Книга - Crowbone

Crowbone
Robert Low


The long awaited return to Robert Low’s Oathsworn seriesIsland of Mann, 979AD. A monk lies dying with a sworn secret he must pass onto Crowbone, the true heir to Norway’s throne, before he breathes his last. The monk’s words will decide the fate of a kingdom.But once the secret is revealed, Crowbone’s long-time enemy, Gunnhild, the Witch Mother of Kings, threatens his path to the crown and will stop at nothing to prevent him from attaining his royal destiny. Crowbone and his men must survive an unforgiving journey and face their sworn rival. It is a quest that will test the very bonds that tie the Oathsworn together.









ROBERT LOW

Crowbone








To my wife, Kate,

who keeps my eyes on the real prize


In the hilt is fame.

In the haft is courage,

In the edge is fear.

Lay of Helgi Hjörvarðsson


Table of Contents

Title Page (#uf2ec4d0d-283f-5681-bbcb-e9c350959b0d)

Dedication (#u6c409563-56b8-51c3-ada8-fcf0cec77c12)

Epigraph (#u2247bea2-0ab4-572e-a70c-9b923638ca23)

Map (#uaf3857b0-abcc-580a-93fc-95917caf4e72)

Prologue (#u2e4c6f4a-f994-5cb7-9487-36f899dd73b6)

One (#u3e6787ac-37ca-5717-9431-bce19a692dae)

Two (#ua8784b37-24e7-5edf-966e-3f31396863f5)

Three (#u10c6dc80-96a6-57b6-910e-0f7b4efc663d)

Four (#u38bdcfae-438a-57b3-93f8-c213032cf798)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Robert Low (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)










PROLOGUE


Finnmark, A.D. 981

THEIR skin was already slack and waxen yet unsettling, with meltwater frozen from their final cooling beaded like new sweat. Black and orpiment bruising, red wounds gaping like lipless mouths, black blood thick as porridge crusting in the cold.

One face seemed to be looking at everyone who looked at it, a bewildered question frozen in the glassed eyes. His knuckles were clenched so tight on his belly that the rough pelt he wore oozed between fingers clamped on either side of the great gash, as if trying to force it shut on the blue snakes coiling from it. His hair was wild and uncombed and his nose needed wiping.

Too late for all of that, Crowbone was thinking.

They were tough, these dark little Sami from the snow hills, feared even by the Norse from Gjesvaer, who hunted whale and walrus and ice bears over the northern floes. They knew that the Sami could stalk a man and he would never know it until the bone tip of an arrow came out of his heart.

Even in a stand-up fight they are killing us, Crowbone thought, carving us like chips off a great tree. Men lay not far off, arms folded on their breasts and faces covered by cloaks. Men of skill and wit, gone from boasts and laughter to sacks of clothing, laid out like fresh-cut logs and just as stiff in the cold.

As for the Sami, they had now fought these mountain hunters too many times, but this was the first time they had seen so many of them dead in the one place. The crew moved among them silently, save for a muttered growl here and there, peered and prodded, knelt now and then to search in the blood and splintered bone. They were trying hard to ignore the strangeness of these beast-masked warriors and all the old fear-tales of Sami wizards.

It was Murrough, cleaning the great hook-bearded Dal Cais axe with one of their skin masks, who gave voice to all their fears, as he squinted at one lolling body and nudged it with his foot.

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘and I killed this one yesterday, so I did.’




ONE


Island of Mann, A.D. 979

THREE sheltered in the fish-reeked dim of the keeill, cramped up and feeling the cold seep into their bones – but only one of them did not care, for he was dying. Though truth was, Drostan thought, glancing sideways at the red-glowed beak-face of the Brother who lived here, perhaps this priest cares even less than the dying.

‘I am done, brother,’ said Sueno and the husked whisper of him jerked Drostan back to where his friend and brother in Christ lay, sweat sheening his face in the faint glow from the fish-oil light.

‘Nonsense,’ Drostan lied. ‘When the storm clears tomorrow we will go down to the church at Holmtun and get help there.’

‘He will never get there,’ said the priest, voice harsh as the crow dark itself and bringing Drostan angrily round.

‘Whisht, you – have you so little Christian charity in you?’

There was a gurgle, which might have been a laugh or a curse, and suddenly the hawk-face was thrust close, so close that Drostan bent backwards away from it. It was not a comfort, that face. It had greasy iron tangles of hair round it, was leached of moisture so that it loomed like a cracked desert in the dark, all planes and shadows; the jaws clapped in around the few teeth in the mouth, which made black runestones when he spoke.

‘I lost it,’ he mushed, then his glittering priest eyes seemed to glass over and he rose a little and moved away to tend the poor fire, bent-backed, a rolling gait with a bad limp.

‘I lost it,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘Out on the great white. It lies there, prey to wolves and foxes and the skin-wearing heathen trolls – but no, God will keep it safe. I will find it again. God will keep it safe.’

Shaken, Drostan gathered himself like a raggled cloak. He knew of this priest only by hearsay and what he had heard had not been good. Touched, they said. A pole-sitter who fell off, one or two claimed with vicious humour. Foreign. This last Drostan now knew for himself, for the man’s harsh voice was veined with oddness.

‘God grant you find it soon and peace with it, brother,’ Drostan intoned piously, through his gritted teeth.

The hawk-face turned.

‘I am no brother of yours, Culdee,’ he said, his voice a sneer. ‘I am from Hammaburg. I am a true follower of the true church. I am monk and priest both.’

‘I am merely a humble anchorite of the Cele Dei, as is the poor soul here. Yet here we all are,’ answered Drostan, irritated. ‘Brother.’

The rain hissed on the stone walls, driving damp air in to swirl the scent of wrack round in the fish-oil reek. The priest from Hammaburg looked left, right and then up, as if seeking God in the low roof; then he smiled his black-rotted smile.

‘It is not a large hall,’ he admitted, ‘but it serves me for the while.’

‘If you are not one of us,’ Drostan persisted angrily while trying to make Sueno more comfortable against the chill, ‘why are you here in this place?’

He sat back and waved a hand that took in the entire keeill with it, almost grazing the cold stone of the rough walls. A square the width of two and half tall men, with a roof barely high enough to stand up in. It was what passed for a chapel in the high lands of Mann, and Drostan and Sueno each had their own. They brought the word of God from the Cele Dei – the Culdee – church of the islands to any who flocked to listen. They were cenobites, members of a monastic community who had gone out in the world and become lonely anchorites.

But this monk was a real priest from Hammaburg, a clerk regular who could preach, administer sacrament and educate others, yet was also religious in the strictest sense of the word, professing solemn vows and the solitary contemplation of God. It stung Drostan that this strange cleric claimed to be the united perfection of the religious condition – and did not share the same beliefs as the Cele Dei, nor seem to possess any Christian charity.

Drostan swallowed the bitter bile of it, flavoured with the harsh knowledge that the priest was right and Sueno was dying. He offered a silent apology to God for the sin of pride.

‘I wait for a sign,’ the Hammaburg priest said, after a long silence. ‘I offended God and yet I know He is not done with me. I wait for a sign.’

He shifted a little to ease himself and Drostan’s eyes fell to the priest’s foot, which had no shoe or sandal on it because, he saw, none would have fitted it. Half of it was gone; no toes at all and puckered flesh to the instep. It would be a painful thing to walk on that without aid of stick or crutch and Drostan realised then that this was part of the strange priest’s penance while he waited for a sign.

‘How did you offend God?’ he asked, only half interested, his mind on Sueno’s suffering in the cold.

There was silence for a moment, then the priest stirred as if from some dream.

‘I lost it,’ he said simply. ‘I had it in my care and lost it.’

‘Christian charity?’ Drostan asked without looking up, so that he missed the sharp glitter of anger sparking in the priest’s eyes, followed by that same dulling, as if the bright sea had been washed by a cloud.

‘That I lost long since. The Danes tore that from me. I had it and I lost it.’

Drostan forgot Sueno, stared at the hawk-faced cleric for a long moment.

‘The Danes?’ he repeated, then crossed himself. ‘Bless this weather, brother, that keeps the Dyfflin Danes from us.’

The Hammaburg priest was suddenly brisk and attentive to the fire, so that it flared briefly, before the damp wood fought back and reduced it once more to a mean affair of woodsmoke reek and flicker.

‘I had it, out on the steppes of Gardariki in the east,’ he went on, speaking to the dark. ‘I lost it. It lies there, waiting – and I wait for a sign from God, who will tell me that He considers me penance-paid for my failure and now worthy to retrieve it. That and where it is.’

Drostan was millstoned by this. He had heard of Gardariki, the lands of the Rus Slavs, but only as a vague name for somewhere unimaginably far away, far enough to be almost a legend – yet here was someone who had been there. Or claimed it; the hermit-monk of this place, Drostan had been told, was head-sick.

He decided to keep to himself the wind-swirl of thoughts about his journey here, half carrying Sueno, whom he had visited and found sick, so resolving to take him down to the church where he could be made comfortable; he would say nothing of how God had brought them here, about the storm that had broken on them. It was then God sent the guiding light that had led them here, to a place so thick with holy mystery they had trouble breathing.

The cynical side to Drostan, all the same, whispered that it was the fish oil and woodsmoke reek that made breathing hard. He smiled in the dark; the cynical thought was Sueno’s doing, for until they had found themselves only a few miles of whin and gorse apart, each had been alone and Drostan had never questioned his faith.

He had discovered doubt and questioning as soon as he and Sueno had started in to speaking, for that seemed to be the older monk’s way. For all that he wondered why Sueno had taken to the Culdee life up there on the lonely, wind-moaning hills, Drostan had never resented the meeting.

There was silence for a long time, while the rain whispered and the wind moaned and whistled through the badly-daubed walls. He knew the Hammaburg priest was right and Sueno, recalcitrant old monk that he was, was about to step before the Lord and be judged. He prayed silently for God’s mercy on his friend.

The priest from Hammaburg sat and brooded, aware that he had said too much and not enough, for it had been a time since he had spoken with folk and even now he was not sure that the two Culdees were quite real.

There had been an eyeblink of strangeness when the two had stumbled in on him out of the rain and wind and it had nothing to do with their actual arrival – he had grown used to speaking with phantoms. Some of them were, he knew, long dead – Starkad, who had chased him all down the rivers of Gardariki and into the Holy Land itself until his own kind had slaughtered him; Einar the Black, leader of the Oathsworn and a man the Hammaburg priest hated enough to want to resurrect for the joy of watching him die again; Orm, the new leader and equally foul in the eyes of God.

No. The strangeness had come when the one called Drostan had announced himself, expecting a name in return. It took the priest from Hammaburg by surprise when he could not at once remember his own. Fear, too. Such a thing should not have been lost, like so many other things. Christian charity. Long lost to the Danes of the Oathsworn out on the Great White where the Holy Lance still lay among fox turds and steppe grasses. At least he hoped it was, that God was keeping it safe for the time it could be retrieved.

By me, he thought. Martin. He muttered it to himself through the stumps of his festering teeth. My name is Martin. My name is pain.

Towards dawn, Sueno woke up and his coughing snapped the other two out of sleep. Drostan felt a claw hand on his forearm and Sueno drew himself up.

‘I am done,’ he said, and this time Drostan said nothing, so that Sueno nodded, satisfied.

‘Good,’ he said, between wheezing. ‘Now you will listen more closely, for these are the words of a dying man.’

‘Brother, I am a mere monk. I cannot hear your Confession. There is a proper priest here …’

‘Whisht. We have, you and I, ignored that fine line up in the hills when poor souls came to us for absolution. Did it matter to them that they might as well have confessed their sins to a tree, or a stone? No, it did not. Neither does it matter to me. Listen, for my time is close. Will I go to God’s hall, or Hel’s hall, I wonder?’

His voice, no more than husk on the draught, stirred Drostan to life and he patted, soothingly.

‘Hell has no fires for you, brother,’ he declared firmly and the old monk laughed, brought on a fit of coughing and wheezed to the end of it.

‘No matter which gods take me,’ he said, ‘this is a straw death, all the same.’

Drostan blinked at that, as clear a declaration of pagan heathenism as he had heard. Sueno managed a weak flap of one hand.

‘My name, Sueno, is as close as these folk get to Svein,’ he said. ‘I am from Venheim in Eidfjord, though there are none left there alive enough to remember me. I came with Eirik to Jorvik. I carried Odin’s daughter for him.’

Sueno stopped and raised himself, his grip on Drostan’s arm fierce and hard.

‘Promise me this, Drostan, as a brother in Christ and in the name of God,’ he hissed. ‘Promise me you will seek out the Yngling heir and tell him what I tell you.’

He fell back and mumbled. Drostan wiped the spittle from his face with a shaking hand, unnerved by what he had heard. Odin’s daughter? There was rank heathenism, plain as sunlight on water.

‘Swear, in the name of Christ, brother. Swear, as you love me …’

‘I swear, I swear,’ Drostan yelped, as much to shut the old man up as anything. He felt a hot wash of shame at the thought and covered it by praying.

‘Enough of that,’ growled Sueno. ‘I have heard all the chrism-loosening cant I need in the thirty years since they dragged me off from Stainmore. Fucking treacherous bitch-fucks. Fucking gods of Asgard abandoned us then …’

He stopped. There was silence and wind hissed rain-scent through the wall cracks, making the woodsmoke and oil reek swirl chokingly. Sueno breathed like a broken forge bellows, gathered enough air and spoke.

‘Do not take this to the Mother of Kings. Not Gunnhild, his wife, Eirik’s witch-woman. Not her. She is not of the line and none of Eirik’s sons left to the bitch deserve to marry Odin’s daughter … Asgard showed that when the gods turned their faces from us at Stainmore.’

Drostan crossed himself. He had only the vaguest notions what Sueno was babbling, but he knew the pagan was thick in it.

‘Take what I tell you to the young boy, if he lives,’ Sueno husked out wearily. ‘Harald Fairhair’s kin and the true line of Norway’s kings. Tryggve’s son. I know he lives. I hear, even in this wild place. Take it to him. Swear to me …’

‘I swear,’ Drostan declared quietly, now worried about the blood seeping from between Sueno’s cracking lips.

‘Good,’ Sueno said. ‘Now listen. I know where Odin’s daughter lies …’

Forgotten in the dark, Martin from Hammaburg listened. Even the pain in his foot, that driving constant from toes that no longer existed – clearly part of the penance sent from God – was gone as he felt the power of the Lord whisper in the urgent, hissing, blood-rheumed voice of the old monk.

A sign, as sure as fire in the heavens. After all this time, in a crude stone hut daubed with poor clay and Christ hope, with a roof so low the rats were hunchbacked – a sign. Martin hugged himself with the ecstasy of it, felt the drool from his broken mouth spill and did not try to wipe it away. In a while, the pain of his foot came back, slowly, as it had when it thawed, gradually, after his rescue from the freeze of a steppe winter.

Agonising and eternal, that pain, and Martin embraced it, as he had for years, for every fiery shriek of it reminded him of his enemies, of Orm Bear-Slayer who led the Oathsworn, and Finn who feared nothing – and Crowbone, kin of Harold Fairhair of the Yngling line and true prince of Norway. Tryggve’s son.

There was a way, he thought, for God’s judgement to be delivered, for the return of what had been lost, for the punishment of all those who had thwarted His purpose. Now even the three gold coins, given to him by the lord of Kiev years since and never spent, revealed their purpose, and he glanced once towards the stone they were hidden beneath. A good hefty stone, that, and it fitted easily into the palm.

By the time the old monk coughed his blood-misted last at dawn, Martin had worked out the how of it.

Hammaburg, some months later …

Folk said it was a city to make you gasp, hazed with smoke and sprawling with hundreds of hovs lining the muddy banks and spilling backwards into the land. There were ships by the long hundred lying at wharfs, moored by pilings, or drawn up on the banks and crawling with men, like ants on dead fish.

There were warehouses, carts, packhorses and folk who all seemed to shout to be heard above the din of metalsmith hammers, shrieking axles and fishwives who sounded as like the quarrelling gulls as to be sisters.

Above all loomed the great timber bell tower of the Christ church, Hammaburg’s pride. In it sat a chief Christ priest called a bishop, who was almost as important as the Christ priest’s headman, the Pope, Crowbone had heard.

Cloaked in the arrogance of a far-traveller with barely seventeen summers on him, Crowbone was as indifferent to Hammaburg as the few men with him were impressed; he had seen the Great City called Constantinople, which the folk here named Miklagard and spoke of in the hushed way you did with places that were legend. But Crowbone had walked there, strolled the flower-decked terraces in the dreaming, windless heat of afternoon, where the cool of fountains was a gift from Aegir, lord of the deep waters.

He had swaggered in the surrounds of the Hagia Sophia, that great skald-verse of stone which made Hammaburg’s cathedral no more than a timber boathouse. There had been round, grey stones paving the streets all round the Hagia, Crowbone recalled, with coloured pebbles between them and doves who were too lazy to fly, waddling out from under your feet.

