Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  TO MY FELLOWSHIP

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Map

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Epilogue

  RAVEN

  BLOOD EYE

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  RAVEN

  BLOOD EYE

  Giles Kristian

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409080695

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain

  in 2009 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Giles Kristian 2009

  Giles Kristian has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 9781409080695

  Version 1.0

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK

  can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Born in Leicestershire, Giles Kristian writes full time. He is currently working on the next book in the RAVEN series. He lives between London, New York and Norway.

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Raven is for Sally, with whom

  I have crossed oceans

  TO MY FELLOWSHIP

  Writing is sometimes called the 'lonely art.' It is. And it isn't. As important as the characters in the story itself are a host of real-life protagonists who jump aboard along the way. These folk are a rare and precious commodity to a writer for the simple reason that they understand. They get what we're up to day after day, month after month, year after year. Some of them got Raven so well that they even took it into their own lives and jobs, ballyhooing the story more eloquently than I ever could. These are the people to whom I owe so much, and it is my great pleasure to acknowledge them here.

  My parents never made me conform. They know what I love and what drives me, and they have helped me in more ways than any one person can deserve. Pop, you are a jarl and a legend. Mum, you are the shore. I am proud of you both. Sally, I love you. Much love to my sword-brother James who shared his pay packet with me and has always supported my endeavours; to my beautiful sister, Jackie, who has always told me to 'never quit!'; and to Marky Mark who scraps like an old lady on Age of Empires (and still wins!). Thank you to Edie Campbell for being my second set of eyes, and to Roy and Eddie for loving historical fiction and encouraging me. Nikki Furrer championed Raven before anyone in the business, and in taking it on, my agent Dan Lazar of Writers House was my wave-maker. My gratitude to Peter Hobbs for 'putting a word in' and to Victoria Hobbs for steering my longship into friendly waters. Immeasurable thanks to Sara Fisher and Bill Hamilton of AM Heath who, one morning, gave me the best news I have ever received and made me dance around the bedroom like a drunken Viking on ice skates. To Tom, who convinces me that real jobs should be avoided and who always wants to celebrate, bottoms up! Thanks to the Milners for your love and support and to Stephen for giving me a desk to write at. To my pals in Manhattan, London and the Woodman Stroke Pub, we've not even started yet. Thanks to all at Transworld for your meadhall welcome. Your office is my Valhöll! Finally, thanks to my editor Katie Espiner who made it her business to make writing my business. Katie, you released Raven into blue skies and for that you have my sword.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Although Raven features a group of fictional characters, the story's historical context is consistent with contemporary sources and the conjecture of many of today's medieval scholars. Of course, in the tradition of the sagas, Raven does not escape the odd embellishment or hyperbole. The Anglo- Saxon Chronicle is one of the most important documents to survive from the Middle Ages. Originally compiled on the orders of King Alfred the Great in approximately ad 890, it was subsequently maintained and added to by generations of anonymous scribes until the middle of the twelfth century.

  The entry for ad 793 reads:

  This year came dreadful fore-warnings over the land of the Northumbrians, terrifying the people most woefully: these were immense sheets of light rushing through the air, and whirlwinds, and fiery dragons flying across the firmament. These tremendous tokens were soon followed by a great famine: and not long after, on the sixth day before the ides of January in the same year, the harrowing inroads of heathen men made lamentable havoc in the church of God in Holy-island, by rapine and slaughter.

  In AD 793 a flotilla of sleek longships sailed out of a storm and on to the windswept beach at the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, off England's north-east coast. The marauders who leapt from these grim-prowed craft sacked the monastery there, slaughtering its monks in what was seen as a strike against civilization itself. This event marks the dawn of the Viking age, an era in which adventurous, ambitious heathens surged from their Scandinavian homelands to raid and trade along the coasts of Europe. Fellowships of warriors, bound by honour and wanderlust, would reach as far as Newfoundland and Baghdad, the sword-song of their battles ringing out in Africa and the Arctic. They were nobles and outcasts, pirates, pioneers and great seafarers. They were the Norsemen.

