The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  They came to the pond. It was fringed with black poplars. The hut of the wicce stood in their shade. They dismounted. The sun was not yet touching the horizon. They waited.

  Oslac felt badly about himself. Aeneas had loved the Carthaginian Dido, but he had deserted her for the destiny of his people. Much as he groaned and felt shaken at heart by the great force of love’s power, nonetheless Aeneas followed the gods’ commands. Oslac was not as pious or as dutiful. Long before, he had taken the opposite, less worthy course. When Dernhelm had gone to be a hostage, Oslac had sent his young wife back to her people, the Wylfings; all in the hope of marrying Kadlin. His father had been furious. Kadlin had been married off instead to Holen of Wrosns, to secure the allegiance of the islands of Latris. Only when Holen was killed, and she was a widow, had Isangrim relented, and let Oslac wed Kadlin. All these years later, Oslac again could not help but put love over duty. It was not about Unferth and the fate of the Woden-born Himlings he was here to ask.

  As the sun began to go down, the wicce emerged, very old and crooked, leaning on a brass-bound staff. She beckoned Oslac. Before he followed, he told his men to retire out of earshot. They looked both relieved and suspicious as they led the horses away.

  Inside was warm and surprisingly well-lit, with a brazier and two gleaming lamps of Roman manufacture. Despite the warmth, the wicce was dressed as he had seen her before: in a blue mantle adorned with stones to the hem. Her face was half hidden by a black lambskin hood lined with the fur of white cats. On her feet were hairy calfskin shoes, and more white cats had been killed to make her gloves.

  She seated herself on a low stool, not the high seat of prophecy he would have provided in his hall. Oslac remained standing.

  ‘War-father picked for her rings and circlets:

  He had back wise tidings and wands of prophecy;

  She saw widely and widely beyond, over every world.’

  Oslac acknowledged her words by passing over a brooch unfastened from his cloak. She turned it over in her gloved hands. The garnets were like blood in the lamplight.

  ‘My half-brother, Dernhelm, the one the Romans call Ballista, returns home. I would know his fate.’ Oslac stopped. It was hard to force the rest out. ‘Will my wife leave me for him? Will she betray me?’ There, it was said.

  The old woman snorted, as if once again confronted with damning evidence of the vain pride of men. She took some powder from the purse at her belt, sprinkled it on to the brazier. Leaning over, she shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. While she crooned softly, her gloved hands fondled the staff obscenely.

  It was close in the room. Oslac wished he was somewhere else.

  When the crone opened her eyes, they were bleared. ‘The guardian of the pool is present. Many things stand revealed to me which before were hidden both from me and from others.’

  Her voice trailed off, her eyelids drooped. Her body twitched.

  Oslac wanted to leave, but did not dare. He had to hear the prophecy. He dreaded what might be revealed.

  She wrenched open her jaws and yawned deeply.

  ‘She saw there wading through heavy currents,

  Men false-sworn and murderous men,

  And those who gull another’s faithfullest girl;

  There spite-striker sucks the bodies of the dead

  — a wolf tore men — do you know yet, or what?’

  She stopped, head lolling.

  Oslac stood; rooted, sweating.

  Her mouth gaped wide, her breathing harsh as torn sailcloth.

  ‘Brothers will struggle and slaughter each other,

  And sisters’ sons spoil kinship’s bonds.

  It’s hard on earth: great whoredom;

  Axe-age, blade-age, shields are split;

  Wind-age, wolf-age, before the world crumbles:

  No one shall spare another.’

  The wicce shivered, and came back. The lamps guttered. Now all Oslac could hear was his own breathing.

  ‘Do you want him cursed?’ Her voice was near normal.

  Oslac was sweating. Dernhelm was his half-brother. He did not love him, but he did not hate him. It was not Dernhelm’s fault. Oslac could not curse his brother, but he could not lose Kadlin. Fleeing from Troy, Aeneas had failed to look back. He had lost his wife. Aeneas had left Carthage, and Dido had killed herself. Oslac would not lose his wife.

  ‘Curse him.’

  The wicce nodded, as if she had already known his answer, and it saddened her.

  ‘Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, you will receive only ill fortune from me. You have become famous through your deeds, but now you will fall into outlawry and killings. Most of what you do will now turn against you, bringing bad luck and no joy. You will be made an outlaw, forced always to live in the wilds and to live alone.’

  XXI

  The Suebian Sea

  The gods had been capricious, Ballista thought as they ran the boat out from the desolate shore. At first, they had smiled. When they had won clear of the islands off the Vistula, there had been no Bronding longships bearing down. In fact, there had been no vessels of any sort in sight. But the Rugian pilot had been wrong: as the morning went on the wind had not moved into the east. Now and then it had shifted to the north-east, but it had soon backed. Most of the day it had gusted from the north.

  Wada the Short had retaken the helm. ‘Only a slave takes vengeance immediately, but a coward never,’ he had announced, as he settled to his task.

