by James Duncan
Halfar furrowed his brow and squinted down, trying to see again what had caught his eye as he held the sword there. Then he saw them, faint but unmistakable on the surface of the core of the blade: engraved lines. He leaned even closer in, blanking out what Aurick was saying, trying to decipher the markings. They were shallow and irregular, half-filled with mud. He could see they were Norse runes, but he couldn’t make out more than one or two letters. Frustrated, he laid the sword gently on the bottom of the tank.
‘What is it?’ asked Aurick.
‘Hmm?’ said Halfar, finally becoming aware again of the room outside the tub.
‘What were you looking at so closely?’
‘Oh, there is an engraving on the blade, but I can’t make it out.’
‘An inscription?’
‘Yes, it is not common, but sometimes a sword would be inscribed with the maker’s name, a chosen phrase or even the name of the sword. I can’t tell which this one is. It will need proper investigation.’
‘Oh.’ Aurick nodded vaguely, staring at the tank. ‘Well, what now?’
Halfar thought for a moment. ‘I am going to make some calls, and you should return home. Nothing will happen quickly. I will give you a call when I have news, okay?’
Aurick looked disappointed, but he nodded. Halfar smiled and thanked the two again and shuffled them out as fast as he could without being overtly rude. Ingrid had been starting to get bored and wander around the room touching things, and he hated it when people did that.
When they were gone, he cleaned up the workbench and found himself again staring into the tank, deep in thought. He looked around, almost guiltily, before reaching in and bringing the sword to the surface again, balancing the hilt on the rim so he could gently rub away the mud that still clung to the engraved runes with a small brush.
He managed to get a few of the less corroded runes cleaned, and he stared at them in puzzlement. He could not make out more than two characters and, overcoming his frustration, lowered the sword back to the bottom. He washed up and reached for the phone, dialling a number from memory.
‘Good morning. Lundjen History Department. How may I help?’
‘Hello, yes. I’m calling for Professor Hallsson, dean of archaeology. I need his help with a sword.’ He sat staring at the sword as he was put on hold, burning with curiosity about the artefact’s past.
What’s your story? How did you end up in a lake?
Chapter 2
Raids and Reavers
Off the coast of Francia
Spring 1112
Everyone on the northern European coast feared the longships. In the Slavic kingdoms of the southern Baltic, driven ever eastwards as they were by the German princes, the people still lived in terror of the death that came from the Cold Sea. In the rich Frankish provinces, the coastal settlements still felt the sting of the raids despite their power and wealth. Their fathers had always kept one eye on the sea, their fathers’ fathers before them. For as long as anyone could remember, death came from the waves on wings of wool and riding ships of riveted planks. Like foul birds of prey, they would swoop in and snatch their victims and fly away across the squall-lashed sea before the hunters could raise a hand against them.
The longships. For three hundred years, their wretched sails had cast a shadow over these coasts every spring and summer. And this day was no different. Six ships. Six beasts of carrion come to strip the land of its lives and riches. Violent, uncaring, unafraid of revenge. Longboats full of hard men in furs and leather and iron. Men carrying misery on the edges of their bright steel blades. Men who were, at this moment, at least in the lead boat, pissing themselves with laughter.
Ragnvald hadn’t heard the joke, but he grinned anyway as he stood at the prow of his ship Sedemonr, the Sea Demon. Why shouldn’t his men be merry? They were out on the open sea, the whale road, hunting their prey and celebrating the victory they would surely soon earn. It would be a foul leader who castigated them to sullen silence at such a time. The silence, the concentration, the discipline: these could wait for the coast where their quarry was waiting. No, for now, he let his men relax and enjoy the ride south-west, a strong north-west wind driving them down towards the unsuspecting Frankish shore.
