The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  Rikiar rose from his place at the foot of the table. ‘I was drunk. It was no more than a jest. This dishonour has lasted too long.’

  Others of the hearth-troop hissed their disapproval. It was not for Rikiar to speak. They did not trust this outsider, this Vandal. Let him endure or go into exile, a lordless man, a nithing.

  ‘Lack of trust, dissension in a sworn-band is a terrible thing. It undermines the shieldwall.’ Ballista pitched his voice to carry to the furthest recesses of the hall. ‘There is another way. We must travel a long road before we reach my home. We must pass by the Aestii and the Heathobards. They are enemies of my father. The Rugii pay him tribute, but they do not love me. Another sword in our company would be welcome. If Heoden, the Master of Battle, will release this Vandal from his oath, and, if Rikiar is willing, let him swear a new oath to me, here in this hall, in the sight of all.’

  ‘I am willing,’ said Rikiar.

  ‘To release a man from his vow is no light thing,’ said Heoden. ‘But let it be as Dernhelm wishes.’

  As it will when men are drunk, the mood changed in a moment. The Harii shouted praises of their lord, of Dernhelm, even of the recently reviled Rikiar: the Vandal might be light-fingered and ugly, but he could fight. Bring out the gift-stool. Do it now. All would stand witness.

  Ballista drew his sword. He sat on the gift-stool and laid his blade across his knees. It was notched from its hard use on the Borysthenes.

  ‘Wait,’ said Heoden. ‘It was in my mind to welcome my foster-son with a gift. Bring me Battle-Sun.’

  Gifeca took the sword down from where it hung with the others behind the throne and passed it to his king.

  Heoden unsheathed the steel. ‘This blade was forged in ages past by the Brisings. It was won from them by Wade, the sea-giant. The hero Hama wielded it at Fifeldor and Bravoll. From his hand it was given to Helm, the founder of my line. Now I, Heoden of the Harii, give it to Dernhelm, my sister’s son. May he carry it with heart and courage.’

  ‘Heart and courage!’ the warriors bellowed.

  Ballista sheathed his own blade and put Battle-Sun across his legs.

  Rikiar knelt, his head against Ballista’s knees, his hands on the sword. Ballista put his hands over those of Rikiar.

  ‘By this sword, I, Rikiar, son of Rikiar of the Vandals, swear my oath to you, Dernhelm, son of Isangrim of the Angles. As I eat at your hearth, so I will follow you into terrible battle, among the perils where renown is won. I will defend and protect you. If you fall, I will not leave the field alive, or suffer lifelong infamy and shame.’

  After the oath, Ballista led Rikiar back to sit among his men. Much more drink was taken, but the feast proceeded in the most amicable fashion. It was as if every man saw how narrowly violence had been banished from the hall, and none wished it to return. Sometimes it was better to eat and drink than to fight.

  When men were beginning to reel and put their hands on the serving girls, Heoden summoned Ballista. The queen had retired to her bedchamber. Heoden waved Ballista to sit by him.

  ‘You look well, boy.’

  ‘As do you, uncle.’

  The king grinned drunkenly. ‘You have got better at lying among the Romans.’

  Several Harii eorls on the high table laughed.

  ‘How is my mother?’ Ballista asked.

  ‘Old, like me. But she is well. As always, she keeps your father’s hall in Hlymdale. Your father still moves between there and his Frisian wife at Gudme. Now he is even older than me, he travels less. Last year he did not go to his eorls on Latris. It is two summers since he went to the mainland. He should take another young wife to keep his bed warm, like me.’

  ‘It will be good to see them.’

  ‘Good to see Kadlin …’

  Ballista felt light-headed from the mead and beer. ‘That was long ago.’

  Heoden looked at Ballista over the top of his drink. ‘That first husband of hers — the one she married straight after you left — pity he took an Aestii spear in the guts. She has been married to your half-brother a long time now.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ballista took another drink.

  ‘Oslac will not be overjoyed to see you return.’

  ‘We were very young — a long time ago. I never had a problem with Oslac.’

  Heoden pulled a wry face. ‘Not long enough for him to forget who took the virginity of a girl who is now his wife, all those winters ago.’

