"Well, I hope the raven left a bitter taste in his ugly mouth," quipped Grimm, and patted the deck affectionately.
"Was it his intention to ram us, do you suppose?" said Gunnar from the helm.
Bjólf straightened and shook his head, moving to join him. He stared back out into the fog. "If it had been, we would not have got off so lightly. I think they were as lost as we were." He shrugged. "Pure chance."
"Some chance!" scoffed Gunnar. "I don't believe in chances. Not like that, anyway. Across that expanse of ocean, in all that fog..."
"Please, Gunnar," Bjólf raised a hand in protest, "don't give me the 'destiny' speech."
Gunnar merely shrugged and raised his palms and gave a familiar smirk that said: As if I would...
Magnus approached then, his face strained and tired. He spoke in low tones.
"Mostly small wounds. Gashes and broken ribs. Two were struck by arrows, but the damage was small. And Kjötvi lost a finger in the fight." Bjólf and Gunnar exchanged looks of disbelief at the man's singular misfortune. "He is well - he rallies," said Magnus. "But three others will not see home..."
Kylfing had taken a club full in the face, and though he had at first had fought back despite his entire visage having swollen up like an inflated pig's bladder, he soon after became suddenly dizzy and slurred of speech, and fell into a sleep from which he would not awaken. Then there was Oddvarr, who had taken the spear, and his fellow Swede, the big Gøtar, who had been crushed behind one of the oars as the other ship struck. For one, the fight was already over. The other's breathing was laboured, and periodically he coughed up blood - each bout worse than the one before, and causing such pain that the colour drained from his hands and face when the fit was upon him. A broken rib had pierced his lung. Magnus hung his head as he described what each sensed was inevitable.
"There is no remedy within man's power," he said. "But, I can give dwaleberry to ease his passing."
Bjólf nodded. There was nothing to be said.
Magnus shrugged. "They are beyond my help now." Then he nodded in the direction of the mast. "It's him I'm worried about..."
Bjólf followed his gesture and saw young Atli: pale, trembling, his white knuckles still gripping the shaft of his axe, his other arm still clamped around the mast. He gave the briefest of laughs at the sight of it. "We'll sort him out. Just see that Oddvarr, Gøtar and Kylfing have what little comfort we can give."
Magnus nodded and left Bjólf and Gunnar to their thoughts.
"We must do right by them," said Gunnar. "Give them a proper burial."
"And we shall," said Bjólf. "But we must put more distance between us and Grimmsson first. Just to be certain. Although..." He looked back into the fog.
"You're thinking about what happened on that ship after it hit the shore," muttered Gunnar. "Do you think they turned on each other, or...?"
"Or?" Bjólf looked at Gunnar. Gunnar said nothing. But each knew what the other had in mind. "I need to hear from you exactly what you saw in this forest," said Bjólf. "And to talk to the boy, too. Away from other ears - for the moment, at least."
Gunnar nodded in silent acknowledgement.
"First," said Bjólf with a sigh, "let me see if I can prise our young recruit from the mast."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STEINARRSNAUTR
"Little man?"
The words caused Atli to start violently, snapping him back to the present. For some time - he did not know how long - he had been unable to tear his gaze from the places along the gunwale where the battle had raged, marked by the dark stain of blood. Now he stood, hunched, feeling small, and stared at Bjólf, his eyes filled with confusion and fear.
"Are you hurt?" asked Bjólf.
Atli shook his head.
"Do you wish to leave us? You're free to go your own way."
Atli, not needing to look at the uninviting shore to arrive at an answer, shook his head again, though less vigorously this time.
"I have never seen a battle..." he said.
"As you see, it is not all adventure and glory. Not even in victory."
Atli frowned, felt sick. "Is it always... like this?"
"You do what you need to."
An sob suddenly escaped Atli's lips. This was not the life he had imagined. He tried to contain himself, embarrassed before the other men, tightening his grip on the axe in an attempt to stop his hand shaking.
