Raven of the Waves (19 page)

He had believed that Gormsthrall would bring him stature and honor, and that the years ahead would be kind. When the men from Heglund, a village of rich pig farmers, docked and traded stories over mead, Gorm would sit upright among them, his silent pride better than any boast.

Now he did not need to hurry. He was deliberate and careful. His future had fled, and he would seek out the man who had caused it to depart. And kill him.

The fire danced, and men crouched or stood near it, the shadows quaking. Gorm stepped into the circle of light. Ulf sat with his hands folded, a sleepy look in his eyes as his gaze met Gorm's.

Good, steady Ulf, thought Gorm. The man everyone trusts.

“Stand up,” said Gorm in a quiet voice.

Ulf stood from his place beside Lidsmod. The young man forced himself to stand too, his legs stiff from rowing. Ulf said the old justice formula, “Right for wrong, I will pay for your loss in gold.”

Men leaned forward. This was only proper, and they were not surprised that Ulf wanted to pay for what he had done. Ulf was a worthy man. They were relieved that Ulf realized that the loss of this thrall was a loss for all of them. A thrall with knowledge of medicine would have fetched a high price from the Swedes or from a jarl in another village.

“You all know me well,” Ulf continued, “as you knew my father and my uncles. You know the men and the women of my family always pay what they owe.”

Men murmured. This was true.

“Tell us why you did it,” urged Njord.

“Yes,” hissed Gorm. His voice was like sticks breaking. “I want to know why you did it too, and I will listen with great interest.”

“I will pay,” Ulf said. He spoke quietly, but spoke into the soul of every man there. “Because Odin has given us good fortune. And because the thrall, little Leg Biter—Wiglaf—had lost the strength of one arm and was not ours to keep. He belongs to the gods.” Ulf used high speech, the language of challenges and formal contracts.

“This is madness,” Gorm spat. “No one believes such froth about Odin and the gods. Nobody listens to that sort of talk—that's for children around hearthfires. We're men, Ulf. I do not accept your gold. I demand a greater payment.”

Lidsmod shook inwardly at these words. This was close to a formal challenge.

“You seek my life?” asked Ulf. His voice was quiet, as though they sat on a pleasant afternoon in the sun.

“Maybe some of our shipmates,” said Gorm, “dream about Odin as much as Ulf does. I don't. I piss on the gods. Step forward, Ulf. I challenge you before all this company to fight to the death.”

Ulf shook his shoulders and cocked his head back and forth like a man stirring from a nap—Ulf's way, his friends knew, of hiding his apprehension. A brave man sometimes had to disguise his fear, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with affected complacency. Gorm was very nearly the most dangerous fighter in Spjothof, and even a stout warrior like Ulf would stand little chance.

Ulf said nothing more to Gorm but slowly drew Long and Sharp from its scabbard. He called the name of this fine sword, the result of highest dwarf craft.
“Langhvass
!” he said, speaking softly to his blade. “Sword of my fathers, stand with me in this dark night!”

This was a classic war prayer, and the words turned in each man. They did not want to watch this last fight of such a good sea mate. Lidsmod glanced at Gunnar and saw that the chief was tempted to step in. Gunnar's hand was on his own sword, but he did not want to shame Ulf before all these men. The old harpoon scar was livid on Gunnar's cheek, and Lidsmod understood how hard it was to lead men.

Lidsmod put his hand on his own hilt and stepped forward into the firelight. “And you will have to fight me too,” he said, adding, in the ancient saga phrase, “though it cost me blood and breath.” His voice was ragged, but he knew the words were correct.

Eirik leaped between them, his bandaged arm a reminder of the lost thrall. “Lidsmod and Ulf do not owe any of us a life.”

Gorm snorted. “If they choose not to fight me, I will accept thirty sheep in payment.”

Ulf and Lidsmod had no sheep. Gorm knew this. All Ulf had was his share of the gold, and his life, and Lidsmod was a new shield man, who had never settled a farm. Every word now, and every gesture, was borrowed from the sagas. The challenge, even Eirik's attempt to prevent the fight before it began, were all from one ancient song or another, and Gorm and Ulf were now trapped in the Norns' web, in the net of myth and fate.

Gorm kicked aside a charred knot of wood. His sword flickered in the firelight. He smiled with teeth like gold and beckoned Ulf forward like an adversary in a battle poem.

