Oathsworn 2 - The Wolf Sea Read online

Ì wish you'd stop chewing in that Latin,' growled Kvasir, às if we all knew what you say. Orm, what's he say?'

  `He says sense,' I said. 'Love of money is the root of all evil.'

  Kvasir grunted, shaking his head disapprovingly, but smiling all the same. Brother John had no mirth in him at all when he met my eyes.

  `We need it, lad,' he said quietly and I felt the annoyance and anger drain from me. He was right: warmth and drink and a chance to plan, that was what we needed, but cutting purses was bad enough without doing it in a church. And him being a heretic to the Great City's Christ-men was buttering the stockfish too thick all round. All of which I mentioned in passing as we headed for the Dolphin.

  Ìt isn't a church to me, Orm lad,' he chuckled, his curls plastered to his forehead. 'It's an eggshell of stone, no more, a fragile thing built to look strong. There is no hinge of the Lord here. God will sweep it away in His own good time but, until then, per scelus semper tutum est sceleribus iter.'

  Crime's safest course is through more crime. I laughed, for all the sick bitterness in me. He reminded me of Illugi, the Oathsworn's Odin godi, but that Aesir priest had gone mad and died in Atil's howe along with Einar and others, leaving me as jarl and godi both, with neither wit nor wisdom for either.

  But, because of Brother John, we were all declared Christ-men now, dipped in holy water and sworn such — prime-signed, as they say — though the crucifixes hung round our necks all looked like Thor hammers and I did not feel that the power of our Odin-oath had diminished any, which had been my reasoning for embracing the Christ in the first place.

  The Dolphin nestled in the lee of Septimus Severus's wall and looked as old. It had a floor of tiles, fine as any palace, but the walls were roughly plastered and the smoking iron lanterns hung so low you had to duck between them.

  It was noisy and dim with fug and crowded with people, rank with sweat and grease and cooking and, just for one blade-bright moment, I was back in Bjornshafen, hugging the hearthfire's red-gold warmth, listening to the wind whistle its way into the Snaefel forests, pausing only to judder the beams and flap the partition hangings, so that they sounded like wings in the dark.

  Heimthra, the longing for home, for the way things had been.

  But this was a hall where strangers did not rise to greet you, as was proper and polite, but carried on eating and ignoring you. This was a hall where folk ate reclining and sitting upright at a bench marked you at once as inferior, yet another strangeness in a city full of wonders, like the ornate basins which existed for no other reason than to throw water into the air for the spectator's enjoyment.

  The reason I liked the taberna was because it was full of familiar voices: Greeks and Slays and traders from further north all talking in a maelstrom of different tongues, all with one subject: how the river trade was a dangerous business now that Sviatoslav, Great Prince of the Rus, had decided to fight both the Khazars and the Volga Bulgars.

  It seemed that the Prince of the Rus had gone mad after the fall of the Khazar city of Sarkel, down on the Dark Sea — which event the Oathsworn had attended, after a fashion. He was now headed off to the Khazar capital, Itil on the Caspian, to finish them off, but hadn't even waited for that before sending men further north to annoy the Volga Bulgars.

  `He's like a drunk in a hall, stumbling over feet and wanting to fight all those he falls on. What was he thinking?' demanded Drozd, a Slav trader we knew slightly and a man fitted perfectly to his name — Thrush

  — being beady-eyed and quick in his head movements.

  `He wasn't thinking at all, it seems to me,' another said. `Next you know, he will think he can take on the Great City.'

  `Pity on him if he does, right enough,' Radoslav agreed, `for that means hard war and the Miklagard Handshake.'

  That I had never heard of and said as much. Radoslav's mouth widened in a grin like a steel trap and he laughed, causing his brow-braid to dip in his leather mug.

  `They offer a wrist-grasp of peace, but that is only to hold you close, by the sword-arm,' he told us, sucking ale off the wet end of his hair. 'The dagger is in the other.'

  `Let's hope he does and dies for his foolishness. Maybe then we can go back north,' Finn said, blowing froth off his straggling moustache.

