The White Raven

10

'Someone took the sack off when the day came up and they thought themselves far enough away. I blinked into the glare until my watering eyes made out the shape of Olaf, sitting next to me in one of the sledge-carts, bundled in his white fur cloak. There was blood on it.

The air was full of shimmering ice particles despite a blue sky. The snow squeaked, the horses' breath froze and we slid, in a panic of haste, across a sea that surged and swelled in pearl-white waves.

'Are you well, Jarl Orm?' he asked, peering at me this way and that from under his fur hat, his face pinched and pale with cold. 'You took a hard dunt.'

I felt it. Anyone who boasts of being knocked spinning by a crack to the head, then springs up the next minute to take his enemy by surprise is a toad-puffed liar. I did not want to move my head at all for the first hour after I had woken, for it made my belly heave. The lurch and sway of the sledge-wagon was barely tolerable.

The light hurt and I shut my eyes, but I heard everything; voices I did not know, Geats or Svears from their accents. Martin, that cursed monk, with his rasping Saxlander bite urging them to move. And a Slav accent that sounded familiar, though I could not put a face to it.

Eventually, I managed to open my eyes again — the tears had frozen them shut and for a brief moment of panic I thought I had been blinded. Wrapped to the eyebrows in his fur-trimmed cloak and goat-wool hat, Olaf huddled in the lee of horse-fodder and food bundles, watching me. There were little icicles on the strands of his hat and one from his nose that he did not want to remove, I knew, because he would have to unwrap himself.

I leaned over and wiped it away and he smiled, shivering.

'I thought you would die,' he said and, at the moment, he was a nine-year-old boy. I managed a grin, though it felt as if my face was a mask and cracked when I did it. I felt clumps frozen in my beard and moustache.

'I look better than you — is that your blood?'

He shook his head. 'Bleikr,' he said miserably.

The cold bit, but I was sweating by the time I had managed to sit up and look out of the sledge-cart to find we were slithering and fish-tailing through chest-high pale yellow grass, with the exhausted ponies stumbling in the snow. Up ahead, a man bulked by clothing was leading the little horses which pulled the cart. Turning carefully, I saw other figures, counting them without thinking. Seven in all.

'Ha — now you are up, you can get out and walk,' yelled a voice and I turned to see a black-bearded face, rimed with ice, glaring at me. He was bundled in a cloak and another was swaddled round his head, but he was red-faced and sweating with the effort of staggering after the cart. That was bad for him, I saw with some satisfaction.

'Leave him where he is,' rasped the familiar voice of Martin, stepping forward from behind him. 'Safer where we can see him, Tyrfing.'

Then he moved away before I could find words to curse him.

I remembered the black-bearded one now; the German Tyrfing who had been one of Klerkon's men. I saw a couple of others I recognized from that crew — then blinked as two faces I knew well lumbered up to put shoulders to the back of the sledge-cart and help the stumbling horses. They kept their heads down, to avoid looking me in the eye.

Drumba and Heg, my own thralls — wearing warm furs and cloaks that were clearly stolen and with axes and knives in their belts. Drumba's had been the Slav voice I had failed to recognize.

Slavs — I cursed myself for a fool. I had only gone and brought these thralls back to their homeland without even considering that they would bolt for it first chance they got. Odin's arse, they could even be a fart-length away from the home they had not seen in a decade or more. But who ever considers what thralls think?

'Vladimir will track you down,' I said to the tops of their wool-hatted heads. 'You should have thought this out to the end.'

Heg looked up, chin thrust out defiantly. 'Better this than dying on some mad chase for a hoard of silver,' he growled. 'What would we get from that?'

Nothing at all, being thralls. What had they been promised for this, I wondered? So I asked and Drumba gave the sledge-cart a final heave and stood, flapping his cracked, worn hands against the cold.

'Enough,' he said to the gap opening between us. 'A stake for the future and a chance to be free.'

'You will never be free,' I shouted to the gap between us, sounding more sure than I felt, 'and the only stake you will get will be rammed up your arse.'

The pony ahead wheeled round at that and came alongside at a shambling half-trot, scattering snow fine as flour. The rider peeled back the cloak that covered his face, all but the eyes, which had been circled with great dark rings of charcoal, a steppe tribe trick against the glare from the Great White.

'Yell away, young Orm,' he said with a chuckle. 'No-one can hear you who cares much.'

Thorkel. He grinned at me and I almost hurled myself at him from the cart — but even the surge of anger in me made my head hurt and I swallowed it back.

