unarmed. Leshii could try to cut a deal, bargain for his life, accept the loss of the necklace and start again at Haithabu. But what was the point? Better to die in a beautiful moment than the slow degradation of old age. His hip felt bad, his feet were weary. His time was up.
‘I’m saying that you will kill me anyway, for I will never give it to you. Ofaeti, give me one of your gods.’
‘Loki is their god,’ said the slave with the red hair.
‘Not him,’ said Ofaeti, ‘he is a god of strife.’
‘It seems to me you people love strife. And as for you, Skakki, I wish strife on you. For Loki then,’ said Leshii and threw the necklace over the side.
Skakki went white with rage and leaped towards Leshii to cut him down. Leshii dodged his sword and ran down the ship but he stumbled into the back of his standing mule. Leshii rolled underneath the mule and out the other side as Skakki charged. Then they were running around the creature like a childhood game, Skakki suddenly changing direction to try to catch Leshii out, screaming and shouting that he would kill the fool who could waste such a treasure.
The men around Ofaeti looked away from the big Viking for a heartbeat, who seized his chance, felling one with a tooth-powdering punch and grabbing his spear. A breath later a second warrior had been knocked over the side of the ship and another’s knee was shattered by the fat man’s stamp.
The merchant was good for twice around the mule, no more. He was old and Skakki was quick. The third time around, the slaver caught him and lifted his sword to strike, grabbing Leshii’s kaftan with his free hand. Leshii caught Skakki’s sword arm, but the Viking drove a headbutt into his face, making him release his grip. Skakki swung again, putting his hand on the mule’s rump for balance.
The animal, uncomplaining from Ladoga to Paris and halfway back again, suddenly decided it had had enough, launching a good kick, not into the Viking but into Leshii’s leg. Leshii hit the floor like a discarded coat and Skakki’s hack sliced the air.
Ofaeti didn’t even bother to weigh the spear in his hand. He threw it half the length of the ship. It caught Skakki above the temple, sending him spinning to the deck. Then Ofaeti had an axe from one of the fallen men. A mob of crewmen were still occupied pinning down the Raven, a tricky task without killing him or injuring him beyond use as a slave. Three slavers lay dead on the boards or drowning overboard, then it was four as Ofaeti smashed the axe down into the skull of the writhing man he had maimed with his kick. The rest were free to face Ofaeti. But whereas before they had found it amusing to watch their chieftain chase the merchant and four of their kinsmen bait the unarmed fat man, there were no smiles on their faces now.
‘Come on, brothers,’ said Ofaeti. ‘Four of your men lie dead who faced me unarmed. Who would like to try me now I have this skull-biter in my hand? Or will you cut your losses and join me? You know my fame! I am renowned for my fighting skill wherever warriors gather to talk.’ He tapped the axe on his palm.
A squat man with a big blond beard spoke: ‘Much would I like to join a warrior like you. Skakki was a harsh chief and I do not mourn his loss. And I think you would be a better leader, as it is clear you are a mighty man. But the Valkyries are swooping for our kinsmen now. And though I think it likely they will soon swoop for me, our dead must be avenged.’
The man was doing his best to use fine words, Leshii noted, as the Norsemen did when they thought death might be close.
‘No kinsmen of mine,’ said a voice.
‘Nor mine, neither.’
Four warriors came to Ofaeti’s side and stood to face their fellows.
‘You are six,’ said Ofaeti, ‘and we are five. So it looks as though the weaving of my fate may not yet be done.’
‘We are thirteen,’ said the warrior, ‘when my fellows have slit your man’s throat.’
‘Too late for that,’ said one of the warriors on top of the Raven.
‘Why?’
‘He’s already dead.’
Ofaeti pursed his lips and nodded. ‘One of my kinsmen is dead, four of yours. Will the gods worry about the numbers?’
‘It is some sort of recompense and enough, I think, for honour,’ said the blond Viking. ‘We will place ourselves under your command, fat warrior.’
Leshii went to the body of the Raven. It was losing heat already and there was no pulse. He spoke to him: ‘So, your destiny was not as great as you thought. Still, my friend, I am sorry you have gone. You offered me friendship, not in word but in deed, and for that I am grateful.’
Leshii looked out to sea. Now for Haithabu, he thought, with a hundred dihrams and a fine stash of swords. He made the lightning-bolt sign and looked up at the sky. ‘Good fortune at last,’ he said. Then he remembered his dedication as he’d thrown the necklace into the sea. ‘And thanks to Loki too,’ he said. ‘You are a generous god indeed.’
68
Jehan lay still. His limbs had an ice in them that was nothing to do with the winter. His bones had twisted, turned and set, and were no more use to him than the icicles hanging from the rigging. He had gone beyond shivering, felt drowsy and could hardly keep his eyes open. He knew that he could change things, knew that all he had to do was take off the stone at his neck and the wolf would come out inside him — the wolf would find a way. But he would not remove it. Death, and Jehan was sure he was dying, was preferable to the alternative.
He said psalms in his head, but they were nothing more than a jumble of words. He felt the world fading. Any sort of movement was beyond him now, even the rocking that had blighted him since he was a child.
Her face came to him. The Virgin in the fields, Aelis in the fields. ‘Do not seek me,’ she had told him. And yet he had. He had tracked her down, lain with her and been happy, the worst sin of all — luxuriating in his offence to God.
Jehan chose death, not as a way out but to welcome in the punishment the Almighty had in store for him. He had eaten of unclean meat, he had fornicated and laughed in the face of God. He deserved to suffer eternally.
Men were on the ship. People were moving things, the sea chests, weapons. Two stood over him.
‘This is the monk?’
‘A cripple, khagan.’
Jehan felt a hand touch his face.
‘Let me see him. Is he alive?’
‘Who knows?’
Jehan hoped the men would not help him. He needed to die. He was an abomination. If he could have moved, he would have attacked the men and made them kill him. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t give any sign of life. Jehan felt a hand at his chest checking for breathing. It rested on the Wolfstone, felt its shape through his tunic and pulled the cloth aside.
‘What is that?’
‘It’s just a pebble, khagan, the man is as poor as a Pecheneg. No jewels here.’
‘Let me see.’
Jehan felt someone else take the stone.
‘Not a fit ornament for a king, khagan.’
‘This is the necessary stone.’
‘ Khagan? ’
‘There is a prophecy. Great fortune was promised to me if I found this stone. This will fetter a god.’ The voice was urgent, talking to no one in particular.
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’
‘This is safety,’ said Helgi. ‘This is the end of our enemies.’
