The Prow Beast (40 page)

‘I would not count on living out the rest of this day,’ I answered over my shoulder, going off to fetch Brand’s sword, ‘never mind having a cunning plan for tomorrow.’

When I was sliding the baldric over my head, Koll trotted up, followed by Yan Alf, whom I had set to guard him. The boy’s white-lashed eyes stared up into mine, sullen as a slate-blue sea and he wanted to know why I had stopped him from going near the monk.

‘He ran off with you,’ I answered, annoyed at this. ‘Is that not reason enough? Because of him we are here, a long way from home and…’

I stopped then, before the words ‘dying for the matter’ spat past my teeth; I did not want the boy – or anyone else – empty of hope.

‘He saved me,’ Koll persisted.

‘He has done killing in the night,’ I countered, ‘with some strange magic.’

I broke off and looked at Yan Alf, who shrugged.

‘Alyosha and Ospak stripped and searched him,’ the little man said. ‘The only way he could be more naked is if they flayed him. They found no weapon. Ospak guards him now and he has asked to help Bjaelfi with the sick.’

Very noble and Christ-like – but Alyosha would have turned the monk inside out rather than leave him as a threat to his charge, little Crowbone, and, if he had found no weapons…

Yet I did not trust Leo and said so.

‘Keep at arm’s length from that monk,’ I added and saw the hard set of Koll’s lip and, worse, the dull sadness in those pale eyes. I had told him of his mother’s death and he had taken it with no tears – and yet…

‘Did your father tell how to behave as a
fostri
?’ I persisted and he nodded reluctantly, then repeated the words all sons are told – obey and learn. I merely nodded at him, then had an idea and handed him Brand’s sword.

‘This belongs to your father and so to you. You are come early to it and it is likely too large and heavy for you to use, even if you knew how. One day Finn will show you the strokes of it – but for now you can guard it.’

The pale blue eyes widened and brightened like the sun had burst out on a summer sky. He took the sheathed weapon in both hands and turned, grinning to Yan Alf, before running off with it.

‘Keep him away from the monk,’ I said softly to Yan Alf as he passed me, chasing his charge. If he had an answer, I did not hear it and turned away to hunt out a seax or an axe for myself. The whole sick-slathered wyrd of it had come down to this tapestry woven by the Norns and the picture of it was clear enough – a cliff in front, wolves behind.

I would not survive it, whatever happened, for I was sure Odin had, finally, led me to the place where he would take the life I had offered him.

First, though, there were the dance-steps of the rite, beginning with horn blasts from them to attract our attention. I had seen this before, though from the other side, when we had arrived at the Khazar fortress of Sarkel with Sviatoslav, Prince of Kiev. Ten summers ago, I suddenly realised, climbing the ramp to the tower over the gate, where Finn and others waited. I had Dark Eye with me, for she was the only one who could talk to these Pols in their own tongue.

A knot of riders came slowly, ambling their horses across the wet grass and scrub to where the raised walkway led to the gate. One of them, accompanied by a single rider bearing the huge red flag with a spoked wheel worked in gold threads on it, came forward a few steps more.

He was splendid in gilded ringmail and a red cloak, his elaborately crested helmet nestled in the crook of one arm, allowing his braided black hair, weighted with fat silver rings, to swing on his shoulders. His beard was black and glossed with oil and it was clear he was someone of note, which Dark Eye confirmed.

‘Czcibor,’ she said softly. ‘Brother of King Dagomir, whom folk by-name Miezko as a joke, for it means “peace”. He makes it by fighting all who resist him. This Czcibor is the one who beat the Saxlanders at Cidini and took the Pols to the mouth of the Odra.’

I had thought Miezko meant ‘famous sword’, but then his enemies would have a different take on it and there was no more bitter enemy of the Pols than Dark Eye. When this Czcibor spoke, I wondered if I could even trust what she said – then scattered the thought, half-ashamed at it.

Dark Eye listened and then spoke back to him and turned to me; heads craned expectantly.

‘He says you should give in, for you cannot win. It is better if you submit. I would be careful of him, Jarl Orm, for he knows Norse well enough.’

She spoke in a guarded, level voice; I looked at Czcibor, who grinned.

‘Is this true – you know the Norse?’

‘Of course. My niece, Sigrith, is a queen in your lands.’