Here in Hammaburg were brown-robed priests banging bells and chanting, for they were hot for the cold White Christ here – so much so that the Danes had grown sick of Bishop Ansgar, Apostle of the North, burning the place out from underneath him before they sailed up the river. That was at least five score years ago, so that scarce a trace of the violence remained – and Crowbone had heard that Hammaburg priests still went out to folk in the north, relentless as downhill boulders.

Crowbone was unmoved by the fervour of these shaven monks for he knew that, if you wanted to feel the power of the White Christ, then Miklagard, the Navel of The World, was the place for it. The spade-bearded priests of the Great City perched on walls and corners, even on the tops of columns, shouting about faith and arguing with each other; everyone, it seemed to Crowbone, was a priest in Miklagard. There, temples could be domed with gold, yet were sometimes no more than white walls and a rough roof with a cross.

In Miklagard it was impossible to buy bread without getting a babble about the nature of their god from the baker. Even whores would discuss how many Christ-Valkeyrii might exist in the same space while pulling their shifts up. Crowbone had discovered whores in the Great City.

Hammaburg’s whores thought only of money. Here the air was thick with haar, like wet silk, and the Christ-followers sweated and knelt and groaned in fearful appeasement, for the earth had shifted and, according to some Engliscmonks, a fire-dragon had moved over their land, a sure sign that the world would end as some old seer had foretold, a thousand years after the birth of their Tortured God. Time, it seemed, was running out.

Crowbone’s men laughed at that, being good Slav Rus most of them and eaters of horse, which made them heathen in the eyes of Good Christ-followers. If it was Rokkr, the Twilight, they all knew none of the Christ bells and chants would make it stop, for gods had no control over the Doom of all Powers and were wyrded to die with everyone else.

Harek, who was by-named Gjallandi, added that no amount of begging words would stop Loki squirming the earth into folds and yelling for his wife to hurry up and bring back the basin that stopped the World Serpent venom dripping on his face. He said this loudly and often, as befits a skald by-named Boomer, so that folk sighed when he opened his mouth.

Even though the men from the north knew the true cause of events, such Loki earth-folding still raised the hairs on their arms. Perhaps the Doom of all Powers was falling on them all.

Crowbone, for his part, thought the arrogance of these Christ-followers was jaw-dropping. They actually believed that their god-son’s birth heralded the last thousand years of the world and that everyone’s time was almost up. Twenty years left, according to their tallying; good Christ children born now would be young men when their own parents rose out of their dead-mounds and everyone waited to be judged.

Crowbone was hunched moodily under such thoughts, for he knew the whims of gods only too well; his whole life was a knife-edge balance, where the stirred air from a whirring bird’s wing could topple him to doom or raise him to the throne he considered his right. Since Prince Vladimir of Kiev had turned his face from him, the prospect seemed more doom than throne.

‘You should not have axed his brother,’ Finn Horsehead growled when Crowbone spat out this gloomy observation shortly after Finn had shown up with Jarl Orm.

Crowbone looked at the man, all iron-grey and seamed like a bull walrus, and willed his scowl to sear a brand on Finn’s face. Instead, Finn looked back, eyes grey as a winter sea and slightly amused; Crowbone gave up, for this was Finn Horsehead, who feared nothing.

‘Yaropolk’s death was necessary,’ Crowbone muttered. ‘How can two princes rule one land? Odin’s bones – had we not just finished fighting the man to decide who ruled in Kiev and all the lands round it? Vladimir’s arse would never have stayed long on the throne if brother Yaropolk had remained alive.’

He knew, also, that Vladimir recognised the reality of it, too, for all his threats and haughtiness and posturing about the honour of princes and truces – Odin’s arse, this from a man who had just gained a wife by storming her father’s fortress and taking her by force. Yaropolk, the rival brother, had to die, otherwise he would always have been a threat, real or imagined and, one day, would have been tempted to try again.

None of which buttered up matters any with Vladmir, who had turned his back on his friend as a result.

‘There had been fighting, right enough,’ answered Orm quietly, moving from the shadows of the room. ‘But a truce and an agreement between brothers marked the end of it – at which point you axed Yaropolk between the eyes.’

But it was all posturing, Crowbone thought. Vladimir was pleased his brother was dead and would have contrived a way of doing it himself if Crowbone had not axed the problem away.

The real reason for the Prince of Kiev’s ire was that Crowbone’s name was hailed just as frequently as Vladimir’s now – and that equality could not be allowed to continue. It was just a move in the game of kings.

Crowbone fastened his scowl on the Bear-Slayer. A legend, this jarl of the Oathsworn – Crowbone was one of them and so Orm was his jarl, which fact he tried hard not to let scrape him. He owed Orm a great deal, not least his freedom from thralldom.

Eight years had passed since then. Now the boy Orm had rescued was a tall, lithe youth coming into the main of his years, with powerful shoulders, long tow-coloured braids heavy with silver rings and coins, and the beginning of a decent beard. Yet the odd eyes – one blue as old ice, the other nut-brown – were blazing and the lip still petulant as a bairn’s.

‘Vladimir could no more rule with his brother alive than I can fart silver,’ Crowbone answered, the pout vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared. ‘When he has had time to think of this, he will thank me.’

‘Oh, he thanks you, right enough,’ Finn offered, wincing as he planted one buttock on a bench. ‘It is forgiveness he finds hard.’

Crowbone ignored the cheerful Finn, who was clearly enjoying this quarrel among princes. Instead, he studied Orm, seeing the harsh lines at the mouth which the neat-trimmed beard did not hide, just as the brow-braids did not disguise the fret of lines at the corners of the eyes, nor the scar that ran straight across the forehead above the cool, sometimes green, sometimes blue eyes. The nose was skewed sideways, his cheeks were dappled with little poxmark holes, his left hand was short three fingers, and he limped a little more than he had the year before.

A hard life, Crowbone knew and, when you could read the rune-marks of those injuries, you knew the saga-tale of the man and the Oathsworn he led.

Unlike Finn there was no grey in Orm Bear-Slayer yet, but they were both already old, so that a trip from Kiev, sluiced by Baltic water that still wanted to be ice, was an ache for the pair of them. Worse still, they had snugged the ship up in Hedeby and ridden across the Danevirke to Hammaburg, which fact Finn mentioned at length every time he shifted his aching cheeks on a bench.

‘Did the new Prince of Kiev send you, then?’ Crowbone asked and looked at the casket on the table. Silver full it was, including some whole coins and full-weight minted ones at that. Brought with ceremony by Orm and placed pointedly in front of him.

‘Is this his way of saying how sorry he is for threatening to stake me? An offering of gratitude for fighting him on to the throne of Kiev and ridding him of his rival?’

‘Not likely,’ Orm declared simply, unmoved by Crowbone’s attempt at bluster.

‘You were ever over-handy with an axe and a forehead, boy,’ Finn added and there was no grin in his voice now. ‘I warned you it would get you into trouble one day – this is the second time you have annoyed young Vladimir with it.’

The first time, Crowbone had been nine and fresh-released from slavery; he had spotted his hated captor across the crowded market of Kiev and axed him in the forehead before anyone could blink. That had put everyone at risk and neither Orm nor Finn would ever forget or forgive him for it.

Crowbone knew it, for all his bluster.

‘So whose silver is this, then?’ Crowbone demanded, knowing the answer before he spoke.

Orm merely looked at him, then shrugged.

‘I have a few moonlit burials left,’ he declared lightly. ‘So I bring you this.’

Crowbone did not answer. Moonlit buried silver was a waste. Silver was for ships and men and there would never be enough of it in the whole world, Crowbone thought, to feed what he desired.

Yet he knew Orm Bear-Slayer did not think like this. Orm had gained Odin’s favour and the greatest hoard of silver ever seen, which was as twisted a joke as any the gods had dreamed up – for what had the Oathsworn done with it after dragging it from Atil’s howe back into the light of day? Buried it in the secret dark again and agonised over having it.

Because Crowbone owed the man his life, he did not ever say to Orm what was in his heart – that Orm was not of the line of Yngling kings and that he, Olaf, son of Tryggve, by-named Crowbone, had the blood in him. So they were different; Orm Bear-Slayer would always be a little jarl, while Olaf Tryggvasson would one day be king in Norway, perhaps even greater than that.

All the same, Crowbone thought moodily, Asgard is a little fretted and annoyed over the killing of Yaropolk, which, perhaps, had been badly timed. It came to him then that Orm was more than a little fretted and annoyed. He had travelled a long way and with few companions at some risk. Old Harald Bluetooth, lord of the Danes, had reasons to dislike the Oathsworn and Hammaburg was a city of Otto’s Saxlanders, who were no friends to Jarl Orm.

‘Not much danger,’ Orm answered with an easy smile when Crowbone voiced this. ‘Otto is off south to Langabardaland to quarrel with Pandulf Ironhead. Bluetooth is too busy building ring-forts at vast expense and with no clear reason I can see.’

To stamp his authority, Crowbone thought scathingly, as well as prepare for another war with Otto. A king knows this. A real jarl can understand this, as easy as knowing the ruffle on water is made by unseen wind – but he bit his lip on voicing that. Instead, he asked the obvious question.

‘Do you wish me to find someone to take my place?’

A little more harshly said than he had intended; Crowbone did not want Orm thinking he was afraid, for finding a replacement willing to take the Oath was the only way to safely leave the Oathsworn. There were two others – one was to die, the other to suffer the wrath of Odin, which was the same.

‘No,’ Orm declared and then smiled thinly. ‘Nor is this a gift. I am your jarl. I have decided a second longship is needed and that you will lead the crew of it. The silver is for finding a suitable ship. You have the men you brought with you from Novgorod, so that is a start on finding a crew.’

Crowbone said nothing, while the wind hissed wetly off the sea and rattled the loose shutters. Finn watched the pair of them – it was cunning, right enough; there was not room on one drakkar for the likes of Orm and a Crowbone growing into his power and wyrd, yet there were benefits still for the pair of them if Crowbone remained one of the Oathsworn. Perhaps the width of an ocean or two would be enough to keep them from each other’s throats.

Crowbone knew it and nodded, so that Finn saw the taut lines of the pair of them ease, the hackles drift downwards. He shifted, grinned and then grunted his pleasure like a scratching walrus.

‘Where are you bound from here?’ Crowbone asked.

‘Back to Kiev,’ Orm declared. ‘Then the Great City. I have matters there. You?’

Crowbone had not thought of it until now and it came to him that he had been so tied up with Vladimir and winning that prince his birthright that he had not considered anything else. Four years he had been with Vladimir, like a brother … he swallowed the flaring anger at the Prince of Kiev’s ingratitude, but the fire of it choked him.

‘Well,’ said Orm into the silence. ‘I have another gift, of sorts. A trader who knows me, called Hoskuld, came asking after you. Claims to have come from Mann with a message from a Christ monk there. Drostan.’

Crowbone cocked his head, interested. Orm shrugged.

‘I did not think you knew this monk. Hoskuld says he is one of those who lives on his own in the wilderness and has loose bits in the inside of his thought-cage. It means nothing to me, but Hoskuld says the priest’s message was a name – Svein Kolbeinsson – and a secret that would be of worth to Tryggve’s son, the kin of Harald Fairhair.’

Crowbone looked from Orm to Finn, who spread his hands and shrugged.

‘I am no wiser. Neither monk nor name means anything to me and I am a far-travelled man, as you know. Still – I am thinking it is curious, this message.’

Enough to go all the way to Mann, Crowbone wondered and had not realised he had voiced it aloud until Orm answered.

‘Hoskuld will take you, you do not need to wait until you have found a decent ship and crew,’ he said. ‘You have six men of your own and Hoskuld can take nine and still manage a little cargo – with what you pay him from that silver, it is a fine profit for him. Ask Murrough to go with you, since he is from that part of the world and will be of use. You can have Onund Hnufa, too, if you want, for you might need a shipwright of his skill.’

Crowbone blinked a little at that; these were the two companions who had come with Orm and Finn and both were prizes for any ship crew. Murrough macMael was a giant Irisher with an axe and always cheerful. Onund Hnufa, was the opposite, a morose oldster who could make a longship from two bent sticks, but he was an Icelander and none of them cared for princes, particularly if they came from Norway. Besides that, he had all the friendliness of a winter-woken bear.

‘One is your best axe man. The other is your shipwright,’ he pointed out and Orm nodded.

‘No matter who pays us, we are out on the Grass Sea,’ he answered, ‘fighting steppe horse-trolls, without sight of water or a ship. Murrough would like a sight of Ireland before he gets much older and you are headed that way. Onund does not like looking at a land-horizon that gets no closer, so he may leap at this chance to return to the sea.’

He stared at Crowbone, long and sharp as a spear.

‘He may not, all the same. He does not care for you much, Prince of Norway.’

Crowbone thought on it, then nodded. Wrists were clasped. There was an awkward silence, which went on until it started to shave the hairs of Crowbone’s neck. Then Orm cleared his throat a little.

‘Go and make yourself a king in Norway,’ he said lightly. ‘If you need the Oathsworn, send word.’

As he and Finn hunched out into the night and the squalling rain, he flung back over his shoulder, ‘Take care to keep the fame of Prince Olaf bright.’

Crowbone stared unseeing at the wind-rattling door long after they had gone, the words echoing in him. Keep the fame of Prince Olaf bright – and, with it, the fame of the Oathsworn, for one was the other.

For now, Crowbone added to himself.

He stirred the silver with a finger, studying the coins and the roughly-hacked bits and pieces of once-precious objects. Silver dirham from Serkland, some whole coins from the old Eternal City, oddly-chopped arcs of ring, sharp slivers of coin wedges, cut and chopped bar ingots. There was even a peculiarly shaped piece that could have been part of a cup.

Cursed silver, Crowbone thought with a shiver, if it came from Orm’s hoard, which came from Atil’s howe. Before that the Volsungs had it, brought to them by Sigurd, who killed the dragon Fafnir to possess it; the history of these riches was long and tainted.

It had done little good to Orm, Crowbone thought. He had been surprised when Orm had announced that he was returning to Kiev, for the jarl had been brooding and thrashing around the Baltic, looking for signs of his wife, Thorgunna, for some time.

She had, Crowbone had heard, turned her back on her man, her life, the gods of Asgard and her friends to follow a Christ priest and become one of their holy women, a nun.

That had been part of the curse of Atil’s silver on Orm. The rest was the loss of his bairn, born deformed and so exposed – the act which had so warped Thorgunna out of her old life – and the death of the foster-wean Orm had been entrusted with, who happened to be the son of Jarl Brand, who had gifted the steading at Hestreng to Orm.

In one year, the year after Orm had gained the riches of Atil’s tomb, the curse on that hoard had taken his wife, his newborn son, his foster-son, his steading, his friendship with the mighty and a good hack out of his fair fame.

Crowbone studied the dull, winking gleam of that pile and wondered how much of it had come from the Volsung hoard and how bad the curse was.

Sand Vik, Orkney, at the same time …

THE WITCH-QUEEN’S CREW

The wind blew from the north, hard and cold as a whore’s heart so that clouds fled like smoke before it and the sun died over the heights of Hoy. The sea ran grey-green and froth flew off the waves, rushing like mad horses to shatter and thunder on the headlands, the undertow smacking like savouring lips until the suck was crushed by another wild-horse rush.

The man shivered; even the thick walls of this steading did not seem solid enough and he felt the bones of the place shudder up through his feet. There was comfort here, all the same, he saw, but it was harsh and too northern, even for him – the room was murky with reek because the doors were shut against the weather and the wind swooped in through the hearthfire smokehole and simply danced it round the dim hall, flaring the coals and flattening flame. It made the eyes of the storm-fretted black cat glow like baleful marshlights.

A light appeared, seeming to float on its own and flickering in the wild air, so that the man shifted uneasily, for all he was a fighting man of some note, and hurriedly brought up a hand to cross himself.

There was a chuckle, a dry rustle of sound like a rat in old bracken and the night crawled back from the flame, revealing gnarled driftwood beams, a hand on the lamp ring, blackness beyond.

Closer still and he saw an arm but only knew it from the dark by the silver ring round it, for the cloth on it was midnight blue. Another step and there was a face, but the lamp blurred it; all the man could see clearly was the hand, the skin sere and brown-pocked, the fingers knobbed.

That and the eyes of her, which were bone needles threading the dark to pierce his own.

‘Erling Flatnef,’ said the dry-rustle voice, rheumed and thick so that the sound of his own name raised the hackles on his arm. ‘You are late.’

Erling’s cheeks felt stiff, as if he had been staring into a white blizzard, yet he summoned words from the depth of himself and managed to spit them out.

‘I waited to speak with my lord Arnfinn,’ he said and the sound of his voice seemed sucked away somehow.

‘Just so – and what did the son of Thorfinn Jarl have to say?’

