Raven (2 page)

I have moved my own log pile more times than I can recall. I have been unpicking the threads of my wyrd all my life and
see no reason to stop now. Which is why the well-worn hinges of my sea chest have been squeaking like a caught mouse recently, as well you all know. I have sent several of your sons and striplings out into the world, as well as five of my own thralls, who happen to be near to useless anyway and better kept out of my way for their own good. For I did not live so long and survive so many fights so that I could die in my sleep. I have too many friends and oar-mates waiting for me in the All-Father’s hall for that. Though I sometimes fear they will not recognize me after so long and with this white hair and frail body. For years I have kept burning the hope that some of my enemies still live. Gods, I made enough of them!
Surely there are some still out there to whom I owe a blood price
. I have so often whispered that into the dark. And your sons will earn good silver searching for them, even more if they spit my challenge into those whoresons’ ears.

Now there are rumours in the village – shivering here and there like moths – that one, or even more, are coming. Hard men who know that my death will swell their reputation like a corpse’s bloated belly. And I thank old One Eye for that, for it is He who pumps the bellows, fanning the fame-lust in men’s chests.

‘They are coming for Raven,’ men whisper into their mead horns, their eyes as shifting as the grey sea road.

Well, let them come.

WE WERE SEVENTY-ONE WARRIORS, AND AS ODD A CREW AS HAVE
ever ploughed the whale’s road. Norse, Dane and English – men who would normally face each other from behind the shieldwall – sat beside each other on sea chests, shared deck space beneath the stars, and pulled the spruce oars together, so that they beat like eagles’ wings, our bows slicing the sea. We even had a monk and a woman thrown in for good measure, though a monk aboard a longship is about as useful as a hole in a shield. Even so, Father Egfrith was a good man, for all his fool’s hope of sluicing the old gods from our black souls. As for the woman, she was Cynethryth, beautiful Cynethryth, and that was enough.

For seven weeks Jörmungand,
Serpent
’s dragon prow, had forged into the unknown, following the Frankish coast. Then, after a long passage south, we had sailed the Dark Sea west, along the margin of a barren, rock-bound land from which jagged, treeless, boulder-strewn mountains surged into the sky. This desolate shoreline was cut with rocky beaches, most of which were trapped by steep cliffs that plunged into the white-tossed breakers, and we had rarely made landfall for fear of tearing open our hulls.

Now we were ploughing south again. On our steerboard side the black water stretched away to the west as far as the eye could see, and who knows what lay that way? But we were staying as close to land as we dared, for we had escaped the wrath of an empire and were lucky to still have the skins on our backs and the blood in our veins. Three other dragons followed in our wake: Sigurd’s second ship
Fjord-Elk
, and the two remaining Dane ships, sleek fast snekkjes named
Wave-Steed
and
Sea-Arrow
. We had escaped the Franks and so we had escaped death, but in doing so we had lost our silver hoard, which had glittered and shone so brightly that perhaps the gods in Asgard had grown envious and so decided to piss on our glory. I have learnt that that is the gods’ way. They are capricious and cruel, inspiriting you to deeds worthy of a skald song and then knocking you on to your arse for all to see. Perhaps they have no love for us at all, but merely watch the weave and weft of our small lives – cutting or braiding a thread once in a while – to help pass the great eternity of their own. The gods may not love us but they do love chaos. And where there is chaos there are warriors and swords, spears and shields. There is blood and pain and death.

And now we were sailing south to Miklagard, the Great City, because although we had lost our Fáfnir’s hoard, we were warriors still and they said that in Miklagard the buildings were made of gold. Besides which, we lusted for an even greater prize. I could see that hunger in men’s eyes, reflected in the lustre of their well-polished war gear: helms, shield bosses and axe heads. That prize is fame. It is the meat of the skald’s song, which men and women feast on around the hearth whilst the wind batters the hall door. It is the one prize that can never be lost or stolen or burnt.

And we would find fame in Miklagard.

‘It’s no way to go,’ Penda said with a slight shake of his head. The sail was up and bellying, taking advantage of a decent following wind, and most of us had thrown furs around our
shoulders because that wind had fingers of ice in it and we were not rowing. ‘It must hurt like the devil’s own fire,’ the Wessexman muttered through a grimace.

