Fenrir c-2

by M. D. Lachlan

  28

  Ravens

  The young man had at first thought to kill the bird that dropped from the smoke vent. Boiled raven was barely edible but meat was scarce enough to make anything welcome. But then it had looked so funny, perched on the shoulder of the sleeping lord. The bird then hopped up onto his head, and the young farmer had wondered, half hoped, that it would make its mess on the nobleman’s hair. He bore no ill will to the lord at all, in fact he rather respected him, but his sense of humour was such that birds messing on the hair of sleeping men was extremely amusing to him.

  But then there had been a flutter and a tumble of wings, and he felt a sharp sting on his cheek. It was another raven, flapping to the smoke vent. He put a hand to his cheek then his fingers to his lips. Blood. The thing had cut him, pecked him or slashed at him with its feet as it flew past.

  He said nothing but just looked down at the blood on his fingers. The bird on the nobleman’s shoulder was looking at the young farmer, its eyes two little gleaming coals. He felt no inclination to move, though the heat of the embers seemed oppressive. The bird kept looking at him. Was it his imagination or did it seem to be standing in a sort of questioning posture, its head cocked as if evaluating him?

  His hands went back to his cheek. The wound was painful, not like a normal cut, more like a bee sting. He felt his heart begin to race. Nothing seemed clear to him. It was as if something was writhing in his head, as if he wanted to stand up, sit down, be still and run all at the same time.

  The breathing of the young lord seemed abnormally loud, irritatingly loud. The man might have killed the enemy king but did he have to hem and haw so? Had the lord really killed the king? He knew those noblemen were full of lies, despite their airs and graces. The heat was becoming unbearable. He took off his smock and sat bare-chested. He was sweating heavily now. The pain on his cheek was spreading a numbness all the way down his right side.

  The bird’s eyes never left him.

  The young farmer stretched out his arms. ‘What answer would you have me give?’ he said. He realised he was talking to the raven. The stupidity of that struck him and he fell to giggling. The bird watched him still. The young man had never been so hot nor found anything so funny. He was shivering despite the heat. The giggling subsided and he felt another emotion growing inside him. Anger. He knew, of course, what the noble intended. To rape his sister, take his crops and kill anyone who stood in his way. They did that sort of thing, those high men; it was well known.

  The nobleman wasn’t really sleeping; he was lying there like a fox, biding his time until everyone dropped off. Then he would get up to begin his foul acts. The nobility took its portion by right, but the people expected defending in return. What had they done, these fine fellows? Allowed the country to be overrun by Norsemen, Neustria pillaged and Paris besieged. If a common man did not pay them his dues what could he expect?

  The heat in his head was unbearable. He felt something biting and writhing within him, tearing at his reason, shredding his thoughts. The bird’s eyes were on him, glittering black stones. He stood up. He picked up a knife from the bench at the table. They had had meat as an honour to the lord. The blade was a good one, used for fine boning. He looked down at the fat foreigner who was the nobleman’s servant. Him first?

  The nobleman stirred.

  No, better to take the warrior in his sleep and deal with the servant afterwards.

  The raven cawed as the young man stepped forward and plunged the knife into Aelis’s belly.

  29

  Strange Companions

  Jehan wondered why the Norsemen had agreed so quickly to his suggestion that they head for the mountains. There was no return to camp, no leave-taking of companions; in fact, there seemed to be some urgency about their departure. Ofaeti had four men with him, and they hurried north to meet up with six more.

  They found each other at the beginning of the wood where the Raven had tried to work his magic on Jehan. Down the hill they could see the Viking camp. There was activity, noted Jehan, men gathering, tiny but visible under the big moon. The six brought four mules with them and one riding horse, though they were lightly provisioned. The animals bore mail hauberks, spears, axes and a couple of bows, bedding and not much else. The men had clearly left in a hurry.

