Geir Bagnose blew froth off his fresh horn of ale and began to skald, loudly and with feeling. I winced as I realised he was making poetry out of the rescue of Ulf-Agar and, though I knew why he did it, wished he didn't. But men stopped arguing to listen.
My father slid in beside me and clapped me on the shoulder. 'You did well.'
I shat myself several times,' I answered truthfully. 'I should have waited . . . but he was screaming fit to shave the hairs off your arms.'
Aye,' my father agreed, 'he was bad handled at that—' He broke off as men raised voices in appreciation of a particularly good kenning about 'grim eye of the wyrm', it being a clever play on my name. 'Just as well Ulf is out of his head,' he added. 'He'll hate this.'
`He played his part,' I argued. 'He was defending my back in the end, armed only with a hot forge-iron.'
`Let's hope Bagnose puts it in, then,' my father chuckled, then raised his voice as Geir stopped to take another pull at his drinking horn.
`Well done, Bagnose. Now that the Hakon's skald, the Plagiarist, is silenced by the death of his king in Norway, there's service there for a good court verse-maker.'
Geir raised his horn in acknowledgement, wiped his lips, then stuck the tip of the horn in the earth floor to keep it upright while he continued extemporising verses.
`Just thank the gods he isn't Skallagrimsson,' my father added and I hastily made a sign against the evil eye. Egil was a famous poet, but a man with blood behind his eyes and a great elk head with beetling brows that, it was assuredly reported, you could hit with Thor's hammer and not dent. He was also as mad a killer as a wounded boar and not a man whose ale-elbow you wanted to nudge.
Which reminded me of our predicament—and questions I had. 'Who is Starkad? And this Vigfus? And—
?'
One foot first, then another,' my father answered, leaning closer and dropping his voice. He ticked them off on his blunt, splintered-nail fingers. `Starkad Ragnarsson is one of Bluetooth's best, a man loved by women and feared by men, as they say. He is possibly the only man Einar fears, so we should fear him, too.
He has the reputation of a good boar dog—once he has sunk his teeth in, you will never get his jaws out save by slaying.'
I mulled that one over moodily, while my father raised another finger.
`Vigfus—no one has ever called him anything else. Apart from Skartsmadr Mikill, Quite the Dandy, which he hates. It seems he always dresses in the dark, as they say, for he has a worse way with clothing than Skapti Halftroll and the Oathsworn have had dealings with him before . . . certainly we know his like.
He always manages to have some band of followers, all hard men, not to be trusted.'
`Like Einar?' I offered wryly and my father frowned and shook his head.
`No, lad. Einar believes in oaths; he will hold to them. Vigfus is as treacherous as a snake with a foot on its tail.' He sighed and scrubbed his chin. 'There are too many players in this game,' he added gloomily.
`What game?' I retorted. 'We don't know what we are playing.'
`No, I don't understand it,' agreed my father, then shot a sideways, almost sly look at me. 'Einar thinks you are a deep thinker,' he went on, rubbing his beard. 'What do you make of it all?'
I considered it. This King Bluetooth had heard there was something, enough for him to find two ships and armed men, for he had also heard the Oathsworn were involved and knew them as grim men in a fight.
He must have learned that before the Oathsworn came for me in the Vik—that already seemed an age, another life. I looked back on it and saw this boy stuffing gull eggs in the hemmed loop of his tunic and, though I knew it was me, he was already a stranger. In so short a time I had become a man and a killer of men.
Aye, just so,' agreed my father. 'We were with the Danes of Hedeby, then headed for the Vik, since it was on the way to Strathclyde. But no one was loose-mouthed in Hedeby—and after that we came for you, word having reached me.'
`Can you be sure of that? I remember Pin-leg spoke of Atil's treasure on the beach at Strathclyde—how many more knew in Hedeby?'
He made a mouth like a cat's arse and scrubbed one hand through his thinning hair, which was answer enough. 'And Vigfus?' he asked.
I shrugged. 'Why should Lambisson have just the Oathsworn sailing for him? But there must be a good haul at the end of it, to be worth the outlay on more than one band, for men and ships are not cheap.
It is possible that he is making sure no one group knows everything about what he seeks—even if it really is Atil's treasure—only a little part of it. And he won't be happy that Starkad is here. He will not want the likes of Bluetooth setting his hands on whatever it is he seeks.
`But I am thinking this Vigfus is not Lambisson's man. He is Martin's man and the Christ priest takes such pains to meet him in secret that there is the stink of treachery in it.'
`Just so,' said Einar's voice behind me and, turning, I saw him, black as a scowl in the firelight. Behind him, Skapti and Ketil Crow were moving among the men, talking in urgent, quiet voices, clapping shoulders.
Bagnose's epic—thank the gods—had been brought to a halt.
Einar hunkered down beside the pair of us. 'You have the right of it again, young Orm,' he said. 'Now we know the players of this game, we must find out what the game is And the rules,' I offered.
He looked at me, cold-eyed. 'There are no rules.'
`None?' I asked, far too boldly. 'What of the oath we swear—is that not a rule?'
It is an oath,' he replied with a thin smile, `which is different. You are young and will learn the difference. I was young once and walked by myself. I counted myself rich when I found a comrade I could trust. And I could only trust one who would swear an oath.' He turned to my father then. `Rurik, take the Trimmer and the men Ketil Crow is picking. Make the
In this gale? I'd be hauling her higher up the shingle . . .'
On the dawn tide, we must be gone from here.'
`To where?'
Einar looked at him for a moment, then grinned. 'The whale road.'
My father ran his age-veined hand over his face, saw Einar's face, blank as stone, nodded and got up. He wanted to speak of hidden rocks, but saw it was pointless. Einar wanted away, in any direction—and fast.
I realised men were moving, swiftly and efficiently to pack, moving sea-chests and gear. Some were stripping off their mail, which I thought strange.
`Here's the way of it,' Einar said to me quietly. 'Men will make the
I will need a few, enough to make a good group in the dark. And Orm, the Bear Slayer. We will fetch the little monk and be on our way before anyone knows the better.'
I blinked and swallowed.
Einar clapped me on the shoulder. 'And we will walk through the gates with only our eating knives and friendly smiles, to try and meet with Lambisson and the little monk, for good sound reasons. Of course, once we do, we will make sure the little monk stays.'
I swallowed again. 'And Lambisson?'
Einar shrugged, his mouth in a twisted grin, then rose and moved to give Ketil Crow some urgent, low-voiced instructions.
In a daze, I collected my cloak, realised it was filthy from the warehouse and tried to brush some of the worst off. I thought of using my knife to scrape it, but when I attempted to pull it from the sheath, I found it was stuck fast. When I eventually wrenched it out, I saw it was gummed with dried blood.
I remembered the man's eye, felt the suck as I pulled the knife out. I had not been aware of it at the time, being eager to cut Ulf-Agar free, but the gods never forget and made me remember it now. I knew it was Loki's doing when I felt the sick rising in me.
Bagnose grinned at me, hefting a sea-chest and helping Steinthor with another. He winked as he bustled past. Two others were making a seat out of two spears and a cloak, to fetch Ulf-Agar away.
Some saga hero, me. Sitting trembling in the midst of this preparing host, trying not to throw up all that lamb and wild garlic over my salt-crusted boots.
Einar came over, holding a long seax in a soft leather sheath and a handful of leather bindings. He handed it
