Robert Low - The Whale Road

He also knew, I learned later, that he would get his share of the spoils, since no one kept anything for himself. In theory. Actually, everyone stole a little: silver dropped down breeks into boot-tops, or stowed in bags under his balls or armpits. Those caught, though, suffered whatever punishment the Oathsworn decided, which certainly started by losing all their booty and almost always included pain along the way.

'We seek what will be easy to find: the Christ temple of St Otmund,' Eionar told us. 'It will be the only substantial stone building for miles, with outbuildings of wood, so look for that. We raid it and get out, fast.

This is a well-defended kingdom and the days of good raiding here are long gone, so take only what you can carry—no slaves, no livestock, nothing heavy.

`The only thing we must get is a . . . a . . . reliquary.' He stumbled over the foreign word, then looked at the puzzled faces. 'It looks like a chest, well made, well carved and decorated. That we must get.'

`What's in it?' asked Ketil Crow lazily.

Einar shrugged. 'Bones, if everything I hear about such items is true.'

`Bones? Whose bones?' asked Illugi Godi curiously.

`St Otmund, almost certainly,' answered Einar. 'That's what these Christ-followers do with saints. Stick their bones in a chest and worship them.'

`Fuck,' offered Valknut disgustedly. 'More spell stuff. What are they cooking up in Birka?' He made a warding sign and just about everyone followed.

`Good question,' growled Skapti. 'What does Birka want with this pile of bones?'

Einar shrugged and looked darkly at them all. 'All you need to know is that they are outfitting us for next year. Every man will get enough for a new set of clothes, top to toe, and the Fjord Elk will be fitted with new gear, too. And we get to keep what we take from raids other than what was asked for.'

Everyone fell silent, nodding at that. Skapti hoomed in his throat and growled, `Just show me where they are, these saints.'

Those who knew better chuckled and Valknut told him: 'Saints are dead followers of Christ. Their chief priests vote the best dead people to be gods in their Valholl.'

`Votes, Sig? Like in a Thing?' scoffed Skapti. 'No fighting for it?'

`They don't believe in fighting,' Valknut said loftily. 'They believe in dying and when they do they are called martyrs. And the ones they think are better martyrs than others become saints.'

People who knew nodded, those who were learning this shook their heads in sceptical disbelief. Skapti hoomed disgust. 'Well, if that's the way of it, then we shall make lots of martyrs tomorrow, with little risk.'

Einar held up one hand, his hair like black water breaking round the stone of his face. `Don't be fooled.

What the Christ-followers say is one thing, yet this kingdom supposedly follows the White Christ and for people who don't believe in fighting, they can make a shieldwall that will turn your bowels to piss if we are unlucky enough to meet one. Move fast, stay quiet and we'll get in and out faster than Pinleg on a woman.'

Laughter and nudgings of Pinleg, who grinned and said, 'I have heard tales of treasure, Einar. Dragon hoards, no less. I would not like to think I am pissing about in the rain chasing some child's firepit story when I could be getting in and out of a woman.'

There was a sudden silence and I wondered why Pinleg had voiced that where others, clearly, had kept their teeth together. Later, of course, I found out why Pinleg could say what he chose.

Einar swept his black eyes over them once more. 'There is such a thing being spoken of . . .' He held up a hand as Pinleg cleared his throat to spit. 'Rest your oar a moment,' he said and Pinleg swallowed. Einar stroked his moustaches, looking round before he spoke.

`This Martin, the monk, is a deep-thinker, who can dive into the world's sea of learning and fish out choice morsels. Lambisson thinks highly of him and keeps him close—and Brondolf is no cash-scatterer, as we know.'

Grim chuckles greeted this and Einar scrubbed his chin. 'I have . . . uncovered some things that make me believe there is more to these Birka matters than is carved on the surface. There's a snake-knot tangle to it, though, so when I know more, you will know more.'

Pinleg grunted and that seemed to be assent. The others milled and muttered to each other.

Einar held up both hands and there was silence. 'Now, we are Oathsworn and have two here—Gunnar Rognaldsson, known as Raudi, and Orm Ruriksson, known as the Bear Killer. You know our oath . . . is there anyone who will stand the challenge?'

Challenge? What challenge? I turned to my father, but he nudged me silent and winked.

Slowly, a man stood, uncomfortably it seemed to me. A second stood with him and my father let out his breath with relief.

Einar nodded at them. `Gauk, I know you have waited for this moment since your foot went bad on you and you lost the toes last year.'

Gauk stepped into the firelight, his face made more gaunt with the shadows playing on it, and nodded.

