Raven of the Waves (9 page)

The most famous sword of all was probably Opir's,
Fotbitr
—Leg Biter. This sword had belonged to one of the first men in Spjothof, a distant uncle who had lived generations ago. A stranger in sky-gray clothing who had been seen walking up a glacier, like a fly crawling up and out of sight, had left it plunged into the side of an immense walrus.

Lidsmod had no weapon, and no shield.

The men worked out the oars and rowed for a while. They were glad to be able to expend their excitement. The rowing felt good. There were smiles, bright teeth, and weather-reddened cheeks. They met the river current, where the wide freshwater flattened the sea swell.

Lidsmod took his place beside Ulf and gripped the oar.

Along the distant riverbanks birds rose and darted. There was nothing else—no watchmen, no sword-bearing hordes. The smell of the river filled the air. This was a broad, deep current. Njord and Gunnar had seen such rivers, but Lidsmod had never dreamed of such a quantity of sweet water. The land beyond was flat and green, and Lidsmod was sure he could smell the faint perfume of livestock and house smoke.

And more than once Lidsmod thought he caught sight of a guardsman, sun glinting off the point of his spear.

13

They pulled
Raven
ashore onto a flat beach. It had not been easy to find a place where the bank was low, so it was late in the day when
Raven
left the water, shoved along by the men. Again there was a keel scar, only this time it was on foreign land.

Lidsmod knelt and pressed his hand into the river sand. It was a rich dirt, dark and silty. It held his handprint well. The feel of it was strange. The land was flat and full of water here, Lidsmod thought. He sniffed the wind. The land was full of grass and years of fallen leaves.

Crane
cut through the water and joined
Raven. Landwaster
approached just as darkness arrived, the dark ship coalescing out of the twilight. Men stamped their feet and congratulated each other, the three crews mixing happily.

Gunnar was impatient, but he knew that his eagerness would have to be controlled. He spoke with Egil and Berg, the lead men of the other two ships, and then gathered his own crew around him. “We need a few men to search.”

That meant finding horses and food. What was necessary was a job of quick theft. Without horses, they would not be able to travel quickly over land.

“I'll go,” said Gorm.

Men stirred. Gorm would need reliable companions to keep him out of trouble. Gunnar gazed around at the men, naming two more. Lidsmod guessed Gunnar did not want Gorm mixing with the men from the other ships. Many of them still hated Gorm for what he had done to Biter. However, Gorm knew horses and could handle them.

Ulf was steady, and so was Eirik. They would be able to watch Gorm and see that he did not do anything foolish or dangerous. Gunnar spoke again: “And Lidsmod.”

The young man's heart leaped. Ever since he had spied the distant
Landwaster
he had sensed a growing confidence in him among his shipmates. They had always liked him, but now he had demonstrated his eyesight—and his luck. Sometimes even stalwart men had eyesight that was less than excellent. Opir the Boaster himself had once mistaken a floating, bloated sheep for a sea chest and rowed hard in his skiff through a hard rain to haul it in. Men laughed about this around the mead table, and Opir joined in with as much humor as he could muster.

Lidsmod was thrilled—and uneasy.

Gunnar took him aside and gave him a light ax, fit for cutting kindling—and for close combat. “Report to me on what Gorm does,” he said quietly. “But keep out of his way.”

“The moon isn't going to be up for a while yet,” grumbled Gorm. “We'll fall into every puddle in this ridiculous country.”

Lidsmod kept quiet and followed the three men. He thought he could smell horses, but he wasn't sure. After the sea journey this fertile land was a wealth of smells. If only it weren't all so flat. There were no features—merely wet, and trees so thick together they could not be penetrated. He smelled earth and stone. He smelled his companions, all sea and sweat.

They strode through darkness, brambles and branches lashing their legs. Gorm muttered to himself, but Gorm was masterful at keeping quiet when the time came. Gunnar had blundered, Gorm knew. He had no idea where they were. Gorm was unlucky enough to be on a gold journey that was failing before it was even started.

