Blood Feud, page 14
The atmosphere aboard the Sea Wolf had changed, though. The crew had come to understand one another as only men confined to a forty-foot floating timber cell can do, and the Icelander had bowed to Halfdan, yet in some unspoken way Ketil was still their leader. Since the fight there was a new strain and distance between the two men, and it was reflected in the crew.
‘What did you say to him in the gully?’
‘That is between me and the Icelander,’ she said archly. ‘He is something of a capricious man, Halfdan. He still resents your taking of the Sea Wolf, though even he will admit that there was no cheating involved and he acknowledges that the gods seem to have gifted it to you. His anger will fade. It has already begun to do so, and everything you do that redresses the balance will help. But other wounds are fresh. There is in his past some tale, I think, of being blooded and failing to achieve revenge for it and this is why, when the giant rider wounded him, he would not rest until he had taken his price in blood. You of all people must understand this.’
Halfdan nodded slowly. ‘I had thought as much myself. He is a private man, Gunnhild, but beneath his cold armour, he is a good one, I think. If only he felt more with us than apart.’
‘The crew respect a proven warrior with confidence, Halfdan, but a good leader also understands his men and treats them accordingly. If you wish all aboard the ship to function as one, look about you and see what can be done to achieve that. If the sail does not hold wind, find the rips and stitch them.’
Halfdan laughed humourlessly. ‘For a warrior you are wise, Gunnhild.’
‘No one ever said I was a warrior. I am a woman. If you understood women you would know that we are all wise, but we can all fight when we must.’
Again, he chuckled. ‘Perhaps I should set Leif on the Icelander?’
They turned to look at the Rus, who had paused in his labours to gesticulate wildly at Bjorn, who was watching his windmilling hands with a deeply creased brow.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Gunnhild smiled wickedly. ‘Some things are beyond cruel.’
As the Seiðr-wrapped enigma that was Gunnhild walked away about some new, unknown business, Halfdan slapped his hands together to remove the worst of the watery muck from them, and listened with interest to the conversation nearby. Bjorn and Leif’s arguments might not be of great importance to ship unity, but they were invariably interesting.
‘So where do they go?’ the Rus said.
‘I have told you a dozen times,’ the big albino snapped irritably. ‘Odin’s maidens take them to Valhöll to await the end. Or Freyja takes them to her hall in Fólkvangr. That is all.’
‘But their bodies remain on the battlefield.’
Bjorn sighed. ‘A worthy man does not always die in battle.’
‘You are missing the point, as usual,’ Leif said as he picked up a rope and began to coil it. ‘If their bodies lie rotting on the battlefield, with what do they fight the final battle? How do they sit in the hall, and how do they eat or drink?’
Bjorn frowned. ‘You ask too many questions, little man.’
‘It is only with questions that we learn, my friend. This is why the ancient ways are fading, and why the new Faith takes such a grip on the world. There are too many holes in old thought. A man in Valhöll has left his body behind, yes?’
Bjorn rounded on the man, dropping an armful of timbers. ‘All right, fart-face, if you’re so clever, what happens to Christians when they die? You have your own afterlife, don’t you? With clouds and flowers and women’s pursuits?’
That last earned a sharp look from Gunnhild, but Bjorn did not notice, jabbing a finger at Leif. ‘So your bodies are left behind while you go to the afterlife. How is this any different? Answer me that, clever bones.’
‘When we die, we leave our corporeal remains. It is our spirit, our eternal soul, that ascends to Heaven. Or descends to Hell, of course.’
‘We have Hel too. She can be a bitch.’
Leif rolled his eyes. ‘So you see there is sense in our ascent to be with God, for we are incorporeal.’ He saw incomprehension flood the big man’s eyes. ‘Body-less,’ he explained.
‘Bollocks. I have heard the story of your draugr god. He was nailed and died. They buried him, but he walked back out of his tomb a few days later. What about his eternal spirit, then?’
Leif sighed, patiently. ‘But he is the son of God and not some ordinary man.’
