Raven of the Waves (16 page)

Such messages were formal and always memorized, down to the smallest detail. Aethelwulf responded with the timeworn permission to speak: “I await your tidings.” He was inwardly certain that this message pertained to ordering the slaughter of some bullock or arranging a gift of candle wax to the abbey, or some equally irrelevant request sent on its way long before the village had been lost.

“Lord Redwald has heard your message of the strangers from the river, and the fires, and the blood upon his soil,” said the messenger. “Lord Redwald assures you that he is riding forth with an army that, with the blessing of God the Almighty, will cast these wicked men into the river that brought them.”

Some of his old youthful impatience returned to Aethelwulf now—anger and pride. “The distance one man can ride, an army could travel in the same number of hours.”

To his surprise, the mud-soiled man knelt at the abbot's feet. “Father, King Aethelred swore that such strangers attacked only for church gold,” he offered in his city English. “No one believed they would harm good village folk. What I have seen, passing through Lord Hunlafs land—” Real emotion, or a failing of his descriptive powers, choked the messenger for a moment. He continued at last, “I have never seen so much blood on the ground.”

The Devil loves sarcasm, so Aethelwulf controlled his tone when he said, “I look forward to welcoming Lord Redwald's army.”

30

Smoke rose straight into the sky.

Gunnar directed that all the gold be placed where Eirik and Floki worked, sorting the gold and wrapping it into blankets. There was a blanket full of golden cups and silver plates, and another glittering with candleholders. Lidsmod took pleasure at the sound the heavy treasures made, heaped together.

Men swung the slain into the fire, and the burning bodies gave off their own heavy blue smoke. This burning was not done mockingly, but as a matter of no consequence. It was proper for the dead to be burned, and useless to leave them underfoot. Lidsmod could feel the heat, even where he stood near the gold, far from the fires.

Opir flushed out a goose, a big, angry bird. Perhaps it had been in the forest, with all the other livestock, and had not, in the nature of geese, wanted to remain hiding. Opir ran after the bird, waving his sword. The bird dodged, honking, easily escaping Opir, who began honking after the goose, trying to woo it.

Lidsmod had to laugh. How gooselike Opir was! Or perhaps the goose was Opirlike.

Opir surrendered. He fell to the ground, his arms outstretched. The goose was too quick for him.

Two men from
Landwaster
tried to tackle the large fowl. It eluded them and left them laughing in the mud.

“Leave the bird to me,” said Trygg, selecting an arrow from his quiver with care. He nocked an arrow into the bowstring. This was a special arrowhead, a scythe-shaped head, and Trygg did not hurry his shot. The bow bent. The goose ran, neck outstretched, white feathers drifting behind him.

Trygg's bow made a single, musical note. The goose ran, its neck outstretched but pink now, with blood. The bird fled headless, the white wings spread, the bird running silently as men laughed until they had tears.

Lidsmod wanted to avoid looking in the direction of the blood eagle, where the corpse stood, its black wings spread to the sky. The sight blanched Lidsmod, but he could not keep from stealing glances in its direction. He had not guessed that gods and men could be so cruel.

“No one enjoys their first battle,” said Gunnar.

“This has been a good day, in every way,” Lidsmod said, trying to believe it. And he did, for an instant.

“I love battle,” said Gunnar frankly. “But this—” He made an exasperated gesture. “This smoke and heat—”

Like most men of Spjothof, Gunnar did not care to put deep feelings into words. But Lidsmod recognized a change in the leadman's manner toward him. Gunnar spoke now as to an equal.

“This is not like sailing under the wind,” suggested Lidsmod.

Gunnar gave a soft laugh, and Lidsmod could see why his mother enjoyed sharing a cup with this quiet man. Gunnar said, “The men will be tired soon.”

The hall was burning well now. Most gathered around the burning
skali
, although a few watched bright-eyed as Eirik inserted poles into the carry loops in the chests. A few men staggered, ale-crazed, and the steersman from
Crane
urinated into the burning hall, the amber arc hissing as his companions laughed.

When a spear lanced through the windless sky, it looked like a spear thrown carelessly, in exuberance at the sight of the blaze and the tremendous booty. Another joined it, and it seemed like another spear tossed recklessly in exuberance.

