The Wild Hunt, page 2
‘Just do it,’ Ginnarr said. ‘Didn’t you hear the shouting? Can’t you see the torches? There’s trouble in town tonight, and I’ll not risk the king’s men closing down the harbour. That wind is going to back into the east by morning, mark my words, and we’ll never clear the channel.’
That made the man hurry. To be stuck in Hedeby with a full cargo of horseflesh, eating the ship empty and fouling the decks? No fear. He ran forward. ‘Make sail,’ he shouted. ‘You there,’ he said, turning to a thrall – a slave – ‘haul up the gangplank.’
The thrall, a small girl of the Sami, or Laplanders, grimaced, and bent to the task of lifting in the heavy plank. Muscles straining, she suddenly toppled back as strong hands hauled it in for her. Looking up she saw one of the passengers who had made it aboard. He was a thick-bearded Arab, dark-skinned and clad in robes, and now he offered her a large, leathery hand. Smiling, she took it, and rose to her feet. The Klaastad was now free, timbers creaking, skittish as a foal on the ebbing tide.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, in a voice as soft as the fall of snow upon pine needles.
‘My name is Issar,’ he said.
‘Mine is Jaska, sir.’
‘I mean, you need not call me sir –’ He broke off, and wheeled round, as a clatter of hoofs drummed out from the jetty. A massive horse, two riders on its back, was galloping at them, scattering fishing nets and pitching pots into the black water on either side.
‘By the Prophet, they mean to jump,’ Issar said. The big horse never faltered, launching itself across the gulf between jetty and ship. It made the leap by a whisker, its rear hoofs scrabbling on the ship’s strake before hauling itself inboard. The Klaastad bucked, dipped, shivered under the impact, and the other horses penned amidships whinnied in alarm.
Ginnarr, his face a storm cloud, staggered across. ‘What in Thor’s name is going on? Who the Hel are you two?’
Astrid leapt from Hestur’s back to the deck. Once again, angry voices were raised behind her. Let them shout: they were on shore, and no ship could be made ready to pursue them until morning. She grinned, and placed a purse of silver in Ginnarr’s trembling hand. ‘We’re your passengers, Captain Ginnarr. Better late than never, eh?’
CHAPTER THREE
Astrid awoke with the change in the wind. All through the night and into the morning she had slept where she fell on deck, moments after handing Ginnarr his money, and Leif had cradled her head and looked, wondering, at a face so peaceful and childlike, that betrayed none of the shock and terror that he knew they had both felt. Were still feeling. Yet Astrid was at peace on the water. The tang of salt on her lips, the whip of spray across her face, the grey depths and the ever-broader sky soothed her like a mother’s touch. More, in fact, than she could ever have said for her mother …
‘The wind’s changed,’ she said, rising to her feet. Even Leif, no sailor, had noticed: the brisk, regular motion of the ship had given way to sluggish bucks and wallows. They no longer seemed to be moving past the low-lying land that stretched, distant, to either side. The creaking of the timbers and the flap-crack of the sail were growing, and it irritated him.
‘Yes,’ said Ginnarr, from where he stood next to the steering-oar. ‘And we’ve no rowers to drag us against it. The Klaastad’s a good little craft, but she can’t point up far into a headwind, and even with the prevailing current pulling us along the Belt, we’ll be hard-pressed, tacking in so little sea room, to hold station, never mind making any headway …’
‘I have no idea what he just said,’ Leif muttered to Astrid.
She ignored him. ‘Captain,’ she said. ‘If, say, another ship was following us, and it did have rowers … How long would it take them to catch us – I mean, to catch us up?’
Ginnarr raised his shaggy eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared beneath his woollen hat. ‘I’m no fool, boy. With us stuck with the wind in our teeth, your pursuers, whoever they are – which is none of my business, see – they could overhaul us by nightfall. If they’re in a well-manned longship, as I’ve a hunch they might be. And that’d be bad for me too, what with more time wasted. I’ll see if anyone aboard can pray us up a wind.’ And he stumped off forward.
Leif’s face, already green, went greener.
Astrid was beaming. ‘Hear that?’ she said. ‘He called me boy. I am a master of disguise!’
That gave Leif the strength to muster his own smile, before tottering after Ginnarr. A small circle of crew and passengers was clustered at the foot of the mast, just aft of the horse pen.
