Robert Low - The Whale Road

`Time to go, Einar,' Pinleg warned, looking down at the harbour, where shouts and lights split the darkness.

`Starkad Ragnarsson?' Einar demanded of. the man, ignoring Pinleg. The seax came to his nose and the man saw what would happen, blinked, swallowed snot and blood and then nodded. Einar flicked the seax up anyway, gave a sharp curse and flung the man's head away, so that he sprawled, panting and writhing like a whipped dog, the blood spurting from his split nose. Ketil Crow kicked him viciously as he passed.

They moved swiftly, in a tight group—or as tight as they could along the wooden walkways—Ketil Crow bringing up the rear, turning now and then like a huge elk at bay. We caught up with Valknut and Skapti, a moaning, half-conscious Ulf between them.

As we neared the gate out of the town, there was a flurry of discarded clubs, blades stuffed inside tunics and Ulf-Agar was swathed in Skapti's heavy blue-wool cloak, to hide his state. Like a party of drunks we spilled out of the gate, past the two bored, cold, envious guards and on to the Guest Hall.

Inside were only Oathsworn—all the women had been told to leave—and all of them were armed. Illugi had Ulf-Agar set down near the fire and bent to look at him, peeling off Skapti's cloak. Skapti took it back, staring at the ominous stains with distaste, before bundling it up and moving to stow it in his sea-chest.

Einar put mailed guards on the door, then sat by the fire, elbow on one knee, stroking his moustaches.

The Oathsworn spoke in low, quick tones, sharing the tale of the battle; now and then a sharp bark of laughter rang out.

There was a great thumping at the doors and everyone fell silent, half crouching in the red twilight like a pack of feral dogs, eyes narrowed. Steel gleamed. The thumping came again and a faint voice.

Ìt's Bagnose,' said one of the mailed guards. Einar indicated to open the Hall door and Geir stumbled in, growling.

`Fuck you, what took you so long? Thor's farting up a gale out there and you keep me . . .' Geir fell silent, seeing the red-lit faces of armed men all staring at him, seeing that something had happened.

Einar didn't explain, simply summoned him. 'You followed the little monk?'

Ì did,' said Bagnose, looking round for ale. Steinthor, naked from the waist and a strapped with ragged bindings, handed him one and Bagnose grinned and swallowed. Einar waited patiently.

`He went to the Trade Harbour and a timber hov there. No, not a hov . . . a Christ temple of a sort. Half-built. He met someone there.' He paused, grinning, and took another swallow, then saw Einar's eyes growing dangerous. `Vigfus. Old Skartsmadr Mikill himself.'

Vigfus. Vigfus. The name was spread in mutters around the Hall until someone—Hring, I thought—

asked the question I wanted to ask. Who the fuck was Vigfus?

Einar ignored it. 'Has he a ship?'

À solid, fat knarr in the Trade Harbour. And maybe twenty or thirty men—good fighting men, too, fresh from Bluetooth's wars, though these ones are from the losing side, I am thinking.'

Einar stroked his moustache for a moment, then looked up at Illugi. Ìllugi Godi and Skapti and Ketil Crow: we will talk this out.'

`We should get out of this hall,' growled a voice from the back. 'We are trapped here.'

`What do you think will happen?' Einar shot back.

`Bluetooth's man, this Starkad, will come. If we don't come out, he will burn us until we do,' answered one called Kvasir, nicknamed Spittle.

Einar laughed, though there was no cheer in it. `Bluetooth, last I heard, was King of the Danes and Norway. Birka belongs to the King of the Swedes. He might be offended if Bluetooth's war hounds ran around killing and burning people in this main trade town.'

`No king cares about Birka. Birka is its own master,' Finn Horsehead pointed out. Tambisson is master here, in the name of the King of the Swedes. If the king still is Olof, that is. Eirik was fighting him for it, last I heard, and since Eirik is also known as Victorious, there's a clue as to which one to put your money on.'

There was laughter at that.

Tambisson it is who has allowed Bluetooth's men into Birka with full steel in their hands,' answered Valknut. 'Which gives you a clue as to whom to put your wager on for treachery. He is a practical man for money.'

There was more grim laughter at that. Einar scanned the faces, seeing the half-fearful, half-savage looks and the eyes gleaming in the red firelight. 'Stand out in the wind if you want,' he shrugged. 'But Illugi, Skapti, Ketil Crow and myself will talk this out. Quietly, over some ale, in this warm hall.'

There were mutters about holding a proper Thing over something so important and fresh arguments began. Someone—I was sure it was Eyvind—said loudly, `Burn.'

Geir Bagnose blew froth off his fresh horn of ale and began to skald, loudly and with feeling. I winced as I realised he was making poetry out of the rescue of Ulf-Agar and, though I knew why he did it, wished he didn't. But men stopped arguing to listen.

My father slid in beside me and clapped me on the shoulder. 'You did well.'

Ì shat myself several times,' I answered truthfully. 'I should have waited . . . but he was screaming fit to shave the hairs off your arms.'

Àye,' my father agreed, 'he was bad handled at that—' He broke off as men raised voices in appreciation of a particularly good kenning about 'grim eye of the wyrm', it being a clever play on my name. 'Just as well Ulf is out of his head,' he added. 'He'll hate this.'

`He played his part,' I argued. 'He was defending my back in the end, armed only with a hot forge-iron.'

`Let's hope Bagnose puts it in, then,' my father chuckled, then raised his voice as Geir stopped to take another pull at his drinking horn.