‘So he ascended with his body?’
‘Ye-es,’ replied Leif, frowning, uncertainty wavering in his tone.
‘What kind of a god takes his own body with him but makes his people leave theirs behind? Our gods are fairer.’
Leif almost exploded with exasperation. ‘You, my big friend, are going to get a surprise when death comes for you.’
‘Not as much of a surprise as death will,’ grinned Bjorn, fingering the haft of his axe.
‘While you two argue, the real men here are working so that we can settle for the night,’ snapped Ulfr, walking past with an oar in one hand and one of Ketil’s silvered skull-cups in the other, a dark liquid sloshing about in it.
Leif cast a disgusted look at the container. ‘Do you have to drink out of that? It has to be unhygienic.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Unhealthy.’
Ulfr snorted. ‘It was unhealthy for its original owner, that’s for sure. I bought it from the Icelander. Fetching, eh?’
Leif gave him another wrinkled-lip look of disgust, and walked away.
‘These Rus are strange,’ Ulfr noted, eliciting a nod of agreement from the big pale warrior.
Halfdan smiled to himself. Unity had to be possible. Even with the gulf of religious division between them, Bjorn and Leif were fast becoming friends. Very irritating friends who could do nothing but argue, yet friends still. If two men as different as they could work in concord, then it should not be difficult for Halfdan and Ketil, who were almost reflections of one another. The Icelander was odd and unpredictable, but they were driven by similar goals.
‘Finns,’ he said, musing.
‘What?’ grunted Bjorn, close by.
‘Oh, nothing. Just thinking aloud.’ The Finns. Ketil raised a crew to raid the Finns. To take silver and goods from them, and thralls, too. In some ways, he represented the very essence of the Northman of old. He had planned to embark upon raids in the traditional manner. Instead, Halfdan had tricked him out of the Sea Wolf and dragged him halfway round the world on a mission of revenge, all the while helping a Christian jarl seek to carve out a kingdom for himself. As changes in plan went, that was fairly fundamental, and so Ketil’s immediate problem could only really be resolved by making that change desirable.
As the ship was settled for the night, he continued to think on the issue. Camp was set, a fire started and food cooked. Men sat and ate quietly in groups and finally, as he accepted a cup of blaand, Halfdan made a decision. Spotting Leif sitting slightly apart from the others, he wandered over to the log and sank onto it beside him. The Rus was muttering in some strange language Halfdan had never heard, and running a knotted rope of black wool through his fingers as he did so.
‘Can we talk?’
Leif continued to mutter and feel the rope slide between his fingers, but held up his free hand, motioning Halfdan to wait. Finally, after what seemed like a tedious eternity, the small Rus stopped murmuring and pushed the rope away into his pouch.
‘Devotions to the Theotokos,’ he explained as though that clarified everything. He smiled at Halfdan’s blank look. ‘The mother of God. I have been meaning to teach you all Greek, but we haven’t had the time as yet. That was the tongue I spoke, you see, Greek. Most ancient of all languages.’
‘Anything that helps bind the crew together,’ Halfdan nodded. ‘I wanted to ask what you know of our voyage to come. You have been to Miklagarðr, I remember. Is that near where we are bound? I’ve heard the men talking of Miklagarðr as a land of gold and marble. Many riches to be had.’
Leif sighed. ‘Miklagarðr is both more than that, and yet less. It is a rich land, yes, but those riches are bound up into life in the city and jealously owned. The city is incredibly complex and dangerous, like a giant game of ’tafl. You find yourself in the heart of the place and just managing to get out to the edge without doing something to upset a powerful lord is difficult. The men of Miklagarðr do not even trust each other, let alone outsiders. And the women are worse, believe me. No, try not to think of Miklagarðr as a source of riches. It is a source of trouble.’
Halfdan sagged. ‘I had hoped for better.’
