by Swan Road
Chapter Sixteen
The Fish Hooked
For long days and nights, the Siren's Song played a cat-and-mouse game with Ragnar's own mighty longship, neither gaining nor losing leagues, but always running, with Wulfgar and Flóki both forced to call upon every ounce of shrewdness and strength they possessed to maintain the distance between the two vessels. Down the coasts of Caledonia and Britain, the Siren's Song fled, zigging and zagging in an effort to throw off her relentless pursuers, to no avail. Ragnar's knowledge and experience of the sea were much greater than that of Wulfgar. Like a sly fox, Ragnar seemed to anticipate Wulfgar's and Flóki's every move.
"We cannot shake him, lord." Flóki's face was taut with tiredness and worry. "He is going to keep on until he has run us to ground."
"I had hoped that Ragnar would grow weary of the chase. But in my heart, I know that you are right, Flóki," Wulfgar agreed. "Still, somehow, we must rid ourselves of him. If we put in to some harbor, he will be on us, like a bear fishing in a mountain stream, clawing us from the water to bite off our heads! Yet if we continue to sail on, he will chase us until we are too exhausted to go any farther, or out of fresh water and supplies. We simply must find some means of outwitting him!"
That night, while Flóki stood at the tiller, Wulfgar discussed their options with Rhowenna and Yelkei, he holding Rhowenna's hand tightly in his as they soberly contemplated their dismal prospects, each wondering if they would have a future at all. Her violet eyes were huge and dark in her white face, and her skin gleamed like a pearl in the moonlight and the light cast by the flames of the firepot, which she sat near for warmth. Yelkei's own eyes glittered blacker than black and, narrowed, were nearly lost in her wrinkled moon face as she squatted on the deck, listening to Wulfgar's words. When he had finished, she reached, without speaking, beneath the folds of her fur cloak to draw forth a small, deerskin pouch that he knew contained her rune stones. An icy grue chased up his spine at the sight; for the contents of that pouch had enabled her earlier to pierce the veil of time and peer into the future, and he did not know if she had but spoken of what she had seen or if he himself had brought her prophecies to pass because he had believed and acted upon them. For who, in truth, had the power to look into the minds and hearts of the gods? If such a gift were indeed Yelkei's own, truly she was a spaewife to be feared; and for a moment, Wulfgar nearly snatched the pouch from her yellow, talonlike fingers, so great was his trepidation that the curse of the gods would fall upon him for Yelkei's presumption. But as though sensing his sudden, wild desire, Rhowenna's hand tightened around his own; and seeing in her eyes something akin to what lay in Yelkei's, he stayed his hand, shuddering again and muttering under his breath.
"Silence!" Yelkei hissed, shooting him a censuring glance. "If you are afraid, lie down on your wolfskin and go to sleep. If you are not, then do you keep quiet while I cast the rune stones, so I may hear what the gods would speak."
This was pagan and witchery, Rhowenna thought with a shiver, a blasphemy against the Christ and the Church, for which she would surely be punished. Yet she could not seem to leave the place on the deck where she sat, any more than Wulfgar could. Some unknown force held her there, as though she could hear in her mind the chanting of the blue-woad-tattooed Picti and the Tribes who had been her ancestors as Yelkei added fuel to the firepot, so its flames blazed high. As she passed her bony hand over them, sprinkling them with a fine powder she had taken from her pocket, they leaped with such intensity, spitting sparks and turning the colors of a rainbow, that Rhowenna and Wulfgar both started and shrank back a little, although they did not move from where they watched Yelkei's sorcery. She was chanting now, words in some strange language they had never before heard, clipped and chiming. Such was the spaewife's power to entrance that Rhowenna was only dimly aware that at the very back of the stern, Morgen was on her knees, crossing herself and praying, and that at the tiller, Flóki stood, making the ancient pagan sign against evil.
Now the stones bearing the nine runes that were the gift of Odinn were in Yelkei's hand, and she was shaking them so they rattled eerily, like the bones of the skeletons that hung in the Sacred Groves of the Northland long after the corpses had decayed, dancing and knocking in the wind, their eyes black abysses, like Yelkei's own. From the palm of her hand, the stones tumbled onto the deck and lay there, some faceup, others facedown. Rhowenna did not know what they meant; but Yelkei's quickly indrawn breath was sharp, and her eyes glittered. A short cackle of laughter erupted from her mouth, and then a cawing cry that was like that of a raven.