'This is the worst luck you have had,' I said to him. 'Which is a feat, considering your life to this point. The Norns hate you, Thorkel, for sure; they are unpicking the threads of your life.'

He scowled a little at that, then shrugged. 'No. I am thinking this is where my luck changes. We will sell you and the boy to Jaropolk, which is surer money and safer, too, than chasing down this hoard across a frozen steppe.'

So that was it. Martin's idea, clearly — though what did the monk gain?

Thorkel shrugged when I asked. 'Away with his holy stick and no part of your quest,' he said, looking over to where Martin trudged, two bundles wrapped and slung on his back, wild hair flying. He had to be freezing in his tattered robes and big leather shoes, but gave no sign of it other than the hand that grasped his staff, which was blue-white.

'You believe this? After all you know of that monk?'

Thorkel frowned, then brightened. 'We will know soon enough, when we reach Kiev.'

'You will never reach Kiev.'

He chuckled then and reined the weary pony round. 'Well, it will be a hard run, right enough,' he admitted, 'for Vladimir will want you back, since you know the way to Atil's hoard, while Sigurd Axebitten cares what happens to Crowbone. But we will beat them and what will they do when Sveinald has you?'

I wanted to spit a clever answer back at him, viper-venomed and fast, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth at what he had said.

It was true enough. They had a head start and even if little Vladimir, all bright-eyed with silver greed, flogged horses to death he would not get to us in time. Olaf saw all that flicker across my face and hunched deeper into his cloak as the wind hissed and rattled the frozen grass.

The Oathsworn would keep coming, though, relentless and grim and driven. I pointed that out to Thorkel while reminding him that he had broken his oath. He frowned, for he remembered the words of it now and I twisted the knife of that in him.

'May he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.'

He winced and looked over to where Martin trudged and I knew the monk had persuaded him that embracing the White Christ would save him from Odin. It came to him that Christ would need to have considerable powers to save him from the wrath of the Oathsworn.

The power of that oath suddenly washed me; before, I had always been the one forced to action by it, hag-ridden to risk myself to rescue the stupid I had shackled myself to. This was the way of things, I had thought. Now I was the one depending on the oath and for the first time in my life I felt the sun-warm glow of it, the exultant certainty that I was not alone.

He saw me smile knowingly from the ice-tangle of my beard and, scowling, tugged the pony round and forced it back to the head of the column.

There was silence for a long time after that, while the short day died and the steppe reeled away, featureless save for some wolf tracks, which excited everyone. But you could see a long way and nothing moved, not even the chill blue air.

Then, as the sun died at the end of the short day, squeezed into a great orange-red pillar by the cold so that it seemed to hold the sky up from the edge of the world, we stumbled up to a stand of birch trees, bloodied in the dying light.

We stopped then, for here was wood for fires, though it was almost too frozen to be cut never mind burn. Thorkel had stuffed the tops of grass inside his tunic, which kept him warm during the march and thawed out to provide tinder, so he made a fire, careful and slow, as if he was rubbing a fainted maiden's hand to bring her back to life.

There was heat and food, after a fashion, but the cold seeped through for all that and the. horses whimpered and scraped hungrily at the ground, for there was little food for them.

'They will die soon,' muttered Heg and Drumba shushed him.

'We will make it to Kiev,' rasped Martin, hunched by the fire. Thorkel and the others, the melted ice glistening like pearls in their hair and beards, spooned gruel or stared at the flames, enduring.

'There was once a rich man,' said Crowbone softly, 'who lived in Kiev long ago, do not ask me when.'

'Enough,' warned Martin and crossed himself. 'Your stories are spawned by the Devil himself, for how could a boy like you know so many and so well?'

'I like them,' argued Heg and Thorkel grunted.

'Who cares what you like?' he said. 'You mistake yourself for a man.'

'He is a man, as am I,' growled Drumba. 'You mistake us for the thralls we were.'

'So all dogs fight,' Crowbone said with a sad sigh and a shake of his head. 'Once it was not so.'

'You call me a dog, you brat?' rumbled Tyrfing.

'If it yaps like one,' Crowbone said and I was wishing he would keep quiet, for my head would not take another good thumping.

'I will yap you, boy,' grunted Tyrfing and made to rise. 'Enough of all this,' snarled Martin. 'Leave the boy — have you understood nothing? We need him and Orm alive.'

'Of course, all Christ priests are like cats,' little Olaf said and heads came up.

'Why cats?' demanded Thorkel, pushing more wood near the flames to thaw it out enough to feed the fire.