‘Fear not. It is not for Miklagarðr, or Constantinopolis as the Greeks know it, that we are bound, my fearless young leader. This great river empties into a wide black sea. If we followed the coast west we would reach that great and dangerous city, but long-established empires are of no use to Yngvar, who seeks to carve out his own. Instead, we will turn east across the Svarthaf waters and make for the Caucasus mountains. In their shadow we will find a jumble of lands that are almost as old as the empire, with their own kings and armies, and beyond their borders lie tribes who have warred and invaded one another since before the days of Miklagarðr. It is there, beyond the Georgian Kingdom that Yngvar intends to find his new land.’
The edge of the world, where the draugar would be found.
Halfdan nodded and then took a swig of the fermented milk, which tasted both sour and sweet, smooth as a woman’s kiss and as sharp as a spear point both at once. He took another for good measure. Who wanted to lie for sleep on a cold ground wrapped in stinking blankets while they were sober, after all?
‘So you might say that these lands are a source of untapped riches?’
Leif frowned. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out, but tales are few and far between, and I can confirm nothing.’
With a smile, the younger warrior clapped a hand on Leif’s shoulder. ‘A possibility is something I can work with.’
Rising and leaving the man to his thoughts, Halfdan singled out another solitary figure in their camp. Gunnhild was not alone through division or anger, though. It was simply her way. She stood leaning on her spear-staff in the gloom at the very periphery of the firelight, looking out into the darkness.
‘What do you see?’ he murmured as he approached.
‘Difficulties that come in shoals like tiny fish. Have you made a decision about Ketil and the others?’
‘I have. And I need your help. They will listen to me, but you have the Seiðr ways, and they will trust your words.’
‘You want me to lie to them?’ she said, eyes closed to almost slits, an anger beginning to bristle within her.
‘No. Not lie. Perhaps encourage? Come.’
He walked back to the camp with Gunnhild at his shoulder still looking suspicious. As he neared the fire, he drained the last of his blaand and lifted the cup, smacking it three times with the hilt of his sax, drawing the attention of the crew. All eyes slid towards him, some figures shuffling to see around the blazing campfire.
‘I know some of you still feel unhappy with your lot, and some are uncertain about this voyage. Most of you signed on with Ketil to raid easy Finns and get rich, and are not content with where we now are and what we are enduring. We have fought hard against the river and against the riders who would have raided us, and as yet we have nothing to show for it but the few cups Ketil took. I ask for your patience. We journey across the Svarthaf to an ancient and rich land and to tribes laden with silver and gold. Why else would the jarl want to go to the edge of the world to find his new kingdom?’
The logic of this brought nods from men who had looked unsure. ‘No journey is without dangers,’ Halfdan added. ‘But we are Northmen, and danger is our trade. No treasure worth finding is without peril. So I ask you to sail with me as brothers, for even Gunnhild here with her god-born sight sees great treasure in our future.’
He gestured to the woman beside him, who graced them all with an easy smile and a nod.
‘Every man and woman aboard the Sea Wolf will have an equal share in anything we take, but you all know why I am here. I have made no secret of it. Our precious jarl will not live to enjoy those riches, which will mean all the more for you. My vengeance is my prize, and so I give my share to you all.’
This raised a few eyebrows, for if his words rung true and their destination was laden with silver, Halfdan’s shared could be worth much more than the ship. He saw the Icelander peer across the flames at him. The man’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes had narrowed in thought. Good. He had made a start. He’d found the holes in the sail and picked up his needle. Now they needed to find some silver thread.
As conversation resumed he spun to walk away, and Gunnhild turned with him, her eyes flashing angrily. ‘You lied for me.’
‘It was not a lie,’ he countered carefully. ‘It was an estimation. A belief. A hope. You do not know there is no treasure where we are bound.’
‘I know that for what there is we will find a great deal more death and pain. That is the last time you speak for me, Halfdan.’
‘With luck it will be the last time I have to. Whatever I must do to make the crew one, I will do.’
Part Three
The Queen and the Priest
Chapter 11
‘That’s not one fire,’ Ødger murmured, peering through the trees.
Halfdan nodded. ‘Many fires,’ he added. ‘Perhaps even as many as our own. The Dane underestimated them.’