‘Which way is east?’ asked Issar, the traveller. Ginnarr pointed wearily ahead, and Issar knelt, hands clasped, intoning words in a language Leif found both strange and beautiful.
Astrid laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘That must be Arabic. My father’s tongue,’ said Leif. ‘I’ve never heard it spoken before now.’
‘If he’s praying for a change in the wind, it’s not working,’ said Astrid. The easterly breeze was if anything growing stronger. Others clearly felt the same: one crewmember was scratching at the mast with a knife, another whispering under his breath in what sounded like Latin. Ginnarr aimed a kick at the little Lapland thrall. ‘You, Jaska, your people are good with magic. Can’t you whistle us a wind?’
The girl clutched her arms about her chest and shook her head swiftly. ‘I know only forests. The sea scares me.’
‘Useless little thing,’ said Ginnarr. ‘Or maybe not quite useless. If nothing else works, I could throw you overboard as an offering to Njord the sea god …’
Astrid dug Leif in the ribs. ‘Do something,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t feel so well,’ he said.
‘You’ll feel worse in a minute.’
He knew when to heed a threat. Turning his face to the now biting wind, he gathered his thoughts.
‘Dancer on the sea’s roof,
Shaper of the sand dunes.
Moaner, light-tipped scudder;
Mover of the mountains.
Constant friend of seabirds,
Foe of fir on hillside,
Hurrier of tempests,
Temperer to cliff face …’
Astrid hung back. He was singing the wind, calling to its heart, and she knew better than to interrupt. Casting about for distraction, she glanced aft.
Far in their wake, low against the landscape, she saw a dark speck upon the water. From it rose what had to be a mast, bearing no sail. A longship, then, rowed by many oarsmen. Of course, it was a busy sea lane; why should there not be a ship? But then again, why would any merchantman put to sea in the face of such a headwind? Astrid bit her lip. For the first time in months, perhaps since her father’s corpse had risen, red-eyed, in the stifling burial chamber, a knot of fear tightened in her stomach.
Leif was still speaking, back straight, arms spread and raised, face jutting up into the wind. It seemed to be circling around him. The Klaastad slewed and groaned uncertainly, and the man at the steering-oar swore in dismay as he tried to hold some kind of course. Ginnarr hollered back at him. ‘Keep her head up, curse you, or we’re done for! Better ships than ours have been wrecked between these islands.’
Each word Leif spoke was at once whipped away, the wind greedy for his voice. Astrid could catch only snatches.
‘… you and I have shared, and
How we both know hunger …
… honour patience, yes, but
Lulls and palls are past now …
… Gird yourself for blowing.
See friend: the sky screams, “East!”’
And she could have sworn she saw that wind become a living thing: a silvered, shuddering animal, long-limbed and graceful, and she saw Leif gather it up in his arms as you might a bundle of washing, but as tenderly as you might a baby, or a lamb. And he seemed to clutch that living wind a moment, two, to his beating chest, and lay his cheek upon it, before hurling it out into the fresh grey sky.
On the instant, the sail filled and billowed, all ropes going rigid, and the clamour of flaps and creaking turned to the eager hum of a well-tuned instrument. A shout rose from the sailors. The bickering horses went quiet. And Leif slumped, spent and slack. Astrid barely caught his shoulders before he hit the deck.
Leif’s eyes were closed in sleep. The crew were trimming the sail. The other passengers exchanged glances of wonder. Astrid kept glancing behind her, where the black ship had slipped back out of sight. And Ginnarr’s keen, weathered eyes were narrowed in thought, as he stared at the boy who had sung them a wind.
ᚱ
Dawn, and the world was drained of colour, the sun’s white-gold fingers hesitant and bashful as they started to trace the eastern edges of the sky’s rim. Grey sea, grey sky, grey land away to larboard, as grey as the knife that Leif found at his throat. Slowly, he struggled up from the depths of sleep, bleary, groggy.
Ginnarr’s craggy features lowered over him.
‘Up, boy,’ he said. ‘We need the wind to veer. We’ve gone south about Ringsted in record time; but if this gale of yours doesn’t shift we’ll be blown all the way to Bornholm – her timbers won’t take a broad reach up the Oresund in this, with all those waves slamming her amidships.’