'There was once a rich man,' Crowbone said, 'who lived in Kiev long ago, do not ask me when.'

No-one spoke when Olaf stopped and he looked up from the fire and into all their faces.

'This man,' he went on, 'lived in a fine izba. High walls hid it from view. He had no family and his only company was a cat and a pack of dogs. He never went out to work. He did not even go out to buy food. No-one ever visited him. Naturally, everyone was very curious — especially the thieves.

'One night, a thief sneaked into a neighbour's courtyard and peeked over the walls. He saw a wonderful place, of bathhouses and granaries and a forge. In the centre was a house fancy enough for the emperor of the Great City.

'The curious thief climbed over the wall and crept into the house, which was filled with fine furniture and rich hangings — a real jarl's hov. In a high seat of gold-studded wood sat the old man, richly dressed, wearing gold rings on his arms and round his neck.

'There were feasting benches and a great table carved from a single piece of shining wood and the old man sat in his high seat, with the cat and all the dogs opposite, like they were his guests at a feast — but there were neither plates of food on the table nor any thralls to cook and serve.'

'I know how that feels,' grunted a man from behind Thorkel.

'I know now how it feels to be the missing thrall,' answered Heg with a chuckle.

'Shut your bungholes,' growled Tyrfing. 'This at least takes my mind off the cold.' He gave a harsh look at Martin, who wisely clamped his ruined gums.

Crowbone smiled and went on with his story and I wondered why, for there was no reason to raise the spirits of this band.

'The old man smiled at the dogs and asked: "What do you want to eat tonight?" The dogs gave a bark and the old man nodded and drew out a Christ amulet from a small box, one of those fat crosses with the dead god nailed to it and said: "As you like it, as I like it, I would like some rich stew."

'A big golden bowl of fine lamb stew popped into the air above the table and landed with a clank in front of the dogs. The smell was delicious and they happily began to slurp down their food.'

'You turd,' growled Thorkel, 'I see your plan now — you are trying to kill us with longing for what we do not have.'

'Pagan imp,' growled Martin angrily. 'The holy cross is not some Devil's magic-maker.'

'The old man asked his cat — let us call it Martin,' declared Olaf, ignoring them both. Martin scowled but said nothing.

'The cat merely licked its paws, so the old man wished on the amulet and a big steaming carp appeared. With a disgusted look at the dogs, the cat began to eat daintily.

'Then the old man wished up his dinner on the amulet and the platters with it, all gold, crusted with jewels and a huge drinking horn banded with silver for him to drink his fine wine.'

'Blaspheming imp,' spat Martin. 'Enough — God will not be mocked.'

'Shut your hole,' snarled Tyrfing, shivering now, his inner layer of clothes having been soaked with sweat, now freezing. 'I like the sound of such a drinking horn and what it might contain.'

'At the end of this feast;' Olaf went on, 'the old rich man yawned and wished the dirty plates all away, then he and his pets slept — though it was the cat who ended up in the rich man's bed, covered with furs and fine linen. The dogs tried to crowd in, but Martin the cat yowled until the rich man scattered them off, leaving him and the cat alone in the huge comfortable bed.

'The thief waited patiently until the old man and his pets had begun to snore. Then he sneaked in and stole the amulet. The next morning, the old man woke and found his amulet missing. He hid his face in his hands and wept. "I am ruined. Ruined! And I am too old to go looking for the thief."'

'Sounds like Thorkel,' I said and he curled his lip at me. Olaf laid a hand on my arm and I wisely obeyed and kept quiet.

'Then the rich man felt something wet on the backs of his hands and he looked up to see that it was his cat and all the dogs licking him. He put his hands on the dogs' heads, one by one. "Will you be my strong legs and go and find him?" They howled and yelped.

'The old man looked at Martin the cat. "Will you be my clever mind and get the amulet?" And the cat licked his hand.

'So the loyal pets left. They looked all over the land, from Aldeigjuborg to the Great City, from the lands of the Livs and Ests to the wild steppe of the Khazar Jews and beyond, even to where silk comes from. They lived by their skills and their wits. The dogs sniffed around in alleys for things that people threw out. Sometimes, they had to fight the other beggars for it, but the pack was strong and always won — and always shared what they had with the cat.

'The cat learned how to leap up through kitchen windows and steal food. Often Martin would eat most of it inside the house and only bring the leftovers to the dogs.

'Eventually, the animals heard of a rich man who had appeared out of nowhere, who lived on the other side of the mighty Dnepr. "You dogs are strong enough to bear me," the cat said. "One must carry me."

