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He glanced around one more time and nodded, then took the head of our pack and led us at a steady, fast walk up through the trees, into the night-shrouded land, towards the first silvered smear of dawn.
It was a good pace, uphill. No one spoke and there was silence until the pace began to tell in louder, ragged breathing. That and the shink-shink of slung shields on mail, the swish of the bracken underfoot and the odd clink and creak of equipment was all that marked the passage of nearly fifty fully armed men.
After an hour, Einar stopped us. The sky was milk-white, shading to grey towards us. Somewhere behind that, a winter sun fought to claw over the thin, black edge of the world. Trees were outlined in skeletal black – and there was something else.
It was a dark bulk with a tower and the faint, reddish glow of a light. Everyone saw it; there was a general, hushed business of tightening straps, unshipping shields, hefting weapons.
Einar had us take to one knee, then sent Geir and Steinthor off into the night. Briefly silhouetted against the dawn sky for us, they would be invisible to any watcher from the tower. I rubbed dry lips, hearing my breathing magnified by the helmet’s cheekpieces into a rasp. That looked like a powerful strong building – and, as the light grew, you could see other, smaller buildings huddled round it.
Geir and Steinthor slid back. We all listened.
‘The light is on the gate in a wooden wall that stretches all round it,’ reported Geir, rubbing his dripping bag of a nose. ‘The gate is the only way in unless you want to go over seven feet of timbered fence. It was built for defence, was this place.’
He paused, for effect as it turned out, since Steinthor grinned and added, ‘But the bloody gate is wide and welcoming open. It’s been a long time since anyone attacked them. They have forgotten.’
‘A big stone temple and six outbuildings,’ Geir added, ‘all wattle and withy. A stable, for sure. Perhaps a smithy – I can smell the banked fire and tinsmith metal. There’s a good covered bread-oven. The others could be anything.’
Einar rubbed his nose and squinted. Then he shrugged. ‘One way in, so that simplifies the planning.’
He rose up and we followed. At a fast pace, we followed Geir and Steinthor, almost running through the bracken and, as we neared the gated wall, where the first rose-light of the rising sun touched the moss-gentled points of the timbered fence, we broke into a silent run, piling through the gate under the light set to welcome weary travellers.
Resistance was slight, almost none. By accident, Ketil Crow stumbled over the watchman, a slumbering man in brown robes, huddled in a little hut beside the gate. Ketil had turned aside and gone into it looking for loot, but couldn’t see anything in the dark.
Until the querulous voice revealed the watchman, he thought there was no one else in the building, which was so small and cramped he couldn’t get room to swing a slashing sword properly. Ketil Crow was flailing around, while the unseen watchman screamed and then the sword stuck in a beam and, cursing, Ketil Crow couldn’t get it out.
By this time, half the company had heard the commotion and, seeing his predicament, were howling with laughter. The watchman, crashing into Ketil and knocking him off his feet, stumbled out of the building, mad with fear and near flying in his panic.
That was when Valknut stepped forward and threw his hand axe, which smacked into the left side of the man’s forehead with a sound like dung thrown against a wall. The force flung him sideways and he fell on his back, gurgling like some strange, long-nosed beast, the blood welling out of the mess of his face in a growing pool.
Ketil Crow hurtled out of the building, dark with anger, and the jeers stopped as he swung this way and that. But, as the men congratulated Valknut on his throw – it was generally agreed to be a fine one, since it wasn’t a balanced throwing axe – there were chuckles and sniggers in the darkness at Ketil’s expense.
Wordlessly, Valknut put one foot on the dead man’s bloody chest and, with a flick of his wrist, removed his axe. It came away with a small sucking sound and Valknut, with a brief, blank look at Ketil Crow, wiped the blood and brains on the dead man’s brown robe and strode off, axe in one hand, spear with furled banner in the other.
Ketil Crow caught me looking and I blinked at his expression, then wisely found the stone temple with the tower more of interest and trotted towards it.
It was, it seemed, one large hall, with an impressive flagged floor. The tower held no archers, nothing more than a bell. There were two brown-robed figures sprawled, spewing blood on the flagstones. Half a dozen others were penned at the far end of this hall by the rest of the Oathsworn and Einar was head to head with Illugi Godi.
It was a strange place and I gawped. It had benches and a sacrificial altar, which was where most of the people were. Behind the altar, above their heads, was a window, filled with pieces of coloured glass in the shape of a man wearing, it seemed, a glowing hat. The walls, too, were painted with strange scenes.
The dawn light that spilled from that window was like Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, and it stained the altar. I did not know it then, but such a window was as rare as teeth on a hen – I did not see another until the Great City, Constantinople.