The moth-wing hiss of her voice was slathered with sarcasm, for which Erling had no good reply. The truth was that the four sons of Thorfinn who now ruled Orkney were as much in thrall to this crumbling ruin, Gunnhild, Mother of Kings, as their father had been. Arnfinn, especially, was hag-cursed by it and had merely brooded his eyes into the pitfire and then waved Erling on his way without a word, trying not to look at his wife, Ragnhild, who was Gunnhild’s daughter.

Erling’s silence gave Gunnhild all the answer she needed. As her face loomed out from behind the blurring light of the lamp he was unable even to cross himself, was paralysed at the sight of it. Whatever The Lady wanted, she would get; not for the first time, Erling pitied the Jarls of Orkney and the mother-in-law they wore round their necks.

Not that it was an ugly face, aged and raddled. The opposite. It was a face with skin that seemed soft as fine leather with only a tracery of lines round the mouth, where the lips were a little withered. A harsh line or two here and there on it, which only accentuated the heart-leaping beauty that had been there in youth. Gunnhild wanted to smile at the sight of him, but knew that would crack the artifice like throwing a stone on thin ice. She used her face as a weapon and clubbed him with it.

‘I had a son called Erling,’ she said and Erling stiffened. He knew that – Haakon Jarl had killed him. For a wild moment of panic Erling wondered if she sought to raise the dead son and needed to steal the name …

‘I have a task for you, Flatnose,’ she said in her ruin of a voice. ‘You and my last, useless son Gudrod and that Tyr-worshipping boy of yours – what is his name?’

‘Od,’ Erling managed and mercifully Gunnhild slid away from him, back into the shadows.

‘Listen,’ she said and laid the meat of it out, a long rasp of wonder in that fetid dark. The revelations left him shaking, wondering how she had discovered all this, awed at the rich seidr magic she still commanded – the gods knew how old she was, yet still beautiful and still a power.

Later, as he stumbled from the hall, the rain and battering wind were as much of a relief as goose-grease on a burn.




TWO


The coast of Frisia, a week later …

CROWBONE’S CREW

IT was no properly straked, oak-keeled drakkar, but the Or-skreiðr was a good ship, a sturdy, fat-waisted knarr with scarred planks and the comfort of ship-luck. It had carried the trader safely from Dyfflin to Hammaburg and elsewhere – even back to the trader’s home in Iceland. Hoskuld boasted of its prowess as it hauled Crowbone and his Chosen Men out of Hammaburg to the sea, then west along the coast. The Or-skreiðr, Swift-Gliding, was Hoskuld’s pride.

‘Even when Aegir of the waters is splashing about in the worst way,’ he declared, ‘I have never had a moment’s unease.’

Crowbone’s eight Oathsworn, jostling for sea-chest space with the crew and the cargo of hoes and mattocks and kegged fish, found little humour in this, though some gave dutiful laughs. But not Onund.

‘You should not dangle this stout ship in front of the Norns, like a worm on a hook,’ Onund growled morosely to Hoskuld. ‘Those Sisters love to hear the boasts of men – it makes them laugh.’

Crowbone said nothing, for he knew Onund had sourness seeped into him, for all he had agreed to this voyage. The other men were less frowning about matters. Murrough macMael was going back to Mann and possibly Ireland and that pleased him; the others – Gjallandi the skald, Rovald Hrafnbruder, Vigfuss Drosbo, Kaetilmund, Vandrad Sygni and Halfdan Knutsson – were happy to be going anywhere with the Prince Who Would Be King. They were all seasoned Swedes and half-Slavs who had been down the cataracts from Kiev with the silk traders at least once and had sailed up and down the Baltic with Crowbone, raiding in the name of Vladimir, Prince of Novgorod and now Kiev.

Ring-coated most of them, exotic in fat breeks and big boots and fur-trimmed hats with silver wire designs, they swaggered and bantered idly in the fat-waisted little knarr and made Hoskuld and his working men scowl.

‘How do we know their worth?’ one seaman grumbled in Crowbone’s hearing. ‘Who decided on these instead of a decent cargo?’

‘They think we are just barrels of salt cod,’ Gjallandi announced, appearing suddenly at Crowbone’s ear, ‘while your new Chosen Men believe it is a day’s sail, with a bit of sword-waving at the end of it and yourself crowned king of Norway, no doubt. All will find the truth of matters, soon enough.’

He was shaking his head, which made all those who did not know him laugh, for he was not the figure of a raiding man. He was a middling man in most respects save two – his head and his voice.

His head was large, with a chin like a ship’s prow and two full, beautiful lips in the centre of it, surrounded by a neat-trimmed fringe of moustache and beard. The hair on his head was marvellously copper-coloured, but galloping back over his forehead on either side of his ears; when the wind blew it stuck straight out behind him like spines. Murrough said it was not his hair that was receding but his head growing from all the lore he stuffed in it.

That lore and his voice had made his fortune, all the same, first as skald to a jarl called Skarpheddin and then to Jarl Brand. He had left Brand after arguing that it was not right to come down so hard on Jarl Orm for the loss of Jarl Brand’s son – which, according to Murrough and others, showed how Gjallandi’s voice sometimes worked before his thought-cage did.

Now he had come with Crowbone because, he said, Crowbone had more saga in him and the tale of the exiled Prince of Norway reclaiming his birthright was too good to miss. Crowbone had joined in the good-natured laughter, but secretly liked the idea of having someone spread his fame; the thought was as warming a comfort as a hearthfire and a horn of ale.

‘The crowning will come in time,’ Crowbone answered, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Until then, there are ships and men waiting to join us.’

‘No doubt,’ said the steersman whose name was Halk and his Norse was strange and lilting. ‘Do they know you are coming?’

His voice had a laugh in it which removed any sting and Crowbone smiled back at him.

‘If you know where you are going,’ he replied, ‘then – there they will all be.’

It was clear that Hoskuld had told his men nothing much, which was not sensible in a tight crew of six who depended on each other and the trade they made. Crowbone did not much trust Hoskuld, for all he had come from Mann to deliver his mysterious message – without pay, no doubt, for Christ monks were notoriously empty-pursed.

‘For the love of God,’ Hoskuld had replied when Crowbone had asked the why of this and his face, battered by wind and wave into something like a headland with eyes, gave away nothing. His men said even less, keeping their eyes and hands on work, but Crowbone felt Hoskuld’s lie like a chill haar on his skin. Yet Hoskuld was a friend of Orm and that counted for much.

Crowbone sat and watched the land slip sideways past him while the sea rose and fell, dark, glassy planes heaving in a slow, breathing rhythm.

He watched the gulls. Hoskuld never got far enough from the land to lose them and Crowbone listened to them scream to each other of finding something that moved and promised fish. One perched on the mast spar, heedless of the sail’s great belly and Crowbone watched this one more carefully than the others. He felt the familiar tightening of the skin on his arms and neck; something was happening.

The crew of the Or-skreiðr coiled lines, bailed, reefed sail, took the steering oar and stared at Crowbone and his eight men. He could almost feel their dislike and their distrust and, above all, their fear. Here were the plunderers, pillagers and pagans that peaceful Christ-anointed traders, farmers of the sea-lanes, could do without as they ploughed up and down from port to port.

Here were red murderers, sitting on their sea-chests, talking in their mush-mouthed East Norse way – made worse by all the time spent with Slavs – and eyeing up the crew with almost complete indifference when not with sardonic smiles at watching men work while they stayed idle.

Crowbone knew his eight Chosen well, knew who was more Svear than Slav, who had washed that weekday, who doubted their own prowess.

Young men – well, all but Onund – hard men, who had all, without showing fear, taken that hard oath of the Oathsworn: we swear to be brothers to each other, bone, blood and steel, on Gungnir, Odin’s spear we swear, may he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.

Crowbone had taken it when he was too young for chin hair, driven to it as those desperate and lost in the dark will run to a fire, even if it risks a scorching. He had kin somewhere, sisters he had never seen – but mother, father, guardian uncle were all dead and Orm Bear-Slayer of the Oathsworn was the nearest thing he had to any of the three.

He watched his Chosen Men. Only Onund knew what the Oath meant, for he had taken it long enough ago to have marked the warp of it on his life. Most of the others would come to know just what they had sworn, but for now they were all grins and wild beards in every colour save grey, laughing and boasting easily, one to the other.

Hoskuld, beaming at the way they were skipping along, announced that he had many skills, one of them navigation.

‘We go out on to a big expanse of water dead ahead,’ he added. ‘Land on the berthing side, so you cannot really miss it. After a bit, we turn north. That is to the right. The steerboard side. The hand you use to pull yourself off.’

Crowbone forced a smile as Hoskuld moved off into the grins of his crew, while Murrough turned and looked at his fellow Oathsworn lazing there.

‘Never be minding, lads,’ he bellowed. ‘We have bread and fish and water if this short-arsed little trading man loses us. Also, there are Crowbone’s birds to steer by, when all else fails.’

Crowbone raised one hand in acknowledgement, while Hoskuld and his crew stared for a moment, stilled. Then they busied themselves and Crowbone smiled, for he knew no Norseman, especially Christ-sworn, liked the idea of a seidr-man and none of these liked to be reminded of the strange tales that surrounded Crowbone.

‘We will need no magic birds to get us where we are going,’ Hoskuld said eventually, with the scowl of an outraged Christmann. ‘Nor will I lose my way, Irisher. This is a ship blessed with God-luck.’

Right there, the lone gull on the mast spar took off from its perch and screamed, a mad laughing as it turned and wheeled away back towards the grey-blue line that was land. Crowbone watched it go, the hairs stiff on him; it does no good to tempt the Norns, he was thinking.

‘There was once a Chosen Man in the service of a jarl, don’t ask me where, don’t ask me when,’ he said and the heads came up. Crowbone had not meant to speak; he never did when the tales came on him, but those who had heard him before leaned forward a little. The steersman laughed but Murrough wheeshed him and the silence allowed the wind to thrum the rigging lines.

‘As part of his due he used to get bread and a bowl of honey each day,’ Crowbone went on, soft and gentle as the breathing sea. ‘The warrior ate the bread and put the honey into a stoppered jug, which he took to carrying around with him, lest it be stolen. He wanted to keep the jug until it was full, for he knew the high price his honey would fetch in the market.’

‘A sensible trading man, then, this warrior,’ Hoskuld offered sarcastically, but glares silenced him.

‘I will sell my honey for a piece of gold and buy ten sheep, all of which will bring forth young, so that in the course of one year I shall have twenty sheep,’ Crowbone said, the words tumbled from him, like slow, sticky sweetness from the tale’s jug.

‘Their number will steadily increase, and in four years I shall be the owner of four hundred sheep. I shall then buy a cow and an ox and acquire a piece of land. My cow will bring forth calves, the ox will be useful to me in ploughing my land, while the cows will provide me with milk. In five years’ time the number of my cattle will have increased considerably and I shall be wealthy. I shall then build a magnificent steading, acquire thralls and marry a beautiful woman of noble descent. She will become pregnant and bear me a son, a strong boy fit to carry my name. A lucky star will shine at the moment of his birth and he will be happy and blessed, and bring honour to my name after my death. Should he, however, refuse to obey me, I will whack him round the ear, thus—’

Crowbone smacked one fist into his palm, so that the listeners started a little.

‘So saying,’ Crowbone added softly, ‘he lashed out at the imaginary child. The jug flew from under his arm and smashed. The honey ran into the mud and was lost.’

‘Heya,’ sighed Murrough and stared pointedly at Hoskuld, who laughed nervously. The steersman crossed himself; no-one had missed the point of the tale.

The gull – the same one, Crowbone was sure – screamed with faint laughter in the distance.

Not long after, the steering oar broke.

One blink they were sailing along, scudding under a sail bagged full of wind, with the blue-grey slide of the land distant on one side. The next, Halk was yelling and hanging grimly on to the whole weight of the steering oar, which had parted company from the ship entire and looked set to go over the side. The Swift-Gliding leaped like a joyous stallion spitting out the bit, then yawed off in a direction all its own.

Men sprang to help Halk, wrestling the steering board safely on to the ship. Hoskuld, bawling orders, found the Oathsworn suddenly alive, moving with practised ease to flake the sail down on to the yard and bring the free-running knarr to a sulky halt, where it rocked and pitched, the slow-heaving waves slapping the hull.

‘Leather collar has snapped,’ Onund declared after a brief look. ‘Fetch out some more and we will fix it.’

Hoskuld glared at Halk, whose eyes were wide with innocent protesting, but then Gorm stepped into Hoskuld’s scowl and matched it with one of his own. He had been with Hoskuld ever since they had first set keel on water, so he had leeway. He had hands and face beaten by weather, but his eyes were clear and there was at least a horn-spoon of intellect behind them, even if his nose was crooked from fights and his body a barrel which had been scoured by wind and wave.

‘Not Halk’s fault,’ he growled at Hoskuld. ‘Should have stayed in Dyfflin for long enough to fetch such supplies as spare leather, but you would sail. Should have stayed in Sand Vik longer than to pick up this poor dog of a steersman, but you sailed even faster from there.’

‘Enough!’ roared Hoskuld, his face turning white, then red. ‘This is not fixing matters.’

He broke off, glanced at the thin line of land and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

‘This is the Frisian coast,’ he muttered darkly. ‘No place to be wallowing, dangled like a fat cod for sharks.’

‘Leather,’ Onund grunted.

‘None,’ Gorm replied, almost triumphant. ‘Some bast line, which will have to do.’

‘Aye, for you never stayed long enough in Dyfflin or Sand Vik,’ Crowbone noted and everyone heard how his voice had become steeled.

‘Save for picking up a steersman,’ he added, nodding towards Halk, who stared from Hoskuld to Crowbone and back, his mouth gawped like a coal-eater.

Folk left off what they were doing then, for a chill had sluiced in like mist, centred on Crowbone and the lip-licking Hoskuld.

Crowbone knew now where the steersman had his lilting Norse from. From Orkney, where Hoskuld had gone from Dyfflin and before that from Mann. Mann to Dyfflin to Orkney.

‘You know who this Svein Kolbeinsson is,’ Crowbone said, weaving the tale as he spoke and knowing the warp and weft were true by the look in Hoskuld’s eyes.

‘How many others have you told?’ Crowbone went on. Hoskuld spread his arms and tried to speak.

‘I …’ began Hoskuld.

Crowbone drew the short-handled axe out of the belt-ring at his waist and Hoskuld’s crew shifted uneasily; one made a whimpering sound. Hoskuld seemed to tip sideways and sag a little, like an emptying waterskin. The crew and the Oathsworn watched, slipping subtly apart.

‘You know from Orm what I can do with this,’ Crowbone said, raising the axe, and Hoskuld blinked and nodded and then rubbed the middle of his forehead, as if it itched.

‘Only because you have friendship with Jarl Orm is it still on the outside of your skull,’ Crowbone went on, in a quiet and reasonable voice, so that those who heard it shivered.

‘Svein Kolbeinsson,’ Hoskuld gasped. ‘Konungslykill, they called him. I was younger than yourself by a few years when I met him, on my first trip to Jorvik with my father.’

Crowbone stopped and frowned. Konungslykill – The King’s Key – was the name given to only one man, the one who carried King Eirik’s blot axe. Such sacrifice axes were all called Odin’s Daughter, but only one truly merited the name – Eirik’s axe, the black-shafted mark of the Yngling right to rule.

Carried by a Chosen Man called the King’s Key, the pair of them represented Eirik’s power to open all chests and doors in his realm, by force if necessary. It gave Eirik his feared name, too – Bloodaxe. Crowbone blinked, the thoughts racing in him like waves breaking on rocks.

‘This ship it was,’ Hoskuld said wistfully. ‘The year before Eirik was thrown out of Jorvik and died in an ambush set by Osulf, who went on to rule all Northumbria.’

What was that – twenty-five years ago and more? Crowbone looked at Hoskuld and while the gulls in his head screeched and whirled their messages and ideas, his face stayed grim and secret as a hidden skerry.

‘Svein Kolbeinsson was taken at the place where Eirik of Jorvik died, but after some time he escaped thralldom and fled to Mann. It seems he turned his back on Asgard since the gods turned their backs on him, so he became a monk of the Christ in the hills of Mann around Holmtun, in the north of the island. He died recently, but before he did, he told this monk Drostan a secret, to be shared only with the kin of the Yngling line.’

The words spilled from Hoskuld like a stream over rocks, yet the last of it clamped his lips shut as he realised what he had said. Crowbone nodded slowly as the sense of it crept like honey into his head.

‘Instead, you went to Dyfflin,’ Crowbone said softly.

Hoskuld licked his cracking lips and nodded.

‘At Drostan’s request,’ he murmured hesitantly.

‘You are no fool, Hoskuld Trader, you got the secret from this monk Drostan, you know what he has to tell me.’

‘Only what it is,’ he managed, in a husked whisper. ‘Odin’s Daughter. Not where it lies, though.’

‘Eirik’s axe, Odin’s Daughter itself, still in the world and a monk has the where of it in his head,’ Crowbone said.

