Odin’s Child (15 page)

“You'll teach me all I need to know.”

“I? I teach you? Did I ever say I meant to risk my skin? Why it's been longer than long since I held a tiller stick under my arm, and I've a warm berth right here. I fancy myself a farmer nowadays.”

“D'you fancy yourself swinging from a tree, damn your eyes!” sputtered Hoskuld. “You'll either steer that ship for him and teach him seafaring, or I'll hang you here and now for the thief that you are! But I'll make you a bargain, Stig,” he added, lowering his voice. “If you serve my nephew faithfully for one year and still fancy the life of a farmer after that, come back and find a purse of silver waiting for you, and you can buy yourself as tidy a farm as you'll ever see. Would that suit you?”

Leaning his back against the wall, the brigand gave his spiky head a good scratch and seemed to gaze at some imaginary horizon. “Part with old Stig as easy as that, is it, sir? And just when I thought we was getting on famous. But it's a tempting offer to be sure—lick this young ‘un into shape for a purse of silver. You did say she'd weigh five pound, eh, sir?”

“Praise God!” cried Hoskuld again, and this time sent Katla running to the bed-closet to take down the crucifix from over his bed and bring it here to hang above his high-seat. “And we had better all fall on our knees—yes, especially you, Odd Thorvaldsson, and thank Him properly, for vengeance is His specialty!”

Hoskuld had us on our knees a good long while. I looked sidelong once or twice at Stig, kneeling dutifully with his hands folded under his bristly chin and his eyes turned reverently upwards. He might have been a bishop in that pose. Add acting to this man's many talents, I thought. How far can a rogue like that be trusted?

I stole a glance, too, at Kalf, who knelt beside me, and nudged his elbow. Long-limbed Kalf, who could spit a moorhen on the wing with one arrow,
and who loved to swear oaths by Odin and Thor to please me. I hoped for a wink. But Kalf's mouth was hard set, and he turned his face away.

I knew why. That night, after Hoskuld had gone to bed, Kalf and I talked quietly for a long time.

†

Stig was away for the next two days while I suffered such a state of excitation—torn between visions of revenge and a sickening fear that the ship would sail before we were ready—that I nearly gave up sleeping altogether, and my nerves were as raw and ragged as, a month before, my skin had been.

In the intervals between these bouts of despair, however, I pondered my future, taking Kalf and Hoskuld into my confidence. “I won't come home just to be an outlaw in my own land. And I won't go to Vinland either, there are no riches to be had there. I must gain wealth and fame enough, somehow, to pay back the butchers of my family and force the Althing to restore my rights. Does anyone doubt that a man with a hundred warriors and a full purse can do as he pleases in this country of ours?”

No one doubted it.

“Will you turn viking like our fathers?” asked Kalf. I saw Hoskuld wince, pained by even this allusion to his son, so long ago tortured to death by the Irish.

“Maybe,” I answered. “In any case, I'll begin by sailing to Norway—to Trondelag, where our ancestors came from. It's where exiles from Iceland go, I'm told. There rules a king there who keeps a great court and is a friend to our countrymen. Once there, I'll look for my opportunities.”

My uncle nodded sagely and approved of my plan. Being not a traveled man himself, but not ignorant either, he felt himself well informed about life in the wide world.

So Norway it was—or rather, would be—if only Stig returned in time. I plunged my horn into the ale barrel again and resumed my fretful pacing.

Just when I thought I could stand it no longer—it was about midnight of the second night—I heard a commotion in the yard and threw open the door to find Stig and five others straggling in through the gate.

“Captain, your crew,” he called, with a wave of his arm. “You might find prettier than these but none more willing when it comes to robbery and murder.”

They trooped inside and sat down in a row on the wall-bench.

“Now these two galumphing lads,” Stig said, “are Stuf and Otkel. Cousins. Never go anywhere one without the other. Not brainy, but good-natured and energetic as you could want. I've known 'em for a while.”

They were somewhere between my age and Gunnar's. Stuf had hair like a haystack and a pendulous lower lip and was very strong. Otkel was slighter of build and seemed afflicted with shyness, for he seldom lifted his eyes from the floor.