But it was nothing next to what was below it, stuck on the wall. Two thick beams, one vertical, one horizontal, held the wooden figure of a man, hanging there by his hands. No, not hanging, I saw. Nailed, through his hands and his feet. He had some strange crown, which stuck spikes in his forehead, and what seemed to be another gaping wound in one side. It was a fine carving.
‘Is that their god, then?’ I asked Illugi Godi, much to Einar’s annoyance.
‘The son of their god,’ answered the priest. ‘The Romans stuck him on those poles, but the Christ-followers say he didn’t die.’
That was impressive. I had thought any god who allowed himself to be nailed to a bit of wood wasn’t up to much – ours were clever or strong fighting men, after all – but if he had survived all that and come out smiling, this Christ was to be reckoned with.
‘Finished?’ demanded Einar pointedly. Then he turned to Illugi Godi. ‘So where? You are the expert here, priest.’
Illugi Godi squatted, fumbled in his pouch and came up with his rune bones. I saw the brown figures flailing one hand back and forward on their chests, which seemed to be their way of warding off the evil eye. I laughed. Illugi wasn’t evil.
He cast; the bones tinkled. He took some fine white sand from his pouch and blew it off the palm of his hand towards the altar, then stood and smiled.
‘There,’ he said and pointed at the altar. As a hiding place, it wasn’t hard to work out – it was almost the only thing in the hov of this hall. And, I saw, the sand he had blown hadn’t settled neatly where the altar touched the flagstoned floor. It had sunk into the cracks, which meant it was hollow beneath. He was clever, was Illugi Godi.
Einar and Valknut circled it, but there was nothing: no handle, no mark of any kind. Puzzled, they were scratching their heads when Gunnar Raudi, wiser in the ways of hiding valuables, stepped up, leaned his shoulder into it and gave it a shove.
With a grinding sound, the altar slid back several feet, revealing a set of stone steps. A torch uncovered a small chamber and the contents were soon up and on the flagstones.
There was a thin silver plate, two metal cups – gold, Illugi said – and a couple of hollow silver columns, which Gunnar Raudi said were sticks for holding fat tallow candles. Strange to relate now, but I had never seen the like and was so marvelling at them I nearly missed the next wonders.
Geir came up from the chamber with two chests. The first was clearly the one Einar wanted, a fat, ornate effort about the size of a man’s head. The other was flatter; Geir held it up and turned it round. It was studded with coloured glass and had a huge clasp on it, which Geir snapped off easily, bit and announced admiringly: ‘Silver.’
Then, to my astonishment, the chest fell open in two halves and loads of leaves riffled. Geir turned it over and over while I stared, my mouth dropped open like a droop-lipped horse. ‘It’s full of leaves,’ I said, wondering. ‘With colours on them – and little animals and birds.’
‘It’s a book,’ said Illugi Godi patiently as Geir chuckled. ‘The Christ monks make them. It has their holy writings. Like runes.’
Not much, I thought scornfully. Runes were worked on stone, or wood, or metal; otherwise, how would they last? Geir ripped one of the leaves out to show me how this book thing worked and I heard a brown-robed man, one with silver hair, moan.
Steinthor, more practical, grunted with annoyance over something else. ‘No women, then?’
‘Christ priests don’t go with women,’ advised Illugi Godi and Steinthor shot him a hard glance.
‘Bollocks. I have tupped women before in these Christ places.’
‘There are women Christ priests,’ Illugi said patiently. ‘But they don’t go with men.’
‘Just as well,’ grunted Einar, cuffing Steinthor on the shoulder. ‘No time to plough any fresh furrows here and no one is dragging any shrieking women with us. Anyway, why are you here? Didn’t I tell you to make sure all these brown-robes were rounded up?’
As if in answer, the air was split with a massive ringing boom, followed by another. There was a moment of stunned panic, then Einar roared, ‘The bell. The fucking bell…’
Gunnar Raudi was first, spilling into the little chamber at the far end beneath the tower.
The defiant man in a brown robe lasted long enough for a second pull on the rope before Gunnar’s blow sprayed his teeth and blood and brains against the opposite wall. The bell, as if his ghost still tugged the rope, continued to boom a couple more times before swinging to silence.
In the main hov of the hall, the men were licking their lips, weapons up, uncertain and on edge. Steinthor, aware that he had put everyone at risk, shrugged apology, ducked hastily under Einar’s scowl and scurried off to scout.
Black-raging, Einar swept up the fat chest, indicated to a couple of men to pick up the rest, then turned to Ketil Crow and Ulf-Agar, jerking his chin at the huddled brown-robes. ‘Kill them, then join us at the gate. We’ll have to move fast now.’
