The Whale Road. Robert Low
his axe. It came away with a small sucking sound and Valknut, with a brief, blank look at Ketil Crow, wiped the blood and brains on the dead man’s brown robe and strode off, axe in one hand, spear with furled banner in the other.
Ketil Crow caught me looking and I blinked at his expression, then wisely found the stone temple with the tower more of interest and trotted towards it.
It was, it seemed, one large hall, with an impressive flagged floor. The tower held no archers, nothing more than a bell. There were two brown-robed figures sprawled, spewing blood on the flagstones. Half a dozen others were penned at the far end of this hall by the rest of the Oathsworn and Einar was head to head with Illugi Godi.
It was a strange place and I gawped. It had benches and a sacrificial altar, which was where most of the people were. Behind the altar, above their heads, was a window, filled with pieces of coloured glass in the shape of a man wearing, it seemed, a glowing hat. The walls, too, were painted with strange scenes.
The dawn light that spilled from that window was like Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, and it stained the altar. I did not know it then, but such a window was as rare as teeth on a hen – I did not see another until the Great City, Constantinople.
But it was nothing next to what was below it, stuck on the wall. Two thick beams, one vertical, one horizontal, held the wooden figure of a man, hanging there by his hands. No, not hanging, I saw. Nailed, through his hands and his feet. He had some strange crown, which stuck spikes in his forehead, and what seemed to be another gaping wound in one side. It was a fine carving.
‘Is that their god, then?’ I asked Illugi Godi, much to Einar’s annoyance.
‘The son of their god,’ answered the priest. ‘The Romans stuck him on those poles, but the Christ-followers say he didn’t die.’
That was impressive. I had thought any god who allowed himself to be nailed to a bit of wood wasn’t up to much – ours were clever or strong fighting men, after all – but if he had survived all that and come out smiling, this Christ was to be reckoned with.
‘Finished?’ demanded Einar pointedly. Then he turned to Illugi Godi. ‘So where? You are the expert here, priest.’
Illugi Godi squatted, fumbled in his pouch and came up with his rune bones. I saw the brown figures flailing one hand back and forward on their chests, which seemed to be their way of warding off the evil eye. I laughed. Illugi wasn’t evil.
He cast; the bones tinkled. He took some fine white sand from his pouch and blew it off the palm of his hand towards the altar, then stood and smiled.
‘There,’ he said and pointed at the altar. As a hiding place, it wasn’t hard to work out – it was almost the only thing in the hov of this hall. And, I saw, the sand he had blown hadn’t settled neatly where the altar touched the flagstoned floor. It had sunk into the cracks, which meant it was hollow beneath. He was clever, was Illugi Godi.
Einar and Valknut circled it, but there was nothing: no handle, no mark of any kind. Puzzled, they were scratching their heads when Gunnar Raudi, wiser in the ways of hiding valuables, stepped up, leaned his shoulder into it and gave it a shove.
With a grinding sound, the altar slid back several feet, revealing a set of stone steps. A torch uncovered a small chamber and the contents were soon up and on the flagstones.
There was a thin silver plate, two metal cups – gold, Illugi said – and a couple of hollow silver columns, which Gunnar Raudi said were sticks for holding fat tallow candles. Strange to relate now, but I had never seen the like and was so marvelling at them I nearly missed the next wonders.
Geir came up from the chamber with two chests. The first was clearly the one Einar wanted, a fat, ornate effort about the size of a man’s head. The other was flatter; Geir held it up and turned it round. It was studded with coloured glass and had a huge clasp on it, which Geir snapped off easily, bit and announced admiringly: ‘Silver.’
Then, to my astonishment, the chest fell open in two halves and loads of leaves riffled. Geir turned it over and over while I stared, my mouth dropped open like a droop-lipped horse. ‘It’s full of leaves,’ I said, wondering. ‘With colours on them – and little animals and birds.’
‘It’s a book,’ said Illugi Godi patiently as Geir chuckled. ‘The Christ monks make them. It has their holy writings. Like runes.’
Not much, I thought scornfully. Runes were worked on stone, or wood, or metal; otherwise, how would they last? Geir ripped one of the leaves out to show me how this book thing worked and I heard a brown-robed man, one with silver hair, moan.
Steinthor, more practical, grunted with annoyance over something else. ‘No women, then?’
‘Christ priests don’t go with women,’ advised Illugi Godi and Steinthor shot him a hard glance.
‘Bollocks. I have tupped women before in these Christ places.’
‘There are women Christ priests,’ Illugi said patiently. ‘But they don’t go with men.’
‘Just as well,’ grunted Einar, cuffing Steinthor on the shoulder. ‘No time to plough any fresh furrows here and no one is dragging any shrieking women with us. Anyway, why are you here? Didn’t I tell you to make sure all these brown-robes were rounded up?’
As if in answer, the air was split with a massive ringing boom, followed by another. There was a moment of stunned panic, then Einar roared, ‘The bell. The fucking bell…’
Gunnar Raudi was first, spilling into the little chamber at the far end beneath the tower.
The defiant man in a brown robe lasted long enough for a second pull on the rope before Gunnar’s blow sprayed his teeth and blood and brains against the opposite wall. The bell, as if his ghost still tugged the rope, continued to boom a couple more times before swinging to silence.
In the main hov of the hall, the men were licking their lips, weapons up, uncertain and on edge. Steinthor, aware that he had put everyone at risk, shrugged apology, ducked hastily under Einar’s scowl and scurried off to scout.
Black-raging, Einar swept up the fat chest, indicated to a couple of men to pick up the rest, then turned to Ketil Crow and Ulf-Agar, jerking his chin at the huddled brown-robes. ‘Kill them, then join us at the gate. We’ll have to move fast now.’
I left, half looking back – Valknut pushed me impatiently through the door as the screams began.
Outside, the Oathsworn gathered silently together. No buildings had been torched, the ringing bell had interrupted that and someone said we should do it now, but Einar pointed out how long it would take to get a fire lit. ‘They’ll be coming after us,’ he growled. ‘Now we head for the Fjord Elk – and fast.’
With Geir and Steinthor running ahead, he led us off at a fast pace, almost on the edge of a trot. It was full daylight now, but overcast, smirring with rain. I noticed that the birds were mad with song.
We were halfway to the ship, perhaps a little more, labouring up a slope of red bracken, when they caught us up.
Skapti, huffing in the rear, suddenly yelled out and pointed behind us. We all stopped and turned; dark against the browns and withered greens, the horsemen came on, urging their mounts through the tangling bracken and gorse.
‘Top of the hill, form a line, three deep,’ roared Einar. ‘Move.’
The Oathsworn may have been stumbling and out of breath, but they knew their business. I was the only one who didn’t.
They slid into three ranks, the mailed men in front, the spearmen second and everyone else in the third. Einar saw me as he strode along the front. ‘Guard Valknut, young Orm. Sig, let them see whom they face.’
Valknut slid the thongs from the furled cloth on his spear. A banner spilled out, white with a black bird on it. I realised, with a sudden start, that it was the Raven Banner. I was about to fight under the Raven Banner, as in a saga tale.
Valknut