Winter Serpent (35 page)

“It may be he will die, then,” he said, “for his lips have been sealed overlong now. Cast another bucket of water over him.”

“Wait a while,” Sweyn said thoughtfully. “I will not offer him sea water then, but water from the casks. Torture may not open his lips as well as thirst.” “Too many died when we seized their ship,” the Jarl said. “Of them all it is unfortunate that we have only this brave and stubborn man to break. From his dress I would guess that he is a warrior of rank, used to the pain of battle. He
does not fear agony nor death. It may be he will take his secrets with him. Yet I would greatly wish to know why so many nobles and fighting men would set out from Eire with rich gifts, to go to the land of the Scots.”

“Perhaps they crossed the channel to claim a bride,” Sweyn shrugged. “There were many gifts for women among their ship’s cargo.”

“She will wait long for a husband then, since this is the last of them all to meet the knife. Already there is little left of him to warm a woman’s heart.”

Hallfreor and Gunnar Olavson made their way from amidships to the steering oar where their chieftain stood, his arms wrapped around the tiller. The Irishman was slung between the two Vikings, his fine silken tunic covered with blood and charred spots.

“I could take off his hands,” Hallfreor said to the tall man, “for all that they will be of use to him now. But he would not live long then. He will not tell his name nor where his ship was bound. The last I had from him was a curse.” The men supporting their captive grinned through smoke-blackened faces. “He will not take wine nor food. He has willed himself to die, I think,” Sweyn said. He, rolled the man’s head back between his hands. “You are a fine one, whatever your name may be. I shall not touch your mouth for you will use it yet to tell us what we wish to hear. How long have you suffered? From dawn this day till near sunset? So shall you suffer all the night and live to see another day of torment like this. It is time you were leaving this world, man, for your ancestors await you. A few words, a word, and this will be the ending of it. I shall bring you a cup of water. Crystal-clear it is and cool, for it has been kept in a wet keg. It is the only cool thing under the sun. Even the sea
is not cool and sweet as it is. You shall have it if you talk to us.”

The Norsemen allowed the man to sink to his knees, but his head drooped stubbornly and he gave no sign that he heard.

“He is a strong one,” Hallfreor said admiringly. “While he still lives we could hang him from the mast with a raven about his neck and sacrifice to Odin. His bravery would bring us luck.”

Their captive suddenly lurched forward, his feet scrabbling against the deck. “Did he catch the name of Odin, then?” Hallfreor asked.

Sweyn leaned forward with interest and spoke to the man in Gaelic. “Shall we then sacrifice you to our old gods and leave your body to rot

against the mast? It will be a good sign and a favorable one, and Odin will breathe your spirit and be pleased. For many months your body will rattle and decay, and his ravens will sit upon your shoulder bones and guide us.”

“God and the saints in heaven will have my soul,” the Irishman muttered. “Quick, a drink of water,” Sweyn cried, “for I think now we have it!” He turned back to the struggling captive. “No, God will not have your soul, for
Odin will take you instead.”

“Jesus, help me now!” A sound like a sob burst from him.

The others held the cup to his lips while Thorsten watched from the big oar.

“No, not this Jesus,” Sweyn insisted, “for he has abandoned you to Odin. We have you now and will do with you what we will! Excepting, of course, that you tell us now what we seek to know.”

The man opened his eyes full to the sunlight and the bearded faces bending over him.

“Answer my questions and I shall commit you to the sea with one of the crosses from your ship tied to your hands. You shall be alive so that you may know you have not been sent to the old gods. You will drown, and that is not a bad death. It is quicker than hanging. I will allow you to pray, also, but be quick about it, man.”

The Irishman looked at the tall Jarl bending to the oar. “What does he say?” he whispered.

“I say that it shall be so,” the Jarl said slowly. “Then release me.”

They dropped his arms and he sprawled on the deck. Sweyn bent over him, shading his face from the sun with his hands.

