Robert Low - The Whale Road

The building the fence enclosed was a wattle but with a patch of garden, now muddied. Inside, I heard chickens murmur to each other and two voices talking, though it was too faint for me to hear the words. I only knew that one was low and one was higher. It made me feel all the worse out here, with the rain spitting in my face and the wind swooping and swirling. On the black water, prows danced.

The voices tailed off. Someone snored and, far away, a dog yelped furiously.

Then I heard the first shriek from the warehouse and stiffened. I looked around, but there was no one. If Einar and the others didn't come soon . . .

Another shriek, half whipped away by the wind. I clenched my teeth. Still no sign of anyone.

On the third scream, I could stand it no longer. I moved down towards the warehouse, edging always into the shadows, which took me away from the door and the wild lantern and the guards, round to one flat end of the building, then round again to where the curved back wall stood on a strip of ground, falling away to the shingle and the spray-lashed water.

There were bulky shapes here; I scrambled over discarded barrels of rotting wood, old sodden wool that had once been a sail, frayed rigging, worm-rotted spars. I was sure I was blundering around like the clapper in a bell; every time I made a sound I froze in one spot and waited. But nothing happened.

Another shriek, louder this time.

I found a door, slightly recessed, and had to quietly clear old cordage from in front of it, so I knew it wasn't used.

It was rotted and knot-holed, which let me peer through. I saw faint light, as if from a lantern, but nothing moved. I pressed on the door . . . nothing. I pressed again, harder—and it gave with a soft sigh of rotting splinters and insect husks.

I had an eating knife, the length of my finger, and it felt ridiculous clutching it in One sweaty hand while the blood thundered in my ears and I waited for the rush of feet and the flash of three feet of edged steel.

Nothing but the next shriek nearly made me piss myself, so loud it seemed. It tailed off abruptly and I swore under my breath. Only bloody-minded stupidity was making me do this, I reasoned. I didn't even like Ulf-Agar.

But I knew the real reason, of course. I had sworn the oath and, if it had been me, I'd rather know there was the hope of someone coming for me, than that I was doomed.

It was so dark I had an arm out in front of me, the knife held in the fist of the other, taking one slow, rolling step after another. I had the impression of beams, of a wooden floor, caught a spit of rain on my face and, looking up, glimpsed stars through the ruined roof, then clouds scudded across and they were gone.

There was rubbish everywhere: a series of traps for the unwary. I took two steps and almost went on my arse when my foot skidded off what felt like the shaft of an oar. I gave up, crouched down, started to slither across the floor, waiting all the time for whoever was in the darkness to erupt at me.

As the sweat ran in my eyes I swore that I could see them, waiting just ahead, so that my breath stopped in my throat.

I sent a nest of mice rustling off, which ran all over my feet and, despite myself, I gasped aloud and kicked them off. Then I relaxed; if the room was filled with armed men, they were deaf or dead.

I crept towards the lurking shape, moving so that the faint glimmer of light silhouetted it and not me.

Then I realised what it was and almost shouted out with the joy of relief. A prow. A gods-cursed, arse-wipe of an old prow.

I was wiping my face and trying not to weep with relief of the moment, when it suddenly struck me that the light seemed to be coming from the floor. I found a knothole in a door—there was a cellar.

The square of wood came up smoothly, revealing a set of wooden steps and, compared to what I had been in a moment ago, a lot of light. I lay down, craned my head as far as I could and spotted there was only one way: a passage, with a lantern stuck up on a niche on one wall about halfway down.

I crept down on to a stone floor and the reek of old hides and spoiled food. I started along the corridor and had almost reached the lantern on the wall when something flickered, a gleam and no more. I stopped, crouched, looked again. It was gone. I moved my head—light bounced off metal.

I peered at it: a small bell, one of several strung on two or three strands of black horsehair, stretched across the passageway at ankle height.

I hunkered back and blew out gently, considering, searching, thinking. If I had set such a warning, so easily stepped over if found . . . I saw the second one, at neck height to a man. Half-hunkered and awkward with caution, I slid between the two and on down the passage to where it ended in a blank wall and two doors, left and right.

I considered. The door left was closed, the one right slightly opened. I listened to the closed one, watching the open one. Snores from the closed one. No noise at all from the other, but there was light there—and heat.

I pushed it and it scraped open on the dirt floor, along a groove worn there with use. It was dimly lit and a sharp smell of smoke and sweat and blood hovered. There was a fire, like a forge fire of charcoal in a metal brazier. Wooden-handled implements stuck out of it. Silhouetted against it was the figure of a man, naked to the waist and muscled, the sweat-grease gleaming in the red light of coals.

Beyond, blood-red in the light, hung between two beams by his thumbs, his toes barely touching the ground, was a naked Ulf-Agar, head swinging, face hidden by his tangled hair. Dark patches marred the white of him and something black ran down his chest in a slow, viscous trickle.

I took two steps and the figure heard and turned, lazily, expecting someone else. I gave him the little knife, searching for his throat but missing by a long way and having Odin's luck. It went in his left eye up to the hilt; it must have killed him instantly.

