Raven: Blood Eye
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
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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
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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.
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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.