Varanger

by Cecelia Holland

  Raef gave him a sharp look. Helgi, sitting on Leif’s far side, burst out laughing. Bjorn the Christian sat up straighter, turning to watch them.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect,” Leif said, grouchy. “I just think she’s a fine-looking woman. One cast one night.”

  One of the guardsmen said, “Yes, and it’s a fine brotherly gesture for a man to share a woman.”

  Raef said, “When you have one to share, tell Leif.”

  Oleg, across the baked fire from him, lifted his head up and said, “Shut up, Roglod. It’s obvious he’s soft on her.”

  Helgi laughed again, slapping his thighs. Merike had picked up something of the way this talk was going and crouched down next to Raef, her arms around her updrawn knees. The dark was falling and some of the men were already stretching out on the ground to sleep.

  It was a good time for a story, but instead Vagn began to sing: for a scrawny bitter-tongued boy he sang well, in some strange language not dansker and not Sclava. He taught some of the others the refrains and they joined in when they could. A few feet away down the riverbank, the Sclava camp was quiet, maybe sleeping, maybe listening. It was very hot, even at night. A mist rose from the river and clouded the rising moon.

  Vagn stopped singing, and although the others begged and cajoled him he lay down. All but a few of the others were already bedded down. Raef had gone off modestly with Merike, and Conn sat by the cold fire waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

  Helgi sat slumped across the ashes from him. He said, “How much farther is it?”

  “Who knows?” Conn shrugged. “Every day we get nearer to it, is all.”

  “Those Greeks don’t fight,” said Skinny Harald, draped in his blanket in spite of the heat. “We’ll walk right in their front gates.”

  The four men left awake crowded in closer, to talk without bothering the sleepers. Harald said, “I hope there are women,” and smacked his lips.

  Leif spoke with a hard certainty in his voice. Conn knew he had been around this country in the past. “Rich, it’ll be. Good plunder—gold and jewels—Chersonese’s just a stopover on the great road, all the fine things of the whole world find their way through there.”

  “What great road?” Conn asked.

  As the night deepened around them Leif became just a thick shapeless lump in the darkness. “There’s a great road that runs from one end of the world to the other. The center of it is Constantinople. Some ways go west, and some go east. From Constantinople to Chersonese, Chersonese to Tama-Tarkha, and then east to Khwarezm, and south to Baghdad, and east on to the silk lands, and south to the spice lands. But Chersonese’s just a way station. I’ve heard of cities east of here where the rooftops are of gold, and the streets are paved with rubies and emeralds.” He shifted in the dark, his voice changing. “And I’ve heard of monsters, and uncrossable desert, and men who will eat you, like a lion.”

  “Have you been to Chersonese?” Conn asked.

  “No. But I’ve been out on the salt, down at the end of this river. The old Knyaz had a city down here for a while. It never amounted to more than a market and it’s gone now. I’ve never been to Chersonese but I’ve heard a lot about it. They don’t even have a wall on the seacoast because there’s nowhere safe to land except the harbor. The city’s tucked up inside and around the bend in a fjord, snug as a baby in its mother’s arm.”

  “Interesting. What are the tides like on this sea?”

  Leif’s voice seemed to swell larger as he spoke, plump with this valuable knowledge. “There isn’t much rise in the tide. Sometimes there’s a big wave comes from nowhere. The wind gets pretty fierce. There are storms. Some of the Greeks call it the Bad- Tempered Sea, and it can get rough. We should make a sacrifice before we sail out on it, like they did at Kiev.”

  Harald grunted. “You’re making too much of it. This will be easy.” He yawned, and stirred around, settling himself to sleep.

  Conn stayed up, listening to the night sounds. Helgi had lain down, and finally Leif got up and padded off to the edge of the camp to make water and then rolled in next to Harald. Oleg, the captain of the Faithful Band, was the only one awake besides Conn.

  He said, abruptly, “I hope there is hard fighting. I hope I can die in the Knyaz’s service. Prove at least I, II . .” His voice fell off.

  Conn kept his eyes on the dead fire. He thought Oleg had stayed awake to tell him this, waited patiently until everyone else was gone and only Conn would hear him. “I believe you,” Conn said.

