by MD. Lachlan
‘Goodbye, Chakhlyk,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for what has happened to you. Your story may earn me a cup of wine at a fireside and I thank you for that.’
He managed to mount the mule and set off, heading east into the woods that lay like an ocean between him and his home. The animal took to being ridden well, and Leshii fell to talking to it, reassuring it when he was really reassuring himself. There were wild men in those woods who respected only a large caravan and plenty of guards. ‘There will be no bandits here, my mule, it is not the season, The grass is thick, is it not? Another short while and I’ll let you eat.’ Leshii shivered as he made his way through the forest. It was less cold in the trees than it had been on the coast but it still wasn’t warm. He put the wolf pelt on, pulling the animal’s head up over his own for warmth.
The track east was good, too good. It could attract bandits. He took it anyway, too old to hack through the denser forest. It was clearly a well-used trail, wet and too deep in mud for a man to pass through easily but no problem for the mule. Leshii would make good progress, he knew. After a day or two he would be far from the monastery and the villages of the coast.
It was a miracle he had come so far with the wolfman. On their journey from Ladoga they had travelled mainly by boat, and when they had been forced into the woods the wolfman’s ears and tracking skills had kept them out of most trouble. Twice he had faced attack, green men of the woods, filthy and bedraggled, barring his path. They hadn’t even bothered to ambush him by stealth, a lone merchant travelling the woods. They’d just come up to his animals and started unloading the packs. That was when Chakhlyk had struck. The first time three were laid motionless on the ground in the first breath of his assault, two more screaming for the trees holding broken arms in the next instant. Within ten breaths the wild men had disappeared. They were tree dwellers, outlaws hiding from normal men, and their traditions and ideas were strange. Chakhlyk’s attacks seemed to them like visitations from a myth, and they had run from him as the Christian men who had come against them had run, as if he was the devil.
But there was no Chakhlyk now; only fear of the trees, the many darks of the forest, the mottled and uneven light bringing a terror of imagined things, things half glimpsed that were almost worse than the terrors of the night and of things unseen. It was spring and the woods were blooming, but Leshii couldn’t enjoy their loveliness.
At least the mule ate well.
Leshii had rescued a waterskin from the monastery and could refill it in the streams, but as rain cast the wood in a slick green shine he felt miserable, old and vulnerable. He had no way to start a fire so just went on as far as he could into the evenings, found what shelter he could, which was not much, and hoped his exhaustion would overcome the cold and take him down to sleep. Most nights the cold won. He began to hallucinate with hunger and tiredness, became no more than cargo on his mule, allowing it to make its own way down the track. The animal seemed to know where to go, keeping straight on when paths split off, making good time in the wet woods. It was happy. The leaves were fresh from the bud and sweet, the pace easy and the old man its only burden.
After a week going east in the forest, Leshii ceased to care if he lived or died, so when he met Death he was ready to welcome him. Death was on his pale horse, his black cloak around him. Leshii saw him at a distance, down the track through a long avenue of trees. He was too tired to run.
Death shouted to him: ‘I thought you were him.’ He spoke in rough Roman, jabbing out the words as if they were dagger thrusts.
Leshii couldn’t speak. He just looked at the figure barring his path and nodded. Why he nodded he didn’t know.
There was something strange about the cloak. It had things thrust into it, things jutting out at many angles. What were they? Feathers, the merchant realised. It was Hrafn. Perhaps if he treated him as a normal man he would act as a normal man.
The merchant found his voice. ‘I have a fine mule to sell here, brother, a splendid Frankish animal. I need to sell him but my companions won’t let him go for less than a hundred dinars. I say he can go to the right man for eighty. Quick, they are coming in great numbers. If you buy him now even the mightiest of their warriors will not say anything against a deal done.’
Death spoke again: ‘I caught a sniff of the wolfman in my dreams and came this way to find him. Where he is, the lady is not far away. That skin you wear on your back, you took it from him. Is he still alive? Is the lady with him?’
‘He is dead but not by my hand.’
The Raven nodded.
‘Did he die protecting her?’