Nine times, Yelkei tossed the rune stones onto the deck, and to Rhowenna's awe, nine times the stones fell as they had that first time, the same runes showing, the same runes concealed. Then, at last, Yelkei gathered them up and put them away in her pouch.
"Tell Flóki to steer the Siren's Song into the heart of the North Sea, Wulfgar," she croaked slyly, "there to hook a big fish worth the sea goddess Ran's hoard of gold from all the drowned Víkingrs who have paid her to journey from her domain to Valhöll."
"Art mad, Yelkei!" Wulfgar spat softly, angry and afraid. "Art a witch, in truth, who leads us all to our deaths, I am thinking! Even the boldest of Víkingrs would rather wander the Shore of Corpses to the barred gates of Hel than to cross the North Sea at its heart, where 'tis most treacherous. We will surely go down to lie in Ran's watery arms, wrapped in the strands of her seaweed hair!"
"Do you say that you yourself have not considered sailing the Siren's Song there to elude Ragnar, Wulfgar?" Yelkei's eyes seemed to pierce his very soul. When he did not respond, she snorted again with laughter. "Aye, you have; for within you, you know that even the great Ragnar Lodbrók will think twice about following us there, where the mist and maelstroms lurk like monsters to send a longship fathoms deep beneath the sea. Yet even that, I tell you, would be an easier death for your lady wife, for whom you fear so greatly, than what she would endure at the hands of Ragnar and his sons."
In his heart, Wulfgar knew that this, also, was so. Still, he hesitated, recalling a time, in his youthful manhood, when he had displeased his half brothers Ubbi and Halfdan for some now-forgotten reason. Seizing him, they had hurtled him headlong into an open barrel of bjórr, holding him under until he had thought that his lungs would burst from lack of air, that he would surely drown in the cask of wine. Again and again, they had jerked him up, only to plunge him back down once more until, at last, they had tired of the sport and released him. Gasping, coughing, and choking, sodden and dripping with bjórr, he had stood then, petrified, as Ivar, on his face a cruel, wolfish smile, in his hand a lighted torch, had stalked him, threatening to set him ablaze, all of them knowing that Wulfgar would catch fire like the whale-oil-soaked wick of a lamp. Now, as he remembered how his lungs had felt that day, Wulfgar did not know if he could bring himself to condemn Rhowenna to such a fate, to such a terrible death. But sensing this, she laid her hand imploringly upon his arm.
"Wulfgar, please, 'tis a chance, at least— mayhap the only chance for us. And I would rather die in your arms in the sea than to lie in the arms of Ragnar Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless, I swear it!"
Tightly, Wulfgar embraced her at that, as though he would never let her go, kissing her feverishly and then burying his face in her hair, sighing so long and heavily that she felt the raw sob in his throat, which he choked down with difficulty.
"Flóki," he whispered hoarsely at last, "take us into the heart of the North Sea."
For a moment, inhaling sharply, Flóki seemed poised to refuse and argue against the order. But then, rising, Morgen moved quietly to stand beside him, slipping her arms about his waist and laying her head upon his shoulder.
"Please, Flóki," she murmured; and finally, nodding his head, his face grim, he headed the longship toward the open sea.
* * * * *
The dawn came, pale and leaden, and the wind had both winter's icy scent and a madding storm on its breath. Frost layered the mast, the crutches, and
the deck, and clung to the sail, so that it shimmered like a fetch in the bleak light. Surely an ill omen, Wulfgar thought as, silently, somberly, he took the tiller from an equally solemn Flóki. Clouds the color of unpolished silver scudded from the west across the sullen sky, and mist clung to the dark, restless, shifting waves that swirled about the hull of the vessel.
"This is madness!" Flóki broke at last the stillness heavy between them. "There is a storm blowing up somewhere in the distance. I can feel it in my bones."
"Aye, so can I."
"But still, you do not intend to turn back toward the coast?"
"Nay, if the storm comes, we will ride it out here. Nay, do not try to dissuade me, Flóki. My mind is made up— and truth to tell, you've naught but yourself to blame for it," Wulfgar reminded him, not wanting to quarrel, "although I do not hold it against you. In your place, I should have done the same, such is my deep love for my lady. Now, do you get some rest. 'Tis going to be a long day and an even longer night, I am thinking; for I do not believe that the storm will overtake us before dusk, if it catches us at all. If the gods be willing, we can outrun it, mayhap. At least, 'twill hit Ragnar's longship first." Wulfgar gazed at the western horizon, where the crimson sail that was their nemesis was barely visible. "Unless he chooses now to turn back, to give up the chase, and to put in to a harbor on the coast."