A short, dark spear fell through the crook of Opir's arm as he pulled feathers from the goose, and he looked around angrily. “That nearly hit me!”

Someone, Lidsmod thought, was throwing with a very thoughtless aim.

An oarsman from
Landwaster
stumbled away from the hall fire, a long, yellow shaft protruding from his side. Surely, Lidsmod thought, this was a trick of the eyes. Surely this was not what it appeared to be.

The man fell. He opened his mouth and belched a fountain of bright heart blood.

The men from
Landwaster
gathered around their fallen sea mate. Men stirred stupidly. Ale dumbness made them slow as yet another spear hummed through the smoke.

Only then did they hear Opir's voice, high-pitched over the thunder of flames, calling for help.

31

Opir fought at the edge of the village; Lidsmod and Gunnar tugged their swords from their scabbards as they joined him. Opir the Boaster was a nimble swordsman, and as he let out a high war whoop that froze his assailants, it was clear to Lidsmod that Opir fought almost as well as he could talk.

These English fighters were dark men, with dark leather and brown hair. A half dozen men, Lidsmod thought. Two or three had boar-head helmets. One wore a helmet of shiny metal, well forged, chased with iron. They pounded Opir to the ground, hammering the boaster's shield with their sword edges, the sound loud and sickening.

More dark-mailed men arrived, faces flushed, eyes glittering. At last Gunnar's men formed a shield wall. Gunnar fought hard, shield and sword, the shield wall forcing forward, driving the attackers away from the recumbent body of Opir. Lidsmod knelt over the still-breathing Opir as Gorm joined the front line, blood winging into the sunlight.

Lidsmod shook his fallen friend.

Opir blinked. “I lie down when I am tired,” he said weakly.

Lidsmod's sword arm was burning, already weary, but he knew that his inexperience kept him from doing any harm to the enemy. He fought with his entire body, from his toes to his helm, throwing his entire weight into each shield clash, but he was not heavy enough, or canny enough, to do more than keep his place in the front.

Men from
Landwaster
and
Crane
filled the half-drunk, exhausted battle line. The fire of the village burned behind them, and Lidsmod could see for the first time that these attackers were far less weary than the seamen. Several were clean-shaven, but the jarl was a man with a bright red beard, calling out orders in the half-familiar mishmash of sounds that passed for speech in this land. Ulf threw two of them to the ground, and while they struggled to rise he killed them, driving the point of his sword into one throat, then the other.

A spear shattered, and a splinter as long as an arm lanced Gorm's thigh. It was not a serious wound, and Gorm laughed. He laughed again, and fought harder. But there had been a moment when his sword had hesitated, and Gorm faltered, shaken.

Lidsmod was aware that this was a battle right out of a poem. He did not allow himself to acknowledge the fear that weakened his legs—something close to panic—or the strange ecstasy too, the satisfaction that came from driving a shield backward, fear in his opponent's eyes. Eirik was bleeding, an arrow in one arm. He began to sing the saga of the one-armed warrior who battled an army of giants. Gunnar closed in beside Eirik and told him to save himself.

But the poet lifted his voice in another song, a sound that must have chilled these boar-headed attackers. The song was an ancient one, handed down by generations of Eirik's forefathers; it told of the heartwood of Spjothof, how no ax could slice it through.

One seaman was down, and then another. Sea mates dragged them to their feet, but the Spjotmen crumbled. Careful to help the wounded and retrieve fallen swords, they did not panic, but they did not stand and fight. They turned to taunting. They bluffed and beckoned, inviting these landsmen onto the points of their swords.

But these landsmen were disciplined, and followed their jarl's directions. They did not hurry. They kept together and closed deliberately around a small knot of men, including Gunnar and Lidsmod.

Ulf and the bleeding Eirik stayed at Gunnar's side. They called to other men, and together they formed a
skjaldborg
—a shield fort—around their chief.

Swords slammed shields. The shield fort buckled, then pushed back. Poems told that it was as hard to penetrate a shield fort as it was for a hound to break a hedgehog's neck.

Gunnar called out, “To the ships!”

Lidsmod too raised his voice: “To
Raven
!” As though the sound of the ship's name was enough to save their lives.

