Authors: Giles Kristian
It wasn’t so much the crew that was the problem –
Otter
could take seven men easily enough – but all the war gear: the shields, spears, axes and swords which they had brought because they were no better than outlaws now, men on the run from a jarl and a king. But whilst a man has a spear in one hand and a sword in the other he is free, Hendil said. He is alive.
Loker grumbled that Svein took up two men’s space in the thwarts and Gerth cursed when he cut his shin on a spear blade, but for the most part no one complained about the discomfort. Only Olaf owned a brynja, which was now rolled and tied up in greased leather on the bench beside him, but each of the seven was weighed down with the cold truth that
Otter
and her little crew were all that was left of the power that Jarl Harald had wielded. Skudeneshavn had fought in the king’s battles. It had sent men raiding every spring, north as far as Giske and south across the sea to the land of the Danemen, bringing back silver and metalwork, jewels, weapons, furs, bone and tall stories.
And slaves.
These slaves were taken in chains to the island of Rennisøy to the south-west of Bokn because in some distant time the strongest jarls of Haugalandet, Rogaland and Ryfylke had agreed that the island was accessible to all but not in the shadow of any chieftain’s hall. Not even King Gorm had broken this tradition and so the sea around Rennisøy was to the trade in slaves as grease is to sledge runners, and for the first three days after every full moon men from a hundred different fjords would bring their prisoners to the block, drawing merchants like flies to flesh.
Which was why Sigurd was going to Rennisøy.
‘They did not lay their hands on Runa so far as I saw,’ Solveig had said, which probably meant that either Sigurd’s sister had told them who she was, or else Jarl Randver had guessed it from looking at her, which would not have taken a völva’s knack of divination.
‘If the jarl knows Runa is Harald’s daughter he is more likely to keep her for himself than sell her to some fat, balding farmer from Svartevatn,’ Svein had said through a mouthful of horse-meat. Randver’s men had killed the beast for the simple mischief of it and the first of the women to return to the village had set about butchering it while it was still warm.
Olaf nodded in agreement with this though his frown showed that he suspected Sigurd had another view of it.
‘That would surely be true,’ Sigurd said, ‘had Jarl Randver thought that Harald and all his sons were dead, as he must have when he took her.’ He’d stayed silent for a long moment then while the others took up the slack of it in their minds.
It was old Solveig whose eyes had lit first. ‘But by now Biflindi will have sent word to him that young Sigurd here wriggled through the holes in his net,’ the old skipper said. ‘What with him and the king being in this as thick as a pail of pig shit.’ One silver eyebrow lifted. ‘And Randver knows Jarl Harald’s reputation well enough to assume that any son of his would not hide under some rock while his sister sleeps under his enemy’s roof.’
Sigurd nodded because Solveig had given words to his own thoughts.
‘He’s going to take Runa to Rennisøy,’ Solveig went on, ‘and he’s going to dangle the girl like a silver chain and hope that Sigurd is fool enough to show himself.’
‘Lucky for him then,’ Svein said without even looking at Sigurd.
‘You’re going to Rennisøy?’ Solveig asked, eyes flicking from Olaf to Sigurd.
‘
We
are going to Rennisøy,’ Sigurd said.
Now, they had rowed
Otter
across the mouth of the Karmsund Strait and were passing the skerries off the southern tip of Bokn. That was the easy part, for Njörd god of wind and tides had given them a sleeping sea for which they were thankful. But then they would have to cross Boknafjorden which would not be so easy, for even when there was only a mere breath of wind the open water there was more often than not flecked with spume. In
Reinen
and
Sea-Eagle
and even in
Little-Elk
the crossing would be a simple enough affair, but
Otter
was none of those. As it was, fully laden with men and gear she showed only a foot of freeboard above the brine and so they would have to be careful to avoid taking in water if the waves grew higher.
‘I am not worried at all,’ Hendil announced as Solveig pushed the tiller to turn
Otter
so that the dawn sun moved out of their eyes and onto their left cheeks. ‘If old One-Eye wanted to drown us like a crew of ill-wyrded nithings why would he have helped Sigurd walk unscathed from that blood-fray?’
‘I didn’t walk, Hendil, I ran,’ Sigurd said.
‘Even so,’ Hendil said undeterred. ‘It can be no coincidence that an old goat like Solveig also survived when the others did not. The Allfather knew that we would need a skipper.’
