It was there today, just like the Rage.’
‘Anyway, I am not asking. My last command is that you assume my duties. I’ll have you roped with the slaves if you disobey. Now bring me my sea-chest.’
Haraldr set the weathered wooden box by Jarl Rognvald. The interior gleamed with the treasures and utilities of a lifetime. Tools, knives, gold and silver coins, a walrus tusk, a silver Hammer of Thor, glass beads, a robe of Frisian cloth and another of silk, a bear carved in wood. And a superb byrnnie with tight, heavy links, polished and lacquered like new. Haraldr hadn’t known that Jarl Rognvald had two byrnnies. He never wore this one.
‘I’ve talked with Gleb. He says there is a place at Kherson where Kristr’s wizards will clean the flesh off my bones and put them in another chest. Then I’ve arranged to have both chests shipped back to Norway. I won’t lie in the Rus Sea or this cursed river or Yaroslav’s dirt. I’ll go home at last.’
Haraldr started to close the chest.
‘Wait. There is something in there that I won’t need in the Valhol. It belongs to you. That shirt.’
Haraldr started to stir through the clothing in the chest. What did the Jarl mean?
‘The shirt the hammer sews.’
Haraldr was speechless. He reached out tentatively and touched the cold, almost silky smooth links of the byrnnie.
‘Well, put it on. It’s Grik steel and construction, built to fit a Norseman’s size.’
Haraldr slipped into the byrnnie; it fitted as well as a fine wool tunic, so snugly and evenly that its great weight was hardly noticeable. The shirt the hammer sews, the invulnerable second skin of the mightiest warriors.
‘Emma is her name,’ said Jarl Rognvald. ‘I bought her for you in Kiev, when I learned that you would come with me. I was going to give her to you when I knew she would fit. Now she does.’
Haraldr realized that if Jarl Rognvald had worn Emma today instead of his own byrnnie, the spear never would have pierced his side. He knelt and put his head on the old man’s shoulder. He could not control the sobs.
‘It’s cold where I’m going,’ said the Jarl. He shuddered, and dark blood spilled from his wound. ‘The wings of the Valkyrja are blocking the sun.’
Haraldr clutched the Jarl’s hand again and felt the last surge of life.
‘There is a saying,’ whispered the Jarl. ‘ “Wealth dies, kinsmen die, and a man himself must likewise die. But word-fame never dies for him who wins it well.” ‘ The Jarl coughed and shivered. ‘I am an old pagan who served the Kings of Norway, the sons of the gods. But I want to be remembered as the man who served King Haraldr Sigurdarson, Norway’s greatest king. Promise me you will go back and claim Norway.’
‘I swear it on my soul.’ The enormity of the pledge swallowed Haraldr, and he felt himself plunge towards a distant, unseen fate.
The Jarl paused, his grip slackened, and Haraldr thought he was gone. But his ghost-lips parted slightly and he continued. ‘Yes, I know you will keep your pledge; Odin is telling me that right now. But you’ll need wealth. You can get that from the Griks. And allies. Probably Yaroslav. With money he can be bought.’
The Jarl started to go off again, but his grip was suddenly fierce, as if all his life were now transferred to Haraldr’s touch. ‘Remember what you promised your brother on the last day of his life,’ he said raspily. ‘It is more important now than ever. You know about the bounty on your head, and how many Norsemen hope to win it. But you must also protect yourself against discovery by the Griks. They have a prophecy that a fair-haired race will destroy them, and they have good reason to fear that a Norse leader might assemble a great force against them. It has happened before. They will never allow a Norse king to come among them, much less serve their Emperor. And now you have men under your keeping. If you are careless with your name, you may condemn them as well. I die knowing that you are Haraldr Sigurdarson again, which is why you must be all the more vigilant in denying him.’
The Jarl seemed to collapse inwardly with the huge effort of his admonition. ‘I promise you, as I promised Olaf,’ murmured Haraldr.
Jarl Rognvald coughed blood. His last words were like leaves rattled by the barest summer breeze. ’Goodbye, my . . . son . . . I’ll see you next at the benches--’ Then his pale lips froze and the spirit visibly fled from his face.
When all human warmth had vanished from the Jarl’s body, Haraldr released him from his embrace and gently folded the lids shut over the old man’s empty eyes.
‘Hakon. Pah.’ Gleb spat angrily into the black water.
Haraldr stomped over to the pile of gear he had left on the deck. His sword was beside his old Slav breastplate. He strapped his sword belt on over Emma. ‘Get the dinghy ready,’ he snapped to a Rus oarsman.
‘No!’ Gleb shook his head. ‘We’ve still got three cataracts and the ford at Krarion ahead of us before we reach St Gregory’s Island. You might kill Hakon, but what about the five hundred with him? We all need to work together for now.’ Gleb spat and looked off into the night. ‘Then when we get to St Gregory’s Island we’ll think of some way to feed Hakon to the pelicans.’
After Gleb retired, Haraldr said he would take the early watch and he stood for a long time at the stern of the ship, looking down the faintly stirring, deceptively tranquil Dnieper, trying to make sense of a day in which he had freed his own lost soul and had lost the dearest soul left to him on earth. He sobbed quietly for a long while, but eventually his agony lightened with the thought of the Jarl already seated at the benches with Odin’s chosen champions, hoisting his mead horn with Olaf and Sigurd Syr. Now Haraldr would have to earn his seat alongside them in the Valhol. He had stood before the beast of his own spirit but he had not slain it. And now he would also have to slay the demon who stood before him in the flesh. Hakon.
Haraldr started. What was out there? Pechenegs? They would not go out on the water. He searched for the point where he had heard the faint inconsistency in the rippling of the river. Merely a fish?
A dinghy. Haraldr tightened his hand on the pommel of his sword.
The shape took on contrast against the black Dnieper. Two men, from the size of them Varangians. Haraldr slowly and soundlessly slipped his sword out of its greased scabbard. With his left hand he removed his dagger from his belt.
The dinghy impacted the river ship with a light thud.
‘Watch. You!’ came the urgent whisper from the water. ‘We want to see Jarl Rognvald and Haraldr Nordbrikt.’
‘What do you want with them?’ Better to let them guess about the Jarl’s fate. Bastards. Their treachery had been the deadly blade today, not the Pecheneg spear. Haraldr’s grip tightened on the steel that would mete his vengeance. He was not afraid. He would enjoy this.
There was a long pause. Haraldr heard whispering below. ‘With whom do we speak?’
‘A man trusted by Jarl Rognvald and Haraldr Nordbrikt as themselves.’
Another pause and a brief whispering. ‘You pledge it, Norseman?’
‘I pledge it on the soul of the Jarl.’ What ruse were they about?
The two Varangians engaged in a lengthy, hissing discussion. Finally Haraldr snapped, ‘Tell me your business. Except for the handful who fought with them today, Jarl Rognvald and Haraldr Nordbrikt have only cold breasts and colder steel for you Varangians.’
‘I’m one of the men who fought with them today. Ask them to come and see.’
Haraldr peered warily over the railing. A man was standing in the dinghy, face up. Kristr’s Mother! It was the fine-looking, laconic Varangian who had been with them in the river.
Haraldr was still uncertain. Hakon could easily be this clever, and a Varangian this treacherous. ‘I’m Haraldr Nordbrikt. If I’m wrong, excuse the indignity. Strip!’
The handsome man grumbled, but both men complied. There were no byrnnies hidden under their tunics. ‘Put them back on and climb aboard.’
With his sword Haraldr motioned the two to sit on the deck.
‘My name is Halldor Snorrason,’ began the handsome one. In his tunic he seemed even more powerful than
