Everyone saw it. Everyone knew what would happen — except the youth, it seemed.
Balle lumbered forward; the spear arced and smacked the shield hard — harder than Balle had imagined, so that he reeled a little sideways with it and saw the point splinter through on his side. A powerful throw, but harmless, ruining only the shield.
With a great roar of triumph, he hurled the speared shield to one side and threw himself forward. He had him; he had the youth, for sure.
Something whirred like a bird wing and there was a sharp tearing feeling in Balle’s belly, then he tripped and fell, rolled, cursing, scrambling upright and appalled at his bad foot luck. Ready with the axe, he spun in a half circle and almost fell again, looked down and saw a blue, shining rope tangled round his ankles. At the same time as he followed it back to the bloody rip in his shirt and into the very belly of him, a shadow fell and he looked up.
It was the stripling, a thoughtful look on his face and Balle snarled and went to strike, but the axe seemed stuck to the ground. Then something flashed and there was a burning sensation in Balle’s throat, harsh and fierce enough for him to drop the axe and spin away. He did not want to touch his throat, was afraid to touch it, but thought to get away from the stripling for a moment, get his breath and then work out how to get back in the fight, for it had clearly gone awry.
He could not hear properly and could not catch his breath and there was a terrible gargling, roaring sound; he found himself on the ground, felt a draining from him, like slow water falling, looked down at the huge bib of red that soaked his tunic.
Never get the stains out of that, he thought. My mother will be furious …
Crowbone stuck his seax in a patch of coarse sand once or twice, then wiped the rest of the throat-clot off it on Balle’s tunic sleeve, the only bit that was not already covered in the big man’s blood. He felt his left thigh start to twitch and hoped no-one had noticed either that or the fear-sweat that soaked him, stinging his eyes to blinking.
No-one spoke, then the Burned Man walked up with Crowbone’s second spear, the one that he had thrown with his left hand, the one that had sliced open Balle’s belly so deftly that the axeman had scarcely even noticed it until he fell over his own insides. He handed it politely to Crowbone and smiled, unnervingly white, out of the great dead-black of his Hel face.
‘Am I leader here?’ asked Grima in his hoarse whisper. Men nodded and shuffled.
‘Am I leader?’ Grima roared and then they bellowed back that he was. Grima, the roar almost the last breath left in him, slumped back in the makeshift throne and whispered to Berto, who nodded and straightened.
‘I told Balle I would see his death before mine and so it is and I can let Asgard take me,’ Berto said and, for all his piping and thick accent, no-one doubted it was Grima’s voice. ‘Prince Olaf will be jarl. My silver is his. My ship is his. If you have any clever in you, you will follow him — but mark this. The Red Brothers die with me. You swear to him and the Oathsworn now.’
Men looked at the so-called prince, a stripling digging his spear point into the sand to clean it. The giant with the hook-bitted axe, grinning, worked the other spear point from the shield, then handed the shield back to Mar.
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘there is a fair wee peephole in it now. A good thick leather patch is needed — ask Onund if he has some left from fixing our steer oar. He is the man with the mountain on one shoulder. My name is Murrough macMael.’
Mar looked thoughtfully at the finger-length gash and then nodded to Murrough.
‘I will leave it as it is,’ he answered blankly. ‘The breeze through it will be cooling in the next fight.’
The tension hissed away from the beach. The ring-mailed throne-carriers picked up the chair with Grima in it and started back to the
He did not say anything, merely pointed — once, twice, picking two men. The third time was at the bloody remains of Balle. The men he pointed out hesitated for an eyeblink; Mar stepped in to that, scowling.
‘Pick him up,’ he said to the men. ‘He was a Christmann so we will bury him.’
He looked at Crowbone. ‘Do you have a priest in your crew?’
Crowbone eyed the man up and down, taking in the neat-chopped hair that came down round his ears only, the close-trimmed beard, the cool eyes the colour of a north sea on a raining day. The one, he noted, who had handed his shield to Balle with a look as good as a spit in the eye. A good friend to the Burned Man and the pair of them better on your side than against it. He smiled, for he felt good and the thigh-twitching had ended; he was alive, his enemy was dead and the triumph of it coursed through him like the fire of wine.
‘I am a priest,’ he said, ‘though a good Christ-follower would not think so. Better you say words over him, I am thinking. Better still, of course, if you kept him, for Grima will die tonight and he was no Christmann, I am sure. It would be good to lay this dog at his feet as he burns.’
Mar blinked.
‘Is that your command?’ he asked and Olaf spread his empty hands in a light, easy gesture and said nothing at all.
Mar nodded, satisfied; here was a follower of the old gods, but not one with his face set against the Christ as hard as he had heard the Oathsworn were. They lifted Balle and carried him away to be buried and Kaup stumbled out some Christ words, as many as he could remember.
Afterwards, they dug him up again and brought him back to the driftwood pyre being prepared for Grima; Mar nodded to Olaf, who smiled at this cunning.
Men came to the pyre, no matter which gods they followed, out of respect for Grima, and Crowbone watched them as Hoskuld, scowling at the cost, spilled expensive aromatic oil on to the driftwood. Crowbone saw which of them mourned, stricken, for Grima and which of them did him honour for what he had once been. There were others and he watched them closer still, the ones who hung at the back and shifted from one foot to the other, trying not to look at each other and make it obvious they were plotting.
Grima burned, hissing and crackling, throwing shadows and lurid lights over the strand. Crowbone stepped into the blooded ring it made and held up his hands.
‘You are the Red Brothers of Grima,’ he said loudly. ‘You have travelled as one, fought as one. You have rules for this and I want to know them.’
Men looked one to the other and Crowbone waited.
‘None may steal from another,’ said a voice and Crowbone knew who it would be, had already marked it and turned to where Mar was.
‘Or?’
‘Death,’ answered Mar. ‘Unless mercy is shown, but Grima was not a merciful man.’
There were grunts and a few harsh laughs at the memory of what Grima had been. Mar folded his fingers, rule by rule, to mark them.
‘Equal shares for all. If a man loses a finger in battle, he gets an extra share, but if he loses two he gets no more shares, for one is a sad loss, but two is careless.’
Orm would not have grown rich here, Crowbone thought, thinking of the three lost fingers on the Oathsworn jarl’s left hand.
‘If a man loses a hand, all the same, he gets a share for every finger and thumb on it, provided it was taken off with a single blow, for a hand removed by more than one blow shows the owner of it was not fighting well or hard enough.’
Crowbone nodded, but said nothing. These were good rules and he would remember all of them, though they consisted mainly of what a man got for losing pieces of himself. Death gained him nothing, though it was expected that the jarl would pay weregild to any family, if they were ever found, out of his own wealth.
‘If one man kills another,’ Mar went on, ‘there is no crime, provided it puts no-one else in danger, or sends the ship off course. Another may claim the right to settle blood-feud on such killing, but if there is none to right such a wrong, then no wrong has been done. If a Brother insults, offends or otherwise does you injustice, you may kill him for it, unless he kills you first.’
There were more, which were all the same matters, Crowbone noted — those with sharp edges and skill were in the right. Those with dull blades and fumbling were in the wrong.
Mar stepped back respectfully, leaving the flame-dyed space to Crowbone and the lifting sparks that whirled Grima to Odin’s hall.