'The strongest of them agreed. "But do not dig in your claws," he warned and crouched. The cat leaped on his back and the dog slipped into the river, the pack following. The water was so cold and swift that the dog soon grew tired.

"I cannot do it," the dog groaned, leaking blood, for the cat had not spared its claws. "Then another must," the cat urged. "Think of home. Think of hot meals and soft furs and linen."

'So the next dog took the cat and went on until he was too tired and the next after that. Eventually, in this way, the cat reached the other bank and the dogs climbed out exhausted. "Now for the amulet," the cat said, not tired at all and sped up the hill without waiting for the slow, wet, weary dogs.

'By now Martin the cat was an expert at sneaking into houses and crept silently into this fine one, hiding behind a richly-decorated seat. The thief strode by in a robe of silk embroidered with gold. Around his neck hung the Christ amulet on a golden chain — but he was not as careless as the rich old man. Two guards accompanied him at all times.

'Going outside, the cat just stopped the dogs from blundering inside. "We will have to use both your strength and my wits to get the amulet," explained Martin.

"Anything for the old man," the loyal dogs promised.

'They waited until the thief went for a walk in his garden. The dogs suddenly darted out from bushes, bowling over the startled guards and leaping on the thief.

"Stop them," the thief shouted frantically. The two guards could not use their swords because they might hurt their employer. Instead, they tried to pull the dogs away. A huge fight raged.

'Into this, the cat shot, a small streak of fur. Perching on the rich man's chest, Martin pressed both front paws against the Christ cross. When the thief reached for it, the cat bit his hand so he snatched it back. Silently, the cat wished, "As you like it, as I like it, I would like to be back home with the amulet."

'As the cat began to fade from sight, the dogs barked anxiously. "Wait for us, wait for us," they howled — but the cat vanished from sight and, next moment, was back in the old man's hov. The old man lay in a ragged robe on a pile of straw. He had sold everything to pay his debts. Through the window, the cat could see that the garden itself had fallen into ruin.

"Thank the White Christ, you have come back," the old man said. "I was near death here. Now give me my cross."

'Instead, the cat picked up the Christ amulet in her mouth and ran off with it, leaving the old man cursing. He never saw Martin the cat ever again. Months later, as he lay dying, he heard barking at his door and, suddenly, a handful of mangy, limping hounds burst in, tired, and dusty, all torn ears and scratches.

"Too late," the old man said. "The cat's run off and hidden the amulet." Then he turned his face to the wall and died.

'The dogs slunk away, howling and arguing with each other and began to look for the cat, but Martin was long gone. So from that day to this, dogs have fought each other and only stop to chase every cat they see, hoping it is Martin with the amulet. They have distrusted all cats ever since — and men, if they are wise, should do the same, for not all those who carry the cross are good Christ-believers.'

In the silence that followed, the hissing wind was loud and mine was the only chuckle. Then men started half-up, afraid, as something flitted silently overhead.

'Only a hunting owl,' Martin snapped, then rounded on Thorkel, Tyrfing and the others and savaged them for their twitchiness.

'This is what comes from listening to that damned boy,' he thundered and they hunched their heads deeper into their shoulders, as much to endure him as the cold and the long night. Then he looked sideways at Olaf and made the sign of the cross.

'If you have such a Christ amulet,' growled Tyrfing, trembling with cold, 'now would be a good time to use it, priest.'

Martin only shook his head at such foolishness. The silence was brooding.

'A good tale,' I whispered to Crowbone when I could. 'It did not miss the mark, I am thinking.'

He turned to me, eyes round and serious. 'The owl tells me to watch out tomorrow,' he said. 'Things will happen and we must be ready for them.'

He turned back to stare at the flames and I felt the racing creep of my flesh that always told me when the Other was close, when the membrane between the worlds was thinnest.

He may have been earlier in the day, but he was not nine now, that little Crowbone.

Tyrfing was dead next morning, sitting by the black scar of the iced-over fire, wrapped in his cloak and ghost-white with rime. His face was a faded blue, his eyes fastened shut with lashes fine as silver wires.

'He will be the lucky one,' Olaf piped up and the remaining men scowled; Heg even reached out as if to cuff the boy, but freedom sat too new on him to behave like that.

Martin, a dark scar himself in that place of frosted ground and frozen white birch trees, slapped men to get them to move and they did, slowly, as if underwater. Thorkel, too, added his curses and cuffs and they staggered into a world like the inside of the frost-giant Ymir's skull, a huge curve of iced sky and snow plain that seemed to have no beginning and no end and was turning pewter-dark by the minute.