  With his restored sight he could not help but stare at them, stare at everything. The night was cloudy but the moon was visible, crisping the edges of the clouds with silver. The air seemed charged, the land to glow. Did Eden know a light so lovely? he thought

  These men were different from the other Vikings he had seen in the wood. They were blonder, taller and for the most part more strongly built. Ofaeti was a sight to behold, fat but powerful, using a spear for a staff. Svan too was a giant, with a great red beard that seemed to burn like copper in the day’s strange light. He carried a large single-headed axe. Fastarr, the one with the hammer on his shield, was a lean and nimble-looking man who wore a sword at his belt. He had a large and ugly scar on his cheek — clearly he had taken a spear point or sword tip there at some point. Then there was Astarth, the youngest with his wispy beard, and the rough and coarse Egil, whose profanity stood out even in that company of battle-bitten warriors. The rest of the eleven had not yet been addressed by their names and the confessor had no urge to ask them. One was older than the rest. He was grey-haired and two fingers on his right hand were missing. Another carried two swords at his belt, though the rest of his dress was poor.

  The men were having a debate as to whether they should put on their war gear. Ofaeti ended it. ‘The sooner we’re out of here the better. No time for all that,’ he said.

  ‘You know the way?’ said Fastarr to the confessor.

  ‘I know of it,’ said Jehan, ‘it is south-east by the trading route to Lombardy.’

  Ofaeti nodded. ‘Get us there and emerge with our gold and you’ll never hear from us again. On the courage of Tyr, I swear you will come to no harm. Betray us and I will kill a monk for every day of my anger, and my anger does not cool slow,’ he said. ‘I want your word, on your god, that you will treat us as fairly as we treat you. That is to say, well. You’ll have no trouble from us if you give us none. Do you swear?’

  Jehan looked at the men. He was in their power and had little choice. He needed to get to Saint-Maurice and these men looked capable of getting him there. How much money would he get for the monk’s bones? None. So his oath would be discharged the moment he told the berserkers they had earned no pay for their booty. Then the monks would be free to kill them. Was that the most satisfactory outcome? It was certainly the one that most churchmen would favour. But surely it would be better to bring these men to Christ. He would try, he thought, he would try.

  ‘You have my oath,’ he said. ‘I will serve you in this task.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ofaeti. He went to a mule and took out a pair of sandals.

  ‘It’s a long walk so you’ll be needing these. Don’t think it a kindness. I don’t want you slowing us with blisters or taking up space on a mule. Where do we go from here?’

  ‘There is a ford. I think it’s down this hill.’

  Jehan strapped on the sandals, his fingers fumbling at the knots. He was unused to tying on shoes, unused to doing anything at all for himself.

  ‘Hurry it up,’ said Fastarr. ‘Lord Rollo is about to express his gratitude for what Ofaeti did to his son. A ford where?’

  Jehan pointed to where the memory of his childhood told him the ford was but the berserkers were staring back down the hill. He turned to see what they were looking at. A group of warriors was assembling. How many? Forty or so, more joining from down in the camp, some on horseback.

  Ofaeti shrugged. ‘He was a grown man and it was he who issued the challenge.’

  ‘After you’d punched him in the face and knocked the teeth out of his head.’

  ‘After he’d called me unmanly. The law’s plain. I could have killed him for that on the spot. I was willing to leave it at a
broken nose. He was the one who wanted to take it further.’

  ‘They are massing,’ said Holmgeirr.

  ‘We could stand and fight,’ said Astarth.

  Fastarr shook his head. ‘If few are to succeed against many then the many need to flee. They are Rollo’s men and will fight with a grudge. We can’t kill enough to rout them. We’d never run so many.’

  ‘We could just roll you down the hill to flatten them, you fat bastard,’ said Egil.

  ‘If you like,’ said Ofaeti. ‘The walk back up will do me good.’

  ‘It’s Hvitkarr, one of Rollo’s chieftains. At the mead bench I heard him confess he couldn’t understand a word the skald was saying. I think a man who cannot understand poetry must be a poor warrior,’ said Astarth.

  ‘True enough,’ said Ofaeti. ‘I once heard him telling the tale of a victory, and a dog could have made better verse. The spirit of Odin is not in him, so why would it be in his men?’

  ‘They are too many. Come on,’ said Fastarr. ‘If we make the woods to the south we’ll lose them. We’ll make for the ford.’

