Robert Low - The Whale Road

I spat dust out and moved to the sagging table, passing the barrels and seeing the dark contents spilling from two of them. I bent and sniffed, tasted iron: they were filing and discards. The other had held sand. On the other side of the table was a stone tub which had, presumably, held water for quenching.

The tools seemed to be the sort of thing you would have in a forge: hammers, pincers, mallets, all cobwebbed and rusting. And, on the wall above, something that gleamed.

I moved the torch closer and saw a ledge hewn out of the rock. Above it was a long, single string of runes. I couldn't read them and the thought struck me that it was strange that a Northman could read Latin, but not runes.

In the ledge lay what appeared to be a batten of wood, seemingly oiled and fresh. It had a squarish head, with two bright rivets holding a nub of shining metal, a thumb-length sticking out of the wooden shaft and neatly sheared off. I didn't touch it—after the bellows had fallen apart, I didn't want to touch anything. I was sure the rubble spill had come from the roof; the sheer weight of that place pressed on me.

But it was more than that. There was something about that piece of wood that kept me from touching it, that was strange and Other and I could not work it out.

In the end, though, I picked up a heavy hammer, rusted iron with an iron shaft, too. Having a weapon made me feel better. What good it would do against the fetch of a dead woman was another matter.

I backed away, considering, trying to orientate myself so that, when I chose a route out of that room, I wasn't heading off down into some labyrinth of forgotten and dangerous mineworkings, but towards that barred door.

I was still trying to work it out when the torch guttered and my heart nearly stopped. I looked wildly at it, but it was nowhere near burned down. I held it up; a breeze caressed it and I cursed myself for a ninny and followed where the breeze was coming from.

The door, when I finally saw it, was almost an anti-climax. The bar was stiff and I had to force it up with the hammer until it finally toppled out. Then I shoved, heard shouts, saw a sliver of light and then fingers curling round the exposed edge of the door.

With a wrench and a shower of dust, it racked open, spilling sunlight into the shaft. I shuffled out, my breeks manacling my ankles.

Valknut loomed up, Bodvar and the others behind. They stopped, recoiled, stared. Then Valknut seemed to sag, wrapped his arms round himself and reeled away. Bodvar pointed, his mouth working.

Scared witless, I whirled round in case something was creeping up, but there was nothing. I heard them gasp and wheeze and choke and, with a sudden burst of fury and shame, realised they were helpless with laughter.

It took them ages to recover and my sulking only made it worse. Bodvar actually volunteered to reclimb the hill to get the others because, he said later, he'd have burst from laughing.

Valknut later admitted he'd thought it was a black dwarf stumping out to tell them all to piss off, his hammer at the ready, and had nearly wet himself with terror. The relief when he saw who it was made him laugh all the more.

I saw the funny side. Eventually. The door opens and there is a boy, naked but for his boots, his breeks tangles round his ankles, black with charcoal dust, streaked white with sweat runnels and blood . . . I would have hooted, too.

I was still like that an hour later––though my breeks were up and the sun a lot less warm, so that I was shivering and goose-bumped. I needed water to wash, but there was none spare for that, so I stayed black and gave everyone a fresh laugh.

Einar nodded appreciatively, as if he knew what I had done. Ordinarily I would have swelled with proud delight at this, but there was too much doom about Einar now for me to hold him in such esteem.

More torches were lit and I led them, less four to guard the open door, back to the forge room, Hild staggering at my side. Martin kept darting eagerly ahead, just like the dog Einar had made him, tangling his leash and making his keeper, Skapti, curse.

We crept in and I showed them what I had found: the forge, the bellows, the barrels and the table.

Both Illugi Godi and Martin the monk dropped to their knees, to the astonishment of all––what could have made that pair worship together? They, too, were astonished, not realising what the other had seen.

`The spear,' Martin breathed reverently. 'The spear . . .' He couldn't say anything else, just sat with his hands clasped and prayed.

`That?' queried Ketil Crow. 'There's only a shaft.'

Ìt is—was—a Roman spear,' Martin said, his voice filled with awe, then he bowed his head and actually sobbed. 'But the pagan devils have removed the long metal point, steeped in the blood of Christ. May God punish them all.'

Ketil Crow, with a scornful look at the weeping monk, stepped forward, making to pluck the spear-shaft from its ledge. Illugi Godi's voice was booming loud when he roared: 'Stay!' He pointed to the rune line. À

runespell. A new one. A new runespell.'

That stunned us all. Valknut dropped to his knees and bowed his head at the enormity of it.