‘You hardly need a skipper for this,’ Solveig said.
‘Then you may row if you like and I will take the tiller,’ Loker put in, at which Solveig called him a turd. The old man was still pale and wincing from his chest wound but Sigurd’s stitches had held and there was no sign of the wound rot.
‘Still, I am not worried,’ Hendil said, ‘and let that be an end to it.’
‘I’ll remind you of that if we see one of Jarl Randver’s dragons ploughing the fjord,’ Olaf said, at which some of them touched amulets or sword hilts because all men know that cold iron can turn away baleful spirits and ill luck.
In the event they saw no ships and
Otter
carried them safely so that they came sweating and red-faced to the island’s uninhabited south-western shore and pulled the boat up into the tree line a mere stone’s throw from the breakers. They had not wanted to risk mooring in the harbour on the north side of the island for fear that Jarl Randver’s men would be watching.
‘No shields,’ Olaf said to Svein who had taken his from
Otter
’s thwarts and was strapping it onto his back. ‘No spears. No helmets.’
‘Your brynja?’ Loker said.
‘It stays here,’ Olaf said, which must have been hard for a warrior like Loker to grasp, who would have set his own mother adrift for the chance of owning a brynja. ‘Bring your favourite blade. Everything else stays here with Solveig and the boat.’ The old skipper looked relieved then for he was still weak and had no great enthusiasm for whatever Sigurd and Olaf had in mind. ‘We don’t need the arsehole who cut Solveig open recognizing him.’
Solveig grinned. ‘If you see the pig’s penis tell him I have two of his fingers if he wants them back. The third I gave to my dog.’
‘Keep your heads down and stay out of trouble,’ Olaf said. ‘If anybody asks, we are Lysefjorden men.’
‘Unless the person asking is a Lysefjorden man,’ Hendil said helpfully, ‘then you are a Stavanger man.’
‘And how will we know if the man asking is from Lysefjorden?’ Svein asked.
‘Because he will be the one trying to pay for slaves with mackerel and grunting that silver is silver,’ Loker said, which got a few chuckles as they tucked hand axes into belts or strapped on swords.
‘Stay buried in the crowds,’ Olaf said, a brow hoisted as he glanced at Svein, who would have difficulty burying himself in an avalanche, ‘and no matter who we see at the block, no one is to do anything about it.’ He nailed each man with his stare then because he knew it would be no easy thing seeing Skudeneshavn folk chained and being bartered over. Harder still to stand there scratching their arses instead of putting their blades into the men who had put those chains on.
It was lucky that other than Sigurd only Gerth had kin taken by Jarl Randver’s men and Sigurd looked at him now with eyes he had honed to an edge. ‘If your cousin is there we will get her back if we can, Gerth,’ he said, tying his hair at the nape of his neck, ‘but we will do it cleverly.’ Gerth nodded, but Sigurd had seen enough of the man to know that a nod was not exactly assurance of acceptance or even understanding. There were sheep cleverer than Gerth. Still, he was thought of as a good man to have with you in a fight and Sigurd would need fighters.
‘Perhaps you should stay here with Solveig, Uncle,’ Sigurd suggested, for Olaf did not look like a farmer or a merchant or a craftsman. He was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested and to look at him anyone would know that there was a man who earned his meat and mead with the sword. Even a blind man would know that Olaf was a warrior, just as a nose full of smoke would tell the man he was near a fire.
‘You’re drunk, lad, if you think I’m going to let you tangle with Jarl Randver’s fart-catchers while I sit here arguing about the wetness of water with this old sea goat.’ He thumbed at Solveig who muttered an insult in return. ‘Your father will be waiting for me in the Allfather’s hall and he’ll take my head if I let anything happen to you.’
Sigurd did not argue as Olaf made some measure of compromise by fumbling at the stiffened braids in his beard and pulling from them the three silver rings and two small Thór’s hammers. For all the difference it would make. But Sigurd was prepared to take the risk of Olaf drawing men’s attention, or even being recognized, because having Olaf with you was the next best thing to having one of the Æsir at your shoulder.
He looked down at himself to make sure he had not left anything that might mark him as the son of a jarl and was satisfied with what he saw. He wore an old threadbare tunic and dirty breeks and even made sure his Óðin amulet was tucked away out of sight, for Óðin was a jarl’s god. A young man who had yet to make his name was more likely to invoke Thór, Frey, Týr or Váli.
