Raven: Blood Eye Read online

  'Hunting?' he suggested, though I knew he did not believe that. He stared at me. Somewhere out there in the black forest a wolf howled, the sound cutting through the night. Floki spat and clutched the hilt of his sword with his left hand to ward off evil. 'Asgot was one of them, I'll tell you that much,' he said. 'You could hear the old bastard's coughing a mile off. Don't know who the others were.' I made to rise, but Floki grabbed my shoulder. 'You'd be better to leave things alone, Raven. Take this warning. There are those of us who believe you and the tongueless old man have brought us bad luck.'

  I shrugged off his hand and stood. 'Maybe I have brought you bad luck,' I said, staring into his narrowed eyes and gripping my spear. 'Your own jarl said he saw death in me. What do you see? Do you see your own death, Floki?' I dared. 'Do you fear it?'

  Floki grinned then. 'Go, Raven,' he said, nodding in the direction he had pointed before. 'Weave your own fate if you think you can. For some I think it is too late.'

  At that I ran down into the woods, letting the branches claw my face and hands. The wolf howled again and I knew that the Norns, those maidens of men's fate, were weaving their dark patterns. And I knew I was too late to stop them. A little deeper into the forest I heard a man's voice, but when I froze to listen there was nothing besides the sounds of the night. Whoever it was had heard my approach, but stealth meant nothing now and so I pushed on in the direction of the voice, stumbling over roots in my haste. The low sound of a single speaker was clear now, and there was something about it that stopped my heart. Then, sooner than I had expected, I was there, facing an ancient oak whose ridged trunk dominated the small clearing. Glum and Ugly Einar stared at me wide-eyed, as though they had been expecting the All-Father himself. Then they turned back towards the old oak and I saw Sigurd's godi, Asgot, standing in the shadows. I knew it was his voice I had followed. The old man's face was smeared with something dark and the whites of his eyes shone strangely in the gloom.

  'Where's Ealhstan, Glum?' I asked, pointing Bram's spear at him as my right hand gripped the sword's hilt at my waist.

  Asgot continued his incantations and Glum, without turning to face me, pointed up towards the oak, to its twisting black branches and shady fluttering leaves. Keeping an eye on Glum, I drew nearer and rounded the broad trunk. And I found my friend. Ealhstan hung from the base of a thick branch, an arm tied to each dividing limb. His naked body burned silver in the moonlight.

  'Ealhstan!' I cried. But the old carpenter was dead. Or at least he should have been, but his left leg twitched horribly. A black gash ran the length of his torso and the meat of his guts hung from the next branch like a heavy rope. I vomited bitter-tasting lumps.

  'I'll kill you!' I roared at Glum. I launched the spear at him but it flew wide. I fumbled to draw my sword as Einar and Glum drew their own weapons and braced for my attack. Asgot shuffled deeper into the shadows.

  'Come, Raven!' Glum shouted. 'I shall give Óðin your corpse too.' I stepped forward and swung my sword madly. It felt as light as a stick and it seemed that Glum and Einar were rooted to the ground, so slow were they. My sword struck Einar's, breaking it in two, and his white eyes stared as I stepped up and scythed my blade into his head, screaming like a wild animal and spitting vomit. As he collapsed I yanked the blade free, sending chunks of brain flying, then blocked Glum's sword and slammed my foot into his groin. He staggered back and I stepped up, swinging my sword, which was hungry for more flesh and bone.

  'Stop, Raven! No more!' Bram's voice rang out. 'Stop, lad, or I'll put you down!' Then I could not move at all. My rage burned but my body had turned to granite and I struggled until I realized that Bram's arms bound me as securely as the magic fetters bound the mighty wolf Fenrir, so that the more I struggled, the tighter the bonds became. 'Enough, lad! If you don't hold still, I'll knock you out!'

  'It's over, Raven,' came a voice from behind a flaming torch. Sigurd's face flickered in the orange light.

  'I'll kill him!' I roared.

  'No, Raven. You will not. There has been enough death this night,' Sigurd said, watching two of his men drag Ugly Einar's corpse through the blue forest flowers that stirred like the sea as flame light and breeze played across them.