Styrbjorn suddenly thrust forward, eager as a bounding pup – if he had had a tail it would have shaken itself off.

‘You are Czcibor,’ he declared and the man, frowning at this breach of manners, nodded curtly.

‘Ah, well,’ Styrbjorn went on, ‘then we are related, after a fashion, for my uncle is married to your niece. I am Styrbjorn…’

Czcibor held up a hand, which was as good as a slap in the face to Styrbjorn. When he spoke, it was a slow, languid, serpent-hiss of sound, made worse by the mush-mess he made of the Norse.

‘Styrbjorn. Yes. I know of you. My niece sent word of it down the Odra.’

I saw Styrbjorn stiffen and pale at that, which he had not been expecting.

‘I shall have a stake cut especially for you,’ Czcibor went on. ‘And for the little monk who killed the woman Jasna. Perhaps I will make it the same one for you both.’

My stomach roiled and my knees started to twitch against the rough wood of the rampart stakes, where I had braced them. For a man with a name like a fire in a rainstorm he could summon up a mighty vision.

‘An interesting idea,’ I managed eventually. ‘I would enjoy watching it under other circumstances. But we are all comfortable here and our arses free from stakes and a lot more dry than yours will be, by and by.’

He cocked his head sideways a little, appraising me; I had made it clear that I knew his predicament – he could not surround the
grod
completely because of the swamps on three sides and the river the settlement was practically thrust into. His own camp was on a soaked flat offering little comfort and no chance to dig even the simplest of privy pits or earthwork defences that would not instantly fill with mud and water.

All he could do was attack and be done with the business as fast as possible, which was a hard option – but this was a man come fresh from victory and unmoved by such problems. He nodded politely, put on his splendid helm, dragged out a spear and, with a swift throw and a gallop off, hurled it over the ramparts as the signal that the bloody matter had commenced. It skittered on the hard ground behind me and a few men scattered, cursing the surprise of it.

‘That went well,’ Finn declared, grinning, then scowled and thumped Styrbjorn’s shoulder, making the youth stagger. ‘You nithing arse.’

Styrbjorn had no answer to it and slunk away while others who heard about his fawning attempt to wriggle over to safety jeered him.

And Dark Eye came to me, snuggling under my arm – which gained us both a couple of scowls from those who saw a sweetness they were not allowed – so that she could whisper softly.

‘He asked for me.’

I had guessed that and had made quiet warding signs to prevent him voicing it in Norse for all to hear; let the Oathsworn think they were sieged here for the settlement we slaughtered, for if they suspected Dark Eye was the cause, they would hurl her to them in an eyeblink.

Yet it nagged me, that thought, for there was a whiff of betrayal and oath-breaking in it. Worse, there was the thought that this was what the Sea-Finn’s drum had spoken of, so that defying it was standing up and spitting in Odin’s one eye. I thought I heard Einar’s slow, knowing chuckle as I turned away, whirling with mad thoughts of how to get folk out of these closing wolf-jaws.

Them, of course. Not me. I was only offering prayers to Frey and Thor and any other god I could think of to help convince AllFather to spare me long enough to see the crew away.

All the rest of that day we worked to improve our lot, comforted by the distant sound of axe-work in hidden trees; the Pols were making scaling ladders and would not attack before that was done.

Just as the dusk smoked in and we lit fires and torches, Finn came back from where he had been checking the watchers on the river wall; there were skin-boats on the river, crude and hastily made, carrying one man to row and one man to shoot.

‘The ground between the river and the wall is sodden, knee-deep at least,’ he added. ‘It will take four, perhaps five days for the water to seep away back to the river and even then a man will be hard put to walk through it without sinking to the cods.’

We ate together, waving off clouds of insects under the awning of the sail, for no-one wanted to be inside one of the houses, as if the air was thicker with rot there than elsewhere. I made a Thing of it, once they were licking their horn spoons clean.

To get away we would have to cross the bog down to the river, go in quietly, so as not to annoy the watchers in boats, then drift downstream a way to safety. Those who could not swim should fill bladders with air to stay afloat – there were sheep and goats enough for it – and we could try this when the bog had dried out, in five days.

By then we would be ankle-deep in blood, which I did not mention, and there would have to be men on the ramparts to let the others escape, which I did.

‘I will be one,’ I said, hoping my voice would not crack like my courage at the thought. ‘It would be helpful to have a few more, but I do not demand this.’

