Raven: Blood Eye (31 page)

'Then where, Glum? You think Ealdred will let you stay in his land? Blood-letting heathens like you? So where will you go? You don't have the men to row
Fjord-Elk
back across the sea.'

'I'll buy men,' Glum said, sweeping the stub through the air, 'or pay for passage on another ship. I don't care which.'

'Sigurd will follow you to the world's edge,' I said, dragging my bound arms across my sweaty face. 'The gods favour him.' I looked at Thorleik and Thorgils, hoping at least to plant the seed of doubt in their minds. 'He will find you. All of you. You know it.'

'He'll find a hundred warriors eager to greet him,' Glum snarled, nodding at his kinsmen to bolster their resolve, 'a hundred Sword-Norse who call me jarl. I'll have the silver to buy them,' he grimaced, 'and they will find me a more generous lord than Sigurd the Lucky.' He spat the last words. 'Ha! He's probably dead anyway, belly-speared in his sleep by some Mercian whelp. Now ask the monk where we are.'

I glared at him. 'You believe Sigurd the kind of man to die in his sleep, Glum? You think that's what the Norns have woven for him?'

He hit me again and it hurt. Then he stretched his neck awkwardly. 'Ask the monk where we are, Raven,' he said, scratching at his beard, 'and perhaps I'll make you rich enough to lead your own war band.'

I turned to Egfrith who was watching us intently, his face pale with exertion and fear as he mumbled prayers to his god.

'Where are we, Father?' I asked, deciding to make myself more useful to Glum alive than dead. I nodded to the monk that he should answer truthfully for all our sakes.

He continued his murmuring for a moment, then sniffed loudly, dragging his sleeve beneath his long nose. 'Tomorrow we'll cross the Severn again,' he said, raising his bushy eyebrows, 'then it won't be long before we come across Lord Ealdred's scouts. Or rather they come across us. If the Welsh don't find us first.' He sniffed again.

I translated Egfrith's words and Glum nodded. 'Who are these Welsh?' he asked casually.

'They are heathens, Glum,' I said, and he nodded approvingly, 'but that won't stop them hurling their spears at us. They are raiders from the west. They steal cattle and they kill Englishmen.'

'I like the sound of these Welshmen,' Glum said, smiling at Thorleik. Then the Norseman stepped forward and cut through the rope binding the monk's hands.

'Thank the good Lord!' Egfrith exclaimed, rubbing his chafed wrists. Glum turned and looked into my eyes, then swung back round, slicing his sword into the monk's head. Egfrith's legs collapsed and he dropped like a stone. Cynethryth screamed and I saw that her face was spattered with his blood.

'This Christ slave's blood is shed in your honour, Óðin,' Glum said, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sky, the sword dripping. I recognized relief in his face because he no longer feared the spells Egfrith might have cast at him. Cynethryth was trembling. Weohstan grimaced and made the sign of the cross with his tied hands. 'Thorgils, get the book,' Glum commanded. He moved to wipe the gore-slick blade on Egfrith's habit, then thought better of it, sheathing the sword unclean. Then he pulled his sleek beard through his fist and examined his hand. The palm was red with Egfrith's blood and he seemed surprised. 'What are you waiting for, man?' he barked at Thorgils. 'The book! Don't piss yourself, the priest can't use his magic on you now.' He bent and wiped his bloodied hand on a dark crown of curled dock leaves.

But Thorgils still hesitated, his blue eyes shrouded beneath a heavy brow. 'Make the Englishman carry the book,' he said, looking up at Weohstan. 'Or her,' he said, turning to Cynethryth, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

'When did your balls fall off, Thorgils?' Glum asked, then he stepped forward and picked up the leather sack containing the book. He roughly slung the sack across Cynethryth's shoulder and smeared the remaining blood from his hand across the tunic over her breasts. 'If anything happens to it,' he said, drawing his knife and holding it to the girl's stomach, 'I'll slit you open like a fish.' I was proud of the girl then because although she could not understand him, I saw baleful hate in those green eyes, and I knew she would have plunged the knife into his heart if she could.