  ‘And then what? Steal a boat? Does the river go to this monastery, monk?’

  ‘It goes part of the way,’ said the confessor. ‘There is a short cross-country part where you can take the old Roman road, the Transversale, until you meet the Saone going south, and then you follow the Rhone to the door.’

  Jehan was speaking from what he had heard from pilgrims; he had never travelled the route himself. The pass Saint-Maurice stood in was the quickest way through the mountains to Lombardy, Turin and ultimately Rome.

  ‘We’ll walk,’ said Ofaeti. ‘The rivers will be alive with spies looking for northerners. Come on. We don’t want to get caught by Rollo’s men while we’re crossing. The river’s high and it’ll be hard enough without those bastards coming after us.’ He took the halter of the mule and descended the back of the hill at a trot.

  Jehan glanced back. Riders were joining the men at the edge of the camp. The confessor knew he and the berserkers would be caught. That did not frighten him much. However, a different anxiety was gnawing at him. The taste of that human meat in his mouth would not leave him. He felt sick but strangely elated, as if part of him had enjoyed his grisly meal. He also realised, with surprise and horror, that he was anticipating the fight to come. Saliva had risen to his mouth and his limbs felt light and quick. As he moved through the trees following the warriors, he offered a prayer that, should he kill, he should kill justly and take no joy in it. The Church was clear — it was good to kill heathens but not to revel in slaughter.

  Everything felt so strange: there were so many changes for him to come to terms with. He had been blessed, he was sure. God had looked down on him in his torment and released him from the bonds of his disease. Whatever came after could only be God’s will. All he had to do was to pray and accept whatever happened, react as he felt God wished him to do.

  Jehan also noticed he felt stronger. The pace was fine, though the warriors were running. He tried to pray and the words of the Creed, the statement of belief on the nature of Christ, came into his head: God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten, not made.

  They reached the edge of the wood and looked at the long drop towards the ford.

  By the power of the holy spirit incarnate, through the Virgin Mary made a man.

  The Vikings trotted down the hill with Jehan beside them. He kept glancing back but he could see nothing behind him. He felt joyful and full of life, and ashamed at that joy when he considered what had passed his lips not a day before. He felt a hand on his arm. It was the fat one, panting at his side.

  ‘Not so fast, monk,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want to leave us behind.’

  Jehan came to himself and checked his pace. He didn’t feel like slowing, though; he felt like tearing through the night to give vent to the boiling energy rising inside him.

  30

  A Question of Fear

  Aelis felt the thump in her ribs. She awoke to see the half-naked man standing over her. He was sweating heavily, his eyes rolling in his head. She tried to stand but he kicked her legs from under her, driving the knife down between her shoulder blades. This time, as it hit the mail hauberk she wore beneath the cloak, the knife snapped. The blow was a heavy one, though, and she fell face first to the reeds.

  People were on their feet, the whole house in uproar. The young man seemed nonplussed by the fact that his weapon had broken and sat down on the floor.

  Aelis stood and a terrible pain shot through her. Her ribs were broken, she thought, front and back, but the mail coat had saved her life.

  She bent for her sword but she was in agony and her movement was slow. The young man looked up at her, almost as if seeing her for the first time. Then he lunged from his sitting position, driving himself forwards to slam into Aelis, sending her sprawling. His hands were at her throat, but she had Sigfrid’s sword free from its scabbard. Her vision constricted to a tunnel, her head thumped, her ribs were on fire, but she shoved the blade into the man’s belly and kept pushing until the crosspiece hit his navel.

  Her sight faded, the voices of the room were distant and echoing. The hands at her throat were unyielding. Then there was a thump and she could breathe again. The merchant was standing over the young man, who tried to get up but the handle of the sword dug into the floor and he gave a terrible cry. He pulled at the weapon, struggling to get to his feet as if drunk, one leg gaining purchase on the floor, the other flailing, refusing to obey his commands. For a second he was upright but then lurched forward and dropped to his knees, his shaking hands still tugging at the unmoving handle of the sword.