Now it was the turn of the Oathsworn to shift, seeing the bright prize of Eirik’s Bloodaxe, the mark of a true scion of the Yngling line – a banner to gather men under. That and the magic in it made it worth more than if it were made of gold.

‘Olaf Irish-Shoes, Jarl-King in Dyfflin?’ Crowbone mused, bouncing the axe in his fingers. ‘Well, he is old, but he is still a northman and no man hated Eirik Bloodaxe more than he – did they not chase each other off the Jorvik High Seat?’

Hoskuld bobbed his head briefly in agreement and those who knew the tale nodded confirmation at each other; Eirik had been ousted from Jorvik once and Olaf Irish-Shoes at least twice. Gorm muttered and shot arrowed scowls at his captain.

‘Well,’ said Crowbone. ‘You took the news to Irish-Shoes, then Orkney.’ Crowbone’s voice was all dark and murder now. ‘Not to Thorfinn, I am thinking.’

‘Thorfinn died,’ Gorm blurted. ‘His sons rule together there now – Arnfinn, Havard, Ljot and Hlodir.’

‘There is only one ruler on Orkney,’ Crowbone spat. ‘Still alive is she, the Witch?’

Hoskuld answered only with a choking sound in his throat; Gunnhild, Eirik’s queen, the Witch Mother of Kings. The tales of her were suddenly fresh as new blood in Hoskuld’s head: she it was who had sent her sons to kill Crowbone’s father then scour the world for the son and his mother. Now the hunted son stood in front of him with an axe in his hand and a single brow fretted above his cold, odd eyes. Hoskuld cursed himself for having forgotten that.

‘Arnfinn is married to her daughter,’ he muttered.

Crowbone hefted the little axe, as if balancing it for a blow.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You took the news to Olaf Irish-Shoes, who was always Eirik’s rival – did you get paid before you fled? Then you took it to Gunnhild, the Witch, who was Eirik’s wife. You had to flee from there, too – and for the same reason. Did you ken it out at that point, Hoskuld Trader? That what you knew was more deadly than valuable?’

He stared at Hoskuld and the axe twitched slightly.

‘You are doomed,’ Crowbone declared, grim as lichened rock. ‘You are as doomed as this Drostan, whom you doubtless betrayed for profit. Olaf will want your mouth sealed and so will the Orkney Witch. Where is Drostan? Have you killed him?’

Hoskuld’s brows clapped together like double gates.

‘Indeed no, I did not. Him it was who asked to go to all these places, then finally to Borg in the Alban north, where we left him to come to find Jarl Orm, as he asked.’

He tried to keep the glare but the strange, odd-eyed stare of the youth made him blink. He waved his hands, as if trying to swat the feel of those eyes off his face.

‘The monk lives – why would I kill him, then bother to come and find Orm – and you?’

‘Betrayal,’ Crowbone muttered. He leaned a little towards Hoskuld’s pale face. ‘Is that what this is? An enemy who wants me dead, or worse? Why sail to Mann if the monk is at Borg?’

‘He left something with the monks on Mann,’ Hoskuld admitted. ‘A writing.’

Crowbone asked and Hoskuld told him.

‘A message. I was to pick it up on the return and take it to Orm.’

To Orm? Crowbone closed one thoughtful eye. ‘And you delivered it?’

Hoskuld nodded.

‘You know what this message spoke?’ he asked and watched Hoskuld closely.

The trader shook his head, more sullen than afraid now.

‘I was to tell you of it,’ he replied bitterly, ‘when you asked why we were headed for Mann at all.’

Crowbone did not show his annoyance in his face. It was a hard truth he did not care to dwell on, that he had simply thought Mann was where Hoskuld wanted to go with his strange cargo. Either he was paid more after that, or Crowbone found a ship of his own was what the young Prince of Norway had assumed.

Now he knew – a message had been left by this Drostan, in Latin which Hoskuld did not read – he knew runes and tallied on a notched stick well enough, so he could carry it to Orm and not know the content.

And the thought slid into him like a grue of ice – there was a trap to lure him to Mann.

He said so and saw Hoskuld’s scorn.

‘Why would Orm set you at a trap?’ he scathed. ‘He knows the way of monks. They would not have written this message to Orm only once.’

That was a truth Crowbone had to admit – monks, he knew, would copy it into their own annals and if he went to Mann he would find it simply by saying Orm’s name and asking with a silver offering attached. For all that, he wanted to bury the blade in the gape-mouthed face of the trader, but the surge of it, which raised his arm, was damped by a thought of what Orm might have to say. He had fretted Orm enough this year, he decided – yet the effort not to strike burst sweat on him. In the end, the lowering of his arm came more from the nagging to know what this writing held than any desire to appease Orm.

‘Get me to Mann, trader,’ he managed to harsh out. ‘I may yet feed you to the fish if it takes too long a sailing – or if I find this message or you plays me false.’

‘We are sailing nowhere,’ Onund interrupted with an annoyed grunt, bent over the steering oar so that his hunched shoulder reared up like an island. ‘We are drifting until this is lashed. Fetch what line you have – I can get us to land safely and then we will need to find decent leather.’

‘I would hurry, hunchback,’ said Halk the Orkneyman, staring out towards the distant land. ‘It would seem the sharks have found their cod.’

He pointed, leading everyone’s eyes to the faint line, marked with little white splashes where oars dug, which grew steadily larger.

‘It is all of us who are doomed,’ Gorm hissed, his eyes wide, then jumped as Kaetilmund clapped him on the back.

‘Ach, you fret too much,’ he said.

Gorm saw the Oathsworn moving more swiftly than he had seen them shift since they had come aboard. Sea-chests were opened, ringmail unrolled from sheepskins, domed helmets brought out, oiled against the sea-rot and plumed with splendid horsehair.

‘Our turn to do the work,’ Murrough macMael grunted and hefted his long axe, grinning. ‘You can join in if you like, or just watch.’

Gorm licked his lips and looked at the rest of the Swift-Gliding crew, who all had the same stare on them.

Not fear. Relief, that they were not Frisians.

Hrodfolc was smiling, though his teeth hurt. He did not have many left, yet the few he had hurt all the time these days – but even the nagging pain of them could not keep the smile from his face, laid there when the watchers brought word to the terp that a fat cargo ship was wallowing like a sick cow just off the coast.

It had been a time since such a prize had come their way. Ships sped past this stretch of coast like arrows, Hrodfolc thought, half-muttering to himself, for they know the red-murder fame of the folk living along it.

He turned to where his twenty men pulled and sweated, grunting with the effort, slicing the long snake-boat through the slow, rolling black swell. No mast and no sail on his boat, which is how cargo ships with a good wind at their back could always outrun us, Hrodfolc thought, leaving us rowing in their wake.

Not this time. This time, there would be blood and booty.

‘Fast, fast,’ he bellowed, the boom of his voice in his head bursting tooth-pain in him. The riches called to him and he could see them, taste them – wool and grain and skins. Casks filled with salt fish, or beer, or cheeses; boxes stuffed with bone, buckles, boots, pepper. Perhaps even gold and silver. Honey, or some other lick of sweetness after a long winter. His mouth watered.

‘Fast,’ he called and his men grunted and pulled, wild-haired, mad-bearded, their weapons handy to grab up when they left off the oars and flung them inboard.

Hrodfolc eyed the fat ship, focusing the pain on them, the ones on the ship. He would rend them. He would tear them …

They streaked up to the side of the slow-rocking cargo ship and saw pale faces, four, maybe six and that widened Hrodfolc’s brown smile. The oars backed water furiously, then clattered inboard a breath or two before the long, sleek boat kissed the side of the knarr, a gentle dunt. Men hurled up lines to lash themselves to the side; others grabbed up weapons and scrambled to climb up the thwarts of their higher-sided victim, Hrodfolc snarling ahead of the pack with an axe in either fist.

It was a surprise to them all, then, when a line of shields suddenly rose up and slapped together like a closing door. It was shock when a great, bearded axe on a long shaft arced out from under them, making Hrodfolc shy away sideways, though he was not the target of it. The axe chunked over the thwarts, the powerful arms wielding it snugging the snake-boat to the knarr like a lover cinching the willing waist of his girl into an embrace.

Crowbone saw the gaping, snaggle-toothed mouth of the man who led these Frisian raiders, his face a great rune of terror at the sight of the shields and ring-mailed, spear-armed men who stood behind them, scowling from under the rims of horse-plumed helmets.

Crowbone hurled his own spear and it took the man in the middle of his twisted tooth, which flew out of his mouth as he fell backwards, spraying blood and head-gleet all over his own men. He hurled his second spear with his left hand and it went through the thigh of another Frisian, pinning the man to the deck of the snake-boat – his screeches were as high as a gull’s.

Yet more spears flicked and the men on the snake-boat screamed and flapped like fox-stalked chickens. A few grabbed up oars and tried to push their boat away, but Murrough’s long axe and a grip like a steel band held them. There were splashes as men hurled themselves into the sea rather than wait to die, for the Oathsworn were pillars of iron with big round shields, spears which they hurled and blades which they followed up with, crashing to the rocking deck of the snake-boat. The Frisian raiders had cheap wool the colour of mud and charcoal, spears with rusted heads and little wood axes.

Some did not even have that and Drosbo took a half-pace backwards as a raider with a knife, fear-maddened to fighting like a desperate rat in a barrel, hurled himself forward, screaming, slashing. The knife scored down the ringmail with little hisses of sound and Drosbo let him do it for the time it took him to grin and the Frisian to realise it was doing no good.

Just at the point the Frisian thought of aiming for the face, Drosbo brought his sword down in a cutting stroke that took the man in the join between neck and shoulder, a great, wet-sounding chop that popped the blade out of the man’s armpit and the whole arm, knife and all, into the sea.

Then Drosbo booted him in the chest, hard enough to pitch the shrieking raider into the slow-shifting, crow-black water in a whirl of blood.

There was a moment of crouching caution, then Murrough gave a coughing grunt, like a new-woken bear, and offered a final spit on the whole affair as he worked his bearded axe loose from the snake-ship’s planks and straightened, rolling the overworked muscles of neck and shoulder. Hoskuld’s crew stared at the astounded, gape-mouthed dead, at the blood washing greasily in the bowels of the snake-boat, at those still alive and swimming hopelessly for the far-away shore, black, gasping heads rising and sinking on the glass swell.

‘That is that, then,’ Onund growled out and clapped the stunned Orkneyman on the shoulder. ‘See if you can find some decent rope.’

Holmtun, Isle of Mann, at the same time

THE WITCH-QUEEN’S CREW

The wind rushed the trees and then bowled on over the scrub and broom, ruffling it like a mother does a son’s hair. Birds hunched in shelter, or were ragged away from where they wanted to go, steepling sideways and too busy even to make a voice of protest.

The sun was there, all the same, for the heat of it made riding in ringmail and wool a weary matter and the glare of sky, white as a dead eye, made Ogmund squint.

He was tired. They were all tired from plootering over hill and heather, a trail of curse and spit, the hooves of weary horses clacking on loose stones.

Somewhere ahead, Ogmund thought, scanning the distance and squinting until his forehead ached, were the raiders. On foot. How could folk on foot have kept ahead so well? And who were they, who dared to raid this corner of Mann, which had not been raided in years?

‘A warrior,’ said a voice as if in answer and Ogmund turned to where Ulf, forcing himself taller in his saddle to see better, was pointing ahead to the wooded hill. He had good eyes did Ulf and Ogmund saw the figure, dark against the glare.

‘So, we have caught them, then,’ he said and felt the relief of the men behind him, for it meant they could get off the horses and ease their arses. Even as he swung a leg over and slid to the ground, feeling his legs buckle a little, Ogmund kept staring at the figure on the hill. Unconcerned, was the word that sprang to his mind, as if the man was picking his teeth after a meal of bread and cheese. Ogmund felt a stir of unease and looked round at his own men for the comfort of seeing them sorting out weapons and tying chinstraps.

‘What are you thinking on this, Ogmund?’ asked Ulf.

That it smells, Ogmund wanted to say. That the monks whose mean little church was raided spoke of three men only and I have twenty, so should be feeling less like a maiden with a knowing hand on her knee.

Ogmund spread his hands and summed up the situation for his own benefit.

‘A monk had his face stirred up a little,’ Ogmund said, aware even as he spoke that it sounded like a whine. ‘Nothing of value was taken and some of their precious vellum was creased. Seems a strange crime to me, three raiders in ringmail and with good weapons and nothing of value stolen at all. Vellum and parchment taken and read and returned. When did you know ragged-arsed bandits who could read monk scratchings?’

‘Try telling that to Jarl Godred,’ Ulf replied shortly. It was clear he thought they should all be moving up the slope with shields set and weapons out; Ogmund had no doubt he would say as much to Godred as soon as he could flap his mouth close to the jarl’s ear and the jarl would have much to say to Ogmund as a result, none of it pleasant. Not for nothing was the ruler of this little part of Mann called Hardmouth – though never to his face.

For this reason, and because the weather was foul, Ogmund had not complained when not long since Godred chose Ulf to go and ferret out the truth of a report that two dead monks were to be found in a remote hut in the hills. Ulf had found them, two rat-eaten bodies. He was still bragging about it, though he had faced no threat, as Ogmund pointed out. Here was the opposite case, no serious crime had occurred yet the danger was very real. Ulf clearly wanted to show Ogmund, not to mention Jarl Godred, how ready he was to face any threat.

Ogmund sighed and waved the men forward, signalling for three to act as horse-holders. Ulf stayed mounted, which annoyed Ogmund since it made Ulf look like the leader. Ogmund would have liked to command him to get off, but knew that would look petty. He wanted to get back on his own mount but was not sure he had the strength of leg to spring up on it in his ringmail and felt the crushing despair of knowing there had been a time when he would have done it without thinking.

Too old, he thought grimly. Everyone knows it and Ulf grows impatient to be in my place.

The figure on the hill was suddenly close, so that Ogmund was startled at how he had daydreamed a mournful way to this point without realising it. He shook himself like a dog to sharpen his wits and stared at the man on the hill.

He was big and wore a helmet with ringmail covering the front of it so that none of his face could be seen at all; the eyes were no more than points of light in the cave of his shadowed face. It had gilded eyebrows and a raised crest and was altogether a fine helm, which had been greased and oiled carefully. The wearer had a long coat of ringmail, too, was thick-waisted, but not fat, had a shield slung on his back and one hand resting lightly on the hilt of a sword in a tooled leather sheath – though the hilt of the weapon was plain iron and sharkskin grip, without decoration.

All of it only increased the rise of Ogmund’s hackles. A little raiding man might well have a fine helmet, but he would not have bothered so much in the care of it, having almost certainly stolen it in the first place. Nor did this one stand like a little raiding man. He stood as if he owned the ground his feet were on.

‘Who are you?’ Ogmund demanded.

‘Gudrod Eiriksson from Orkney.’ The voice was metal-muffled, inhuman and that rocked a few back on their heels as much as the name. Bloodaxe’s son? Here in Mann?

‘Orkney does not rule here now,’ Ulf sneered.

‘Not now,’ replied Gudrod easily, ‘but soon enough again, maybe.’

Another man appeared from the trees, ring-mailed and armed, moving quietly to the left and slightly behind Gudrod. He had a sharp face and a weasel smile, hardly softened at all by the trim line of his beard. His nose was broad and spread out, as if he had been hit with a shovel and it fascinated Ogmund.

A third slid out, wearing a red tunic and green breeks, both so faded they held only a distant laugh of colour. He had a sword thrust through a ring in his belt but wore no armour at all, not even a helmet, and his face was round and boy-smooth, unmarked by war or weather so that the black hair which framed it made the youth look like an angel Ogmund had seen painted on the rough wall of the big church in Holmtun. Yet this angel moved strangely; like a padding wolf.

‘You robbed a church,’ Ulf went on and Ogmund finally had had enough. The casual trio, the whole raid, had him ruffled as a wet cat and Ulf taking on the mantle of leader here was more than enough.

‘When I need you to speak, Ulf Bjornsson,’ he said, low and harsh as grinding quernstones, ‘I will find a dog and have it bark.’

Someone snickered at the back and Ulf jerked his reins so hard the horse threw up its head in protest and scattered bit-foam.

‘You lead here?’ demanded Gudrod and Ogmund nodded. The man with the squashed nose laughed, a high, thin sound. Ogmund saw his top lip stick to his teeth; that sign of nerves gave him a little comfort. He realised, suddenly, that the man had no bone in his nose, which gave it the look.

‘There was no harm done in the church,’ Gudrod went on easily in that hollow-helmet voice. ‘It was a misunderstanding. We sought enlightenment only, not riches. A priest decided that we were not Christian enough for him. And here is me, baptised and everything, as fine a Christian as yourself, whoever you are.’

‘Ogmund Liefsson, of Jarl Godred’s Chosen,’ Ogmund replied automatically, cursing himself for his lack of manners.