  ‘How — ’

  ‘I did not know — not until right now.’ Heoden smiled, pleased with himself. ‘You do not hold the throne of the Black-Harii without some low cunning.’

  The black-clad eorls laughed indulgently.

  Ballista raised the silver goblet to the king.

  ‘Morcar always had a problem with you — with Froda, Eadwulf and you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take no offence, but Froda was the best of you.’

  ‘I always thought so.’

  Heoden put his arm around Ballista’s shoulder, pulled him close. ‘I was going to talk about this tomorrow, when we were sober, but …’ The king shrugged.

  ‘The Persians discuss great matters twice: first drunk, then sober.’

  ‘You have been in many places.’ Heoden squeezed Ballista’s shoulder. ‘Do not talk about it too much now you are back. Men do not care to be reminded that others have won greater renown.’

  Ballista nodded in acknowledgement.

  Heoden leant in, the fumes of his breath sickly in Ballista’s nostrils.

  ‘Things are not good in the realm of the Himlings. Gallienus has sent no gold since your half-brother Arkil and his men swore their swords to the other Roman emperor in Gaul.’

  ‘I know this. The emperor Gallienus told me in the letter ordering me home.’

  ‘There were Roman soldiers where none should have been. It is said Arkil was betrayed.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old wives’ tales. No one knows.’ Heoden paused as a girl filled their cups.

  ‘Postumus sends your father no gold. It is said the Gallic emperor has none to spare. Why should he open his treasure hoard, when he holds a thousand Angles hostage? Your father is old. Isangrim has less gold to give, less swords at his command. The Himlings’ grip on the Suebian Sea has weakened. The Brondings of Abalos follow a new leader, a fearsome, masked warrior from overseas. This warrior Unferth has cast off your father’s authority. The men of the islands — the Wylfings of Hindafell, the Geats of Solfell — have hailed him Amber Lord. Unferth’s longships raid where they will around the shores. Last summer Unferth’s son descended on the Heathobards. But those loyal to the Himlings — the Farodini, the Dauciones — they have suffered with the rest. I fear this will be a bitter homecoming for you.’

  Part Three

  HYPERBOREA, (Summer AD264)

  XVIII

  The Vistula Delta

  Escape from the river was not easy. The Vistula reached the Suebian Sea in a wide delta. It twisted and turned, dividing and redividing into any number of channels. They were hard to distinguish from the narrow creeks which coiled away, turning back on themselves, to end in mudflats or vanish into impassable reed banks. Ballista had been here before, but that was no help. It had been more than twenty years, and the navigable waterways had shifted out of all recognition. There were no discernible landmarks. Visibility was limited by the reeds and half-submerged trees. The open stretches of water frequently were obstructed by fish traps and weirs. The passage was slow going. It demanded skilled handling of the boat, much patience and faith in the taciturn river pilot they had taken onboard at Rugium. The last was somewhat hard to maintain, as they seemed to spend as much time going in every other direction as towards the north.

  As the dawn mist lifted, Ballista saw a beauty in this strange landscape, where fresh- and saltwater merged with land, where sand martins and tern darted and bitterns boomed.

  ‘Another fucking great marsh,’ said Maximus.

  The journey down had not be
en particularly quick. It was twenty days since they had left the hall of the king of the Harii. But almost all of it had been easy, pleasant even. Heoden had given his foster-son a longboat, well founded and packed with supplies. Two warriors of the Harii had asked permission to accompany them. Wada the Tall and Wada the Short were brothers; Ballista had known them in his fostering. They were amiable company. Both knew well the upper and middle courses of the river, and they had sailed the sea beyond.

  Even in the spring — it was now late May — the Vistula did not run particularly fast. But until the delta it was usually a single broad stream, and posed no problems. It had borne them along in great sweeps. The weather had been kind. There had been some grey days, when the water and sky had the same colour, but once they had emerged from Mirkwood on to the less forested great plain of northern Germania the scale of the purpled sunrises and sunsets had never failed in their majesty.

