don’t need to know who did this,’ Einar growled at the man swinging in front of him. ‘I know who did this – and Vigfus will pay for it.’ He leaned forward, his little knife out. ‘I need to know where he is, though, and you will help me.’
There was a flick of his wrist and a scream from Hogni as his finger joint whicked off into the darkness.
‘This is a magic knife,’ Einar began and I lurched off, away from what was to follow, my guts churning and my head full of Thor hammers. And in the midst of all that, the flare-bright fear of that Dane axe.
I was as doomed as Einar. The bear had been a lie. The first man I had killed had been more inept than me, the second was a lucky strike with a small knife. Then there was Ulf-Agar who had almost killed himself with foolishness. I had never fought a serious fight and knew now that I would die if I did, because I simply wasn’t that good at it. Worse, the Bear Slayer was a prize death for anyone to boast of; they would be springing out of holes in the ground after me.
I was retching on nothing when my father came and hunkered down beside me, grunting with the weight and awkwardness of mail. He handed me a leather cup and I drank, then blinked with surprise.
‘Watered wine,’ he said. ‘Best cure for what ails you. If it doesn’t work, use less water.’
I drank more, paused to retch it up, drank more.
He nodded appreciatively and scrubbed his stubble. ‘I saw you with the axeman – you did well.’ I looked sourly at him and he shrugged. ‘Well, you are alive, anyway. He looked like he knew the work.’
‘He would have killed me.’
My father punched my shoulder and scowled. ‘None of that. You’re not a whining boy any more. You should take a look at yourself first chance you get. A young Baldur, no less, vulnerable only to mistletoe.’
I drained the cup and never felt less like Baldur.
My father tossed the empty cup in one hand, then started to lever himself up, grunting with the effort. ‘Come on. Einar wants us. Hogni has been singing on his perch.’
‘Mail,’ I said, suddenly realising. ‘That’s mail … that’s my hauberk.’
My father grimaced and wriggled in it. ‘Bit tight round the shoulders, but not much. Another season of rowing, youngling, and you’ll find this too small.’
‘Why,’ I asked pointedly, ‘are you wearing it?’
My father’s eyes widened at the implied challenge. ‘Einar had all those not out on a drunk armed and mailed. He is as nervous as a cat with its arse on fire. With good reason, as it turned out.’
I remembered now. Ketil Crow in mail, Einar, too, and a dozen others. My father mistook my silence and dropped the cup, then bent over at the waist and, hands over his head, shook himself like a furious, wet dog until the iron-ringed shirt slithered off at my feet.
‘I am done with it,’ he growled and stalked away. I wanted to call him back, but it was too late and something was nagging me. But my head thundered and wouldn’t let me think straight.
Hogni wasn’t thinking at all; the last thing to have gone through his head was Wryneck’s axe. When I came up to the silent band collected round Einar, Hogni was being wrapped in his own cloak and weighted with a couple of stones.
They lowered him over the side with scarcely a splash, the ripples rolling golden in the rising sun, and I was pleased to see that there were a few green-grey faces in the hard-eyed huddle.
Those whose heads had been clearer to start with – all in mail, I saw – were grim and angry. Not only had a prize been stolen from them – even if some of them did not quite know why she was a prize – but it had been done by a pack they considered dogs rather than wolves.
Worse yet, one of their own had been an enemy and that made neighbour uneasy about neighbour, oath or no.
‘Let her go, I say,’ muttered Wryneck, scratching the fleas out of his grey beard. This made a few heads turn, for old Wryneck, along with Ketil Crow, Skapti and Pinleg, had been one of the originals of Einar’s band.
‘She holds the secret of treasure, old eye,’ Valknut said, in a tone that reminded me of old Helga talking to the wit-ruined Otkar.
‘Watch your mouth round me, you rune-hagged fuck,’ Wryneck replied, amiably enough but with steel in it. ‘I know what she is said to hold. I have not seen any of it yet save for a single coin with a hole through it and I am thinking she is too much trouble for such a poor price. We should let her lead Quite the Dandy around by the nose for a time, while we go and raid something with money in it.’
It was something when a wise head such as Wryneck started in with thoughts such as these. There were some chuckles at his bluntness, but muted ones, for Einar was close. If he heard, he made no sign.
Instead, calm and seemingly unconcerned, he thumbed his nose, stroked his moustaches and said, ‘Ketil Crow will pick a dozen men. Take only weapons you can hide under cloaks or inside tunics. Those chosen have five minutes to get ready, for we have little time to spare.’
The newer men, oathsworn only weeks before, were the most eager to go, to prove to the others that no more of them were false. Ketil Crow, of course, wanted some trustworthy heads with them and, of course, I was chosen.
It was my wyrd.
The sunlight was painful, even filtered through the dust that matted hair and clothes, dulling all colours to a faded memory.
The sight of the milling crowd of hawkers and their haggling customers, draymen hefting great leather wineskins or rolling barrels, butchers with carcasses slung over their shoulders and hucksters with trays of sweetmeats, covered against the dust and flies, hazed and danced before my eyes, bringing bile to my throat.
On one side, under an awning, I tried to keep my eyes open against the painful glare that seemed to make my head throb worse than ever, sneezing in the dust. It was hot and heavy with stinks from the dye-makers nearby; the smell of stale piss made me gag.
A little way up, Bagnose was turned towards me, trying to catch my eye from under a ludicrous straw hat, which he fondly believed would hide his face from any one of Vigfus’s band who might actually recognise him. How he hoped to avoid it was anyone’s guess, I was thinking bitterly, when he had a face like a baby’s rashed arse and a nose that wobbled and could light his way in the dark. Even people who had never seen him before would notice him.
The crowd thinned a little as we made our way, weaving in and out of the disorderly street traffic, to where the rutted way turned sharply into the dye-makers’ district. Then I saw Bagnose take off his hat, scrub his sweat-soaked, straggled hair and put it on again. I knew it was a signal, but couldn’t remember what about – then I saw the two men.
They stood in the doorway of a tannery, heedless of the reek. Beside them was the man we had followed, a tall, rawboned man with white hair and the fiercest red face and exposed arms I had ever seen. Steinthor knew him as White Gunnbjorn and he was a Norwegian with a reputation as a hard fighter.
Behind me, four more Oathsworn tried to look innocent and busy at the same time and were failing so badly I wondered if we would get much closer. I slid a hand up the back of my tunic and loosened the seax, feeling the sweat-damp there and wishing it had been raining as an excuse to wear a cloak and hide a proper blade beneath it.
Bagnose nodded to me, then walked forward with unhurried steps. He stopped, turned and looked incredibly interested in the whole hog’s head a butcher was lugging through the crowd, dripping blood and trailing flies.
Another man had joined White Gunnbjorn, not tall, but so thin he seemed taller. He had a sharp face and stringy hair round the sides of his head only, while his beard was long and combed and forked,