  I said nothing. The truth was that we could never go north, even if Sviatoslav turned his face to the wall tomorrow. He had three sons who would squabble over their inheritance and we had annoyed them all in the hunt for Attila's hoard out on the steppe — the secret of which now lurked under Starkad's fingertips.

  He did not know, I was sure. Almost sure. He took the sword from me because Choniates the merchant had valued it and had probably offered highly for it. Even Choniates did not know what the scratches on the handle meant, but he knew how fine the blade was and where it had come from. Even if Starkad read runes well, he would make no sense of the ones on the sword's grip.

  Perhaps they even thought the rune serpent, carved into the steel when it was made, held the secret of the way to Atil's tomb — and perhaps it did, for no one could read that spell in full, not even Illugi Godi when he was alive and he was a man who knew his runes. I had my own idea about what those runes did, all the same, and felt a chill of fear at not having the sword. Would all my hurts and ills come back in a rush now, no longer held at bay by that snake-knot spell?

  Finn only nodded when I whispered all this out, eyeing me scornfully when I came to the last part, for he and Kvasir were the only ones I had shared this with and neither of them believed my good health and wound-luck was anything other than youth and Odin's favour.

  For a while Finn sat moodily stroking the beard he had plaited into what looked like black leather straps, trying to ignore the woman yelling at him from the other side of the hall.

  `She wants you, does Elli,' Kvasir pointed out. 'The gods know why — sorry, Brother John, God knows why.'

  `You'll be well in there, with no silver changing hands at all,' Sighvat added moodily.

  Finn stirred uncomfortably. 'I know. I have no joy in me for it this night.'

  Ìt's the name,' declared Sighvat and that, together with Finn's half-ashamed scowl, managed a laugh from us. Elli, according to the old saga tales – and we had no reason to disbelieve them, Christ-sworn or no –

  was the giant crone who had wrestled with Thor, the one who was really Old Age.

  I could see where that could be . . . diminishing to a man of sensitive nature. I said as much and Finn drained his mug, slapped it angrily on the table and lurched off to the whore, looking to soak his black rage in the white light of sweaty humping.

  I sat back, easing. Brother John was right; we had all needed this. Now . . . it was clear Starkad was working for Architos Choniates, the merchant. We needed to—

  Then, of course, Odin's curse kicked in the door.

  Well, Short Eldgrim did, slamming through in a hiss of damp wind and curses from those nearest as it washed them, swirling the lantern smoke. He spotted me, bustled his way through and sat, breathing heavily, the network of scars on his face made whiter by its weather-red. `Starkad,' he growled. `He's coming up the street with men at his back.'

  `That's useful,' muttered Kvasir. 'I want to see his face when he finds out he has picked the last drinking place in the world he wants to be in.'

  Òne!' roared the crowd behind us. Elli was showing how many silver coins she could stick on the sweat of her bared breasts. Kvasir grinned. 'She cheats – she uses honey. I tasted it once.'

  `Pass the word,' I said softly. Odin's hand, for sure – I knew One Eye would not let that sword fly from us so lightly, that he had walked the thief right into our clutches.

  `Three!' Elli was doing well behind us.

  Short Eldgrim nodded and slid away. Behind us, a coin slid from Elli's ample, sweaty charms and the crowd roared. Brother John swallowed ale and narrowed his eyes.

  À dangerous place to confront him,' he said, looking round at the crowd.

  Òdin chooses,' I
said flatly and he glanced at me, who was now, supposedly, a prime-signed Christ-follower.

  Àmare et sapere vix deo conciditur' he said wryly and I had felt my face flush. Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time; I wondered, after, if our little Christ priest had the power of scrying.

  Ì hope that is Roman for "kill them all and let Christ Jesus sort them out", little man,' Finn growled, for he hated folk talking in tongues he did not understand. Since he did not understand any other than west Norse, he was frequently red in the face. Someone bumped him and he rounded savagely, slamming the man with an elbow. For a moment, it looked like trouble, but the man saw who it was and backed off, hands held up, aghast at having offended the Oathsworn. Skythians, they called us, or Franks – those who knew a little more used Varangi – and they knew if you took on one, you took on all.

  Then the man himself came in, shoving through the door, pausing in a way that let me know, at once, that it was no accident, his arrival in the Dolphin. Heads turned to look; conversation died and silence drifted in with the cold rain-wind at the sight of him and the two behind him, openly armed, wearing mail and helms.