Bjólf nodded. "You think this might have been avoided. The bloodshed..." His voice suddenly changed, becoming stern, charged with the same steely defiance Atli had seen during the fight. "Understand, boy, they meant to kill us, and to take this ship. They had no mercy in mind, and expected none in return." Atli knew he spoke the truth. Yet, as he spoke, each blow of Bjólf's axe blade replayed itself in Atli's mind - a parade of faces at one moment filled with passion and vigour, and the next... His face drained of blood, and for a moment he felt he would vomit.
Bjólf slapped his hand suddenly against the mast, making Atli start once again. "This ugly pile of wood... It is no mere chattel. This ship is my livelihood, my home, my family. And these men are my kin, for I have no other I value as much. I am bound to them, as they are to me. Who threatens them, threatens me. And who does so incurs my wrath."
Atli nodded, saying nothing. Tears stung his eyes; tears of anger, now, at his own feebleness.
Bjólf took a deep breath then, and, leaning in, spoke in softer tones: "You may not believe it, but I know what it is you are feeling. I have felt that fear in my own stomach, and on this very ship. There is no man here who has not, and none will think the less of you for it."
"I will do better. I will learn."
"Yes. You will." Bjólf slapped the boy on the shoulder. "And I have just the thing to help you in your quest." With that he made towards the stern, stopped after a few paces, turned and looked back at Atli. "Well? Are you coming or not?"
Atli slipped his aching arm from around the mast and followed.
At the stern, just below the steering deck where Gunnar still stood at the helm, Bjólf had several long chests, at the centre of which was his own; the fine, carved box adorned with dragons that he had inherited from his uncle. To the left was Steinarr's, from which Atli had already gained much, and to the right another of exceptionally dark wood, polished and left plain, but with ornate, green-tinged bronze hinges. All stood open.
Bjólf reached into the black box. "First," he said, rummaging noisily inside, "something to keep you alive." And as he straightened up, Atli saw his hands were filled with bunched swathes of linked mail. "This was Hallgeirr's. He would not mind me lending it out."
"He never liked that shirt anyway," grunted Gunnar.
Ignoring him, Bjólf held it aloft. "Belt," he said to Atli, nodding in the direction of his waist. Atli took a moment to realise what Bjólf meant. "As soon as you are ready, little man, this stuff is heavy..." Hurriedly, Atli undid the buckle and let it fall to the floor. "Arms," said Bjólf. Atli raised them. Bjólf heaved the mail over the boy's hands and let the gathered folds of linked metal fall down over his body to just above his knees.
Atli felt his legs bow at the weight hanging on his shoulders. He had never imagined a garment could be so heavy. But then, had he never seen mail so close up, let alone dreamt he would one day be wearing it himself. Where he came from, you only had such stuff if you were wealthy, and nobody was.
"It was always short, but Hallgeirr was taller..." Bjólf looked him up and down. "I think we have a fair compromise. Good?"
Atli nodded, and even managed a smile. "Why did Hallgeirr not like it?"
"Cheap stuff," said Gunnar dismissively, his arm wrapped around the tiller. "Always complained the links were too large. Said it was too noisy."
"Noisy?"
"Bad for sneaking up," explained Bjólf.
"But what if I need to sneak up?"
"One step at a time, little man," frowned Bjólf. "A moment ago you had no mail at all. Now you're getting picky."
Gunnar chuckled.
Atli looked thoughtful for a moment. "Does mail make you..." - he struggled to find the word - "invincible?"
Gunnar laughed. "No, nothing can do that. Everybody dies."
"And, in case you didn't know, Gunnar is the man responsible for morale aboard this ship - if you can believe that," sighed Bjólf. "But there is one more thing." He looked down into Steinarr's sea-chest. "The other half of the story. Something to make you a true warrior." From the chest, he lifted a long, fine-hilted seax, sheathed in red-stained leather. Drawing it for Atli to see, he held it across his outstretched palms. It was sharp on one side only, like a knife; a narrow, straight, fullered blade, but thick and strong at the back and angled at the end to a sharp point. The grip was girt with black leather, the bronze hilt plain, the matching pommel lobed in three. Along the blade, before the fuller, a repeating diamond pattern had been etched, and close to the hilt the bright blade was marked with runes. Though the whole thing was barely the length of just the blade of Bjólf's sword, it was a handsome weapon. Atli's eyes glittered at the sight of it, all thought of the bleakness of battle, for the moment, quite gone.