The flies were gathering on Egfrith's face as we set off again leaving him for the creatures of the forest, and I wondered what the Christian god would do to us for killing one of his servants. Then we turned to a sound that can chill a man to his bones. It is a forlorn sound, though I have come to love it. 'Aaarrck! Kaah! Kaah!' A great raven sidled and hopped on to the monk's face where it croaked again three times. The Norsemen grinned like wolves as Óðin's black corpse-reaper accepted their offering.

That night there was no moon. It was a night belonging to the things of the forest, a night for spirits and things even more powerful, for men say that on such nights the gods themselves take human form and wander amongst us unrecognized. They say that Óðin All-Father sometimes roams the world seeking knowledge and observing the deeds of great warriors who might fight for him in the last battle at the end of days. Ragnarök.

We lit no fires and I was sorry, for a fire would have warned off the menace I felt stalking amid the black forest. Neither did we sing of riding crest-topped waves in sleek ships, or of hewing down our enemies in the shieldwall. Instead we sat in silence beneath the canopy of an ancient ash whose deeply ridged trunk crawled with sweet-smelling columbine. I took strength from the tree's eternalness, hoping the ash would inform the malevolent night spirits which amongst us were oath breakers and betrayers, and which had been betrayed.

Ealdorman Ealdred's men did not find us the next day and I wondered if Father Egfrith had lied about our being so close to Wessex. Perhaps the monk had hoped Glum would drop his guard, giving Sigurd and Mauger a chance to catch up with us. Or perhaps he had simply been mistaken. Either way, I realized we were now further west than we needed to be. When cutting through dense forest you will naturally take the easiest route and over a time this can make a great difference. We were way off course.

'You shouldn't have killed the little turd,' Thorgils moaned to Glum the next day when at last the Norsemen let us drink our fill from a trickling brook. I had thought even my bones were dry as old sticks. 'The Christian was the only one who knew this land. We're lost, cousin.'

'And I'll leave you here alone if you question me again, you pig's prick,' Glum snapped, slurping water from his cupped hand as big Thorleik quietly filled the empty skin. Glum had made us travel through the night, but in the darkness we had lost our way.

That dawn as the sun rose, Glum realized we had been moving east most of the night. Later we entered a rock-strewn clearing, and as the sun slipped behind the rolling western hills Thorgils spotted an old shepherd's hut high up the bluff where elm, ash and oak gave way to gorse and heather.

Big Thorleik shook his head, making his blond plaits dance. 'We should stay down here amongst the trees, cousin. It's safer.' He pointed his spear towards the hut, which was about to fall into shadow as the sun fell in the west. 'We'll be seen from miles around if we move about up there.'

'Who's going to see us, cousin? The hares and the badgers?' Thorgils said, throwing an arm to encompass hills and woodland. 'Just for once I want to sleep under a roof.' He winced, clasping his hands behind his back in a great stretch. 'I ache all over.'

'Just now I'd take a good night's sleep over a good young cunny,' Glum mumbled, frowning. 'You saw that fat fucking raven the other day, Thorleik.' His eyebrows arched. 'Old Asgot would have said that was a good omen. I say it is a good omen.'

Thorgils nodded, putting a hand on Thorleik's shoulder. 'Óðin favours daring. He's with us, cousin. It pleases him that we'll soon return to our own land with English silver. And we will honour him, Thorleik.' He glanced at Glum who gripped his sword's hilt proudly. 'As Sigurd should have done.'

Thorleik dipped his head in acceptance, unslung his round shield and gripped it in readiness, and then we made our way up a shallow ravine untouched by the setting sun, towards the shelter. We had not bargained on the Welsh.

