Oathsworn 1 - The Whale Road (13 page)

He went backwards, his mouth the ragged shape of a scream that never came, dragging the knife out of my hands, crashing down on the brazier and rolling off in a spill of sizzling coals at the feet of Ulf-Agar. His head came up slowly as I put my foot on the dead man's forehead and hauled the little knife out, then sawed at the thongs that held Ulf s thumbs.

`You . . . ?'

`Can you walk?'

He fell into my arms then, almost to his knees, recovered and shoved himself upright. There were wet, red burn weals all over him and his speech was mushed where they had burst his lips and splintered his teeth.

The hilt of a sword, I thought as I steadied him.

Then the door was shoved further in and someone stepped in. `Hauk? Starkad says He saw us then and I made to run at him with the little knife, but Ulf-Agar gave a growl, a low, terrible sound that froze me to the spot. He moved swiftly, but unsteadily, snatched something from the brazier and slashed the man across the face.

With a howl, the man fell, blood all over the hands he clasped to his face. Snarling, bloody froth all over his chin, Ulf rammed the white-hot iron down, through between the man's knuckles, leaning on the thing with all his might while the man writhed and screamed, pinned like a worm on a hook.

The reek and sizzle of it snapped me to life. I crashed heavily into Ulf, knocking him sideways. 'Let's go,'

I hissed. 'Follow me.'

I got out of the door as the one opposite opened, inwards. I booted it as hard as I could and it flew back, sending whoever was behind it sprawling, then I dashed on. Behind me, Ulf-Agar lumbered like some strange dark dwarf.

I heard the bells tinkle as I went through them—fuck it, everyone knew of our presence now, so alarm bells scarcely mattered. I hit the wooden steps, flung myself up and into the dark warehouse, darker still after even the little light we had had. I was lost in it, couldn't work out which way was which, whirled in a complete circle, then realised I was alone.

Below, at the foot of the stairs, Ulf-Agar felled someone with a meaty smack, then howled at the men in the passage beyond. I could see only the sweat-gleam of him and the whirling red bar of the hot iron.

`Fuck! Get
up
here. Others will come . . . !'

He heard me, backed up the stair, leaped through and slammed the door on them, standing on it. I heard them rush the stairs, the clatter as they thumped on the door. Ulf rose an inch or two; he was too slight to keep them down.

I saw light, caught him by one wrist. 'This way . . .'

I was at the front door, the one with the swinging lantern—that was the glimmering light I had seen. I hit it, smashing hard, my shoulder hunched into it. The door held and I bounced back into Ulf and the pair of us went over. Behind, I heard the trapdoor bang up and light spilled out, silhouetting the men who stumbled up the steps.

Òdin's . . . Hairy . . . arse,' Ulf gasped, getting to his feet. 'It's barred on the inside, You oaf. Lift it . . .'

He had no time for anything else. The men from the cellar were on him and metal clanged as he parried and leaped. Two of them, armed with wicked long seaxes and gleaming, frenzied eyes. In the half-dark, stumbling over debris, with no sound other than Ulf s curses and everyone's ragged breathing, they closed in.

I heaved up the bar in a trembling frenzy now; the door flew open, figures suddenly loomed up and a voice—such a familiar voice, a voice that filled me with a sickening leap of such relief I almost lost control of my bladder.

`Stand aside, Orm!'

And big Skapti, clutching a fat wooden club, hurtled through the door, just as a meaty smack sounded behind me and Ulf howled. Then I was shouldered out of the way, slammed sideways out of the warehouse, where I caught my heel and fell. I lay, looking up at the rushing figures, saw Valknut, his face briefly lit in a snarling mask, Ketil Crow, almost throwing himself into the warehouse, Gunnar Raudi and his red flag of beard.

Then Einar stood, looking down at me, his hair streaming like night in the rising gale. His grin was sharp, wolfish. From inside the warehouse came the thwack and crack of wood breaking bone and laying open skulls.

Ì told you to
watch
, young Orm.'

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I meant to tell him of the shrieks in the night, managed only the word: 'Scream,' and he nodded, as if I had told him the whole tale.

Valknut and Skapti appeared, a limp Ulf hanging between them, his feet dragging as they hustled him out of the building. After him, thrown out bodily, came a stranger, followed by Ketil Crow and the others.

Ìs he dead?' Einar asked Skapti, who shook his head, his beard rippling in the wind.

`Beaten, burned, a bad cut on one shoulder, but alive.'