‘There’s no hope then?’ I asked, knowing the answer but asking anyway.

‘There might have been,’ Penda said, ‘if they’d opened it up again and washed the muck away in time. Now …?’ He shook his head again. ‘Poor bastard’s got a few days perhaps. Hard days, too.’

Halldor was standing at
Serpent
’s prow, looking out rather than in, which I suspected was because he felt ashamed. A Frankish spear had sliced off half of his face and although our godi Asgot had stitched it together, the wound rot had come and now the Norseman’s face was puffed up like a skin full of bad milk, so that you couldn’t even see his right eye. Reeking yellow pus oozed through the stitches, which seemed about to rip apart at any moment, and I could not imagine the pain of it. The previous day I had noticed a green tinge to the angry stretched skin. We all knew Halldor was a dead man.

‘I wouldn’t wait much longer if it was me,’ Penda said, drawing his knife from its sheath and testing the edge against his thumbnail. ‘There’s always a length of rope and a rock,’ he suggested matter-of-factly, pointing his knife at
Serpent
’s ballast.

‘And shiver in Hel until Ragnarök?’ I shook my head. ‘No Norseman would choose drowning,’ I said, shivering myself at the thought. For a drowned man there is no Valhöll, just ice and the stiff black corpses of those who have died of old age or sickness. And there is a giant dog called Garm who will gnaw on your frozen bones to get to the marrow. ‘Black Floki will do it,’ I said. ‘When the time comes.’ A whining gust whipped cold spray across the deck and hit the
sail’s leeward side, making it snap angrily.

‘Sooner rather than later, then,’ Penda gnarred, sheathing his
blade with a satisfied nod. At sea you have to be careful not to over-sharpen your blades for want of something to do.

‘I think he’s gathering memories to take with him,’ I said, taking a lungful of the cold sea air which was ever sweetened by the pitch-soaked twisted horsehair stuffed between
Serpent
’s
strakes. ‘Wherever he is going, he’ll want to remember what it felt like to ride the whale’s road,’ I said, watching Halldor put a mead skin to the grimace that was his mouth to dull the pain.

‘Have you finished your deep thinking yet, lad?’ Bram Bear growled, galumphing over to
Serpent
’s side where he pulled down his breeks and began pissing over the sheer strake. ‘I want to know how you’re going to pay me what you owe, you son of a goat. And I’m not the only one.’

I sighed, knowing this was one matter that would keep coming back to me, like waves returning to the shore. For I had cast our silver adrift to tempt the Franks and they had chosen to scoop up that treasure rather than pursue us, which was just as well because they had outnumbered us five to one and we were as exhausted as a Norseman in a nunnery.

‘It’s you who owes me, Bear,’ I said, ‘for saving that hairy hide of yours. It would be nailed to some Frank’s door if not for me.’

‘Pah!’ He batted my words away like gnats. ‘It would take more than a few farting Franks to finish me, boy.’ Then he nodded towards Halldor and tugged his beard thoughtfully, his piss scattering downwind. ‘If he’d have kept his shield up … or his head down, he wouldn’t be packing his sea chest for the dark journey.’ He shuddered, pulled up his breeks and turned, pointing a thick finger at me. ‘No, you owe me, Raven, and I don’t like being silver-light.’ I saw that Penda was grinning, meaning that he was beginning to piece together scraps of Norse, which would save me translating everything for him.

‘What do you need silver for, Bear?’ I asked. ‘You can’t drink silver. And I can’t see many taverns around here to spend it in.’ I scratched my chin and frowned. ‘I am wondering if you
will even make it all the way to Miklagard, seeing as you are already older than the stars and the Great City is still far away.’ Some of the Norsemen chuckled at that, but Bram glowered at me like a man dragged from his death barrow.

‘Wind in that tongue of yours, whelp,’ he rumbled, ‘or Bram’ll trim it down to size for you.’ He patted the knife sheathed at his waist. ‘Older than the stars? You mouthy runt! Hey, Svein, can you hear this?’

‘Raven has hit the rivet square, Bram,’ Svein said, studying his friend with a frown, ‘you
are
looking old these days.’

