The Wolf Sea

When we wouldn't open up, they reeled frantically away, though a few hurled themselves down and wriggled between our feet, so we kicked them in the ribs for their pains.

Then, suddenly, there were robed men in the dust, a massive black banner, the glint of spears — and the Dailami foot came hurtling down on us.

They had crashed towards the centre, splattered by arrows and throwing spears from front and either flank, so that they moved like stumbling sleepwalkers now, a great black-robed beast trailing blood and slime and bodies, screaming: Illa-lala-akba.'

We braced; they hit the shieldwall, but they were almost done by the time they stumbled up to our swords.

A knot of five or six crashed in on us, thrusting spears and screaming. I slashed at a black-bearded face and felt the edge bite, heard him scream. I saw a spear-shaft stab past my cheek and the point went in under a turban, straight into the owner's ear, so that he shrilled and fell away, holding his head.

Then they were gone and, with a huge wolf-roar, the whole Norse shieldwall surged after them. I was shouldered to one side, watched Finn and Kvasir howling into the haze, saw Botolf lumbering past me, banner held high in one hand, red mane streaming.

Stefanos the taxiarchos flailed furiously, his angry screams lost in the bellows of the Norse, he and his little guard no more than a rickle of stones in a flood. Wearily, I trotted after them, stepping over the robed bodies that they had hacked down.

`Bring your men back,' Stefanos squealed at me, red-faced with fury. 'Now. At once!'

I didn't bother to answer him, but jog-trotted on, leaving him squeaking his fury until he disappeared into the swirling dust behind me.

No more than twenty paces later, sitting in the middle of a scatter of Sarakenoi, some still twitching and groaning, I came on Amund, the strip of white cloth that had marked him as one of the Oathsworn now tied round the stump of his wrist, one end gripped in his teeth as he strained to halt the black-red dribble from it.

Black-robed bodies were everywhere, a few still moaning or writhing.

I stacked shield and sword and knelt to help him, snapping off a discarded arrow shaft to use as a lever in his binding to squeeze harder. The iron stink of blood was thick in the dust, so it seemed I breathed through linen.

`See if you can find the hand,' he said, calm as you please. I had a ring I liked.'

Then his eyes rolled and he fell backwards, shivering and shaking. I put his sword in his good hand and stayed with him until his heels stopped kicking, while the screams and yells and drums and trumpets floated from the gold shroud of the battlefield. Then I found his severed hand, a white spider in the bloody slush nearby, and tucked it inside his tunic, so that we could bury him whole later.

I collected my shield and sword and moved on.

Four hundred paces later I came on the Oathsworn, where the air had cleared enough to show the great brassy glare of the sun in a sky pale and blue as Svala's eyes. I staggered over the stones and scrub bushes into a place of hummocks like burial mounds: black tents made from the hair of camel and goat, erected low to the ground to fool the heat.

There were shrieks and shouts and I saw someone I knew — Svarvar, the die-maker from Jorvik -

stumbling along with his tunic full of brass lanterns and blue-stone talismans.

`What do you call this?' I shouted at him, thinking they had all been sucked into some dreadful battle and angry that they were not. He grinned, hugging the great mass of plunder to his tunic.

`Fun,' he yelled and plunged on into the haze.

The Oathsworn had hit the Saracen baggage camp, as if they had plotted a straight course to it using Gizur's little ivory reckoner. The few troops left to guard it were dead or scattered and the Oathsworn were enjoying themselves.

There were horses and women, arms in stacks like corn-stooks, mail suits, ewers and vases of gold and brass — and leather bags of money, for the Saracen soldiers insisted on regular pay, something we had all already learned from stripping the dead.

I stood in the middle of this maelstrom, watching men stagger and stumble and howl like dogs, wrecking good pottery and gutting the dead to make sure they had swallowed nothing of value. They ripped rings from corpses; they threw screaming women on the ground, or bent them over cart shafts.

I saw Hookeye, a black turban askew over his squint, a richly brocaded robe over one shoulder and a richer cloak over the other, pumping furiously at the naked buttocks of a screeching woman and waving a jewelled dagger in the air. For a head-swimming moment, it seemed that the spade-bearded high priests from Miklagard's cathedrals were here, baying with lust, and not the Oathsworn men at all.

I roared, I threatened, I even pleaded, but it was like herding cats. A hand gripped my arm and I found Brother John at my elbow, face grim as a crucifixion. 'Best let this fever run its course,' he said. 'Anyway, we have found something.'

I followed him to a black tent and ducked into it, blinking at the move from light to dark, from the realm of stark Helheim to a place cool and coloured bright as Bifrost. The light of fat candles bounced off the dazzling rugs lining the floor and the gilded drinking vessels and carvings teetering on low wooden tables.

Botolf crouched, Dane axe butted in front of him and the raven banner laid out on the floor, grinning at the figure opposite.

Sitting on one of the many fat cushions, hawk-faced and dark-eyed, his skin a spiderweb stretched over his face, was Martin the monk. His eyes had a secret, secluded look, like a turf house seen between trees.

`He was caught by the Sarakenoi making for Jorsalir, which fact he let slip in the joy of his rescue by Botolf here,' Brother John said. 'Since he is an escaped slave, they were not planning to be lenient or merciful.'

Someone burst through the flap of the door and Botolf whirled and snarled at him like a dog. The figure yelped and backed out.

`Some of your hounds can still be leashed, it seems,' Martin said in that dry rasp.

`Be grateful for it,' I said. 'If Starkad comes, things will be different, I am thinking.'

Martin blinked a little and the harsh little lines round his mouth tightened so hard it looked like a cat's arse. 'So, is my life any happier in your hands, Orm Ruriksson?'

I sighed and picked up one of the drinking vessels, but it was empty. Botolf shoved an almost-flat waterskin at me and I drank the tepid stuff, straining the worst of what was in it through my teeth.

I have no quarrel with you this day, monk,' I said. 'The world is washed in blood and I command no one, as you see. Tell me of my men, the ones who were with you, while we wait until this pack have looted and humped themselves to sleep.'

`Your men?' answered Martin, adding a twist of a smile. He massaged the manacle sores on his wrists. 'I hardly think that, Orm Bear Slayer. Their leader is Valgard Skafhogg and all of them take their lead from him and believe their gods have betrayed them.'

Are they together still? Bound for the same place, this mine?'

Martin nodded. 'Yes. I escaped. Two men, good Christians, went with me. They were killed and I was taken.'

I did not wonder at this, for Martin had many talents, his best being the skill to wriggle like an eel out of any trouble. The other was convincing men that the White Christ could save them.

`What of the spear?' demanded Brother John and Martin, sensing the eagerness in his voice, twisted out a smile.

`That I still have to get. I will, do not fear. You have an interest?'

Brother John's hackles rose at the implication of greed. `Don't presume to judge me, priest. The Great City also has a Holy Lance. For all I know what you have is a lump of wood and iron, no more.'

`But if it is not that?'

Martin's question hung in the air, unanswered. In the end, Brother John uncurled from the floor and ducked out of the tent.

I looked at the monk, remembering the blow I had given him once, turning blade to the flat and sparing his