by Robert Low
`You are the last,' he said. 'Finn and Radoslav, you will be pleased to hear, are as bad as you are, Kvasir Spittle and Hedin Flayer less so. But Ivar Gautr is dead.'
I was wiping my streaming face and slicking my hair away from it, so I missed what he said. Then it hit me and I looked at him, eyes wide. How could Ivar be dead? He had been with the crowd of us, helping me dive into goatskins of six-day nabidh, his swollen face as flushed as those of the rest of. us and, though that swelling mushed his speech like a mouthful of bread, he made us laugh still with his wit.
Brother John saw my look and sighed. The Goat Boy dropped the bucket and threw my own cloak at me to dry myself with.
`My fault,' said the little priest mournfully. 'I should have made him go to the Greek chirurgeons with that tooth.'
`They would have healed him,' the Goat Boy declared, hauling his tunic up to show me the great purple-red welt of his scar. 'They can raise the dead.'
`Blaspheming imp of Satan,' growled Brother John fondly. `Go and find Sighvat. Do not try and run, as I have warned you, or you will burst something.' He turned to me as the Goat Boy hirpled slowly away. 'He should not even be up, but he is leather-tough, that boy.'
I know the nabidh was strong,' I managed at last, 'but it only makes you feel like you have died. It can't kill you. . can it?'
Brother John passed me the bucket to drink from, which I did even though the thirst would not be slaked.
Ivar's tooth killed him. There was something festering there in all that swelling. You saw him. He would not have it seen by the Greeks, though it was clear there was much wrong. Poison from that tooth must have been filling him every day since the arrow wound he took on Cyprus.'
I remembered his face, bulging on one side, so that the scar on his cheek where the arrow went in looked stretched and puckered. The other side was hollow and yellowed and he looked like a wormed cheese, collapsing from the inside out.
`His tooth ate him,' I marvelled and Brother John straightened with a grunt.
`He will be the first of many deaths, I am thinking,' he said. 'Word has come: the Strategos, Red Boots, will be here in two days and the army is marching. Starkad has been telling everyone who will listen that the Oathsworn sacked churches on Cyprus and killed good Christ-men.'
I got up and slung my cloak round my shoulders, wishing my head was clear. 'Is anyone listening?'
Brother John shrugged. `Skarpheddin is. The Greeks who command the army here are. Jarl Brand, I have been told, laughed when he heard, which made the Greeks back water a little, for Brand raided his way all along the Middle Sea and I would be surprised if churches had not been included. The Greeks, it seems, need Brand and his men. All the same, Brand is bound to assist Starkad, since that dog has placed his hands in the jarl's fists and taken oath.'
`Doesn't church-sacking bother you, Brother John?' I asked, surprised at the ease he spoke of it.
It would if they were good monasteries of the old way,' he replied, 'but they are eggshells of faith stuffed with the sour meat of bad teaching. Lucri bonus est odor ex re qualibet, as Jarl Brand would say if he knew Juvenal.'
I had never met Juvenal either, but 'sweet is the smell of money obtained from any source' certainly made him sound like a good vik-jarl to me and I said as much. Brother John helped me up and back to our wadmal camp, my head spinning with fumes and thoughts of how we could safely get away from here before all our enemies closed the trap on us.
We burned Ivar Gautr in the East Norse way, for the heat was already making him ripe. The Goat Boy stood beside me, pale and still laboured in his breathing, trembling as men from Brand and Skarpheddin, who had also liked Ivar's wit, stacked what wood they could scavenge.
The Greek priests were suitably annoyed that someone prime-signed as a Christ-man should be burned like a pagan — and we all agreed, for we wanted to howe him up decently, with his armour and his weapons.
But those camel-herding grave-robbers would come in the night, since those weapons were worth a fortune, even if we broke them in three.
So we stood at an oil-soaked pyre and sent Ivar to Hers hall in a wind of sparks.
I was almost there,' the Goat Boy whispered and I squeezed his shoulder, feeling the terror rise and choke him. I could feel the heart in his chest flutter like a bird in a cage.
`You are not, so thank the gods.'
