Sworn Brother (50 page)

There were about twenty women in the group. Their faces and arms were scratched and torn from branches, several of them had raw bruises on their faces and all of them had their wrists bound together with leather thongs. With their straggly hair and grimy faces they looked a sorry lot. However, Vermundr, standing next to me, disagreed. ‘Not a bad catch,’ he said. ‘Give them a good scrub and they’ll be worth a tidy sum.’ He went forward to inspect them more closely. The women huddled together, several looking piteously across towards their children, who had been set aside. Others kept their heads down so that their tangled hair concealed their features. Vermundr was clearly a veteran slave catcher for he now went from one woman to the next, seizing each by the chin, and forcing back her head so that he could look into the woman’s face and judge her worth. Suddenly he let out a whoop of delight. ‘Ivarr’s Luck!’ he called, ‘Look at this.’ He seized two women by their wrists, dragged them out from the group, and made them stand side by side in front of us. Judging by their bodies the girls were aged about sixteen, though with their shapeless gowns it was difficult to tell precisely, and they kept their heads bowed forward so it was impossible to see their faces. Vermundr changed that. He went behind the girls, gathered up their hair in his hands, and like a trader in a market who flaunts his best produce with a flourish, pulled back their heads so we could see straight into their faces. They were identical twins, and even with their tear-streaked faces it was clear that they were astonishingly beautiful. I remembered how I had bribed Vermundr and Angantyr with a pair of marten skins, perfectly matched. Now I saw in front of me the human equivalent: two slave girls of perfect quality, a matching pair. Ivarr’s felag had found riches.

We did not linger. The light was fading. ‘Back to the boats!’ Ivarr ordered. ‘These people may have friends, and I want us well clear by the time they get together to launch an attack.’ The last rivets were hammered tight on the fetters of the male slaves, and the felag began to withdraw to the sounds of wailing and sobbing from the despairing villagers. Several of the women captives fell to the ground, either because they fainted or because their limbs simply would not carry them away from their children. They were picked up and carried by the kholops. One male captive who refused to budge received a savage blow from the flat of a sword, which sent him stumbling forward. The majority of our captives meekly began to shuffle out of the village.

Ivarr beckoned to me. ‘Come with me, Thorgils,’ he said. ‘Here’s where you might be useful.’

He led me back through the empty village to where the corpse of the shaman lay. I thought he had only gone to retrieve his throwing axe.

‘That’s the same sort of cloak that you wear, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a noiade’s cloak. What you call a magician. Though I don’t know anything about this tribe. They are completely different from the Skridfinni among whom I lived.’

‘But if these people had a magician, then that means they had a God. Isn’t that so?’

“Very likely,’ I said.

‘And if they had a god and a magician, that means they probably had a shrine to worship at,’ Ivarr looked about us, then asked, ‘And as you know so much about these noiades or whatever you call them, where would you guess that shrine is to be found?’

I was at a loss. I genuinely wanted to answer Ivarr’s question because, like everyone else, I was frightened of him. But the village we had raided bore no resemblance to a Skridfinni camp. These people were settled forest dwellers, while the Sabme had been nomads. The village shrine could be anywhere nearby, hidden in the forest. ‘I really have no idea,’ I said, ‘but if I were to guess, I would say that the noiade was running towards it, either to seek sanctuary there or to plead to his God for help.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ said Ivarr and set off at a brisk walk towards the edge of the dark forest in the direction that the shaman had been fleeing.

The shrine was less than an arrow flight away once we had left the open, cultivated ground and entered the forest. A tall fence of wooden planks, grey with age, concealed the sacred mystery. We walked around the fence — it was no more than thirty paces in circumference — looking for a gateway, but did not find one. I expected Ivarr simply to batter open a gap, but he was cautious. ‘Don’t want to make too much noise,’ he said. ‘We’ve not much time, and the villagers will soon be gathering their forces. Here, I’ll help you over.’ I found myself hoisted up to the top of the fence and I dropped down on the other side. As I had expected, the shrine was a simple place, suitable for such a modest settlement. The circular area inside the fence was plain beaten earth. In the centre stood what I first took to be a heavy wooden post set in the ground. Then I saw that the villagers had worshipped what Rassa would have called a sieidde. It was the stump of a tree struck by lightning and left with the vague resemblance to a seated man. The villagers had enhanced the similarity, carving out the shape of knees, and folded arms, and whittling back the neck to emphasise the head. The image was very, very old.