There were few runespells. Odin himself, who had hung nine days on the World Tree, had only ever learned eighteen, as Illugi now reminded us.

Ànd had a spear thrust into his side, too,' Pinleg growled pointedly to Martin. 'But at least he got Knowledge out of it.'

`Was it?' interrupted Valknut. 'I thought it was Wisdom.'

`Perhaps the pair of you need to hang on the same tree,' Illugi Godi said wryly. 'That way one of you would have the wisdom or knowledge to shut up.'

Ìt's all pagan nonsense,' Martin declared.

`Take your prize, then,' Einar offered. `Surely some pagan nonsense is no danger to you, under the protection of your god? After all, didn't your Bishop Poppo wear a red-hot iron glove and come to no harm?'

Martin licked his lips, looked as if he would try it, then settled back like a sullen dog.

Ketil Crow, shaken at his narrow escape—the runespell might have cursed him, or worse—wiped his dry mouth with the back of one hand. Unless you know what you are doing, you walk warily round a runespell, neither speaking it aloud nor laying a hand on it.

`There's no rust on that spear-shaft,' Valknut noted and I blinked, realising only now what the strange Otherness had been. No rust. Or dust. Or cobwebs. Everything. looked as if it had been made the day before.

There was a general backing away. I saw Hild stagger, heard her mutter, moved. closer and put one arm round her shoulders. She was cold, but sweating and swaying wildly, like a mast in a high wind.

`So what happened?' demanded Ketil Crow. 'Did they forge a sword out of bits of an old spear? Is that the right of it?'

Èssentially,' muttered Illugi Godi, leaning forward to study the runes and speaking absently, his voice sounding like a man speaking underwater. 'It was written here by someone . . . who knew . . . how to do it well. For the smith to copy on to the sword he was forging.'

Ketil Crow shrugged. 'I can't think that you would get much of a sword out of some old spearhead,' he scoffed and Illugi peered briefly at him.

`Depends on the spearhead. With the blood of a god on it . . .'

He left the rest unsaid, but Ketil Crow had it terrier-gripped and would not let go. `Not one of our gods.'

À god is a god,' Illugi remarked. 'Ours are more powerful, obviously . . .'

Martin's snort stopped Illugi, but Ketil Crow wanted no theological debate. He kicked the metal forge moodily, for he had wanted lots more—treasure, swords, all the stuff of sagas. 'I still don't see that a sword made from an old spear is much of a weapon.'

`Perhaps you should look at the anvil,' said Einar laconically, 'where they tested it.'

That great cut across the anvil, where the smith had tested the edge of his blade, made Ketil Crow click his teeth sharply together. Everyone craned to see and Valknut gave a low whistle of appreciation.

`Deep. Through mail, a cut like that. And helmet-steel, maybe more. Solid iron, that anvil.' He turned and nudged Ketil Crow. `Some spearhead. Some sword.'

Ketil Crow scowled, but it was half-hearted and the old, avaricious glow was back in his eyes.

`What's this?' asked a voice and everyone turned, thrusting torches. The man—a grey-bearded veteran called Ogmund Wryneck because of a head-jerking tic he had—stood looking up another shaft, behind the barrels. The wooden rungs of a ladder led upwards.

`Well spotted, old eye,' Einar said, clapping him on the shoulder. He stepped on the ladder, moved up one rung—and it fell apart with a puff of rotting wood.

`Well, that's that,' he said, then looked at me. 'A strong lad, bracing himself, could work himself up that shaft with a rope if he had a mind.'

`He could,' I answered bitterly. 'When you find one, ask him.'

Illugi Godi, impatiently grabbing the nearest torch, was almost nose to rock now, poring over the runes and muttering, but careful not to touch. But he was not so engrossed that he could not try to grasp more. He turned to me, his eyes wild.

`Yes, yes, you must. There might be another runespell. Think of it! Another spell.'

Òr a sword,' added Ketil Crow enticingly.

Òr some of Atil's treasure,' said Einar. The rest of the faces round me glowed with the greed of it and their eyes burned on me.

Fuck your runes, I wanted to say. Fuck your magic swords. Fuck you, too, godi. You haul your holy arse up the shaft if you feel so strongly about it.

Yet, at the same time, I was taking the offered rope, coiling it round my waist, looping the torch round my neck again and heaving myself into the shaft.

In the end it was an easy climb. The rungs broke into dust, but there were rusted metal sockets for them and they stayed intact for the most part, so it was simple. At the top, I lit the torch and looked around.

There was a collapsed shelf and more barrels, whose splayed staves spilled the contents out. There was a chest which looked Interesting, but only because I tried to move it and knew it was heavy and perfect as an anchor for the rope.