“And this rat-faced man is Starkad.”

Starkad had sad eyes and a sharp nose with a brush of brown moustache under it, which gave him the appearance of an unhappy rodent. But there was intelligence in his face.

“Don't be fooled by his puny size. We've taken many hard knocks together, Starkad and me. Now these last two I haven't had the pleasure of knowing so very long, but they claim to know their way around a ship and don't object to a little rough and tumble.”

I didn't doubt it. The one called Bald Brodd was an oldish fellow, gone to fat, but with muscle under it. His manner was gruff and deliberate and with his shiny head and small eyes, made me think of an ancient sea turtle.

The other called himself Hogni Hard-Mouth, a man of about five-and-thirty whose heavy grinding jaws were constantly at work, and whose wide mouth was set in a scowl, as though he were condemned for life to chew some morsel that did not agree with him. He was the only one who didn't touch his forehead or his cap when Stig introduced him. I paid it no attention at the time.

Altogether, not an imposing lot, I thought. Not quite the sea rovers of ancient song. Landless men, all of them, or even the sons of thralls, who lived hand to mouth as laborers at harvest and haying time or as seamen when they could get a berth, armed with nothing more than knives and sickles—though with those they looked well-practiced. I was in no position to be finicky.

“They're right good-looking men, Steersman,” I said, addressing Stig by the title I meant to give him. “I'll gladly ‘plow the sea's furrow' with these.”

My poetic kenning must have appealed to Hogni Hard-Mouth for he laughed out loud.

“We had a look at your ship,” said Stig. “Moored at the mouth of the Whitewater and heavy laden with cargo. If the weather holds fair, I guess she'll go out on the morning's tide.”

“Then there's no time to lose! Uncle, I need arms for these men and me, and your fastest horses with a trusted thrall to lead them back again. With hard riding we'll be aboard Strife-Hrut's ship before he's drunk his morning ale.”

Hoskuld strode about bellowing orders at his people. Swords, axes, shields, and steel caps, all grimy and rusting from years of disuse, were pulled down from the walls and handed out amongst us.

“Dear boy,” he said, “you haven't a sword yourself.” I had lost Neck-Biter in my escape. “This one wants sharpening, but it fits the hand well.” It was his own sword, which hung beside his high-seat; a heavy weapon with spots of rust on the blade.

“What's its name, Uncle?”

“You give it one, it'll answer.”

“Then I name it ‘Hrutsbane' and ‘Snorrisbane'—to remind me whose lives I am sworn to take.”

In the cool night air the horses stood sleepy-eyed, tossing their shaggy heads and snorting while we flung saddles on them and fumbled in the near-darkness with knots and buckles.

Kalf was beside me. Now there remained only one last thing to do. Though it was a sad train of events that had brought it to pass, still, this was the day that he and I had dreamt of for so long. Leaving the others in the yard, we went together to the doorway where Hoskuld stood.

“Grandfather, I'm going too,” said Kalf. “You know I must.”

“How's that, you young dog, what d'you say?”

“I said I am leaving—not for good, but for a while, to seek my fortune with Odd. May I have your blessing?”

“Blessing? That you may not!”

“Then I go without it, I'm sorry, Grandfather.”

“Must I lose son and grandson both?” He put his hands to his ears and reeled back into the room. His loud lamentation brought Katla flying from her perch by the loom to throw herself between us.

“Wicked Kalf!” she screamed. “What are you thinking of to leave
us like this and go off with these outlaws—and with
this
one especially,” directing her pointy chin at me. “I don't say anything about myself without a brother to protect me from … from assailants and such, but the poor old thing here, lone and lorn, and….”

She would have gone on longer, no doubt, for she was just warming to her subject, but Hoskuld, recovering himself, silenced her with a look. I had often suspected that he disliked Katla, for all her fawning on him, and couldn't bear to hear himself defended by her as if he were a pitiful, doddering invalid. Her outburst against us did more to change his mind than anything Kalf or I could have said. Still, it was no easy change of heart that he underwent. If you could have looked through the filmy windows of his eyes, what a battle you would have seen raging inside him.

“Be still, girl,” he snapped. “Your brother is right after all. I have seen it coming this long time. The son of Flosi the viking has better things to do than lead an old man about.”