  They had travelled through the territory of several tribes: Ombrones, Avarini and Frugundiones. Always Wada the Tall and Wada the Short had secured them generous hospitality. In each settlement Ballista had found himself the object of much curiosity: the son of Isangrim the Himling, the warrior at bloodfeud with the Goths of both the Tervingi and Borani, the northerner who had defeated the Persian king and who had briefly raised himself to the throne of the Romans. In one hall a scop had gone so far as to compose and sing a heroic version of his travels, almost unrecognizable even to Ballista himself. All the interest, bordering on adulation, had not been completely uncongenial. He was returning to his world, although such attention had showed that world now regarded him as something strange. He was no longer wholly part of the north.

  Another thing slightly unsettling Ballista’s equanimity had been the foul mood of Maximus. The Hibernian had said it was just the watersnakes. There had been a surprising number of them in the Vistula, long, grey and shiny. They left a curved, overlapping twin wake when they swam, their black heads cocked evilly out of the water. Ballista knew the snakes had not been explanation enough. Despite their continual bickering, Maximus had got on well enough with Calgacus. The old Caledonian Calgacus had been with Ballista for ever. And over the years, Maximus had welcomed the Greek accensus Demetrius, Castricius and the demented Suanian Tarchon into the familia. But clearly he resented the rekindled intimacy from Ballista’s youth with the brothers Wada. At times the Hibernian was like a child — albeit a very dangerous and often very drunken child with a strong liking for cannabis. In many ways he had not been quite the same since old Calgacus died. Perhaps none of the familia would ever be quite the same.

  The only place where the welcome had been less than wholehearted had been at Rugium, the last port of call before the sea. The Rugii were vassals of the Himlings of Hedinsey. They had not chosen that allegiance. The last time Ballista had been in Rugium it had been as part of an Angle-conquering army. In the sack of the settlement twenty-six winters before, Ballista had behaved no better than might be expected of a half-drunk youth who had just fought his way over a stockade into a now-defenceless town. He wondered what had happened to the girl. It would have been both tactless and pointless to ask. He had not known her name. It had been in one of the longhouses in the centre. Her clothes had marked her of high birth. Perhaps there had been a child. That would not identify her; that day, far too many women had been taken against their will.

  To be fair, the Rugii had done their duty by their overlord, Isangrim. They had feasted his son and the men Ballista brought with him for two nights, although they had offered not much drink and no women or gifts. They had provided the river pilot. Yet things had not been convivial. The king of the Rugii had complained at length of the depredations of Unferth of Abalos. Late last autumn the masked warrior and his son Widsith Travel-Quick had led their Brondings, along with Wylfings, Geats and Dauciones, along the coast. They had killed, enslaved and burned. Early this spring, just after the ice had gone, one of their ships had been sighted scouting the delta. It was the obligation of Isangrim, if he wished to remain the Amber Lord, to protect those, like the Rugii, who paid him tribute. If Ballista reached his father, he should tell him these things.

  Ballista sat in the prow, looking at a heron picking its way near the bank. He had not cared for the message of the king of the Rugii: not its unwelcome news that the Dauciones had joined those who had cast off their allegiance to the Himlings, not its implicit threat, and not its conditional nature. If he reached his father …

  The heron took wing, implausible in its forward-weighted profile, yet oddly graceful. If he reached his father …

  They rounded a bend, the starboard oars almost touching a line of stakes holding a fisherman’s nets. The surface was getting choppier. The banks fell back. At last, they must be nearing the open waters of the gulf which gave on to the sea.

  ‘Ahead.’ Maximus did not need to raise his voice. He was proprietorily next to Ballista.

  ‘There,’ said Wada the Short, pointing.

  Maximus glowered at him.

  Ballista stood, held the prow and climbed on to the freeboard.

  Ahead, the water sparkled in the sun. It widened out into a bay. There were two low islands between them, and the gulf beyond. And moored by the islands were two longships. The dark, curved and double-prowed profiles left no doubt.

  ‘Stop rowing.’ Ballista spoke quietly, even though the warships were almost a mile away. ‘Take the way off her with your oars.’ He turned to the pilot. ‘Whose are they?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Ballista stared at him. The boat lay dead in the water.

  ‘They could be Brondings.’ The Rugian licked his lips, his eyes evasive.

  As Ballista went to study the ships, the pilot spun around, took two or three scrambling steps and hurled himself over the side. He landed clumsily in a fountain of spray.