“I shall not tell you my name for I would that my shame died with me. But I set forth from Eire with a company of flaiths, nobles from Ulaidh seeking the hall of Muireach macDumhnull. This is in Alba which the Scots call Dalriada. I go to the marriage of my cousin, a prince of Eire, who will wed a woman of the Scots. There are no more ships to be seized, I swear on my mother’s holy name! I would not tell you this save that it is of no importance now and can harm no one. I do it to save my immortal soul.”

Sweyn glanced over his shoulder at the Norse Jarl who was gazing out to land in the eastward.

“Yes, what you say can bring harm to no one,” he growled. “Where did you say this marriage will take place?”

The man tightened his lips over his bared teeth.

“No, no,” Sweyn said softly. “Can you not hear the ravens softly flapping about you? They are eager for your heart. Speak once more and you shall have your cross of gold. Who is your cousin and what woman is it you speak of?”

The man sank into a stupor and Sweyn poured a little water from the cup into his face.

He bent low to catch the Irishman’s words.

“All the brehons, the judges,” the man murmured, “and the chiefs and the kings will be assembled. And priests. Oh, God have mercy on my soul! A man lives beyond death but not beyond honor.”

“That is a good saying,” Gunnar Olavson agreed.

Sweyn made a shushing sound, his ear to the other’s lips. Hallfreor brought a cross and laid it on the man’s mutilated hands. Sweyn pulled at the broken fingers impatiently.

“Can you still feel pain? Awake, you have your cross. We are tying it to your arm now. Where is this assemblage and this marriage? Is it a fjord called Cumhainn?”

But the other was limp, unanswering.

“Throw him over the side quickly,” Thorsten ordered, “so that he may know I have kept my word.”

There were five ships in all: Thorsten Jarl’s bear ship; the newly captured Irish craft, manned by a crew of the Jarl’s war band and that of his cousin Snorri Olavson; a tubby Frisian trading boat used for transporting plunder under Braggi’s captainship; and Snorri’s two lean, new-painted raiders. Thorsten Jarl gazed at the fleet standing in the sea road, their oars dipping slowly, holding against the tide.

“If there be chiefs and kings assembled in Cumhainn the spoils will be great. But they will come armed and with many warriors,” Sweyn reminded him.

“I am aware of this. Yet it would be a very bold move and clever, seeing we know this fjord of the Scots so well. I do not know what the man of Eire meant by ‘kings,’ but if the King of the Scots is there also, it would be a raid which would bring us great fame. If we killed him and many of his chiefs we would be not only rich but envied. The king-killers we would be called!”

“It is a tempting thing to think on,” Sweyn agreed.

“Yet it is not only for the spoils and the good fight,” the Jarl went on. “I have another thing to consider. From the Irishman’s words, I guess that she is there, and if so I would have my revenge on her.”

“Now it is talk like this which brings trouble. I am thinking of Inverness and hear again the brave shouts of Sigurd Tyrrson and Bengt Oddeson when the Picts were tearing at their flesh. I remember the siege we laid against that fort and the price we paid in the sacking of it. We are still shorthanded at the oars.”

“That is true.” The Norse chieftain was silent for a moment. “But I feel the strength of revenge in me and the might of many men. I would like to have my fingers around her neck again. I would not fail in it as I did before.”

“The crews will follow you,” Sweyn assured him. “They are true to their oaths. But there should be more in it for them than the killing of a woman.”

The Jarl turned his cold stare on his friend. “Have I ever failed them?” he demanded softly. Sweyn’s eyes fell away.

“What do you propose?” he asked gruffly.

“There is the pelt of the white bear which Snorri killed on the whale hunt.” Sweyn looked at the other man out of the corners of his eyes, and fingered
his beard.

“I have heard that it is a poor hide, for the harpoon tore the neck beyond repair. Besides, it did not tan well, being stiff as a board.”

The Jarl grasped the tiller and began to turn it. The crew chief looked up in surprise, and shouted to the rowers, adjusting the stroke count as the bow came about.

“It is still the hide of the bjorn,” the Jarl said quietly, “and it was the hand of my kinsman which dealt it the death wound.”

