Blood Feud, page 22
‘And now I have given a pagan gift to a pagan warrior, Hjalmvigi will want me to flog myself for my godlessness. Perhaps I will even do so.’ He sighed and his expression hardened once more. ‘Perhaps I should not have come after all.’
He rose. ‘Your deeds were brave, and you have earned my respect. Had you been a man of God, I would even now be lauding you and holding you high. I cannot do so. I will never do so to demon-driven heathens. But know that I am grateful, in my way.’
With that, the jarl turned and left. Halfdan waited until he’d been gone for a while, turning the belt buckle over and over in the golden glow of the torches.
‘That was… unexpected.’ He straightened. ‘So what happened while I slept?’
Gunnhild smiled. ‘The garrison of this place – Gori, it is called – have stayed fastened up in their fortress on the hill. The walls are lined with men but they just watch the city below while the fleet ravages Gori. The man in the black robe, who Ketil wounded, was found hiding in the corner of an outhouse. On Yngvar’s orders he was sealed in and the building fired.’
‘Good,’ Halfdan hissed, rubbing sore joints.
‘Too easy. In the old days a vengeful jarl would have made a bloody eagle of the man.’
Halfdan shivered. The bloody eagle was not a punishment to commit to lightly.
‘All is good, though?’
She nodded. ‘The fleet is supplied, there are few casualties, and the men of the fleet have… well, let’s just say a lot of children will be born in Gori nine moons from now.’
Halfdan grimaced, then slumped back with a groan of weariness. Gunnhild said she would leave him to sleep. He didn’t think sleep would come again, yet the young warrior was snoring before she’d left the tent.
* * *
For the next two days they sailed lazily down the river, recovering some of their humour and energy, allowing the current and the breeze to do most of the work for them. Halfdan quickly recuperated after a night’s rest, during which Valdimar had brought him a few prize takings from the city to celebrate his success. Now, as a gentle drizzle settled in for the morning under a pale silver sky, even the slowly soaking weather couldn’t dampen spirits. Halfdan was still a little achy, but was feeling much his old self as he now stood at the prow of the ship, trying to piece together his encounter with Yngvar. The man had almost seemed reasonable. He was struggling, clearly, but away from the vile influence of Hjalmvigi, it was interesting to see how different the man seemed.
‘Hoy, Halfdan!’
The call came to Sea Wolf last, for the ship once again tagged along at the rear of the fleet despite Halfdan’s unexpected celebrity. Vessels had been spotted ahead. The fleet slowed in the wide river and, thanks to the tight sequence of loops and curves the flow took here between hills, Halfdan could see what lay ahead. A gathering of ships larger than Yngvar’s own sat motionless across half of the river, moored three deep. On the southern bank, covering a wide, flat area between the water and the slope of the hill, sat an army camp: tents in huge numbers, great fires and storage compounds, horse corrals and all. Halfdan whistled through his teeth. Yngvar could call on twenty-eight ships for a total of more than nine hundred men. Beyond the curve of the river sat twice as many ships, plus an army of thousands. A narrow-eyed squint into the obfuscating mizzle revealed red and white banners across the camp.
‘The king’s banners,’ Ketil announced, pointing.
‘We hope. The king fights his brother, and we have no idea what his banners look like.’
As the fleet came to a halt in the river, anchors dropping to hold them in place since there seemed to be no movement from the other ships, a small party emerged from the camp. The banners of red and white were in evidence once more amid a group of perhaps two dozen horsemen. As they neared the fleet, three of the riders moved out ahead, each in rich and colourful costume, while the others, clearly guards of some sort, kept protectively close.
Halfdan gestured at Ulfr who had yet to drop anchor.
‘Take us out to the right, closer to the bank so we can see and hear.’
He watched as the jarl’s ship pulled closer, echoed by the Sea Wolf, and came to a halt some ten paces from the turf, the heavy anchor splashing down into the water. A strange silence descended while the jarl stood at the ship’s rail awaiting the riders. Into this quiet came the drum of hoofbeats, increasing in volume until the riders halted opposite the ships.
