Tim Severin - Sworn Brother

Only then did the volva descend and, selecting a brand from the camp fire, thrust it into the kindling heaped around the boat. The wood was dry from the summer heat and immediately caught fire. The breeze fanned the flames and within moments the funeral pyre was burning fiercely. As the blaze sucked in more air, I threw up my arm to protect my face from the heat. Flames roared and crackled, sending columns of blazing sparks into the air. In the heart of the conflagration, great holes suddenly appeared in the fabric of the tent sheltering Ivarr's corpse. The holes spread their burning edges, eating away the cloth so rapidly that for an instant the frame of the tent stood alone as if to defy the inferno. Then the tent poles collapsed inwards across the bodies of Ivarr and his murdered concubine.

That night I drank myself into oblivion. The heat radiating from the blaze had brought on a powerful thirst, but I drank to forget what I had just seen. All around me the Varangians caroused and celebrated. They drank until they threw up, wiped their beards and then went back to drink. Two of them came to blows over an imagined insult. They groped for their swords and daggers and made futile stabs and slashes at one another until too weak to continue the dispute. Others guzzled mead and ale until they fell senseless on the ground. Those who could still stand, staggered off to the tent where our slave girls slept, and molested them drunkenly. The volva was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished, gone back to her village, no doubt. Nauseous with too much drink, I crept away to a quiet corner behind some cargo bales and fell asleep.

I awoke with a racking headache, a queasy stomach and a foul taste in my mouth. It was well past daybreak and the sun was already high above the horizon. It promised to be another scorching day. Holding onto the cargo bale for support, I pulled myself to my feet and looked across to where Ivarr's funeral pyre had stood. There was nothing but a heap of charred wood and ash. Only the volva's scaffold remained. Beside it a chicken feather stirred in the breeze on the scorched ground.

A few kholops were moving about the camp in an aimless way, lacking orders. Their masters, those I could see, lay snoring on the ground, motionless after their debauch.

Gingerly I made my way slowly across the camp, then down the river bank to the water's edge. I felt denied and in desperate need of a wash even if the river water looked far from clean. It was a dark brown, almost black. I pulled off my soiled shirt and wrapped it around my waist as a loincloth, and removed my loose Varangian trousers. Slowly and carefully I waded out into the river until the tepid water reached the middle of my thighs. I stopped there for a moment, letting the sun warm my back, feeling the mud ooze up between my toes. I was in a back eddy. The water was barely moving. Cautiously I leaned forward, fearing that a sudden movement would bring on an attack of nausea. Gradually I brought my face closer to the dark water, and got ready to splash water in my face. Just before I plunged my cupped hands into the river, I paused and looked at my reflection. The sun was at such an angle that I saw my head and shoulders as a vague outline. Suddenly I was assailed by a violent swaying sickness. My head spun. A chill washed over me, and I was about to faint. I thought it was the result of my debauchery, but then realised that I had seen the very same reflection before. It was the image I had seen when I peered into the well of prophecy that Edgar the royal huntsman had shown me in the forest at Northampton. Even as I came to that understanding, I saw the flash of something bright in the mirror of the river. For a heartbeat I mistook it for the silver flicker of a fish, then I recognised the reflection of a knife blade and the upraised arm that held it as I fell to one side and the assassin struck.

There was an agonising pain high up in my left shoulder. The blow aimed at my back had missed. A swirl of water, a growl of rage and I felt a hand grab for me, slip on wet skin and then another slash of pain as a second knife stroke sliced my left side. I flung myself forward, desperate to avoid the dagger. Again a hand tried to hold me and this time seized the shirt wrapped around my waist. I ducked underwater, twisted and pushed down with my feet. The ooze gave no grip and I panicked. My flailing feet touched the legs of my attacker. Even without seeing his face, I knew who it was. It had to be Froygeir. He had hated me since the day I humiliated him at dice in front of the other Varangians. Now, with Ivarr dead, the time for his revenge had come.

I wriggled like a salmon trying to avoid the barbs of a fishing spear. Froygeir was a big, agile man, well used to fighting at close quarters with a knife. Normally he would have finished me off with ease. Perhaps he was feeling the effects of his night's debauch or maybe he wanted to haul me out of the water, turn me so I could see my killer and then cut my throat. So, instead of stabbing again, he made the mistake of trying to pull me close by heaving on my loincloth. Its knot came undone and I squirmed free.

As Froygeir stumbled backwards, I seized my chance to swim clear. The pain in my wounded left shoulder was so excruciating that I forgot the cut to my ribs. Terror drove me as I found the strength to move my arms and legs and swim a dozen frenzied strokes. I had no idea in which direction I was going. All I knew was that I had to get away from Froygeir. I thrashed forward blindly, expecting at any moment to feel his hand grasp my ankle and pull me back.

My nakedness saved me. I can think of no other explanation. Froygeir was a river man. He knew how to swim and should have overhauled his wounded prey with no difficulty, but he was wearing Varangian trousers with their many folds of material and, waterlogged, they hampered him. I heard him surge after me, wading at first, then forced to swim in my wake. As my initial panic receded, I took a quick look to see where I was heading — directly away from shore, out into the broad river. I forced myself to breathe deeply and move through the muddy water in some sort of rhythm. Only when I had swum at least two hundred strokes did I risk glancing back. Froygeir had abandoned the chase. I could see the back of his head as he returned towards the shore. There, I knew, he would be waiting for me if I was so foolish as to return to the camp.

Utterly exhausted, I stopped swimming and trod water. A red stain was spreading from my shoulder all around me. I had heard of giant fish in the river — it was said they were longer than a man — and wondered if they fed on flesh and would be attracted by blood. I prayed to Odinn for help.

Slimy and ancient, the log was floating so low in the water that I did not see my salvation until it nuzzled against me and I flinched, thinking of those meat-eating fish. Then I wrapped my arms gratefully around the slippery wood and let the timber take my weight. Another circle of my life was closing, I thought to myself. Driftwood had caused the death of my sworn brother and now another floating log would prolong my life if only I could hang on. Bleeding to death would be better than drowning. I clenched my teeth against the pain from my shoulder, squeezed my eyes tight shut, and deliberately sought the relief of darkness.

I knew nothing more until a sour smell roused me. Fumes stung my nose and brought tears in my eyes. A trickle of liquid, sharp and astringent, ran into my throat and made me cough. Someone was bathing my face with a sponge. I opened my eyes. I must have fainted while clinging to the log - I had no idea how I came to be lying on my back on a carpet and looking up into the chubby face of ibn Hauk. For once, his expression was sombre. He said something in his own language and I heard the voice of his interpreter.