  They had had to tack, mainly on an easterly heading. It was frustrating when their course and safety lay to the west, but they knew they had to clear a long spit which stretched down south-eastward from the westerly tip of the gulf. On each tack Wada had the yard braced round until it ran from bow to quarter, bringing the windward sheet forward of the mast. Late morning, when the wind picked up, and the bow had begun to dig into the waves, he had them lower the yard about a third of the way down the mast. Not only had it made the boat plane the water better, it had had the advantage of making their sail harder to see from a distance. Unlike the gaudy spread of the Brondings, it was a plain, tan, weather-stained thing; which was all to the good in trying to avoid pursuit. In the afternoon the wind had risen again. Wada had ordered the canvas abaft the mast brailed up and the weather sheet tightened. With the sail almost triangular and the forward yardarm dragged down, the Warig had sailed as well into the wind as any ship could.

  Ballista had much admired Wada’s seamanship. He would have done the same himself. But it was many years since he had sailed these northern waters, and he was happy to let the Harii take charge. Except when tacking, and apart from a few men bailing intermittently, there had been no task demanded of the crew. The majority had attempted to sleep, huddled and damp beneath their benches. Ballista had gone from bow to stern, always scanning the sky and sea; trying to judge their progress, guess the turn of the weather, and ever, ever looking for the sight of a sail. Twice he glimpsed a smudge of white far to the north. Otherwise, the grey sea remained empty, nothing but gulls soaring above.

  After a time, Maximus had stopped shadowing Ballista and had curled up like a dog and gone to sleep at the helmsman’s feet. But Tarchon had not left Ballista’s side. Sometimes the Suanian had muttered things in his native language. Mostly inaudible, the few words Ballista both caught and understood were dark, involving gods, honour and bloody revenge. After Ballista and Calgacus had saved Tarchon from drowning, the Suanian had sworn to protect them with his life. Out on the Steppe he had failed Calgacus. It sat heavily on Tarchon. Ballista knew its weight.

  The sun was getting low when they had finally won the searoom to clear the spit. As they turned, as if to mock their previous progress, the gods had set the wind to blow steadily from the east. Ballista had been tempted to stand out well from any sandbanks and sail through the night. But the men were cold, wet and cramped. Despite having taken what rest they could, they had still been exhausted. They had needed hot food, the chance to stretch and sleep ashore. They were not as far
as he would like from the Vistula delta and the Brondings, but Ballista had asked Wada to take them in.

  The spit was a low beach of white sand, backed by timber. It was an exposed anchorage in anything other than a southerly wind. With nearly their last reserves of strength, they hauled the ship half out of the water. They had unshipped only what was absolutely necessary, and made the Warig ready for a hasty departure. In the glooming they had gone to gather wood. The trees formed a narrow belt, with open water on the far side. Their lower trunks were bare. As there were not many fallen branches, the crew had gathered driftwood as well. It was all damp, but with perseverance they had got the campfire burning. As the flames sawed in the wind, they had warmed themselves, and cooked a stew of disparate contents. Ballista had been one of those who had taken first watch. After an hour, another had taken his place, and he had rolled himself in his cloak by the embers of the fire and fallen straight into a deep sleep.

  The morning was overcast. The wind was still in the east, but it had fallen. Sky and sea were united in sullen grey.

  The Warig came alive as her keel ran free. The men launching her clambered over the stern, and went to their places, their boots slapping wet and noisy on the deck. The bow oarsmen were already pulling her out. Maximus touched Ballista’s arm. The Hibernian flicked his eyes to the east. Ballista looked but could see nothing. He gripped the prow and swung his boots up on to the gunwale. Swaying with the rise and fall, he peered out into the greyness. His eyes smarted with tiredness and the salt. He thought he saw something. It was gone before he could tell what. He wiped his streaming eyes. There it was again. A patch of solidity in the shifting air and water, a hint of colour.

  ‘Two sails,’ Maximus said quietly.

  ‘The same two?’

  ‘I have good eyesight, I am not a fucking magician.’

  Wada pointed the prow-idol to the west. The men got the oars inboard, squared the yard and shook out the sail so the following breeze fell on both sheets simultaneously. Ballista and Maximus moved to the stern. There was no point in sharing their fears until they were certain.

  The rising sun struggled to make its presence felt from behind the leaden clouds. Yet it was enough. Distance was hard to judge in the monochrome world, but perhaps two miles astern were two sails. They were black in the dim light. They could be any colour, belonging to any two ships. Many vessels plied the Suebian Sea. But Ballista had no doubt as to their identity.

  Wada the Short received the news calmly. He turned the Warig to starboard to get the wind on her quarter. Then, as she heeled and forged out into the open sea, he had Ballista take the steering oar. Wada moved purposefully through the ship. He felt the tautness of the lines, slackened off those towards the prow and took in those towards the stern. Taking the steering oar again, he brought the wind first a little more abeam, then a bit astern, feeling the run of the ship. Announcing he needed to bring her head up a fraction, he shouted for some of those to the fore to move back down the boat.

  Ballista managed not to grin as he watched a bedraggled Zeno and Amantius shuffling towards him. There was something pleasing in those one-time inhabitants of the imperial court being used as ballast in an open boat in a northern sea.

