Finn, I was thinking.
Dobrynya and I exchanged glances, all the same. Dealing harshly with these nithing farmers and smiths was a privilege that belonged to Vladimir's brother and abusing them could provoke the very conflict Novgorod did not want.
'A small trek across some frozen marsh,' Dobrynya said finally, shrugging and and looking at me. 'Little enough.'
'Then let him take it,' growled Finn bitterly when I shared this out in the place the Oathsworn had been bundled into and proudly called a hall. 'What the fuck is a voy-ded-oy, or the other thing?'
He tailed off when he realized we were all staring at him. 'I know a tale about them,' he added, defiantly.
'Then keep it behind your teeth,' rasped Finn, furious with frustration. 'This old fuck of a headman has a thought-cage twisted by the cold. Does he seriously believe all this?'
'If he is touched,' Thorgunna declared, 'then others are, too — there is a woman and her man mourning for the loss of a daughter in this very house.'
She was Kovach's own daughter, who stood with wooden spoons in each hand, stirring life back into some old ale as she told us — between sobs — of seeing a shadow in their house, hearing a muffled scream. Her round face was chapcheeked, brown eyes red-rimmed and mournful; I did not tell her how things could have been worse for her, strung up by the thumbs and questioned by Sigurd and Dobrynya. She sounded scared enough, all the same and her tears were real.
Her husband claimed to have tackled the creature with a hand-scythe and I looked him over as he dragged out the tale of it. He had a broad, flat face, where the cheeks and nose stuck like galls on an oak and the wind had ploughed out wrinkles in it until tree bark looked softer. His hair was braided and had never been cut, only burned, so that the ends were crumbled.
He did not look like a man easily cowed and had arms hard with work-muscle, skin-marked roughly with the outline of a horse.
'Scaled like a chicken's leg,' he confirmed, but his eyes kept shifting and I wondered why.
The creature had run off with their daughter, fourteen summers old and corn-hair pretty, according to her ma and others I spoke to. There were other stories, some of daughters stolen, others of livestock taken and, because they were who they were, it seemed the grief-loss was equal to these people. Yet there was something rank as
Later, in the lumpen, shifting shadows, surrounded by murmur and the laughter of those with full bellies and warm feet, I sat and breathed in the smell of ale and unwashed bodies, while a small girl, one eye blind-white as a boiled egg, played fox-and-hens with the men and made them laugh when she won with considerable skill.
Huddled in a corner, faces murked by the uneasy glow of the fire, me and Finn, Kvasir and some others talked round this matter we had clearly been tasked with, quiet as the smoke which swirled round a sooted kettle.
None of us liked the idea of scaled creatures who could scamper silently over a deadly marsh, cross a stream, then a palisade and evade all the guards, both in and out, laden with struggling women or bawling calves.
By the time our tongues hurt, it came down to the same as it had been at the start; we would have to go to this place in the marsh and see for ourselves.
'We will find only some ragged-arse outlaws,' Kvasir declared. 'Mark me. Runaways, living badly out on the steppe and stealing what they need — including a decent hump.'
'Invisible outlaws I do not need either,' I growled back and that left them, like me, chewing on whether Kovach and the villagers were being entirely truthful.
In the end, Red Njal broke his silence, heaving himself up and sighing.
'Well, there is no way but to do it,' he growled. 'Steady and careful. The sun rises little by little, but it crosses all the world in a day, as my granny told me.'
'I wish it was your granny who was going and not me,' Finn grunted back.
In the morning, it had been decided that myself, Kvasir and Finn would go, with Sigurd and a dozen of his men, all suitably mailed and armed, as well as Morut and Avraham. Jon Asanes was sulky, because I had said he could not come with us for, as he admitted himself, he was no great fighter.
'Olaf is going,' he pouted back bitterly. Crowbone was going because his Uncle Sigurd was going and I had no say in that, but it did not help Jon's sulk. Crowbone teased him about wanting the princely gift of a smile from Vladimir, which made Jon flush to his ears and stamp off.
Blowing and stamping, we came out to our horses. We all had horses, which Finn looked at dubiously, for he hated riding; it did not help to see me easy in the saddle and smiling down into his scowl.
'Take care,' Thorgunna said to Kvasir, tugging his cloak tighter round his neck. 'There are bannocks and cheese and the last of our meat in a bag on the saddle horn. Oh, and a skin of ale is hooked there. I don't expect you home before dark, so wrap warm this night.'
'Don't fuss, woman,' he said, though it was lightly done. Finn heaved himself up into the saddle, black- browed at all this. He aimed a storm-scowl at Crowbone and rumbled: 'We are not having that silly dog.'
Crowbone agreed with a nod, for I had already made it plain that the elkhound was staying behind. He was tied up and yowling as we left through the main gate, circling round to the opaque ribbon of the river, watched by cold-pinched, anxious faces and one of the village curs, who had routed out a bird frozen in the eaves of a house and fallen to the rutted path.
The river was iced and drifted with powdered snow, so we crossed it where there would have been a shallow ford and never as much as cracked it. In a moment we were into the tussocked, snow-scoured marsh and the palisade of the village shrank to a line behind us as we moved away from it, towards the faint scar at the edge of the sky.
The marsh glistened and, when it was full thawed, would be a formidable place of bog and sink holes — impassable, as Crowbone pointed out, if you did not know the secret way of it, as these creatures surely did.
'Outlaws,' Kvasir corrected, rubbing his weeping eye and we hugged that hope to us with our cloaks as we slithered through the stiff-spiked sedges, towards the scab of rock that grew even darker as we came up on it.
The sun hovered like a blood-drop on the edge of the world and our shadows grew eldritch, thin and long in front of us, while that black rock seemed more ominous with every mile. There was something about it that lined the heart with chill. Trees sprouted, grew stark claws and thickened in clumps as we came up on the dark-cragged gall on the steppe, which was choked with them. In summer, it would be a mass of green and the rock would be softer and more rounded — but now it looked as if Jormundgand, the world dragon, had brushed a coil through the crust of the earth and left a single scale behind.
'A real outlaw lair,' Kvasir remarked, chewing on some thick bran bread and spitting out little pieces of grit.
Closer still, we heard strange sounds, like bells would make if they were made of water. The hairs on my neck were up and we all put hands on weapons and went slower, peering this way and that through the scatter of bare, twisted trees; Finn climbed off the horse, for he would not fight on it and.had been complaining about his sore buttocks for so long now that I knew more about his arse than his own breeks.
Morut found the source of the sounds soon after; in one taloned tree hung the whitened skull of a cow, with other bones dangled from it, fastened by tail hair. In the wind, they turned and chimed against each other and the big, bold, bearded men of the
'Outlaw signs,' Finn growled sarcastically. Kvasir said nothing, but glanced back to where the sun trembled on the edge of the world. His look was enough; the idea of being in this place when it got dark was turning my bowels to gruel.