I left, half looking back – Valknut pushed me impatiently through the door as the screams began.
Outside, the Oathsworn gathered silently together. No buildings had been torched, the ringing bell had interrupted that and someone said we should do it now, but Einar pointed out how long it would take to get a fire lit. ‘They’ll be coming after us,’ he growled. ‘Now we head for the Fjord Elk – and fast.’
With Geir and Steinthor running ahead, he led us off at a fast pace, almost on the edge of a trot. It was full daylight now, but overcast, smirring with rain. I noticed that the birds were mad with song.
We were halfway to the ship, perhaps a little more, labouring up a slope of red bracken, when they caught us up.
Skapti, huffing in the rear, suddenly yelled out and pointed behind us. We all stopped and turned; dark against the browns and withered greens, the horsemen came on, urging their mounts through the tangling bracken and gorse.
‘Top of the hill, form a line, three deep,’ roared Einar. ‘Move.’
The Oathsworn may have been stumbling and out of breath, but they knew their business. I was the only one who didn’t.
They slid into three ranks, the mailed men in front, the spearmen second and everyone else in the third. Einar saw me as he strode along the front. ‘Guard Valknut, young Orm. Sig, let them see whom they face.’
Valknut slid the thongs from the furled cloth on his spear. A banner spilled out, white with a black bird on it. I realised, with a sudden start, that it was the Raven Banner. I was about to fight under the Raven Banner, as in a saga tale.
Valknut hefted his axe in his free right hand and grunted at me, ‘On my left, Bear Slayer. You are the shield I don’t have.’
I nodded. Geir and Steinthor were on the same side, the left flank of the line. On the other, Skapti took station, where there was room to swing his long Dane axe.
Einar chuckled, wiping the drips from the edge of his helmet. ‘Not horse, these. Fyrdmen on ponies. You won’t have to face mailed horse today, just the fat levy of some local noble.’
I watched the horsemen dismount; saw that most of them were in leather and had shields, spears and axes. Just like us.
One of them, mailed and shouting, bullied them into three ranks, again like us. There were a lot of them, perhaps twenty or so more than we were and they overlapped us. I heard the swish of Skapti’s axe, testing range.
The rain was invisible and soaking. We dripped, waiting in the bracken and heather.
Einar shook rain from his eyes and grunted, peering at the men below us. They were in no hurry to come at us and, suddenly, Einar strode over to Skapti. They had a brief, grunting conversation, then Skapti simply dropped his axe and hauled out the heavier of the two swords he wore, the one he called Shieldbreaker. Einar fell in behind us.
Skapti strode to the front, swinging his shield on to his arm. ‘We can’t wait. That’s what they want and they will be bringing up more men, I am thinking, before they take on the Raven Banner.’
There was a general mutter of agreement and Skapti nodded. ‘Boar snout. We have to break their shieldwall here, scatter them.’
He strode several paces to the front and everyone seemed to slide into position like a cunning toy. Shields overlapped, they crowded into a wedge, shoulders hunched into the shields, pushing. In front, Skapti pushed back, as if trying to hold them, his feet skidding on the bracken, a delicate balance between strength and footwork.
Balked, the men shoved; the power of the wedge grew as it moved downhill, with Skapti as a brake. With nowhere to go, I fell in at the rear, still with Valknut.
About twenty paces from the line of the fyrdmen and their overlapped shields, Skapti roared something and the men behind increased their effort. Skapti took two, three steps, raised his shield, lifted his legs off the ground and was shot forward, a huge battering ram at the point of the boar snout.
The fyrdmen’s shieldwall smashed apart; men were flung sideways. The Oathsworn were in among them then, the fight a grunting, flailing, slipping, sliding mess of whirling steel and blood and flying bone.
On the fringes, some of the fyrdmen dashed forward; two arrows spanged off their shields and they stopped, seeing Geir and Steinthor nocking fresh ones. They huddled behind their big round shields and backed off, all save two, who came on, heading for the Raven Banner and Valknut.
And me.
Valknut backed off a pace, hefted the axe and then hurled it. It cannoned off one man’s shield, spinning through the air into the bodies behind.
With a triumphant roar, he came stumbling at Valknut, who stuck the Raven Banner pole firmly in the ground, whipped out a long seax and, ducking under the swing and the man’s shield, kippered him open with a swipe along the belly. He was still running when his stomach opened and all the blue-white coils fell out like rope, tripping him.
The other one came at me. I was petrified … but I weathered his first rush; I felt his sword whack on my shield, bounce off the metal rim and just miss my nose.
He hacked a backstroke and, before I knew it, I had done what Gudleif and Gunnar Raudi had taken pains to teach me … I slammed the blunt point of my sword at the bottom of his shield, the force of the blow tilting it forward and exposing the whole shoulder and side of his neck.