Ragnvald was a Swedish warlord, a jarl going Viking in the tradition of his forebears, a sword Svear of the old ways. Not many still followed the old ways. Many had fallen to the temptation of easier lives: trading, farming, becoming fat off the land and its products. But enough still earned their keep the old way, with the edge of their blades and the skill of their arms. Enough to keep the fear in the people of the coast he headed towards, enough to keep the warrior skill alive in his people.
Ragnvald was a tall man with light brown hair, just starting to show a tinge of silver and swept back into a leather tie to keep his face clear in the stiff breeze. His beard was tied into tight braids. He was no longer a young man but still strong and restless, the energy of youth not quite gone from his aging body. This was his first raid in two years, the yearning for another trip balanced by the difficulty of organising a successful one in these troubled times. Single crews were no use at a time when every town and village had a watch and coastguards, where every port had small, fast boats sitting ready to hunt marauding ships.
Jarl Birkir, a stocky, dour man from the north of Svealand, with significant lands and a solid crew of fighting men, was in the next ship and also owned the one that followed it. Four of the ships were Ragnvald’s men, the best fighting men of his large dominion, two hundred men of violence and steel.
As Ragnvald stood, contentedly watching the waves, a cry from afar snatched his attention. He looked and, following an outstretched arm on the prow of the next ship, swept his eyes across the horizon to see what had caught that man’s eye. White sails, low on the horizon, were headed straight for them, just a single ship. His bearded face cracked a smile. It was time for these predators to feast.
The ship had been a fat merchant, heading out of Hamburg with a full cargo, round belly full of fine cloth and linen bound for England. It had wallowed helplessly as the sea reavers fell upon it, sails thrashing as if in horror as its crew panicked and lost control when the screaming demons swarmed up its sides and onto the deck.
The guards, such as they were, had died, and the fat merchants had been cast overboard to gurgle and struggle as their fine, heavy clothes dragged them down. The unarmed crew, young, fit, hardened sailors, had been condemned to slavery and forced at sword point to sail the ship back to the Northlands with a dozen scowling Vikings to ensure their compliance.
The ship and its cargo had made this entire raid a success already. The cargo would fetch a good price in the markets of Sweden and Norway. The ship itself would be beached and stripped of its valuable timbers and iron. A ship that size would have enough iron nails, fittings and other components to make a hundred spearheads, or a dozen swords. Iron was scarce in the north. It collected in bogs or fell from the sky, but mostly it was smuggled or stolen from the southerners who always had it in such abundance.
Ragnvald smiled broadly as his men returned to his longship. They were laughing and jesting at those who would have to return with the ship and miss the rest of the raid. To his surprise, a prisoner was bundled into the ship by his men. Ragnvald raised an eyebrow as the terrified man, a slim and weak-looking German with curly black hair, slumped to the deck at his feet.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked Fenrir, one of his huscarls, his elite household guard, who had brought the whimpering German aboard, while he pointed at the prisoner. ‘This doesn’t look fit to pull a plough, and it doesn’t seem to have any wealth about it. Why do I want it?’
‘He speaks our tongue,’ said Fenrir as he jumped down into the boat. ‘Well, he begged for his life in our language anyway. Thought you might be interested.’
Ragnvald regarded the mewling man in a new light. ‘Speaks our words, eh? Yes, that might be useful.’ He kicked the pathetic-looking bundle
with the toe of his boot, and the man squeaked and tried to retreat across the deck. ‘You understand me, boy?’ he asked, following the prisoner. He got no reply beyond more mewling. ‘You are talking out of your arse, Fenrir. Perhaps he knows a few words, enough to beg for his life, not enough to be useful. Over the side with him.’
Fenrir shrugged and picked the man up under each arm, moved to throw him overboard.
‘No!’ the man screamed in panic. ‘It’s true! I do speak your language. I do, very well! I understand everything you say. Yes, everything.’
Fenrir dropped him to the deck again and gave Ragnvald a smug look. ‘As I said.’
‘Fine. For once you are more useful than you look.’ He grinned at his huscarl and laughed at the mock offence the smaller man returned. ‘Now, you. What is your name?’ Ragnvald frowned at the new slave and lifted the man’s chin with the haft of an axe.
