‘Gall.’
Twenty-Eight
The man’s language was a lilting tongue not unlike the one Einar had heard spoken in Ireland.
That fact answered one of the questions foremost in Einar’s mind, which was where had they been wrecked. They could only be on the Coast of the Gaels that Affreca had spoken of. The hostility the spearman glared down at him with was confirmation if any were needed.
The man standing over him had the longest beard Einar had ever seen. He wore a short hooded cloak over what looked very like a dress that left his lower legs completely bare. New panic surged in Einar’s heart as he wondered what weird customs the wild people of these regions might have. What was he be about to be subjected to?
In an instinctive movement, he moved his hand down towards his waist where his sword belt was. The thought only occurred to him now that the weapon resting in its sheath was probably the first thing he should have considered ditching in the sea. No wonder the swim ashore had been so hard.
Before his fingers touched the sword’s hilt, the man above spotted his movement. He jabbed the point of his spear, dealing the end of Einar’s chin a painful poke.
‘Ah, ah,’ he said, shaking his head. It was a universal enough sound that Einar got the meaning straight away. Then he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Donal!’
A second man, this one thankfully wearing breeches, though with a beard every bit as long, came running over. He bent, his fingers fumbling at the clasp of Einar’s sword belt for a moment, then he took the weapon, sheath and all. Straightening up, he half drew the sword, revealing the letters carved into its blade spelling out the name +ULFBEHRT+. Einar saw Donal’s eyebrows shoot up at the sight. He exchanged a glance with his friend with the spear. Donal snapped the sword back into the sheath.
The spearman shouted something at Einar. He flicked his head in the direction of inland and Einar surmised this meant he should move in that direction.
With supreme effort, Einar struggled to his knees. His exhausted arms and legs felt heavy as stone. His shoulders sagged, his sopping wet clothes felt heavier than a cow. His soaked hair was plastered to his face and neck.
‘Where are we going?’ he said.
The spearman made no reply.
‘Is it far?’ Einar said. ‘I don’t have any shoes…’
The spearman returned a blank look.
‘Shoes,’ Einar said, speaking in a louder voice and pointing at his bare feet.
The spearman looked back at him like he was mad and Einar noticed for the first time that the man was also barefoot. His naked shins and feet glowed red from the cold.
The spearman grunted something. This time his voice was low and laden with threat.
His mind felt hazy with tiredness, shock and cold, but Einar still realised he needed to comply if he did not want the spear driven through his throat. With a heavy sigh he pushed himself up to his feet. The spearman gestured with his weapon and Einar staggered up the beach.
Before they got far, shouting made them both look round. Skar stood thigh deep in the surf. He had another man dressed in a skirt by the throat and he had ripped the spear out of his grasp. Others ran down from the beach towards him. They were all armed. Two had bows drawn and arrows notched. In a few more moments Skar was surrounded by a ring of spears and targeted by the two archers.
The big Viking glared around him and for a moment it looked like he would attack anyway.
‘Don’t do it,’ Einar breathed, hoping with all his heart that the Prow Man could control his anger.
Even Skar could see his situation was hopeless. With a peeved glance he released the throat of the man he held and dropped the stolen spear. As the waves crashed around him, he held his hands out at his sides, empty palms upward, in a gesture of surrender.
As the men around Skar rushed in to strip him of his sword belt, knives and other weapons, Einar noted the wary efficiency with which they worked. It was clear that these wild looking men were no bunch of random savages. They were not farmers or fishermen who just happened to have stumbled across a shipwreck. This was a disciplined warband. Had they been expecting the Wolf Coats? As the wind whipped a couple of the warriors’ beards aside, Einar caught sight of cross-shaped amulets at their throats. They were Christians.
Skar and Einar were herded up the beach to where Bodvar, Kari and Starkad also waited, guarded by warriors.
‘Where do you think we are?’ Einar said. ‘Who are these people?’
‘Gaels. Scots,’ Skar said.
One of their captors shouted something at them. He put his finger to his lips to convey his message: No more talk.