He looked up at me. 'How do you find the courage to face death, Trader?'
What a question. The answer to it was simple enough: when I do, I will let you know. But the Goat Boy needed a shield and I gave him one. I took the Thor hammer from round my neck, the one which had been round my father's neck until I raised his bloodied head from the mud-gore it lay in and took it off before the scavengers got to his body, under the walls of Sarkel.
`This is the best courage-finder,' I said, slipping the leather thong over his head. He fingered the amulet, as near to a Christ-cross as made no difference, and frowned.
I cannot. What would you do if you gave it me?'
I half drew my fine, watered blade. 'This is even more powerful, but too heavy for you to carry. You take the amulet.'
He gripped it in his little fist and grinned, all fear gone. I felt a surge then, something seidr. Perhaps Redbeard was in the amulet after all.
Finn and others had wanted to raise a stone to Ivar, but there were none suitable and no master-carver of runes within a thousand miles — in fact, in all my days I met only one such myself and I doubt whether there were a hundred in all the world then. Fewer now.
In the end, they dragged off Short Eldgrim, who made the least mistakes with runes, took him into Antioch and had him mark Ivar's name on the door pillars of one of the churches, while the priests wagged their beards and threatened to call the Watch.
As Finn said, the least the Christ-men could do for Ivar, who had been dipped in water with the rest of us and died a straw death, was mark his name on one of their god houses. They had enough of them, after all.
I reminded them that if the Christ wouldn't take him, Hel would and her hall was like herself, half foul, half fair. Those who died of sickness or age ended up on the brightly bedecked benches of Helheim.
It was at the pyre that we faced up to Starkad again, when he and his men came, supposedly to give polite honour to the dead Ivar. We stared at each other across the oil-slick wood, two packs of wolfhounds barely leashed by the presence of Ivar's fetch and the trouble a fight would cause.
Another one gone,' Starkad observed, caressing the hilt of the sabre as if it was a woman's thigh. 'If this goes on, there won't be enough of you left to bother anyone.'
`You seem a little diminished yourself, Starkad,' I launched back at him, trying not to look at his fingers tracing the runes I had scratched on the hilt. 'But we gave your dead on Patmos a decent send-off, in the old style, with the Sarakenoi who killed them at their feet. Of course, we took all they had as well.'
Starkad twitched a smile. 'Soon the Strategos will have word from Leo Balantes on Cyprus,' he snarled.
'Then it may be that we will have it all back and more.'
`Perhaps the Basileus will have word before that,' I answered sweetly. 'I am sure he knows Choniates'
finest hand in a letter that mentions your name and a package that will have your eyes out, you and all your crew.'
There was muttering behind him at that, but he ignored it and forced a smile. 'There is no need for this,'
he said. 'My quarrel is not with you and Jan Brand could be persuaded to help deflect any blow at you from Cyprus. We should be oarmates, for I understand you have as little regard for the Hammaburg monk as I do.
I did not know this before, so perhaps we were pulling oars on the wrong stroke. I am prepared to overlook the lie you told about the monk coming to Serkland, for I have since discovered it was true — though you did not know that.'
I tried not to blink at that one; he had a deal of clever, had Starkad, and ways of weaselling out the truth that knock
ed you off balance.
`Hand back that sword you stole,' I said, which was all I could think of.
He cocked his head like a curious bird. 'You put great store by this blade,' he mused thoughtfully. 'A good blade and valuable, but still.
`Will you trade?' I asked and he did not need to ask for what. He laughed instead.
`Why should I? Before long I will have what you took on Cyprus — and if the Greeks don't gather you up and blind you for it, then I will come for you myself. I have the protection of Jarl Brand, remember; you have no one.'
`Does Jarl Brand know you are King Harald's man?' I asked him and saw the blood in his eye at that.
'What will Bluetooth think of you swearing also to Jarl Brand? You take an oath too lightly to be now swearing peace to us.'
`For all that,' he answered thickly, 'peace is what I offer.'
I could not turn round, but I knew the eyes were skewering me and two of the deepest daggers in my shoulder blades belonged to Botolf. Deeper still were the eyes of those who could not see, kept in the dark and shackled. The weight of the invisible jarl torc, that other rune serpent round my neck, was crushing.
