‘We have been raiding men for so long,’ Kaup declared and men nodded agreement. ‘What else is there for us? We want to stay as brothers — but your Odin oath is not binding to us.’
‘So?’ demanded Crowbone, curious rather than angry, since it was clear they had thought this through and found a path they all could follow. Now they are trying to put my feet on it, he thought to himself.
Kaup took a breath, but it was Berto who spoke, his voice lilting and clear as birdsong.
‘We will swear to you, prince. Swear on God and Jesus to be your men. As binding as any Odin oath.’
Onund blew down his nose like a startled horse and waved one hand with dismissive disgust — then he saw Crowbone’s face and stopped, his eyes narrowing.
Crowbone, smiling at the possibilities, nodded. Onund felt the air shift, as if knotting itself with anger, and listened, silent and stricken, as Berto took one knee and put his hands on Crowbone’s hands and swore to be his man. One by one, the others followed.
Later, they went back to the fires and he listened to them boast and insult one another. Two fell into a quarrel about who had the stronger blow and decided on a fight to prove it, which was good entertainment until one, seeing he was losing, hauled out a seax and the event turned nasty.
Crowbone was pleased, though, when Murrough felled one with the haft of his axe and Kaup hammered the other to the ground.
‘Once,’ Crowbone said as the men grunted shakily to their feet and wiped away blood, ‘a frog lived in a pond and made friends with two geese who used to come and visit him there. They were happy for many years, but then there was a freeze that lasted for months. The ponds and rivers started to ice over. People and animals were starving.’
There was silence, profound as snow; the bleeding men dripped quietly.
‘The two geese decided to save themselves and fly to somewhere warmer,’ Crowbone went on. ‘They also worked out how to save their friend too, even though a frog cannot fly. The geese would hold a stick in their beaks and then the frog could hold the stick in its jaws. In this way the geese could fly him south while holding the two ends of the stick.
‘The geese flew off with the frog between them. They flew over hills, valleys, fields and fjords, and a city. The people of the city saw them and clapped in wonderment, shouting for others to come and see two geese carrying a toad that way. But this irritated the frog, so he opened his mouth to tell them that he was not a toad, but a frog. He was still telling them when he hit the ground and burst.’
There was silence, save for a few grunts.
‘Do not get too annoyed by what others are saying,’ Crowbone finished, looking at the two men, who were grinning wryly at him through the blood on their faces. ‘It could burst you.’
‘Besides,’ he added pointedly, ‘the jarl always has the strongest blow.’
There were grunts and a few cheers. Folk helped the two men up, so that they staggered back to seats side by side and set to swearing to each other how they had never meant any harm.
It would take time to unravel the old rules, Crowbone thought, so best to start at once. He looked for Onund, for he had seen the hunchback’s cold face when the Christmenn had sworn to him and wanted to see if a little time had tempered the look — but the shipwright was nowhere to be seen.
Gjallandi fell to telling tales, having made one up about the death of Balle at the hands of Prince Olaf. It was a good tale, ending with a feather of black smoke coming out of the dead man’s mouth, taking the shape of a raven and flying away.
‘That did not happen,’ said a man.
‘Did the story of it make you shiver?’ demanded Gjallandi haughtily, pouting his beautiful lips and throwing his considerable chin at the man, who admitted it did. Gjallandi smacked one hand on another, as if he had made a good law-point at a Thing.
‘What was the raven, then?’ demanded Kaup, fascinated and Gjallandi did not miss a beat.
‘Odin, it was, shapechanged and possessing the body of Balle. A test, it was, to see if our Prince Olaf was ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ demanded Stick-Starer and Halfdan snorted derisively.
‘To be king in Norway,’ he answered, then turned to Gjallandi. ‘Is that not the right of it?’
Gjallandi nodded portentously and men looked at Crowbone, sitting among them and yet apart, his face bloody with flame.
‘Now you come to mention it,’ said Stick-Starer, ‘I think there was some smoke.’
‘I saw a raven,’ another man offered. ‘For sure.’
Gjallandi grinned.
The Witch-Queen’s Crew
Gudrod sat with Erling Flatnef on the night-stippled beach, apart from the rest of their men as was fitting. He was playing ’tafl with Erling, for the game was his obsession and a good contest pleased him because he invariably won. Erling, with his boneless nose wobbling, was no contest as usual and Gudrod was bored, glancing across to where Od sat alone, for the men did not like him and he did not care for fire, or company or even, it seemed to Gudrod, for food, since Erling had to tell him to eat.
‘My sister’s boy,’ Erling declared moodily, following Gudrod’s eyes. ‘A strange one, from a birth that killed his mother. His father died in a bad winter four years later, so I got him.’
‘Who taught him to fight?’ Gudrod demanded and Erling, frowning over moving, took some time to reply.
‘I showed him the strokes,’ he answered, ‘but no-one taught him the things he does, or the way he moves.’
He leaned forward a little.
‘You should know this,’ he said, low and slow as if the words had to be forced out. ‘The boy kills. That is what the gods made him for. Chickens, dogs, deer, men, women, children — he has killed them all in his short life and not one of those deaths meant anything more than another or anything at all to him. I am sure Loki made him, but I have leashed him with Tyr, telling him that the death of people is a god-sacrifice and the best sacrifice is a warrior, dedicated to Tyr. I tried God and Jesus, but could not persuade him of the fighting worth of those two.’
Gudrod felt the skin along his arms creep and he glanced at Od, sitting still and quiet and staring up at the grey-black sky.
‘Perhaps Tyr has taken him, after all. Best avoid him,’ Erling said and so Gudrod, with a sharp sneering glance at the man, got up and deliberately went to the side of Od. For a time it seemed Od had not even noticed him and Gudrod was not used to that, did not like it.
‘Are they eyes?’ Od asked suddenly and, for a moment, Gudrod was lost. Then he realised the boy was looking at those stars the clouds unveiled.
‘Embers,’ Gudrod corrected. ‘Flung there by Odin and his brothers, to help guide folk on the whale road. Folk like us.’
He paused as Od’s head dropped and turned to look at him.
‘Do you play
‘The game of kings?’ he prompted and had back a beautiful, slow smile.
‘The game of kings,’ the boy replied slowly, ‘is to ask me to kill their enemies.’
Gudrod was too stunned to speak for a moment, for it was clear the boy had never played the game in his life. What lad did not learn
‘You did well with that upstart warrior Ulf Bjornsson,’ Gudrod said finally, to break the oppressive silence. ‘One stroke.’
Od said nothing, his face like a fresh-scraped sheepskin. Gudrod, trying to smile, told him of the first time he had killed a man, when he was fifteen. On a russet hillside slick with rain and entrails, he had shoved his sword into the man’s face, leaving him lying there with the wet and blood pooling under him. Later, someone had told him that it was the Rig-Jarl Tryggve, so the first man he had killed had been a king.
He looked at Od, expecting something and nothing came for so long that Gudrod began to get angry, sensing he was being insulted. Then at last Od spoke and Gudrod’s mouth was filled with ash, choking his angry words.