Flosi—that name that was never to be spoken.

Kalf went to embrace him, but Hoskuld held him at arm's length and bent his brows sternly. “Now Kalf, you must promise me. Stay with Odd. Never leave his side. And mind this, too, damn it all. I am not a lecturing sort of man, but there are wise words in shriveled skins, and young dogs ought to heed 'em. You listen, too, Odd. Keep silent in a strange hall. Answer lying with lies. And don't think that everyone who laughs when you do is your friend. When the ale goes round, drink your share, but don't hold on to the cup. Above all, never trust what a woman tells you or believe 'em constant, for their heads are turned on a potter's wheel and their counsels are cold. It takes sharp wits to wander in the world, you young dogs, and a fool is soon found out.”

“Yes, Grandfather, yes,” Slender-Leg answered impatiently to all this preachy stuff.

“And Kalf, even though you swear like a heathen to vex me, try to remember that you are a Christian boy, and say your prayers sometimes. And you, Odd Tangle-Hair, God help you. Not even guarded by the armor of baptism. What can I say?”

“Hurry up in there,” came Stig's rough voice from the yard. “We're mounted and ready.”

“Hoskuld Long-Jaws,” I laughed, taking his dry hand in mine, “live easy. And charming Katla, too. We'll be back to drink your mead again
one day soon.”

But it wouldn't be soon.

They were all long in their graves before I saw these shores again.

Kalf scooped his bow and quiver from their peg on the wall, flashed a last smile at the weepy old man, and dashed out the door with me.

“Young dogs,” murmured Hoskuld to our retreating backs.

The rising sun threw our shadows ahead of us as we trudged along the sandy spit that divides the mouth of the Whitewater from the sea. We had left the horses out of sight and walked the remaining distance with our packs and shields slung on our backs. Just within the bar, Hrut's ship rode at anchor, and nearby three of his men hunched over a small fire, warming themselves against the morning chill. They jumped to their feet as we came in sight, though we were careful to walk slowly, keeping our hands well away from our swords.

“Halloo,” I called when we were within hailing distance. “We are men from over Skalholt way, looking for a berth. Can you use a few good seamen?”

Coming closer.

“You've wasted your time,” one answered, surly-voiced. “Strife-Hrut Ivarsson's her master—you passed his hall four mile upstream. And he sails today with a full crew.”

“We'll ask him just the same, friend, if you don't mind—always room for good hands at sea. Meantime, won't you let us have a look at her? We won't sail in just any old tub.”

Almost close enough.

We were too many for his liking. He hesitated, with his hand on his signal horn. His two companions stood close at his side, fingering their weapons.

“No farther,” he warned, “not without the master's say-so. Wait there, if
you want to talk to him.”

“I'd like to, friend, but not just now.” I ran the last few steps, drew, and thrust all in one motion, bearing him to the ground with my sword in his side. Stig and the rest leapt in after me and in a moment the other two bled out their lives in the black sand.

“Captain,” said Stig, “best we get aboard and cast off. The tide's already running and Hrut'll be on his way.”

But I scarcely heard him. Blood frenzy blew through me like a gale.

“Here, now what are you doing, Captain? We haven't got time for that.”

What was I doing? On my knees beside the sentry's body, cursing Hoskuld's dull old blade, I struck and sawed at the bleeding neck, picturing to myself that it was Hrut's neck—Snorri's neck. Not enough for me to steal a ship and sneak away like a common thief. No, let them find this, and ponder it!

“Will no one lend me an axe?” I cried between sobs of breath.

They looked at me sidelong, unsure what to do.

“Be here all day at this rate,” muttered Stig, taking an axe from Brodd and tossing it on the sand by me.

With a crunch of bone the head came away and I swung it up by its hair, the blood running down my arm to the elbow, and shouted, “This for Gunnar!”

Stuf and Otkel grinned, Bald Brodd likewise, and Starkad, and even Hogni Hard-Mouth, as much as his grinding jaws would allow. But Kalf looked wide-eyed at me. Poor Kalf. Never seen a severed head before?

I flung myself on the second body, raining blows on its head, its back.