Crowbone

‘Well spoken,’ said Orm and, for a moment, there was a warmth between them, an echo of what had once been. Finn and Murrough knelt and inspected the grisly skulls, as if examining lathe-made bowls. Bergliot moved up, one hand to her mouth and Finn glanced up at her.

‘You should go home, woman,’ he growled. ‘This is no place for you.’

‘The Norns wove her into this,’ Crowbone answered harshly. ‘Let them unpick her.’

‘Move,’ Orm told them, to bring them back to watchfulness. Cautious as sheep round wolf scent, they moved down past the shrieking skulls, through the last veils of smoke and steaming pools — then, like balm to the eyes, the shrouded white was swept away and, lolling beneath them like a naked blonde maiden with two bags of gold, was a little bowl-shaped scoop of valley, with grass cleared of snow and the huge mass of the mountain looming above and all around.

It was warm in that place, so that the grass of it, though winter sere, seemed like the rippling autumn pelt of a fox and the copses had bare trees that were tall, and those that were evergreen had branches that trembled like a rich man’s belly in the ever-present swirl of warm wind.

Under one of them was a whipping vein of smoke; furred men stood up, spears ready and for a moment matters winked at the brim of blood. Then a woman’s voice said something and the beast-men sank down like dogs.

Crowbone was hammered into the ground, as if a fist had struck him in the belly, driving air and sense out of him. Hate and fear welled in him and he almost went on one knee, then recovered himself, though he had to push to do it, lifting his head to see the puzzled worry in Orm’s face.

‘Gunnhild,’ he said and Orm’s eyes widened. He peered, then shook his head.

‘Not Gunnhild, lad,’ he declared. ‘This is another witch.’

Unconvinced, Crowbone was barely aware that he moved at all; the last few steps towards her seemed like a walk through sucking bog wearing iron shoes.

FOURTEEN

Finnmark, the mountain of Surman Suuhun …

Crowbone’s Crew

Thorgerth Holgabruth she said her name was and Gjallandi went pale at the sound of it, for he knew that name well. Orm only knew that the name somehow meant a bride and had the taint of seidr on it — but Thor was in it and that bluff, red-haired god was not noted for spawning women of magic.

Crowbone did not care what her name was, for up close she was not Gunnhild and that was all that mattered to him. Oh, she had the cat’s arse mouth and a skin soft as chewed reindeer hide, but she was taller, thinner, both old and young at the same time, with eyes that were curious, resting on his own with the blue intensity of old ice.

‘You have an axe in your care, mistress,’ Crowbone managed to growl, keeping polite in his voice for he was aware that Klaenger had gone down on his knees, while Adalbert had done the opposite and drawn himself up as tall as he could, sticking his chin defiantly at her and making the sign of the cross back and forth on his chest.

She ignored all of this, while her Sami guard dogs fanned out warily.

‘I had,’ she answered, her voice cracked as a bad pot, the Norse in it blurred with neglect. ‘A wise woman came for it. Though I am not so sure she was all that wise, for she had fetched it once before and it had killed her man and all her other sons but one. Now she wants it for this last.’

‘Ave Maria, gratia plena,’ Adalbert intoned, his face raised and eyes closed. ‘Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus.’

‘So Erling had the truth of it,’ Crowbone spat bitterly. ‘Gunnhild and her son have the Bloodaxe.’

‘Was there a Christ priest here?’ Orm demanded. ‘With a bad leg and looking like something freshly dug up?’

‘There was — gently, gently,’ she said, the last spoken to the Sami, grown restive with the priest’s chanting, for they clearly thought he was casting some spell. She held her hands straight down by her sides, palms level with the earth and the furred warriors sank down on one knee, gathered protectively round her.

‘That axe is mine,’ Crowbone declared, his eyes narrowing. The woman nodded, as if she had known that.

‘Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae …’

‘In the name of Thor’s hairy arse, priest, shut up,’ Finn roared.

‘Amen,’ said Adalbert. Finn looked askance at the woman.

‘I meant no disrespect to the Thunderer,’ Finn added hastily and she smiled.

‘It is cold,’ the woman said. ‘I am going to the fire. When you are ready to talk, come and join me.’

She turned and walked off, confident and sure-footed, trailing her hands through the pack of Sami, who rose up and trotted after her.

‘You know this Thorgerth, Boomer,’ Orm said and Gjallandi jerked his eyes away from the woman’s retreating back and nodded, licking his big, firm lips.

‘She was the bride of King Helgi of Halagoland,’ he said, then shook his head. ‘That cannot be, for it was long ago, before the time of our grandfathers’ grandfathers.’

‘Perhaps she is that old,’ Finn muttered and made a warding sign. ‘She has the look, like the last leaf before winter.’

‘More than likely there is a sisterhood,’ Adalbert offered, ‘of which she is the latest. They all call themselves the same name.’

‘Like Christ nuns, you mean?’

Adalbert glared and denied it, but Crowbone shrugged.

‘I have seen such nuns, in the Great City and elsewhere. A sisterhood, who all seem to be called Maria.’

‘These heathens are not the same,’ Adalbert insisted.

‘A sisterhood? So you do not think anyone can be so old, Christ priest?’ Orm asked. ‘What of the one in your holy book — Methus … something?’

‘Metushelach,’ Adalbert answered levelly, ‘son of Enoch, father of Lamech. He died old — but he was one of God’s chosen.’

‘Which this witch clearly is not,’ interrupted a harsh voice and all heads turned to where Finn stood, glaring after the goddess of the Sami. He turned to Adalbert and astounded everyone.

‘Nine hundred, sixty and nine years when he died,’ he growled, then turned from astonished face to astonished face.

‘What? You cannot spend time in the Great City and not pick up a few things,’ he spat. ‘I had the saga of that old Christmann from an Armenian whore. Which is not the point. The sharp end of this affair is what we do now — that little fuck Martin had a plan, but I cannot fathom it. Unless it was to mire us in this place, surrounded by Sami and with no way out, in which case it is a very good plan.’

‘He laid a full-cunning plan,’ Orm admitted, his face quern grim. ‘I am thinking it was a Norn-weave of plot, but Martin does not have the skill of those blind sisters. I am thinking it unravelled a little in his hand.’

He stared, blindly thoughtful and spoke almost to himself.

‘Gudrod was meant to be here, not away with the axe — Haakon’s men were meant to secure that. All of us were meant to be killing each other and Martin, like a raven, would pick from the dead what he wants most in life. Not good enough, little priest — but many good northmen were wyrded to die in this affair and that must be answered.’

‘Where is the axe?’ demanded Crowbone and Orm blinked, then shrugged.

‘Orkney, if it is anywhere. The priest, too.’

‘Beyond us all if it is there,’ Finn agreed. ‘Even if we get out of this place.’

‘Aye,’ Orm agreed, which made men shift nervously and look about. The whole place, the situation, had them walking on dewclaws, looking to where the woman they had heard was a goddess sat beside the fire, to the Sami