32

Wiglaf hid inside the ship, but even there he could see the smoke rolling into the sky. He could clearly hear the cries of the strangers as they celebrated the terrible thing they had done. Wiglaf had caught only a glimpse, climbing high onto a sea chest, but he could not drive the image from his mind. The tortured figure of Lord Hunlaf was obscured now by burning thatch.

How long, Wiglaf wondered, before they do such a thing to me?

The old man who stayed in the ship was named Njord, another odd name. The sound of the name was soft and curled, like a lock of white hair. Wiglaf liked saying it, and he convinced himself that Njord was not as dangerous as the others. Njord was working with a knife, carving on a large white tooth. Wiglaf had never seen a tooth this big. It was nearly as large as a cow's horn, but wonderful, cream white.

One moment there was quiet, except for the cries of celebration, and the next the clatter of shields and the chime of swords drifted through the smoke. Njord stopped carving and stood, leaning against the side of the ship.

The Spjotmen ran, yelling, some of them bleeding. Their words were harsh and shouted—bellowed. Wiglaf had never known such noisy people. Strong shoulders ran the ship out into the river. Men fell into the ship, speaking excitedly, and Wiglaf cowered.

Sea chests were swung into the ship. They were so heavy that the men grunted with effort, as well as with fury at what was happening. The ship was rocked into the river, and men splashed, shoving the vessel farther into the current. The heavy sea chests unbalanced the ship. Men grunted, fighting the chests into new positions until the ship steadied. The ship worked by sweating, bleeding men, and oars rumbled out through the oar holes.

The ship turned, the strength of the men working it, but there were cries and crashing sounds from the bank. Wiglaf caught the sound of a few English curses, and his pulse quickened. The men of the other ships were not so quick. There were commands, and then the rush of oars in water.

Bowmen stood and loosed arrows toward the bank. An answering spear rang into a shield. The ship yawed with the current, and there were cries everywhere as Wiglaf cringed.

Blood pooled in the ship. Wounds gaped. Men gasped as they rowed.
Raven
had to stay near the other two ships until they were safely into the main current. A man with a badly scarred nose seemed to call out to the attackers that he was not afraid, or that his arrows would kill all of them, or something equally frightening to Wiglaf's ears.

Lidsmod manned an oar too. An arrow sang off a helmet, and he ducked. Another arrow splintered off a shield boss. Men shouted threats toward the riverbank, but it was obvious they were eager to reach the fastest current.

Wiglaf was not happy to see these men hurt. They were in pain, and that made Wiglaf bite his lip in sympathy. Besides, they might remember that Wiglaf was not really one of them and do something terrible to him now.

As the men rowed, the ship began to skim the river. The fighters on the bank, however, seemed to keep pace with the ship. An arrow glanced through the sunlight. Another struck the cross-shaped frame that held the furled sail. The arrow stayed there until a hand snatched it from the wood and snapped it in two.

Gradually the pursuers were left behind. Wiglaf found himself able to look over the sides of the ship. He wanted to call out that he was here, that he was well, but there was no one to call to. The other two ships skimmed the river, and a flock of ducks formed miniature wakes as they swam out of the way. The blood puddles on the oak planks shifted back and forth as the men rowed.

Gunnar struck a sea chest with his fist. “We were caught drunk, pissing into the fire.”

“It was everyone's fault,” said Njord. “We all should have expected this.”

“Why are we running away?” asked Gorm. “We can turn back. We have nothing to be afraid of!”

No one answered him. The ship rode more heavily now. With the gold in its belly, it would not be as seaworthy.

Gorm stopped rowing and stood upright. “I am ashamed of my village! We run like children at the sight of a few helmets.” Blood streamed from under Gorm's helmet and from the gash on his thigh. He did not seem to feel the wounds.

Gunnar ordered the rowing stopped. The men panted, leaning forward to rest.

“Gorm,” said Gunnar evenly, “sit down.”

Gorm pulled the helmet off his head. His blood was scarlet in the sunlight. Eirik was bleeding from a black puncture in his upper arm. There were other wounds among the men. Opir spat blood into his hand. He worked fingers back into his jaw and removed a broken molar. “I tried to bite a chunk out of a shield, and it didn't taste very good,” said Opir.