Thorleik had left the hut to take a piss, but now he burst back in and leant against the old door. 'There are men out there, Glum,' he hissed, 'or wolves.'

By the weak light of a grease lamp I saw fear flare in Glum's eyes and knew he thought Sigurd had found him. 'What did you see, cousin?' he growled, standing to fetch his round shield from where it leant against the cabin's wall. A thin breeze whistled through the gaps where the brittle daub had crumbled away, causing Cynethryth to shuffle closer to Weohstan.

'It's black as a Saracen's arsehole out there. I couldn't see past my own prick,' Thorleik said, thumping his helmet down. 'But they're there all right, and they know we're in here, whatever they are. Týr knows I near enough pissed on one of them.' He rolled his broad shoulders and grabbed his ash spear.

'I hate this land,' Glum muttered, snatching up his own spear, and in a few heartbeats the three Norsemen were armed and battle ready. They looked like grim gods of war, dealers of death in their mail and helmets, hefting their spears and round, scarred shields with their dented iron bosses.

'The Welsh have come for us. Give us weapons, Glum,' I said, pushing myself up against the wall and holding out my bound wrists. 'We'll fight with you.'

He stared at me with his dark eyes and I thought he was about to kill me. But then, because despite his treachery he was still a Sword-Norse, so he would not deny me a place in Valhöll at the mead bench of the slain, he cut my bonds and handed me the spear.

I glanced at the Englishman Weohstan. 'Only you, Raven,' Glum said, turning his back on me to face the door. I could have killed Glum then, run him through with his own spear. But I was a Norseman too. And my god was watching.

Glum kicked open the door. The four of us stepped out into the darkness. There was nothing. No sounds or shapes moving like spirits, only the rolling gorse reflecting what little light touched the world that night.

Thorgils let out a great laugh, turning to Thorleik. 'You were scared of your own prick, Thorleik, you big bastard!' he shouted. Then there was a thud and Thorgils grunted, staggering back with an arrow in his chest. Suddenly, the heather sprang up and came at us, shrieking, but the wet thud of Glum's sword striking meant our enemies were flesh and could be killed. Thorleik and Thorgils threw their spears, thrust with their shields and slashed with their long swords, grunting as they killed. I lunged with the spear, sinking it into a man's shoulder, the battle lust upon me. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I saw the fiends for what they were, sinewy men with muddied faces, crude blades and small black shields. Two jumped on to Thorleik, snarling like dogs and dragging him down with claws and iron. Glum roared as he hacked a man from the shoulder to the hip, but the sword stuck and two more mud-blackened warriors speared him and he screamed in pain. I turned and ran back inside the hut where Weohstan and Cynethryth stood in a dark corner waiting for the end, and I cut their bonds with the spear's blade.

'Run!' I told them, turning to face a black-shielded warrior who stood snarling in the doorway. I gave a great shout and rammed the spear through the shield into his chest, twisting it before yanking it free, then I was outside where arrows were thudding into Thorgils, bouncing off his helmet and shield as he roared and killed. Weohstan snatched up Glum's sword and swung it into a man's face before turning to deflect a spear thrust. Thorgils went down, crying out to Óðin with his last breath. Cynethryth screamed, the sound cutting the night like a knife; then, as if by some dark magic, the black-shields were gone and I fell to my knees, gulping air as Weohstan gave a great roar and cursed his god and Jesus and the saints. The black-shields were gone. But Cynethryth was gone too.

'Welsh bastards!' Weohstan spat on a dead man, yanking off Thorgils's belt and pulling the brynja from his battered body. Through a tear in the sky the stars cast a silvery hue across the scene, revealing nine dead Welshmen amongst the slashed bodies of Glum, Thorgils and Thorleik. Silently, we took mail, helmets and weapons from the dead, including two Welsh throwing spears each, along with the heavier Norse ones. Then, in war gear slick with cooling blood, we faced each other and the clouds healed, concealing the stars and casting the land into darkness.