‘Safe enough there,’ observed a growler morosely, ‘since they are all expert breakers of wind in that country.’
He was hissed to silence and Crowbone went on with his tale.
‘Finally, this unlucky jarl was overcome with longing for his native land — like that of a lover pining for his beloved it would not be denied, though it nearly cost him his life. He sneaked away from the Sami without taking leave and made his way alone and dressed in the rags of a seer, enduring a thousand hardships of hunger, thirst and fatigue, braving a thousand dangers from trolls and wyrm and
Crowbone paused; there was not a breath of sound.
‘He was delighted with being home,’ he went on, ‘thought of announcing himself and abjectly grovelling in apology for his foolishness in running away for so trivial a reason, no doubt forgotten a day or two after it had happened. Just as he had made up his mind to do just that, he passed a hut and heard the voice of a young girl saying, “Mother, tell me what day was I born on, for there is an old seer outside and I want him to tell my fortune.”
‘The mother did not hesitate. “My daughter,” she said, “you were born on the very night the old jarl farted.” No sooner had the jarl heard these words than he rose up from the bench and fled for the last time, for his fart was now a date that would be remembered for ever and ever.’
The laughter was long, though Pallig had to force his out. For all that, he peeled off an armring and tossed it regally to the young Crowbone, who caught it deftly. The skald’s head drooped like a wilting stalk, seeing his own riches melt from him.
‘Good tales, well told,’ he announced. ‘If you continue the same way, I will give you the one off my other arm.’
Crowbone laughed, then looked sideways at me a moment and I nodded.
‘I have no more tales of momentous farts,’ he said to the assembled company; a few of them groaned in mock disappointment and Crowbone held up one hand with the ring in it.
‘I could tell of Thor fishing for the World Serpent,’ he said slowly, looking pointedly at Pallig, whose back rested on that very carving. He shifted nervously and caught my eye — I hoped my old high seat dug splinters in him.
‘On the other hand,’ Crowbone went on slowly, ‘tales of strength like that are best witnessed at first hand. Happily, we have one of the Oathsworn here with such Thor strength.’
On cue, Finn stood up and spread his arms wide as if to embrace them all, turning left and right and into as many jeers as cheers — though the jeers were muted, for most had heard of Finn’s fame.
‘I am Finn Horsehead from Skane,’ he declared, jutting out his badger-beard. ‘When I fart, walls tumble. Dragons use my pizzle to perch like birds on a branch.’
I watched Pallig, saw his eyes slide to one side and jerk his chin at a thrall, who immediately got up and went outside. Now comes the hard bit, I thought.
‘So — a feat of strength, then, Finn Horsehead,’ Pallig declared, grinning in a twisted way, vicious as a rat in a barrel. ‘Arm wrestling perhaps?’
‘With you, Jarl Pallig?’ Finn asked and managed to put enough sneer in that to make Pallig flush and start half out of his seat. Then he subsided and worked a smile back to his face.
‘My champion,’ he announced and, as if magicked up, the man himself came into the hall, bringing all the heads round. Breath hung, suspended and frozen.
He was ring-coated, of course, with a helm worked in silver and he had to duck coming under the lintel. With him came a long axe, mark of a Chosen Man of the jarl’s retinue and he carried it as easily as a child does a stick.
‘Stammkel War Tooth,’ Pallig announced and the hall rang with cheers from all his oarmates. Pallig looked at the great flat, stolid face of Stammkel, framed by a wild tangle of ribbon-tied beard like flame and the fancy helmet he wore, all silver and dented iron.
‘This is Finn Horsehead of the Oathsworn,’ Pallig went on. ‘He wishes to arm wrestle you.’
Stammkel grunted and peeled off his helmet, so that a great shock of red hair sprang up like a bush. Finn regarded him up and down, then turned back to Pallig.
‘Some mistake, surely,’ he said. ‘Is the father not available?’
The hall liked that and showed it with catcalls and table thumping. Stammkel may have glowered and narrowed his eyes, but it was hard to tell in that face. His voice was clear enough, all the same.
‘Arm wrestling is hardly a fair contest with this one,’ he rumbled, then stared straight at Finn out of the red tangle of his face. ‘I would kiss one of Odin’s Daughters with him, but I fancy he would be afraid of her lip.’
I felt my bowels drop, for this had not been the plan; Finn did not so much as blink. Into the silence that followed came the sound of Pallig clearing his throat.
‘So be it,’ he said — then I forced myself to stand, for it was always best to keep moving forward, even if your plan was askew. Pallig looked at me in some confusion.
‘A wager,’ I said lightly, ‘to make matters more entertaining.’
The hall growled and hoomed and thumped tables in agreement, so that Pallig had to agree, though he did not like it much, beginning to see a trap and not yet sure where to put his feet to avoid it. Too late, I was thinking — and sprang it.
‘Him,’ I said, pointing to Styrbjorn, ‘when Finn wins.’
Pallig, too late to back out of it, looked from the sullen youth to me and back again. Then he stared at Stammkel, the great long axe clutched like a honeycomb in a bear’s paw. Finally, he smiled and settled back in my old high seat.
‘What will be my reward, then, when your man loses?’ he demanded and I tried not to hesitate, or draw in a breath as I laid a hand on the jarl torc round my neck. Scarred, notched, it was a mere twelve ounces of braided silver — burned silver, which meant that it had been skimmed of impurities when molten — yet it was the mark of a jarl and, moreover, of Jarl Orm of the Oathsworn. A prize I knew Pallig could not resist; I was right, for he licked his lips and demanded that they bring Odin’s Daughter into the hall.
A Chosen Man carried it in, after a moment or two of delay which, I worked out, was involved in blowing the dust and cobwebs off her for she had not been used in a time and the reason for that sat in a brown robe, scowling disapproval from under his tonsure.
The Chosen Man laid her on a bench; folk drew back in a ring and Odin’s Daughter lay there, smiling, gleaming, naked and ornate.
It was a
Odin’s Daughters, they call them, only half in jest, for Odin’s daughters are the Valkyrii, which translates as Choosers of the Slain and so also were these axes, some of them named. This had no name, but was a slender and tall daughter of Odin lying on the table for all that. Four times the length of a man’s arm from fingertip to elbow and thick as a boy’s wrist, this long axe was seldom used for sacrifice work in these Christ days, but was still the mark of the Jomsviking jarls and carried by a Chosen Man, to be raised aloft in the heat and dust of battle to show that the jarl still stood fast. There was only one other more powerful than this and that had belonged to Eirik Bloodaxe of Jorvik — but that was lost when he went under treacherous enemy blades.
Pallig wobbled out of his chair, holding up a length of red silk ribbon for everyone to see, then fastened it round the rune-skeined shaft, a forearm’s length from the bottom. He stood back and raised his arms.
‘Who wishes the first kiss?’ he demanded and Finn, rolling his neck and shoulders, looked at the impassive Stammkel, grunted and moved forward to take up the smooth, polished ash length in both hands.
Men drew further back as Finn then stepped up onto a bench and moved to the end of the table. It shifted slightly and Crowbone, being nearest, leaned forward on the other end, to keep it from tilting — a brave move, since it put him danger-close to the affair. Everyone else, I saw, had drawn far back and Pallig had moved swiftly back to the high seat.