‘Does it matter how he died?’
‘How did he die?’ The voice of the rider was not emotional but Leshii could tell he was burning for an answer.
‘He was bewitched and came to kill her. But he broke the enchantment and tried to take her from the Varangians. They killed him, though he killed many of them.’
This news seemed to affect the rider deeply. ‘That enchantment sprang from the rune that lives inside my sister. No man’s magic could break it. Only a woman could do that, and a woman that held a rune, at that.’
‘He died defending her.’
‘He was not who he thought himself to be. We saw little about him but we saw that.’
‘Who did he suppose he was?’
‘The wolf’s victim.’
Leshii shrugged. ‘He was someone’s victim anyway. Are you here to kill me? You are a servant of death. I know you by the name Hrafn.’
‘Where is the lady?’
‘Taken. Gone east to Ladoga.’
‘On this road?’
‘By the sea. Your Whale Road.’
‘Then we have very little time. My sister has set a trap for her. If she is not successful in drawing her in, then we must take her at Ladoga. The end is near.’
‘What end?’
‘The wolf is coming and he is coming to kill. The lady, your King Helgi, me, my sister, you, very likely, and everyone that stands in his way. Ladoga will fall and who knows what else. The lady must die for it is she who brings him to the god.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Leshii.
‘Odin is coming. The dead god, here on earth, seeking to die. We must frustrate his will. The god must live.’
‘I thought you were his servant.’
‘Sometimes we serve him best by opposing him. The god’s will is a complex thing. It seems possible Helgi is the incarnation of the god, though he may not yet know it himself. My sister’s visions are not clear. If he is Odin we must protect him from the lady who calls the wolf, even though he seeks her. The fact that he seeks her may be indication enough that he is the incarnation of the All Father. The god will come and the god will find his doom if we let him.’
Leshii didn’t really follow. ‘I wish my god would come,’ he said, ‘preferably with a nice pot of money.’
The Raven looked around him. He seemed nervous, thought the merchant.
‘I may need your help at Ladoga if the lady makes it there,’ said Hugin.
‘Can you get me to Ladoga? It’s a long way to walk.’
‘I can escort you there but I need your help getting access to the prince. You are his servant, are you not – along with the wolfman?’
‘I am his servant but it’s a trading town; you can walk in there yourself. You don’t look like a man who will be kept out of somewhere he wants to go.’
‘The prince seeks to protect her and will be looking for attackers. That much has my sister foreseen. But neither he nor she will not suspect you. You can find her. You can tell me where she is.’
‘Your magic seems weak. Do your prophecies fail you?’
‘We are moving in the realms of the gods. Knowledge is not easily won.’ He gestured to his face.
‘Why should I risk my life for you?’
‘I could kill you here.’
‘And then how shall I serve you? You need to sweeten the deal, Raven.’ Leshii wa
s surprised by his own boldness but his merchant’s instinct told him his was the stronger bargaining position.
‘Here,’ said the Raven. From his pack he took a necklace of twisted gold, hanging with rubies. ‘This is yours. I have a hundred further dihrams in my pack.’
Leshii took the necklace. It was a beautiful thing. He had never seen its like, a twist of golden cables with deep red stones dangling beneath. It had to be worth two thousand dihrams, easily.
‘Keep it,’ said the Raven.
‘Aren’t you afraid I might not honour my bargain?’
‘You will honour it,’ said the Raven, and Leshii knew that if he valued his life he would.
Leshii did a quick sum in his head. That money was enough to see him through ten years of retirement or even twenty if he went easy on the dancing girls and fine wines, something he had no intention of doing. And the good luck did not stop there. This weird creature was certainly no servant of Mithras, as the Romans would have had it. He clearly hadn’t a clue about money. There might be more to be had out of him. He would have to keep out of Helgi’s way – maybe even travel down to Byzantium, but a rich retirement in the greatest city on earth was nothing to be afraid of.
Leshii offered a word of thanks to Perun and puckered up his lips as if in thought.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘let me see what I can do.’