'Aye. Without those toes, my balance is gone. Sometimes, unless I am careful, I fall over like a child. One day I will do it in a fight.'

Everyone nodded sympathetically. If he stumbled in a shieldwall, everyone was put at risk.

`So you will step aside, with no fight and no shame?' asked Einar.

Ì will,' said Gauk.

'For whom?'

`Gunnar Raudi.'

And that was that. Gauk would be free to leave here the next day with whatever he could carry away and Gunnar Raudi would take his place. My mouth was dry. I realised that the way into a full crew of the Oathsworn was to challenge and kill someone already in it, then take the binding oath. Unless, of course, that someone volunteered to go quietly.

Gauk and Gunnar were already clasping forearms and Gunnar was (as polite custom demanded, I learned) offering to buy what Gauk couldn't carry away on his back. Sweating and chilled, I glanced at the other man as Einar turned to him.

`Thorkel? Are you going with no fight and no shame?'

Ì am, for Orm Ruriksson.'

There was murmuring at that. Thorkel was a seasoned fighter, a good axeman and I was, as Ulf-Agar yelped out, only a stripling.

À stripling who killed a white bear,' my father snarled back at him. 'I don't recall any tales of your doings, Ulf-Agar.'

The little man's dark face went darker still and I knew then what Ulf-Agar's curse was—that of legend.

He wanted one to live after him; he was jealous of those who had what he sought and could not steal.

He was welcome to it, I said to myself, since it was a lie and shame made me hide it from everyone's sight, though it sickened me.

Einar stroked his chin, pondering. 'It's hard to give up a good man for an untried one. That's why we fight. How do we know what we get if we don't see newcomers fight?'

Thorkel shrugged. 'No matter what he is like, he will fight better than me, for I do not want to fight at all.

Not against the Christ-followers, for my woman in Gotland is one and I promised her—swore an Odin-oath—that I would not raid their holy places. So best if I leave, for if that is the way Birka's thoughts are going, I cannot go with them.'

Einar scowled at that. 'You swore an oath to us all, Thorkel. Is that to be overturned by a promise to a woman? Is your oath to us less than that to a woman?'

`You have never met my wife, Einar,' said Pinleg gloomily, his wiry body swathed in a huge cloak.

'Breaking an oath to her is not done lightly.'

Everyone who knew Pinleg's woman laughed knowingly. Before Einar could answer, Illugi Godi rapped his staff on a stone and there was silence.

Ìt is not a promise to his wife,' he said sternly. 'It was an oath to Odin. However stupid that may have been, it is still an oath to Odin.'

Òur oath is made to Odin,' Einar argued and Illugi frowned.

Òur oath is made to each other, in the sight of Odin. Thorkel's own Odin-oath may be truer, but I am thinking he must live with the consequence of swearing too many oaths. Anyway, he does not break his oath to the rest of us if one stands in his place.'

There was nodding agreement to that and Einar shrugged and turned to me. 'Well, you take the place of a good man, Orm Ruriksson. Make sure it was worth the trade.'

I stepped forward as bid and clasped Thorkel's forearm. He nodded at me, then moved off.

And that was it. I was now part of the Oathsworn of Einar the Black.

Later, I saw Thorkel and my father head to head in conversation and something niggled at me and worried and gnawed until I had to voice it.

`You arranged it,' I accused and, to my astonishment, my father grinned and nodded, putting a finger to his lips.

Àye. Thorkel wanted to go, has done for a time. He has an Irish woman in Dyfflin, which is just across the water from here, but made no Odin-oaths over her. By Loki's arse, what sane man would do that, eh?'

`Why does he want to leave?'

My father frowned at that and self-consciously scrubbed his chin. 'Tales of Atil's treasure,' he answered gruffly. 'Thorkel believes it foolishness, thinks Einar's thought-cage is warped.'

`Why didn't he say that, then?' I answered, with all the stupidity of youth.

My father batted my shoulder—none too gently, I thought—and answered, 'You don't say such things to the likes of Einar, unless you have a head start and fast feet, or are prepared to fight. No, Thorkel wanted out when he got here and didn't want to fight for it and didn't want to lose all his stuff.

`This way, he gets to leave safely with a bag of hacksilver—and you get a good sea-chest, a spare set of clothes and a decent shield.'

Ì have nothing—' I began and he clasped my forearm, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Ì did little enough for long enough,' he said. 'I need take big strides to catch up and I will not make old bones on a farm now, I am thinking. So I will spend my shares how I choose.' He paused then and added,

'Keep your lips fastened round Einar. He is a dangerous man when his brows come together.'