‘Oh, why can’t you just talk normal Danish?’ Leif said, coming fully awake. If he kept Ginnarr calm, this might not be too serious. Where was Astrid? ‘Besides, a thing like that takes all my strength. I’d need maybe a day before I could …’
‘Not good enough,’ said Ginnarr. Behind him stood three burly sailors, arms folded. ‘You’re my magic charm, you are, see, and you’re going to harness us a wind if it kills you.’ He paused. ‘Which will be a better fate than what I’ve got in store if you fail.’
Leif’s eyes were flickering about, searching for Astrid, but he couldn’t see past the crewmen who were closing in on him.
ᚴ
Astrid was right forward, expertly balanced in the very prow of the ship. They had crept north-east during the night, and their destination, the trading port of Uppaakra, lay just hidden over the horizon. Before them, some way off, a low spit of sand and reefs jutted out into the channel. She felt her face washed with the first rays of pale gold, felt the play of her new-cropped hair as it whipped about her face, felt the shift of wood and water beneath her lightly placed feet. The Klaastad’s prow cut a clear deep channel through the grey sea, washes of white water rinsing away her recent cares. She stretched her arms out sideways, hopped over the hit of the largest waves, dancing with the ship and the sea. In her ears were the whistle of wind, thump of sail, call of seabirds. The earthy, healthy smell of horses from behind her was familiar, comforting. Maybe they could just sail on, forever? But no, there was Leif, he was no sailor … She turned to see if he was awake, and saw Leif being hauled to his feet, a knife at his neck. The sudden jolt of a heavy wave sent her reeling against the prow, and she fell into the sacks of luggage bundled beneath.
‘Ow!’ she said, her voice low. Her hip had caught on something sharp, stuck in the corner of their knapsack. Her harp, the one that Leif had made her. And now he was in danger. Think, Astrid, think, she told herself. He was at the mercy of a tough gang of sailors. She was lying fallen on her bum, hidden from the action by a small herd of tethered horses, with nothing but a harp … A harp …
Ginnarr was bellowing at Leif now, the words carrying to where she lay. ‘I’m making you my thrall. You and that pretty girl – don’t think you fooled me with that disguise – you’re going to sing me up whatever wind I want. I’m sure we can think of a use for her too, right, lads? But it’ll go much easier for both of you if you talk this wind into the south, right now.’
Astrid had stopped listening, bending her fingers to the unpicking of the sack. She drew forth the harp, checking it anxiously for any signs of damage. None, only that the horsehair strings, woven from strands of Hestur’s tail, were slack. Swiftly, she wound the amber tuning pegs, thrusting aside the memories that rose in her mind as she did so. If she was to work her own weather-magic, she couldn’t afford a single stray thought.
Ginnarr’s shouts had stirred the other passengers. Issar, the tall Arab, tried to lever his way between two beefy Danes. ‘Captain Ginnarr, what is all this uproar? What are you doing to that boy?’
‘Whatever I like,’ shot back Ginnarr, red-faced. ‘He’s my property now.’
Astrid fit the curve of her back to the curve of the prow, settling against the wood, eyes on the sky and fingers on her harp strings. Almost idly she began to pick the second, third and fifth of its five strings, just those three notes again and again, falling into the rhythm of wave and wind. The sound shimmered, bright, hesitant, hopeful: morning music. Her fingers, stiff and clammy from breeze and spray, began to warm and loosen.
‘Really,’ Issar said, his own voice rising, ‘I must protest. That boy has paid his way, just as we have. Can we all expect the same treatment – to wake with the bonds of slavery about our wrists?’
‘You don’t have to expect anything, outlander,’ said Ginnarr. ‘The sooner this boy gets us blown to Uppaakra, the sooner you can drag your stinking hide off my ship!’
Without changing the beat, Astrid shifted her fingers down, now striking the first, third and fourth strings, over and over. The sound was still beautiful, but it had deepened, strengthened. She felt the wind upon her upturned cheeks. Was it just her, or was that growing too?
‘But he stays, I suppose?’ Issar brought his face close to Ginnarr’s. ‘And I took you for an honest trader! You’re a common Viking, Ginnarr.’
‘Viking?! How dare you? I’m no pirate,’ said Ginnarr, stung by the insult. ‘But my word is law on board my own vessel.’
‘And the law’s purpose is to provide justice! I’ve seen the way you treat your thralls,’ Issar said. ‘A pirate and a tyrant!’ One or two crewmen shifted, laying hands on hilts or the handles of axes.