"One does not lend swords," said Bjólf. "One can only give them. I therefore give this sword to you, but in doing so, call upon you to make an oath, if you are ready to do so."
Atli nodded.
"Kneel and place your right hand upon the blade," said Bjólf solemnly. Atli did so. "Do you swear on this blade the unbreakable oath of kinship and loyalty to this ship, its crew and its captain, Bjólf, son of Erling, to use this sword in its service and for its protection, and never to spill the blood of your kin?"
Behind Bjólf, Atli saw Gunnar mouth the words: "'I, Atli, do swear it...'"
"I, Atli..." he began. He hesitated, a dim thought coalescing in his mind. Then he raised his voice again, stronger this time. "I Atli... Son of Ivarr... do swear it..."
Gunnar smiled at the words.
"I call this blade Steinarrsnautr - Steinarr's gift," said Bjólf, passing him the sword. "Remember the name, and never put yourself more than two paces from it."
"Something we could all do to remember," muttered Gunnar, recalling Bjólf's use of Godwin's axe.
"Now," said Bjólf in hushed tones. "We must talk, you and I, about this thing you saw in the water."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ROAD TAKEN
It was only gradually that Atli realised what his new treasures meant. As they talked, the weight of his situation began to bear down upon him as palpably as his new mail-shirt. But now, like the mail itself, there was something oddly comforting in the burden, and while he felt a rush of sheer terror each time he even thought of putting his sword to use, its presence also reassured him. In this company, dressed as he was, he felt himself speak a little more assuredly, move a little more naturally with the ship and stand a little taller.
"Then we are agreed. There is some pestilence in this land," said Bjólf.
"I have no need to agree anything," said Gunnar, his patience wearing thin. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"But some pestilence. That was what you said. A plague of some kind?"
"I suppose," shrugged Gunnar. "But unlike any I've seen. And we've seen many, you and I."
Bjólf nodded gloomily. "And you are certain of what you saw?"
"Odin's beard! For the last time... It was like something yanked out of a grave; a puppet of rotten flesh and bones! Just as the boy describes. And don't forget those moans, you yourself heard those."
"Could they have been something else? An animal of some sort?"
Gunnar threw up his hands. "If that was an animal then you can drop me in a cauldron and call me a Celt."
"Well, this makes sense of the merchant's' tall tales."
"And perhaps, too, of our old friend back in the village." Gunnar gave Atli a swift sideways glance as he spoke, then added: "Of Ivarr..." Atli felt mixed feelings at the vindication of his father's actions. He chose to remain silent. But he was glad, at least, that Gunnar had chosen to honour his father with a name.
"There's one good thing to come of it," sighed Bjólf. "If the poor wretches you saw did stray onto Grimmsson's ship, then that crew will have more pressing things to worry about than us."
"It seems the bad luck was in our favour."
At that moment, the voice of Finn called out from his position at the prow. "Hoy! Up ahead - a fork in the channel."
Bjólf hurried to the bow, with Atli close behind, as the steady rhythm of the oars drew them through the fog, closer to the place where the waterway branched off, off to port. Splitting off at an angle and heading back in the opposite direction from that in which they were now travelling, it was far narrower than the fjord in which they now found themselves - but still a good size for their ship. It was also considerably more inviting. The banks were greener, it even seemed the sky beyond was lighter, and they could see slight eddies around the confluence - signs of the gentle current against which, thus far, they had been rowing.
"So," he said. "It seems we have a choice. Keep on inland within this fjord, or turn back down this tributary, and perhaps on to the sea. What say you, little man?"
Atli looked ahead at the forbidding, indistinct gloom of the fjord, then back at the leafy, gently sloping banks that lined the waterway to port. "This is like the rivers of my home. Its forest has a kindlier look than hereabouts. More the kind of place I would wish to be if I wanted fresh meat and game."
Bjólf nodded. "More hopeful of a landing place, too. And everyone has had a bellyful of rowing, and it's easier to roll a stone downhill than up. Bring her about!"