‘Godred? Is that Godred, son of Harald? The one who is called Hardmouth much of the time?’ demanded Gudrod, his light, amused tone still apparent even filtered through the ringmail over his mouth. ‘Does he still bellow like a bull with a wasp up its arse?’

A few men chuckled and Ogmund turned a little to silence them.

‘What enlightenment?’ demanded Ogmund, deciding to ignore Gudrod’s question. ‘What brings the last of Eirik Bloodaxe’s sons all the way to a wee chapel in the wilds of Mann? Is your mam looking for a priest to confess her sins to?’

The implication that there was no-one closer who would absolve Gunnhild did not wing its way past those behind Ogmund and there were more chuckles, which Ogmund was pleased to hear.

Gudrod may have scowled under his helmet, but only he knew. The hands shifted, spreading wide in a graceful gesture, like a smile.

‘We sought a priest, certainly,’ Gudrod replied. ‘Though it appears he is not to hand. So we will leave as peacefully as we came.’

‘Ha!’ roared Ulf. ‘You and your handful will get what you deserve – the end of a rope.’

The head turned to him and even Ogmund felt the wither of those unseen eyes.

‘Whisht, boy,’ said the metal voice. ‘Men are speaking here.’

Ulf howled then and Ogmund heard the snake-hiss rasp as he dragged his blade out.

‘Stay!’ he roared out, but Ulf had blood in his eye and was kicking the horse, which had started to doze and was now sprung awake. Shocked, it leaped forward and, without stirrups, Ulf swayed off-balance, so that his sword waved wildly.

‘Od,’ said the flat-nosed man. ‘Kill him.’

The beautiful boy-man moved like silk through a finger-ring. Ogmund had never seen anything move so fast – yet he saw it clearly enough, like a form in a storm-night, etched for an eyeblink against the dark by a flash of lightning. The figure flicked the sword up and out of the belt-ring with the fingers of his left hand, swept it from the air with his right, took one, two, three steps and leaped, turning in the air as he did so, bringing weight to the stroke.

There was a dull clunk and a wet hiss, then the man called Od landed lightly on his feet and turned to stride, unconcerned, back to where he had started. Something round and black bounced once or twice and rolled almost to Ogmund’s feet.

The horse cantered on, then tasted the iron stink of blood, squealed and tried to run from it, so that the body on its back, blood pluming from the raggled neck, tipped, slumped and finally fell off into the broom.

There was silence. Ogmund looked at the thing at his feet and met Ulf’s astounded left eye; the right had shattered in the fall and watery blood crept sluggishly from the severed neck.

‘This is Od,’ Gudrod said in his inhuman voice, waving one hand at the angel. ‘He is by-named Hrafndans.’

Ravendance. It was such a good by-name that men sucked in their breath at it, as if they could see those black birds on branches, joyously bobbing from foot to foot as they waited for the kills this youth would leave them. They looked at this Od, then, as he took to one knee, sword grasped by the hilt and held like a cross, praying. It was when he licked Ulf’s blood from his blade that they all realised that it was Tyr Of Battles, the Wolf’s Leavings, he was praying to, dedicating Ulf’s life to the god. There was a flurry of hands as they crossed themselves.

‘You should know that Od is only one of my crew. Nor did I come from Orkney on a little faering,’ Gudrod said. ‘I am the son of Queen Gunnhild and King Eirik Bloodaxe, after all.’

Ogmund licked his lips. Once he had had to beat a horse until it bled before it would cross a tiny rivulet to the green sward on the other side, and when it did so, the leap took it into the sucking bog that had only looked like a firm bank. Ogmund had spent a long, sweating time hanging on while the horse plunged and struggled itself back to trembling safety, knowing that if he fell in his ringmail he was doomed.

He felt that same fear now, glancing round at the trees where men were hidden, he was sure. How many ships would Bloodaxe’s son bring from Orkney? His sister was married on to the jarl, in the name of God – how many ships would he not bring? The trees hid long hundreds of men in Ogmund’s mind.

‘So we will leave,’ Gudrod ended, his voice cold as the metal rings which hid his face. ‘You will not stop us.’

Which is what happened. Ogmund considered the sight of them vanishing from him, then stirred Ulf’s head with one foot.

‘Gather this up,’ he said. ‘We will take him back and tell everyone that he died for pride and stupidity and that the three miserable bandits who raided were actually a prince of Orkney and many ships of men. Though they outnumbered us, our fierceness chased them off.’

The others agreed, because they had been too feared to fight and knew it, a secret shame they did not want out in the world. It began to rain a little, a cooling mist that refreshed Ogmund as he watched Ulf loaded like a sack on to his uneasy horse. Ogmund smiled to himself, careful not to let it show on his face; it had not been such a bad day.

Two miles away, the three miserable bandits rested on a knee and Gudrod took off the helmet, so that he could raise his face, like a bairn’s fresh-skelped arse, to the cool mirr of rain. His short, curled beard pearled with moisture.

‘No Drostan,’ Gudrod declared. ‘But at least we learned something from those monks – old Irish-Shoes is here on Mann, in Holmtun.’

‘Aye, well – the church in Holmtun was where Hoskuld said the priest lived. Olaf Cuarans will have him,’ Erling said with a certainty he did not entirely feel. ‘His hand is closer, after all – he rules here as well as Dyfflin, no matter what Hardmouth Godred MacHarald thinks.’

‘You would think that the priests of this place would know this Drostan,’ Gudrod said, baffled. ‘What news he brought – of a dead companion – is worthy of being written down by them who scratch down everything that goes on. If they did, they kept that writing hidden well – there is no mention of a monk called Drostan coming to them with news of two dead in the hills. You would also think that Godred Hardmouth would know that and tell his Chosen Men.’

Erling shrugged, having no explanation for any of it. Truth was, he had never thought to find any monk or priest and that tales of Eirik’s famous axe were just that – tales. As for searching out writings – well, none of them here could read and if the monks had admitted to it, the document they scribbled on would have to have been taken to someone who could unravel the Latin of it. He kept his lip stitched on all this, all the same, for Gudrod was Eirik’s son and the Witch-Queen his mother.

‘Olaf Cuarans is where we go next,’ Gudrod said, settling the helmet in the crook of his arm. ‘Old Irish-Shoes wants my da’s axe, that is certain and he is sleekit as a wet seal – it would not surprise me if he told no-one his plans, not even his hard-mouthed jarl here.’

Erling swallowed thickly at the idea of sailing into Holmtun proper and facing the might of the Dyfflin Norse.

‘Is that wise, lord? Orkney and Ireland have never been friends.’

‘My mother wishes it,’ Gudrod said and his tolling bell voice was as hard metal as if he still wore the helmet, ‘so we must find a way.’

‘She will have me be a king yet,’ he added bitterly and ran one hand through the iron raggles of his thinning hair. ‘Since I am the youngest.’

Erling got stiffly to his feet, saying nothing, though he knew that Gunnhild’s youngest had in fact been called Sigurd, by-named the Slaver. Klypp the Herse had killed him some time ago, after Sigurd forced himself on his wife while a guest in his hall. Gudrod was not so much Gunnhild’s youngest as the only one of her sons left alive.

This did not, he thought to himself sullenly, give him the right to put them all in danger.

‘Next time,’ he said bitterly, ‘we will take all the crew with us, I am sure.’

Gudrod only grunted, something between laughter and scorn, then jerked his fleshy chin towards Od, who was picking the congealed blood from the blade as he cleaned it, sucking his fingers now and then. He looked up and smiled blandly at Gudrod and Erling from under the dagged black curtain of his hair.

‘We have your heathen dog,’ Gurdrod said and then unlooped a small bag from his belt and grinned. Erling sighed.

‘Lord,’ he said, ‘we should be moving on. There is no time for hnefatafl.’

‘There is always time for ’tafl,’ Gudrod replied, unfolding the cloth and placing the counters. ‘Anyway, it should not take long – you are a poor player.’

Erling sighed, then turned to look at Od.

‘Do not do that,’ he said. ‘You will be sick.’

Od smiled like a summer’s day, his lips bright with blood.

‘I am never sick,’ he answered.




THREE


The Frisian coast, a little later …

CROWBONE’S CREW

CROWBONE lay on the lip of the seawall, peering through the grass and meadow flowers. Bees hummed and, next to him, Kaetilmund lay, chewing a stem and squinting across the neat fields to the raised mound and the houses on it.

A terp it was called, a mound heaped up above the floodplain in case the earth dyke that Crowbone lay on was not enough to keep out the sea. The fields might be awash, but the Frisian folk of this place would keep their homes dry on an island of their own making.

‘What is that one doing?’ Kaetilmund demanded and Crowbone had to admit, for once, that he did not have any idea. The thrall had an axe and looked to be trying to cut a section from a branch that had a slight curve at one end to use on the pole lathe next to him. An old man was watching him, unconcerned, perhaps to make sure he did not use the axe for anything but woodcutting, though the thrall was not having a deal of success with that.

He cut once, twice – then the head flew off the axe and he went and fetched it, stuck it back on the haft and bent over the thick branch again. One, two, three – and the head flew off the axe. He went to fetch it. The old man shook his head in sorrow and spat.

The idiot thrall, small and dark and ragged, was not what occupied Crowbone. He and Kaetilmund had come to see if this was the place the snake-boat raiders had launched from and, if so, how many men they had left.

By the time the Swift-Gliding had been worked to shore with a makeshift steerboard fastening of poor bast rope there was the raid-thrill on all of Hoskuld’s crew, which made the Oathsworn laugh. Thick as linen on those who had never had much chance for raiding, it set them to staring at the land with their hands flexing, as if grasping hilt and shaft. They no longer saw wave or water, only riches and fame and Gjallandi, as grinning and glaured with it as any of them, clapped their shoulders and spoke of gold, boasting of old exploits and new ones to come.

Crowbone and Kaetilmund had gone ahead and now it was clear there were few, if any, fighting men left in the Frisian place. There was the idiot thrall who made Kaetilmund chuckle and that was interesting enough. There was the white-haired Frisian who watched him and the man in the cage nearby.

There was the strangeness that Crowbone studied, his head cocked to one side. The man had been imprisoned for a time, it seemed, and was hard to see into the shadows of the cage. Yet he was a man in a cage and, every now and then, the idiot thrall would stop and peer in, as if anxious, then go back to doing what clearly was fretting to Kaetilmund.

‘Odin’s arse, man – fix the fucking axehead,’ he muttered, as if the thrall could hear him. The thrall thought up a new way and tried many little, fast strokes, since large ones simply loosened the axehead faster. That caused the branch to shift sideways and, after chasing it for a few steps, the thrall put a foot on it and kept cutting, so that Kaetilmund sucked in his breath and at once by-named the idiot No-Toes, since he predicted that as the most likely outcome.

Then the thrall changed the branch round and this time, when he put his foot on it, he did it on the curved end, so that it flew up and smacked his shin. The old man shouted something; Kaetilmund stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing aloud and the effort squeezed a fart from him.

Crowbone did not laugh. Memory washed through him of another time he had lain hidden in the grass, a memory dark as Munin’s wings. Lying in the grass above Klerkon’s summer settlement on Svartey, the Black Island, having run away yet again. Of course, being an island, there was no escape from Klerkon, the raider who had taken Crowbone and his mother and killed his foster-father. For all that, escape was what Crowbone had done more than once and, each time, hunger had driven him back to see what he could steal – and each time he had been captured he had been punished more harshly than before.

They had seen him this time, too, so that he had crouched down and pretended to be dead, not moving, not breathing, hidden in the long grass and so small at eight that he could easily be missed as they swished a way towards him.

Then a fart hissed out of him. He thought that was good, for he knew that the dead farted, sheep and men both and so would add to his subterfuge. Then the hand had gripped him like a vice and one of Klerkon’s men, Amundi Brawl, hauled him up, laughing about how the smell had given him away.

Klerkon, his goat-face twisted with anger, had thrown Crowbone back to Inga, Randr Sterki’s wife, snarling at her to make sure the boy knew he was a thrall and not to let him loose again. Inga, furious at having been so embarrassed, fetched sheep-shears and a seax, then cropped Crowbone’s head to the bone and beyond, flicking off old scabs and scraping new wounds until the blood got in the way and she gave up.

‘There,’ she said, wiping her hands clean on dry grass brought by her own son, the grinning Eyvind, full of his ten years and malice at his ma’s tormentor.

‘Now,’ Inga said, ‘you will be fixed to the privy by a chain and stay there until you learn that you are a nithing thrall.’

‘I am a prince,’ he had spat back and she had smashed his mouth with a scream of rage. He had wanted his mother, then, but she was already dead, kicked to death by the man who had put his bairn in her. It was him, Kveldulf, who fastened Crowbone to the privy and left him there.

Revenge. The day Orm and the Oathsworn had come to raid Klerkon and freed him, the day Klerkon’s own precious bairn went against the side of a wall and had the life broken from it with a snap and a last wail, that day he got his revenge.

Inga, begging and pleading, snarling and fighting, as the Oathsworn held her down and someone – who had it been? Crowbone squeezed his head, but could not remember clearly. Red Njal, maybe? Finn? No matter – the man who had broken his way into Inga had stabbed her first and a frantic Eyvind had died trying to save her. Orm had taken off the back of his head with a sword-stroke.

Crowbone had bent to Inga as the men had left her, choking in her own blood on the flank of a dying ox.

‘I am a prince,’ he had said, his breath wafting the dying flutter of her eyelashes. ‘You should have listened.’

Princely revenge. He shook the memories from him and shoved them back in the black sea-chest he kept in his head. Stuffed full, it was, of all those matters a prince finds expedient and necessary. Lesser men are allowed to brood on them, Crowbone thought, but princes who would be kings cannot afford them. Vladimir had taught him that, having learnt it from his own father, the harsh Sviatoslav.

‘Thor’s hairy balls,’ Kaetilmund hissed with delight. ‘We have to have this thrall, Crowbone, just for the joy of watching him.’

Crowbone stirred out of the past and peered down. The thrall had cut his length of wood and fixed it to the lathe, wrapping the rope round it once, then twice. It was clear the lathe-grip was faulty, for when he pumped the footboard, the lump of wood spun obligingly – then flew off like an arrow from a bow, straight into the open doorway of a house. There was a shriek and a clatter, followed by a scream of woman who lunged out and proceeded to shriek at the old man, who in turn took to battering the thrall round the head and shoulders, grunting and red-faced with the effort.

The thrall took it all, half-curled, like a rock in a storm. When it had washed over him and the woman went off, panting, he got wearily to his feet, fetched the lump of wood, wrapped it in the rope and fastened it on the lathe.

‘No, no,’ Kaetilmund declared with glee. ‘Surely not …’

But he did. He pumped the footboard, the lump of wood flew off and smacked the side of the house, then bounced, scattering chickens in an irate din.

Crowbone turned and grabbed Kaetilmund’s shoulder, signalling that they should slither away, as the woman burst from the house with fresh howls.

There were more shrieks when men from the sea came down on them not long after, grey and snarling as wolves. Shrieking and running, dragging stumbling bairns by the wrist, what was left of the little terp went out across their mean fields like scattering sheep.

The Oathsworn did not bother with them much – there was no room in Hoskuld’s boat for slaves and enough of the better-looking ones had stayed, cowering, for men to look over and decide what to do with.

Hoskuld’s crew did the fighting and chasing, yelling and waving weapons, slick with the raid-lust that comes on men who never usually get a lick of the rann-sack – even Hoskuld himself puffed along with a long, single-edged old seax in one fist and kicked a door, beaming from the great headland of his face. His snarling joy was spoiled a little when the door did not give way and the force of his kick landed him on his arse. He got up, looking right and left, while folk pretended not to notice.

There were only two fighters. One was the white-hair, who came storming round the side of the main steading of the place, an axe in either hand and both wrists with enough old memories in them to show that, in his youth, he would have been feared.

Gorm aimed a wild swing at him, which the man easily dodged and, if he had not been slowed by age and stiffness, the return would have spilled a deal of Gorm’s belly into the kale patch. It did enough to make Gorm back off and call for help, so that Halk rushed in from one side and the old man, snarling with the desperation of the doomed, hurled himself on the Orkneyman with a shrill cry, like an owl threading the night with screech.

Crowbone watched Gorm and Halk cut the old man down, flurrying blows long after the blood-speckled grey hair was the only thing that moved on the man, wisping stickily in the wind.

‘Bravely done,’ Murrough growled and spat. Crowbone said nothing; brave or not, it was done and that was what mattered.

The other fighter was the idiot thrall, who took up the wood axe and moved to the caged man, turning this way and that, standing guard. Hoskuld scrambled up from his episode with the door and launched himself at the thrall, thinking the stub of a nithing would turn and run.

Instead, the axe whirled up and cut. It would have been a death-blow, for sure, save that the loose axehead flew off, back over the thrall’s shoulder and made Vandrad Sygni hunch his neck into his shoulders as it whizzed past him. But the thrall’s blow was with the haft only, which was battleluck for Hoskuld, since it took him in the left ribs and drove the air out of him as if he was a dead cow. Then the thrall followed it up with a head smack that laid Hoskuld flat with a groan.

