God of Vengeance (54 page)

Sigurd shook his head but a big hand gripped his shoulder. ‘Better they end it like this than with spears in their backs,’ Olaf said, nodding towards the pitiful shieldwall. Sigurd knew this was true enough, for Hauk and the others would not have the legs to run. Yet the thought of leaving them there to be slaughtered was like a blade in Sigurd’s chest, as Skarth began bellowing at the jarl’s warriors now, rousing them to one final effort as he strode towards the Osøyro men.

Sigurd took one last look at those brave three, their old legs rooted to the ground so that only death would move them.

And then he turned and ran to the sea.

THEY RAN DOWN
the slippery path which led to the shore, the Osøyro men’s last sword song lingering in Sigurd’s ears like smoke in woollen clothes. And when they clattered down to the wharf his heart leapt like a salmon in his chest, for Runa, Valgerd and Karsten were aboard
Reinen
, his father’s old ship, and the dragon had slipped her moorings.

‘Are we leaving then?’ Karsten called from the mast step, a grin in his beard. Men were clambering aboard, some going to help with the sheets while others brought the oars down from their trees and threaded them through the ports. They would need wind
and
muscle to put as much water between them and Jarl Randver as they could.

‘Does me good to see her,’ Olaf said, taking hold of the oar Bram gave him, the two of them getting ready to push
Reinen
away from the wharf.

Breathing hard still, Sigurd found his nose filled with
Reinen
’s scent: the pine resin and the tar-coated ropes, the wet woollen sail and the brackish seep water in the bilge around the ballast stones.

‘We would have set fires in them but it was too wet and there was no time,’ Valgerd said, nodding at Jarl Harald’s other ship,
Sea-Eagle
, and Randver’s favourite ship,
Fjord-Wolf
, which were crewless and drifting off from their berths, their mooring ropes cut.

‘You have given us a chance,’ Sigurd said, nodding to Valgerd in thanks then looking up to where Jarl Randver’s men were spilling over the hill and cursing at what they saw – two ships adrift and
Reinen
slowly easing away from the wharf.

‘Well no one can say we have not ruined their feast at least,’ Olaf shouted and this got some belly laughter even from men sheeted in blood and still thrumming from the fight, as they pulled their oars through the slate-grey, wind-stirred sea, most of them standing and bending deep because there were no sea chests aboard.

‘There were sea chests on
Fjord-Wolf
,’ Runa said, coming to stand with Sigurd, ‘and that man said we should take her.’ She nodded towards Karsten behind them at the tiller. ‘But I told him you would rather take
Reinen
.’

Sigurd saw that her whole body was trembling and he put his arm around her, wincing at the many pains in his own body, though he did not think he was cut deeply anywhere. ‘Do you think Father would have left her to that pile of goat turds?’ he asked, watching Randver who was on the jetty now, roaring commands at his men who were milling on the boards, unsure what to do next, though a knot of them had found a small boat and were already rowing towards
Fjord-Wolf
.

With a shaking hand Runa pushed her still damp hair over her ear and asked if she should row, too. Sigurd shook his head. ‘We will catch the wind in a moment and Karsten is a good helmsman.’ He took off his cloak, relieved to see that there was not much blood on it, and put it around his sister’s shoulders on top of the one she already wore in case she was cold. ‘Rest while you can,’ he said, pointing to a place in the thwarts on the port stern. Then he turned to look at his ragged, grim-faced crew.

Kætil Kartr was not rowing for he was white as bone from leaking so much blood, though he stood even so, watching the shore rather than sitting in the thwarts and saving what strength he yet owned. Bjorn was grimacing from a cut in his side where his brynja was torn and bloody, and if Agnar Hunter’s head were a hull, its crew would have been busy bailing for it had an ugly gash in it.

Still, they had left five of their sword-brothers up there on the hill and Sigurd knew that was the deepest wound of all.

