Raven: Blood Eye Page 13

  Sigurd shook his head. 'Ealdred won't do that. He's a slithering snake, but this is his mead hall, Olaf.' He grimaced. 'He'll pay in blood for it.'

  But Olaf looked unconvinced.

  'Would you burn your own hall?' Sigurd asked him.

  Olaf considered it, then shook his head. 'No,' he said.

  'Ealdred might be dead,' the bear-like Bram countered, the eyes in his battered face shining with violence. 'Young Eric caught him with the axe. Squealing like a sow he was.' Olaf gripped his son's shoulder proudly and white-haired Eric straightened at the touch, but admitted he had only struck a glancing blow, not a lethal one.

  Sigurd shook his head. 'Whatever he's thinking, he'll have sons out there and each of them with one eye on such a hall as this. No, they won't burn it,' he said, turning to Asgot who was kneeling by the dead, finishing the death rites with a flourish of his bony arms. 'What say you, godi?'

  Asgot looked up at the beamed roof with its blackened thatch. Then with a hand he brushed away the rushes before him, took a pouch from his belt and scattered the bones across the cracked earthen floor. His face was pinched and closed, but then his eyes widened, seeming unnaturally bright in the dark hall. 'They'll burn it, Sigurd,' he said.

  There were eighteen of us now. Olaf told me to arm myself properly and so I knelt by Njal's stiffening body and was struggling with his sword belt when Asgot hissed at me.

  'Careful, boy.' His ancient face was full of spite. 'The death maidens are here in this hall.' His yellowed eyes rolled up to the roof beams. 'They choose the slain for Óðin. Carry their souls to Valhöll.' He grinned. 'They can be wicked bitches.'

  As I fumbled with Njal's mail shirt, trying to pull it over his white face, I hummed one of the heathens' songs so that the demons of carnage would know that I still lived and not take me by mistake. Then I squirmed into the brynja, smelling the grease on the iron rings, and was awed by the weight of the thing. It dragged my whole body down and I feared I would be unable to move. And yet I found I could move well enough and the brynja's weight was then a great comfort because I knew such a thing could turn an arrow aside.

  The hearth flames licked the splintered wood of the table before bursting into life to throw an orange glow into every corner of the hall, vanquishing all but the deepest shadows. Every face was distorted by the firelight so that it had a fierce, animal-like aspect that was terrifying. I touched the wooden amulet of Óðin at my neck, feeling sure that he ruled in that place of death, no matter that the hall's owner Ealdred was a Christian. But the All-Father was a cruel lord. His wanderlust and vainglory had brought the Norsemen to a place that promised nothing now but their deaths. 'The gods love chaos,' Black Floki said, smiling bitterly and gesturing at my amulet.

  'I'll wager the English followed us along the coast, gathering men as they went,' Olaf said, removing his blood-smeared helmet and wiping it on one of Ealdred's tapestries.

  'If Glum and the others were here things would be more fun,' Svein the Red commented, pulling an ivory comb through his thick red beard.

  Sigurd looked at me, his lips pursed in thought. 'Perhaps I should not have killed your red-faced priest,' he said, his mouth twisting into a smile. 'He did talk too much, hey? Someone would have done it sooner or later!' The others laughed and the sound was thick and full. The English outside must have thought it a strange sound to come from their ealdorman's hall. Sigurd turned to Eric. 'Can you get out, Eric? Past those turds and back to the ships?'

  Eric thought for a moment. 'If you think I can, lord,' he said. Sigurd glanced at Olaf, seeking his friend's permission, though he did not need it. Olaf nodded discreetly.

  'Good lad,' Sigurd said. 'You must warn Glum and the others.'

  'What if the English have attacked them already?' Bjarni said, shrugging his powerful shoulders, and I suddenly feared for old Ealhstan.

  'There's every chance Glum is fucking some Valkyrie on his way to Óðin's hall by now,' Bjorn added.