So, in the star-glimmered dark before dawn, I found myself assembled with the others, sword in hand, clutching Thorkel's shield with its swirling design of rune snakes, shivering and sick to the pit of my stomach.

We helped shove the Fjord Elk back off the shingle before the tide went out and stranded it there for hours. My father, of course, was staying behind since he was shipmaster and Pinleg would need him if they came under attack. So was Valgard, in case the ship was damaged. The eight others who stayed were hard enough men, but were all those who, for one reason or another, were not the fastest on their feet.

I was surprised that Skapti was going with the main body—not that I was going to say aloud that he was too fat to move fast—and more surprised than that to see him wearing a mail hauberk. A few others had mail, too, but had left off the padding of spare tunics usually worn beneath it.

Later, of course, I learned that no clever man expecting a fight and having good mail will willingly give it up and, since the easiest way of carrying it is to wear it, that's what they did.

The two who were leaving said their farewells, hefted their bundles and packs and struck off in the opposite direction from the one we would take. By the time we reached the Christ temple, they would be far enough away not to be considered part of the act. If they moved fast, of course.

Ulf-Agar had unrolled his mail from the fleece it was kept in, the sheep-grease fending off the rust. I thought to try to mend the rift between us and stepped forward to offer a helping hand as he hefted the ring-heavy mail by the shoulders.

Instead, he slapped my hand away and scowled. This was too much and I felt my hackles rise. Then Illugi Godi stepped between us and ushered me away, talking the while as if nothing had happened.

`Good sword you have there, Orm Ruriksson. Here's a tip, though: run it through the fleece of one of those fresh-killed sheep a few times. It's been splashed on by the sea and that rots metal faster than anything I know. Really, you need a sheath for it, but not a soft leather one, since that rots the metal fast, too. Better one made from wood, with a sheepskin lining. That way you can use the sheath as a good club if you have to

. . .'

Out of earshot, he clasped my shoulder in friendly fashion and glanced back to where Ulf-Agar's tousled head was emerging from his mail, his arms flailing. 'You meant well, but I fear you've made things worse.

It's a thing among mail-wearers that if you can't put it on or take it off unaided you shouldn't have the stuff.

So you just insulted him.'

Ì didn't know,' I said, my heart sinking.

Ì think he knows that,' answered Illugi Godi, 'but it won't help. Some evil gnaws him, and until he beats it to a pulp you and he will always be glaring. Unless you can fight him, I'd steer away wherever possible.'

My father came up as Illugi strode away and, at his questioning look, I told him what had happened. He stroked his chin and shook his head. Ìllugi is a good man, so you can take his advice. Mostly. Like us all, he has his reasons for being in the Oathsworn.'

`What are his?' I demanded and he shut one eye and squinted at me quizzically.

`You want to know a lot. He thinks Asgard is under siege from this White Christ and our gods are asleep.'

Ànd you? What are your reasons?'

He scowled. 'You want to know too much.' Then he forced a smile and produced a round leather helmet.

'One of Steinthor's spares. He picked it up last year, but can't wear it himself.'

It looked fine to me—a little too big, no fastening strap and a nice metal nasal. 'Why can't he wear it?'

My father tapped the metal nose protector. 'He's a bowman. Blocks your sighting, does a nasal. Bowmen all wear helmets without them. And no mail—even half-sleeves snag the string. That's why they stay well out on the edges of a fight and pick people off.' He spat. 'No one likes bowmen—unless they are your bowmen.'

We clasped hands, forearm to forearm. `Stay safe, boy,' he said and turned back to the ship.

Einar, helmeted and mailed and wearing two swords in his belt, shield slung over one shoulder, looked at the assembled men. He handed a spear with a furled cloth on it to skinny Valknut. 'Move steady and quiet.

Stay together—anyone who stops for a piss or a pull on the way risks being left on his own and we won't be going back to find them. We hit fast and hard, collect what we came for and get out. Don't try and carry off anything that weighs more than you. You'll either fall behind or have to leave it in the end.'

He glanced around one more time and nodded, then took the head of our pack and led us at a steady, fast walk up through the trees, into the night-shrouded land, towards the first silvered smear of dawn.

It was a good pace, uphill. No one spoke and there was silence until the pace began to tell in louder, ragged breathing. That and the shink-shink of slung shields on mail, the swish of the bracken underfoot and the odd clink and creak of equipment was all that marked the passage of nearly fifty fully armed men.