‘But for how long, old friend?’ The krol’s words were hard and careworn, but there was a trace of genuine friendship in there too, as he looked to the floor and rubbed his forehead. ‘Men will not follow a krol who offers them naught but failure and death. It is victory which binds men and we have had little of that of late.’
Perhaps he’d dreamed too much, the krol thought. He rubbed his forehead. If only his head didn’t ache so. Around him the air was stale, choked by the candles and the scent of the herbs that smoked in the brazier. No, that was not it. It was the forest, this place. The air even seemed stale outside. More than ever he longed for the salt air of open waters, a good clean wind. Things would be better then. He should not have come here.
He looked round the boat, seeing the woyaks who stood guard at the entrance. Did their hearts long for home? Did they blame him? No, he could not turn back, not now. He’d set his own course and if it failed, what then?
The men would be quick to elect a new leader. But not Grunmir. No, he too had sent his heart upon this uncharted course. And, in the gloom, that understanding passed between them. They’d been through too much together, their fates so closely entwined; such bonds were not to be lightly broken.
And it was the same for Wislaw. Let him have his schemes and dreams. Ah, his mind was ever shifting like the deepwater currents, but his heart would hold true whatever he might imagine. He has not learned to look into his heart, for all his guile and bookish tongue. No, he was riven to their cause as they all were.
‘The woyaks still remember the battle of the nine hills.’ Grunmir spoke, looking to the krol and trying to glimpse part of the man who’d once broken through the lines of the horse lords. ‘They sing of how you slew that Avar champion and cut his legs from under him to leave him no more than a crying wreck, breathing out his last on the battlefield.’ The old woyak nodded to a cloth that hung behind the chair.
It was an old thing, torn and stained with blood. It was hard to see the pattern in the light, but could make out the form of a white horse rearing over a half moon on a field of green. A gold braid ran round the edges, glinting darkly in the gloom. She’d never seen anything like it. The tattered remnant hung so wide as to obscure the rest of the ship behind, but did it come from the Avar horse lords whom the traders talked of, scouring the endless plains beyond the forest?
‘Yes, that was a good day,’ the krol said wearily as he sat in the great chair, his arms pressed along the carved sides. ‘I can still see you, your great war axe swirling as you rallied the men for one last charge; and let us not forget Fang, there was much to occupy that blade that day.’
‘I doubt that the Avars will forget your sword either. They came with lust for gold and found naught but blood.’ He laughed and signalled for a cup of vodka. If only he could raise up some part of the man who’d cut his way through the lines of armoured horse warriors. Gawel had been unstoppable, ankle deep in the blood of his enemies and barely a thought for his own safety as the battle lust took hold and he dodged beneath the blow of some Avar champion, a giant of a man whose spear cut an inch away from his face.
Grunmir would have felled him but Gawel’s sword had already slipped past the man’s shield and sliced through his armpit. The man reeled back, the blow so quick that he didn’t have time to feel the pain as his arm dangled, held on now only by his leather armour, and grim death took him.
Gawel had already turned away, pressing deeper into the enemy ranks. There was a man who could lead and have others follow. But perhaps the burden had become too great. He’d seen more than one man cast low once the weight of command was fastened upon him. And there was so much to deal with, enough to break any man. They’ll swallow us whole. He glanced to the tarpaulin as if trying to look to the trees beyond. Then, in an instant, he snapped back, his gaze turning smoothly to the krol so that none could have guessed at the thoughts hidden darkly behind his eyes.
‘It was you who held us firm under their charge,’ he said. Since when did he have to talk like this to remind them of the better days? The days when they had been free and felt the wind roll across the steppe. ‘Had it not been for you then our war band would have broken. It was you who brought us victory that day and not even the Avar Khan’s arrival prevented it. None but you could have fought your way right to the edges of his hearth guard. The gods themselves must have shielded the Khan from raven tongue.’ He nodded to the krol’s great sword. ‘His young son almost received the Khanate upon that day.’
‘Yes, it was a great victory, but a poor memory, and one that grows stale as the seasons pass.’
‘The men still sing of it.’ No, there was little trace of the man who’d once put the Avars to flight. Grunmir lifted the cup to his lips and took a slow gulp. He’d seen krols broken before, once great men who babbled like children as they were carried on litters or on the backs of attendants.
But that had been back in the