`Peace?' I replied sharply and paused. 'Why? Some of you are still alive.'
There were rumbling chuckles at that from behind me and Starkad whirled in a flare of red cloak and stalked off while the ranks of his men closed round him, looking darkly at us as they went.
The Oathsworn came round me, banging my shoulders and laughing. Botolf, rumbling with pleasure like some giant's cat, announced that he had seldom heard as gold-browed an exchange as that and others agreed. I did, too, when my knees stopped twitching. I thanked the gods for baggy Rus breeks.
`Well,' growled Finn, 'that settles matters. He will not trade, so we will have to take it from him.'
Back at the wadmal camp, hunkered round the pitfire and watching the black feathers of Ivar's fire thread the sky, Kvasir and Finn, whom I had appointed battle captains, agreed that the only thing left to do was seek out Starkad and fight him. What no one had an answer to was the problem of what to do with the container, for Starkad was right in that: as soon as he arrived, Red Boots would swoop on us.
`We could find out where Starkad sleeps and take him at night. That way we will offset his numbers a little,' Radoslav declared.
Finn curled a lip at him. 'At night? That would mean it was murder and not red war.'
I explained it to Radoslay. Any killing done in the night was considered murder, even if we decently covered the body and immediately reported the matter.
`Hardly matters,' muttered Kvasir. `Jarl Brand will have our heads, even if we win. Even if only one man is left standing, he will have his head.'
I was sure that man would be either Finn or Kvasir, but was equally sure that it would not be a Dane. The Danes knew the sabre was valuable and why and had sworn our Oath, same as everyone else, but I still did not feel they would charge into a sure-death fight over it. The chance for unimaginable wealth was lure enough to keep them with me — that and the Oath they swore — but this? This was something else entirely.
There was other talk, too, as Finn prepared mahshi, an Arab pot with lamb, onion, pepper, coriander, cinnamon, saffron and other things, including murri naqi, a seasoning oil made from fermented barley. And this from a man who had learned the names of those spices only a few weeks ago.
While we watched with interest and drooled, we spoke of Red Boots and the Roman army he was bringing. Few of us could understand what riches or benefit could be got from conquering a land as dun-coloured as this — especially as this was the latest of many wars between the Great City and the Sarakenoi.
I spoke with that soldier, Zifus,' Brother John declared, sniffing Finn's pot appreciatively. 'He told me that the Basileus has promised God to bring His Word to the heathens. This is a Holy War.'
I knew all our wars were blessed by the gods of the North, who supported one side or the other depending on how well disposed they were to your offerings. I did not know what the Greeks meant by Holy War, but wanted no part of it. I learned — too late — that it meant a land-ravager war, where everyone was killed and everything burned. Since the Sarakenoi preached the same, it meant a wasteland, where even hope was murdered.
We were drooling at the smell of Finn's cooking when up strolled Svala, as silencing to the talk as a hand on your mouth. She looked round us all, almost sadly, and I was the only one who met her eye, though I was sweating as I did so.
Kleggi the Dane opened his mouth to offer something witty, but she looked at him and he snapped it shut.
Short Eldgrim glared at her, but while his scarred face carried no fears for the likes of her, no one dared even move to ward against evil as she crossed and hunkered down beside me, dressed simply now, her hair in coiled braids. I had never seen these hard men so cowed.
`Now you know,' she said, 'and I am sad for it, since you seem afraid of me.'
`You are the third volva I have met,' I said, which widened her eyes, since most men steered a clear course away from even one. 'Only one of them did me any good and even that was a blade that cut both ways.'
She pursed her lips at that. 'What harm have I done you?'
`None,' I told her. 'Yet. Nor have you done me any good. Nor should you have killed the raven.'
`He should not have set it to spy,' she answered sharply. Odin will not be pleased,' I pointed out, 'but you have more to fear now from Sighvat, I am thinking.'
`Freyja will keep One Eye away,' Svala said confidently, and your Sighvat as a worker of seidr cannot match two women such as us.'
