While the members of Hastein’s household and the crews of his three ships broke the night’s fast with a simple morning meal in the great hall of the longhouse, Hastein climbed up onto one of the tables and addressed us.
“Ready the ships, and ready your gear and stow it on board. Ragnar and I have agreed. Tomorrow we sail for Frankia. Bjorn Ironsides will remain here to lead any latecomers to join our fleet. The rest of us need wait no longer. It is time to carry war to the Franks.”
The hall erupted with cheers.
“Hunters, do your best today,” Hastein continued, when the noise died down. “We will all feast tonight!”
The afternoon shadows were stretching long across the ground by the time I returned to Hastein’s estate. I led my heavily laden horse, draped with the carcasses of a wild sow and her two piglets, to the meat shed near the longhouse. Hastein was standing nearby, surveying the results of the day’s hunting. Three men were with him, one old and two younger—all chieftains by the quality of their dress.
The old man stared at me intently as I unloaded my horse and gave the carcasses to the blood-soaked thralls in charge of butchering the night’s meat. He was tall and very thin, almost gaunt, with cheeks that looked hollow under his high cheekbones. His skin was weathered and creased with wrinkles. On top his head was bald, but his hair—mostly white with a few scattered strands of black—hung down to his shoulders from the sides and back of his head and blew loose in the evening breeze. His posture was slightly stooped, and he stood with one hand resting on the head of a long-handled great-axe, as if he was using it as a walking staff. Strangely, a large raven was perched on his shoulder.
“Who is this boy?” the old man asked, turning to Hastein. “He looks to be a skilled hunter.”
“His name is Halfdan,” Hastein replied. “He is the newest member of the Gull’s crew.”
“He seems very young to serve on the Gull. Is he kin of yours?”
“No, Ragnar,” Hastein said. “Despite his age, he is the finest shot with a bow I have ever seen. That is why he serves on my ship. That…and other reasons.”
I looked at the old man curiously. So this was Ragnar Logbrod. I had not expected so famed a war leader to be so old.
Ragnar turned back to me and met my gaze. His eyes, peering out from under thick brows, were so dark they looked as black as the feathers of his raven. “I was watching when you came out of the woods,” he told me. “For a moment I thought I saw someone following you. Someone, or something.”
I turned and looked back over my shoulder, in the direction I had come from. Could it have been one of Toke’s men, already on my trail?
“I was watching, too,” Hastein said. “I saw nothing.”
One of the other men laughed. “Do not be surprised,” he said. “Father often sees things that other men do not.” The face of the man who spoke was marked by four parallel lines, the white tracks of old scars, running across his brow and down one cheek to his neck.
“Do not mock the second sight, Ivar,” the old man said. “Though you do not possess it, it has served me well more than once. The Gods give us all different gifts. To you they gave a second chance at life, when by rights you should have died. To me, Father Odin gave the second sight, and glimpses into the world of the spirits that it offers.”
I wondered if Ragnar’s connection to the spirit world was truly a gift from Odin, or a result of his unholy pact with the witch-woman and the spirit of the slain bear. Regardless, his words alarmed me and startled me into speech.
“The world of the spirits?” I asked. “Do you mean you saw a ghost following me?” I wondered if Harald had come back to chide me because his death was not yet avenged.
Ragnar smiled. “I did not see a ghost,” he said. “I am not certain I saw anything at all. If I did, though, it was most likely a fylgja.”
“What is a fylgja?” I asked.
“It is a follower. A spirit guardian. Sometimes they take animal form and can be seen by all, like my raven friend here. I call him Munin, after one of All-Father Odin’s two ravens. Munin came to me fifteen years ago, and has remained near my side ever since. Other spirit followers are invisible, and can only be seen in dreams—or by one strong in the second sight.”
I looked behind myself again, and shivered involuntarily at the thought of an invisible spirit creeping in my wake. Ragnar smiled again. He meant, I think, to be reassuring, but the sight reminded me of a wolf baring its teeth.