  That only revealed that Starkad and his crew had a powerful new friend in the Great City.

  `Starkad,' I said and it was like the slap of a blade on the table. Silence fell, voices ceased one by one when they heard their own echo and heads turned as people sensed the hackle-rise tension that had crept into the fug and lantern smoke. Finn's scowl threatened to split his brow and he growled. Radoslav looked quizzically from one to the other and, even in that moment, I saw the merchant in him, setting us in scales and balancing our enemies on the other pan to see who was worth more.

  Starkad was splendid, I had to allow. He was still handsome, but pared away, as if some fire had melted the sleek from him, leaving him wolf-lean, with eyes sunk deep and cheekbones that threatened to break through the skin.

  Wound fever, I thought, seeing how bad his limp was —Einar had given him a sore mark, right enough, that day on a hill in the Finns' land. The Norns' weave is a strange pattern: Einar was now dead and Starkad was standing there in a red tunic, blue wool breeks, a fine, fur-lined cloak fastened with an expensive pin and a silver jarl torc round his neck. He was, it seemed, making sure I knew his worth.

  `So, Orm Ruriksson,' he said. There was a shifting round me, the little sucking-kiss sound of eating knives coming out of sheaths. I placed my hands flat on the table. He had two others at his back — one with squint eyes — but I knew there would be more outside, ready to rush to his aid.

  `Starkad Ragnarsson,' I acknowledged — then froze, for he was wearing a sword at his side and he and his men had dared swagger through Miklagard with weapons openly, which fact had to be considered.

  Not just any sword. My sword. The rune-serpent blade he had stolen.

  He saw that I had spotted it. He had a smile like the curve of that blade and, behind me, I felt the heat and the stir and heard the low rumble of a growl. Finn.

  Ì have heard of the death of Einar,' Starkad said, making no effort to come closer. 'A pity, for I owed him a blow.'

  `Consider it Odin luck, since he would have balanced you up with a stroke to the other leg if you had met again,' I replied evenly, the blood thundering in my ears, ringing out the question of how he came to be wearing that sword. Had he stolen it from Choniates, too? Had the Greek given it to him — if so, why?

  Starkad flushed. 'You yap well for a small pup. But you are running with bigger hounds now.'

  `Just so,' I answered. This was easy work, for Starkad was not the sharpest adze in the shipyard for wordplay. 'Since we are speaking of dogs — have you been back to sniff Bluetooth's arse? Does that King know that you have lost both the fine ships he gave you? No, I didn't think so. I am thinking he may not stroke your belly, no matter how well you roll on your back at his feet.'

  The flush deepened and he laid one hand casually on the hilt of the sabre by way of reply. He saw me stiffen and thought it recognition of the blade and smiled again, recovering. In truth, it was the sight of his pale fingers, like the legs of a spider, sliding along the marks I had made on the hilt, watching them unconsciously trace the scratches, all unknowing.

  `Look . . .' began the tavern-owner, his hands trembling as he wiped them over and over on his apron. 'I want no trouble here . . .'

  `Then fasten yer hole shut,' growled the squint-eyed man, his affliction adding to the savagery of his tongue. The tavern-owner winced and backed off. I saw little Drozd sidle away from us, as though we had plague.

  `King Harald can spare two such ships,' Starkad went on dismissively. 'I have been tasked with something and will travel to the edge of the world to obey my King.'

  I mock-sighed and waved an airy jarl hand at a seat, as if in invitation to discuss this matter that troubled him. I hoped to get him closer, away from the door and the men at his back and the ones I was sure were outside. There would be a fight and blood, since they had weapons and we did not and that would bring the authority of the Great City down on us, but still . . .

  He was polished as a marble step and no fool. 'You are not what I seek, boy,' he said with a sneer that refused my invitation. 'Nor any of these who treat you like a ring-giver on a gifthrone, for all that you have neither seat, nor neck ring, nor even ship to mark you. No sword, either, since I took it.'

  He drew back a little from his hate then and forced a smile into my face, which I knew was pale and stricken. I felt the Oathsworn behind me, trembling like ale at an over-full brim and Finn, quivering, barely leashed, finally snapped his bonds.