  'I don't think so, Bjorn,' Sigurd said, his jaw tight. 'The men we fought here were fresh and Ealdred is no king. He doesn't have the warriors to fight in two places at once.' But Sigurd could not know that. He flexed a hand. 'Glum is alive,' he said, cracking the knuckles, 'and he'll spit teeth if we keep all the fun to ourselves.' I whispered a prayer to Óðin that Sigurd was right and the old carpenter was still alive as well.

  'I'm a fast runner, Bjarni,' Eric said, already tying back his white hair. 'If I get past them, they'll never catch me. Not in the dark. A man can outrun a horse on rough ground. I've seen it done.'

  Floki swore dismissively. 'Over a short distance it's possible,' Bjorn agreed, giving Floki a cold look. Outside, a dog barked.

  'And dogs?' Bjarni said, turning towards the sound.

  Eric looked down to the rushes then. 'I hadn't thought of dogs,' he said quietly.

  'We should be encouraging the boy, Bjarni!' Bjorn snapped. 'You're not afraid of dogs, are you, Eric?' he said gruffly. 'Not English dogs, anyway.' Eric shook his head, grinned and drew his long knife, whose blade glinted in the flame light.

  'You can do it, Eric,' Bjarni said, touching Eric's white hair. 'You're fast, I'll give you that. Didn't you win the foot race on Egg Island one summer?'

  Eric smiled. 'I was ten years old, Bjarni,' he said, but it was clear he was pleased that Bjarni remembered the small victory.

  'We'll create a diversion,' Sigurd said above the dog's barking, 'give those turds out there a night to remember us by.' He showed his teeth. 'Which of you has a plan Loki would be proud of?' he asked. The only answer was the loud crack of an ember from the hearth. 'Come, ladies, don't all speak at once. A strong arm kills but a cunning mind'll keep you alive.'

  'We tear into them,' Halfdan said, his two blond plaits shining in the orange light. 'We go at them from the main door, screaming like demons, and in the confusion Eric climbs through there.' He pointed to the hole in the high roof that drew the hearth smoke. 'Then he makes a run for it whilst we're killing Englishmen.'

  'And their dogs,' Floki added with a grimace.

  'We fight our way clear back to the ships,' Halfdan finished, folding his arms to show that there was no more. The men gave their opinions, some for the plan, others against it. 'What else is there?' Halfdan asked irritably, holding out his hands.

  Sigurd gave a curt nod and raised his hand to silence the others. 'It's not much of a plan, Halfdan. More Thór's than Loki's,' he said. Then he smiled, his teeth like fangs. 'But I like it.'

  Before a fight a man's bladder fills up, so putting out the fire was easy enough, but the acrid smoke was slung thick beneath the thatch and this, coupled with the small candlelight, meant that Eric did well to clamber up two upended benches to the roof beam which was closest to the smoke hole. There he crouched between the beam and the thatch, ready to pull himself out on to the roof as soon as the fight began.

  'Here, lad, blow it hard as the bloody north wind,' Olaf said, passing his war horn up to Eric. 'Get a fire going again, lads, before they get suspicious, but only a small one, mind. We don't want to roast the boy. It would be a hard thing to explain to his mother.'

  'I need four of you to stay in here,' Sigurd said, the words hanging heavy in the smoky air. 'The doors must be guarded in case we need to get back inside.' He knew he was asking much, not because it would be a terrible thing to be left behind, but because there would be less glory for those who remained whilst the others attacked. None of the Norsemen volunteered, though a couple of them glanced at me and I knew they wanted me to be one of the ones who stayed. 'Knut, Thormod, Ivar, Asgot. You stay.' Each nodded glumly. 'Raven, if you get a chance, fly after Eric and get to the ships. You'll only get in our way out there.' His eyebrows arched. 'Glum must decide whether to come and fight or take the ships home.' He looked at Olaf, both men aware of the risks.