Astrid doubled the speed of her picking, working the three middle strings roughly. In the west behind them, dark clouds were massing, low to the skyline. The wind had risen to a gale now, unheeded by the Klaastad’s crew. Astrid rose from where she sat, harp braced on her left hip, and slashed her fingers three times across all five strings. Thunder roiled and rumbled in the ship’s wake, and the horses whickered in fear, stamping their hoofs. It was working. But was it enough? Astrid tossed her head. Leant back. And opened her mouth.
Ginnarr spat at Issar’s feet and the Arab trader went for him, swinging with both fists. The old sailor jerked Leif up as a shield and all three went reeling. There was a dull gleam of wicked metal: Ginnarr’s knife. And then the lightning cracked behind them and they all turned and saw.
There was a figure standing in the bows, straddling the prow itself, raised high above the stirring horses and the clashing waves. It was lithe and beautiful, haloed with the gold of a rising sun, swaying as one with the gathering tempest. With one hand it struck at a shining harp, and its head was thrown back in a wild, wild song. Some saw an angel, some a jinn, some a Valkyrie. And Leif, head still spinning from Issar’s blow, saw that it was Astrid and he smiled.
Astrid felt her chest and throat swelling with the song of the storm, and her voice rose to a shriek higher than the gale in the rigging. Every bit of her was thrilling to that song, and she felt what she knew Leif must sometimes feel: connected. She was the wind, and she was the rain. Then for an instant she glanced over her shoulder, away from the goggling crowd. With both hands she brandished her harp aloft, a trophy against the sky. Then she jumped high, aiming her fall onto the soft sacks beneath, so that she was in the air at the exact moment that the world shuddered and cracked, as the Klaastad ran full upon the Trelleborg reefs.
CHAPTER FOUR
Leif swayed up to his knees, ice grey Baltic sea already streaming in around them. The world was askew, a rocking blur of thundering surf and slantwise deck. A foaming white roller crashed over him, tumbling him back and filling his mouth with salt water. All about was the din of scrabbling feet, scrabbling hoofs, big men seeking holds, seeking escape.
Through the spray, a small female hand. He grasped at it and was hauled up.
‘Astrid,’ he said, and blinked: not her, but a tiny slip of a girl, dark hair, pale eyes, small smile. A sailor blundered by, swearing, and the Klaastad heaved over a little further. Leif wiped the heavy water from his eyes with his free hand, whilst the girl tugged at the other. ‘This way,’ she said.
Astrid had landed a moment after impact, missing the shock. Snatching their packs, she stuffed in the harp and drew the blue-steeled sword. At a stroke, she cut the rope mesh holding back the horses. Uncertain, they milled about, fighting to keep their footing.
‘Leif!’ she called, and then she saw him, running towards her, hand in hand with that little thrall. A bolt of pain ran through her at the sight, so fleeting that she missed it. But now she was boosting him onto the back of a dappled grey mare. ‘Come on – we’re off!’ she bawled at him, swinging herself onto Hestur’s back, cursing the lack of a saddle.
Leif, half mounted on the strange horse, looked in confusion, first at Astrid, then at the other girl, now battling against the mounting froth of sea. Astrid breathed, once, then shrugged herself off Hestur’s back and heaved the girl onto a bay colt close by.
‘Anyone else?’ she said – and sighed, as the long-robed Arab hauled himself onto a horse, landing a hefty kick in the chest of a Danish sailor as he did so. Astrid climbed back up, stroked Hestur’s quivering neck, urged him round to face the gap in the ship’s broken side. ‘Fly, Hestur!’ she cried, digging her heels into his belly.
Ginnarr was braced against the mast, letting wave upon wave pummel his broad back, staring at the gutted hull that had been his pride. With an awful groan, his ship yawed over again, on the point of slipping beneath the tide. A clatter from behind made him turn, to see four horses rising from the surf. ‘Oh skita!’ he yelled, flinging himself to one side, ducking just under the hoofs of the nearest, a big white stallion. Sprawling, drenched, on the deck, he saw the four horses leaping, a cresting wave of animal greater and more graceful than any wave yet. They surged free of the drowning ship, clear of the rolling sea, landing in the breakers of the shallow sand beyond. For a moment, as they filled his sight, the horses – his horses – had blotted out the sun.