One of the three richly attired nobles threw out a hand in an imperious gesture towards Yngvar, who stood at his ship’s top strake behind a row of coloured shields, gripping the rigging like a warrior-sailor rather than a jarl. The rider barked out something that sounded like a challenge in his own tongue, and when no one answered and Yngvar simply hung there on the rope watching him, the man tossed his head to shift a limp, soggy red plume, and tried again, this time in Greek.
Another two days on board had given the Sea Wolf yet more vocabulary and, now that they were trying to use Greek aboard ship as often as they could, their fluency was coming on in leaps and bounds. Though the small Rus stood close by, translating for them, Halfdan realised that he was only half listening, for he could get the gist of what was said without aid.
‘His Majesty the nobelissimos sebastos Bagrat the Fourth, King of Georgia, demands to know the identity of the foreign fleet that has the audacity to sail into his camp.’
Yngvar leaned forwards over the water. ‘You are the king?’ There was an edge of scorn in his tone and the rider straightened, his face twitching angrily.
‘I am Duke Kakhaber, His Majesty’s representative. The king does not put himself within bow range of unknown villains. Answer me. Who are you?’
The jarl paused for an insolent moment. ‘I am Yngvar Eymundsson, grandson of Eiríkr inn Sigrsæli, King of Svears and Geats, Jarl and Master of this fleet. I talk to men, not their dogs. Fetch me your king and go bark elsewhere.’
The duke bridled, and the men behind him reached for sword hilts.
‘The king is of a mind to have your fleet scuttled where it sits and to have each man aboard flayed, salted and nailed to trees as a warning to other criminals. We are not unaware of your exploits, Northman. Riders from Gori have already announced your crimes.’
Yngvar stepped up now onto the rail so that the duke had to crane his neck to look up a little further. ‘Gori was given a fair chance to trade with us for supplies. We sought only enough vittles to see us as far as your camp, but they refused, believing us the Varangoi of your enemy. They faced us with spears and arrows when we offered silver and trade. They brought on their own misfortune and I have not a care for a single one of them. We were hungry and they denied us. Find your king and tell him that we bring greetings from his queen, on whose behalf we now sail.’
The duke’s face folded into a frown. This, he clearly was not expecting. Taking a moment to compose himself, he straightened and turned in surprise as one of the two other nobles flanking him said something in his own tongue and stepped his horse forwards. This second nobleman, a man of perhaps twenty-five summers with deep-set eyes, a sharp nose and a neatly trimmed black beard, swept off his helmet. One of the other riders had moved up next to him and passed across a pointed crown studded with enough jewels and formed of sufficient gold to buy a city. As the young man settled the crown atop his glossy black hair, Halfdan had to admit to being impressed.
‘You have spoken to Borena?’ the king said in a calm, sing-song voice.
Yngvar frowned at the man. ‘What manner of king hides himself among his warriors?’
Bagrat of Georgia gave a light chuckle. ‘A sensible and long-lived one, when civil war rages in his country. So, you are no enemy of my house? When word came that Varangoi had sacked my garrison town of Gori, I feared that Liparit had moved unexpectedly and swiftly and somehow slipped past my pickets. I had even wondered if my cursed brother had somehow sneaked through the mountains unseen. I must admit that my fears diminished when I saw just thirty ships. Such a force I could wipe from the land without breaking a sweat. You have word from my wife, Northman?’
The jarl dropped back down to the planks of the deck, nodding. ‘We stayed at Kutaisi for a short while as I sought information about this land. We are not the servants of your Byzantine enemy, King of Georgia, but free men from the North. In return for supplies and the consideration of concessions when this war is over, I made an agreement with the queen. We would lend our swords to your army in the coming fight.’
Bagrat’s eyes narrowed. ‘Concessions?’
‘Land, titles and the like. Nothing you cannot afford to grant.’
Halfdan bit down on his anger. One of the tenets of the Christians they seemed to vaunt was their truthfulness, yet here was Yngvar playing the humble servant while he secretly harboured plans to usurp the very king to whom he offered his sword. He breathed out slowly and calmed himself: this was not his war, just the stage for his revenge.