‘Otto,’ the man squeaked out, eyes fixed on the length of spruce that was digging painfully into his jaw.
‘Otto, you are now my slave. You are a thin little wisp of a man, so your only value to me is turning my words into your people’s and theirs into mine. Understand?’
Otto cried out in protest, eyes swinging wildly around him, looking for a way out he knew didn’t exist.
‘If you do what I command, you will live a fine life. If you don’t… well, I only need you for your mouth. The rest of you is unnecessary.’ Otto was barely listening, his eyes wide and glazed with terror.
‘Don’t think he understands,’ said Fenrir nonchalantly.
‘Doesn’t seem that way, does it? Let’s take a finger and see if that helps him.’
Fenrir grabbed a hand and pinned it to the side of the boat, splaying the fingers and holding them down with the back of his seax.
‘No, I understand, I do. I understand!’ wailed Otto.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Ragnvald, leaning down so that his beard was almost touching the chin of the desperate man. ‘Because, if you ever become unsure, I will take fingers until you get sure again. Then, if you run out of fingers before you get sure, I will take other protruding parts until you are sure because, remember, all I need is your mouth.’
That mouth gaped in horror, and the eyes widened even further, but Otto said nothing, his voice snatched by the violence of the threat.
‘Still don’t think he gets it,’ said Fenrir.
‘He’ll learn real quick,’ said Ragnvald and brought the axe down on the side of the boat, a hair’s breadth from the outstretched fingers. Otto’s eyes rolled up, and he passed out and slumped, voiding his bowels in the bottom of the boat.
‘Bugger,’ said Ragnvald.
‘What a total streak of piss,’ said Fenrir in disgust. Do we have to keep it?’
‘He might be useful yet, when we get home. If not?’ He shrugged and turned away without another word. Fenrir knew what he meant and smiled wolfishly.
Later that day, the small fleet pulled into sight of the coast. Ragnvald knew which town he wanted to raid. They had seen it several years ago on the way past, a mid-sized coastal town, protected on the land by a wall and from the sea by broad mud flats and impassable marsh. The only weak point was the channel leading to the harbour. The harbour had a guard boat and a small sea wall, but not enough to keep his six ships out. Or so he hoped. It was not possible to permanently guard every town for years on end against three hundred trained warriors coming with no warning. Or so he hoped.
The ships dropped their sails, men hauling in the yards of thick material and dumping the wrapped sail and boom into the bottom of the boat. Half the men slid oars out into the cold water, and the other half started putting on their war gear. Maille byrnies or thick woollen shirts went over their tunics; thick felt hats or iron helmets went on their heads. Those men with swords strapped the scabbards to their belts; those with axes tucked them away close to hand. Spears were stacked next to the benches, and the two halves of the crew swapped. When the ships reached the dock, every man would be ready to leap into a fight from the benches in a moment.
The jokes and the laughter were stilled now. The pre-battle quiet was upon them. It was not total silence – it never was. Some men muttered nervously to themselves, others invoked their favoured god and some reassured each other or pointed out good omens. Every man in the boat was afraid. Only a fool could not be afraid in the long wait before the battle song started, and no fools lived long in Ragnvald’s crew, his hird of seasoned warriors.
‘Steady now,’ Ragnvald called to the helmsman and rowers. They were rowing steadily, speed building as they came into view of the harbour. They would be seen at any moment – perhaps they had already been. Perhaps unseen men in that town were rushing into their own armour, shouting orders and gathering weapons to repel them. Perhaps they were already at the sea wall, spears gripped in trembling fingers, waiting for the terror that swept down the channel in six snarling, beast-prowed ships.