  A bench went over with a clatter and he howled himself forward at Starkad, who whipped that sabre out with a hiss of sound, fast as the flick of an adder's tongue. Finn, with nothing but his fists, came up two foot short of Starkad's face, with the point of the rune-serpent sword at his neck. Someone squealed; Elli, I thought dully.

  I held up my hand and leashed the others, which act gave me a measure of stone-smoothness, for Starkad noted that and was impressed, despite himself. I could hardly breathe; I wondered if he knew how deadly that blade against Finn's neck truly was. Even just resting it left a thin, red line. For his part, Finn had froth at the edges of his mouth and I knew that one more comment and he would run his neck up the blade, just to get his hands round Starkad's own.

  Ì have heard tales of this blade,' Starkad said softly. 'It cut an anvil, I hear.'

  `Just so,' I agreed, dry-mouthed. 'Perhaps, Finn, you should come and sit by me. Your head is hard, but not harder than the anvil that blade was forged on.'

  The rigid line of Finn softened a little and he took a step backward, away from the blade. Each step laboured, he unreeled from the hook of that runesword. I breathed. Starkad, smirking, waited until Finn was seated, then sheathed the weapon; life flooded back to the room with a breathy sigh.

  `You have the look of a jarl,' I said into Starkad's smirk, my chest still tight with the fear of what might just have happened, 'but you should beware the jarl's torc.'

  `You should only beware it when you do not have it,'

  Starkad spat back. 'The mark of ringmoney is the mark of a gift-giver, whom men follow.'

  I said nothing to that, for Gunnar Raudi — my true father — had often told me that you should never interrupt an enemy who was making a mistake. I already knew the secret of the jarl torc Starkad was so proud of wearing. It was just a neck ring of silver, which we still call ringmoney, whose dragon-head ends snarl at one another on your chest.

  The secret was that the real one was made of steel, carried by the men who wielded it for you. It hung round your neck, another kind of rune serpent, at once an ornament of greatness and a cursed weight that could drag you to your knees and which you could not take off in life.

  I knew that from Einar, who had warned me of it as he died by my hand, sitting on Attila's throne. Now I felt the weight of it myself — even though I could not, as Starkad had seen, afford a real one.


  Ì seek the priest, one Martin, the monk from Hammaburg,' Starkad went on. 'You know where he is, I am thinking.'

  I was silent, knowing exactly what it was Starkad sought. Not a silver hoard at all, but Martin's treasure, the remains of his Christ spear, the one stuck in the side of the White Christ as he hung on the cross and whose iron head had helped make the sabre Starkad now wore. He did not know that and I leached a little comfort from the secret.

  Now that King Harald Bluetooth was a Christ-man himself, he fancied this god spear to help make everyone in his kingdom stronger in the Christ faith — no matter that the Basileus of the Romans claimed such a spear already resided in the Great City. Like me, Bluetooth believed Martin had the real one.

  `He fled,' Starkad added, when my silence stretched too far. 'The monk fled. To here, I am thinking, and to you, since you are the only ones he knows.'

  It was a good thought, for Martin had been with us for long enough, but Starkad did not know that it was not as a friend. My tongue was already forming the words to tell him this when the thought came to me that we could not — dare not — take him here. It was certain that the Watch had already been called and Starkad was measuring his time like a shipmaster tallies his distances, down to the last eyeflick.

  Miklagard was a haven for Starkad; he had to be lured out of it.

  Èast,' I said. 'To Serkland and Jorsalir, his holy city.'

  I have my own thoughts on who made me gold-browed at that moment, to come up with a lie and the wit to speak it with such shrugging smoothness. Like all Odin's gifts it was double-edged.

  He blinked at the ease with which I had given up the information and you could see him weigh it like a new coin and wonder if it rang true when you dropped it on a table. I felt the others twitch, though, those who knew it to be a lie, or suspected the same. I hoped Starkad did not look in their bewildered eyes.

  In the end, he bit the coin of it and decided it was gold. `Let this be an end of things between us, then.

  Einar is dead and I have no more quarrel with the Oathsworn.'