  Aelis was doubled up on the floor, gasping for breath, coughing and choking, still uncertain as to whether she had been stabbed, so great was the pain in her ribs.

  ‘You’ll die for what you’ve done, nobleman!’

  The boy’s father was striding towards her, an axe in his hand, but Leshii leaped between him and the spluttering figure of Aelis. The merchant had drawn an axe and held it above his head, ready to strike. An angry crowd of around twenty people faced them. The farmer’s wife, a big woman with raw cheeks, ran weeping to her son.

  ‘No one does anything until we find out what’s gone on,’ Leshii said. ‘Look to your boy rather than a fight you won’t win. The lord did for Sigfrid; he’ll do for you.’

  The farmer looked at Aelis, clearly wondering what his chances were in a fight against the young nobleman. Not good, he seemed to decide. He went to where his wife was cradling her son’s head. The young man was still sitting upright, his eyes staring into nothing.

  ‘What happened?’ The farmer’s wife’s voice was gentle.

  The youth’s mouth fell open.

  ‘My thoughts were a snake,’ he said. ‘He had been hiding inside me and he came forward to strike. The raven called him out. The bird bit at me and my thoughts went wild.’

  ‘This is sorcery,’ said Leshii. ‘The boy was bewitched. The Raven is a noted necromancer, an unholy priest of the Viking invader. Look, there is his instrument, the bird, that is what drove your son to this.’

  The raven was in the open doorway. As if it heard its name, it took wing and flapped into the night.

  ‘He came at me while I was sleeping,’ said Aelis, each word forced out with what little breath she had. ‘If I had attacked him first with my sword he would have had no chance to strike at me. Look, he broke the knife on my mail.’

  The farmer looked up to where the boning knife was snapped to its handle.

  ‘Get out,’ said the farmer. ‘Go from this place. You are not welcome to come here bringing devils to our door. Get out!’

  Aelis stood and limped towards the door, the eyes of the crowd on her. Leshii, though, stayed.

  ‘What are you waiting for, foreigner? Leave!’ said the farmer.

  Leshii stepped forward. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I can’t leave you with my lord’s sword. It is too valuab
le a weapon. It’s worth three of your farms.’

  ‘I will kill you before you take it.’

  ‘Let him take it, father. I can abide it no more.’ The boy’s voice was faint.

  Leshii looked into the farmer’s eyes. The man looked away and then at his son. He kissed the boy on the forehead and his wife squeezed her son’s hand.

  Leshii stepped forward and took the handle of the weapon gently. Then he put his foot into the youth’s chest and with a wrench pulled it from his body. The boy gave a yelp but then was quiet.

  Leshii stood above him holding the bloody sword.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Apply to the count for compensation. Tell him the one he thought lost did the work. Ask in the name of Lady Aelis.’

  ‘Get out!’

  Leshii left the house and went to Aelis. She was lying in the mud and shit next to one of the flimsy animal shelters.

  ‘Well, lady,’ he said in a low voice, ‘we have the clothes we stand up in, weapons, two horses and a mule. You are followed by enchanters who have shown their skill. Will you put your trust in me now?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Now will you believe me? There are sorcerers hunting you. You must get to Ladoga and Helgi. He is a great magician and will drive these evil things from your back.’

  He put his arm around her to lift her, but as he did became aware of a presence in the shadows. It was the wolfman.

  ‘Chakhlyk?’

  ‘Ladoga,’ said Sindre. ‘You must get her to Ladoga. I can help you as long as the arrow lets me live.’

  Leshii nodded. ‘Then let’s get the animals,’ he said.

  Aelis looked up from the mud. Her mind felt dislocated, knocked sideways. She thought of the horses at the river, of how she had killed Sigfrid and she shuddered. What explained that? Supernatural forces seemed all around her and within her. She stood. She was in no condition to ride but she had seen the look on the young farmer’s face, and, more than that, had sensed what was within him. There had been an acid feeling to his presence. A sensation like heartburn sprang up inside her when she thought of him. Something more than human, venomous, had hissed and coiled within him. She felt certain Leshii was right: it was sorcery and she knew it was unlikely that this attack would not be the last.