I sighed, for talking to her was like feeling a storm cloud rise when you are in an open boat. The pitch and toss of it was made all the worse for what had been before.
I want no quarrels between Skarpheddin's mother, you, me or Sighvat,' I replied. 'But you should stay away from all of us.'
`You?'
Especially me,' I snapped.
She straightened, dusting her knees, then looked at me, long and slow. 'This Hild,' she said, while ice crept down my veins. I have seen her, dark and fetched in the night. She has a sword and you had its twin, once.'
I was frozen, tongue-cloven. Had she seen this, out there in the Other — or heard me mutter this while I dreamed?
She smiled. 'I have gifts. Listen, then I will trouble you no more. The first thing to say is that Skarpheddin trusts his mother's power — and so he should. Thorhalla has promised him that you will reveal the secret of your treasure hoard and it would go easier if you just spoke it to him with no trouble. Otherwise, he may do something. . ill.
`The second is that you should get the sword from Starkad, for it is yours by right.'
I swallowed the clump of dry dust in my throat, but I was angry with her, this slip of a girl who thought she could make cows out of the Oathsworn.
`Witch gifts come in threes,' I croaked, which was daring, but I was young and not so convinced that her powers were more to do with keen watching than anything Other.
Her smile, though, was sweet as rumman fruit.
I know the secret of Fatty Breeks,' she said.
9
The heat of the day was leaching out of the dusty scrub, but the sky was dying in flame to the west where the hills rolled, grey-blue. Olive trees were pale purple in the twilight, their leaves black, while the air was arid with a dusty, woody smell, the ash-bite of fires springing up like a field of red blossoms.
Cloaked over it all was the great, crushing stink of an army, a throat-catcher made of leather, iron, horses, an acrid pinch of sweat and the thin, high smell of fear.
I had never seen anything like this, nor ever would again. I had thought Red Boots was bringing up a few more hundreds of men, no more, but this was Miklagard, the Great City, and the army around Antioch was a knarr on the ocean of men who came up from Tarsus.
We saw them first as a cloud to the north, rising up like a pale brown cloak over Antioch, and Brother John started to ord
er us to lash down the wadmal tents, for he had seen such sweeping sandstorms further south, in the desert around the Sea of the Dead. But I had seen one, too, out on the steppe, and knew it was no sandstorm. It was the dust kicked up by the army of the Strategos John the Armenian, favourite of the Basileus and nicknamed Tzimisces — Red Boots.
As with Sarkel's siege, the scholars of the Great City sought me out later, when I was a trader of note.
One was Leo, who was close to my own age, but while I stood in the ranks at Antioch, he hunkered on his knees back in Constantinople learning the ways of the Christ religion. In later days, as he scratched out his saga tales — as monks do — they knew him as Leo the Deacon.
By then, all that we had done had been lost and John Tzimisces' battle at Aleppo was a hero-tale to the Romans of the Great City. Leo, sleekit as a fox though he was, once went with Basil the second of that name and the army when it was cut to pieces by the Bulgars years after these events and barely escaped with his life, so he knew a thing or two about armies.
He wanted me to tell what I knew of the fight at Aleppo, to add to the accounts he had from others, and I did so, as far as I was able. I liked Leo, so I did not tell him he had no understanding of us Norsemen at all
— he called us `Tauroskythians', as if we'd all come from the steppes north of the Dark Sea.
I told him what I knew, which was little enough and shrouded in a golden haze of dust, but he didn't want to hear that. In the end, he told me more than I gave him and we agreed it was the confusion betweeri the Miklagard Handshake and how Norsemen fight bear that had cost us the victory. The first wanted to clasp the enemy with one hand and stab them with the dagger they could not see, while the second wanted to rush in and kill the beast before being crushed in a deadly embrace.
Forty-seven thousand men marched from Antioch a week after Red Boots arrived — and there were more, sweeping through the land known as the Jezira, all the way across the Euphrates and Tigris rivers in the north, before turning south and then west again, to come up behind Aleppo. It was a great raid, to drag off the Hamdanids and their allies, so that Red Boots could crush Aleppo and take all that part of Serkland known as Syria.
