by Robert Low
We all saw it, then, the great arch of Bifrost, the rainbow bridge which only appears when a hero is crossing to Valholl.
So we knew Botolf was not flying back.
EIGHT
The way of it, as Randr Sterki told everyone, was like this: you throw your weapons in the dirt and Orm Bear Slayer does not get hurt. Of course, what he did not add were the words ‘for the moment’, but everyone knew that — knew, also, that throwing down their weapons would not be the end of the matter, only the beginning.
So, rightly, Red Njal and Hlenni shook their heads and shot glances of misery at me, tied up and held by a savage snarler whose face was a great stone cliff set against me.
‘The wolf and the dog,’ Red Njal shouted hoarsely, ‘do not play together, as my granny used to say.’
True though it was, I had been hoping his granny had something useful on my predicament. Finn and Toki and me had surfaced from our grief on the bald mountain and it was clear to both Finn and me what had to be done next, so it it did not take much talk. He and Toki, goat and precious-as-gold bairn went one way, to safety. I turned back, for I could not leave the women and weans to bear the brunt of Randr Sterki and the remaining bearcoats alone — anyway, I had made my promise to Odin.
Perhaps it was he, then, who walked me past the fly-buzzing heaps on the bridge, back up the water-runnelled trail a way, round a bend, round another — and into the scores of heads, turning in amazement.
Like a nithing into the middle of Randr’s men, where I was grabbed and trussed like a stupid sheep.
Beyond stood a line of ringmail pillars, shields up and ready — Rovald, Rorik Stari, Kaelbjorn Rog, Myrkjartan and Uddolf, with Abjorn in their middle, while Red Njal and Hlenni, with only shield and helmet, hovered behind them. Two bodies lay at their feet and a third a little way off, an arrow in one eye showing that Kuritsa had not boasted about his prowess idly.
‘Heya,’ I called out. ‘The child is safe — Finn is with him and Toki. The bearcoats they sent are dead…’
The blow whirled stars into me and I half-fell; someone yelped out a scream and I found the legs of the man who had hit me, followed them upwards to the face, a braided twist of hate.
‘Another peep, Bear Slayer,’ the man growled, ‘and I will fill your mouth with your own teeth.’
‘Where is Botolf?’
I heard the half-scream and knew, without looking, that it was Ingrid. I never took my eyes from that face of hate.
‘Crossing Bifrost,’ I bellowed and he hit me. Even ready for it, I managed only to deflect the blow a little and felt my nose crunch, the pain shrieking in so that I found myself, blind with tears and snot and blood, open-mouthed and gasping for air on my hands and knees. The wailing that went up from the women at the news of Botolf was more painful still.
‘Leave that, Tov,’ snarled a voice. ‘I want him undamaged.’
Gradually, I blinked back into the blurred world and the noise of keening women. Now all that remained was to stand like a decent sacrifice and die well, so I hauled myself into the pain, spitting out the blood that flowed down the back of my tortured nose. The cut on my forehead had opened, too, and I had to flick the blood out of my eyes, which caused my nose to throb.
‘The Giant Ymir is gone, then? One less,’ bellowed Randr Sterki, at his own men as much as mine, I realised.
‘The cost was high,’ growled a voice — one of the remaining ulfhednar, I realised. ‘Stenvast now is dead.’
It came to me then that half his crew were too new for this, had not been on Svartey and were not driven by the revenge of the others. Half was half a chance…
‘Still many of us left,’ I called out hoarsely, the force of the words inside my head making my nose scream with new pain. Randr whirled and thrust a sword — my sword — under it.
‘You have the right of it, for sure,’ he said and viciously tapped upwards so that my head burst with the red light of pain and new tears sprang to blind me.
‘Tell them to throw down their weapons.’
‘So you can slaughter them?’ I managed to cough out and shook my head, which was a painful mistake. ‘No bargain for them there.’
