The Prow Beast

‘The king speaks of mercy and forgiveness,’ I said. ‘He will pay weregild to Jarl Brand for what was lost. He swears no harm will come to you.’

Styrbjorn’s whole body seemed to sag a little, then he straightened, beaming.

‘Well — so it is, then,’ he declared to Pallig. ‘A king swears it, so it must be true.’

There was silence and Styrbjorn blundered on into it, like a ram in a thicket. ‘I will put myself at the mercy of my uncle and king, so bringing this affair to an end. You have my thanks, Pallig, for your hospitality.’

There was a heartbeat of silence, then Pallig broke contact with my eyes and looked at Styrbjorn, as if just noticing that he was there at all.

‘I can see that you have served your purpose,’ he growled. ‘So now you have, it would be best if you stayed silent. Better still if you waited somewhere else for the grown men to finish their business.’

Crowbone could not stifle a snort of delight at Styrbjorn’s look, which was ugly and red, tight around the eyes and mouth. He drove to his feet, clattering over the bench; the ringmailed men on either side of his shoulders clamped him with hands hard as wolf bites, so that Pallig waved them to be still.

‘You forget who I am, Pallig,’ Styrbjorn said, his mouth twisted and wet. ‘You would do well to remember it.’

‘Who are you?’ Pallig challenged. ‘Nephew to King Eirik, no more than that. If he wishes you back and swears not to kill you, then he is a fool — and a fool is easily parted from money. Will he pay to have you back, do you think?’

He looked at me as he spoke, but I made my face a cliff and, with a scowl, he turned back to Styrbjorn.

‘You are a nithing boy, with no men and less ships and such battle luck as to attract none. Besides, the Great City has disowned you.’

Everyone was too occupied in marvelling at the colours Styrbjorn was turning in his rage to notice the real import of that last bit, but I did. While the bearcoats hauled the youth off, I pilled some bread idly and thought matters through.

Leo the monk was gone.

It came to me then that perhaps King Eirik and I and everyone else had woven the tapestry of this in the wrong colours. After a while, I asked: ‘So, where did the Greek monk go, then?’

Pallig frowned for a moment, then glanced at Crowbone. He was wondering, no doubt, if tales of little Olaf’s bird-magic were true and that, somehow, the monk’s arrival and departure had been seen by some seidr-possessed crow on a branch. Crowbone grinned at him and I saw the realisation flash in Pallig that he had been the one to give it away, like a bad move in a game of tafl.

‘Gone back to the Great City,’ he said, scowling. ‘Down to Ostrawa and into the Magyar and Bulgar lands.’

The old Amber Road; I had not thought that trail still existed and Ljot, while his brother fumed at his slip and poured ale to cover his annoyance, explained that it was not much of one, not for boats unless they flew, nor carts. Pack horses could make it and men with small loads, so it was usually little stuff that got carried that way — amber and furs, or the cargo that carried itself, slaves.

‘Small boys and monks?’ asked Crowbone. Pallig managed a laugh.

‘Aye, probably slaves by now, or dead. They went together and the monk hired some men — Sorbs — as guards.’

So there it was. Pallig had not been the final destination of the fleeing Leo. The little turd of a monk was heading for home, though it was unlikely he would ever reach it, as Finn pointed out.

‘Sorbs,’ he said and would have spat if there had been anywhere to do it without offending. Pallig cocked an unapologetic eyebrow.

‘What is this monk to me now?’ he said. ‘He came, he invited us to fight for Styrbjorn and he came back when all had failed. I do not expect him to return in a hurry to invite us again. He took the boy with him, thinking to use him to control Jarl Brand and through him influence King Eirik since Brand is his right arm, as everyone knows.’

He stopped and laced his hands across the trembling belly, frowning.

‘This Styrbjorn business was ill-paid. It is not good to have such a stain on your fame,’ he grumbled and looked at me. ‘You know how it is, Jarl Orm — this is just red war and the way such matters are done. Having poor battle luck is bad for the fame at Joms.’

‘Perhaps you will think differently, when such red war visits you one day,’ I told him and watched his eyes narrow.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I am sorry you were caught up in this and for your losses. I want no trouble from you. I will pay blood-price for what was done at Hestreng and it is this — I will permit you to leave and tell King Eirik that he can have that useless lump Styrbjorn if he offers me a fair price. Then you should go back to Hestreng, fasten the peace-strings on your hilt and be grateful the Northmen of Joms are not turning out on you.’

This was enough for Finn, who leaned forward with his face as hard and ugly and grim as a hidden rock in a sound.

‘You wobbling nithing,’ he began. ‘All your Northmen are Wendish trolls and never saw a decent vik…’

Before I could act, Crowbone laid a quiet hand on Finn’s arm, which made the man blink from his rage and look round. The boy shook his head and smiled; Finn subsided like a scrap-fed hound, to my amazement.

The spell of it broken, I stood up and nodded.

‘As to Styrbjorn,’ I said with a shrug, ‘you may do as you see fit — but when we leave we will go upriver, not down.’

Ljot shook his head and Pallig made a pig-grunt of sound.

‘Not good,’ Ljot said, then smiled a rueful, apologetic smile. ‘Look you — I know Jarl Brand’s boy was taken and that he was your fostri, so it will sit hard with both of you. The boy is gone, all the same — almost certain dead or a slave of the Sorbs or the Wends or the Pols, which is all the same thing. That monk was a chief of the gestir of the Great City’s emperor, but it will make no difference — those skin-wearing trolls along the river are all supposed to be Christ men, but they will kill him, just the same.’

Gestir, he had said. Well, it had been obvious enough, but it was good to have it said out loud. There are two kinds of oathed men in a king’s hall. The first are the great louts, like those standing guard at Pallig’s door. The second are the gestir, clever men who can spy and make trade agreements and treaties and more. Leo the monk, it seemed, was one of them, working for the emperor in Constantinople and so a man of considerable skills — among them, I was sure, the ability to deal with skin-wearing trolls along the Odra.

‘Besides,’ Pallig grumbled. ‘I do not want you going upriver. You will cause upset in a boat like that and interrupt the trading.’

He dipped one finger in his ale and drew a wet, wiggly line on the table.

‘Here is the Odra, flowing south from the mountains beyond Ostrawa to us in the north. It is a frontier land. Here we are at the mouth of it, where are the Wends, who you call trolls and the Saxlanders call Wilzi and others call Sorbs. There are many small tribes of them, on both banks of the river, but most are subject to the Saxlanders on the west.’

He stopped and sucked his wet finger while we all peered at the wiggly line as if it were about to come alive on the table and snake along it.

‘On the east bank are more Wends and Sorbs and such, but also the Pols of Miesko, who are coming north pretty fast — only last year they beat the Saxlanders at Cidini which is very close to us. Now the Saxlanders and Pols glare at each other across the river and the trade on it is a fud-hair away from being ruined.’

He frowned and wiped the wiggly snake away with a sweep of one hand, breaking the spell on us.

‘No-one will want to see a raiding boat such as yours on the river,’ he added. ‘Otto’s Saxlander forts on the west bank will think I sent you up to cause trouble. The east bank has Pol forts who will think the same.’

‘Not that you will get that far,’ added Ljot, almost beaming with the finality of it, ‘for there are other tribes, who will eat you.’

No-one spoke for a long heartbeat, then Pallig cleared his throat and spread expansive arms.

‘Well, there is the way of it,’ he said, then beamed. ‘I would not wish you to sail away from here feeling less than well-treated so I invite you and the young Prince Olaf here to be feasted in my hall tonight.’