Sweyn beat the skull of the bearskin against the deck to remove the clay which held it in shape. Snorri Olavson watched the task and, when he was through, he took the clay pieces and scraped them together with his hands and threw them overboard.

“So it was a poor pelt,” the Jarl remarked, “and stiff as a board!”

He took the skin from Sweyn and ran his hands through the fur. It was creamy white and soft as a woman’s hair to the touch.

“I will renew my vows on it,” he told them softly. Sweyn snorted at this.

“Does the berserkr forget the vows of the berserkr? Besides, this is no oak grove.”

“We have the fire and the iron, have we not?” the tall man asked. “I will renew the vows and the others may watch. Then I will ask them to declare for me.”

“There is no need for this,” Sweyn assured him, “for they have sworn to follow you to the death.”

“To the death, yes,” the Jarl murmured. He put the white fur against his cheek. “Death the night-bringer, the quencher of all the lamps. Death the spiller of blood.”

Snorri Olavson sat down on the water kegs and bit his lip.

“So have I always said the berserkr was a worshiper of death,” he said jealously. Sweyn bent him a warning glance from under his thick brows. The crew
of the bear ship rested on their oars and looked on silently.

“Besides, do we not share in the venture together?” Snorri asked. “The war bands will follow their chieftains, oaths or no oaths upon those they have already taken.”

“I would not have you pull away from him now,” Sweyn said. “Let him have his way in this for he will do it, whatever we say. Give me your hand that you will be in this with him, and will help me to hold the thongs.”

Snorri jumped up an came to them, putting his grudge aside. He placed his hand on their clasped ones.

“I will give you my hand in it willingly. I do not fear my cousin for I have sought him out, of my own accord, as comrade-chief, and know him to be a true man. If Thorsten Ljot wishes to pledge himself again to the forest brotherhood then I have no wish to stir their wrath.”

The Jarl swung the bearskin over his shoulders and pulled the skull down into place. The two men watched him closely, seeing the subtle change in his eyes, in the shape of his shoulders, and in the way that he held his head. He began to weave almost imperceptibly, not with the motion of the ship, but restlessly, seeking something invisible to them and fearful.

“Now you will see I already feel the old brute’s strength in my body,” the tall man said. His words were thick, indistinct. “After I have taken my vows on iron and flame, his soul and mine will be one.”

Sweyn caught his, hand to tie the paw to it but the Jarl jerked suddenly away. “Careful!” he shouted wildly. They drew back. “Do not touch the bjorn!” “Be easy,” Sweyn said softly. “I must help you with the bear’s coat, must I not?” He motioned for Snorri to help him. The two men tied the bearskin to the
other with care.

“The white bears have a coat thick enough to blunt a spear,” Sweyn muttered. “Even without ring mail it is a formidable armor. And then there is the spirit which will be inside it.”

He got to his feet and stepped back to survey the man they had prepared. The giant Jarl’s eyes were closed. He seemed to drowse in the hot sun of the steering deck. The transformation was complete. His head hung forward, swaying, his body hunched like the beast held captive.

“Thorsten, my lord Jarl,” Sweyn said soothingly. He held two braidedleather lines almost under the other’s nose.

The Jarl paused, squinted at them.

“Yes,” he said dully. He passed his hand over his face. “Yes, tie my hands.” “There will be no oath-taking,” Sweyn said to Snorri. “The bear walks with us. Let us make for the coast of the Scots and beware of the rocks there
in the sea.”

The party of Comac Neish had blundered in its return to the Coire. In their eagerness to come to the gathering without difficult circling in the mountains, Comac had brought them down the northern track. While they were still on the road word swept before them that the notorious daughter of the house approached tuatheal, from the north, and all men knew this was the sure sign of a witch. To correct this mistake and placate his own taboo, the Irish captain had taken the party slowly around the stockade deiseil, or
sunwise, to assure a good beginning. But it was too late. Their passage was crowded with the shocked and the curious.