‘No bargain anywhere,’ howled Tov, trying to fist the side of my head and missing. ‘You took my woman and my wealth, you hole — I will rip off your balls…’
There was a slap of sound and Tov yelped; Randr lowered the sword, scowling.
‘Think yourself lucky I used the flat,’ he spat. ‘I told you to leave off with all that.’
Tov glowered back, barely held by the last shreds of a leash of fear; soon, I thought, it will part and he will spring at Randr like a ship down a slipway. All it took was that last push…
‘There is a bargain, all the same,’ I yelled out, trying to ignore the stabs of pain each word lanced in my head. ‘Moonlit-buried silver, blood-price enough to end this feud.’
That brought heads up; everyone there knew the Oathsworn tales, particularly the one about finding all the silver of the world. Even allowing for the lies of skalds, that left silver enough for any man’s dreams.
‘There is not enough silver to end this,’ Randr bellowed back, then heard the mutterings that ran through the wolf pack behind him and whirled to face it. In an eyeblink, he saw them fracture, into those who thought there was enough silver and those who wanted blood only.
‘Stenvast is dead,’ growled the same bearcoat who had spoken before. ‘There is little left for us here and some of the Oathsworn’s famed silver seems a fair price.’
‘I will tell you where you can find it,’ I offered, driving the wedges deeper. ‘If you agree that it is finished and we each go our ways.’
‘You bitch-licking turd!’
The shriek came from Tov and he launched himself at me, all screaming and clawed fingers, seeing his revenge tremble on the brink of failure.
It was reflex from Randr, no more than that, the savage, sudden burst of anger from a jarl with too many problems all at once and disobeyed once too often; my sword whicked past my own ear and cut Tov’s throat out of him in a vomit of blood that splashed me as he thumped on the road.
There was a frozen moment of stillness, broken only by the sound of Tov’s blood trickling to a whisper and sliding in tendrils through the rain-water.
Then uproar and yells and argument. Fights started and Randr bellowed and laid about him with the sword. I saw Abjorn and the others look at each other, sizing up the chance of taking the fight to the enemy while they were so fractured and, for a moment, was frantic they would do it.
In the end, the bearcoats, bristling and growling in a group tight as a fist, brought order where Randr failed — and faster than the Oathsworn could make their minds up; I heaved a sigh of relief.
There was a brief, muttered argument, then Randr stalked angrily at me, badger-beard trembling. Two men were with him, one of them a wild-bearded giant of a bearcoat who announced himself as Skeggi Ogmundsson.
‘Tell where the hoard is,’ Randr said, jerking his head at the men. ‘They will go to it. If it is not there, you will die when the news is brought back.’
‘If it is?’ I countered, my voice thick with blood and pain, sounding strange and faraway in my ears.
He looked into my tear- and blood-streaked face and sneered.
‘We will take it and sail away. You and your whelps may have your lives for now.’
The ‘for now’ did not escape me. I knew he would not agree to forever, so I nodded and told what I knew.
Standing there for the time it took the men to go all the way to it and back was a long, long day. No-one spoke much, nor gave up their positions, nor rested their arms save in shifts. Randr’s men lit a couple of fires, but they had precious little fuel and they soon went out while, from the direction of the carts, I smelled smoke and soup, heard the grumbles from Randr’s hungry men and would have smiled, save that the muscles would not work for the trembling in them.
Then it rained again and th
e shadows slid and darkened. Men broke out what cloaks they had, or pulled their clothing tighter round them as the cold gnawed them. My nose throbbed and I had to stand open-mouthed as a coal-eater, because I could not breathe through it.
Then, suddenly, one of the men was back, lurching up the trail. Men stood; excitement drove out hunger and cold and they waited.
‘Well, Hallgeir?’ demanded a cold-eyed Randr.
‘Silver,’ said the man, scarcely able to speak. ‘Great piles of it — look.’
He thrust out a hand and men crowded to it; in the charcoal dim, the soft glow of coin and silver torc sucked the breath from them with a hiss. They looked at the handful, seeing it in dragon heaps.