Gorm's sword swept easily and bit blue fire from Ulf's blade. The clash made every man start and creep backward, away from the fire. In song, real steel does not bite steel, nor do real men sweat in firelight as Ulf was sweating, despite his calm smile. Gorm smiled too and lunged, feinted, and struck sparks again. Ulf circled, blocking two more blows, but Gorm was toying with him, teasing, Gorm's shadow like a second Gorm, helping him, leaning forward to spy a weakness.

Neither man had a shield. Neither man had a helmet, nor did each wear armor. Lidsmod waited, sword in hand, for his turn to taste the keen edge. The fighting men wore only wool, the gray cloth of their village. Gorm faked, lunged, feinted, and then Ulf fought off a series of blows toward his face, the white blade of Gorm ringing off Long and Sharp. Dancing around Ulf, Gorm showed why he was feared.

Ulf was slow. He struck back, but as his sword was raised it was plain that Ulf knew it would not come close to Gorm, and it did not. Ulf was powerful, legs and arms, but his strength was against him now—he was not quick enough.

The blades were lengths of firelight, spans of heat that spat sparks, and yet it was Gorm who crept ever nearer, and it was Gorm whose leg snaked behind Ulf, and the big man was down. Gorm was on him, his hand reaching to grip Ulf's hair for an easy throat cut, but Ulf struck Gorm on the side of the head, and Gorm sprawled face down in the sand.

Gorm stood, brushing the white grains from his smile and spat. Lidsmod felt his heart shrivel.

“He's right.” A white-haired figure stepped between them, holding out his arms to embrace Gorm. “He's right,” repeated Njord. The interruption in the combat was welcome but startling, an act not rooted in poetry or battle lore. “He doesn't owe us anything, not even gold. Wiglaf paid for his freedom by binding our cuts, Gorm.”

“That's true,” said Eirik, eager to support Njord even in this break from protocol. “No one wants blood.”

“This fighting is needless, Gorm,” said Njord.

“Are there no men here?” asked Gorm, looking around at the firelit faces. “Are there no strong men here at all?”

Gorm struck Njord fiercely with the pommel of his sword.

39

The blow was quick.

The men groaned as Njord fell, face hard into the sand, a starfish of blood spreading in his white hair. Men stared, unable to move or think, anguished to see the blood of this fine seaman, who once carved a serpent from the tusk of a narwhal, and whose steady hand seemed to cup the stars and count them each night.

“Njord!” cried Lidsmod. He fell to his knees beside his old friend, the master of wind. “Njord, get up,” Lidsmod implored, bending over the helmsman where he lay.

Gorm did a thing no saga prescribed. Men took in a hard breath as they saw it. Lifting his sword over Lidsmod as he knelt beside the bleeding shipwright, Gorm steadied himself for the deathblow. Lidsmod saw the sword about to fall but stayed right where he was, kneeling protectively over his friend.

There was a snarl, and a shape burst through the dark.

Torsten grappled with Gorm. Gorm wrestled, clawed, tried to slash with his sword, but the unarmed Torsten, clad only in his bear shirt, hammered Gorm with both fists. Blood streamed from Gorm's face. Torsten roared and smashed Gorm with the bear god's fury.

The sound of Torsten's fists was sickening. Gorm's face was a scarlet mass by the time Gunnar and Eirik had their arms around the berserker. None of the other men stepped forward, unwilling to interfere in a moment when a god was present among them.

The two wrestled with Torsten until Gunnar cried out, asking for help. Then the others joined in. It was a long struggle, but at last Torsten was bound and the bear roar was silenced.

The berserker was bright with Gorm's blood. “Gorm said he pissed on the gods.”

No one spoke.

“Did I—” Torsten coughed. “Did I hurt him?”

Gunnar put an arm around him. “Sleep, Torsten. Go with these men and sleep in the ship.”

“Did I hurt him?” asked the anguished Torsten.

Gorm died before dawn.

What we are dissolves in the eyes of men when we die, Lidsmod knew. A stubborn enemy becomes an honored memory, and a contrary spirit becomes a solemn absence when life is spent. Just as a blood eagle alters an enemy chief into a prize for the gods, so Gorm's death changed him from the man they had known.

His shipmates grieved, brave men who had known Gorm since childhood. Gorm's soul had been a labyrinth, a long fjord with many turnings. But now he was beloved for all his knotty nature. Never again would they see him stepping out from a forest with his prey.