Einar jerked his head in the direction of the Guest Hall, then turned to where the stranger was climbing to his knees, his head hanging, gasping like a winded pony. Bloody drool hung in strands from his mouth.

Einar bent, grabbed the man by his hair and hauled the head up. 'Who is your jarl? Whose
drakkar
are these?'

The man's eyes rolled and there was a great dark mark all along one side of his face. His voice, mushed from his smashed mouth, was hard though. 'Fuck oor murrer.' He tried to spit, but only succeeded in slicking his own chin.

`Starkad; I said, suddenly remembering the name shouted by one of them—the one, I also remembered, with a sickening lurch, who wouldn't be shouting anything any more, from a mouth rammed full of white-hot metal.

Einar's head came up with a snap, like a hound on a scent. He looked at me, then the man at his feet, drew out a long seax from under his cloak and jerked the man's head back.

`Time to go, Einar,' Pinleg warned, looking down at the harbour, where shouts and lights split the darkness.

`Starkad Ragnarsson?' Einar demanded of. the man, ignoring Pinleg. The seax came to his nose and the man saw what would happen, blinked, swallowed snot and blood and then nodded. Einar flicked the seax up anyway, gave a sharp curse and flung the man's head away, so that he sprawled, panting and writhing like a whipped dog, the blood spurting from his split nose. Ketil Crow kicked him viciously as he passed.

They moved swiftly, in a tight group—or as tight as they could along the wooden walkways—Ketil Crow bringing up the rear, turning now and then like a huge elk at bay. We caught up with Valknut and Skapti, a moaning, half-conscious Ulf between them.

As we neared the gate out of the town, there was a flurry of discarded clubs, blades stuffed inside tunics and Ulf-Agar was swathed in Skapti's heavy blue-wool cloak, to hide his state. Like a party of drunks we spilled out of the gate, past the two bored, cold, envious guards and on to the Guest Hall.

Inside were only Oathsworn—all the women had been told to leave—and all of them were armed. Illugi had Ulf-Agar set down near the fire and bent to look at him, peeling off Skapti's cloak. Skapti took it back, staring at the ominous stains with distaste, before bundling it up and moving to stow it in his sea-chest.

Einar put mailed guards on the door, then sat by the fire, elbow on one knee, stroking his moustaches.

The Oathsworn spoke in low, quick tones, sharing the tale of the battle; now and then a sharp bark of laughter rang out.

There was a great thumping at the doors and everyone fell silent, half crouching in the red twilight like a pack of feral dogs, eyes narrowed. Steel gleamed. The thumping came again and a faint voice.

Ìt's Bagnose,' said one of the mailed guards. Einar indicated to open the Hall door and Geir stumbled in, growling.

`Fuck you, what took you so long? Thor's farting up a gale out there and you keep me . . .' Geir fell silent, seeing the red-lit faces of armed men all staring at him, seeing that something had happened.

Einar didn't explain, simply summoned him. 'You followed the little monk?'

Ì did,' said Bagnose, looking round for ale. Steinthor, naked from the waist and a strapped with ragged bindings, handed him one and Bagnose grinned and swallowed. Einar waited patiently.

`He went to the Trade Harbour and a timber hov there. No, not a hov . . . a Christ temple of a sort. Half-built. He met someone there.' He paused, grinning, and took another swallow, then saw Einar's eyes growing dangerous. `Vigfus. Old Skartsmadr Mikill himself.'

Vigfus. Vigfus. The name was spread in mutters around the Hall until someone—Hring, I thought—

asked the question I wanted to ask.
Who the fuck was Vigfus?

Einar ignored it. 'Has he a ship?'

À solid, fat
knarr
in the Trade Harbour. And maybe twenty or thirty men—good fighting men, too, fresh from Bluetooth's wars, though these ones are from the losing side, I am thinking.'

Einar stroked his moustache for a moment, then looked up at Illugi. Ìllugi Godi and Skapti and Ketil Crow: we will talk this out.'

`We should get out of this hall,' growled a voice from the back. 'We are trapped here.'

`What do you think will happen?' Einar shot back.

`Bluetooth's man, this Starkad, will come. If we don't come out, he will burn us until we do,' answered one called Kvasir, nicknamed Spittle.

Einar laughed, though there was no cheer in it. `Bluetooth, last I heard, was King of the Danes and Norway. Birka belongs to the King of the Swedes. He might be offended if Bluetooth's war hounds ran around killing and burning people in this main trade town.'