  Oleg’s voice came out in a spate, low and harsh. “I feel as if they dug out my heart and put a turd in its place. The Faithful Band! I love the Thunderer, what man does not? What fighting man.” He shifted around, his hands at his throat, and held something out toward Conn in the dark. Conn could see only the stubby cross shape but guessed it was Thor’s Hammer. “But my duty is to Volodymyr. It’s hard, but it’s clear. Isn’t it?”

  “It seems so to me,” Conn said. “You pledge something, you do it, it seems to me.”

  “I want to die, and make up for them all. Volodymyr is my prince.”

  Conn said nothing; it seemed bad to him for anybody to want to die, a bad omen for all of them, for the voyage. He didn’t know what he could say to Oleg to make him easier in his mind. Oleg sat still a moment, waiting, but then with a sigh got up, and shuffled around getting ready for sleep.

  When everybody was bedded down, Conn rose and stretched. He went over near some rocks and pissed, and then he walked once around his camp, making a circle of his footsteps around the men he led, Oleg’s guards, and the other Varanger.

  Oleg’s words weighed on him. He knew Oleg had told him what he had for some reason, a man he hardly knew, and that made him think of all the men around him, who hardly knew him, and yet followed him. Followed him toward a battle that like Hjorunga Bay could turn against them even if they fought their hearts’ own fights. He had to lead them well, which was more than just making a pledge, and which he had no notion how to do.

  Raef would help him. He knew Raef like the other side of his own skin.

  When he passed by the edge of the Sclava camp it was dark and they all seemed asleep, but he saw someone stir. He slowed. In there, in the middle of the Sclava, a smooth head rose and stared at him; he saw the glitter of eyes, and stared back.

  He remembered how Pavo was punishing the Faithful Band, and he thought, Truce is over, you bastard. Over and gone. These are my men now. Finally Pavo laid his head down again. Conn walked on around in his circle, and then went to sleep himself.

  They came to a place where the river braided its way through islands, and rocks jutted up out of the river; they hauled on the bank and dragged the ships along the portage. They carried the ship in shifts along a rutted road. Conn saw that Pavo stalked the guardsmen, who were softer than the Varanger, huffing and groaning under the weight of the ship, and once the Tishats flicked his whip at Oleg. Thereafter Conn took the same shift with Oleg and the guardsmen and Pavo left them alone. But that evening while the were camped Pavo caught Merike by herself.

  Raef was down by the ships, helping to mend rigging. Conn had found a comfortable place to sit beside the fire Janka was laying, and was thinking about cooking some of the river fish the hun had caught that day, when he saw Raef’s woman trying to sneak into the camp from the steppe, where she had gathered bunches of herbs.

  Usually she was cleverer at this, and got to her own fire before anyone saw her. But this time as soon as she came out of the high grass Pavo leapt on her like a wolf.

  Conn sprang up; the whole camp lay between them. Pavo had the woman by the arm, although she twisted and thrashed, and was dragging her away. Conn sprinted across the camp and without breaking stride hurled his whole body into Pavo, shoulder-first, and knocked him flat on the ground.

  “Leave her alone! You know she’s ours!”

  Pavo lunged up off the ground, red in the face, his arms churning. “You ask for this, puny Raven!” Merike bounded away
out of his reach; nobody paid any more heed to her.

  Conn met Pavo’s charge and stood him up, his arms twining around the taller man’s chest, his head pressed into Pavo’s neck. He felt the bigger man’s power tighten and flex under his grip and for a fierce moment he matched it, held Pavo still like a rock under a waterfall. Then abruptly, he gave way, and twisted, and with one foot tripped Pavo flat on the ground.

  The Sclava went down with a roar. From all around the camps men were running to watch, and other voices rose in excited urgent cries.

  “Get up! Get up!”

  “Kill him—kill him, Raven—”

  Before Pavo could bound up out of the dust Conn sprang on him from behind, wrapped one arm around his neck, and reaching down into the back of his belt pulled out the looped brass weapon there that Pavo had used once to lay him flat. He tossed the brass away as far as he could, and sprang back. “More tricks? Pavo, any more tricks?”