He went backwards, his mouth the ragged shape of a scream that never came, dragging the knife out of my hands, crashing down on the brazier and rolling off in a spill of sizzling coals at the feet of Ulf-Agar. His head came up slowly as I put my foot on the dead man's forehead and hauled the little knife out, then sawed at the thongs that held Ulf s thumbs.

`You . . . ?'

`Can you walk?'

He fell into my arms then, almost to his knees, recovered and shoved himself upright. There were wet, red burn weals all over him and his speech was mushed where they had burst his lips and splintered his teeth.

The hilt of a sword, I thought as I steadied him.

Then the door was shoved further in and someone stepped in. `Hauk? Starkad says He saw us then and I made to run at him with the little knife, but Ulf-Agar gave a growl, a low, terrible sound that froze me to the spot. He moved swiftly, but unsteadily, snatched something from the brazier and slashed the man across the face.

With a howl, the man fell, blood all over the hands he clasped to his face. Snarling, bloody froth all over his chin, Ulf rammed the white-hot iron down, through between the man's knuckles, leaning on the thing with all his might while the man writhed and screamed, pinned like a worm on a hook.

The reek and sizzle of it snapped me to life. I crashed heavily into Ulf, knocking him sideways. 'Let's go,'

I hissed. 'Follow me.'

I got out of the door as the one opposite opened, inwards. I booted it as hard as I could and it flew back, sending whoever was behind it sprawling, then I dashed on. Behind me, Ulf-Agar lumbered like some strange dark dwarf.

I heard the bells tinkle as I went through them—fuck it, everyone knew of our presence now, so alarm bells scarcely mattered. I hit the wooden steps, flung myself up and into the dark warehouse, darker still after even the little light we had had. I was lost in it, couldn't work out which way was which, whirled in a complete circle, then realised I was alone.

Below, at the foot of the stairs, Ulf-Agar felled someone with a meaty smack, then howled at the men in the passage beyond. I could see only the sweat-gleam of him and the whirling red bar of the hot iron.

`Fuck! Get up here. Others will come . . . !'

He heard me, backed up the stair, leaped through and slammed the door on them, standing on it. I heard them rush the stairs, the clatter as they thumped on the door. Ulf rose an inch or two; he was too slight to keep them down.

I saw light, caught him by one wrist. 'This way . . .'

I was at the front door, the one with the swinging lantern—that was the glimmering light I had seen. I hit it, smashing hard, my shoulder hunched into it. The door held and I bounced back into Ulf and the pair of us went over. Behind, I heard the trapdoor bang up and light spilled out, silhouetting the men who stumbled up the steps.

Òdin's . . . Hairy . . . arse,' Ulf gasped, getting to his feet. 'It's barred on the inside, You oaf. Lift it . . .'

He had no time for anything else. The men from the cellar were on him and metal clanged as he parried and leaped. Two of them, armed with wicked long seaxes and gleaming, frenzied eyes. In the half-dark, stumbling over debris, with no sound other than Ulf s curses and everyone's ragged breathing, they closed in.

I heaved up the bar in a trembling frenzy now; the door flew open, figures suddenly loomed up and a voice—such a familiar voice, a voice that filled me with a sickening leap of such relief I almost lost control of my bladder.

`Stand aside, Orm!'

And big Skapti, clutching a fat wooden club, hurtled through the door, just as a meaty smack sounded behind me and Ulf howled. Then I was shouldered out of the way, slammed sideways out of the warehouse, where I caught my heel and fell. I lay, looking up at the rushing figures, saw Valknut, his face briefly lit in a snarling mask, Ketil Crow, almost throwing himself into the warehouse, Gunnar Raudi and his red flag of beard.

Then Einar stood, looking down at me, his hair streaming like night in the rising gale. His grin was sharp, wolfish. From inside the warehouse came the thwack and crack of wood breaking bone and laying open skulls.

Ì told you to watch , young Orm.'

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I meant to tell him of the shrieks in the night, managed only the word: 'Scream,' and he nodded, as if I had told him the whole tale.

Valknut and Skapti appeared, a limp Ulf hanging between them, his feet dragging as they hustled him out of the building. After him, thrown out bodily, came a stranger, followed by Ketil Crow and the others.

Ìs he dead?' Einar asked Skapti, who shook his head, his beard rippling in the wind.

`Beaten, burned, a bad cut on one shoulder, but alive.'

Einar jerked his head in the direction of the Guest Hall, then turned to where the stranger was climbing to his knees, his head hanging, gasping like a winded pony. Bloody drool hung in strands from his mouth.

Einar bent, grabbed the man by his hair and hauled the head up. 'Who is your jarl? Whose drakkar are these?'

The man's eyes rolled and there was a great dark mark all along one side of his face. His voice, mushed from his smashed mouth, was hard though. 'Fuck oor murrer.' He tried to spit, but only succeeded in slicking his own chin.

`Starkad; I said, suddenly remembering the name shouted by one of them—the one, I also remembered, with a sickening lurch, who wouldn't be shouting anything any more, from a mouth rammed full of white-hot metal.

Einar's head came up with a snap, like a hound on a scent. He looked at me, then the man at his feet, drew out a long seax from under his cloak and jerked the man's head back.