  'A hard choice, hey, Sigurd?' Olaf said, the prospect lying heavy across his brow. 'If he comes, Serpent and Fjord-Elk will be as vulnerable as two hares in a snake pit.'
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  'I'll tell him, lord,' I replied, gripping my sword tightly to stop the trembling that had begun in my legs and spread to my fingertips. I had bound the wound on my shin tightly and I looked down, grimacing the pain away and noting that blood had soaked through the linen. 'It won't slow me down,' I said in answer to Black Floki's questioning eyes, and I meant it, though I knew the brynja would.

  'Are we ready?' Sigurd asked. The blood on their clothes had barely dried and these Sword-Norse were once again preparing to sow death amongst their enemies.

  'Wait, Sigurd,' Black Floki said. He was fixing a plait which had worked itself loose, spilling dark hair across his face. 'I want to see these Englishmen as I'm killing them.' When it was done, Floki put on his helmet, thumping it down securely. 'Let's make Týr wish he was with us,' he growled, invoking the Norse battle god whose hand was bitten off by the fettered wolf Fenrir.

  'For Týr!' Svein the Red roared.

  'Týr!' Bram repeated, hefting his axe, and the others invoked other gods too, such as Óðin and Thór, and some men called on the souls of their fathers.

  Sigurd revealed his wolfish grin. 'Let us repay English generosity,' he said, nodding to Ivar and Asgot who removed the makeshift barrier. With a roar like a bear, Sigurd, son of Harald the Hard, charged into the firelit night, and the women who had come to watch the heathens die screamed.

  In a heartbeat the Norsemen were amongst the English, slashing and stabbing with a fury like the wild ocean. They made no shieldwall this time, as the English would have surrounded it easily, but instead picked out the best-armed warriors and fought them man to man, desperate to break their enemy's spirit. I stood at the door of Ealdred's hall, looking for my chance, but it was mayhem as the English, who were now defending their homes, fought with ferocity to match the heathens'. The noise of battle, of iron on wood, and confusion and slaughter ripped into the night. Men cursed and screamed.

  'Fly, Raven!' Knut shouted, and so I threw down my shield and ran towards the great dark hill overlooking Ealdred's hall, towards the shingle path that glistened wetly in the moonlight. The rings of my brynja jangled as I ran and then I tripped over something in the long grass, biting my tongue savagely. My mouth filled with blood and I spat, then something bright caught my eye. A shock of white in the moonlight. Pale arrow fletchings fluttered above the corpse. Eric had removed his mail so he would run faster and he had almost made it clear. Óðin's maidens found you, Eric, I thought, wiping bloody spittle from my chin. Air slapped my face from an arrow whipping past and I ducked and ran up the path, screaming, 'Come and take me if you can! Come, bitches of the dead! Come, demons!' I should have put Njal's sword into Eric's hand to ensure his place in Óðin's great hall, but to stay was to die and so I scrambled on, following the stream and hoping to wake the dragon who lived there, for it would add chaos to a night already drenched in it. And the gods love chaos.

  But when I pushed through the long, sharp grass of the brow overlooking the beach, my guts twisted and pulled taut. It was raining fire on Serpent and Fjord-Elk, burning brands flying into their hulls from almost a dozen small craft bobbing on the flame-lit sea. And Glum's men were teeming across both longships, slinging pails of water everywhere, picking up the firebrands with their bare hands and throwing them into the sea. A knot of Norsemen stood in a shieldwall before the ships, waiting for an attack from the darkness whilst their comrades struggled to save their beloved dragons.

  I looked for Ealhstan among the throng, but it was too dark and I was too far away. Even with the flying firebrands, it was impossible to make out individuals, and so I yelled down to the Norsemen that Sigurd was fighting for his life. But even if they heard, which was unlikely, they had their ships to look to, for without them they would be stranded and it would be a miracle if any Norsemen survived to see the next sunset. Then, in the breeze that bent the long grass towards me, bringing water to my eyes, I would have sworn I felt one of Óðin's handmaidens swooping past, brushing my face with her breath as she flew towards Ealdred's hall. I knew Norsemen were dying so I turned my back on the struggle below, thumped my helmet down securely and ran back along the stream's bank towards Jarl Sigurd, finding my way more easily now that my eyes were accustomed to the night. I would have run straight past Eric's corpse, but I saw the cream-coloured war horn at his waist and stopped to rip it free before continuing.