I slung it down, told them that the room was too small for everyone and then turned back to the other thing I had spotted. The door.

It was half open, swung limply on sagging hinges and revealed, at first, what seemed to be an old wooden-framed bed and a collection of rags. Then I realized the rags had form; white gleamed. Bone.

As Einar panted up the rope into the room I realized, from the hanks of hair and the remains of jewellery, that this could be Hild’s mother. Einar, peering over my shoulder, rubbed his moustaches and nodded when I offered my explanation.

‘Interesting,’ he said and then pointed out the obvious, which I had overlooked. ‘If it is, she could have unbarred the door, got out and returned to her child.’

That made me jerk. Perhaps it wasn’t her, after all, but some other luckless relative—a grandmother or older—but why she hadn’t walked out was still a mystery. However, as I pointed out to Einar and Illugi, the only two who came up, best not to mention this to Hild.

Thy nodded, though I wasn’t sure they heard. Illugi was too busy hunting for more runes an stirring up only the old dust of dried beans and insect husks. Einar, however, was at the metal chest and working a seax into the rusted lock.

It gave with a dull sound and he lifted the lid. We all peered, half expecting gold, swords, gem-studded crowns. Instead, there were a lot of cloth bundles which, when we unwrapped them, unveiled a series of blackened tin plates, some bound together through holes with the remains of leather thongs.

`Like the book of leaves in St Otmund's temple,' I pointed out and Einar nodded, rummaging furiously and annoyed that there was only this and the metal was only tin.

Ìndeed,' said Illugi, his eyes gleaming, `that's what it is. Hold the torch closer, Orm. Let's see . . . Yes, runes. Excellent . . . ' A moment later, he straightened, the disappointment palpable. 'Apart from advice on never allowing two blades to lie across each other and a list of plants to rub into the anvil to give it more strength, there isn't much here on smelting that I haven't heard before.'

Ùseless, god-fucked place,' muttered Einar moodily. 'No treasure, no clues.'

`There is the runespell on the wall below,' Illugi said brightly.

`Know what it says?' demanded Einar.

Ì think it is something about truth, or being true. And there's an eternity rune there, which means long-lasting. And, of course, it all depends on how you cut them . . .'

`You have no idea, do you?' Einar challenged and Illugi shrugged, grinned sheepishly and admitted that to be true.

Ìt seems to be what you'd expect to find on a good sword—a runespell to make a blade true and long-lasting,' he said. 'But the runes are old, different from the ones we know now.'

The shriek made us all jerk, an earsplitting sound that bounced off the walls, ringing the whole place like a bell.

`What the fuck . . . ?'

Einar was down the rope in a fast slide that must have flayed skin from his palms. I followed, only marginally slower, since I was almost certain I knew who had screamed.

I was right. Hild stood in the centre of a ring of wary warriors, clutching the spear-shaft to her chest. She was still as a carved prow, her eyes wide and staring at nothing, her mouth open and chest heaving, as if she, could not breathe.

`The monk made her do it,' Bodvar said. `We were all thinking it a bad idea when she started to, but that little rat said someone had to and it might as well be her.'

Einar glared at Skapti, who tugged the leash so that Martin jerked. Halftroll shrugged and said, 'He wasn't wrong, Einar. Someone had to risk it.'

Martin, straightening, adjusted his cowl and smiled. 'I was right. I have been right all along. This Hild is linked to the sword made here, a powerful weapon now thanks to the blood of Christ on that holy spearhead they used to forge it.

`The heathens may have perverted the Spear of Destiny, but the blood stays true. True also is the blood of the smiths—she knows where the sword is and so also where the Great Hoard is.'

`Kill the little fuck now,' growled Ketil Crow.

`He has the right of it,' announced Hild in a strange, gentle, calm voice. 'I am linked by the blood of the smiths who made this sword.'

`How many spears were stuck in this Christ, then?' Finn Horsehead demanded to know. 'For I have heard that the Emperor of the Romans in the Great City has hundreds of Christ ikons, from a little cloth with the god's face on it to a crown made of thorns. And a spear that was thrust in the side of this Jesus as he hung on his tree.'

`False. I have the real spear,' snapped Martin angrily and Einar whacked him on one ear, sending the little monk stumbling.

`You have nothing at all, monk,' Einar said in a voice thick and slow as a moving glacier. 'You have your life only by my leave.'

Hild shook her head, as if scattering water from her. 'I know where the sword of Attila is. I can take you there, far to the east, along the Khazars' river.'