Bagrat nodded thoughtfully. ‘My brother has a small force of your countrymen serving him on behalf of the Emperor Michaíl. They are a feared unit, led by an infamous lunatic by the name of Harðráði. I cannot say it does not appeal to me to field a force of their countrymen to match them.’
The king clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. ‘You come at an opportune time, Northman. Liparit and Demetre are massing their forces to the north, in the mountains on the edge of Alani lands. I have garrisons watching every pass to give us warning when they begin to move. They will take perhaps a week and a half, two at the most, to cross the range when they march. Thus you have ample time to settle in and find your place in this army.’
Yngvar shook his head, which raised frowns from the riders and wide-eyed surprise from the king.
‘You deny me?’
The jarl shrugged. ‘Your queen tasked me with journeying to the river’s end and delivering an offer to the Kipchak tribe there. She believes that their intervention will make a difference in the war.’
An explosive rattle of derisive chatter burst from the other two nobles, and the king folded his arms, his gaze focused, scrutinising Yngvar as the jarl stood there at the rail. ‘That course of action is not open for debate. I have told the queen on more than one occasion that we will not accept the aid of a people who still sacrifice to unseen spirits and engage in unholy rites. The Kipchak and the Cumani are given to demonic practices. The moment I accept their aid, the Catholicos and his bishops will turn their backs on me and throw their support behind my brother. Moreover, the Emir of Tpilisi would withdraw his support. No one knows how many Kipchak tribes there are, or their strength. I cannot risk losing the Church and the emirate from my force in return for an unknown band of ravaging pagans.’
Yngvar nodded. ‘I am inclined to agree with you, on purely religious grounds, King Bagrat. I follow Christ and the Theotokos Mother with every bit of your zeal, and associating with these heretics does not sit so well with me. However, I have recently learned a lesson in not putting godliness above safety. The Alani who serve your enemy hold the secret of Greek fire, and I am told they can raise thirty thousand riders. The queen was very persuasive in her arguments. She asked me whether a few fat churchmen and a heretical Serk from Tpilisi were worth facing such a threat. I have seen their fire, King of Georgia. It engulfed one of my ships, its crew, and even the water upon which it sat. If there is a chance to remove the Alani then it should be seized upon. I have given the queen my word that I will deliver her offer.’
Bagrat remained unmoved. ‘Regardless of what you say, given the events at Gori you will understand if I am not inclined to send a fleet of unknown Northmen downriver through my undefended kingdom and through the lands of my allies. Your fleet will go no further.’
The jarl snarled angrily and stepped up onto the strake once more in a belligerent posture. ‘I have given my word, and I will not go back on it. I will deliver your queen’s message.’
‘Yngvar,’ called another voice, and all eyes turned to the new speaker. Valdimar was at the prow of his ship, gesturing to the jarl. Yngvar introduced the Rus prince, who received a respectful bow of the head from the king. ‘Yngvar,’ Valdimar said again, ‘from here we face only a journey of, what, six days to the mouth of the river if we bend every back to it? Leave the fleet here and take only fast vessels. We can deliver the queen’s offer and be back before this Liparit crosses the mountains, and just a few ships will give the king less cause to worry for his kingdom.’
Yngvar’s face crumpled into a disapproving look. The idea of leaving the bulk of his fleet behind with another ruler did not sit well with him, yet the king was clearly considering the notion. He nodded his head again, this time in thought. ‘Six ships. Fast ones,’ the king said. ‘The rest of your fleet and force stays here to prepare.’
‘That is unacceptable.’
Bagrat’s expression hardened. ‘Listen to your Rus friend, son of Eymund. You may proceed through my kingdom with six ships to deliver your message, a matter I shall discuss at length with my wife upon my return. You will take sufficient supplies for your journey and avoid all settlements in your path, overnighting in the wilds, away from civilised folk who might bring on their own misfortune. You will then return to this camp and prepare to fight for the King of Georgia. In return for your fealty and your understanding, your rewards will be great. When the enemy fall, there will be lands and dukedoms suddenly free of incumbents. Obedience and sense reap great rewards, Northman.’