  The rearrangement complete, Wada grunted his satisfaction. The improvement seemed small, but it might be significant. Despite the light airs, the water lapped white down the larboard side.

  Ballista looked back to the east. In the gathering light, any lingering uncertainties were resolved. The two ships had altered course in pursuit. Their sails were red- and blue-striped. At least they seemed no closer.

  ‘Persistent fuckers,’ Maximus said. ‘Given the other one in the delta, there may be more following.’

  ‘We die before them take you,’ Tarchon said. ‘Best you dead too.’

  ‘Sure, he does have a point. From what we hear, your Bronding lord Unferth would love to be getting his hands on a son of Isangrim.’

  Ballista was finding little enjoyment in this conversation. ‘They are heavier ships; in a gentle wind we should outrun them.’

  Within the hour, Ballista regretted his words. Usually he was careful to tempt neither gods nor fate. The wind got up, raising white caps on the waves which now rolled out of the east. The Warig began to pitch and slide slightly as she rode the sea. The motion brought no danger, but both Zeno and one of his slaves were violently sick on the deck where they huddled. Men roared at them to get to the leeward side.

  Ballista took the Rugian guide to Wada the Short in the stern. All three knew the Suebian Sea. They agreed it would be madness to try to sail direct to Hedinsey. It would be a run of at least two days and a night. Even if they had the supplies and the crew still had the stamina — neither of which was the case — the Brondings would overhaul them. ‘A heavier ship for heavier weather,’ Wada announced. There was a storm coming, the Rugian said, a bad one. The tall, black clouds piling up on the eastern horizon made this hard to gainsay. They must look to find shelter from both weather and pursuit.

  As they brought the ship around to the south-west, the first shower swept over them. With that and the spray coming inboard from the rougher sea, men had to be set to bailing regularly. It kept the men with the scoops warm, and, Ballista thought, it gave the whole crew the impression they were more than passengers being delivered helpless to their fate. Wyrd will often spare an undoomed man, if his courage is good.

  They ran the whole day, angling first towards the shore then standing out again. The coastline here was flat, remarkably featureless, with little offer of refuge. It would be difficult to beach. There were frequent sandbanks offshore, the surf breaking on them. The beaches themselves were often studded with jagged, half-submerged tree stumps and drift wrack, which might tear the bottom out of a boat. They did pass inlets. Only dire emergency would force them to turn into one. The lack of landmarks meant they were unsure how far they had travelled. But they had left behind the known shoreline of the Rugii. Any channel might be nothing more than a dead end. They were a long way yet from the territory of the Farodini, who were allies of the Himlings. This inhospitable coast was held by the Heathobards, and they were friends to neither Angles nor Rugii.

  Wada was getting the best out of the Warig. She was a weatherly craft. Clinker-built, her lashed planks flexed and creaked, but she was not taking much water and sailed taut and responsive to the helm. Through the drizzle, the Brondings did not seem to have narrowed the distance. Ballista took turns at the stern-rudder and at bailing. The steering gave Wada a chance to check the rigging, bolt some cold food and snatch a little rest. Their commander bailing was intended to hearten the men.

  In the gloom, night succeeded day with no great show. In the first hours the rain blew over, but the wind did not slacken. Weary, cold and soaked to the skin, they raced on over a silver sea, the shore black to larboard, the sky between the tattered clouds a strange, threatening yellow. In the glinting light among the rushing shadows the dark shapes of the Brondings could still be seen.

  In the dead of night, when the moon and stars were obscured, Ballista was bailing. He filled the scoop, handed it up to Maximus, who threw the contents to the wind, handed it back down, and Ballista filled the scoop again. Over and over: the repetition numbed the mind. The screws and pumps of Mediterranean vessels were equally monotonous and hard work. But you did not have to crouch, were not actually in the water. They should not be hard to fit on a northern longboat. Ballista came out of his daze. The water was slopping around his boots. It was gaining. Telling Tarchon to take over bailing, he got to his knees. The water was cold on his legs. In the darkness, he ran his hands under the surface along the bilges. The wood seemed sound. As he worked along, he found no cracks, no holes. Perhaps it was nothing.

  The Warig came down the leading edge of a wave, bottomed out in the trough. A jet of water hit Ballista’s forearm. Carefully, not wanting to trap a finger, he felt the overlaps between the side planks. He found the wadding. A clump of it came out
in his fingers. The material was still sticky, but it came apart in his hands. Whatever it had been treated with was being washed out by the seawater. As the ship flexed more water squirted through.

  They bailed in shifts. There were only three scoops. The others bailed with their helmets, bowls, whatever would hold water. Some mutton fat was produced from the supplies. Rikiar and Heliodorus rubbed it into torn-up strips of clothing. Down below the waterline, working by touch, Ballista and the Rugian pilot packed it into the overlaps where the water seemed to be coming in worst. They hammered it home as best they could with wooden mallets. It was cold, filthy work. Time and again Ballista swore as the mallet caught his numbed fingers. After an hour or so, the water stopped rising, even fell. But there could be no stopping the bailing.