“Do not be concerned,” he said. “A fylgja will not harm you. It is a protector who whispers in your ear to warn you of a hidden threat, or by the slightest breath turns aside an enemy’s speeding arrow shaft. Such things, which men consider fate, are often the work of a fylgja. They can give you the gift of special luck, also. Ivar is said to have good weather luck, and Bjorn here finds wealth in most of his ventures. Men say that death for my foes follows me.”
“And you, Hastein?” Ivar asked. “What follows you?”
“Hopefully women,” Hastein replied, grinning. “Many of them, all beautiful and willing.” Bjorn and Ivar threw back their heads and roared with laughter, but I noticed that only a thin, humorless smile crossed Ragnar’s face. He seemed a grim man, such as would seldom enjoy mirth.
“Come,” he said to Hastein. “It will be time soon to offer the sacrifice. Let us make ready.”
Toward one end of the cleared lands surrounding Hastein’s estate, the ground rose and formed a low bluff that overlooked the waters of the fjord. A solitary oak, the massive spread of its branches attesting to its age, crowned its peak.
Hastein, as chief godi of his district, had selected a great bull—almost pure white in color—as an offering to the Gods to seek their protection for our voyage. It would be sacrificed on top of the bluff overlooking the fleet.
Before joining the crowd that had gathered to watch the ritual, I cleaned up from the hunt and donned new clothes Hastein had given me. They were trousers of green wool and a tunic of bright blue linen made by a female thrall in his household who was skilled at sewing.
“I am your chieftain now,” he had told me when I offered to pay for them. “It is the way of things that from time to time I give gifts to the men who serve me. And I have a reputation to maintain, which includes the appearance of my men,” he added. “Though your clothing was clearly well made, it has seen hard use. It will do for when you are on board ship or in the forest or battle, but when we are at feast or council, I do not wish you to look like a field hand.”
By the time I joined the crowd of warriors standing around the base of the bluff, the bull had already been wrestled into position beneath the branches of the great oak. Each of its front legs had been secured with short lengths of rope to sturdy stakes that had been hammered into the ground. Longer ropes had been attached to each of its rear legs, and thrown over a massive branch of the oak. The ends of these ropes were held by a group of men who, by the look of them, had been selected for their size and strength. Torvald and Tore were among them.
Hastein stepped up to the bull and wrapped his arms around its horns. It rolled its eyes, bellowed mournfully, and tried to shake its head and throw him off, but he braced his legs in a wide stance and held on. Torvald and the others heaved on the ropes, pulling again and again until it was hanging, head down, its front hooves barely touching the ground.
Ragnar, who like Hastein was the chief godi over his own lands and people, approached the bull from the other side. Both he and Hastein, I noticed, were wearing thick gold rings on their sword arms. My father had had such a ring, the oath-ring of a priest. I wondered what had happened to it.
From a scabbard at his belt Ragnar drew a knife with a long, slender, sharply pointed blade. Looking up at the sky, he cried out in a loud voice: “All-Father Odin, Lord of War and Death! Mighty Thor, Master of Storms! Hear us! We, your people, ask your aid and blessing this night. We are setting forth to make war upon the Franks. They are followers of the White Christ, and are your enemi
es as well as ours. Protect our ships from storms as they sail upon the sea and give us a fair wind that our journey may be swift. Accept this blood sacrifice, and with it the honor that we offer you. Give us a safe voyage, and victory!”
When Ragnar shouted the last words, Hastein wrenched the bull’s horns with all his strength, twisting its neck, and held its head steady. Ragnar drew back his arm and plunged the long knife deep into the bull’s neck. As the creature gave a great bellow of pain and anger, Ragnar twisted the knife in a circular motion, then pulled it free and stepped back to avoid the crimson stream that gushed from the beast’s neck.
“Behold,” he cried. “The earth drinks the sacred blood!”
Ivar and Bjorn stepped forward, bearing broad, shallow copper basins which Ragnar filled with the blood draining from the dying bull. In the chill of the night air, wisps of steam rose above the filled bowls.
Once both basins were filled, the jarl released the bull’s head. The dying beast tried to raise its head and hook him with its horns as he stepped away from it.