  The watchers howled, laughter and rage. “Two hrvnya Pavo wins!”

  “Raven! Raven!”

  “Five hrvnya!”

  Pavo hurled himself at Conn, and carried him down onto the ground, where they twisted and thrashed, each trying to get on top. Conn leaned one way and lunged the other, locked his arms around Pavo’s waist, and threw them both backward. A fist smashed into his side and he stiffened his muscles against it. Pavo rolled over on the ground, trying to get Conn under him, and Conn wrapped his legs around Pavo’s waist and rolled with him, got above him, got his al in snaked around Pavo’s neck. He wrenched the big Sclava’s head back. Pavo was on all fours, and now reared up onto his knees, slamming both fists into Conn’s legs around him. Conn felt a stab of pain up his thigh from the healing wound. He was pulling Pavo’s head back, his hands under his jaw, and when Pavo flailed his arms out, Conn regripped with his legs and pinned the Sclava’s left aim.

  Pavo went down hard, clawing with his free hand at Conn’s ankles, and then reached suddenly down toward his boot.

  “Got a knife in there?” Conn yelled. He leapt up and clear, landing lightly with knees bent, his arms outstretched, ready to charge in again. “Get rid of it, or I’ll get a bow!”

  Pavo crawled away and got to his knees, sobbing for breath. Conn stood still. He wiped his face with his hand, and said, “More, Tishats? Hunh?”

  Pavo’s eyes were red and glaring; he straightened, wiping his hands together. His bare chest was covered with dust and there were red welts around his neck and his arms.

  “Stop! I command this!”

  Conn took a step backward, watching Pavo. The Tishats swayed slightly on his widespread feet. The fire in his eyes had dulled but his face was red; he knew he looked beaten. Then Volodymyr walked in between them, his hands out to either side.

  His voice rang out, sharp and clear. “We cannot win if we are not all together, all one. No personal feuds!”

  “Knyaz,” Conn shouted, with a flick of a glance at Volodymyr. “Knyaz, he is abusing my men. I will not stop, until he stops.”

  Volodymyr wheeled toward him. “Your men!” His face was edged like a hatchet. “You are all my men!”

  Conn glanced around him. The whole army had gathered around them. Behind him was Raef, and behind Raef were all the other Varanger, and all the blue-coated guardsmen. But the Sclava all stood behind Pavo.

  Volodymyr turned slowly in a circle, looking at everybody.

  “No,” he said. “This cannot be. We will never take Chersonese if we are divided. We must be one. Whatever your differences, Raven, Pavo, you must give them up. We shall all be one, or we shall all die, because I do not propose to go back to Kiev without the crown of victory.”

  The watching crowd gave up a general sigh at this; even Conn to his surprise felt a leap of heart at what the prince said, mostly because he knew it was true. Volodymyr held out one hand to him, the long clean hand of a lord, and Conn reached out and took it.

  On Volodymyr’s far side, Pavo took his other hand. The crowd, again, cried out in one voice, and Volodymyr drew them together, and set their hands together in a clasp.

  Above this knot Conn looked into Pavo’s eyes, and he saw the red hatred there still. Conn smiled, seeing that. He understood that. He opened his fingers, and their hands slid apart. But they could give Volodymyr what he wanted.

  The Knyaz was speaking on, talking of being one, of neither Sclava nor Varanger anymore but Rus’, Rus’ forever, and the crowd began to cheer, waves of cheers, each one louder. Conn moved back, and Pavo went the other way;, they left Volodymyr alone in the middle, with the thunderous cheers all around him. Conn went by Oleg, standing with some other guardsmen, their gazes on their prince, their faces reverent.

  Conn left the crowd behind, going back toward his camp. A little way on he saw Raef, standing separate from it all, silent, his arms folded over his chest. Merike was pressed against his side. Conn lifted one hand to him, and Raef waved back. Conn began to feel the bruises and knocks of the fight; the half-healed wound was aching and oozing. He had to take the stitches out, he didn’t think it would heal completely with all that horsehair in there. He went wearily over to his fire and sat down with his knife to pick out the knots.