‘Well,’ said Randr, straightening. ‘Now we have the silver.’
‘Untie me,’ I said and he laughed, a crow-snarl laugh that let me know it was not about to happen.
‘There is another matter…’ Hallgeir said, trying to thrust himself through the crowd that wanted to see, to touch, part of the fabled hoard of the Oathsworn.
Scowling, Randr turned, impatient at being thwarted from killing me, which was his next act, I knew. Odin was about to get his sacrifice. Make it quick, AllFather, I was thinking, while part of me was gibbering and wanting to flee rather than stand there like an ox at a blot.
‘Where is Skeggi Ogmundsson?’ demanded a voice.
Before anyone could speak, something flew out of the shadows, whirling like a stone. It smacked wetly on the ground and rolled towards Randr, who stepped back from it; all hackles were up when they saw it was the bloody ruin of a wild-bearded head.
‘There was a grey gull.’
The voice came out of the darkness, down the trail from where the head of Skeggi the bearcoat had come. A piping voice, not yet broken.
A boy’s voice.
Heads turned and voices stilled; I saw Randr Sterki’s face just then and it was white round eyes which flicked briefly with fear, like Hati the moon goddess hearing the howl of the devouring wolf which pursued her.
‘That is the other matter,’ Hallgeir sighed, wearied with resignation. His hand fell to his side and the silver in it dropped, unregarded by anyone, to the rain and the mud.
Crowbone stepped to where men could see him. He wore a ringmail coat made for his size and carried a spear in either hand, was bareheaded so that his coin-weighted braids swung, and he did not look like a mere boy. Alyosha, as ever, was at his shoulder and, behind, the creak and shink and breathing of ringmailed men, gleaming faint and grey in the twilight, was a cliff at Crowbone’s back.
My legs sagged; now I knew why Ljot had been rowing so hard for the open water — to avoid Crowbone coming up. That Ljot had not informed Randr Sterki of it told a great deal.
‘There was a grey gull,’ Crowbone said, stepping closer and shouting less. ‘A raiding gull, who lived high on a cliff, on the flight’s edge. A king of gulls, whom men called Sterki — Strong — and who laughed at those same men and stole their fish and shat on them for fun.’
There were nervous sniggers, for they had all suffered that. Meaningful looks were shot at Randr Sterki, who shared the same name as this gull and at whom the tale was clearly aimed. I saw men sidle sideways, away from the rest; the last of the bearcoats, I was thinking.
‘I need no talk of gulls,’ Randr began, but Alyosha, only eyes showing in the helmet of his face, made a little gesture with a big axe that spoke loudly. The bearcoats stopped moving.
‘Better listen,’ I offered. ‘Better one of little Prince Crowbone’s sharp stories than the sharper alternative.’
Randr licked his lips; the alternative stared back at him from all the faint faces behind Crowbone’s back. Yet here was the boy who had turned his hate on all Randr had held dear. Here were all his enemies, all those he wanted revenge on and he hovered on the sheer cliff of wanting to hurl himself at them. He also knew, in the little part of him not blinded with red mist, that he would fail and that leash held him a little yet.
‘This king of gulls had an egg, a fine egg,’ Crowbone said, after a pause during which the silence became painful as my nose. ‘He knew it would hatch to be a fine son to replace him in his time and he left his fine gull-wife to sit on it while he flew away in search of food.
‘When he returned, he found his gull-wife with her neck broken and the fine egg gone and he knew, at once, that it was the blacksmith who had done it. He had shat on the smith many a time, stolen the fish right from the fingers of his children — and he knew the smith could climb any cliff.’
‘Speak up,’ yelled Ref from where the fire burned. ‘I think I know this man.’
There were soft laughs, but they had no mirth in them and Crowbone went on, level and firm and slow, in his rill-clear voice.