51 Friends and Enemies
Aelis went to the stern of the longship. There was no talk at all as the men put on their war gear, only small scrapes and clangs as mail coats, axes, swords and daggers were unpacked from barrels, spears unstrapped, helmets tied on and shields put into place on the side of the boat.
The purpose in the men’s actions frightened Aelis. There were no faint hearts, she could tell. These men were used to battle and ready for what was ahead of them. There was excitement, slight nervousness, even mild glee. It reminded her of how the ladies at Loches had reacted when a marriage was arranged for one of them. But there was a darker current here. It was almost as if the men were conjuring something between themselves, something that smelled of iron and blood, something that waited behind their eyes like a wolf in a byre, ready to spring out.
‘Best if we can keep the element of surprise.’ Giuki’s voice was low.
‘They haven’t heard us yet and it’s dark enough that we won’t be seen until we’re almost upon them. They’re up at the monastery. We can kill the guards and be out to sea by the time they react,’ said a man by his side.
‘We’ve got a couple of bows. Get them forward as soon as you can. There’s a lot of ground between the monastery and boats. We’ll make them pay for every step. Regin, are you ready?’
From forty feet away across the water came a strong low voice: ‘As we’ll ever be, lord.’
‘Signal to the other boat to follow me in carefully. We don’t know the waters and don’t want to tear our hulls out. Let’s go. Quietly. And let’s make quick work of it.’
The boats turned towards the shore. Aelis gripped her sword, still in its scabbard. Her disguise put her at more risk now than if she was wearing a gown and wimple.
Giuki came to her. ‘Stay here in the stern. There won’t be too many guarding their boats. It will be done very quickly.’
Aelis nodded. The longboats streaked towards the shore. She couldn’t believe the men on the beached boats couldn’t hear the straining of the oars.
Then they did. ‘Raiders!’ She recognised the Norse word.
Now all attempt at quiet left the men on the attacking ships; all caution was abandoned.
The drakkar had seemed narrow and cramped, even badly designed, while they were making their way down the coast. It had been quick but unsteady. Now she saw its true function. As a sailing boat it worked about as well as a sword works for cutting cheese. That is, it can do it, but it’s not the job it’s intended for. Under oar, sprinting for the shore, the craft was transformed, singing through the waves like an arrow through the air. She saw the reason for the shields on the sides. They increased the freeboard. At speed the ship created more of a wake, and might even be swamped and sink if it ran too fast. The shields added half a cubit’s height to the sides. Aelis had a sensation of great speed, the bulk of the land looming closer, the great moon behind her, the monastery low on the horizon of the headland as if crouching. The beach was white in the moonlight.
A tumult of shouts erupted from the attacking boats. She heard the names she’d heard screamed from the walls of Paris: ‘Tyr is with me! Thor guides my hand! The wolf and the crow will feed tonight! Odin, death-maker, is our king and battle mate! Your ancestors are waiting for you, Danes, and I will send you to meet them!’
One man from the beached longboats went tearing across the sand towards the monastery. The others seemed to panic. They had been left there to guard the boats from land attack; they had not anticipated an assault from the sea. There was no time to launch the craft and they couldn’t outrun or outmanoeuvre three quick ships. They knew that if they ran for reinforcements their ships would be taken. So they leaped out of the boats to meet the onrushing drakkar, knowing they would die and calling out to say that they knew.
‘My father will have a welcome for me in the halls of the All Father tonight. You can serve my drinks, foreigner, because I’m going to take you with me.’
Aelis’s ship crunched into the beach, throwing her forward. She jumped up but already most of the crew were over the side, screaming and hacking. There were perhaps ten of the enemy and they had marshalled themselves well, fighting in close formation, shields locked together, spears forward, trying to kill their opponents as they stepped from the ship.
Some men were leaping onto the empty boats while a scrum of nine or ten struggled to shove one off into the sea. The landing had been chaotic. The moon was not reliable, scudding in and out of the clouds, and the ships had beached some way from each other. No cordon of archers had been set despite Giuki’s orders. In short order the raiders overwhelmed the last of the guards and ran to push a big snekke out to sea. It wouldn’t budge and men were now streaming down the beach from the monastery. Aelis thought there were at least a hundred of them, all armed, though many had not had time to even grab their shields, armour or boots and were sprinting across the hard wet sand barefoot.