Searching for horses was the first thing fighting men always did. But this splashing and staggering around was like something little boys would do. A river took men deep into a country, Gorm thought. Far into it. They would not have to probe the coast. They could strike all the way into this new land. So why find horses? Gunnar did not have the imagination it required to gut this new countryside. Gorm would get what he wanted, with or without Gunnar.

Ulf lifted his hand. “We're nearly there,” he said.

Lidsmod could scent it too—the fertile odor of livestock.

Gorm tested his sword, loosening it in its scabbard. He tightened his sword belt. “We won't need to use our blades,” breathed Ulf, “to capture horses.”

The moon was well up. Ulf gestured for his companions to wait. Lidsmod kept his hand on the head of his short ax, snug in his belt.

“What do you see?” Ulf asked Lidsmod.

In the dark was a farm. There were human dwellings; Lidsmod could not tell how many. A few. There would be dogs. Lidsmod imagined men and women just beginning to sleep. This was a dark, flat, mean place.

What a miserable little house, thought Lidsmod. Could people live in such a hovel? Most Spjothof folk would not let pigs live in such a dwelling. It was made of mud, and it was peaked like a squashed cap, so water would run down the moldy thatch. A shutter was fastened, but it hung crookedly. A line of firelight flickered.

If there were golden riches in this new land, it would not be here.

The men crept forward. Judging from the sound of sleepy conversation, humans lived in one half of the building—if you could call it a building—and the animals were kept in the other. The door half gave under a push, and the heat of animals breathed out at them. Ulf cut the thong that served as a latch.

A cow bulked against Lidsmod. She was warm and huge. Her wet nose brushed against his hand as he found a rope made of grasses and fastened it around her. Her hooves made a rustle in the straw as Lidsmod tugged.

She would not move. It was like pulling an oak. A man's voice said something, and a human figure marred the darkness. In their eagerness, the searchers had made the mistake of believing that a wall separated the human from the animal living quarters, but there was no such wall.

The mud-house dweller stayed where he was, listening. The cow began to follow Lidsmod, and it was as though a portion of the dwelling detached itself and followed him through the night. Ulf and Eirik hurried after the cow. The voice called after them, unfamiliar words, and a bloused figure ran and stopped in the moonlight. Lidsmod understood the man's confusion, and was thankful for it. What farmer expects to be awakened by four armed cow thieves?

“So,” said Eirik dryly, “we can ride a cow through the countryside. We will terrify the bravest of men.”

Ulf asked, “Where's Gorm?”

“Leave Gorm to his adventures,” said Eirik. “A cow wasn't good enough for him. He wants blood.”

The cow balked again, and Eirik and Lidsmod got behind her to push. She did not move.

“Stick her with something,” said Ulf.

Eirik drew his sword and pinked her. The cow stumbled, and the rope was whipped from Lidsmod's hand as she bolted ahead of them. The men ran, Eirik working his sword back into its scabbard. A cow can be light on her feet when she feels danger, and a cow can run for a good distance when she has to. As he hurried forward, Lidsmod had time to consider the nature of cows.

He had always had a good understanding of animals, and he did not blame her for running. Still, he did not like this race through puddles splashed with starlight, and when the cow began to slow to a trot, Lidsmod was glad. This would make a wonderful poem, he considered. No doubt Eirik would add this to his
Raven
saga. The star-cow, bolting through brambles, followed by the stalwart heroes through the night.

Lidsmod snatched the grass rope. The cow rolled the whites of her eyes, and he patted her, speaking to her in the tone that had always calmed animals at home.

Gunnar ran his hands over the cow. The searchers had done the right thing, but without fire they could not roast the cow, and no man was certain a fire would be safe.

“It's a mean, low place,” said Lidsmod. “No dogs, no horses that I could see. Hardly a place fit for men.” He did not have to say that there was certainly no gold.

No search was a total failure, Gunnar explained. If a man found very little, he did not have to linger where he was. Gunnar was satisfied, and said so. They would leave at dawn and travel upriver.

The missing Gorm, however, was a problem. A man like Gorm could cause alarm to be spread over the countryside. They were a small group of fighting men and would need surprise on their side.

In the first light, Njord inspected
Raven
, showing Lidsmod that the caulking between the strakes remained in good condition. Near the prow a little work with a maul and some tar was required, but the ship was sound.