Floki wept most bitterly. Gorm's faults were easy to forget now that his eyes had closed forever. Floki would give Gorm all his sheep back. He did not want the horse price. He wanted Gorm—sneaky, untrustworthy, quick-footed Gorm.

Lidsmod, like the others, felt the weight of this death. He felt the taste of it. He knew that Gorm had only himself to blame, but it was a bad thing to lose a man.

Who could make men out of a stick, or a scoop of mud? No one. Men could not be carved out of ivory or worked out of bone. They came out of air and went back into air, a mystery.

Eirik sang the song of Heimdall, the enigmatic god who had made men. The song was what each man needed to hear at this moment. Men were an accident, an afterthought, beloved of very little. Did the sky love men? Did the sea? Did the surf off the rocky shore love men?

Only men loved men. They wrapped their shipmate in sealskin. They would not burn his bones in this unclean land. They would take his remains to Spjothof, where he could be mourned among his neighbors.

40

Aethelwulf swept the ruined sanctuary clean of all ash, but now the wind had turned and the ash was blowing back again. He was like a man sweeping back the sea. The charred bits scurried around his feet and swirled.

The broom fell apart, a mere stick in his hands. The parts of the broom scattered, twig and cord. He gave a weary laugh, and bent over to gather them up. He sat in a corner doing a good job, he thought, of repairing the bundled straw. Now that he had it in his lap, he could see that it had suffered from fire like everything else. Fire came. Wind blew. Man did what he could. To work was to pray.

Lente, lente
, he told himself.
Semper lente
. Slowly, slowly. Always slowly. To lose is to have. He had been a smart, ill-tempered young man. Now he was a loving, ill-tempered old man.

Wiglaf staggered across the ashy earth with a bucket. Water slopped. Crook-jawed Stag trotted in behind him. The old dog had stayed in the woods until the day after the new sheep-fold was finished, as though only the sound of ewes and lambs could call the dog to his home. Or perhaps it was the sound of Wiglaf's voice, back among them, gathered in from the road.

“Put the bucket anyplace,” said Aethelwulf. “Quickly,” he added kindly, “while there is still some water left in it.”

Something dropped from Wiglaf's tunic and spun across the floor. A line of thin white fangs grinned at Aethelwulf from the ashes. He picked up the object and ran his finger over the teeth.

“It's a comb, made from an antler,” said Wiglaf.

“Indeed?” said Aethelwulf politely, handing it back.

A step at the door made them both turn. Redwald was dressed in a riding cloak, but now he carried a long sword at his belt. Wiglaf knew that Redwald had tarried here, gathering men, taking his time; he rode all the way downriver only after the strangers had ample time to sail away. Redwald was brave enough, but cat smart.

Wiglaf mourned Edwin and his father, but Aethelwulf had counseled that it was a blessing that Forni and his mother were still very much alive. The sight of Lord Redwald disturbed Wiglaf, the nobleman gaunt and bleary-eyed.

“And what charm craft do you have in your hand, Wiglaf?” asked Redwald, accepting a cup of new ale.

“A gift,” said Wiglaf. “From the hand of one of the strangers.”

“Cast it,” Redwald commanded, “into the fire.”

Wiglaf looked to Aethelwulf.

“Wiglaf's life was spared,” said the abbot. “This gift reminds us of their mercy.”

“I will have no reminder of any of those heathen men in my presence,” said Redwald. Neighbors said that Redwald wandered the ruined village at night, standing guard over the charred timbers of his ale hall.

Aethelwulf took the cunning object and, with a swirl of his robe, made a gesture, the fire spitting and smoking within its ring of stones.

Wiglaf nearly cried out, but kept his silence at a glance from the abbot.

“It's only right,” said Redwald, “that we suffer no remnant of them among us.”

“Indeed Redwald,” said Aethelwulf. “It is as you wish.”

The red-haired nobleman stared into the fire with what looked like real regret. “It is just,” he said. He offered a sad smile in Wiglaf's direction, firelight glittering in his eyes.

Later that night, Aethelwulf lay a hand on Wiglaf's shoulder. “Let it remind us,” said Aethelwulf, “of our blessings.” He pressed the comb into Wiglaf's hand.

Aethelwulf then uttered a prayer, but this was holy speech nothing like any Wiglaf knew. It was a prayer in farm talk, not in Latin—in the language of women at the well, in the tongue of shepherds. It was glorious, but so unusual that Wiglaf did not know whether to say amen after the poem speech was finished, or make the sign of the cross, or simply wait to hear what the abbot would say next.