‘I will stay,’ said Crowbone at once and Koll piped up bravely on his heels. I saw Alyosha stiffen at that, so I shook my head.

‘Not this time, little Olaf,’ I said to Crowbone. ‘I need you to make sure Koll Brandsson gets back to his father.’

‘I will stay,’ Koll shrilled.

‘You will obey your foster-father,’ growled Finn, ‘whose duty it is to keep you safe.’

The white head drooped. Crowbone paused a moment, then nodded at me; from the corner of my eye, I caught Alyosha’s relief.

‘I will be at your shieldless side,’ Finn declared and I acknowledged it; one by one, men stood up and were counted, each louder than the last and each into cheers louder than the one before. At the edge of them, Randr Sterki glowered in silence, offering nothing.

In the end, I had to turn men down, keeping ten only – Abjorn, Ospak, Finnlaith, Murrough, Finn, Rovald, Rorik Stari, Kaelbjorn Rog, Myrkjartan and Uddolf. We broke out a barrel of the fiery spirit that passed for drink in this part of the world and men fell to flyting each other with boasts of what they would do in the morning.

Later, as the fire collapsed to showers of sparks and glowing embers, Finn and I walked the guardposts, pausing in the tower over the gate to stare out at the field of red, flickering blooms which marked the camp of our enemy.

Beyond it, the night was silver and grey, soaked with the scent of a rain-wind, fresh-cut wood and torn earth; the moon, blurred and pale, darted from cloud to cloud, as if trying to hide from the all-devouring wolf which chased her.

‘Will you tell them about the girl?’ Finn growled and I felt neither alarm nor surprise; Finn was no fool.

‘They would hand her over,’ I answered flatly and he nodded.

‘Aye – was this not what the Sea-Finn’s drum meant? Can you stand against it? Defy that wyrd?’

I must and hoped he would not ask me the why of it, for I had no answer. Every time I thought of it, all I saw were her great, seal eyes.

He nodded again when I howked all this out.

‘Is she so worth it then, that everyone here has to die? Even if both you and she get away, I am thinking Thorgunna will not be happy to see a second wife come into her home. I am thinking also that the Mazur girl is not the sort to be settled with being a second wife. If anyone makes it out of here at all – you are under the eye of Odin, after all.’

I had churned this to rancid butter night after night, after every furtive, frantic coupling we had stolen and had no answer for him.

‘Tell Red Njal to get her away to safety when the time comes,’ was all I could manage. ‘Tell him to take her back to Hestreng. I charge him with that and taking Koll home.’

Finn nodded, a twist of a smile on his face. ‘Aye – I wondered why you did not include Njal in your hopeless
hird
,’ he answered. ‘So did he – this will go some way to calming him for it.’

There was a noise and a figure that turned us; she came up the ladder to the tower, wrapped in her too-large cloak and it was clear she had heard us talk. Her eyes had vanished in the dark so that her face, pale and seemingly pitted with two large holes, looked like a savage mask.

‘You will not take me home, then, Jarl Orm?’

I shook my head. It was too far and I would not be there to do it myself, for my wyrd was on me. The best I could offer was safety at Hestreng.

‘In time,’ I added, limping the words out, ‘it may be that you could be taken back to your people. Word can certainly be sent to your father that you are no longer held by his enemies.’

She nodded and paused, head raised as if sniffing the wind.

‘My father is called, in our tongue, Hard-Mouth,’ she said. ‘He is well-named and has a hand to match. I have two brothers and he whipped them every day from when they were old enough to walk. Every morning, before they ate, so they would know what pain was before pleasure and that such was our lot in life as Mazurs.’

She paused; a dog fox screamed somewhere far away.

‘But he called me his little white flower and it was the hardest thing he did, handing me over to the Pols. He had no choice and wept. I had never seen my father shed a tear.’

Again she paused and no-one offered words to fill the silence.

‘When he finds I am no longer held by the enemy,’ she went on, stirring suddenly, ‘he will raise up his warriors and fall on the Pols. They will slaughter him, for they are much stronger now. It will take them time, for my father is skilful and folk will follow him. They will run and fight and run again – but, in the end, they will submit, when all the young men are dead. Bairns and women and old heads will die, too. The Mazur will be rubbed out, vanished like ripples on water.’