Then I carved a stroke downward before he could recover. The blade going in felt no different to chopping wood, since it smashed into the shoulder and collar bone, half carving his arm from the socket.
He gave a shriek and fell away, dropping his sword, clutching at the wound as if to fasten the gaping sides together. I stood there, scarcely believing what I had done, my mouth gawping like a dead cod.
‘Finish him,’ growled Valknut and I looked at him, then back to the wounded man. No, not man. Boy. He fell, lay on his back, chest heaving, no longer even groaning. The blood flowed thickly out of him; by the time I was peering at him, the rain was pooling in the hollows of his unseeing eyes. No older than me …
I felt a smack on the back and whirled, sword up.
Steinthor held up a placating hand, chuckling. ‘Easy, Bear Killer. That was well done, as neat as any I have seen – but don’t gawp at it or you’ll end up lying beside him.’
But the fight was over. The fyrdmen – those not groaning or lying like little sacks on the sodden ground – were running, not even waiting to take their horses. The leader was down, carved up under the combined efforts of Einar and Skapti. Panting men knelt or stood, gasping, legs apart, heads down. One or two, I saw, were retching.
Steinthor expertly patted the corpse beside me, gave a grunt of satisfaction and came up with two small slivers of hacksilver and an amulet in the shape of a cross. He tossed the amulet to me and stuffed the silver down his boot. ‘Keepsake,’ he chuckled and moved on to the next.
Einar was cleaning his sword. Skapti Halftroll was moving among the bodies, making sure the fyrdmen were all dead.
Illugi fed something from a flask to one of our own, who lay shivering in the rain, hands clutching his stomach. Blood leaked between his fingers.
‘Tally?’ demanded Einar.
Skapti thumbed one side of his nose and snotted. ‘Eight of them dead, more who will feel how bad their wounds are when the fear that keeps them running wears off.’
‘Us?’
‘A few wounds. Harald One-eye’s serious; someone carved half his foot off, so we’ll have to carry him. And Haarlaug has a belly wound,’ answered Illugi.
‘Bad?’ asked Einar. Illugi paused, moved to the groaning man, knelt, sniffed and then came back to Einar.
‘Soup wound, I think, though it will take an hour to be sure. We’ll have to carry him and that will kill him, for sure.’
Einar stroked his wet chin and then shrugged. He drew out his short seax and moved to Haarlaug. Around him the other men collected themselves, stripping what they could find from the dead. The soft, silent, smirring rain dripped.
‘Haarlaug,’ said Einar. ‘You have a belly wound. Illugi Godi fed you some of his soup and he can smell it even so soon after.’
He let the words hang there. The man grunted, as if hit afresh. His face, already pale, went to milk and he licked dry lips. Then he nodded. He knew what it meant to smell Illugi Godi’s soup from your opened belly.
‘Make sure Thurid, my wife, gets what’s mine,’ he said. ‘And tell her I died well.’
Einar nodded. Someone thrust a seax at him and he took it, then wrapped Haarlaug’s hand tight round the hilt.
‘Give my regards to all those who have gone before,’ he said. ‘Say to them, “Not yet, but soon,” from me.’
Those nearest muttered their own prayers and nodded at Haarlaug, commending him to Valholl. Now that the moment was on him, though, his eyes rolled in panic and his mouth started working.
Einar was swift, lest Haarlaug lose hold and let his fear ruin his dignity. The short seax flashed across the white throat, leaving a red line and he thrashed and kicked for a few minutes, eyes bulging and Einar holding him, one hand on his mouth, the blood soaking his sleeve.
Then he stopped and Einar placed one hand over his face, closing Haarlaug’s wild eyes, leaving it there for a moment, kneeling. Illugi Godi chanted softly, almost under his breath. The blood pooled under Haarlaug’s lolled head.
Then Einar rose up. ‘Strip him quickly, then we go. Ottar, Vig, get the mail and weapons off that leader and whatever valuables he has – there’s a torc round his neck that looks like silver. Finn Horsehead, fetch one of those horses and load Harald on to it. Move.’
In seconds, it seemed, before I had even plodded back to the top of the hill, Haarlaug was a pale, sad shape in the red hillside, laid neatly on his back, hands clasped on the deer-horn hilt of the knife on his chest, the only thing they left. The rest struggled wearily up the hill, clutching a shirt, breeks, boots – even his woollen socks. Ottar and Vig panted to the top, one draped with a mail shirt, the other clutching a sword and an extra shield. Ottar looked back, hawked and spat. ‘No way to leave one of our own,’ he said. ‘He should have been decently howed up.’
