds and began its long dip to the west. The conditions were almost perfect for the chase, and Erik allowed his thoughts to drift back to the day when the same ship whose deck planking now thrummed beneath his feet had doubled Lindesnes and led a mighty fleet to war. That day the Draki and the other skei had outpaced the fuller hulls of the snekkjur; the difference could only be more pronounced with the knarrs, hulls which had been designed for cargo carrying and seaworthiness, and as if to confirm the meanderings of his mind Erik started as Thorstein gripped his sleeve and his excited cry broke into his reverie: ‘There it is!’

  Erik looked, following his huskarl’s outstretched arm away to the east. The wild boar banner of Orkney was clearly in view as it unfurled from the mast head of the Iron Beard, and Kolbein had the tiller hard into his belly even as Erik opened his mouth to snap the command. The Draki dipped its larboard strakes as she came about, beating the surface to froth as the crew raised their eyes for confirmation that the ships were in sight, chattering in their excitement as their tension found release. Everyman aboard had a stake in the contents of the three traders. They had driven the Norsemen of Blacaire Gudrodsson from the walls of Dublin and faced down Conalach Cnogba’s army of Irishmen with their fierceness and fortitude; they had earned the right.

  In reply Erik’s own bloodied axe banner snapped open above their heads, and within the time it took the ship to bottom out in the swell and rise again, a flash of colour showed where Arinbjorn’s battle flag was passing the news to the ships further westwards even as the Sea Stallion altered course to intercept.

  Before the Draki could come up with the Orkney ship, Olvir at the mast top as calling down that he had a skei dead in the water within sight. Acting that strangely in dangerous waters it could only be the Okse, and Erik felt a lightness in his heart as the sighting confirmed tha
t his eldest son and his crew had survived the treacherous course change at the height of the storm and the subsequent chase without broaching. It was testament, both to the quality of the ship and the men who crewed her that they had survived at all, and Erik felt a glow of pride as the fear which had chivvied at his gut all morning receded. The Iron Beard was little more than a quarter of a mile off the larboard bow when the war banner atop the southern skei came into view to those on the Draki’s deck, and Thorstein turned to flash Erik a smile as they saw the final proof that it was Gamli’s ship.

  The Sea Stallion was within half a mile of the starboard beam, and beyond her flashes of colour against a gull grey sky showed where Harald Eriksson’s Auk and Thorfinn Ketilsson’s Reindyr were rushing across to close the net. Olvir called down from his place at the mast top that he could now see that all three of Skuli’s knarr were clustered about the Okse, and Erik allowed himself to relax a little as the need to sweep the sea for the cargo ships receded.

  Within the hour they were there, and Erik exchanged a look with his companions as it became clear the masts and yards of all three runaways were smoke blackened. ‘Come on,’ he said, flashing a smile of anticipation as their own sail was shortened and Kolbein guided the bows of the Draki alongside the stern of the Okse. ‘This should be a fine tale.’

  Gamli was waiting, his expression betraying his pride as he stood ready to welcome his father aboard, and Erik leapt the gap to land alongside his first born as Sturla and Thorstein followed on. Bound hand and foot a surly group amidships caught his eye, but Erik ignored what were obviously the crewmen from the transports to acknowledge Gamli’s efforts with a nod and light punch to the shoulder. ‘So, tell me what happened. I take it they ran?’

  Gamli nodded. ‘Yes lord.’

  ‘You harbour no doubts?’

  ‘None lord.’

  ‘That is what Thorfinn thought, too.’

  Erik ran his eyes across the masts and rigging of the ships tied up alongside. The fire damage he had seen on the way in was not as bad as he had expected; the upper parts of the masts and yards on all three ships appeared scorched rather than fire eaten, and Erik’s own mouth curled into a smile as he once again recognised the pride writ large on Gamli’s face when he turned back. Before Erik could ask what had happened his son explained. ‘Once the storm had blown itself out they knew that they couldn’t outrun a skei so they attempted to scatter.’ Erik’s gaze alighted on the misery racked form of Skuli among his men and he shot the trader a look of hatred. ‘We closed with them one after another and put fire arrows into their sails. They had to cut the sails away to save the ship, so that was that. I just rounded them up, replaced the crews with some of my own men and waited for you to come and find us.’ Gamli flashed his father a wicked smile. ‘I thought that you might like to blood eagle the bastard, father? He deserves it.’

  Erik sniffed and shook his head. ‘The blood eagle is a special dedication to Óðinn. It is only used by a man of high rank to take vengeance on the killer of his father. This man swore an oath on Jomal that he would transport my belongings and be paid good silver for his efforts.’ Erik fixed the ship owner with a stare as he reached his decision. ‘Thorstein?’

  ‘Yes lord?’

  ‘Fetch my axe from the Draki. Any man who swears a vow to me will honour it or pay the price. Let us see how far our oath breaker can swim without arms.’