  I was done now. Empty. Bram must have sensed it for he let go and stepped away. I stood on trembling legs and wiped the spittle from my lips. 'Let me cut him down, lord,' I pleaded, staring at Ealhstan hanging there. The old man's leg was still now. He was gone.

  Sigurd frowned and shook his head. 'The body must remain where it is. The sacrifice has been made and it would dishonour the All-Father to take it back.'

  'No, lord,' I spat angrily.

  'It stays, Raven,' Sigurd said, his eyes cold as steel. Then he turned to Asgot, who had Ealhstan's blood smeared across his cheeks and in his grey beard. 'Finish the rites, godi,' he commanded. Asgot nodded obediently as Mauger stepped into the clearing, a spitting torch in his hand. Father Egfrith was with him and when the monk saw what had been done to Ealhstan he gave a low moan and fell to his knees, making the sign of the cross with one hand and holding his stomach with the other. Even Mauger spat in distaste and crossed himself.

  'You are devils! You are the turds of Satan himself!' Egfrith shrieked, accusing the Norsemen gathered there. 'Satan's turds! Ministers of evil!' Even I could not tell much of what he ranted, for he seemed maddened by the scene, and perhaps the ale had made him brave. I was living my own nightmare. I thought the Norsemen would kill him just to shut him up, but instead they ignored the monk and gathered beneath Ealhstan's body, muttering prayers to their gods and clutching their pendants and their swords. They were awed by Glum's sacrifice to Óðin and now sought to play their part in it to be assured of the god's favour. Even Sigurd paid his respects to the ancient oak's grisly fruit, muttering words I could not hear, and when he had finished he turned to Glum who stood apart from the others, bent over with one foot on a fallen ash. He was picking bits of Einar's brains from his brynja and examining them.

  'Come here, Glum,' Sigurd said, the three words heavy with violence. The jarl's golden hair hung loose, giving him a wild aspect amidst the moon-bathed clearing. A number of the Norsemen held torches now, orange light tempering white, and by the combined light I saw defiance in the face of Fjord-Elk's shipmaster. He strode across the clearing and squared up to Sigurd, clutching his silver Thór's hammer pendant over his broad chest. Aggression came off the man, and Svein the Red stepped up to his jarl, loosening his huge shoulders.

  'Óðin All-Father demanded a blood sacrifice,' Glum said, insolence curling his lip to reveal his teeth like a vicious dog. He turned his head and spat. 'Asgot has warned you many times, but you have been deaf to it.'

  Sigurd's glittering eyes betrayed no emotion as he fixed them on his friend's. 'You have always served me well, Glum,' he said simply, 'and for this I will not kill you. But now you have dishonoured me. The sacrifice was not for you to make.'

  'I did it for the Fellowship.' Glum threw the words away, knowing they were useless now. Then he looked at me and spat again. 'You favour the red-eyed boy when you should slit his throat. He has turned the Norns against us. You cannot bring back your son from the dead, Sigurd.' Sigurd's hand went to his sword's grip and the muscle in his cheek bounced beneath the golden beard. Svein growled, stepping forward, but Sigurd raised a hand to stop him.

  'If you ever say another word about my son I will kill you, Glum,' Sigurd said. Glum nodded submissively. 'Would your father have betrayed his jarl?' He needed no answer. 'It is not for you to decide Óðin's will. What do you know of the All- Father? You have always honoured Thór. Honest and brutish suits you, Glum, but Óðin is a jarl's god and you do not have the wits for him.' Glum hawked and spat at Sigurd's feet, but Sigurd ignored the insult. Instead he turned to Asgot. 'As for you, old man, if you were not in your winter years, I would leave you here in this land of Christ worshippers.' He glanced at Father Egfrith, who knelt quietly in prayer now, his eyes closed. 'I would leave you to their merc
y. You would die here and I doubt Óðin's dark maidens would be able to find you. You would never see his great hall.'

  Asgot screwed up his wizened face, terrified by Sigurd's words.