Giuki’s men shoving the boats turned to meet the onrushing warriors. Those who had already got into the longships jumped out again onto the beach.
There was no order to attack or defence, just warrior against warrior with the moon turning the wide wet beach into a bridge of light on which men fought to decide who stayed on the earthly side and who passed over into the afterlife.
Aelis was terrified and shrank down in her longship.
A face popped up over the side. She recognised it. It was the big Viking, the fat one she had seen at Leshii’s camp and who had led her to the confessor’s torture. He peered at her in disbelief. Aelis didn’t hesitate. She jumped down from the ship into the sea on the side away from the Viking, falling into waist-high water.
She ran. The berserkers she’d seen at Paris were shoving the drakkar out into the waves. She had to warn Giuki that his boat was being stolen or she would never get to Helgi. She grabbed at the back of the nearest Viking she saw. ‘Your ship is—’
She never finished the sentence. The man spun round and smashed his fist into her face. White light splintered her vision and she went spinning to the sand. It was Kylfa, whose brother she had killed.
‘There’s my weregild, whore.’
He drew his knife and jumped on top of her. She regained her vision, though it was a blur, the beach was cold on her back, the moon danced behind the man’s shoulder. The man raised his knife and stabbed it down, but then something happened that Aelis did not understand. The man’s arm disappeared, there was a flood of red, a scream and he fell away from her.
A big arm was round her, bundling her towards the drakkar.
‘You should choose your friends more carefully, lady
,’ said Ofaeti. She looked back at the sand. The arm of the man who had attacked her was lying five paces from his body and the top of his skull was caved in at the front from a second axe blow.
‘They are stealing your ship! They are stealing you ship!’ screamed Aelis as she was bundled down the beach.
A couple of Giuki’s warriors heard her and came sprinting.
Ofaeti heaved her over the low side of the longship, where Fastarr took charge of her. Then he turned to face the men rushing towards him. The first ran into his shield as if into a wall and bounced back into the man behind. Ofaeti sunk his axe into the first man’s head, released it and drew his knife to stab the second through the belly.
Aelis got to her feet, her senses scrambled. She stared up at the monastery. A light was there but not like any light she had ever seen. It was as if the moon had plunged into the body of the building and was now shining from within it. Again she heard that howl. Where was it coming from? She found herself answering it.
‘I am here,’ she said, ‘and I am coming to you.’
Ofaeti had retrieved his axe and was in the boat as it slipped free of the sand, but four of Giuki’s Vikings had followed him in. One ran towards Aelis, his axe high, and she cringed, but he went straight past her, smashing the axe into the ropes that tied the rudder to the back of the ship. In a couple of blows he’d cut them and made the boat unsailable at anything above a crawl. Then he turned to face the berserkers.
Aelis curled up into a ball in the bottom of the ship. There was screaming, shouting, a smack next to her. The fat Viking had fallen and crashed to the boards beside her. The other berserkers were fighting fiercely but they were being overwhelmed. She saw Varn lose his axe and four of his fingers to a seax blow, but the berserker grabbed at his man and leaped over the rail of the ship into the sea with him, pushing his head under the water to drown him.
The battle on the beach was still raging, though Giuki’s men were outnumbered and giving ground towards the sea. Everywhere along the wide strand men lay, knelt or sat dying, some quietly rocking, nursing wounds to the stomach or the chest, others with no sign of damage unmoving on the sand. All around them the living fought, seax against spear, spear against sword against axe. Men staggered, screamed, hacked and were hacked. Shields were split, weapons broken, helmets were struck from heads to lie battered in the sand. Warriors were swinging at each other like drunks, some pausing to catch their breath halfway through an encounter; fighters on both sides wheezing and panting until they were strong enough to renew the fight or until someone cut them down from behind.