  14

  LISHBUNAH

  Helgrim arched his back, squeezing out a fart before falling back with a frown. ‘As ripe as a month old pear; it looks like it might be wash day after all!’ A rumble of laughter ran around those resting on the steering platform as the big man winced and rubbed at his belly. ‘That mutton was fabulous and I even got used to eating it with all that fruit and shit after a while, but it is getting its revenge.’ The others muttered their agreement as the plop plop sound of a crewman squirting the contents of his bowels over the side drifted up from for’ard. Erik chuckled softly as he raised his head to gaze up at the night sky. High above them the stars were turning as they had for all time, but he resumed his watch on the nearby town as Thorstein threw Sturla another question. ‘So, let me get this straight. Thiazi the giant made off with Idun and her apples. Because of that the gods began to age and they sent Loki to get her back, which he did by flying to the giant’s hall wearing Freja’s falcon cloak. When he came home and discovered Idun gone Thiazi changed into an eagle and chased after them, but when the gods saw them coming they made a great fire which burned his feathers and they killed him when he fell to the ground.’

  Sturla nodded. ‘Yes, you are finally getting it!’

  Thorstein rubbed his hands together, beaming as he prepared to finish the tale. ‘This was a bad idea because Thiazi’s daughter was none other than the giantess Skadi, better known to men as the winter goddess of skiing and hunting, and she dressed herself for war and came to Asgard with vengeance in her heart.’

  Erik looked across, chuckling to himself as he saw the smiles on the faces of his most trusted men. They were enjoying their big friend’s enthusiasm as much as the tale itself, and Erik felt the warm glow of comradeship as the first grey light of the new day tinted the eastern horizon. As much as the moments of danger, in the press of shields where blood and spittle flew or stormy seas where the enemy was even less forgiving and everyman’s life depended on those around him, it was moments such as this that forged an unbreakable bond between them. Points of light began to appear on the dockside as the fishermen of Lishbunah wend their way down to their boats; soon they would be putting out to sea, casting furtive looks their way and careful to give the barbarian fleet a wide berth, despite the fact that Erik had ordered the beast heads unshipped and the presence of guard ships anchored before the town. Thorstein was in his stride now, and Erik listened in as he completed what seamen throughout the North knew as the tale of Thiazi’s Eyes.

  ‘When Skadi pitched up before Vallhöll Óðinn offered gold in compensation for her loss, but the giantess tells them that she will settle for nothing less than marriage to one of the Æsir, and in addition if they fail to make her laugh then the deal is off. She chooses Njörðr, but try as they might they just can’t manage to get the miserable bitch to so much as chortle until Loki takes up the rope tethering a goat and ties the other end to his ball sack. The cries of god and beast as they shuffle back and forth are too funny for even a woman who has just lost her father, she laughs and the deal is struck.’

  Thorstein looked up, his face a picture of happiness as he thought he had reached the end, but Sturla pointed a finger to the sky to indicate that he had forgotten the very thing that gave the tale its name. The huskarl clicked his fingers, instinctively raising his eyes skyward as he remembered. ‘As a special favour, Óðinn plucked her father’s eyes from their sockets and threw them into the sky where he could look out over the three worlds for evermore.’ He shrugged. ‘Him being a sometime eagle and liking that sort of thing. That’s them, right there,’ he said, pointing out two of the brightest stars in the night sky: ‘Thiazi’s Eyes.’

  Sturla clapped Thorstein on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, we will make a skald of you yet! There is another tale I can tell you about them,’ he added enthusiastically. ‘The Greeks call them Castor and Pollux, the heavenly twins. They were sons of their god Zeus-’ He pulled a face, wrinkling his nose as Helgrim let rip again, and as the sniggering subsided the huskarl made a plea. ‘No more tales of the gods eh? I can’t help thinking that if they had more to do everyday than sit on their arses thinking up mischief, there would be a lot less trouble in the world.’ He looked across with the jaundiced eye of a man more comfortable with placing faith in his own strength to ease his way through the troubles on Midgard than sacrificing or imploring others to intercede on his behalf. ‘Where do you learn this shit anyway?’

  Sturla pulled himself upright before answering, and Erik chuckled as he saw the glint of anticipation come into his men’s eyes. Sturla was known for
the depth of his word hoard and they all knew that he delighted in taking every chance to use them. ‘I am garrulous,’ he said smugly. ‘That is a Roman word, the Christian priests use it in monasteries and the like.’

  Thorstein rolled his eyes, putting on airs of his own as he replied. ‘Is that so lord? I know another name for garrulous men that the Christian priests have probably never heard of, but luckily for you I am too considerate of other men’s sensibilities to use it in such delicate company.’

  Erik snorted as the big man mined his own word hoard, raising his eyes again to look to the east as the men continued to rib his new banner man over his loftiness. All men of good birth and those who served in their immediate troop were expected to become accomplished in word play, and many winter hours were spent in what was known as flyting as men traded cunningly crafted insults and jests in verse back and forth across the long hearth in muggy halls. But it was true Erik admitted to himself, Sturla was as talkative as any man he had known; what kindhearted men would call chatty back home, and many, many more a pain in the arse. But he had proven his usefulness time and again since the day he had first stepped forward to offer his king help on a distant Finnish beach, and Erik’s mind wandered back over the journey south as the first rays of the sun lit the distant hilltops. With Skuli’s ribcage now a home to crabs and fishes and his underlings part of the cargo, Erik had been all set to order the fleet to turn their prows to the North. With the big slave markets at Kaupang in Norway and Verdun in Frankia closed to Erik for obvious reasons Hedeby, the town in Jutland they had taken from Olof the Brash’s son Gnupa half a dozen years before had been the obvious destination. But his banner man had argued the case for a trip south and now here they were, riding at anchor off the shore of Al-Andalus.