like that an hour later – though my breeks were up and the sun a lot less warm, so that I was shivering and goose-bumped. I needed water to wash, but there was none spare for that, so I stayed black and gave everyone a fresh laugh.
Einar nodded appreciatively, as if he knew what I had done. Ordinarily I would have swelled with proud delight at this, but there was too much doom about Einar now for me to hold him in such esteem.
More torches were lit and I led them, less four to guard the open door, back to the forge room, Hild staggering at my side. Martin kept darting eagerly ahead, just like the dog Einar had made him, tangling his leash and making his keeper, Skapti, curse.
We crept in and I showed them what I had found: the forge, the bellows, the barrels and the table.
Both Illugi Godi and Martin the monk dropped to their knees, to the astonishment of all – what could have made that pair worship together? They, too, were astonished, not realising what the other had seen.
‘The spear,’ Martin breathed reverently. ‘The spear …’ He couldn’t say anything else, just sat with his hands clasped and prayed.
‘That?’ queried Ketil Crow. ‘There’s only a shaft.’
‘It is – was – a Roman spear,’ Martin said, his voice filled with awe, then he bowed his head and actually sobbed. ‘But the pagan devils have removed the long metal point, steeped in the blood of Christ. May God punish them all.’
Ketil Crow, with a scornful look at the weeping monk, stepped forward, making to pluck the spear-shaft from its ledge. Illugi Godi’s voice was booming loud when he roared: ‘Stay!’ He pointed to the rune line. ‘A runespell. A new one. A new runespell.’
That stunned us all. Valknut dropped to his knees and bowed his head at the enormity of it.
There were few runespells. Odin himself, who had hung nine days on the World Tree, had only ever learned eighteen, as Illugi now reminded us.
‘And had a spear thrust into his side, too,’ Pinleg growled pointedly to Martin. ‘But at least he got Knowledge out of it.’
‘Was it?’ interrupted Valknut. ‘I thought it was Wisdom.’
‘Perhaps the pair of you need to hang on the same tree,’ Illugi Godi said wryly. ‘That way one of you would have the wisdom or knowledge to shut up.’
‘It’s all pagan nonsense,’ Martin declared.
‘Take your prize, then,’ Einar offered. ‘Surely some pagan nonsense is no danger to you, under the protection of your god? After all, didn’t your Bishop Poppo wear a red-hot iron glove and come to no harm?’
Martin licked his lips, looked as if he would try it, then settled back like a sullen dog.
Ketil Crow, shaken at his narrow escape – the runespell might have cursed him, or worse – wiped his dry mouth with the back of one hand. Unless you know what you are doing, you walk warily round a runespell, neither speaking it aloud nor laying a hand on it.
‘There’s no rust on that spear-shaft,’ Valknut noted and I blinked, realising only now what the strange Otherness had been. No rust. Or dust. Or cobwebs. Everything looked as if it had been made the day before.
There was a general backing away. I saw Hild stagger, heard her mutter, moved closer and put one arm round her shoulders. She was cold, but sweating and swaying wildly, like a mast in a high wind.
‘So what happened?’ demanded Ketil Crow. ‘Did they forge a sword out of bits of an old spear? Is that the right of it?’
‘Essentially,’ muttered Illugi Godi, leaning forward to study the runes and speaking absently, his voice sounding like a man speaking underwater. ‘It was written here by someone … who knew … how to do it well. For the smith to copy on to the sword he was forging.’
Ketil Crow shrugged. ‘I can’t think that you would get much of a sword out of some old spearhead,’ he scoffed and Illugi peered briefly at him.
‘Depends on the spearhead. With the blood of a god on it …’
He left the rest unsaid, but Ketil Crow had it terrier-gripped and would not let go. ‘Not one of our gods.’
‘A god is a god,’ Illugi remarked. ‘Ours are more powerful, obviously …’
Martin’s snort stopped Illugi, but Ketil Crow wanted no theological debate. He kicked the metal forge moodily, for he had wanted lots more – treasure, swords, all the stuff of sagas. ‘I still don’t see that a sword made from an old spear is much of a weapon.’
‘Perhaps you should look at the anvil,’ said Einar laconically, ‘where they tested it.’
That great cut across the anvil, where the smith had tested the edge of his blade, made Ketil Crow click his teeth sharply together. Everyone craned to see and Valknut gave a low whistle of appreciation.
‘Deep. Through mail, a cut like that. And helmet-steel, maybe more. Solid iron, that anvil.’ He turned and nudged Ketil Crow. ‘Some spearhead. Some sword.’
Ketil Crow scowled, but it was half-hearted and the old, avaricious glow was back in his eyes.
‘What’s this?’ asked a voice and everyone turned, thrusting torches. The man – a grey-bearded veteran called Ogmund Wryneck because of a head-jerking tic he had – stood looking up another shaft, behind the barrels. The wooden rungs of a ladder led upwards.
‘Well spotted, old eye,’ Einar said, clapping him on the shoulder. He stepped on the ladder, moved up one rung – and it fell apart with a puff of rotting wood.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he said, then looked at me. ‘A strong lad, bracing himself, could work himself up that shaft with a rope if he had a mind.’
‘He could,’ I answered bitterly. ‘When you find one, ask him.’
Illugi Godi, impatiently grabbing the nearest torch, was almost nose to rock now, poring over the runes and muttering, but careful not to touch. But he was not so engrossed that he could not try to grasp more. He turned to me, his eyes wild.
‘Yes, yes, you must. There might be another runespell. Think of it! Another spell.’
‘Or a sword,’ added Ketil Crow enticingly.
‘Or some of Atil’s treasure,’ said Einar. The rest of the faces round me glowed with the greed of it and their eyes burned on me.
Fuck your runes, I wanted to say. Fuck your magic swords. Fuck you, too, godi. You haul your holy arse up the shaft if you feel so strongly about it.
Yet, at the same time, I was taking the offered rope, coiling it round my waist, looping the torch round my neck again and heaving myself into the shaft.
In the end it was an easy climb. The rungs broke into dust, but there were rusted metal sockets for them and they stayed intact for the most part, so it was simple. At the top, I lit the torch and looked around.
There was a collapsed shelf and more barrels, whose splayed staves spilled the contents out. There was a chest which looked interesting, but only because I tried to move it and knew it was heavy and perfect as an anchor for the rope.
I slung it down, told them that the room was too small for everyone and then turned back to the other thing I had spotted. The door.
It was half open, swung limply on sagging hinges and revealed, at first, what seemed to be an old wooden-framed bed and a collection of rags. Then I realised the rags had form; white gleamed. Bone.
As Einar panted up the rope into the room I realised, from the hanks of hair and the remains of jewellery, that this could be Hild’s mother. Einar, peering over my shoulder, rubbed his moustaches and nodded when I offered my explanation.
‘Interesting,’ he said and then pointed out the obvious, which I had overlooked. ‘If it is, she could have unbarred the door, got out