The Oathsworn Series Books 1 to 3. Robert Low
or two tried to break off and run at us, but Bagnose and Steinthor fired at them and, though their strings were soaked and the arrows went wild or short, it made Starkad’s men think about it.
We slid into the dark, further and further, faster and faster, until only the red flower was left to mark the place.
That and the shrieking of Pinleg, so that we never heard him die. It was generally agreed that if we didn’t hear it, it probably never happened and that he is fighting still, on that beach.
The rowers gave up quickly, exhausted. They barely had the strength left to haul the oars inboard and stow them; one or two even fell down where they were and slept. Certainly everyone collapsed into some sort of deathlike sleep, even Einar.
But Ketil Crow and Illugi and Valgard stayed awake in shifts, manning the steering oar of the huge drakkar and plotting a rough course by the stars until my father was more himself and could turn his talent to it.
And I saw it all, dull-eyed and slumped in some strange almost-sleep, hearing the shrieking of Pinleg, seeing the astonished look on Skapti’s face, made strange by the great, bloody point sticking straight out of his mouth.
By dawn, we were alone on a gently heaving swell, hissing over it steadily, the grey light brightening into a cold, crisp, clear day. One by one the Oathsworn grunted stiffly into this new day, as if astonished they were there at all.
And then we saw what we had got.
It was perfect, from the graceful swan-necked, lavishly carved bow and stern, down the grey-painted strakes of the hull, up to the huge belly of the sail, sewn in strips of three colours – red, white and green – so that the ship looked like some bright banner, sluicing along the swells, hissing through their breaking tops like a blade.
There was carving everywhere, even cut in fluted chevrons on the oarblades, which added to their bite and recovery, I was told. Panels, carved and painted, shielded the steersman from the weather and the steering oar was carved in whorls, to aid the grip. And the weathervane was gold – gilded, Rurik corrected, but no one listened. It was gold, could only be gold, in this marvellous ship.
There was more: all the crew had left their sea-chests on board. There were clothes and jewellery and money and armour and weapons. There were rings and eating knives and cloaks with fur collars, for this was Bluetooth’s dreng – his chosen men – and nothing was too good for them.
There was another huge bolt of cloth, too small for a sail, but in the same striped colours, which my father revealed was for use as a tent when anchored.
There were barrels of stockfish, salted mutton and water. There was even a specially built firepit in the centre of the tiny cargo space, with solid firebricks and a slatted iron grill, so that you could have hot meals and never need to stop or slow down.
The only things missing were the proper carved prowheads, which were probably still back on the shore, removed as was custom.
‘First chance we get, lads,’ Einar promised as the booty was divided up, ‘we will have new elk heads made. For no matter what this ship was, it is the Fjord Elk now.’
They all cheered and, after everything had been found and argued over – even though there was three times as much as any one of the remaining Oathsworn could have used – Illugi Godi supervised the boiling up of mutton on the marvellous firepit and everyone ate a hot meal and agreed it the best they had ever tasted on this most marvellous of ships, which carried some 140 and could be sailed by three.
‘Though the gods put fire in your arses if we hit a flat calm and you have to row her,’ Valgard growled when he heard this. Which thought made everyone quieter, for it was a heavy beast of a boat to be rowing crew-light.
‘Don’t worry, there will be others joining the Oathsworn soon enough,’ Einar told them and again they cheered. And he had, it must be said, brought them from the wolf’s jaws to a rich prize, so that, like me, they almost forgot that his doom had brought it on them and that men had died.
But even so, the four remaining Christ-followers now reverted to Thor’s hammer and were shamefaced that they had ever considered the White Christ, for it was clear to all that some gods still favoured Einar and the Norns were having to unravel some of what they were trying to weave for him.
Still, there were many, like me, who sat pensively, wondering just what we had won from Koksalmi. A useless old spear and a madwoman raving about a treasure hoard only she could find for us. And this marvellous ship and its riches.
We had lost much to weigh against that: Martin the monk had escaped, while Skapti and Pinleg and more besides were dead.
Worse than that, I was thinking, there is only so long you can fend off your wyrd when it is laid on you.
We stood with heads bowed on the headland, where the wind hissed in from the sea, bringing the smell of salt and wrack and watched as the sweating men Illugi had hired shifted the man-sized stone into position, heaving on ropes to pull it upright.
It shunked softly into the pit dug for it, where lay spearheads and rings and hacksilver, all given by the Oathsworn as an offering to Pinleg and Skapti and the others we had left behind.
Illugi, who had overseen the purchase and sacrifice of three fine rams – one for Pinleg, one for Skapti, one for all the rest – turned to where I stood, with Hild, Gunnar Raudi and a few others. And Pinleg’s woman, Olga, a big, blonde Slav with fat arms and the faint hint of a moustache.
She was not beautiful – standing beside the pale, fey Hild she looked as solid as a heifer and as handsome – but she had a strong face and her chin was set, even if her eyes were damp. Her hands, with their chafed-red knuckles, gathered the heads of two tawny-haired children into the warm comfort of her apron. A boy and a girl, they were clearly bewildered by all this and their mother’s obvious grief.
‘What would you have on it?’ Illugi Godi asked as the mason stood by, head cocked attentively.
‘His name,’ she said, tilting her chin defiantly. ‘Knut Vigdisson. And those of his children, Ingrid and Thorfinn.’
Knut Vigdisson. It came as a shock to realise Pinleg had had a name, like any other man. And named after his mother, too. A good Norse name, like those of his children, though his wife was a Slav here in Aldeigjuborg, that great cauldron of peoples.
Knut Vigdisson. Pinleg was a stranger to me with that name. Still, he had one – Skapti didn’t even have that, only the one the Oathsworn had given him. Halftroll.
Illugi Godi nodded and then asked, politely: ‘May we add something on our own behalf?’
That was for form. If it was agreed, the Oathsworn would pay for the stone, which would stand on this spot and shout Pinleg’s and Skapti’s fame in the ribbon of runes waiting to be cut, and commemorate the others lost with them.
We had agreed it earlier with the carver. Their names and Pinleg’s children’s names would be added to the simple testament that they were the Oathsworn of Einar the Black, who raised this stone in their honour and then, simply: ‘KrikiaR – iaursaliR – islat – Serklat’. Greece, Jerusalem, Iceland, Serkland.
Others wanted something like ‘They gave the eagles food’ or something even more dramatic and never mind the expense, but Illugi held to what had been agreed earlier at a meeting of everyone, Einar included. I had not realised, until then, how far-fared the original Oathsworn band had been, or how long they had been on the whale road.
Hild said, as we turned away from the windswept headland: ‘You lost friends over this matter. I am sorry for it.’
Surprised – she had not volunteered so much speech since the forge mountain, weeks before – I blinked and tried to think of some polite reply, but failed. So I said what I thought, which Illugi