  C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

  They reached clear water and rowed on. Just south of the rapids, they hauled out on a great island in the middle of the river, where stands of old oak trees grew. The villagers ran off as soon as they saw the army, and left behind bread and meat, so everybody ate well enough.

  They made a big unruly camp along the shore that night, and the whole while, one person or another would leave the rest, and follow an old trail off through the oak wood to a certain tree. There they left offerings. Raef went along with Oleg, around sundown.

  He said, as they started out, “I have my own reasons for going with you, as I suppose you know.”

  Oleg said, with a glance at him, “You want to know what I think of Volodymyr.”

  “Yes. Him and Dobrynya. Who leads?”

  “For a long time, it was Uncle Dobrynya.” Oleg laughed. “He is still the cleverest man of all the Sclava. But he does not have Volodymyr’s largeness of idea. You’ve heard him speak of our greatness. I think now, most of the time anyway, Volodymyr leads. My prince.”

  “You follow him even if he goes Christian?”

  “I won’t turn Christian for him,” Oleg said quickly. “But when he sees how I fight, he will honor me for it. He will see we don’t need to take up Christ.”

  “You must think much of him, then.”

  “He is a very great man. Here, I must do this.” They were coming to the edge of the forest, and Oleg stooped, and pulled some strands of the tall brown grass. Raef waited for him. He looked up at the broad blue cloudless sky, the sun higher and brighter every day, the year hurtling on in its wheel.

  They walked on, no longer talking about Volodymyr. Oleg was carefully twisting and coiling the grass. He wound it into the shape of a horse, or a man, or something.

  Then they came to the tree, and he bowed to it, said words, and laid his grass creature at its feet.

  The tree was ancient, a bent and wrinkled crone, its trunk knobby with galls; from the branches bones hung, and chains of dead flowers, an old sword rusted to lace, shreds of decayed leather, part of a long wooden shield with the brass boss still attached. All around it on the ground lay newer things, like Oleg’s horse of straw. Raef stood before the tree and felt the weariness and weight of its age, and nothing else. Even the offerings felt like a burden to it.

  He had nothing for an offering, but he took his knife and cut off a few strands of his hair, and wound them around a twig.

  Oleg watched him, absorbed. He said, “Some kind of charm.”

  Raef laughed. Stooping, he laid the twig down beside Oleg’s horse. The big guard squinted shrewdly at him. “I have heard of Corban Loosestrife, you know.”

  “What,” Raef said, and straightened abruptly.

  “He was a very great wizard, do you wonde
r that his name is known? He summoned spirits, he visited other worlds. Hawks fed him, when Hakon the Jarl locked him in a tower for twenty years or more. He had a little ship, no bigger than a dragonfly, that he kept in his sleeve, and when he needed it cast it into the water, where it became as big as he required, and sailed anywhere, in any wind.”

  Raef could not keep from smiling. He remembered something else he had heard about Corban, that he had no power at all. Except the very greatest, she had said. He knows it when he sees it. He said, “I knew the ship. But Corban’s gone now.” He wondered also where she was, who had told him that, if her power were undiminished.

  “If he were with us,” Oleg said, and gave up a sigh, his gaze drifting off. They were in the dark oak wood, with night falling. “Then I would not fear anything ahead of us.”

  “Then you would be a fool,” Raef said. “Corban spread trouble wherever he went, that’s how he got his name “

  Ahead, the noise and lights of the camp showed, and Oleo began to walk faster. “Nonetheless I hope some of the old wizard is in you. Don’t tell me otherwise, for I shall not believe it.” He waggled his hand at Raef, and walked away, back toward the camp on the north end of the island, where a big fire was already burning. Raef thought of Corban, who had gone entirely beyond his reach, who had fathered and not fathered him, crooked blood. The stars were coming out. He went on toward his camp, where the dragon was pulled up, Merike hidden in the hollow of the stern.

  Below the island there were no more rapids. The river ran in its entwining courses between low reedy banks, under a sun-blasted blue sky. The guardsmen were better rowers now, understanding more how to work together, how to feel the ship’s motion; Conn yelled at them endlessly. They came to a wide lake, which a sandy spit separated to the south from a vast blue water. The lake was of pure water, but the vast blue beyond was the salt.