‘Do not kill him!’ Kaetilmund yelled, as Vandrad, scowling, nocked an arrow to his bow. ‘That thrall is too valuable to waste.’

The Oathsworn agreed with some chuckles – all save Vandrad, who still had the memory of the axe-bit bird-whirring too close to his head – and closed in on the thrall, who

half-crouched with his stick. Inside the cage, the shadowed figure stirred and Crowbone saw the gleam of white hair or beard.

‘Hold there,’ Vigfuss said. ‘Drop that little stick and no harm will come to you.’

A choking laugh came from the shadowed figure in the cage. ‘Too late for that,’ he wheezed.

The thrall did not move at all, but a young dog the colour of yellow corn suddenly bounded out from behind some huts and skidded up to stand before him, legs splayed and growling.

The Oathsworn tensed a little, for no-one liked dogs, which were just fur bundles with a mouthful of filthy blades.

‘Call that hound off, thrall,’ Vandrad rumbled. ‘Or I will kill it and whack your bottom with your little stick.’

‘It is a bitch,’ the caged man growled. ‘A guard for the village.’

‘Not such a good one,’ Crowbone pointed out and felt the caged man’s eyes appraising him. He did not like to be watched where he could not see and so moved a little way round, to try and see more than just the gleam of white hair or beard; the thrall watched him, flexing his hand on the axe-shaft. The yellow dog wagged her tail and licked the back of the thrall’s hand.

‘It liked everyone too much,’ the caged man observed.

‘Now you have your reward,’ Crowbone said, ‘for if it had been on guard, perhaps your village would not be leaking blood down the street.’

‘Not my village,’ said the caged man and now Crowbone saw him clearly – a thin face, like a ravaged hawk, with a shock of white hair and a tangle of grey-white beard. He had a tunic and breeks, which had once been fine but were now smeared and stained with blood and the leakings from filthy wrappings round both of his hands. The eyes that met Crowbone’s own were fox-sharp, all the same.

Murrough, hearing women shriek and wanting to be off in that direction, finally had had enough. ‘Throw down that stick,’ he growled jutting his jaw, but the look he got back caught Crowbone’s attention and made him study the thrall intently.

There was no wolf at bay in those eyes, nor was there the wild flare of darting looks that sought an escape. Most revealing of all, there was the stare itself. A thrall who knew that his place was no more than that of a sheep would have stared at the ground. Instead, the thrall’s eyes, slightly narrowing, were a blue appraisal of Murrough, as if marking where he would strike for best effect. It was then, too, that Crowbone saw the thrall was fastened by a length of chain to the cage and, for a moment, felt the sharp bite of his own thrall’s chain on his neck, tasted the acrid stink of the privy.

Murrough saw the thrall’s look, too, and was made wary by it – which showed sense, Crowbone thought, but still he snapped a command for Murrough to be still just in case the Irishman launched an attack certain to include pain for one or the other and possibly a deal of blood. The others watched, wary as hounds round a stag.

‘Berto,’ said the grey-head, almost wearily, ‘I am done. Let their leader come up.’

The youth called Berto let the stick drop a notch and half-turned to the man in the cage, his bland, beardless face furrowed with concern. The tension leached away and, lumbering up like a great bear, Onund Hnufa clapped Murrough on one shoulder and glanced at the thrall.

‘Not bad, fetar-garmr,’ he said and folk laughed at the term, which meant ‘chain-dog’ and could be directed at both the thrall and the yellow bitch equally. Then Onund turned to Murrough and the others.

‘Leather,’ he said and they remembered why they had come and went off to hunt some out. Kaetilmund stayed and went slowly up to the cage and cracked it open with a sharp blow that made the dog squeeze out a bark. Murrough hauled out the man, gently enough, and the thrall knelt by his head. When Crowbone moved up, the thrall fixed him with summer-sky eyes dulled with misery.

‘My thanks,’ the grey-hair said to Crowbone. ‘This is Berto. He is from the Wend lands. I am called Grima, from Bjarmaland.’

‘A long way from home,’ Crowbone noted and Grima chuckled, a moth-wing of sound. His wrapped hands soaked some fresh blood on to the old stains of his tunic. There was gold thread in that tunic, Crowbone noted.

‘Need help with those fingers, old yin?’ Kaetilmund asked. ‘We have a skald who knows some healing runes.’

Grima smiled and raised both blood-swaddled hands.

‘Hrodfolc’s joke,’ he said. ‘He fed me bowls of good stew with meat in, but cut a finger off and never let me know which stew it was in. Where is he, by the way?’

Crowbone told him and Grima’s grin was sharp and yellow.

‘Good. Nithing Frisian fud – he thought I would not eat for fear of swallowing my own flesh,’ Grima said and then laughed. ‘He knew better when I asked him to cook it longer – my own meat is a little too aged to be tender.’

Crowbone and Kaetilmund smiled at this, a defiance they appreciated.

‘Balle did this to me, the whore’s by-blow,’ Grima wheezed.

His eyes closed while pain washed through him, keen enough for Crowbone to feel it as well.

‘This flatness is no place for a man from the north mountains to die,’ he added. ‘Who are you, then, who is here to witness it?’

Crowbone told him, adding that the death was still a way off – then Kaetilmund finished unwrapping the first of the hands and Crowbone saw the ugly black and red and pus yellow of it. He realised the bright glitter of Grima’s eyes was fever.

‘Good,’ said Grima. ‘Now all truths are almost unveiled. The gods are kind, for I know your fame. With your help I will leave this cursed place and die where I belong. But I have little time, so listen, Olaf, son of Tryggve, now of the Oathsworn. I am Grima. Once I was known as you are known, for I led the Raudanbrodrum – do you know of them?’

The Red Brothers. Crowbone had heard of this varjazi band and their leader’s name, which meant ‘a full helm’ in the honest tongue of the north and was usually given to a man whose face was hard and set as iron, so that only his eyes gave anything away. He had not heard these names for some years and said so; Grima nodded weakly.

‘This is the last you see here. We are rule-bound – though not as fiercely oathed as you – and most of us did not do well faring out in the east, along the Silk Road, so we came down on to the decent waters of the Baltic and raided the Wend lands, where I thought they would be fat and lazy, since it had not seen rann-sack for some years. Well, here I am, dying for lack of luck – the raiding was poor and all we had was Berto here, which a certain Balle did not think enough. He is wrong – Berto is worth a deal as you may discover when the matter is ripe. I hear you were luckier – all the silver of the world, eh?’

‘Yet we are here, in the same flat shit-hole,’ Kaetilmund pointed out, hoping to take Grima’s mind off the second unwrapping, for the bindings were matted to the stumps and Grima hissed blood on to his teeth from his bitten lip.

‘You still fare better than me, I am thinking,’ he answered wryly, when he could speak, ‘since most of your fingers are still on the end of your hands and your life is not unravelled yet. Now here is the way of it. Balle was my Chosen Man, but he grew tired of waiting and did not want to challenge in the usual way, the white-livered tick. He killed all the men who were loyal to me – not many, the years had thinned them, but I realised that too late – and threw me over the side of my own ship. I would have been red-murdered then if Berto had not leaped after and towed me to shore. The gods clearly turned their back on me all the same – for this Hrodfolc took us both.’

Kaetilmund gave Berto an admiring grin.

‘Well, No-Toes,’ he declared. ‘You may have no skill with an axe or a lathe, but it seems you are more fish than chain-dog.’

Crowbone simply wondered why the thrall had done it, for there seemed little reason for it. Grima saw the look and knew it for what it was. When he spoke Crowbone jerked, as he always did when he suspected folk were reading the whirl of his thought-cage.

‘Perhaps because I did not kill him and he was no better than a thrall when I took him anyway,’ Grima said. ‘Nothing much changed for him except he breathed sea air. I am in his debt. I have nothing to give to him but what I can make happen in the short time left me, with my last breaths. He has eighteen summers on him and will prove valuable to you. Trust me in this and free him, in return for what I can give.’

Crowbone smiled.

‘What makes you think you have anything I need?’ he pointed out and Grima grinned; sweat rolled off him. Gjallandi had come up in time to see and make tutting sounds as he inspected the ruin of the old warrior’s hands.

‘You are a prince with no princely ship crew I can see,’ Grima grunted. ‘Unless you have more hidden away. Which means you have no princely ship, either. I am jarl of the Red Brothers, who are a crew with a ship and in need of a prince. Free Berto and I will lead you to them. Kill this Balle and those who follow him and make me jarl again – then I will hand crew and ship to you, for I have no use for them where I am going.’

Crowbone considered it and was thinking the old man might not last long enough for all this. He was set to scowling when Grima chuckled.

‘I will live long enough to watch Balle’s face when I arrive full in it with a prince and a fistful of the famed Oathsworn,’ he growled and Crowbone sat still for a time, put out at the idea of the old man reading his thoughts – or, worse, his own face being so blatant that anyone could see what went on inside his head.

Then he nodded and spoke the words aloud, so there would be no going back. The thrall blinked a little from the bland round of his face and Kaetilmund, grinning, cracked the links of the chain, so that the freed thrall could unravel himself.

‘There you have it, No-Toes,’ he said. ‘Fetch that axehead back and fix it on properly, for you can carry it like a man now. You had better thank Prince Olaf here, for now you are a warrior.’

‘I am Berto. I am thanking.’

The voice was high and thick with accent, for the Wend knew Norse only as spoken by Frisians and his own sort, which was as like the true sounds of men as dogs barking. Crowbone held the flat gaze of the Wend with his own odd eyes, seeing the deep blue eyes and round olive face of a youth not yet even into beard. He had seen Wends before, travelling up the Odra River with Orm. He had not thought much of them, so he was surprised to find himself being studied carefully and there was something both attractive and disturbing about that; not much of a thrall in his own lands, this one, he thought, that he can keep his head up and his eyes bold. He found he had muttered as much aloud.

‘No doubt a prince at home,’ Onund grunted, hearing it as he passed. ‘As all thralls are who are raided from others.’

He went away laughing, with others who knew how Crowbone had been rescued by Orm – and claimed his princely rank with his first words – joining in. Crowbone, remembering the slaughter that had come after, could not find a smile and turned to the old man instead, cocking his head in a question.

‘We have a stöðvar,’ Grima said. ‘An old seasonal place where we lie up. The crew will be there, for Balle has all the clever of a rock and thinks me dead and gone.’

Berto the Wend bent his head over the old man while the yellow dog whined and tried to shove its scarred ears under an oxter. It was, Kaetilmund thought, a powerful, wedge-headed bitch and as ugly an animal as ever disgraced the earth. A strange friend for a thrall, he thought – but the Norns had woven them a deal of luck and you had to take such matters into account.

Berto cradled the old man’s head and waved away the greedy flies as Gjallandi marked out fresh runes on clean wrappings and rebound the blackening stumps. The metallic stink of blood was strong and the sweat ran stinging in Crowbone’s eyes.

‘This is Prince Olaf,’ Grima said to Berto, his eyes closed. ‘He will one day be a king and, if your life-luck holds as firm as it has done, you may profit each other yet, for all that he is of the Oathsworn and you follow the Christ.’

Crowbone looked at Berto and saw the fierceness in his round, large-eyed, sharp-nosed face, so that he looked, for a moment, like a hunting owl. He nodded. Grima spasmed with pain as Hoskuld’s men picked him up and half-carried, half-dragged him back to the ship.

Onund Hnufa lumbered up as the harsh stink of smoke wafted to Crowbone’s nose. The same wind brought distant sobbing and the crackle of burning and Crowbone turned moodily away as the terp started to flare and burn, spilling smoke to stain the sky.

Onund lumbered alongside, happily clutching their entire treasure – a stiff, thick square of half-cured leather the size of his chest.

Holmtun, Isle of Mann, some time later …

OLAF IRISH-SHOES

Jarl Godred perched on a bench in his own hall while Olaf lolled in his High Seat draped in a winter wolf pelt that ran like a river of milk down on to his shoulders. Under the fur coddling them his shoulders were still wide, despite his hair and the winter wolf pelt being the same colour. The matching white beard was twisted in three long braids weighted with rust-spotted iron rings. Above it, out of a knob-cheeked face, the eyes, feral as hunting cats, glittered like blue ice.

Godred saw that what could be a smile was hacked out of the Jarl of the Dyfflin’s lumpy face as he deviously questioned Ogmund about the raiders. Not only was the old war-dog spoiling for another bash at the Ui Neill – a war Godred had always thought beyond foolish – now he was showing an unhealthy interest in monks.

Olaf’s royal belly strained the tunic, which had been delicate green trimmed with red knotwork once but was now mainly food stains; standing close to him, Ogmund thought it might be possible to trace the whole life of Olaf Irish-Shoes in those stains, meal by meal, like reading runes on a raised stone.

‘This son of Gunnhild said he sought the monk Drostan?’ the Jarl of Dyfflin asked, the smile still like a cleft in rock.

Ogmund wished the lord of Dyfflin would not smile, for it was as off-putting as wolf-breath on the back of your neck. So was the look of his own Jarl Godred and he knew Hardmouth was less than happy with the entire business – especially the arrival of Olaf Irish-Shoes, stamping his authority.

‘Not in all those words,’ he answered, ‘but it was clear that was what he did when you tally matters up.’

He glanced at Godred, who sat next to Sitric, Olaf’s younger son. The twig does not fall far from the tree, Ogmund thought, for Sitric, still dark-haired, was round-faced and stocky. One day he and his da would be as alike as two gobs of spit – the eldest boy was a third gob of the same spit and limped so that no-one these days called him anything but Jarnkne – Iron Knee.

There was another son, Raghnall, back in Dyfflin and Ogmund had seen him, too. Tall and cream-haired, from a different mother, he was Olaf’s favourite. He liked his women, did Olaf – currently he was thundering himself into the thighs of an Irish beauty called Gormflaeth and showing little sign that his belly got in the way of matters.

‘We know Ulf found two dead monks in a keill up in the hills,’ Sitric growled, shaking his head. ‘One looked to have had his head beaten in, but the rats had eaten well on the pair of them, it was hard to tell. Two monks, all the same. This Drostan is dead.’

‘Then who was with Hoskuld the Trader?’ demanded Olaf, leaning back on the High Seat and spreading his feet to the fire – sensibly shod feet, Ogmund noted with surprise but then, the name ‘cuarans’, Irish Shoes, was only given by Norwegians and Danes as a sneer against the Dyfflin Norse, who were all thought to be half-Irish of lesser worth because they had forgotten how to be true people and taken to wearing Irisher sandals.

‘Hoskuld came to Dyfflin with a monk, but I never saw him,’ Olaf went on, fiddling with his beard rings. ‘Hoskuld came with a preposterous tale of how this monk knew where Eirik’s old axe was and that this monk he had was prepared to reveal the where of it for money. The monk, Hoskuld said, would only come to me in person once assurances had been given – which was not a little insulting, I was thinking.’

‘I thought it the worst attempt to gull you out of silver I had heard in many a long day,’ Sitric rumbled and his father nodded and grinned ruefully.

‘Aye – but Hoskuld is a good trader and valued, so I let him have his night’s hospitality, as if I considered the matter. Truth was I had already decided to send him packing back to his shy monk, or else bring the charlatan before me – but before I could do anything, Hoskuld left my hall. In haste. In the night. That was even more insulting, as if he thought I would do him harm.’

‘Not so stupid, though,’ Sitric growled, ‘since that is what he deserved for such a tale.’

His father looked sharply at him.

‘Yet here is Gunnhild’s last son, come from Orkney looking for a monk,’ he said. ‘A man with the sense of a stone can see that this tale of Hoskuld’s now has legs on it.’

‘Find Hoskuld,’ answered Godred and Olaf soured the jarl with a hard look.

‘Good idea,’ he snarled. ‘I had not thought of it at all now that it is clear Gunnhild seeks him hard enough to send her last son.’

Godred’s cheeks grew pale, then red, but he said nothing, merely picked moodily at a loose thread on the hem of his own tunic and perched on a bench in his own hall while Olaf lolled in his High Seat and his son grinned.

‘I want this Hoskuld,’ Olaf declared suddenly, ‘but unlike Gunnhild I do not have the ships to spare – I need them and you, Godred, for the war that is coming.’

Godred merely nodded and said nothing. Olaf Irish-Shoes had been thrashing around in a fight with Domnall and the southern Ui Neill for years and, only this year, Domnall had finally decided to throw it all away and enter the monastery at Armagh. Good news all round, Godred thought bitterly – but now the old man had decided to wave his sword at the new leader of the Ui Neill in the north, Mael Sechnaill.

‘In five days,’ Olaf declared, levering himself stiffly out of the chair, ‘I want you and your men in Dyfflin. Then we are off to teach this Ui Neill puppy a lesson. Send your best man after this Hoskuld – but no more than a snake-ship’s crew.’