Another group of spearmen manhandled the bedraggled Sigurd and Atli to join them. The drenched Wolf Coats glared around them. Einar knew that in a straight fight they would slaughter these strangers but they were heavily outnumbered, unarmed and with no armour or any other body protection. All of them, like him, had also lost their boots. Except Skar, that was, who somehow had managed to swim ashore with his on. They had stripped off breeches, sword belts, jerkins, anything that could had dragged them down to the bottom of the sea. To his astonishment, however, Einar noticed every one of the others had managed to hold on to the same piece of clothing.
‘You kept your Wolf Coats?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Skar said, his tone suggesting that he found it odd that Einar would ask. ‘My wolf skin is dearer to me than my life. It is my life.’
The others nodded.
The spearman who had warned them to be quiet, shouted again. This time he also prodded Einar with his spear point. He called out something that sounded like orders to his companions.
Some of the warriors came forward, cautious of any sudden movement from the Wolf Coats. Using strips of leather, they bound the wrists of Einar and the others together before them.
The man in the skirt who had originally captured Einar shouted again to his companions. From the way the others looked to him Einar surmised he was in charge. It was also clear he had signalled that they were leaving.
Einar and Skar exchanged glances. Ulrich and Affreca were nowhere to be seen.
The beach was now empty. The sea beyond it was a turmoil of boiling water where the waves crashed into rocks, churning the water into frothy cream that fizzed and shot into the air. Bits of smashed wood, the remnants of their ship, bobbed here and there across the surface but apart from that the ship was gone. Einar wondered how any of them had survived that maelstrom. He had been very lucky. The Norns were weaving a different fate for him. Just how long they had spared him though, was another question.
Twenty-Nine
They trudged inland up a small dirt path from the beach through gorse and spiky green whin bushes. The shore rose quickly into a steep, bleak hillside. They followed a tiny animal path used by goats or sheep upwards, skirting the contours of the hill then had a short but arduous climb to the top. Under normal circumstances it would not have been too difficult, but after the time in the water, Einar was exhausted and there were times he wondered if he could really keep going.
A quick glance at the ruthless eyes of their captors left him in no doubt that if he did not keep going, they would not waste any time waiting for him. A quick stab or a cut throat would be his end.
To add to the misery, he was soaked. Dressed in just shirt and breeches, both sopping wet, there was scant relief from the biting cold wind, the chilling rain, or the occasional sleet that spat down from the grey sky above. The landscape reminded Einar a little of Orkney: Sparse, with boggy soil blanketed in gorse and heather. The dark soil was soft beneath his bare feet but the rough heather scratched and pricked his flesh, something his barelegged captors seemed oblivious to. Here and there were clumps of pine and rowan trees, all twisted and bent in the direction of the relentless, harsh wind. Occasionally they passed low, rectangular houses built of turf and stone. Any of the inhabitants who happened to be outside, folk who looked like poor farmers or shepherds, ducked indoors when t
hey saw the armed men approaching.
They stopped for a moment as they reached the brow of the hill. All around were dark mountains and steep valleys, and the sea seemed to leak everywhere between them so it was hard to tell what was an inlet and what was the ocean. Looking ahead, Einar saw that the hillside fell away, going back down to where it levelled out some way below in a very wide, flat valley surrounded by mountains. The sea crept inland to become a long, meandering river. The valley floor was a lush, dark green. Einar realised that had he not been so cold he probably would have found the vista that lay around him stunning.
A little way off on the hilltop was a squat, circular stone tower with no windows and only one door. It looked as though it had stood on that spot for thousands of years, though now was abandoned and falling into dereliction. The walls were constructed of the flat, grey rocks that here and there showed through the thin earth like glimpses of the bones of the land. It tapered at the top, giving the fort the look of a giant stone wine flask.
In the distance a lone, craggy hill rose from the valley floor. It was smaller than the surrounding hills and smoke drifted from the top of it. In the distance Einar could make out the colour of banners flying. It must be some form of settlement or fort, and not a small one.