The new country was a lurid green. It had been a long time since any seaman had seen such a flat, empty place. The river had been in flood recently—there were many dead trees along the bank. Terns worked the river, the white-and-black birds laughing to each other.

Opir milked the cow, and many of the men had a taste of the warm, thick beverage. Gunnar unknotted the rope and slapped the animal to encourage her to leave. “We give the cow back to the land,” said Gunnar.

Lidsmod knew why. A gift looks for return. Perhaps the gods would remember this. The cow bounded out of the camp. It was not a camp now, really. Blankets were packed into sea chests. Men stood ready.

“Gorm is off riding the Westland maidens,” Opir quipped, trying to sound unconcerned, “treating them like steeds.”

Lidsmod could sense the tension in the men. No one wanted to be trapped here on a river shore to be slaughtered by farmers.

When a lone figure slipped from a thicket, Gunnar half drew his sword.

14

It was impossible, at first, to recognize Gorm.

He was muddy, all the way up his woolen leggings, and his tunic was clotted with gore. The blood was black, and even Lidsmod knew enough to reckon the number of hours since Gorm had killed.

Gorm washed his clothes in the river, careful, like all the men of Spjothof, to stay as clean as possible, rinsing his pale yellow hair in the water.

Gunnar knelt as Gorm washed, and Lidsmod could hear Gunnar's taut voice. “Every man in the land will have a sword waiting for us now.”

Gorm did not answer at once. He lifted his dripping head. Water trickled down his face. “They were in my way. I was searching.” Gorm knew he had more knowledge of this land than any other man now. “It was only a man and a woman, and a child. An infant. Hardly a killing. No one saw me. They'll think trolls did it.”

Gorm was pleased. It had been the best night in years, he told himself. There had been sweet darkness and the smell of just-spilled blood, a smell like the sea, but deeper, richer. His sword had sung against bone. It was a delicious feeling. No man from Spjothof could be as silent as Gorm, or kill so well.

“But no gold,” added Gorm. “Nothing like it. Not even copper or brass. Wood and leather, and cracked, worn-out examples of that. I spied into other dwelling huts. No horses. A few swords of no great value. I was quiet, Gunnar. They did not wake, or even stir. You wanted a search—I searched.”

Every man was listening now. Gunnar asked, “No gold fortress?”

Gorm grinned at all the attentive eyes, pleased to be admired. “A fortress, and a few men asleep. If there was gold there, I didn't see it. There were goblets and other strange objects of half lead. Some were inset with stones. I cut them out. Look, here they are. This opal stone may have some value.” Men had first claim to what they found, but secret hoarding was condemned.

Gunnar fingered the opal stone. It was pretty, but any Rhineland trader had offered thousands prettier than this.

“We'll be low in the water with gold in a few days,” said Gorm. “I think it's a good thing there was no treasure here. This means there's even more gold in another place. They must store it all together. In a few nights, we'll be wealthy men.”

The wind carried the ships up the broad river. The current was sky gray. The banks were a distant blanket of land on either side of the river. The men of
Landwaster
manned oars to try to keep pace with the other two vessels.

“They died like lambs,” Gorm said. “Like rags I wiped my sword on.”

The men of
Raven
honed swords, worked leather, and listened.

“They didn't fight,” continued Gorm, “and the woman didn't even struggle. I mounted her, and then I cut her throat. It wasn't even pleasure. It was too easy. This is going to be so simple—we will all grow fat. We will wear out our man parts and get so lazy we won't know how to man an oar. The ships will sink under the gold—”

“Look, I'm Gorm,” said Opir, “rutting everything that moves.” Opir made an excellent imitation of Gorm. His eyes flicked back and forth, and his tongue hung out.

There was laughter.

“There's no need to be afraid of these people,” said Gorm, steel in his voice. “They don't even have sweat baths—”

“I know what Gorm's telling us,” said Opir. “He's warning us that these women stink.”

Some men laughed; all were amazed. Could it be these Westland men and women never bathed? Men discussed it. Perhaps the people the four had encountered the night before had been people of little
virthing
—worth. Perhaps they had been thralls, the lowest sort of slave.