‘The gull-king knew at once that the blacksmith must have taken it. So he went to the man and demanded that he give the egg back. But the smith pretended it was just a shrieking bird flying round his head and waved the gull-king away.
‘The gull-king was heartbroken and flew about looking for help. On the way he met a pig, and asked him to root up the carrots of the smith who had stolen his egg, to make him give it back.
‘The pig grunted once or twice. “No, not I,” he said and walked away.
‘The gull-king then met a hunter, who bowed politely and asked why the mighty lord of gannets was so distressed. The bird said: “Will you shoot an arrow at the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith and make him give me back my stolen egg?”
‘But the hunter shook his head. “Why should I? Leave me out of this.”
‘The gull-king wept tears of pure bile and flew on till he met a rat, who also asked why he was in tears. The gull-king said: “Will you gnaw and cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith and make him give back my egg?”
‘The rat squeaked once, then twice, then promised to do it — but ran away instead.’
‘Heya,’ yelled a voice from the dark. ‘I know that rat.’
‘I wed her,’ yelled another, which brought grim laughter and calls for silence equally. Crowbone waited until the silence again became painful, then continued.
‘Next, the gull-king met a cat and asked her to catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith and force him to give back the egg he had stolen.
‘The cat licked her whiskers once, then twice, then said she would rather mind her own business and ran off.
‘The poor gull-king was beside himself with anger and grief. His wails attracted the attention of a passing dog, who asked what was bothering the mighty gannet. He asked: “Will you bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not dig up the carrots of the smith who stole my egg?”
‘The dog barked once. “No, not I,” he said and ran away.
‘The gull-king’s wails grew louder and louder. An old man with a long white beard came that way and asked the screaming bird what the matter was. He said: “Grandfather, will you beat the dog who would not bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith who has stolen my egg and will not give it back?”
‘This greybeard shook his head at such foolishness and went his way. The gull-king, in desperation, next went to the fire for help and asked it to burn the white beard of the old man, but the fire would not do it. Next the gull-king went to the water and asked it to put out the fire which would not burn the beard of the old man who refused to beat the dog who would not bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith who had stolen his egg and would not give it back.
‘But the water just gurgled and refused to help Sterki the gull-king.
‘Frantic a
nd furious, the gull-king swooped down on an ox, demanding that it stir up the water which would not put out the fire which refused to burn the beard of the old man who would not…
‘But the ox did not even wait for the explanation; it lowered its massive head and went back to chewing.’
Crowbone paused, as if to take a longer breath and those who knew the way of it stirred, for here was the closure of the tale; no-one moved or spoke.
‘Then,’ said little Crowbone, ‘the gull-king spotted a flea on the arse of the ox, who also asked what was troubling the mighty Sterki, king of gulls.
‘The gull-king, who would never have even noticed such a creature before, sprang eagerly up and bowed. “O flea! I know you can help me. Will you bite the arse of the ox for not stirring up the water which would not put out the fire which would not burn the beard of the old man who would not beat the dog who would not bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith who stole my egg and will not give it back?”’
At which point there were admiring noises about Crowbone’s feat of memory, from those who did not realise he was not the boy he appeared.
‘The flea,’ said Crowbone, ignoring them, ‘thought about it for a moment, then said: “Why not? Here I go.” And he crawled right up the arse of the ox and bit, which made the beast dash into the pool of water and stir it up. The water splashed and began to put out the fire, which went mad and burned the white beard of the old man, who beat the dog, who ran after the cat and bit her. The cat caught the rat, who had to gnaw the string of the hunter’s bow before she was freed. The hunter tied on a new one and shot an arrow at the pig, who went and rooted up the carrots of the smith.
‘“Aha, aha!” shrieked the gull-king in triumph and the smith, looking ruefully at the remains of his carrot patch, shrugged and said: “You have succeeded, right enough, Sterki.”
‘The gull-king swooped and laughed. “Then hand back my egg,” he screamed. The smith blinked once and blinked twice.
