Robert Low - The Prow Beast

‘He ran off with you,’ I answered, annoyed at this. ‘Is that not reason enough? Because of him we are here, a long way from home and…’

I stopped then, before the words ‘dying for the matter’ spat past my teeth; I did not want the boy — or anyone else — empty of hope.

‘He saved me,’ Koll persisted.

‘He has done killing in the night,’ I countered, ‘with some strange magic.’

I broke off and looked at Yan Alf, who shrugged.

‘Alyosha and Ospak stripped and searched him,’ the little man said. ‘The only way he could be more naked is if they flayed him. They found no weapon. Ospak guards him now and he has asked to help Bjaelfi with the sick.’

Very noble and Christ-like — but Alyosha would have turned the monk inside out rather than leave him as a threat to his charge, little Crowbone, and, if he had found no weapons…

Yet I did not trust Leo and said so.

‘Keep at arm’s length from that monk,’ I added and saw the hard set of Koll’s lip and, worse, the dull sadness in those pale eyes. I had told him of his mother’s death and he had taken it with no tears — and yet…

‘Did your father tell how to behave as a fostri ?’ I persisted and he nodded reluctantly, then repeated the words all sons are told — obey and learn. I merely nodded at him, then had an idea and handed him Brand’s sword.

‘This belongs to your father and so to you. You are come early to it and it is likely too large and heavy for you to use, even if you knew how. One day Finn will show you the strokes of it — but for now you can guard it.’

The pale blue eyes widened and brightened like the sun had burst out on a summer sky. He took the sheathed weapon in both hands and turned, grinning to Yan Alf, before running off with it.

‘Keep him away from the monk,’ I said softly to Yan Alf as he passed me, chasing his charge. If he had an answer, I did not hear it and turned away to hunt out a seax or an axe for myself. The whole sick-slathered wyrd of it had come down to this tapestry woven by the Norns and the picture of it was clear enough — a cliff in front, wolves behind.

I would not survive it, whatever happened, for I was sure Odin had, finally, led me to the place where he would take the life I had offered him.

First, though, there were the dance-steps of the rite, beginning with horn blasts from them to attract our attention. I had seen this before, though from the other side, when we had arrived at the Khazar fortress of Sarkel with Sviatoslav, Prince of Kiev. Ten summers ago, I suddenly realised, climbing the ramp to the tower over the gate, where Finn and others waited. I had Dark Eye with me, for she was the only one who could talk to these Pols in their own tongue.

A knot of riders came slowly, ambling their horses across the wet grass and scrub to where the raised walkway led to the gate. One of them, accompanied by a single rider bearing the huge red flag with a spoked wheel worked in gold threads on it, came forward a few steps more.

He was splendid in gilded ringmail and a red cloak, his elaborately crested helmet nestled in the crook of one arm, allowing his braided black hair, weighted with fat silver rings, to swing on his shoulders. His beard was black and glossed with oil and it was clear he was someone of note, which Dark Eye confirmed.

‘Czcibor,’ she said softly. ‘Brother of King Dagomir, whom folk by-name Miezko as a joke, for it means “peace”. He makes it by fighting all who resist him. This Czcibor is the one who beat the Saxlanders at Cidini and took the Pols to the mouth of the Odra.’

I had thought Miezko meant ‘famous sword’, but then his enemies would have a different take on it and there was no more bitter enemy of the Pols than Dark Eye. When this Czcibor spoke, I wondered if I could even trust what she said — then scattered the thought, half-ashamed at it.

Dark Eye listened and then spoke back to him and turned to me; heads craned expectantly.

‘He says you should give in, for you cannot win. It is better if you submit. I would be careful of him, Jarl Orm, for he knows Norse well enough.’

She spoke in a guarded, level voice; I looked at Czcibor, who grinned.

‘Is this true — you know the Norse?’

‘Of course. My niece, Sigrith, is a queen in your lands.’

Styrbjorn suddenly thrust forward, eager as a bounding pup — if he had had a tail it would have shaken itself off.

‘You are Czcibor,’ he declared and the man, frowning at this breach of manners, nodded curtly.

‘Ah, well,’ Styrbjorn went on, ‘then we are related, after a fashion, for my uncle is married to your niece. I am Styrbjorn…’

Czcibor held up a hand, which was as good as a slap in the face to Styrbjorn. When he spoke, it was a slow, languid, serpent-hiss of sound, made worse by the mush-mess he made of the Norse.

‘Styrbjorn. Yes. I know of you. My niece sent word of it down the Odra.’

I saw Styrbjorn stiffen and pale at that, which he had not been expecting.

‘I shall have a stake cut especially for you,’ Czcibor went on. ‘And for the little monk who killed the woman Jasna. Perhaps I will make it the same one for you both.’

My stomach roiled and my knees started to twitch against the rough wood of the rampart stakes, where I had braced them. For a man with a name like a fire in a rainstorm he could summon up a mighty vision.

‘An interesting idea,’ I managed eventually. ‘I would enjoy watching it under other circumstances. But we are all comfortable here and our arses free from stakes and a lot more dry than yours will be, by and by.’

He cocked his head sideways a little, appraising me; I had made it clear that I knew his predicament — he could not surround the grod completely because of the swamps on three sides and the river the settlement was practically thrust into. His own camp was on a soaked flat offering little comfort and no chance to dig even the simplest of privy pits or earthwork defences that would not instantly fill with mud and water.

All he could do was attack and be done with the business as fast as possible, which was a hard option — but this was a man come fresh from victory and unmoved by such problems. He nodded politely, put on his splendid helm, dragged out a spear and, with a swift throw and a gallop off, hurled it over the ramparts as the signal that the bloody matter had commenced. It skittered on the hard ground behind me and a few men scattered, cursing the surprise of it.

‘That went well,’ Finn declared, grinning, then scowled and thumped Styrbjorn’s shoulder, making the youth stagger. ‘You nithing arse.’

Styrbjorn had no answer to it and slunk away while others who heard about his fawning attempt to wriggle over to safety jeered him.

And Dark Eye came to me, snuggling under my arm — which gained us both a couple of scowls from those who saw a sweetness they were not allowed — so that she could whisper softly.

‘He asked for me.’

I had guessed that and had made quiet warding signs to prevent him voicing it in Norse for all to hear; let the Oathsworn think they were sieged here for the settlement we slaughtered, for if they suspected Dark Eye was the cause, they would hurl her to them in an eyeblink.

Yet it nagged me, that thought, for there was a whiff of betrayal and oath-breaking in it. Worse, there was the thought that this was what the Sea-Finn’s drum had spoken of, so that defying it was standing up and spitting in Odin’s one eye. I thought I heard Einar’s slow, knowing chuckle as I turned away, whirling with mad thoughts of how to get folk out of these closing wolf-jaws.

Them, of course. Not me. I was only offering prayers to Frey and Thor and any other god I could think of to help convince AllFather to spare me long enough to see the crew away.