Godred nodded and watched the old man stump off, calling for Sitric and complaining of the damp as he hauled his fur tighter round him. Battles, he thought bitterly. The old fool lives only for battle and will risk everything on the outcome of a stupid fight; he has lost as many thrones as he has gained. The thought of losing everything here on Mann if the old war-dog failed made Godred waspish.

‘Find Hoskuld,’ he snarled at Ogmund. ‘Take the Swan Breath and same arses you got to lie for you over the Gudrod business and see you make more of a fist of matters when next you meet that Orkney bitch-tick. Get this Hoskuld and the secret he holds. I was going to send Ulf, but you have contrived to get him killed. Now you will have to do.’

Ogmund watched Hardmouth leave the hall, the anger burning in his chest so hard that he found himself rubbing his knuckles on his breastbone. He would not have taken that when he had been young, he thought, then swallowed the sick despair at that truth.

He was no longer young when the likes of Godred could lash him and walk away.

The Frisian coast, a little later …

CROWBONE’S CREW

He had many names. The Arabs gave him Abou Saal. The Church called him Biktor the Nubian and the True People, the Ga-Adagbes, knew him as Nunu-Tettey – Nunu, because all the Nubii males were called after the Divine Celestial Waters and Tettey because he was first-born.

Here, they called him Kaup. Sometimes they called him Kaup Svarti. Kaup came from their mistake when he tried to tell them that he was a Christian, but not one they knew. Copt, he had told them, but they were stinking, ignorant northmen and thought he was saying kaup, which meant ‘bargain’ in their tongue and they thought that thigh-slapping funny, since they had hauled him from the ruin of an Arab slaver and so had got him for free.

Svarti, of course, because it meant black. Black was a poor word to describe Kaup, all the same; Mar Skidasson, closest thing to a friend Kaup had among the Red Brothers, had likened Kaup’s colour to the wing of a crow in sunlight, that glossy blue-black colour. He knew a good name when he heard one did Mar – his own by-name was Jarnskeggi, Iron Beard, and Kaup had to admit that Mar’s hair was exactly that colour.

Kaup grew no hair on his face and the stuff on his head was a tight nap that never got longer, only a little greyer at the temples, for it had been a long time since the slave ship in the Dark Sea. With little hope of returning home, Kaup had been with the Red Brothers of Grima for years and, after they had crept round the unnerving fact that he looked like a man two weeks dead, most of the northmen found Kaup good company. He laughed a lot and they envied the white of his teeth and the way his black skin always shone, as if buttered.

Still, in all the years with Grima, Kaup had never been sure whether he was a slave or a warrior. He knew slaves of the northmen were treated no better than livestock and not allowed to carry weapons, but Kaup had a spear and a shield and one of their long knives, called a seax. He had killed for them and had his share of loot – yet when something had to be fetched or carried, it was always ‘the Burned Man’ who was sent to do it and expected to carry it out with no mutter.

Standing watch was another of the matters he was expected to do. Wrapped in a wool blanket he had made into a cloak, standing on one leg like a stork and leaning on his spear, Kaup was less happy than he had ever been, for Grima – whom he had liked – was gone and Balle was now in charge. Kaup did not like Balle and neither did Mar, who had had to twist his face into many agreeable positions to avoid the fate of others who had been good friends with the old jarl.

Not long after Balle had thrown Grima and the Wend into the sea they had come down to this old berth, which they had not visited in many years. At this time of year, no-one expected to see another ship, yet before Kaup’s eyes a fat trader muscled in to the shingle and men spilled to the shore.

There was a tingle on him when he ran to report this strangeness and the skin of his forearms was stippled and grew tighter when he and Mar and Balle went to look at the newcomers.

‘A fat knarr,’ Balle said, a shine in his eyes, relief showing in his broad, deep-marked face the colour of old wood. It would be relief for Balle, thought Mar, for he would be eager to show he had better luck than Grima, luck that brought a great plump duck right into the teeth of all these foxes.

‘Teeth,’ said Kaup and Mar jerked at this echo of his thoughts, then looked at the knarr, seeing the helmets and the dull gleam – like still, dark water – of ringmail. His own eyes narrowed at that, for there were more than a few of them and the one who was clearly the leader had a helmet in the Gardariki style, with a white horsehair plume braiding out of it, like smoke from a roofhole. All of his men had similar helms, but his was worked with brass and silver. Truly, this knarr had teeth.

‘A hard fistful,’ growled Balle, studying the men, tallying the possibilities. ‘Yet their leader is only a stripling and there’s no more than a handful of nithing sailors.’

The Red Brothers numbered fifty-eight and, after all their bad raid-luck, even the ones who did not like Balle much and thought he still had matters to prove would follow him: it would be an easy prize with the numbers on their side. Even if it was empty, the knarr alone was worth it.

Mar felt Kaup shift beside him, tasted the big dark man’s unease along with the salt from the sighing sea. It smelled of blood and his hackles stirred a little.

Balle watched and waited, feeling his men filter up in knots and pairs to look, not wanting to turn round to see how many, which would have made him look as if he was anxious. He was pleased, all the same, when he caught sight of some, out of the corner of one eye; they were armed and ready.

He would wait until the crew of this fat trader had finished unloading whatever it was in the bundle they thought to appease him with. The stripling who led them would come, arms out and easy to show he meant no harm but wanted only to share warmth and food and maybe trade whatever was in the bundle. He does not realise, Balle thought, with a lurch of blood-savage, that all he has is already mine.

The stripling came and with him was a worryingly big man with a hook-bitted axe leading the helmeted ones carrying the burden. The stripling came with a spear in each fist and the walk of a man who did not want to appease anyone, which Mar and Kaup noticed and frowned at, glancing sideways at Balle. They all noticed the youth’s coin-weighted braids, the neat crop of new beard and the strange, odd-coloured eyes.

Balle had seen it, too, and pushed the worry of it from him as if it was a bothersome dog. The shine of that rich knarr was on him and the stripling was still a stripling, who had done as Balle had seen in his head, even if he had a giant at his back, spears in his fists, eyes of different colours and a measure of arrogance which had taken in the Burned Man and showed no shock. Balle had been disappointed at that; the sight of Kaup always made northmen lick uneasy lips and should have made this boy at least blink a little.

Then he saw the truth of what he had thought was a trade bundle and everything in him melted away, running like water out of his bowels and belly, so that he could not move and almost fell where he stood.

It was no wrap of trade goods. It was Grima.

Mar and Kaup grunted, the shock of it stirred through the rest of the Red Brothers like ripples from a stone in a quiet pool. Grima, who was thought drowned and dead, was back, sitting in a throne carried by great mailed warriors, guarded by a giant, preceded by …

‘Prince Olaf, son of Tryggve,’ announced the stripling loudly. ‘Come to hold up the falling roofbeams of Grima’s sky. Come to bring him back to those who tried to foist red murder on him.’

Now this was real luck to men who knew the shape and taste of it, for Grima had gone into the sea with nothing but the cloth on his back and yet, here he was, sprung out of it, with warriors and a prince at his command.

This was god-favour if ever it was seen and if Grima was so smiled on, then the man who had tried to kill him clearly was not – both those who were Christmenn and those who followed Asgard stepped away from Balle. He felt men draw away from him and anger surged in, which was as good as courage.

Then Grima stirred in his chair and Balle felt the better for seeing how weak and near death the old man was, saw the dark stains on the wrappings round his hands. He saw, also, the little figure appear suddenly from behind the mailed throne-carriers, a yellow dog prowling at his heels.

‘Berto,’ Kaup called out without thinking how much delight was in his voice, for he had liked the little man.

Berto raised one hand to Kaup in salute, then curled his lip at Balle, who almost went for the man then and there. Arrogant little fuck! A nithing thrall, with a look like that on him …

‘I speak for Grima,’ Berto said, his chin in his chest as he made himself gruff. The fact that he spoke at all in such a way so astounded Balle that he opened and closed his mouth once or twice.

‘He challenges Balle for the leadership of the Red Brothers,’ Berto went on. ‘He declares Balle a white-livered son of a sheep, who lets himself be used as a woman every ninth night by those who supported him in throwing Grima into the sea.’

There was muttering at that and a hissing sound of sucked in air, for there was no stepping back from that insult. The stillness that followed made the sea-breathing seem to roar and a gull cried out like a lost bairn; the stripling leader raised his head and searched for it.

‘I take the challenge,’ Balle said, ‘and after I have won I will not deal kindly with you, Wend.’

Then he twisted his mouth in a nasty smile at Grima.

‘Will you stand up long enough for me to kill you?’ he asked, knowing Grima was not the one he would have to fight.

The bundle on the throne shifted a little.

‘No,’ said the husked whisper, which a trick of wind carried down the beach to a lot more ears than should have heard it. ‘Yet you cannot kill me, Balle. I will live longer than you.’

Folk made signs on themselves and Balle had to resist the temptation to cross himself, or touch his Thor Hammer, which would have been as sure a sign of weakness as dropping to your knees and babbling for mercy.

‘I stand in his place,’ said the stripling with two spears.

Mar, looking at Balle as the youth spoke, saw the sudden flood of relief wash the man.

He thought it would be the giant, Mar realised, but thinks he can beat the stripling. That is wrong; if the stripling fights a big man like Balle, whose name is a warning since it means ‘dangerously bold’, it means he is their best. Better than a giant with a hooked axe. Mar studied the youth more closely now, but saw nothing in him that spoke of greatness, or even of prince. He was a tall youth with tow hair and a spear in either hand, nothing more. It was clear Balle thought this, too.

‘If you have a god,’ he growled, low and hackle-raising, ‘you had better ask him for help now.’

‘I have a god,’ the stripling declared, ‘and I dedicate you to him. I claim the Red Brothers for Grima and you are the price of it. Will you stand aside or fight?’

Kaup caught the unease that flickered on Balle’s face, a moment only, like a flare from a firestarter’s spark. Enough, all the same. Balle will lose this and the youth already knows it. Yet the little prince’s face was as innocent as a Christ-nun’s headsquare.

Balle spat on his hands, hefted the long axe and rolled his shoulders, which was answer enough. The youth smiled and the delight in his voice was a rill of pleasure.

‘Odin, hear me – take this Balle, as blot for this victory. I, Prince Olaf of the Oathsworn of Orm Bear-Slayer, by-named Crowbone, say this.’

There was a rustle, as if a wind had come up and rushed through unseen trees, as men stirred and sighed. Suddenly, the famed Oathsworn were here, launched out of a clear day and a calm sea like Thor’s own Hammer; Mar looked at Kaup and licked dry lips, for the grim mailed men with horsehair smoking from their helmets were now even more fearsome than before.

Balle, too, felt the chill lick of it, but was instantly ashamed and the anger that brought to him was a forge-fire. He hefted the long axe and calculated the distance between him and the stripling – then signalled for Mar to pass over his shield.

Mar paused, then handed it over with a look that flared Balle’s rage into his face. He would remember that scorn when this was done and then Mar had better look to himself. Overdue for having his head parted from him, Balle thought.

Kaup watched carefully, for he tucked all such matters of these northmen away in the sea-chest of his head and knew that this was no holmgang, with ritual and measured fighting area, but an einvigi, unregulated and unsanctified, which most vicious combats were. It did not rely on any god – though Ullr was claimed to be the deity who watched over it – but on skill and battle luck only. Once, when his people were young, Kaup knew that they had worshipped false gods, such as Bes and Apedemak, the god of war, who would have presided over such matters as this.

No matter which of the Asgard gods watched here, Kaup had to admit Balle looked the better man with his long axe on one shoulder, and shield held to cover most of himself against the stripling with two short throwing spears. They faced each other on the sand of a nowhere beach, where the tide-birds scurried, beaking up black mud from a strand silvered by the fading light of an old day.

‘You are a big man,’ Kaup heard Prince Olaf say said softly to Balle, ‘and no doubt of some value to Grima, once, before Loki visited treachery on you. At half your size, I will still be twice as useful to him and three times the fighter you are.’

Balle blinked a bit, worked the insult out and came up spitting and dragging the axe off his shoulder with one hand, though it was unwieldy like that. Yet everyone saw the battle-clever in Balle, for he was about to rush the stripling who had two throwing spears and a seax snugged across his lap.

The youth would get one spear off, which the shield would take – then Balle would throw the shield to one side and close in with the two-handed axe, before the youth transferred his second spear to a throwing hand. Everyone saw it. Everyone knew what would happen – except the youth, it seemed.

Balle lumbered forward; the spear arced and smacked the shield hard – harder than Balle had imagined, so that he reeled a little sideways with it and saw the point splinter through on his side. A powerful throw, but harmless, ruining only the shield.

With a great roar of triumph, he hurled the speared shield to one side and threw himself forward. He had him; he had the youth, for sure.

Something whirred like a bird wing and there was a sharp tearing feeling in Balle’s belly, then he tripped and fell, rolled, cursing, scrambling upright and appalled at his bad foot luck. Ready with the axe, he spun in a half circle and almost fell again, looked down and saw a blue, shining rope tangled round his ankles. At the same time as he followed it back to the bloody rip in his shirt and into the very belly of him, a shadow fell and he looked up.

It was the stripling, a thoughtful look on his face and Balle snarled and went to strike, but the axe seemed stuck to the ground. Then something flashed and there was a burning sensation in Balle’s throat, harsh and fierce enough for him to drop the axe and spin away. He did not want to touch his throat, was afraid to touch it, but thought to get away from the stripling for a moment, get his breath and then work out how to get back in the fight, for it had clearly gone awry.

He could not hear properly and could not catch his breath and there was a terrible gargling, roaring sound; he found himself on the ground, felt a draining from him, like slow water falling, looked down at the huge bib of red that soaked his tunic.

Never get the stains out of that, he thought. My mother will be furious …

Crowbone stuck his seax in a patch of coarse sand once or twice, then wiped the rest of the throat-clot off it on Balle’s tunic sleeve, the only bit that was not already covered in the big man’s blood. He felt his left thigh start to twitch and hoped no-one had noticed either that or the fear-sweat that soaked him, stinging his eyes to blinking.

No-one spoke, then the Burned Man walked up with Crowbone’s second spear, the one that he had thrown with his left hand, the one that had sliced open Balle’s belly so deftly that the axeman had scarcely even noticed it until he fell over his own insides. He handed it politely to Crowbone and smiled, unnervingly white, out of the great dead-black of his Hel face.

‘Am I leader here?’ asked Grima in his hoarse whisper. Men nodded and shuffled.

‘Am I leader?’ Grima roared and then they bellowed back that he was. Grima, the roar almost the last breath left in him, slumped back in the makeshift throne and whispered to Berto, who nodded and straightened.

‘I told Balle I would see his death before mine and so it is and I can let Asgard take me,’ Berto said and, for all his piping and thick accent, no-one doubted it was Grima’s voice. ‘Prince Olaf will be jarl. My silver is his. My ship is his. If you have any clever in you, you will follow him – but mark this. The Red Brothers die with me. You swear to him and the Oathsworn now.’

Men looked at the so-called prince, a stripling digging his spear point into the sand to clean it. The giant with the hook-bitted axe, grinning, worked the other spear point from the shield, then handed the shield back to Mar.

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘there is a fair wee peephole in it now. A good thick leather patch is needed – ask Onund if he has some left from fixing our steer oar. He is the man with the mountain on one shoulder. My name is Murrough macMael.’

Mar looked thoughtfully at the finger-length gash and then nodded to Murrough.

‘I will leave it as it is,’ he answered blankly. ‘The breeze through it will be cooling in the next fight.’

The tension hissed away from the beach. The ring-mailed throne-carriers picked up the chair with Grima in it and started back to the knarr; the Red Brothers began to go back in little knots to their fires, but the stripling cleared his throat and they stopped.

He did not say anything, merely pointed – once, twice, picking two men. The third time was at the bloody remains of Balle. The men he pointed out hesitated for an eyeblink; Mar stepped in to that, scowling.

‘Pick him up,’ he said to the men. ‘He was a Christmann so we will bury him.’

He looked at Crowbone. ‘Do you have a priest in your crew?’

Crowbone eyed the man up and down, taking in the neat-chopped hair that came down round his ears only, the close-trimmed beard, the cool eyes the colour of a north sea on a raining day. The one, he noted, who had handed his shield to Balle with a look as good as a spit in the eye. A good friend to the Burned Man and the pair of them better on your side than against it. He smiled, for he felt good and the thigh-twitching had ended; he was alive, his enemy was dead and the triumph of it coursed through him like the fire of wine.

‘I am a priest,’ he said, ‘though a good Christ-follower would not think so. Better you say words over him, I am thinking. Better still, of course, if you kept him, for Grima will die tonight and he was no Christmann, I am sure. It would be good to lay this dog at his feet as he burns.’

Mar blinked.

‘Is that your command?’ he asked and Olaf spread his empty hands in a light, easy gesture and said nothing at all.