“It dies well, with courage,” Hastein said. “The Gods will be pleased. Let it suffer no more.”
Ragnar stepped in again with his long knife and sliced through the bull’s throat. Within moments its struggles ceased. Hastein gave a signal, and thralls from his household scurried forward to begin butchering the carcass. Hastein turned and addressed the crowd in a loud voice. “Let every pot this night contain meat from this bull. Let every warrior taste of this sacrifice. Tomorrow we join together in a great undertaking, to carry war to the land of the Franks. Tonight we feast together and celebrate the beginning of our voyage. Let us go now to the shore, and bless our fleet.”
Hastein and Ragnar, each carrying a branch cut from a spruce tree, led the way down from the bluff, followed by Ivar and Bjorn. As they passed through the crowd, many kneeled and bowed their heads. When they did, Ragnar and Hastein dipped the branches they carried in the basins, and sprinkled the warriors with blood.
“It brings good luck,” a voice said from behind me, “getting anointed with the blood of the sacrifice.”
I turned to see who spoke. It was Tore. He, Torvald, and the others who had assisted with the sacrifice had made their way down from the bluff and joined the crowd that now trailed behind Ragnar and Hastein, watching as they anointed the prow of each ship. As they painted the stem-posts with blood, Ragnar and Hastein chanted, “Let breakers spare thee, and waves not harm thee. Turn aside from rocks that lurk beneath the surface, and fly before the wind like a bird.”
“If you think the blood brings good luck, why are you not out there getting your face painted red?” Torvald asked.
Tore scowled. “I intend to,” he said. “Do you mock the power of the Gods, Torvald? What will protect us, if they do not?”
“I will depend on my own strong right arm,” Torvald answered. “I have more faith in it than the blood of a dead bull. I wager there are many men who have been painted with the blood this night who will not make the return voyage from Frankia. They cannot avoid their deaths if it is their fate to perish in the land of the Franks. You or I cannot, either, and I do not intend to stain my good feast clothes with bull’s blood trying to.”
“You tempt the anger of the Gods with your lack of faith,” Tore said. He turned and hurried off in the direction the procession had gone.
Torvald turned and grinned at me. “Well,” he said. “Aren’t you going, too?”
I looked down at my new feast clothes. This was the first time I had worn them, and I thought they looked very fine.
“No,” I said, but I hoped I was not making a mistake.
7 : Sea Wolves
It is a long journey from the Limfjord to the western kingdom of the Franks, and being out on the open sea in winter—even the relatively mild, late winter of that year—made for a cold, uncomfortable voyage. Our journey carried us so far south, though, that after a time we could feel the sun’s rays growing stronger every day, and the wind’s bite seemed less harsh as it blew across the water.
All of the lands we passed, once beyond the base of Jutland, were ruled by the Franks. I began to worry. Surely any people strong enough to conquer and hold so vast an empire were capable of fielding armies far larger than the force of warriors I sailed with. We numbered just over ninety ships, although Bjorn would likely bring more when he followed. When Hastein had first told us of the plan, it had seemed a bold stroke to send a fleet of longships to strike deep within the heartland of the Franks. I now hoped our boldness would not prove to be dangerous folly.
Hastein and Ragnar agreed it would be wise to conceal from the Franks, for as long as possible, the fact that an invasion fleet was sailing down their coast. They hoped to strike our first blows against the western Frankish kingdom before their king had time to muster an army.
By day, our fleet sailed out of sight of land, its ships so numerous they seemed to cover the sea. Only at dusk would we row in to shore and anchor for the night in protected coves or along sandy beaches, our dragonships thick upon the water like a nest of serpents. Each morning we arose early and, before the sun burned away the mists shrouding the coast, our crews would strike their tents, row clear of the shore, raise sail, and be gone.
Each day, Hastein and Ragnar told a handful of captains to take their ships in to land, so their crews could forage. Every night the beasts and crops these crews scoured from the farms and villages they visited were divided among the fleet. Our warriors needed food, and there was not room enough on our ships to carry sufficient provisions for so long a voyage. Because small raids along the coast by passing pirates were common, Hastein and Ragnar reasoned they would not cause too much alarm, and probably not even draw notice deeper in the Frankish heartland.