Slowly the Hrafn was turned into the gentle current, and the men, every one of them glad at the boy's decision, were finally able to ease up on the oars. "Don't let her drift!" called Gunnar. "I can't steer her if you drift!" All jeered at his protest, but Úlf, relieving half the rowing crew, made sure the remaining men kept up a gentle pressure on the oars.
It was not long before all spirits were lifted. The surrounding banks, though swampy, were green and verdant, the fog was clearing with every stroke of the oars, and soon the haze was pierced by glimmers of sunlight and the sounds of birdsong. Finally, there began to appear subtle signs of human habitation: a thick wooden post among the branches at the water's edge, once a mooring for a boat; a long wicker basket, abandoned now by the side of the river, but meant for trapping eels; in a stark, half-dead ash tree, old sacrificial offerings to the gods - skeletal remains of pigs, sheep and birds nailed to its mossy boughs.
Bjólf stepped up to the prow then, and, taking up the thick, conical wedge of wood that Atli had once thought to put on his fire, climbed up past Finn to the dragon's head and knocked out two pegs from the point where the neck joined the prow. For the first time, Atli realised that the head - intricately carved, and once painted in bright colours, though now faded and chipped almost down to the dark, bare wood - was an entirely separate piece.
To Atli's great surprise, Bjólf then tilted the dragon's head backwards until it came away completely in his hands. He paused for a moment, patted the dragon's forehead affectionately and muttered "Sorry about the 'ugly pile of wood,' old girl..." Then he kissed his fingers, pressed them on the dragon's head, wrapped it carefully in sacking and laid it gently in the crook of the prow. "We are not on a raid today," Bjólf explained, seeing the questions creeping across Atli's face. "So, we take her down to show we have no warlike intent. No point making enemies until we know what we're dealing with."
As he was speaking, Finn, looking ahead, had spied something. He nudged him, and gestured downriver. Just visible in the distance, on the river's left bank, was a clearing around a muddy bay, and beached in the mud several small boats.
"However," Bjólf continued, "there is no advantage in appearing weak."
He turned and gave a shrill whistle to the crew. All looked to him. And without another word he raised his arms to head height and struck a clenched fist against the flatte
ned palm of his left hand.
As Bjólf strode astern to arm himself, all around threw open chests and set about the same task. The air was filled with the chink of mail and the glint of helms and blades as hauberks were thrown over heads, straps tightened and quivers filled. Shields and spears were passed out from their places on the deck, while amidst the clamour came the sound of whetstones honing sword and axe.
Among the men, Gunnar spied Kjötvi, up and about and making his own preparations, despite a near total lack of armour with which to prepare. His leg was bound, his left hand wrapped in a bloody bandage so he struggled to buckle his belt, yet it seemed to Gunnar that, aside from the obvious injuries and the near permanent look of consternation upon his face, that he was the very picture of rude health. That was just the way of things, he supposed. Some men could trip on a bucket and that was the end of them. Others could be trampled by a dozen horses and get up afterwards. Kjötvi, uniquely among men, seemed to combine the worst of one and the best of the other. It was certainly a strange kind of half-luck that he had.
Gunnar approached him. "Sorry about the, er..." He nodded in the vague direction of the place where Kjötvi's left index finger had once been.
Kjötvi shook his head in disbelief. "I put my hand on the gunwale for one moment. The two ships' hulls clashed, and..." he shuddered at the memory.
Gunnar reached into the bag on his belt and pulled out a small, yellow-white sliver. "I have something. Something to return." He handed it to a bemused Kjötvi. "The shard of bone that Magnus removed from your leg," explained Gunnar. "I kept it safe. It's not much, but it seemed to me you'd already lost enough for one trip."
Kjötvi took the bone fragment, and, closing his fist around it, gave a smile of deep gratitude.
Atli - already kitted out with mail and sword - had meanwhile hurried back to his small heap of belongings at Bjólf's command. As he fastened his belt, from which hung his leather pouch, eating knife and axe, Magnus approached, in his hands a simple steel helm with a straight nose-guard. He held it out to Atli.
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