Valdimar shrugged. ‘The night has darkened much since the Dane was here. It may be that the glow was yet small half an hour ago. I fear we must be cautious, though.’
The glow that arose beyond the small wood could only be the result of a sizeable group when seen from this close.
‘Do we check closer?’
The Kievan nodded. ‘I want an estimate.’
Signs of life might have gone entirely unnoticed altogether had it not been for a curious Dane from one of the nearest crews who had gone far from the firelight for a quiet shit. As the purple light of evening descended across the land, the Dane had lowered his trousers and crouched over a ditch in a small stand of pines. Once he was done with his business, he rose and picked out the glimmer of light to follow back to camp, only to emerge from the wrong side of the wood. The firelight he had followed had not been his, indeed was not that of any of Yngvar’s fleet. He had emerged from the inland edge of the forest. Heart in his mouth, he’d hurried away, skirting the woods and rushing back to the huge camp by the beach. From there, he had ascertained that the distant firelight was hidden from the beach by a low hill and woodland, which meant that the same was almost certainly true the other way around.
Once his findings had been reported to Yngvar, the jarl had decided that they could not simply ignore the potential offered by the fire. If it turned out to be some small heathen tribe then perhaps there would be good pickings and supplies to be had, and so the command had been given. Valdimar was the nearest thing to a local here, so the Kievan prince was told to go and investigate.
Valdimar, never a man to take chances, had sent for two crews he trusted to join him as he gathered his men at the edge of the fleet’s camp. Halfdan answered the summons, leaving half his crew at the ship under Ulfr’s watchful eye, and taking the rest. All in all, with Halfdan’s twenty, the small force led by the Kievan prince counted seventy – a small enough band that they could move quickly and quietly, yet large enough to handle themselves in a fight, though such a thing was to be avoided for now. They were only there to scout.
Ketil, at Halfdan’s side, chewed his lip. ‘I am beginning to question the wisdom of this.’
Halfdan nodded. ‘Me too. Anisychia,’ he added, proud of his new word.
It was comforting to have the Icelander working with him once more, rather than coldly separate, and in fact the entire crew of the Sea Wolf seemed to be cleaving together better now, which was partly the doing of Leif. As they’d set off once more down the ever-widening Dnieper, the small Rus had begun to teach them all the tongue of the Grikkjar each night, with varying levels of success, and Halfdan found himself fascinated with the notion of a language that could be written on skins, with each shape made up of many separate tiny sounds.
‘I don’t know that word,’ the Icelander grunted.
‘Worry,’ translated Valdimar nearby.
‘Ah. Quite.’
Worry had been largely absent from the Sea Wolf as they had emerged from the river into the great black sea, for every man felt good to be back on the open water. Now, on the fourth day of sailing southeast along an easy and forgiving coast, the fifteenth since they passed the Dnieper rapids, they had put in at a white, sandy beach. The fleet was lined up neatly side by side, stacked along the beach almost like a shipyard, the very end place taken by the ship of Gorm, probably the only crew less popular with the jarl than Halfdan’s. Gorm seemed to be plagued with ill luck, his crew suffering from some sort of bowel illness, his ship holed three times quite by chance, their sail torn, and Gorm himself becoming lame in the right leg during an incident at the last portage.
‘Gorm’s luck’ had become a common phrase now, and Halfdan could only hope that they would avoid Gorm’s luck tonight. The number of fires awaiting them suggested otherwise.
‘Do they have nomads here?’ Halfdan muttered. ‘The Pecheneg? Will we find more riders?’
‘I am less than familiar with these lands,’ Valdimar admitted, ‘but I would say we are beyond the Pecheneg now. We are not far enough south for the Greeks or the Serks, though we may already be in the lands of the Georgian kings. There are other lands and tribes in this region too, though.’
Halfdan turned to look back the way they had come. Somewhere back there the rest of the force waited with Leif, while Valdimar had brought the other two skippers forwards to scout with just a few warriors from each ship.