Mar nodded, satisfied; here was a follower of the old gods, but not one with his face set against the Christ as hard as he had heard the Oathsworn were. They lifted Balle and carried him away to be buried and Kaup stumbled out some Christ words, as many as he could remember.

Afterwards, they dug him up again and brought him back to the driftwood pyre being prepared for Grima; Mar nodded to Olaf, who smiled at this cunning.

Men came to the pyre, no matter which gods they followed, out of respect for Grima, and Crowbone watched them as Hoskuld, scowling at the cost, spilled expensive aromatic oil on to the driftwood. Crowbone saw which of them mourned, stricken, for Grima and which of them did him honour for what he had once been. There were others and he watched them closer still, the ones who hung at the back and shifted from one foot to the other, trying not to look at each other and make it obvious they were plotting.

Grima burned, hissing and crackling, throwing shadows and lurid lights over the strand. Crowbone stepped into the blooded ring it made and held up his hands.

‘You are the Red Brothers of Grima,’ he said loudly. ‘You have travelled as one, fought as one. You have rules for this and I want to know them.’

Men looked one to the other and Crowbone waited.

‘None may steal from another,’ said a voice and Crowbone knew who it would be, had already marked it and turned to where Mar was.

‘Or?’

‘Death,’ answered Mar. ‘Unless mercy is shown, but Grima was not a merciful man.’

There were grunts and a few harsh laughs at the memory of what Grima had been. Mar folded his fingers, rule by rule, to mark them.

‘Equal shares for all. If a man loses a finger in battle, he gets an extra share, but if he loses two he gets no more shares, for one is a sad loss, but two is careless.’

Orm would not have grown rich here, Crowbone thought, thinking of the three lost fingers on the Oathsworn jarl’s left hand.

‘If a man loses a hand, all the same, he gets a share for every finger and thumb on it, provided it was taken off with a single blow, for a hand removed by more than one blow shows the owner of it was not fighting well or hard enough.’

Crowbone nodded, but said nothing. These were good rules and he would remember all of them, though they consisted mainly of what a man got for losing pieces of himself. Death gained him nothing, though it was expected that the jarl would pay weregild to any family, if they were ever found, out of his own wealth.

‘If one man kills another,’ Mar went on, ‘there is no crime, provided it puts no-one else in danger, or sends the ship off course. Another may claim the right to settle blood-feud on such killing, but if there is none to right such a wrong, then no wrong has been done. If a Brother insults, offends or otherwise does you injustice, you may kill him for it, unless he kills you first.’

There were more, which were all the same matters, Crowbone noted – those with sharp edges and skill were in the right. Those with dull blades and fumbling were in the wrong.

Mar stepped back respectfully, leaving the flame-dyed space to Crowbone and the lifting sparks that whirled Grima to Odin’s hall.

‘The Red Brothers die here. We are the Oathsworn,’ Crowbone said and it was clear he meant all of them assembled, not just the ones who had come with him on the knarr. ‘We have no such rules and need none, for we have an Oath. We will all take this Oath while Odin is close, watching Grima come to him as a hall-guest. Those who do not take it will leave at once, for if they are nearby and in sight come dawn, anyone may kill them.’

He stopped and the fire hissed and the sea breathed.

‘Be sure of your mouth and your heart, where these words come from,’ he said and suddenly did not seem a stripling any longer, seemed to have swelled so that his shadow was long and eldritch. There was flickering at the edges of vision and those who believed in such things tried not to look, for it was clear that the alfar were close and those creatures made a man uneasy.

‘Once taken, this Oath cannot be broken without bringing down the wrath of Odin,’ Crowbone went on. ‘You can take it as a Christmann and stay one if you can – but be aware that the Christ god will not save you from the anger of breaking this Oath. This has been tried before and those who did so found all the pain of their suffering a great regret.’

‘God will not be mocked,’ said a voice and Mar turned to see it was Ozur, one of Balle’s men. Langbrok – Long-Legs – they called him and Crowbone listened to all of what he had to say, patient as the man’s bile flew like froth. At the end of it, Ozur spat into the funeral fire. Men stirred and growled at this insult, even some Christ worshippers who were friends of Grima; if they did not agree with a pagan burning, they at least wanted to do him honour.

Mar sighed. It would be Ozur, of course, who was hotter for the Christ than this funeral fire and now those who had followed Balle were at his back, uneasy that they were now in the few and not the many.

‘I will not foul my mouth with such a heathen thing as your oath,’ declared Ozur finally, then stared round the rest of the faces. ‘Neither should you all. It is a bad thing, even for you idol-worshipping scum.’

Eyes narrowed, for few men had liked Ozur anyway and none of the Thor and Odinsmen here cared for his tone. Yet there was a shifting, from one foot to the other, like a nervous flock on the point of bolting and Mar heaved another sigh; there had been enough blood and upset. The Red Brothers were gone for sure and nothing was left but for each to go his own way – or become Oathsworn. It wasn’t as if men like them had much of a choice, after all.

He said as much, marvelling at the faces turning to listen to him. Ozur scowled. Crowbone cocked his head like a curious bird and marked Mar with a smile; he liked the man, saw the pure gold of him and how he could be worn like an adornment for a prince.

‘You also are a pagan,’ Ozur spat back at Mar. ‘God alone knows what you and that burned devil you keep so close to you get up to, but it does not surprise me that you will take something as foul as this oath into your mouth.’

Rage sluiced over Mar and he was already curling his fingers into fists and looking for a hilt when there was a wet chopping sound and men were spilling away from where Ozur had stood. Now there were two figures, one on the ground and, as Crowbone and the others watched in amazement, Kaup – stripped naked and no more than a shadow in the shadows so that his eyes were the palest thing to be seen of him – heaved up the body of Ozur after plucking his knife from the man’s throat. He took three steps and threw it on to the pyre. Sparks flew.

‘This Ozur child should have paid more heed to the fact that I was not so close to Mar tonight,’ said Kaup in his thick, low, smile of a voice. Then he jerked his head at the pyre and Crowbone.

‘Now he goes to the feet of Grima. Say your oath, for I have a mind to take it.’

Crowbone recovered himself, blinked away the shock and surprise of what had happened and looked at Kaup.

‘That was the last such killing you will do among oathed crewmates,’ he said, ‘once you have spoken the Oath from your heart.’

He and Kaup stared at one another for a long moment and, in the end, the Nubian nodded. Crowbone said the words of the Oath and Kaup repeated them, then crossed himself, as if to clean off a stain and went to find his clothes. Slowly, in ones and twos, men stepped forward into the pyre light and intoned the Oath.

We swear to be brothers to each other, bone, blood and steel, on Gungnir, Odin’s spear we swear, may he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.

Crowbone stood and listened to them, the stink of oil and burning flesh circling him like a lover’s arms. There was a sudden sharp moment of heimthra, of longing for that which was gone; Orm’s Hestreng, where the jarl had tried so hard to bring the Oathsworn to rest, and failed, for they were raiding men, not farmers. There would be new grass in the valley there, unfolding leaves making tender shadows. There would be a sheen on the fjord and the screams of terns, swooping on everyone who came too close to their carelessly-laid eggs. It was a good jarl’s hall and Crowbone had envied Orm for it.

Crowbone wanted that. He wanted that and more of the same, with the great naust, the boatsheds, that went with it, huge lattice-works of wood as elegant as any Christ cathedral and, in them, the great ships and all around them the iron men to go in them. Ships and men enough to make a kingdom.

Why have the Norns brought me here, to this beach, Crowbone wondered, binding the thread of my life into the frayed remains of Grima? My greatness is lifted up by the last act of the jarl of the Red Brothers, as sure a sign of Odin watching over me as a one-eyed face appearing in the blue sky.

He brooded on that the rest of that long night and into the dawn, while men moved to fires and left the pyre to collapse into ash and sparks, hushed and reverent and awed by everything that had happened, swift as a stooping hawk, on this dark and lonely beach.

In the morning, they howed Grima’s ashes up in a decent little mound, marked out with light-coloured stones plundered from the shingle and circled in the shape of a boat to show a man from the vik lay here. Then they packed up their sea-chests and started to board the two ships.

Crowbone, last to leave, turned to look at the stone-ringed mound of Grima’s howe, a fresh scab just above the tideline, as far removed from the north mountains as you could get. Crowbone wondered if his fetch would be content with that.

He walked away, feeling the unseen eyes on his back from under that boat-grave, thinking on a band of sworn-brothers and the wyrd of their last leader, old, alone and dying on a distant shore.




FOUR


The Frisian coast, a day’s sail later …

CROWBONE’S CREW

ONLY the Norse do not fear the dark on the open sea. At least, so any who travel on the whale road tell folk. The truth is that only the whales do not fear the night sea – but men from the north sail it anyway, when the likes of Greeks and Englisc and Saxlanders and Franks give in and snag their ship close to the shore with ropes.

Grima’s gift-ship was called Skuggi and it well-matched the name, Crowbone thought, for it was pitch-tarred all over the hull so that the wood was as black as if it had been burned, though streaked with salt and gull shit here and there. Skuggi meant shadow to most people, but northmen took more from the name, to them it spoke of an ominous shade, a spectre.

The sail did not make the ship or name sweeter, for when it was hauled up it was the colour of old blood. Crowbone was well content, all the same, for this was a proper drakkar of twenty oars a side – old, Onund said, and stiff with new wood here and there, but sound.

Fast, too – they had to leash the Shadow so that Hoskuld’s panting Swift-Gliding could keep pace. Crowbone had left Rovald and Kaetilmund on board the knarr, just to make sure the new steering oar kept Hoskuld on the same course; he needed Hoskuld yet, to point out this Drostan to him when they found him, but the trader was more reluctant and scowling than ever since Berto had whacked him with an axe handle, ruining his attempt to be the figure of a warrior.

They had a long, good sail that day. Crowbone had confirmed men in their old standings, so that the Shadow’s shipmaster was still Tjorvir Asmundsson, who was called Stikublig. Stick-Starer was an apt by-name for him, since he spent a lot of time throwing little wood chips over the side and watching intently to judge the speed, the better to work out where they were.

Crowbone was content; with the men working at familiar things it seemed little had changed save for the jarl standing next to the steersman and a few new faces. Mar and Kaup and some others knew that everything had changed but, by the time they ran up on a quiet shore, the crew seemed happier than they had been at the start of the day.

Fires were lit and food cooked; Kaup surprised Crowbone and others by making something tastier than they could have done themselves from little twisted packets of herbs and spices he had hidden round himself in various places. The crew who knew him well chuckled at the delight on the new faces.

After they had finished eating, in the thin light before sunset, Crowbone sat with Onund and Murrough, waving Mar and Kaup, the Burned Man, to join them.

‘How is it with them?’ he asked Mar and the man knew at once what Crowbone meant.

‘They sit a little apart from your Gardariki men,’ he said, ‘though that will change over time. Most of the men here are new and have not seen what men who were with Grima for a long time have seen. Those ones are easier in their minds – though no-one is yet comfortable with the Oath they swore.’

‘You?’ asked Crowbone and Mar nodded. His questioning eyes at Kaup got him back a nod and a grin like the flash of a magpie wing. Crowbone was silent for a time.

‘I hope Grima’s fetch will be content where we put him,’ he said eventually, ‘in a land far removed from the north mountains.’

Mar looked at Crowbone curiously.

‘It is as fitting an end for a Red Brother as any,’ he answered then, to Crowbone’s surprise, smiled sweetness into his face. ‘Do you know how that band got their name?’

That band, he had said and Crowbone marked it. They were already gone, the Red Brothers, sliding into the grey haar of yesterday, the Oathsworn stepping into their worn boots. Crowbone shook his head and waited to hear how the Red Brothers were so called; such a blood-dyed name must have a good tale behind it.

‘On their first voyage, with Grima as shipmaster of them,’ Mar said, ‘they had the Shadow, then a new ship and a fine new sail, dyed with reád-stán. When it was rinsed, it came in stripes – dark red and yellow-gold – and Grima was pleased.’

Onund nodded. A sail coloured with reád-stán – ochre – was a fine sight, though he preferred, he said, to weave the colours in strips and sew them. Mar smiled again.

‘Aye, that’s an expense, but worth it, as we found,’ he went on. ‘When such a dyed sail as we had is sea-washed, the colours are fastened in the cloth – except that when it dries in the wind for the first time afterwards, it gives off a dust and that blew all over Grima and all of us. Everything. Then the damp soaked in and everything was dyed. When the ship came to berth next, it was completely red and everything in it – clothes, faces, hands, sea-chests, everything. We had to pitch-paint the hull to change the colour of it, but the sail had turned mostly as you see it – the colour of blood. It has faded a little, but not by much – it took longer to lose the skelpt-arse look of our faces. That was us. The Red Brothers.’

Murrough chuckled and Mar saw that even the prince they called Crowbone managed a smile. This prince, Mar was sure, knew the power in names, no matter how you came by them – none better, since the name of Crowbone was one any sensible man walked carefully around.

‘You were with Grima a long time, then?’ Crowbone asked and Mar nodded.

‘All my far-travelling life,’ he said. ‘It is strange that he is missing now. It feels as though I have left something valuable and cannot remember where.’

Crowbone knew that feeling well enough and had the fading memories to prove it – Lousebeard, his foster-father, vanishing over the side of Klerkon’s ship, pitched out because he was too old; nowadays, Crowbone could only remember him as a face made up mostly of the black O of his open, surprised mouth as he went backwards into the grey water.

Then there was his mother. Sometimes Crowbone had to squeeze his eyes tight to summon up the face of his mother and, once to his horror, had forgotten her name for a moment. Astrid. He said it to himself, as if to nail it to the inside of his head.

They sat, each man wrapped in his own thoughts, watching the little peeping birds that run at the tideline. As each wave hushed in, the birds would all wheel about and bundle busily away across the gold-gleaming shore, piping anxiously to one another. As each wave slid out, they would advance again, all together as a patter of tiny feet. When the silly yellow bitch ran at them, they rose together, and swirled overhead in a wild whirring of sound.

‘Like Pechenegs,’ Crowbone said and both Onund and Murrough laughed, for they had seen these steppe gallopers, climbing over and under their little ponies, wheeling and darting as one and with no-one seemingly ordering it. Then Crowbone saw Kaup and Mar nodding and smiling and it came to him that they had seen a lot, too.

Onund sighed a little at the sight of Crowbone and Mar together, for Mar had the same way about him as Crowbone did – as if some old man had settled in a much younger body.

They traded tales for a while and Mar discovered that Crowbone, stripling or not, had been up and down Gardariki, even in the worst of winters, had fought the Pechenegs and worse, it seemed, for Mar had heard of the Oathsworn legend of how they came by all the silver of the world in Atil’s hidden tomb. Why they still raided, then, seemed a mystery to Kaup, but he kept his fine white teeth clicked shut on that and most other matters.

Mar told of the Red Brothers faring beyond the Khazar Sea, which the Rus call Khvalyn, and how they had joined in battles there, first with one people, then another. Not that it mattered who they battled as long as they won, for plunder and death was the same and the chance for both equal in any red war.

Then Crowbone told him of the Great City – which neither Mar nor Kaup had seen, for all their Gardariki travel – and some of the marvels in it, such as the clever constructs that throw water in the air, for amusement. And Kaup managed to astound Crowbone when he spoke of meeting a strange people out along the Silk Road. They called themselves the Soong, were yellow as old walrus ivory and had flatter faces than even the Sami and eyes which were not only slitted as if they were always trying for a hard shit, but set slantwise in their heads.

Crowbone and the others looked at him closely once or twice to see if he was just clever-boasting, but in the end had to believe him, even when he told how these folk had made toys out of a fire which roared like Thor with his arse ablaze and then bokked coloured stars up in the air. He had, Kaup confessed, shat himself and then run away when he had first witnessed this.

There was laughter – a good sound, Crowbone thought. Then the Burned Man sucked back to the marrow of the meeting.

‘I have taken this Oath,’ he declared, frowning, ‘but it does not bind me. I am not afraid of it.’

Mar shifted uncomfortably, but Kaup’s eyes were like lamps on Crowbone’s face.

‘I am Christian,’ he said, then dazzled out a smile and spread his hands. ‘Well,’ he added, ‘I am, but not a Christian the others like. For all that, they have asked me to speak.’

This was new and Crowbone shifted.

‘They?’

Kaup put his fingers to his mouth and let out as good an imitation of a hunting owl as any Crowbone had heard; a few moments later, men slid out of the dark, silent and heavy with unease. They looked at Kaup, who grinned back, not realising the truth was not so much that they had asked him to speak on their behalf, but that they had picked him as the most expendable if Crowbone took offence.

A dozen, Crowbone reckoned – and Berto one of them, the yellow dog at his heels. Crowbone laid a stilling hand on the forearm of Onund, who had started to rise, grunting like a threatened bull walrus.

‘I am Thorgeir Raudi,’ said one man peering out from under a great tangle of curls, made even more red-gold by the firelight. ‘All of us here are Christmenn.’





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