The last pony, trembling and head-bowed with misery, was fetched from where it had been tethered and Martin told us to get back in the cart.

'They should be made to work,' Drumba argued, scowling. 'That one pony will scarce pull the load. Get them out and pushing.'

Martin gave in and we climbed Out, stiff with cold and me with my head aching still, each step a stab of pain in it. The wind hissed snow in my face and the pearl sky slid towards darkness.

'Whatever happens,' Olaf said, looking up into my face, 'do not worry. Yesterday, I saw a magpie in a tree over there and a raven joined it and they sat together for a while, watching us. Then the raven chased the magpie off.'

Raven — magpie? I heard it, as if from a long way off. The boy was mad for birds. Or just mad.

He saw my look and smiled, his lips blush-red against the pallor of his pinched face. 'The magpie is Hel's bird, made like her face — half ruin, half beauty. The raven belongs to Odin and the message is clear. . Odin will prevent Hel from claiming us this day.'

Not a straw death, at least,' I managed through my clattering teeth.

'If the Norns weave it,' Olaf answered, 'no death at all.'

Thorkel was trying to back the pony into the traces, had it halfway hooked up when someone yelled, shrill and high as a woman.

Drumba half-turned and the arrow took him high on the shoulder when it should have pinned him between the shoulderblades. Thorkel, fighting to hold the pony, took one there, a deep shunk of sound that staggered him — but he stayed upright and only seemed angrier.

The horsemen spilled around us like ghosts, the white cloths that had draped them and their horses flailing like winding sheets. Those cloths had hidden them from sight, the snow had hidden them from sound and now, breaking right and left round the little copse' of trees, they galloped in a spray of white flakes and arrows.

Heg fled, screaming, vanishing into flurries of snow. Another arrow thudded into Thorkel, in his chest this time and he staggered back with the force of it and lost his grip on the pony, which reared and fought in terror.

They were silent, these horsemen. Silent and agile as cats, climbing up and ducking under, whirling almost completely round to keep the arrows coming while they rode round and round, flailing their horses into stumbling runs, the snow like gruel under their ponies' hooves.

Thorkel, snarling now, dragged out a sword — the frozen-stiff fur he wore was as good as armour against the arrows and he whirled one way, then another, spiked with them, like a mad hedgepig. Drumba choked off his last yelping cry when another arrow skewered his chest and punched a little way out of his back in a flick of time. He went down in a swirl of moans and red-dyed snow.

The wind was howling, I realized. Crowbone tugged my cloak and I saw him hunkered at my feet, but the pony and the wind and the screams of men turned him into a gawping fish, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly to me.

A figure lurched into me, bounced off and started to move away, half-turning to fling me away with a curse from a black-toothed, ruined mouth.

I grabbed out, caught something and heard him yell. Pain slammed into my shins and made me howl and something arced up and sideways into the snow — a great, hard-ridged leather shoe. Then something snapped and I fell backwards, clutching what I had grabbed, knowing Martin had just escaped.

The pony was mad with fear now, plunging and bucking. The cart tilted, went on one side, then over again, the sledge-runners in the air. The traces snapped and the pony staggered off.

Crowbone, on his knees, started to dig, while I lay there, head muzzed and pounding, waves of sick pain flowing up my leg from the kick on the shin.

Now I saw how dark it had become, how most of the shrieking was the Wind and that the horse warriors were vague shapes in the seething snow and barely moving. I managed to get to my knees just as one of the horse-warriors lumbered out of the swirl, bow cased and a curved sword in one hand. I heard a series of shrill screams as the sword went up and came down, threw up the bundle I had and heard the edge whack on it, the blow almost jerking it from my hand and flinging me flat again. The rider gave a howl of triumph, fought the horse round, leaning out to be able to hit me.

Then Thorkel snarled out of the white mist of snow, the sword swinging, smacking the rider out of the saddle. Roaring and hacking, Thorkel flurried more blows on the fallen shape, half of them bouncing off because he was wild with fear and anger and using the flat as much as the edge.

'In here, Jarl Orm,' shouted Crowbone, tugging my leg. 'In here.'

He had dug out the snow at the edge of the cart, like the sunken door to an Iceland toft and, even as I moved, Thorkel spotted it and lumbered towards me, a hedgepig bristled with arrows that seemed to have done him no harm at all.