"He will not." Flóki laughed shortly, harshly. "Like the gods, he is against us!"
It was soon seen that this was the case. Ragnar's longship pressed on, the rising force of the storm wind in the distance such that he began actually to gain upon the Siren's Song, which was far enough ahead for the moment to catch only the dying gusts, not powerful enough to propel the vessel as quickly as Ragnar's own was being driven forward. As the day wore on, the sky growing steadily darker and Ragnar's longship steadily gaining, Wulfgar knew to his despair that Flóki had spoken truly, that the gods were against them, that they were not going to be able to outrun the storm, as he had hoped. Along toward dusk, he gave orders for the hide coverings that protected the vessel when it was moored to a wharf to be brought forth and stretched across the bow and the stern, to provide a modicum of shelter, and for everything that could be, save for the men's sea chests, to be crammed into the shallow cargo space beneath the deck, in preparation for what he feared was about to descend upon the Siren's Song.
The temperature had fallen drastically in the last several minutes; and now the mist, which had never dissipated, wafted up from the sea, in ever-thickening sheets that twined like a shroud about the longship, so only the wind's piercing its veil permitted Wulfgar to see what lay ahead— and behind. Black thunderheads massed and roiled in the seething sky. Like a portent, the first hard drops of rain struck the deck, a warning of what was soon to come. He should strike the sail, Wulfgar knew. Yet his gut instinct told him that somewhere behind him, Ragnar's own sail was still boldly spread, bearing swiftly down on him; and so he set his teeth against the order that would have rendered the Siren's Song virtually helpless.
"Rhowenna! Get back beneath the hide!" From fear, Wulfgar spoke more harshly than he had intended, startled by her suddenly coming to stand behind him, her long black hair whipped loose from its braid, tangling wildly about her, her face uplifted to the spurts of rain.
"Nay, I will not!" Rebelliously, she shook her head, grasping his arm to hold herself upright as the deck rolled and pitched ever more fiercely beneath their feet. "Whatever happens, I want to be here by your side when it comes!"
"That is foolish! A storm is about to hit us, and you are in danger of being swept overboard! By Odinn!" Wulfgar roared when, still, she did not move, her chin set stubbornly, but her eyes so beseeching that it was all he could do to stand firm against her. "Do as I say, wench, else I'll tie you up myself and throw you in the hold! By the gods, I swear it!" He knew from the sudden tears that started in her eyes how he had hurt her; and grabbing her, he kissed her hard and savagely before abruptly shoving her down beneath the hide. "Now, stay there, and do not come out again!" His bronze visage was such in the sudden flash of lightning that exploded in the heavens that, biting her lower Up so hard that she drew blood, Rhowenna could only nod her obedience mutely, not trusting herself to speak, for fear that he would actually strike her.
Still, she could not resist peeking out from where she huddled with Morgen and Yelkei beneath the hide across the stern, cringing at the violent crack of thunder that followed the lightning and seemed to split the very firmament asunder. All at once then, the rain came, so ferociously that it ripped apart the sheets of mist in moments to reveal, as though by some dreadful witchery, the black sky, the even blacker sea, and the longship that loomed up suddenly, it seemed, from nowhere. Not only the storm, but also Ragnar Lodbrók was upon them. But even more wild and terrifying than this evil sight was the vision of Wulfgar himself, making Rhowenna's breath catch with fear in her throat. Having turned the tiller over to Flóki, Wulfgar stood like an avenging god at the center of the deck, his golden hair streaming from his face in the wind and rain, his sable cloak flapping like a raven's wings about him. His legs were spread wide, as were his uplifted arms. In his right hand, he held his battle-ax, shouting above the roar of the storm, "Hear me! Hear me, O great Odinn, god of warriors, and give me your blessing! Odinn! Odinn!" and to her horror, as Rhowenna watched him, another bolt of lightning erupted in the heavens, seeming to strike his upraised weapon. For an eternity, the blade glittered silvery in the coruscating light. Then, without warning, it appeared to explode in a dazzling burst of unholy blue fire that streaked like a shooting star up the mast, now bare of its sail furled and lowered, causing all who saw the ball of eerily glowing flame to fall to their knees, petrified that Wulfgar himself had called down upon them the wrath of the mighty god Odinn. And in that shocking, horrifying, glorious moment, when it seemed that perhaps Wulfgar himself had become a god, Ragnar's heavy, sodden crimson sail, which his men had been desperately attempting to lower, tore violently loose from its bottom spar, the flapping corner striking him hard in the chest and knocking him overboard into the turgid, churning sea.