Troll-Tickler was scabbarded at his hip and though there were far more beautiful blades a sword was a sword and some folk might wonder how such a young man had come to own it. But that blade had killed men, made corpses of his enemies, and Sigurd would not be without it now.
‘You had better not get yourselves killed,’ Solveig warned as they turned their backs on him and
Otter
to make their way up through the trees. ‘You hear me! I can’t take this boat back by myself.’
‘I can see why your father did not want him at
Reinen
’s helm,’ Loker said, and though meant in humour that mention of his father’s best ship, taken by that dung heap Jarl Randver, was another spark to the kindling of Sigurd’s fury which smouldered and flickered deep in his chest. The only thing that could put out that fire was blood.
But first he must find Runa.
Once through the trees they scrambled up the cliff and across lichen-covered rocks until they reached the heights around which gulls screeched, tumbling through draughts scented with pine and the sea. Someone had built a cairn up there overlooking the fjord and Sigurd wondered after the person who had carried all those stones to this place and carefully set one upon the other up to the height of his shoulder. Perhaps it had been a woman who had raised it to remember a husband who had sailed west and never returned.
‘I think I can see Ragnhild standing there with a face like thunder because you would not let her ride to Avaldsnes to cut off King Gorm’s bollocks,’ Svein said, arming sweat from his forehead and smiling. They stood in the tall grass looking out across the Boknafjord as thick grey cloud billowed westward across the sky towards Skudeneshavn. They could not see their own bay but knew well enough where it sat at the southern tip of the land mass beyond the island of Bokn.
‘You may joke, lad, but you’re close to the marrow with that one,’ Olaf said through a wall of teeth. ‘I’d sooner face Fenrir Wolf with an eating knife than Ragnhild when she’s angry.’ He shook his head. ‘If she hadn’t been seeing to the bairn she would have stayed to give Randver’s lot the hospitality they deserved.’ He looked at Sigurd then. ‘They telling you anything we should know about?’ he asked, nodding towards the gulls whose shrieks carried west with the breeze, and there was just enough weight in the question to show that Olaf cared about the answer.
Sigurd shook his head and Hendil said that was probably just as well for everyone knew that birds are famous liars anyway.
They saw a man and boy herding sheep and another farmer driving five pigs to the market, but most of the Rennisøy folk were along the coast and lived on fish, the interior being hard land to work on account of having having more ups and downs than a young man’s arse, as Olaf put it a little later when they at last came, sweating, within sight of the Vik. At any other time it was nothing much to look at, just an inlet sheltered by an arm of pine-bristled rock reaching north and round to the east. But even a reindeer herder from the frozen northlands would see that this was a good sheltered place for men to bring their boats, and now on the second day after the full moon the Vik brimmed with craft. For Rennisøy’s famous market had been making some men rich and others slaves since Valhöll’s roof posts were still green and leaking sap, and it did not take long for Sigurd’s eyes to pick out
Reinen
from those ships moored to the jetties criss-crossing the calm water.
‘He’s here then,’ Olaf said, hackles rising at the sight of his jarl’s ship in his enemy’s hands. Men with shields and spears milled by the ship and others lazed aboard her and the sight burnt Sigurd too because he knew there was nothing he could do about it. But they had come for Runa, not
Reinen
.
They made their way down off the high ground and Sigurd looked up at the iron-grey clouds hoping it would rain, for men are less vigilant in the rain, more concerned with moaning about it and trying to keep dry. But the cloud kept rolling west, keeping its cargo to itself, and Sigurd touched the little carving inside his tunic, invoking Óðin who was known to be able to change his skin and his appearance into any fashion he chose.
‘It seems there are more folk here this time than I have seen before,’ Loker said as they passed the camp with its fires and tents and children running wild, and joined the throng amongst the traders’ stalls hung with pelts and leather or laden with horn combs, glass beads, weavings, pottery, sword hilts, jewellery and food. The air thrummed with the din of vendors crying their wares, men and women greeting each other excitedly, merchants forging trades with the skill of swordsmiths making blades, dogs barking, ponies neighing and warriors laughing over cups of ale and horns of mead. Fish sizzled over braziers and fragrant steam rose from cauldrons hung over fires and Sigurd’s mouth went slick with it all and he realized he hadn’t eaten a meal for days.