Robert Low - The Whale Road

‘Interesting,’ he said and then pointed out the obvious, which I had overlooked. ‘If it is, she could have unbarred the door, got out and returned to her child.’

That made me jerk. Perhaps it wasn’t her, after all, but some other luckless relative—a grandmother or older—but why she hadn’t walked out was still a mystery. However, as I pointed out to Einar and Illugi, the only two who came up, best not to mention this to Hild.

Thy nodded, though I wasn’t sure they heard. Illugi was too busy hunting for more runes an stirring up only the old dust of dried beans and insect husks. Einar, however, was at the metal chest and working a seax into the rusted lock.

It gave with a dull sound and he lifted the lid. We all peered, half expecting gold, swords, gem-studded crowns. Instead, there were a lot of cloth bundles which, when we unwrapped them, unveiled a series of blackened tin plates, some bound together through holes with the remains of leather thongs.

`Like the book of leaves in St Otmund's temple,' I pointed out and Einar nodded, rummaging furiously and annoyed that there was only this and the metal was only tin.

Ìndeed,' said Illugi, his eyes gleaming, `that's what it is. Hold the torch closer, Orm. Let's see . . . Yes, runes. Excellent . . . ' A moment later, he straightened, the disappointment palpable. 'Apart from advice on never allowing two blades to lie across each other and a list of plants to rub into the anvil to give it more strength, there isn't much here on smelting that I haven't heard before.'

Ùseless, god-fucked place,' muttered Einar moodily. 'No treasure, no clues.'

`There is the runespell on the wall below,' Illugi said brightly.

`Know what it says?' demanded Einar.

Ì think it is something about truth, or being true. And there's an eternity rune there, which means long-lasting. And, of course, it all depends on how you cut them . . .'

`You have no idea, do you?' Einar challenged and Illugi shrugged, grinned sheepishly and admitted that to be true.

Ìt seems to be what you'd expect to find on a good sword—a runespell to make a blade true and long-lasting,' he said. 'But the runes are old, different from the ones we know now.'

The shriek made us all jerk, an earsplitting sound that bounced off the walls, ringing the whole place like a bell.

`What the fuck . . . ?'

Einar was down the rope in a fast slide that must have flayed skin from his palms. I followed, only marginally slower, since I was almost certain I knew who had screamed.

I was right. Hild stood in the centre of a ring of wary warriors, clutching the spear-shaft to her chest. She was still as a carved prow, her eyes wide and staring at nothing, her mouth open and chest heaving, as if she, could not breathe.

`The monk made her do it,' Bodvar said. `We were all thinking it a bad idea when she started to, but that little rat said someone had to and it might as well be her.'

Einar glared at Skapti, who tugged the leash so that Martin jerked. Halftroll shrugged and said, 'He wasn't wrong, Einar. Someone had to risk it.'

Martin, straightening, adjusted his cowl and smiled. 'I was right. I have been right all along. This Hild is linked to the sword made here, a powerful weapon now thanks to the blood of Christ on that holy spearhead they used to forge it.

`The heathens may have perverted the Spear of Destiny, but the blood stays true. True also is the blood of the smiths—she knows where the sword is and so also where the Great Hoard is.'

`Kill the little fuck now,' growled Ketil Crow.

`He has the right of it,' announced Hild in a strange, gentle, calm voice. 'I am linked by the blood of the smiths who made this sword.'

`How many spears were stuck in this Christ, then?' Finn Horsehead demanded to know. 'For I have heard that the Emperor of the Romans in the Great City has hundreds of Christ ikons, from a little cloth with the god's face on it to a crown made of thorns. And a spear that was thrust in the side of this Jesus as he hung on his tree.'

`False. I have the real spear,' snapped Martin angrily and Einar whacked him on one ear, sending the little monk stumbling.

`You have nothing at all, monk,' Einar said in a voice thick and slow as a moving glacier. 'You have your life only by my leave.'

Hild shook her head, as if scattering water from her. 'I know where the sword of Attila is. I can take you there, far to the east, along the Khazars' river.'

`Where in the name of Odin's arse is that?' demanded Einar.

Ì know,' said Pinleg like an eager boy. No one laughed now, not after what they had seen him do. 'It's down the Don,' he announced triumphantly.

`The Don?' repeated Einar.

`That's Khazar territory,' insisted Pinleg. Ìf it is the same Khazars who spit little arrows at you and worship the god of the Jewish men.'

`The same,' Hild said and there was silence, loud as a clanging hammer. The shock of it all was still chilling us when one of the door guards came in out of the dark tunnel, blinking into the light.

`Rurik says to come quick,' he told Einar, `for something has happened.'

`Rurik? What is he doing here?'

We charged out, back along the passages and into the daylight, where the weak sun seemed searing and blinding. Blinking, we saw Rurik and Valgard Trimmer and four others. My father, grim-faced, stepped forward and I saw he had a bloody, unbound cut along the length of his forearm, seeping thickly through the rent in his tunic.

Òne of Starkad's ships came,' he said, `with Starkad and Ulf-Agar. There was a fight; eight of us were killed.'

`How did you get the Elk away with so few?' demanded Einar.

My father paused, scrubbed his face and the sickening realisation was dawning on us all before he even told us.

`We didn't. We came overland, with Starkad hot on our heels. We left the Elk burning to the waterline.'

8 It was at that moment that most saw how Einar's doom was on him and most blamed it on the fact he had broken his oath. Einar, too, knew it, but he needed the crew still—more than ever at that moment—and I saw him meet his wyrd standing straight and with Loki cunning.

`Well,' he said with a whetstone smile, looking round the stunned, angry faces to men who knew they were stranded on a hostile shore. 'Now we need the Oathsworn.'

And he turned, moving away from the forge mountain as the sun started dying on the edge of the world, heading uphill.

There was a flurry of mutters, argument traded for argument. One or two, either those who had worked it out, or those who would follow Einar into Helheim, shouldered their gear one more time and loped after him, long shadows bobbing. One was my father. Eventually, the others followed, grumbling about everything and especially why they were going uphill yet again.

`Hold, I'll bind that,' I called and my father turned, grinning at the black sight of me.

`You need to wash behind your ears, boy,' he growled and I laughed with him and tore up my last clean underkirtle from my bundle to use on his forearm. It was a long, wicked cut, oozing blood.

`Seax,' he grunted.

`You should have kept out of the way, old man,' I said with a smile. His eyes, when they met mine, were brimming. He had lost the Elk. I felt it for him, but could do nothing more than concentrate on my knots and finish the binding.

`What now?' I asked him as he turned away and, to be fair, he knew what I meant at once.