The Wolf Coats were pushed and prodded to the door of the nearby stone tower. The door was narrow with the stone crumbling around the edges. It led to a short corridor through the impressively thick wall into a central, circular chamber that was open to the sky, confirming the impression that the fort was no longer in use.
The lead spearman pointed to the doorway and gestured that they should go in.
‘My friend, can we talk?’ Skar said. ‘I believe you are mistaken. What is your name?’
The spearmen narrowed his eyes. He tilted his head back.
‘We don’t like Viking bastards here,’ he said. The man spoke in stilted Norse, his words lilting with the accent of the Gaels.
‘So you speak our tongue?’ Skar said.
The spearman just shook his head. He prodded Skar’s gut with the spear and pointed at the door again.
‘We’re soaked and freezing,’ Einar said, his teeth rattling together in a way he could do nothing to stop. ‘If you don’t give us dry clothes, blankets or something we’ll be dead before tomorrow.’
Their captor laughed outright. The other warriors joined the laughter. Even if they did not understand the Norse tongue, they had clearly understood Einar’s meaning by his expression and gestures. Grinning, they pushed and prodded the Wolf Coats through the doorway and inside the old fort. Two of the warriors remained on guard, one on either side of the empty doorway, spears ready to skewer anyone who tried to come back out.
The interior of the abandoned fort was indeed empty. Most of the floor was covered by flagstones and though there was no roof the thick walls provided welcome relief from the biting chill of the wind.
Silence descended on what had become their prison.
‘Gather in,’ Skar said. The big man stood with his arms spread wide. He was like a huge tree. The others Wolf Coats all gathered around him, huddling together in a group hug. Einar stood apart, unsure what was happening.
‘Come on, lad,’ Skar said. ‘We need to share our body heat or we’ll die.’
Einar hesitated a moment, then nodded and joined the huddle. The warmth that emanated from the others bodies made him feel better right away.
‘What’s wrong?’ Starkad grinned at him. ‘Did you think we might ride you?’
Einar looked down. ‘I don’t know. What with those men in skirts and everything. What’s going on there?’
‘That’s what the Scots wear,’ Skar said. ‘And don’t worry lad. You’re not my type.’
‘They speak our language?’ Einar wondered aloud.
‘Some of them do,’ Skar said. ‘The Norse on the islands speak theirs as well. It makes sense when you live side by side with your enemy. They’re also Christians.’
Einar thought back to the mixed Norse and Aenglish speech the people of Jorvik used.
‘They think we’re Vikings,’ he said.
Skar made a sardonic grunt. ‘We are Vikings, lad. You can forget all that poet nonsense now. To them you’re just another sea wolf like us.’
‘And we’re lucky we’re not dead,’ Bodvar said. Einar marvelled at how the Wolf Coat could still smile, despite his chattering teeth. ‘I wonder why they didn’t kill us?’
The warmth of the others began to thaw the grip the cold had on Einar’s mind. A second realisation hit him like a punch in the guts. His shoulders sagged and it felt like a heavy weight hung from his heart.
‘Affreca,’ he said. ‘She didn’t make it! Ulrich didn’t either.’
Thirty
Affreca opened her eyes. Above her she saw greenery. Beyond that, weak sunlight poked through foliage. Was this death?
She remembered the ship falling apart beneath her feet after striking the rock. One moment it was there, the next it had disintegrated and she was tumbling into the freezing sea. The shock of the cold water had been intense. Pain shot through her head and it was impossible to breathe in, which was a good thing as she had been under the surface. When she had burst up into the air her breath had finally come but it was in short, rapid pants. A wave had rushed her forwards and she had spotted a beach ahead. Knowing death was the only option if she stayed amid the boiling sea and hidden rocks, she had struck out for the shore. Another wave had caught her and she surged forwards even faster towards the beach. Affreca was exhilarated at the speed at which she was moving closer to safety. Then she saw the dark ball of a rock looming out of the sea before her. She had a brief moment of panic as she realised the wave was shooting her directly for it. In the final moment she thought she glimpsed someone clinging to the rock, then the wave slammed her into it. She felt a stunning blow to her forehead then all had been blackness.