  I passed between the low hills, seeing a dim pall of light in the sky from Ealdred's village, then crested the rise and stopped to catch my breath, looking down into the settlement as the cries of the dying carried up to me. Sigurd's men had fought their way to the south side of the village where they had made the swine array, their backs towards me, their shields overlapping as they fought off the English. But then I made out a band of Ealdred's men cutting round from the west of the settlement, using the houses for cover as they sought to surround the Norsemen. There was no time to descend the slope and warn them. In a few heartbeats Sigurd's men would get blades thrust into their backs. I gripped the war horn and leant back, filling my lungs with cool, predawn air, then blew hard enough to wake the gods. The note soared into the night like the promise of approaching dawn and it was deep and long and true, and then a great cheer came from the darkness below. And the Sword-Norse were not alone in thinking their brothers had come to add to the slaughter, for the English suddenly broke off their attack and retreated, keeping their shields towards their enemies. I bent low, hoping the English would not see me, for then they would know I was alone, and I ran to Sigurd's swine array. Before I got there Black Floki turned, flashing his teeth at me in the darkness.

  'The English are coming round from the west,' I said, pointing to where I had seen the war band trying to blindside the Norsemen.

  'I've seen them,' Floki hissed, stepping aside to let me take my place between him and Bram.

  'Glum's not coming, then,' Bram growled, glancing down at the war horn still in my hand.

  'They're trying to burn the ships,' I said, and Bram grunted as though he had already accepted that this would be a fight to the end. Arrows were thudding into shields and striking helmets.

  'I say we leave this turd of a village,' Svein the Red said, as though it were a simple matter of just walking away.

  'Eric?' Olaf said, keeping his eyes fixed on the torchlit English shieldwall which was growing in density a spear's throw away. I did not reply. 'Well, lad? Is he with Glum?'

  'I'm sorry, Olaf,' I said, feeling the weight of other men's eyes on me. Sigurd turned and held my eye, as though trying to take from my mind the manner of Eric's death, but Olaf remained silent. Then the big man strode forward, abandoning the relative safety of the swine array, and marched towards the English line.

  'Well, you sons of goats?' he roared. 'You snot-swilling, shit-eating pig bladders! Come and feel my sword in your puke-filled bellies! Come, English dog-faces, come and feel my spear in your stinking brains!'

  Sigurd stepped forward. 'I have seen old ladies fight better than you dung heaps!' he yelled at the English, and as one the swine array marched forward beating their swords against their shields, until they were level with Olaf and Jarl Sigurd and spitting distance from their enemy. I quickly tied the war horn to my belt and gripped my sword in both hands. The battle fever shook my limbs and soured my guts, and the English, who were not as well armed and who did not resemble gods of war as these Sword-Norse did, must have seen their deaths approaching with the orange glow in the east.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE CHRISTIAN HEAVEN AND HELL SHOULD HAVE BEEN GLUTTED then, with English souls torn from pain-racked bodies, and Óðin's dark maidens should have been bent low with the weight of brave warriors, ascending to the great hall of the slain. But two high-pitched blasts from an English horn sent a shiver through Ealdred's shieldwall and as one man it stepped back, leaving the broken dead between.

  'Cowards!' Olaf yelled, still in fury's grip, his beard soaked with white spittle and his eyes impossibly wide. 'Whore whelps and cowards!
Fight me! Fight me!'

  Then the English wall cracked in its middle, leaving a dark passage from which a figure emerged. It was Ealdred himself, his sword arm bound in bloodied linen, but otherwise firm and grim-faced.

  'Enough!' he shouted, ignoring Olaf, his eyes instead boring into Sigurd's. 'Enough of this madness! We are not animals!' His huge bodyguard was beside him. The man looked ravenous for death, as though he sought to avenge the harm done to his lord and prove his own worth if any who saw Ealdred's blood were in doubt. 'Sigurd, it was not meant to come to this between us. Where is the honour in senseless death?'