Meanwhile, Erlan had made up his mind.
He left the hall as soon as he could get away, left Osvald slumped on the table, a spill of mead lapping at his arms. The other hall-folk were already asleep or soon would be. Erlan passed the twins on his way out. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Leikr.
‘To get some rest,’ he lied. ‘You should too.’ Then he went to work.
He fetched his gear from a chest he kept in the far corner of an outer hall where he slept, then slipped down to the row of jetties on the bank of the Dagava. Aska followed at his heel through the darkness.
It was cold, but the sky had cleared and the residual snow made it easy to see. He soon found his boat, pulled a short distance up the bank where he’d left it. The little knarr had been a gift from King Ringast when he’d left Uppsala. It had carried him across the East Sea. Smaller than most cargo vessels, it could be handled by a light crew or even one man, if he had skill. He put his shoulder to the prow. The slope worked in his favour and he soon had the stern easing into the dark waters with barely a sound.
He was tense with excitement, something inside goading him on. Seek him in the south. The phrase kept turning in his mind, more urgent with each repetition.
He unbuckled Wrathling and was about to lay it in the boat when he stopped and pulled the blade half from its sheath. The steel shimmered in the starlight. He had cleaned off Vassili’s blood. Shame he couldn’t erase the memory of what he’d done so easily. He swore and slammed the hilt back into its sheath, angry to have shed innocent blood twice that day, angry to have ever taken orders from a worm like Osvald.
It only made him more certain of what he had to do. He had been shown too much. Vassili had known things he couldn’t possibly have known, had seen things he couldn’t possibly have seen, unless. . . Well, whatever magic had given the man that sight, it was far beyond Erlan’s ken. A curse.
Was he cursed?
He almost dared not answer his own question.
More words came to his mind: ‘The blood of the demon. . . The king of kings. . . Beyond the Friendly Sea. . .’
Gods, it was a damned thin thread to follow.
He tossed the ale-skin he’d swiped under the thwarts and was about to sling his boot over the gunwale when Aska gave a low growl. Erlan turned to see what had got his hackles up.
Two tall silhouettes were coming down the path. They were armed with spears. Watchmen. He cursed. That was all he needed. He squared off to them, scouring his mind for some plausible explanation.
‘Bit dark for fishing, ain’t it?’ said one.
He recognized the voice, and saw now the two silhouettes were identical. ‘What are you jokers doing here?’
‘We could ask you the same—’
‘We’re coming with you,’ Adalrik said, cutting off his brother.
‘Like Hel you are. Go back to bed and forget you ever saw me.’
‘Our father’s been sailing us up and down this river since we could fit in his boot. The only fella knows it better than us is him.’
‘I don’t need to know the river. I’m heading west across the Gulf, then south. To Rerik.’
‘Aye, and then?’
Erlan didn’t answer because he didn’t know. Admittedly his plan needed a little refining. He meant to reach Rerik, the biggest market harbour on the south shore of the East Sea, then find a skipper who could take him to the Black Sea. For the right price.
‘The holy man said the Black Sea, didn’t he?’
‘Beyond the Black Sea.’
‘Well,’ said Leikr, pointing upstream, ‘the quickest way to the Black Sea’s that way. Up the Dagava, far as you can go, a four-day portage that’ll break your back, then three weeks with your feet up floating down the Dnipar.’
‘That’s the easy part,’ added his twin.
Erlan looked east where the first rumours of dawn were breaking up the horizon. ‘Upstream, huh? Who told you all this?’
‘Our father, of course. He’s the only man in Dunsgard ever been to the Black Sea.’
‘Does he know you’re here?’
‘Are you crazy?’ The twins looked at each other and laughed. ‘He’d flay our hides if he thought we were even thinking of it.’
‘Then go home.’
‘And if we did, how’re you planning on shifting that thing upstream?’
‘I’ve got a sail.’
‘A sail won’t get you there, bonehead! What happens when the wind turns against you?’
‘Or there’s no wind at all?’ piped his brother.
‘You’ll need to row.’
‘That’s where we come in.’
Erlan looked them up and down. They were lanky brutes, that was for sure, and they had some nerve if they thought he’d even consider it. They also had a point. He couldn’t row the knarr on his own. He remembered his father’s helmsman, Esbjorn, always said a tall man with a strong back was the best sort on the end of an oar. Here were two of them. ‘I don’t even know where I’m going.’
‘South, ain’t it?’ said Adalrik.
‘And far away from here,’ added Leikr.
‘That’ll do for us.’ The pair of them were grinning like crescent moons.
Erlan scowled. ‘Go on then. Stow your gear in the bows.’
The twins yelped with delight. Adalrik punched Leikr for good measure. There was no doubt they knew their way round a boat, and probably better than Erlan. In a short while they had everything ready. Erlan untied the bows and pushed the prow into the stream, wading along the steer-board side through the biting cold water.
There was a sudden drumming noise in the boat.
‘Yargh!’ squawked Adalrik. ‘The damn