Then, as ever with Thorkel, his luck ran out. He was three steps from me when the last arrow whirred out of the snowstorm, fired blind by riders already making off for shelter. It took him in the left eye, seemed just to appear there and came out above his right ear in a great gout of dark blood and bone shards. He was whirled by the force of it and fell away with a last, despairing shriek on the bad cess of his life.

I scrabbled furiously, while the dawn turned to midnight and was half-hauled by little Olaf into the shelter of the cart. In the dark, panting and sobbing with pain, I lay for a long time, while the snow-wind hissed through the cracks in the planks and the cart shook and trembled with the power of it.

We did not speak for a while. I fell asleep, or lost my senses more like, for when I awoke, it was clear Crowbone had been busy and had adjusted his eyes to the gloom under here. The wind howled, the snow flurried in the cracks, but not so much now, which meant it was piling up on that side.

Crowbone had stacked three bundles at the door he had clawed out, to stop the wind. As my eyes adjusted, I saw one of the sacks was split and rye spilled out.

'Well,' I managed, 'we have grain and snow for water. If we had a fire we could make flatbread.'

'If we had meat and gravy we could make a feast,' he answered, then grinned. 'But we have some old bread and even some strips of dried meat, so we will not starve. Do these storms last a long time, Jarl Orm?'

I shrugged, which could have meant anything. I did not know, but thought it best not to admit that — for all his resource, little Olaf was still but nine years old and his voice quavered when he asked.

I chewed and scooped snow to drink, plastered more on my aching leg and wished I could see how bad it was. That turd Martin had kicked me — but he had lost his shoe doing it. He was out there, surely dead by now I hoped he had frozen slowly, starting with his bare foot that he had used to take the skin off my shin.

I remembered the bundle now and dragged it over. The sword cut I had parried had slashed the ties and the wadmal cloth hung in tatters, so I peeled it off. I half-expected to see Martin's Holy Spear, but it was my rune-marked sabre and I realized that the monk had stolen it as part of the package to sell to Sveinald — me and the rune blade, the secret of the silver hoard.

Then I had to wonder at the Odin-marvel of getting it back.

'That's the one you took from Atil's howe,' Crowbone said, peering at it. I turned it over in my hand, seeing the beautifully carved hilt and the runed scratches on it, how the blade gleamed even in this poor light, how it looked rainbow-slick as if oiled, the serpent of forged runes curling down the blade.

'Is it magical?' he asked and reached out one finger to touch it. He stopped a knuckle-length away and drew his hand back. He looked at me. I wrapped the weapon up and it seemed even darker with it covered.

We sat for a while longer as the storm swooped and swirled, savaging us through the knotholes in planks and rocking the upturned cart. Snow sifted in. My head hurt and little Olafs teeth clattered loudly.

'Get closer if you are cold,' I said. There was silence but he did not move. Then he cleared his throat.

'I pissed myself,' he chattered, his piping voice thick with the shame of his battle fear.

'Never mind,' I grunted at him. 'It will be the last piss you ever take if you do not get closer, for it will freeze you to the marrow.'

I felt him creep to me then, huddling in the lee of my arm, where we leached warmth from each other and trembled with cold in the fetid dark — but, in the confined space, with the cart wrapped in snow, it grew warm enough for the rime to melt and freeze into new and stranger shapes on the inside of the cart.

He smelled faintly of piss and the shame came off him in waves, as like heat as made no difference to me.

I watched the rime-shapes, slipping into sleep, knowing it and fighting it, for there is not a man from the north who does not know the cold that droops your eyes towards death.

I was in the prow of the Elk as it curved andflexed over a great swell of cold sea, the spray flying. When I turned I saw old faces — the closest to me was Kalf, who had vanished over the side on my first-ever run to Birka, slapped overboard in a careless moment by sodden sails and gone in an eyeblink. He grinned at me and waved and I knew I must be dead and heading for Aegir's kingdom — though how I had ended up in that underwater hall when I had died on land was a puzzle.

I turned back to stare beyond the prow for a clue to it, but the spume stung like an angry byke of bees, then a creature flew up in my face, a squid, or a jellyfish, straight on to my face, sucking and squelching. .

'Leave off him. Good boy, well done — leave him, you hole.'

Light blinded me, white and flickering with shapes. Something whuffed and panted and rasped my face with hot wetness.

'Get off.'

The deerhound yelped as Finn whacked it, then his great grinning face loomed over me and he chuckled.

'He deserves a few kisses, all the same, Bear Slayer, since his nose has found you where nothing else could. Good trick, that cart business.'