  Without thinking, riding the sudden rocking of the boat, Ballista shrugged his baldric over his head, unbuckled his sword belt. Scabbards and belts clattered to the deck. He went to the gunwales. Stopping, he dragged off his boots. There was a splash as someone else dived.

  The pilot was swimming for the larboard bank, about fifty paces away.

  Ballista dived.

  The river was still very cold. He came up spluttering, swallowed some water and, coughing, struck out after the Rugian pilot.

  The fugitive was near the shore. Another swimmer was almost up with him. Ballista concentrated on swimming. He was strong in the water, but his sodden clothes hindered him, dragged him back.

  The Rugian was wrestling with someone, thrashing wildly. Ballista caught the Rugian’s hair, pulled his head back, under the surface. In the struggle they both went under.

  In the green, dark world the man’s face was pallid. His eyes were wide. Weeds clutched at them. The man clawed at Ballista’s eyes. Forcing the hand aside, Ballista tried to get a grip on his throat. The man had him by the arm. Twisting, entwined together, they sank to the riverbed. Clouds of silt billowed up around them. Ballista’s lungs were hurting, his ears throbbing.

  Another shape in the gloom. The hold on Ballista vanished. He shot up, broke the surface, sucking in air. The head of the Rugian appeared. It was twisted in pain. Maximus surfaced behind him, closing in again.

  ‘Do not kill him!’ Ballista shouted.

  Maximus enveloped the pilot, driving him back under. Ballista was unsure if the Hibernian had heard.

  Ballista took a deep breath and prepared to dive again.

  Maximus bobbed up. He had the Rugian. The latter was curled, not fighting. Maximus spat and grinned. ‘He will not die. I just gave his balls a little squeeze.’

  Wada the Short swam to them. Maximus stopped smiling. Together they got the Rugian back to the boat. The crew hauled them aboard, the Rugian roughly.

  ‘Tie his hands.’

  Water sluicing off him, Ballista went to the prow. Both longships were pulling towards them. Brondings or not, their intention was obvious.

  ‘R
everse positions.’ Ballista retrieved his boots, sat to pull them back on.

  The helmsman had already got the steering oar at the stern inboard. He rushed past, slotted the other one into position. The rowers reversed their places on the benches.

  ‘One, two, three — row.’

  The blades bit the water. The boat seemed to hesitate, then edged forward. With the second stroke, it gathered way. In moments they were gliding fast away from the threat. It was one of the beauties of a double-prowed northern warship.

  ‘Bring the pilot here.’ Ballista walked to the new prow, struggling back into his sword belt.

  Maximus thrust the bound Rugian to his knees. Wada the Short gave the captive a clout around the head.

  Ballista leant down, took hold of the man’s chin, tipped it up. With his other hand he drew his dagger, ran it across the man’s throat with just enough pressure to cut the skin. He held the bloodied point just in front of the man’s left eyeball.

  ‘I want there to be no misunderstanding between us. If they catch us, you will be the first to die.’

  The Rugian said nothing.

  ‘Take us back into the delta. Find us somewhere to hide. You know these waters; the Brondings do not.’

  Ballista touched the eyelid with the dagger. ‘Will you do this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tie him to the prow. Diocles, watch him. Maximus, help me arm. Those with mailshirts, make your choice whether to wear them.’

  The pursuing longboats were still about half a mile behind when the boat slid around a bend and they were lost to sight.

  The marsh closed around them. The green water ran down the sides of the boat. There were no sounds of pursuit, just the splash of their oars in the water, the creak of the rowlocks, the breathing of the rowers. The pilot conned them, just loud enough to carry the length of the boat to the helmsman.

  Perfidy aside, the Rugian knew his calling. Watching the colour of the water, he guided them this way and that, ever deeper into the labyrinth of the delta. At length, he had them pull towards what looked to be a solid bank. The keel scraped through mud. Parting the hanging branches of two willows, they emerged into an isolated backwater. Midges were thick in the air. Black vegetation wrapped itself around the blades, weighting them down. Some duck flapped up off the surface and wheeled away. After fifty or so strokes, the channel forked. The pilot guided them to the left. The little channel dog-legged, then opened into a still, black pool.