`No king cares about Birka. Birka is its own master,' Finn Horsehead pointed out. Tambisson is master here, in the name of the King of the Swedes. If the king still is Olof, that is. Eirik was fighting him for it, last I heard, and since Eirik is also known as Victorious, there's a clue as to which one to put your money on.'

There was laughter at that.

Tambisson it is who has allowed Bluetooth's men into Birka with full steel in their hands,' answered Valknut. 'Which gives you a clue as to whom to put your wager on for treachery. He is a practical man for money.'

There was more grim laughter at that. Einar scanned the faces, seeing the half-fearful, half-savage looks and the eyes gleaming in the red firelight. 'Stand out in the wind if you want,' he shrugged. 'But Illugi, Skapti, Ketil Crow and myself will talk this out. Quietly, over some ale, in this warm hall.'

There were mutters about holding a proper Thing over something so important and fresh arguments began. Someone—I was sure it was Eyvind—said loudly, `Burn.'

Geir Bagnose blew froth off his fresh horn of ale and began to skald, loudly and with feeling. I winced as I realised he was making poetry out of the rescue of Ulf-Agar and, though I knew why he did it, wished he didn't. But men stopped arguing to listen.

My father slid in beside me and clapped me on the shoulder. 'You did well.'

Ì shat myself several times,' I answered truthfully. 'I should have waited . . . but he was screaming fit to shave the hairs off your arms.'

Àye,' my father agreed, 'he was bad handled at that—' He broke off as men raised voices in appreciation of a particularly good kenning about 'grim eye of the wyrm', it being a clever play on my name. 'Just as well Ulf is out of his head,' he added. 'He'll hate this.'

`He played his part,' I argued. 'He was defending my back in the end, armed only with a hot forge-iron.'

`Let's hope Bagnose puts it in, then,' my father chuckled, then raised his voice as Geir stopped to take another pull at his drinking horn.

`Well done, Bagnose. Now that the Hakon's skald, the Plagiarist, is silenced by the death of his king in Norway, there's service there for a good court verse-maker.'

Geir raised his horn in acknowledgement, wiped his lips, then stuck the tip of the horn in the earth floor to keep it upright while he continued extemporising verses.

`Just thank the gods he isn't Skallagrimsson,' my father added and I hastily made a sign against the evil eye. Egil was a famous poet, but a man with blood behind his eyes and a great elk head with beetling brows that, it was assuredly reported, you could hit with Thor's hammer and not dent. He was also as mad a killer as a wounded boar and not a man whose ale-elbow you wanted to nudge.

Which reminded me of our predicament—and questions I had. 'Who is Starkad? And this Vigfus? And—

?'

Òne foot first, then another,' my father answered, leaning closer and dropping his voice. He ticked them off on his blunt, splintered-nail fingers. `Starkad Ragnarsson is one of Bluetooth's best, a man loved by women and feared by men, as they say. He is possibly the only man Einar fears, so we should fear him, too.

He has the reputation of a good boar dog—once he has sunk his teeth in, you will never get his jaws out save by slaying.'

I mulled that one over moodily, while my father raised another finger.

`Vigfus—no one has ever called him anything else. Apart from Skartsmadr Mikill, Quite the Dandy, which he hates. It seems he always dresses in the dark, as they say, for he has a worse way with clothing than Skapti Halftroll and the Oathsworn have had dealings with him before . . . certainly we know his like.

He always manages to have some band of followers, all hard men, not to be trusted.'

`Like Einar?' I offered wryly and my father frowned and shook his head.

`No, lad. Einar believes in oaths; he will hold to them. Vigfus is as treacherous as a snake with a foot on its tail.' He sighed and scrubbed his chin. 'There are too many players in this game,' he added gloomily.

`What game?' I retorted. 'We don't know what we are playing.'

`No, I don't understand it,' agreed my father, then shot a sideways, almost sly look at me. 'Einar thinks you are a deep thinker,' he went on, rubbing his beard. 'What do you make of it all?'

I considered it. This King Bluetooth had heard there was something, enough for him to find two ships and armed men, for he had also heard the Oathsworn were involved and knew them as grim men in a fight.

He must have learned that before the Oathsworn came for me in the Vik—that already seemed an age, another life. I looked back on it and saw this boy stuffing gull eggs in the hemmed loop of his tunic and, though I knew it was me, he was already a stranger. In so short a time I had become a man and a killer of men.