was all that marked the passage of nearly fifty fully armed men.
After an hour, Einar stopped us. The sky was milk-white, shading to grey towards us. Somewhere behind that, a winter sun fought to claw over the thin, black edge of the world. Trees were outlined in skeletal black – and there was something else.
It was a dark bulk with a tower and the faint, reddish glow of a light. Everyone saw it; there was a general, hushed business of tightening straps, unshipping shields, hefting weapons.
Einar had us take to one knee, then sent Geir and Steinthor off into the night. Briefly silhouetted against the dawn sky for us, they would be invisible to any watcher from the tower. I rubbed dry lips, hearing my breathing magnified by the helmet’s cheekpieces into a rasp. That looked like a powerful strong building – and, as the light grew, you could see other, smaller buildings huddled round it.
Geir and Steinthor slid back. We all listened.
‘The light is on the gate in a wooden wall that stretches all round it,’ reported Geir, rubbing his dripping bag of a nose. ‘The gate is the only way in unless you want to go over seven feet of timbered fence. It was built for defence, was this place.’
He paused, for effect as it turned out, since Steinthor grinned and added, ‘But the bloody gate is wide and welcoming open. It’s been a long time since anyone attacked them. They have forgotten.’
‘A big stone temple and six outbuildings,’ Geir added, ‘all wattle and withy. A stable, for sure. Perhaps a smithy – I can smell the banked fire and tinsmith metal. There’s a good covered bread-oven. The others could be anything.’
Einar rubbed his nose and squinted. Then he shrugged. ‘One way in, so that simplifies the planning.’
He rose up and we followed. At a fast pace, we followed Geir and Steinthor, almost running through the bracken and, as we neared the gated wall, where the first rose-light of the rising sun touched the moss-gentled points of the timbered fence, we broke into a silent run, piling through the gate under the light set to welcome weary travellers.
Resistance was slight, almost none. By accident, Ketil Crow stumbled over the watchman, a slumbering man in brown robes, huddled in a little hut beside the gate. Ketil had turned aside and gone into it looking for loot, but couldn’t see anything in the dark.
Until the querulous voice revealed the watchman, he thought there was no one else in the building, which was so small and cramped he couldn’t get room to swing a slashing sword properly. Ketil Crow was flailing around, while the unseen watchman screamed and then the sword stuck in a beam and, cursing, Ketil Crow couldn’t get it out.
By this time, half the company had heard the commotion and, seeing his predicament, were howling with laughter. The watchman, crashing into Ketil and knocking him off his feet, stumbled out of the building, mad with fear and near flying in his panic.
That was when Valknut stepped forward and threw his hand axe, which smacked into the left side of the man’s forehead with a sound like dung thrown against a wall. The force flung him sideways and he fell on his back, gurgling like some strange, long-nosed beast, the blood welling out of the mess of his face in a growing pool.
Ketil Crow hurtled out of the building, dark with anger, and the jeers stopped as he swung this way and that. But, as the men congratulated Valknut on his throw – it was generally agreed to be a fine one, since it wasn’t a balanced throwing axe – there were chuckles and sniggers in the darkness at Ketil’s expense.
Wordlessly, Valknut put one foot on the dead man’s bloody chest and, with a flick of his wrist, removed his axe. It came away with a small sucking sound and Valknut, with a brief, blank look at Ketil Crow, wiped the blood and brains on the dead man’s brown robe and strode off, axe in one hand, spear with furled banner in the other.
Ketil Crow caught me looking and I blinked at his expression, then wisely found the stone temple with the tower more of interest and trotted towards it.
It was, it seemed, one large hall, with an impressive flagged floor. The tower held no archers, nothing more than a bell. There were two brown-robed figures sprawled, spewing blood on the flagstones. Half a dozen others were penned at the far end of this hall by the rest of the Oathsworn and Einar was head to head with Illugi Godi.
It was a strange place and I gawped. It had benches and a sacrificial altar, which was where most of the people were. Behind the altar, above their heads, was a window, filled with pieces of coloured glass in the shape of a man wearing, it seemed, a glowing hat. The walls, too, were painted with strange scenes.
The dawn light that spilled from that window was like Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, and it stained the altar. I did not know it then, but such a window was as rare as teeth on a hen – I did not see another until the Great City, Constantinople.
But it was nothing next to what was below it, stuck on the wall. Two thick beams, one vertical, one horizontal, held the wooden figure of a man, hanging there by his hands. No, not hanging, I saw. Nailed, through his hands and his feet. He had some strange crown, which stuck spikes in his forehead, and what seemed to be another gaping wound in one side. It was a fine carving.
‘Is that their god, then?’ I asked Illugi Godi, much to Einar’s annoyance.
‘The son of their god,’ answered the priest. ‘The Romans stuck him on those poles, but the Christ-followers say he didn’t die.’
That was impressive. I had thought any god who allowed himself to be nailed to a bit of wood wasn’t up to much – ours were clever or strong fighting men, after all – but if he had survived all that and come out smiling, this Christ was to be reckoned with.
‘Finished?’ demanded Einar pointedly. Then he turned to Illugi Godi. ‘So where? You are the expert here, priest.’
Illugi Godi squatted, fumbled in his pouch and came up with his rune bones. I saw the brown figures flailing one hand back and forward on their chests, which seemed to be their way of warding off the evil eye. I laughed. Illugi wasn’t evil.
He cast; the bones tinkled. He took some fine white sand from his pouch and blew it off the palm of his hand towards the altar, then stood and smiled.
‘There,’ he said and pointed at the altar. As a hiding place, it wasn’t hard to work out – it was almost the only thing in the hov of this hall. And, I saw, the sand he had blown hadn’t settled neatly where the altar touched the flagstoned floor. It had sunk into the cracks, which meant it was hollow beneath. He was clever, was Illugi Godi.
Einar and Valknut circled it, but there was nothing: no handle, no mark of any kind. Puzzled, they were scratching their heads when Gunnar Raudi, wiser in the ways of hiding valuables, stepped up, leaned his shoulder into it and gave it a shove.
With a grinding sound, the altar slid back several feet, revealing a set of stone steps. A torch uncovered a small chamber and the contents were soon up and on the flagstones.
There was a thin silver plate, two metal cups – gold, Illugi said – and a couple of hollow silver columns, which Gunnar Raudi said were sticks for holding fat tallow candles. Strange to relate now, but I had never seen the like and was so marvelling at them I nearly missed the next wonders.
Geir came up from the chamber with two chests. The first was clearly the one Einar wanted, a fat, ornate effort about the size of a man’s head. The other was flatter; Geir held it up and turned it round. It was studded with coloured glass and had a huge clasp on it, which Geir snapped off easily, bit and announced admiringly: ‘Silver.’
Then, to my astonishment, the chest fell open in two halves and loads of leaves riffled. Geir turned it over and over while I stared, my mouth dropped open like a droop-lipped horse. ‘It’s full of leaves,’ I said, wondering. ‘With colours on them – and little animals and birds.’
‘It’s a book,’ said Illugi Godi patiently as Geir chuckled. ‘The Christ monks make them. It has their holy writings. Like runes.’
Not much, I thought scornfully. Runes were