  Sigurd nodded solemnly. 'But you served my father before me and he valued your wisdom, such as it is, so I will not take from you your place at Serpent's oars.' Then he turned back to face Glum, and Bram stepped forward as though he knew what was to come. 'Hold out your arm,' Sigurd commanded in a low voice. All the Norsemen except those on watch were now gathered in the clearing, their fists clenched and their jaws set. Light and shadow played across their faces, and they looked somehow otherworldly. I knew the ancient shades of the forest were watching too.

  Glum pulled the three warrior rings from his left arm and put them on his right, then thrust the left out, the muscle in his cheek contorting as he gritted his teeth against the coming pain. He opened and closed his hand over and over, perhaps hoping to remember the sensation, then looked at Bram. Without a word spoken, Bram seemed to understand, for he nodded and stepped forward to grip Glum's wrist. Then Sigurd, son of Harald the Hard, drew his great sword. A shard of moonlight cut across the blade, revealing the smoky, swirling pattern that gave the weapon both beauty and strength. It was a wicked, hungry thing and it lusted for blood.

  Sigurd hesitated and for two heartbeats the great sword hung in the darkness. Then it came down in a flash of iron, into Glum's left arm, severing it at the elbow with a wet sound. Bram blinked as blood sprayed across his face and he stood holding the limb, glancing at the silver finger ring that Glum had forgotten to remove. Glum's legs nearly buckled, but somehow he summoned the strength to stand, though he shivered with the pain and his breath came in ragged gulps. But then Black Floki stepped forward and thrust his torch on to the gushing flesh to stop the blood, and Glum could not hold in a cry of pain which soaked the forest. I smelled the meat burning as Floki held the flame to the wound.

  'I leave you with one hand to grip sword and tiller,' Sigurd began, looking down at the blackened stump, 'and you'll still get a shield on what's left of that one.' Bram tugged the ring from the dead finger and handed it to Glum who just stared at Sigurd, his face writhing with pain and hatred and disbelief.

  Then Sigurd turned to me and I admit I shivered when I looked into those hard eyes. 'You have killed one of my men, Raven. One day, Einar's kin may come to claim the blood price. That is their right. I could do it myself.'

  'Yes, lord,' I said, bowing my head.

  'But you were avenging your own kin's murder and I would think less of you if you had not.' With that Sigurd turned and set off back towards the glow of the campfires.

  Ugly Einar's friends took their long knives and began digging a pit for his body, for they knew they could not risk a Wessex fyrd seeing the light a pyre would cast into the night sky. After Ealdred's hall, the Norsemen harboured a newfound respect for English warriors and did not wish to fight again so soon. Some were hurt still, their cuts tended by Asgot and Olaf who had long experience of battle wounds and the herbs with which to treat them. Thorgils and Thorleik helped Glum back to the camp where they would fill him with ale for the pain. Svein the Red put an arm across my aching shoulders and gave a tired smile.

  'Come, Raven,' he said quietly, 'we have entertained the gods enough for one night. It's time to sleep.'

  'No, Svein,' I replied, pulling free of his arm and stepping up to press my palm against the oak's massive trunk. It felt hard and strong and enduring and I wondered what magic had been done there that bloody night. 'I'll sleep here,' I said. So I sat beneath the ruined body of a mute old man, and angry tears squeezed my throat because I should have protected him but I had not and now he was gone. If Svein saw my tears he said nothing about it and I did not care anyway. I was more disgusted with myself than any Norseman could have been, for I had repaid an old man's kindness with neglect and betrayal and I feared for what kind of man that made me.

  Eventually, the sleep of the dead took me down into nothingness. And Svein stayed with me.

  A dark mood lay heavy upon the Fellowship when we set off the next day. The Norsemen had hated burying Ugly Einar in the earth, for they believed it was not for a great warrior to rot amongst the worms. Raging flames would have borne Einar's soul to Valhöll as swiftly as an eagle soars into the clouds. Still, they knew Óðin's maidens would find their friend to fight for the gods in the last battle, for Einar had been a Sword-Norse and he had died with his sword in his hand.