I spotted the latch that allowed a section of the surrounding fence to swing open, and went to let Ivarr in. He approached to within touching distance of the effigy and halted. ‘Not as poor a village as it seemed, Thorgils,’ he said. He was looking into the plain wooden bowl which the effigy held on its knees. It was where the villagers placed their offerings to their God. I stepped up beside Ivarr and glanced down into the bowl to see what they had given. Abruptly the breath had left my lungs. I felt giddy, not because I saw some gruesome offering, but because a poignant memory came surging into my mind and left me reeling. The bowl was half full of silver coins. Many of them were old and worn and indecipherable. They must have lain there for generations. But several coins on the surface were not yet tarnished and their patterns were instantly readable. All of them bore that strange rippling writing that I had seen during my days in London - a time I would never forget. It was when I had first made love with Aelfgifu and she had worn a necklace of those coins around her graceful neck.

Ivarr ripped the sleeve from his shirt, and knotted the end to create a makeshift sack. ‘Here, Thorgils, hold this open,’ he said as he lifted the wooden bowl from its place and poured in the cascade of coins. Then he tossed the bowl aside. He looked up at the roughly carved head of the wooden statue. Around its neck was a torc. The neck ring was so weatherbeaten that it was impossible to tell whether it was plain iron or blackened silver. Clearly Ivarr thought it was precious metal because he reached up to tug it free. But the tore remained fast. Ivarr was reaching for his throwing axe when I intervened.

‘Don’t do it, Ivarr,’ I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. I feared his violent reaction to anyone who thwarted him.

He turned to face me, and scowled. ‘Why not?’

‘It is a sacred thing,’ I said. ‘It belongs to the sieidde. To steal it will call down his anger. It will bring bad luck.’

‘Don’t waste my time. What’s a sieidde?’ he growled, beginning to look angry.

‘A God, the local God who controls this place.’

‘Their God, not mine,’ Ivarr retorted and swung his axe. I was glad the blow was directed at the statue not me, for it decapitated the wooden effigy with a single blow. Ivarr lifted off the tore and slid it up his naked arm. ‘You’re too timid, Thorgils,’ he said. ‘Look, it even fits.’ Then he ran for the gate.

It was dark by the time we arrived back at the river bank. The crews were already on board the two boats and waiting. They had made the captives lie in the bilges and the moment

Ivarr and I took our places the oarsmen began to row. We fled from that place as fast as we could travel and the darkness hid our withdrawal. No natives intercepted us and as soon as we reached our camp Ivarr stormed up the beach, insisting that everyone make ready to depart at once. By dawn we were already well on our way back to the great river highway.

T
he
success
of
the slave raid greatly improved the temper of the felag. The underlying feeling of ferocity was still there, but the Varangians showed Ivarr a respect which bordered on admiration. Apparently it was very rare to find girl twins among the tribes, let alone a pair as exquisite as the ones we had captured. There was much talk of ‘Ivarr’s Luck’, and a mood of self-congratulation spread among the Varangians as they preened themselves on their decision to join his felag. Only I was morose, troubled by the desecration of the shrine. Rassa had taught me to respect such places and I had a sense of foreboding.

‘Still worrying about that piddling little village idol, Thorgils?’ said Ivarr that evening, sitting down beside me on the thwart.

‘Don’t you respect any God?’ I asked.

‘How could I?’ he answered. ‘Look at that lot there.’ He nodded towards the Varangians in the nearest accompanying boat. ‘Those who don’t worship Perun venerate their ancestors. I don’t even know who my mother’s ancestors were, and certainly not my father’s.’

‘Why not Perun? From what I’ve heard he’s the same God we call Thor in the Norse country. He is the God of warriors. Couldn’t you venerate him?’

‘I’ve no need of Perun’s help,’ Ivarr said confidently. ‘He

didn’t assist me when I was a youngster. I made my own way. Let others believe in forest hags with iron teeth and claws, or that Crnobog the black God of death seizes us when we die. When I meet my end, if my body is available for burial and not hacked to pieces, it will be enough for my companions to treat my corpse as they wish. I will no longer be there to be concerned with their superstitions.’

For a brief moment I thought to tell him about my devotion to Odinn the All-Father, but the intensity of his fatalism held me back and I changed the subject.

‘How was it,’ I asked, ‘that our kholops took part in the raid for slaves with such enthusiasm when they themselves are slaves?’

Ivarr shrugged. ‘Kholops are prepared to inflict on others what they themselves suffer. It makes them accept their own condition more easily. Of course I took back their weapons once they had completed the task and now they are kholops once again.’

‘Aren’t you afraid that they, or our new captives, will attempt to escape?’