Crowbone

almost leaped up there and then to leave. Gudrod’s voice, strangely, lashed him to the bench.

‘No man likes you,’ he said to his mother, which was harsh and bold. ‘Does it matter? We know where the axe is now. All we have to do is get it and use it to put me on a throne. That is what you want, is it not, mother?’

Gunnhild made a ticking sound with tongue and teeth.

‘Let me tell you of the Yngling kings,’ she said, her voice slow and circling as mist tendrils. ‘They all had Odin’s Daughter and the only one who died old was Aun.’

Gudrod said nothing, while sullen rolled off him in waves, tangible as heat. Erling cleared his throat.

‘The others?’ he asked, knowing the answer but hoping for better news.

‘One fell in vat of mead and drowned,’ she said. ‘Fjolne. He went to see Frodi in Zealand and a great feast had been prepared. Frodi had a large house where he stored a huge vessel full of very strong mead. Above the vessel there was an opening in the ceiling so that mead might be poured into it by men standing in the loft. After the banquet, King Fjolne was taken to stay the night in an adjoining loft, but he rose in the night and stumbled through the wrong door to fall into the great vat and drown in mead.’

Od clapped his hands and laughed with delight until Erling hit him on the shoulder and shushed him. Gunnhild never seemed to notice.

‘King Swegde then took the High Seat and the axe, but a black duergar lured him into the runestone which sat on his land and he was never seen again,’ she went on, weaving the words, thick as tapestry. ‘Then there was Vanlande, who annoyed a Sami woman called Driva. Great with power was Driva and Vanlande died, even though he was days away from her.’

The admiration her voice shivered Erling and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, so that he could not even swallow.

‘There were many others, murdered by plots from vengeful wives taken by force, or dragged out by the folk they ruled when drought or famine showed they had failed — King Dag had a hayfork through his eyes from a work- thrall over a quarrel regarding a sparrow, of all things. Alric and Eric, two brothers and great horsemen, quarrelled over Odin’s Daughter and beat each other to death with the iron bits of their bridles. King Jorund was hanged by Gylog of Halogaland when the axe betrayed him and he lost a battle. Egil was gored to death by a bull which had been wyrded for sacrifice by that axe, but escaped.’

She stopped. There was silence, where the distant thread of thrall song was like a lifeline back to the light of the world.

‘They all accepted the Bloodaxe,’ she added dreamily, ‘and it made them kings, then betrayed them in the end, for they were not worthy of it. Not even my Eirik.’

‘King Aun,’ Od said, a slapped stone in the still pool of that dark dreaming place, so that Erling and Gudrod both shifted with the surprise of it. Gunnhild’s moth-chuckle rustled.

‘Wise, beautiful boy,’ she crooned. ‘Yes — King Aun grew old with the axe. No warrior that king and one less worthy to hold Odin’s Daughter cannot be dreamed. Yet he was cunning and made a trade with Loki, giving that one — who is now the Devil the Christ-followers fear — the sacrifice of a son in return for a bite of Audun’s apples. Those fruits keep the gods young and a single chew gave Aun ten years of life. Nine of his ten sons were spilled on an altar stone by Odin’s Daughter, but the last killed the godi with it and escaped, so Aun died, drooling like an infant, fed with a spoon and hated by all who were near him.’

‘I am taking five ships,’ Gudrod rasped when this was done. ‘I will sail before the winter ice closes Bjarmaland.’

We might make it there, Erling thought to himself mournfully, but the ice will close and we may never make it back. All for a blade on a pole that gave no good of itself to the owner.

‘Six ships,’ Gunnhild replied. ‘You are taking me.’

There was silence for a long heartbeat, then Gudrod sighed.

‘It is long and cold and dangerous,’ he said. ‘We will have to overwinter in the north, with luck in Gjesvaer, which is a miserable hole at the best of times. Haakon of Norway may also be searching for this prize, for I am believing this monk went to Norway. You will also have half a year of darkness to endure.’

A long dark, Erling thought, was no threat to the likes of Gunnhild. She shifted and brought her face slithering back into the dim light. Her eyes seemed to be no more than sockets in a skull and, for a heart-crushing moment, Erling thought she had read his mind.

‘This priest is trying a cunning plan,’ Gunnhild said, her voice sharp as a ship’s adze. ‘Speaking of monks — you did not kill the one on Hy, did you? The one who read for you.’

Gudrod blinked and shifted, then spread his hands.

‘I would have had to slaughter them all …’ he began and his mother made that disapproving ticking sound, which was shout enough to silence him.

‘Then the next man along will know what the monk wrote,’ she pointed out and sat back into the dark, a long sigh sounding like her last breath. ‘It will be Tryggve’s son.’

‘That boy,’ she added, her voice darker than the black. ‘That cursed son of Astrid. You should have killed him when you killed his father and been done with the brood.’

‘He was not even born,’ Gudrod said, his voice rising and she hissed at him, as like a snake as to make Erling shrink away.

‘Then you should have killed the mother.’

Even the thrall singing had stopped. Erling looked longingly at where he thought the door was, the way back to light and the world of men.

‘You play the game of kings well on cloth, my son,’ Gunnhild sneered, ‘but not in life. The Sami have Odin’s Daughter and you will need me to get it from them.’

No-one spoke; the seconds scraped past like claws on slate until Gunnhild sighed.

‘Go away,’ she said suddenly. ‘I need to work.’

Erling scampered from the place, needing no other instruction and not even wanting to dwell on what work she was doing. Outside, he sucked in the salt air and the sparkle of the sea.

Od was last out, ambling easily, the sword swinging nakedly from the ring at his belt. He stopped and yawned, then looked at Gudrod, who stood with lowered eyebrows, scowling out to sea but not looking at it.

‘Why do you want this axe?’ the boy demanded. ‘All it brings is death to those not worthy. If your da was not worthy, what makes you think that you are?’

Erling groaned silently to himself; the boy was always asking such questions and there was no way to learn him out of it. Gudrod stirred and turned slowly.

‘My mother,’ he said.

Od pursed his lips, looked back at where they had come from and nodded.

TEN

Isle of Hy (Iona), not long after …

Crowbone’s Crew

THEY splashed ashore at the Port of the Coracle, which was nothing much more than a good shingle bay, whooping with the stinging cold of the water. Crowbone went with a strong party up to the highest point, no more than a bump; Murrough said it was called Carn-Cul-ri-Eiriin — the Hill With Its Back To Ireland — where the wind caught them like a blow, stinging tears to the eyes.

‘The Colm Cille fellow was a priest and prince,’ the big man explained. ‘A man for the killing, it was said, who grew sick of it and himself and sought a cure from his god. He was told he would not find the peace of his god unless he went to a place where he could not see Ireland.’

As clever a way of getting rid of a rival as any, Crowbone mused. More fool Columba.

‘He searched a long time,’ Murrough went on cheerfully, ‘until he found this place. Even from up here, the highest point around, you cannot see Ireland, so Colm Cille was happy and this became a place favoured by the White Christ god.’