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  WESSEXMEN

  Egbert, king of Wessex

  Edgar, a reeve

  Ealhstan, a carpenter

  Wulfweard, a priest

  Alwunn

  Eadwig

  Griffin, a warrior

  Burghild, his wife

  Siward, a blacksmith

  Oeric, a butcher

  Bertwald

  Eosterwine, a butcher

  Ealdred, an ealdorman

  Mauger, a warrior

  Father Egfrith, a monk

  Cynethryth

  Weo
hstan

  Burgred

  Penda

  Eafa, a fletcher

  Egric

  Alric

  Oswyn

  Coenred

  Saba, a miller

  Eni

  Huda

  Ceolmund

  Godgifu, a cook

  Hunwald

  Cearl

  Hereric

  Wybert

  Hrothgar

  MERCIANS

  Coenwulf, king of Mercia

  Cynegils

  Aelfwald (Grey Beard)

  NORTHUMBRIANS

  Eardwulf, king of Northumbria

  NORSEMEN

  Osric (Raven)

  Sigurd the Lucky, a jarl

  Olaf (Uncle), shipmaster of Serpent

  Asgot, a godi

  Glum, shipmaster of Fjord-Elk

  Svein the Red

  White-haired Eric, son of Olaf

  Black Floki

  Scar-faced Sigtrygg

  Njal

  Oleg

  Eyjolf

  Bjarni, brother of Bjorn

  Bjorn, brother of Bjarni

  Kalf

  Bram the Bear

  Arnkel

  Knut, steersman of Serpent

  Tall Ivar

  Osten

  Gap-toothed Ingolf

  Halfdan

  Thorolf

  Kon

  Thormod

  Gunnlaug

  Thorkel

  Northri

  Gunnar

  Thobergur

  Eysteinn

  Ulf

  Ugly Einar

  Halldor, cousin of Floki

  Arnvid

  Aslak

  Thorgils, cousin of Glum

  Thorleik, cousin of Glum

  Orm

  Hakon

  GODS

  Óðin, the All-Father. God of warriors and war, wisdom and poetry

  Frigg, wife of Óðin

  Thór, slayer of giants and god of thunder. Son of Óðin

  Baldr, the beautiful. Son of Óðin

  Týr, Lord of Battle

  Loki, the Mischiefmonger. Father of Lies

  Rán, Mother of the Waves

  Njörd, Lord of the Sea and god of wind and flame

  Frey, god of fertility, marriage and growing things

  Freyja, goddess of love and sex

  Hel, goddess of the underworld

  Völund, god of the forge and of experience

  Midgard, the place where men live. The world

  Asgard, home of the gods

  Valhöll, Óðin's hall of the slain

  Yggdrasil, the World-Tree. A holy place for the gods

  Bifröst, the Rainbow-Bridge connecting the worlds of gods and men

  Ragnarök, Doom of the Gods

  Valkyries, Choosers of the Slain

  Norns, the three weavers who determine the fates of men

  Fenrir, the Mighty Wolf

  Jörmungand, the Midgard-Serpent

  Hugin (Thought), one of the two ravens belonging to Óðin

  Munin (Memory), one of the two ravens belonging to Óðin

  Mjöllnir, the magic hammer of Thór

  My mother once told me

  She'd buy me a longship,

  A handsome-oared vessel

  To go sailing with Vikings:

  To stand at the sternpost

  And steer a fine warship

  Then head back for harbour

  And hew down some foemen.

  Egil's Saga

  THE HEARTH IS SPEWING MORE SMOKE THAN FLAME, SEETHING angrily and causing some of the men to cough as they hunker down amongst the reindeer furs. The hall's stout door creaks open, making a flame leap and tempting the acrid smoke to draw. Shadows edge around the room like Valkyries, the demons of the dead, hiding in corners waiting for titbits, hungry for human flesh. Perhaps they have caught a whisper of death in the fire's crack and spit. Certainly they have waited a long time for me.

  Even in Valhöll a hush has fallen like a mantle of new snow, as Óðin, Thór and Týr lay down their swords, put aside their preparations for Ragnarök, the final battle. Am I too arrogant? More than likely. And yet, I do believe that even the gods themselves desire to hear the one with the red eye tell his tale. After all, they have played their part in it. And this is why they laugh, for men are not alone in seeking eternal fame: the gods crave glory too.

  As though summoned to vanquish the shadows, the hearth bursts into flame. Men's faces come alive in the orange glow. They are ready. Eager. And so I take a deep, bitter breath. And begin.