  According to Egfrith we were in Mercia now. A steady drizzle was falling, dripping from the trees to soak through our clothes. Ealhstan was gone and I was afraid. The old man had been the last thread tying me to the life I had known before the Norsemen came, his presence the whisper of conscience in a new world. Now the thread had been severed and there was no going back.

  I clutched the Óðin amulet hanging at my neck and wondered what the All-Father made of the sacrifice he had been offered the previous night. Could a Christian, even one sacrificed by a godi, gain entry to Valhöll? Ealhstan had not been a warrior, but Sigurd told me Óðin was the lord of words and beauty and knowledge too, and so perhaps, I thought, he would have a use for the old man.

  Then my hand fell to the lobed pommel of the sword at my waist, the weapon that had avenged Ealhstan with Ugly Einar's blood. The leather-bound grip was worn smooth, but silver wire spiralled round it to prevent the sword's slipping from a sweaty palm. It was simple and deadly and beautiful. It was mine.

  The Norns of fate were weaving still. And I was a Norseman now.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TWO DAYS LATER AT DAWN, FATHER EGFRITH WARNED SIGURD THAT we were close to King Coenwulf's stronghold. The monk seemed to have forgotten the horror of Ealhstan's sacrifice and clearly relished being out among the wonders of the Lord's creation, as he put it; so much so that in his excitement he forgot to loathe us. The little weasel face chattered constantly. 'Unlike some of my world-shy brothers I have travelled literally and spiritually, as I believe is one's duty . . .' he was saying, until Sigurd jabbed the butt of his spear into his shoulder, silencing him for a while.

  Soon after, Olaf called a warning. 'Keep your eyes open, lads,' he said, putting on his helmet so that he was all grey steel and brown beard. 'There'll be fighting before long, less my bones are lying.' The Norsemen put on their own helmets, which they carried on spears over their shoulders, and tightened straps, boots and belts, for there was every chance that the Mercians had planned a welcome for us.

  'Coenwulf's a scrapper, Sigurd,' Mauger said, 'and he'll have men riding his borders looking for Wessexmen who've strayed too far from their hearths. The truce prevents war, but it won't stop a man getting a length of spear in his belly if he's not careful. The cunnies won't be expecting Norsemen, mind. That'll piss on their holy fire. When they come across forty stinkin' heathens in coats of mail!' He smiled at the thought, a rare expression for him, and I wondered whether Mauger had ever been a child, or if he had been spawned a warrior with scars and beard and malice.

  Ash and oak began to give way to fast-growing firs and birches, warning us that men managed this land. Having long since taken the best wood, the Mercians planted trees that did not take countless generations to grow. A little further and the forest would thin, becoming wild heathland and eventually yielding to rolling pasture and sheep meadows. We would not go unnoticed for long.

  Some of the Norsemen still looked at me with distrust in their blue eyes, and I felt more than one curse prick my skin like an elf's arrow, muttered by men who blamed me for Glum's mutilation. They respected their jarl's right to administer it, but in their eyes Glum, Einar and Asgot had only been acting on their collective fears. They were in a strange land, governed by a strange god – who would not understand their wanting to feel the All-Father's presence? If this could be achieved through the death of an old man, and a Christian at that, then so be it. Still, I took some comfort from the fact that they did not seem to hold Einar's death against me.
Vengeance is a man's right and Norsemen understand this intimately. They would miss their ugly friend, but they were ambitious men who knew they followed a strong jarl towards riches and glory.

  That day, I believed they would follow Sigurd anywhere, for we were now in the heart of Coenwulf's kingdom and a great distance from our ships. Though some whispered that we had strayed too far from our gods too, I don't think I was alone in thinking that wherever Sigurd the Lucky went, Óðin and Thór could not be far away.

  Later that day we made camp in a vale between two scarp slopes, the eastern one covered with short oaks, birch and bracken, and the western one worn down to rock and clay, patched with tough grass. The flood plain narrowed at this point, the river that once must have coursed through the place reduced to a trickling brook thickly lined with mosses and ferns full of grass snakes.