Finally a morning came when the Gull did not follow the fleet as it sailed out of sight beyond the horizon. Our sister ships, the Sea Wolf and the Serpent, also remained behind. At Hastein’s command, we donned our armor, lashed our shields in place in the racks along the ship’s sides, and kept our helms and weapons close at hand.
Mail shirts are rare and expensive, but among the hand-picked warriors of the Gull’s crew I was the only one who did not have one to wear. Tore, who for once seemed in a cheerful mood, clapped his hand on my shoulder after I pulled on my thick leather jerkin.
“Soon enough you’ll have better than this,” he said. “Most of the warriors in the Franks’ armies have mail shirts. Many a member of this crew acquired his brynie with steel rather than silver.”
“Is it our turn today to search for food?” I asked.
Torvald, who was standing nearby unwrapping his mail brynie from the sealskin bag he stored it in, answered. “No,” he said. “We are scouting. By Hastein’s reckoning we are nearing the mouth of the Seine, the river that flows out from the heart of the west kingdom of the Franks. We do not want to overshoot it. The fleet will travel at a slower pace from this point on. They will wait out beyond the sight of land for our signal, while we search for the river’s mouth.”
“If we are just scouting for the river, why do we arm ourselves?” I asked. Though I did not possess a mail brynie, I had no doubt it would be uncomfortable to row a ship wearing one. The extra bulk and heat of my leather jerkin were bad enough.
Tore snorted. “This is the land of the enemy,” he said. “We do not know what we will encounter. Only a fool follows an unknown path without taking care for what or who may lie beyond the next bend.”
The Gull hugged the coastline. Shortly before noon the land began curving away to the east. Hastein signaled to the Sea Wolf to pull alongside. When the ship was within hailing distance, he called to its captain, Svein.
“Sail out to the fleet,” he said. “Tell Ragnar we have arrived at the bay, and that he should look for us among the islands on the north side of the estuary. I will find a place there for us to camp and hold a council. Tomorrow it begins.”
As we sailed on, the long beaches and rocky cliffs tha
t had lined the shore in recent days gave way to low, marshy islands, interspersed with numerous sandbars. Even the sea itself changed, its color taking on a muddy hue.
Hastein ordered us to lower and secure the sail, and signaled the Serpent to do the same. We unshipped our oars and moved forward again more slowly, now with a man in the bow throwing out a weighted line, checking the depth of the water to be sure we did not run aground. Hastein stood beside him, and occasionally signaled a change of course to Torvald, who was manning the steering oar in the stern.
Suddenly Torvald raised his hand to shade his eyes and stared off into the distance. As I rowed, I glanced over my shoulder in the direction he was looking, but could see nothing.
“Hastein!” Torvald called. “A sail! Ahead, and off the steer-board side.”
“Raise oars,” Hastein commanded, and as the ship coasted slowly to a stop he ran back to the stern and stepped up on the raised deck beside Torvald. He stood there for a few moments, searching the sea, then shook his head.
“I do not see it,” he said. “You have eyes like a hawk.”
Torvald raised an arm and pointed. “There,” he said. “It is just a speck of white that flashes above the horizon now and again.”
Hastein searched in the direction Torvald was pointing. For a long time he watched the sea in silence, while we in the crew watched him. Finally he nodded.
“I spy it now,” he said. “It is still far away, but drawing closer. With our sail lowered, its crew will not be able to see us.”
The Serpent glided alongside our ship. Stig, her captain, called to Hastein. “What do you see?”
“It is a sail,” Hastein replied, pointing. “Headed out to sea from the river’s mouth.”
Stig turned and looked. “Aye, I see it now. It looks to be a fair-sized sail, but is moving slowly. A trader, I’ll wager, fat through the beam. A merchant ship that size has probably come downriver from Ruda.”
“Do we take her or let her pass?” Torvald asked. Hastein was silent for a few moments as he stared in the direction of the approaching merchant ship.
Dragons from the Sea Page 9