The jarl seemed to muse on this for a while. Finally, he nodded.
* * *
‘I have no intention of stopping on this journey,’ Yngvar continued.
The fire guttered and spat as fat from the carcass hanging above it dripped and ran. Nearby, the fleet bobbed in the flow of the river, its crews encamped on the damp, springy grass of the riverbank. It had been dusk before the rain receded and Valdimar emerged from the gloom and beckoned to Halfdan. The jarl had summoned five of his skippers to a meeting.
‘The Sea Wolf is the fastest ship in your fleet,’ Halfdan said.
Yngvar nodded. ‘Hjalmvigi is unrelenting in his insistence that you be left out of this; he thinks your presence will curse us. I remember how… useful you can be. I want only fast ships and clever, dangerous men.’
Powerful Nænnir, Kåre the barrel-chested, Sæbjôrn of Märsta and Valdimar of Kiev all nodded their agreement. Troublesome Æskil was now all puffed up with pride at having been handed the rest of the fleet to look after in Yngvar’s absence, and so he was not here to argue with the jarl this time. In a moment of defiance, Halfdan had decided to keep his sleeves up to reveal the Loki-snakes on his arm, and his Thor hammer amulet hung from his neck flagrantly. It made him smile to see the five powerful men around him carefully avoiding looking at them.
‘We shall row and sail as fast as sense allows, from first light until dark, and camp only for the sleeping hours. Hjalmvigi will come aboard my ship to offer us God’s guidance upon our journey. The river ends when it flows into a red sea, it is said, where whirlpools form that eat ships. No sailor crosses that sea, for beyond it is nothing. At the river’s end is a spit of land called Siggeum, and it is this headland where the tribe we seek have a seasonal meeting. They are nomads, but certain places they maintain as gathering points. The Kipchak are godless heathens, and that is another reason I have brought our own godless heathens: to meet them eye to eye.’
He threw a strange look at Halfdan and the young warrior couldn’t tell whether it was sarcasm or genuine gratitude. He shrugged. ‘I will do what must be done.’
In so many ways…
‘What do we want from these creatures?’ Sæbjôrn grumbled.
‘You heard me earlier. The Alani and their dragon can field some thirty thousand riders and they have the secret of the liquid fire of Miklagarðr. Such a force is too much for any army to face, unless the seraphim themselves take the field with us. The Kipchak, though, and their Cuman neighbours, number many thousands, and their lands surround the Alani to both the east and the north. If we can persuade these animals to nip at the Alani’s heels, which they are already inclined to do by nature, then the Alani will be unwilling to commit greatly to Bagrat’s enemy. After all, no man facing a punch-up wants their opponent to have a friend behind them, do they? Best of all, the more forces we drag into this war, the more confusion there will be, and the more opportunities for us to change in our favour the way things progress.’
Nænnir nodded. ‘So what are we offering in return?’
Yngvar uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. Behind him, a barrel stood in the dancing shadows of the firelight, a wool cloak draped over something leaning against it which all present had assumed to be short spars of timber. Stepping beside the barrel, the jarl stood next to the cloak and pulled the wool aside. The heavy item underneath gleamed and glittered in the firelight, and all eyes around the fire widened. The cross was almost waist high and seemingly formed from gold. It shone like the dream of avarice in the warm light, as men whistled and hissed surprise through their teeth.
‘Yes,’ Yngvar nodded. ‘A fortune in its own right. But have no personal designs on this. It goes to the savages, and when they help us win this war and we can sweep Georgia itself out from under the feet of its own unworthy lords, we shall raise this cross in the Kipchaks’ lands for them at the top of a new church, for they will be brought into the arms of Christ. But all that is for after, when we have our new kingdom. For now, we must concentrate on the plan.’
As the jarl went back to detailing what they would face in the coming days, Halfdan’s gaze kept wandering to that great, golden cross. That was something he was going to have to keep secret from the Sea Wolf, for in his mind’s eye he could not shake the picture of Bjorn grinning like a madman as he hefted that priceless gold and lugged it off into the darkness.