‘Have their bollocks shrivel up and drop off, Asgot!’ Ubba called to the godi, who stood up at the stern, his arms raised to the sky as he crowed a galdr at their enemies on the shore. His keening voice was enough to chill the blood even if you did not know the spell he was weaving with that ancient seiðr. But Sigurd’s ears could unravel enough of it to know that Asgot was singing Jarl Randver’s doom. No hero’s pyre for Randver, just a cold blade and a colder grave, and every man or woman aboard
Reinen
, no matter their wounds, was glad that that dark, baneful curse was not being sung at them.

‘That will do. Bring them in, lads!’ Olaf called, pushing his own oar all the way out through the port and bringing it back over the sheer strake. There was wind in the sail and with so few men rowing would gain them nothing now. He came over to stand with Sigurd who was still at the sternpost watching Randver’s men bring
Fjord-Wolf
back to the jetty where the rest waited, their spears pointing to the low heavy clouds rolling in from the east. Gulls keened wildly overhead, perhaps in answer to Asgot’s old spell, and Rán’s white-haired daughters were appearing here and there, racing across the sound as though they too fled from the jarl’s wrath.

‘I wonder what happened to old Solveig and Hagal,’ Olaf said. Sigurd knew his old friend was trying to take his mind off what might have been. There was no sign of
Sea-Sow
or those of Randver’s ships that had chased her west. The crews that had come and saved the jarl’s skin must have been lying in wait behind another island in the sound and Sigurd smiled grimly at the lengths his enemy had gone to in trying to catch him.

‘Listen,’ Svein said, cupping a hand to his ear. ‘I think I can hear Crow-Song’s arse squeaking.’

Olaf grinned. ‘And I wouldn’t blame him, what with four crews snapping at their heels. But if you really listen hard you can hear old Solveig laughing. Those whoresons will starve to death before they catch up with that old goat.’

‘Then let us hope we do not run into them when they give up and turn for home,’ Karsten called from the tiller.

‘If we do we will see what kind of a helmsman you really are, hey!’ Olaf said, which did not seem to worry the Dane.

Sigurd stood there with Olaf beside him, the wind ruffling their beards and drying the gore that crusted on skin and in the iron rings of their brynjur. And yet an ominous silence spread between them like a bloodstain as, far behind them now, their enemy’s ship harnessed the easterly gusts and ploughed a spumy furrow through the sound. Randver, it seemed, was as eager to kill Sigurd as Sigurd had been to kill him.

Eventually it was Olaf who hauled the thing to the surface. ‘We had no choice, Sigurd,’ he said, scratching his beard.

‘There is always a choice, Uncle,’ Sigurd said.

Olaf pursed his full lips. ‘Even a wolf will slink off when the farmer brings all his hounds out.’

Sigurd turned to him now. ‘But we are more than one wolf,’ he said, sweeping an arm across the deck and those catching their breath at last and seeing to their wounds or else working on the sail to keep it catching the wind. ‘Did I make myself known to old Blaze-Eye just so that he could watch me fly from the man I have sworn to kill?’

‘Well he is not the only one that needs killing,’ Olaf said, meaning that they still had to deal with King Gorm which seemed beyond impossible now.

‘And you think I will have Óðin’s favour after this?’ Sigurd asked.

More beard-scratching now as Olaf chewed on that.

‘You want to finish it?’ he asked, though it was not a question. Not really.

Sigurd held his eye, in that one fjord-deep look saying more than words ever could.

‘Frigg’s arse,’ Olaf growled, then turned to Karsten. ‘Bring her around!’ he called. ‘You see that piece of dog shit ship back there full of men who want us dead? Aim for that.’ Karsten’s mouth unhinged but Olaf had already turned to the crew, to Svein and Floki, Bram, Bjarni, Bjorn and the rest, who were gingerly getting to their feet. ‘Did you really think you could sit on your arses for the rest of the day?’ he bellowed. ‘Did you think that little scuffle back there proves you’re good men in a fight? That you’re worthy to share the same saga tale as Olaf Smiter and Sigurd Óðin-Favoured?’ Most of them were wide-eyed and taken aback, but Svein and Bram shared a predator’s grin. Floki was looking at Sigurd and nodding slowly as though he had been waiting for this moment all his life. ‘Your ring-giver has something to say.’ This was clever on Olaf’s part for it reminded them of their oath without calling Sigurd a jarl, which was a thing he could not claim yet.