The sea demon head, snarling and spitting painted wooden fire, was carved into the prow next to Ragnvald, its mad white eyes ever looking forward, seething with rage at whatever enemy was put in front of it, striking terror into their hearts. Or that was the idea anyway. Ragnvald thought it looked more comical than fearsome, but that errant thought was swept away by the tolling of a bell from the town, still half a mile ahead of them.
‘We are seen. They will be coming for us, lads. Let’s not disappoint them. Not too fast,’ he said as he grinned and looked down at his men. ‘Save some breath for the killing.’
One of the men, Sebbi, an experienced man and one of Ragnvald’s ten huscarls, started up a chant, as was his habit when the ships were going into battle, each line sung out between strokes. They all knew it well. It was hardly the work of a skald, a skilled song weaver, but the familiar words and the defiant energy it brought them lifted the whole crew, took their minds off the fear and suspense, got the battle rage boiling.
Sea demon
Stroke
Wave rider
Stroke
Carry us
Stroke
Here we come
The oars were crashing into the water, beating it into white froth. Backs strained as the oars pulled through the water.
Thor, Lord of Thunder
Stroke
Hear our fury
Stroke
See our rage
Stroke
Here we come
The hull was humming beneath Ragnvald’s feet now.
Odin, Spear Master
Stroke
Guide our arms
Stroke
Watch our shields
Stroke
Here we come
Each chant was building in volume, men working themselves up into a nerve-driven fury.
Ran, Queen of Waves
Stroke
Carry us
Stroke
Speed our journey
Stroke
Here we come
The shore was only a hundred paces away. Ragnvald could see men running to and fro along the wall behind, others milling on the docks in apparent confusion.
Men of Svealand
Stroke
Gird your wrath
Stroke
Wear it round you
Stroke
Here we come
The chant was building into a crescendo now, the dock only a dozen strokes away.
Shield of courage
Stroke
Spear of vengeance
Stroke
Sword of wrath
Stroke
Here we come
Ragnvald snarled, gripping his axe. His sword Bjóðr –‘Giver’ – was sheathed at his side, safe from the lashing salt spray. It would stay there, waiting, until he was safely ashore. The crew burned their lungs with the strain of the rowing and the volume of their battle song.
Foemen, face us!
Stroke
See our steel
Stroke
We are de
ath
Stroke
Here we are!
The crew was roaring now, the chant done and lost in a crashing wave of noise that washed over the waiting townsfolk and reverberated back at the oncoming ships. All six crews were screaming themselves hoarse as they shipped their oars and picked up their shields and weapons, leaving the momentum of the boats to carry them into the docks.
Alongside, another ship was going to reach the dock just before Ragnvald. Ragnvald saw Jarl Birkir in the prow, helmetless, waving his long axe at the waiting locals and screaming curses at them. The ship hit the dock, and Birkir leaped from the prow, scything his axe at the terrified defenders who scuttled back out of range, allowing room for the rest of the crew to begin pouring onto the dock behind their wild jarl.
Ragnvald was so engrossed watching that he almost lost his footing as his own ship hit the dock. He gathered himself and leaped down onto the empty stretch of planking, hearing his men following, and started running down the dock towards the melee that had gathered nearer the shore.
The town guard had finally found enough courage to stand and were desperately fending off Birkir’s crew at the gap in the sea wall that led to the docks. The crumbling wall was only five feet high and didn’t even have a gate. Rusted hinges showed where one used to stand, the salt air and crashing storm waves having hewn it off long ago. How the town would rue not having replaced it.
Ragnvald looked around for a way past that chaotic crush and saw that the wall on the right was barely defended and cracks and ledges covered the uneven stonework. He turned along the dock that ran along the face of the wall and found a good spot.
‘Up!’ he roared at the men who followed him. He wasted no time and launched himself at the wall, gaining the top after a single bound from a ledge halfway up, his tough leather shoes finding ample purchase on the rough, weathered stone. He was vulnerable at the top as he stood, but the only man facing him on the raised path behind the wall was a terrified boy in ill-fitting maille armour, who simply dropped his old spear and ran.