‘Son of a she troll!’ Bram rumbled. ‘I’m going to shit in your beard when you’re asleep tonight, Red,’ he threatened, at which Svein grinned. ‘As for you, runt,’ he warned me, ‘you’ll be lucky to reach next summer if you don’t learn to respect your betters.’ His beard bristled in the gathering wind. ‘Just remember the silver you owe us, Raven,’ he called out, stirring a few ‘aye’s and disgruntled murmurs, his eyes glinting. ‘No man likes to be silver-light.’ Even Svein nodded agreement with that.

And I sighed again.

But before long we were poking fun at Yrsa Pig-nose for the great red boil that had bloomed on the side of his snout, and after Yrsa it was the Wessexman Baldred’s turn to endure a good tongue-lashing because he had the shits and had grabbed the nearest bucket, which had happened to be one of our freshwater pails.

We were chaffing because we were nervous. Even I had been at sea long enough to smell a storm in the air and this one was coming our way, its fingers already grasping at us. I had seen it first as swaths of dark rippling water contrasting against a lighter blue, where current and wind fought over which direction the waves should move. Then the wind had whipped flecks of spume from those waves and
Serpent
’s bowline had begun to swing and the reefing ropes began beating the sail. Now we were talking too much, trying to make out that it was
nothing more than a sniff of a breeze that would splutter itself out before long, when the truth was we were afraid. I think the only man aboard who was not afraid was Halldor, because he was already a dead man, but then again not even Halldor wanted a drowning death.

Ulfbert cursed when a gust swiped the bear-fur hat off his head, carrying it half a stone’s throw away before ditching it amongst the wave furrows.

‘What do you think, Uncle?’ Sigurd called from the stern where he stood beside Knut at the tiller. Olaf had ordered Osk and Hedin to check that our cargo was roped down securely and now he and Bothvar were lowering the yard in preparation to reef the sail.

‘I think that coast looks dangerous,’ Olaf replied, working the rope with practised ease. ‘I think these waters have swallowed men and boats since before the All-Father could boast a beard. I also think my grandfather was right when he said it is always cleverer to reef too early than reef too late.’

Sigurd nodded, eyeing the bruise-coloured cloud that was swelling in the north-east and bearing down on us with unnatural haste. I fancied it was the Emperor Karolus’s black rage coming to smite us. ‘Even so, Uncle, if we stay out here Rán is going to have her fun with us.’

‘Aye, she’s in a black mood,’ Olaf acknowledged, looking up at the rake as he lowered it a man’s height from the masthead.

Sigurd spoke to Knut beside him, who, with his free hand, pulled his long beard through his fist and replied, frowning. Then Sigurd nodded, his mind made up. ‘We will make our way in and look for a mooring,’ he called, to which Olaf nodded unenthusiastically. Then Sigurd nodded to Osten who took the horn from his belt and blew three long deep notes: the signal to the other ships that we were heading to shore. I saw the men of
Fjord-Elk
,
Wave-Steed
and
Sea-Arrow
make their own preparations, some going to the bows with fathom ropes and others peering over the sides into the depths, looking out for
rocks or sandbanks. One of the Danes was even shimmying up
Sea-Arrow
’s mast to get a better look at what was below the waves, which was a brave thing to do in that swell.

Knut worked the tiller, calling to Olaf who barked at those working the sail, and I was glad my life was in their hands because there were few men with such sea-craft. The steersman turned Jörmungand, our prow beast, into an upsurging wave and we rode it well, but I knew that swell was just a taste of what was coming and I instinctively touched the Óðin amulet at my neck. Old Asgot was ferreting around beneath the skins that covered
Serpent
’s hold and after a while he emerged with a magnificent drinking horn, shaved and polished to gleaming perfection and bound with silver bands. It was a jarl’s horn and perhaps that was why Sigurd grimaced when the old godi dropped it over the side as an offering to Njörd. But even Sigurd knew it was wise to give the gods something precious and he took a handful of silver coins from his own scrip and scattered them into the billowing black water so that Rán, Mother of the Waves, might be placated and not seek to drown us all for the glittering things in our sea chests.