  PROLOGUE

  England, AD 802

  I DO NOT KNOW WHERE I WAS BORN. WHEN I WAS YOUNG, I WOULD sometimes dream of great rock walls rising so high from the sea that the sun's warmth never hit the cold, black water. Though perhaps those dreams were crafted from the tales I heard men tell, the men from the northlands where the winter days die before they begin and the summer sun never sets.

  I know nothing of my childhood, of my parents, or if I had brothers and sisters. I do not even know my birth name. And yet, perhaps it says much about my life that my earliest memories are stained red. They are written in the blood that marks my left eye, for which men have always feared me.

  I was perhaps fifteen years old and thought myself a man when the heathens came. My village was known as Abbotsend and it was a dreary place. Supposedly it was named after the holy father who climbed into the branches of a tall oak and there remained in penance for three years without food or water, preserved only by his own piety and the will of the Lord. Only when climbing down did the man fall and die from his injuries. And so it was that where he died became the place of the abbot's end. Whether the story is true or not I cannot say, but I suppose it is as good an explanation for the name as any and more interesting than most. Abbotsend lay on a windswept spit of land jutting boldly into the sea a day's ride south-west of Wareham in the kingdom of Wessex. Though no king would ever have reason to visit Abbotsend. It was a settlement like any other, home to simple folk who expected nothing more from life than food and shelter and the rearing of children. A good Christian might say that such a humble place was ever likely to be blessed and by that blessing suffer, as its namesake had suffered and as all martyrs do. But a pagan would spit at such words, claiming the inconsequence of the place was reason enough that it be culled like a sick animal. For the village of Abbotsend no longer exists and I am to blame for its end.

  I worked for old Ealhstan the carpenter, felling ash and alderwood for the cups and platters he turned on his lathe.

  'I know, old man. All men must eat and drink,' I would say wearily, interpreting Ealhstan's gesture of banging two plates together and nodding to some passing man or woman, 'and so shall we if we keep making the things others need.' And Ealhstan would grunt and nod because he was mute.

  And so I spent most days alone in the wooded valley east of the village, cutting and shaping timber with Ealhstan's axe. I had a roof over my head and food in my belly and I stayed away from those who would rather I had never come to that place, those who feared me for my blood-red eye and because I could not tell them whence I came.

  The carpenter alone did not hate or fear me. He was hardworking and old and could not speak, and he would not indulge in such emotions. He had taken me in and I repaid his kindness with blisters and sweat and that was that. But the others were not like Ealhstan. Wulfweard the priest would make the sign of the cross when he saw me, and the women would tell their daughters to stay away from me. Even the boys kept their distance for the most part, though sometimes they would hide amongst the trees and jump out to beat me with sticks, but only when there were three or four of them and all full of mead. Even then the beatings lacked the fury to break bones, for everyone respected old Ealhstan's skill. They needed his cups and platters and barrels and wheels and so they usually left me alone.

  There was a girl. Alwunn. She was red-cheeked and plump and we had lain together after the Easter feast wh
en the only living things not drunk on mead were the dogs. The mead had made me brave and I had found Alwunn drawing water from the well and without a word I took her hand and led her to a patch of tall, damp rye grass. She seemed willing enough, enthusiastic even, when it came to it. But in truth it was a graceless fumble and afterwards Alwunn was ashamed. Or perhaps she was afraid of what her kin would do if they found out about us. Either way, after that clumsy night she avoided me.

  For two years I lived with Ealhstan, learning his craft so I could take his place at the lathe when he was gone. I would wake before sunrise and take a rod and line down to the rocks to catch mackerel for our breakfast. Then I would scour the woods for the best trees from which Ealhstan would make whatever people needed: tables, benches, cartwheels, bows, arrows and sword scabbards. From him I learned the magic of different trees, like the way the yew's heartwood gives the war bow its strength whilst the sapwood makes it flexible, until in the end I knew from sight and touch alone whether or not a tree would suit a certain purpose. I would spend hours with the oaks especially, though I did not know why they fascinated me, only that they had some power over my imagination. In their presence, strange half-thoughts would weave a tapestry in my mind, its threads worn, the colour a dull faded brown. I would sometimes find myself mouthing sounds to which I could put no meaning and then in frustration I would name the trees and plants aloud to steer my mind from the fog. Still, I would come back to the oaks. I was drawn from tree to tree searching for great curving limbs in which the grain would run so strong that the wood could not be broken. But the old carpenter had no use for enormous oak timbers and chided me for wasting my time.