Sigurd stepped up onto the raised platform and stood beside Karsten who was already getting his mind around turning
Reinen
into the wind.

‘Look!’ he said, pointing off the bow towards
Fjord-Wolf
. ‘This jarl
wants
to fight us.’ He caught Runa’s eye and that was a thorn in him but there was nothing he could do about that now. ‘Svein, your father Styrbiorn was a fearsome prow man. I have no doubt he would be proud of you today for you will stand at
Reinen
’s prow.’ The red-haired giant grinned like a man with two mead horns.

Sigurd knew Olaf would have expected to be the prow man, but Sigurd needed his battle-craft and could not risk a wound putting him out of the fight early on.

‘I will not run from this jarl,’ Sigurd said. ‘Instead I will kill him and the gods will watch me do it.’ He grinned at them then. ‘If any of you does not want to fight him with me, you are free to walk away, I will not stop you.’

They laughed at this, even Kætil Kartr, who had less blood in him than on him.

‘Well then, let’s get on with it!’ Olaf said, as Karsten drove the tiller hard to port, turning
Reinen
into the wind until it caught the sail, at which time Bjarni and Bjorn released one corner of the sail and the others released lines at bow, midships and stern. Sigurd and Olaf pulled hard on the ropes that stretched to each end of the yard to draw the sail over to the other side of the ship and catch the wind again. It was a fury of muscle and rope and barked commands, but when it was all done and Karsten had turned
Reinen
onto course they did not trim and tighten the sail again as they normally would.

‘Drop the yard,’ Olaf said, which had them looking at each other with furrowed brows. ‘And get the anchors in. It’s shallow enough here, I’d wager.’

Sigurd looked at him. With the sail down they would be helpless. Olaf shrugged, nodding at the froth-crested waves dashing across the sound. ‘Lashing the ships together in this will be like trying to catch a fart. If we want to fight that worm-arsed shortwit, the least we can do is try to lie still as a new bride on her wedding night.’

He flushed then, glancing at Runa, who half smiled to put him at ease.

‘I am not married, Uncle,’ she said, as the anchors fore and aft splashed into the sea. ‘Some uninvited guests ruined the wedding.’

Sigurd grinned at Olaf and grabbed his helmet, the leather lining of which was still sweat-soaked. ‘This will be a hard fight,’ he said, tying the thong beneath his chin, the marrow in his bones beginning to thrum again, ‘and some of you will never look upon the sea or the sky after this day.’ They were putting on their own helmets, gathering spears and shields and shrugging some life back into tired limbs. ‘Whoever falls today will be honoured with a pyre and sent to the Hall of the Slain with all their war gear. You have my word on this.’

Sigurd could offer them no more than that and he turned to watch
Fjord-Wolf
ploughing its furrow through the sound towards them, her prow already bristling with men and steel.

The anchors seemed to be holding and the ship’s bows pointed more or less north-east, the sea pushing past either side rather than hitting her abeam which would have had her rocking enough to turn a land man green.

‘As good a place as any,’ Karsten said, looking over the side and following the line of the stern anchor rope. The water there was at least partly sheltered by the Nilsavika headland and if there was to be a ship fight there were plenty worse places for it.

Svein fetched
Reinen
’s figurehead and fixed it in place at the prow, then slotted the antlers into it and those who were new to
Reinen
seemed satisfied with the beast.

‘She is better looking than most of the women my brother has been with,’ Bjarni said admiringly, which might have been true for Bjorn did not disagree.

‘Keep away from Skarth if you can,’ Olaf said as Sigurd and his hirðmen, just thirteen warriors, gathered in line either side of
Reinen
’s prow.

‘You only say that because you want him for yourself,’ Ubba said, gripping the throat of his long-axe whose haft rested on the deck.

Olaf did not deny it. ‘We have unfinished business,’ he said.