`Well done, Bagnose. Now that the Hakon's skald, the Plagiarist, is silenced by the death of his king in Norway, there's service there for a good court verse-maker.'

Geir raised his horn in acknowledgement, wiped his lips, then stuck the tip of the horn in the earth floor to keep it upright while he continued extemporising verses.

`Just thank the gods he isn't Skallagrimsson,' my father added and I hastily made a sign against the evil eye. Egil was a famous poet, but a man with blood behind his eyes and a great elk head with beetling brows that, it was assuredly reported, you could hit with Thor's hammer and not dent. He was also as mad a killer as a wounded boar and not a man whose ale-elbow you wanted to nudge.

Which reminded me of our predicament—and questions I had. 'Who is Starkad? And this Vigfus? And—

?'

Òne foot first, then another,' my father answered, leaning closer and dropping his voice. He ticked them off on his blunt, splintered-nail fingers. `Starkad Ragnarsson is one of Bluetooth's best, a man loved by women and feared by men, as they say. He is possibly the only man Einar fears, so we should fear him, too.

He has the reputation of a good boar dog—once he has sunk his teeth in, you will never get his jaws out save by slaying.'

I mulled that one over moodily, while my father raised another finger.

`Vigfus—no one has ever called him anything else. Apart from Skartsmadr Mikill, Quite the Dandy, which he hates. It seems he always dresses in the dark, as they say, for he has a worse way with clothing than Skapti Halftroll and the Oathsworn have had dealings with him before . . . certainly we know his like.

He always manages to have some band of followers, all hard men, not to be trusted.'

`Like Einar?' I offered wryly and my father frowned and shook his head.

`No, lad. Einar believes in oaths; he will hold to them. Vigfus is as treacherous as a snake with a foot on its tail.' He sighed and scrubbed his chin. 'There are too many players in this game,' he added gloomily.

`What game?' I retorted. 'We don't know what we are playing.'

`No, I don't understand it,' agreed my father, then shot a sideways, almost sly look at me. 'Einar thinks you are a deep thinker,' he went on, rubbing his beard. 'What do you make of it all?'

I considered it. This King Bluetooth had heard there was something, enough for him to find two ships and armed men, for he had also heard the Oathsworn were involved and knew them as grim men in a fight.

He must have learned that before the Oathsworn came for me in the Vik—that already seemed an age, another life. I looked back on it and saw this boy stuffing gull eggs in the hemmed loop of his tunic and, though I knew it was me, he was already a stranger. In so short a time I had become a man and a killer of men.

Àye, just so,' agreed my father. 'We were with the Danes of Hedeby, then headed for the Vik, since it was on the way to Strathclyde. But no one was loose-mouthed in Hedeby—and after that we came for you, word having reached me.'

`Can you be sure of that? I remember Pin-leg spoke of Atil's treasure on the beach at Strathclyde—how many more knew in Hedeby?'

He made a mouth like a cat's arse and scrubbed one hand through his thinning hair, which was answer enough. 'And Vigfus?' he asked.

I shrugged. 'Why should Lambisson have just the Oathsworn sailing for him? But there must be a good haul at the end of it, to be worth the outlay on more than one band, for men and ships are not cheap.

Ìt is possible that he is making sure no one group knows everything about what he seeks—even if it really is Atil's treasure—only a little part of it. And he won't be happy that Starkad is here. He will not want the likes of Bluetooth setting his hands on whatever it is he seeks.

`But I am thinking this Vigfus is not Lambisson's man. He is Martin's man and the Christ priest takes such pains to meet him in secret that there is the stink of treachery in it.'

`Just so,' said Einar's voice behind me and, turning, I saw him, black as a scowl in the firelight. Behind him, Skapti and Ketil Crow were moving among the men, talking in urgent, quiet voices, clapping shoulders.

Bagnose's epic—thank the gods—had been brought to a halt.

Einar hunkered down beside the pair of us. 'You have the right of it again, young Orm,' he said. 'Now we know the players of this game, we must find out what the game is Ànd the rules,' I offered.

He looked at me, cold-eyed. 'There are no rules.'

`None?' I asked, far too boldly. 'What of the oath we swear—is that not a rule?'

Ìt is an oath,' he replied with a thin smile, `which is different. You are young and will learn the difference. I was young once and walked by myself. I counted myself rich when I found a comrade I could trust. And I could only trust one who would swear an oath.' He turned to my father then. `Rurik, take the Trimmer and the men Ketil Crow is picking. Make the Elk ready for sea.'

Ìn this gale? I'd be hauling her higher up the shingle . . .'

Òn the dawn tide, we must be gone from here.'

`To where?'

Einar looked at him for a moment, then grinned. 'The whale road.'

My father ran his age-veined hand over his face, saw Einar's face, blank as stone, nodded and got up. He wanted to speak of hidden rocks, but saw it was pointless. Einar wanted away, in any direction—and fast.

I realised men were moving, swiftly and efficiently to pack, moving sea-chests and gear. Some were stripping off their mail, which I thought strange.

`Here's the way of it,' Einar said to me quietly. 'Men will make the Elk ready, others will take all our gear to the Tyr Grove, a place of birch trees not far from here. Illugi Godi knows it and will lead them.

Ì will need a few, enough to make a good group in the dark. And Orm, the Bear Slayer. We will fetch the little monk and be on our way before anyone knows the better.'