Now she was under this strange, leafy heaven. Many folk talked of going to Odin’s magnificent Valour Hall when they died. Custom taught that was the fate of only half the worthy dead though. The other half went to Fólkvangr, the lush meadow in which the goddess Freyja’s hall, Sessrúmnir, stood. Perhaps the greenery was the grass of that field?
Then she realised she was also not alone.
With a start Affreca saw there was another body lying beside her. He had his arms and legs wrapped across her. It was Ulrich and he appeared to be dozing.
If this really was the heaven ruled by Freyja, the little Wolf Coat leader and devotee of Odin, was in for a nasty surprise.
Her movement woke him. He opened his eyes and his face screwed up in pain straight away.
‘Ow! Watch it, will you?’ he said. ‘I think my foot’s broken.’
‘What are you doing?’ Affreca said, shoving his arms away and rolling away from the grasp of his legs.
‘I’m sharing the warmth of my body,’ Ulrich said, his tone sour. ‘And keeping us both alive.’
With a shudder, Affreca realised her clothes – a pair of leather breeches and a sealskin hooded jerkin – were soaking. The jerkin was supposed to keep the water out while on a voyage but submerged in the ocean there was little it could do. She touched a hand to her forehead, wincing at the stab of pain it invoked.
‘I’m not dead then,’ she said with a sigh.
‘What?’ Ulrich said.
‘I saw the greenery above and thought I was in Fólkvangr,’ she said.
Ulrich grunted. ‘They say Odin’s sense of humour is that of the gallows but if, after a lifetime serving the All Father, I ended up spending the afterlife with Freyja he’d be bloody twisted if you ask me. No. You’re not in the heavens. You are on the Gods-forsaken Coast of the Gaels.’
‘What happened?’ Affreca said. ‘The last I remember is being washed against a rock.’
‘You can thank the Norns who rule your destiny that I was on that rock,’ Ulrich said. ‘Mine were less generous. I was flung off the ship into the sea and t
hrown onto the same rock by a wave. I whacked my foot against it as I landed. I think I’ve broken something.’
Affreca sat up, pushing away the roof of branches and bracken that was piled above her. As soon as the cover was gone a bitter wind sent its chill through her wet clothes and bit her flesh. The storm had passed but the weather was no warmer. They were lying in a hollow in the gorse at the top of the beach. A strip of heavy cloth was beneath them, protecting their flesh from the spikes of the gorse. Affreca realised that it was a torn piece of the ship’s sail.
‘You hit that rock pretty hard,’ Ulrich said. ‘It’s a little way off the beach. Probably part of the rock the ship hit. I’m surprised you ever came round, to be honest. I was able to grab the hood of your jerkin as you sank and hauled you up onto the top of the rock.’
‘The others?’
‘They all made it to the shore as far as I could see,’ Ulrich said. ‘I called out to them but they couldn’t hear me above the noise of the waves and wind. Which turned out to be a lucky thing – another lucky thing – because a warband appeared on the shore. It was almost like they were waiting for us. They took the others but didn’t know we were out on the rock.’
‘Where did they go?’
Ulrich shrugged. ‘Up the shore and up the hill. After a while the storm calmed a bit and I was able to get off the rock into the sea and towed you to the beach. I’m all right in the water but soon as we got to the beach, I was next to useless. And you’re a lot heavier than you look.’
‘Thanks,’ Affreca said.
‘I managed to drag you up the beach but then I was done,’ Ulrich said, glancing down at his injured foot. ‘It was all I could do to build this shelter from gorse to stop us freezing to death. We should be grateful we’re alive and that we’re not captives. Odin was looking after us today.’
‘Pity he couldn’t have done something about the ship hitting that rock,’ Affreca said. ‘Let me take a look at that foot.’
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