Through the pelting rain, all could see him bobbing helplessly amid the waves. Yelling frantically, his thegns began throwing barrels and oars into the water, in the hope that he could remain afloat long enough to be rescued.
"Row!" Wulfgar demanded harshly of his own men; and like the primordial thunder of Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, pounding across the firmament, the drummer's instrument began to sound a barbarous beat, and massive muscles straining with effort, the warriors bent their backs to their oars, forcing the Siren's Song through the storm, toward Ragnar's longship. "Row, you bloody bastards! Row as you've never rowed in your life!"
And they did, the vessel groaning and creaking as it struggled to stay afloat, to press on, tossing and heaving upon the rough swells of the sea, the waves sluicing across the deck, the rain battering it unmercifully. Wulfgar had gone mad, utterly mad, Rhowenna thought as she clung to the side of the stern to keep from being washed away as the water flooded in, only to rush out again as the long-ship leaped from the sea, then plunged back in again. They were going to sink, she knew, to drown in those cold, dark, terrible waves that roiled with a fury to match the storm's and Wulfgar's own as his voice lashed his thegns, a cruel and hideous whip that goaded them on. Like a wildman, he had flung off his cloak and stripped off his tunic; now, naked to the waist, he stood, his battle-ax sheathed at his back, his hands on Flóki's own to hold the tiller as they drove onward through the blinding rain until it seemed that Wulfgar intended them to collide with Ragnar's vessel, to smash headlong into it, sending both longships straight to Hel. But then, in an awesome feat of strength and daring. Wulfgar and Flóki hauled on the tiller, and the Siren's Song spun about on her keel to roll and to pitch alongside Ragnar's vessel.
Now, as were several of the other men, Wulfgar was running, staggering across the deck to snatch up a heavy coil of the walrus hide usually used for rig
ging; but these ropes had, attached to their ends, grappling hooks designed to haul in kills from sea hunts and to secure enemy vessels for boarding. These hooks, Wulfgar and the warriors were now flinging violently into the sea, where Ragnar rose and plummeted on the waves, clinging for life to a plank ripped up from the deck of his longship and tossed into the sea in an effort to save him.
"Hook him!" Wulfgar shouted fiercely, as though the men fought to capture a whale and not a king of the Northland. "By the gods, a casket of hacksilver for those who hook that son of a whore! Hook him! Odinn! Odinn!"
Ragnar and his own men went crazy then, seeing what Wulfgar intended; and Rhowenna, her eyes riveted to the vicious, fantastic scene, knew then that this could not be happening, that this could not be real, but must be a dream, a horrible nightmare from which she could not seem to awaken. Again and again, as great tridents of lightning stabbed the sky black with the evil night that had fallen, so the sharp hooks gleamed viciously with each cast as they flew through the wind and rain into the swollen, frenzied sea. The thunder bellowed and boomed, as though the gods themselves warred in the heavens, as though the Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, were at hand. The longships surged and fell, timbers straining and moaning so fiercely that it seemed as though the vessels would break apart in the storm. The wind howled like Garm, the hound of Hel; the rain shattered down, a hail of stinging barbs. Wulfgar and his fiendish warriors had metamorphosed somehow into the gruesome monsters of the Shore of Corpses, Rhowenna thought dully, shocked, stricken as, incredibly, a hook struck its mark, and then another, so deep that Ragnar could not stifle the long, hoarse cry of agony that was torn from his throat and lost in the wind. Still a third hook drove like a blade into his flesh; and then, as though Ragnar were indeed a whale or a walrus, Wulfgar and the rest pulled his bleeding body onto the deck of the Siren's Song just as the two longships at last, and perhaps inevitably, collided with a deafening crash that jarred Rhowenna to the very bone. Timber shrieked, scraping, splintering until one proud dragon could fight no more and sank swiftly into the gaping maw of the dark and perilous sea, a rich bounty to be claimed by Ran.
