The White Raven

19

It took a while for the unease to settle on what was left of the Oathsworn, a haar that dusted everyone with droplets like morning dew. We had silver after all and there was cheering at that — yet we also had Crowbone and that would bring men after us. There was muttering about Fafnir's curse.

Those crew left — nineteen by my count, including the hirpling Fish — had to keep rowing down the fat, sluggish Don to the Maeotian Lake, which the Serkland Turks call the Azov Sea; that hard task did not help matters.

It was a boat made for fifteen oars a side, so we were crew light, as usual. It was made from one tree, an oak the length of nine good men and extended by willow planking, though we had lost some of those in the mad slide. It was two men wide and straked with planks nailed to make the freeboard as high as a standing warrior and fitted to take the oars.

Great bundles of large reeds, each one thick as a barrel, had been laid along the length of those freeboard planks, bound with bands made of lime or cherry. This made the whole thing virtually unsinkable even if swamped — which was useful, for it had no deck to speak of and we had few men to spare for bailing.

It had an ill-worked sail, which proved that it was capable of going into deeper water, probably along the coast of the Azov and the Sea of Darkness, which suited us all fine. But, as Gizur pointed out, you only wanted the mast and sail up in fair weather; if a blow got up, it was best to row for it.

Finally, the shipwrights had fitted heavy ribs and crosspieces, slathered pitch where necessary — and sometimes where not — and put a steering oar at each end, since the entire clumsy affair was too long and too heavy to turn on a river, so you simply reversed your rowing and went the other way.

And right there was the problem. It was a light boat made for dragging from river to river with a full crew but, crewed by too few of us and laden with Odin's cursed silver, it was as limber as a quernstone. It would not sink, sure enough, but it would scarcely move either under the oar-muscle we had — and twice we held our breath as the bottom of it tugged and scraped on unseen banks, or balked at crushing a path through the sluggish, half-formed ice.

There would come a time, too, when rowers would have to sit the opposite way from each other and haul until their temples burst to get the beast round the narrower bends.

I remembered, from the last time I had come this way — a lifetime since — that the river split as it reached the Azov. The south fork of it was straight and true and short, while the north twisted and turned and was longer — but that one forked again along its length and so was one more way to lose pursuit. Both were fretted with rills and rivulets, reed and swamp.

The south route was the one I knew and Hauk, Finn, Hlenni Brimill and Red Njal, who had been with me at the time, agreed that way was best, provided we did not find men up our arse before we hit the first fork. Even Short Eldgrim had a moment of clarity and recalled that he had been this way before.

'This is all that remains,' Red Njal said suddenly, looking round from one to the other as we talked, resting our oars and grabbing some tough bread from the stores we had found on board.

No-one spoke, for he was right and it was a hard matter to consider. Seven were all that was left of the original Oathsworn, those who had been with Einar the Black when I joined the crew. Eyes strayed to the wrapped bundles — Kvasir and the Bjornsson brothers, brought aboard and bound for where we could decently bury them. Finn sighed and Thordis, passing on her way to attend to Thorgunna, brushed his tangled hair with one hand.

The mist trailed along the black water of the river and ice nudged the strug as we sat, rich as kings and feasting on dry bread and cold river water, each thinking of his share of the silver — and his share of the curse.

Yet we would not dump Odin's gift without a fight.

'We need to haul in and light a fire,' Bjaelfi declared, coming up to attend to a deep cut on Ref Steinsson's arm.

'No,' I said, 'unless you are fancying a fight with those big Slavs Vladimir has.'

'Thorgunna needs to be properly attended to,' added Thordis. 'Which needs hot water and a little time.'

It was a heft of a swell, but I rode it, right through to her black scowl.

'We cannot stop. Let Bjaelfi do what he can.'

'I have done,' the little healer declared sourly, scrabbling in one of the dangling pouches he had. 'But Thordis has the right of it, all the same.'

He broke off, unstoppered a small flask and poured some of the contents into the cut on Refs arm; the smith went white and bit his lip until blood flowed, while Bjaelfi bound it in a rag marked in charcoal with healing runes.

'The juice of crushed ants,' Bjaelfi said, clapping Ref cheerfully on the shoulder. 'That and runes made by Klepp, who never makes a mistake, will stop the rot.'

Ref managed a moody grunt, for he had lost his sea-chest and all his tools, some of them made by himself. The possible loss of his arm was almost nothing by comparison.

'She will die,' Thordis declared firmly, glaring at me until her eyes seared through the common-sense and found the heart in me. Finally, I nodded.

'There was once a man,' said a piping little voice and, before it made another sound, there was a sharp whack of sound and Crowbone shot backwards, arse over tip and landed in a knot of rowers, who shoved him off, protesting loudly.

Rubbing his ear, Crowbone scrambled dazedly to his feet, pulling his dignity and his white cloak round him. His eyes filled with tears — more of rage than pain, I was thinking — and Thordis moved to him, glaring seax-sharp looks at Finn.

'Not now, boy,' growled Finn, blowing on his freshly-burst knuckles. Hauk Fast-Sailor chuckled and shook his head at Finn's audacity.

'Hel slap it into you,' noted Onund mildly, 'which is all you deserve if that notable man-boy takes it into his head to work curse-magic on you for that blow. Anyway — I like his stories.'

'Fuck him,' growled Finn. 'I am just after recalling how we got to this place, thanks to him and his little axe. And his stories are always like eating those limon fruit from Serkland, which look so sweet and clappit your jaws. Besides — how much more cursed can I be?'

Those who heard this last, despite their admiration for a man who had tasted limon from Serkland, groaned and shook their heads, with much clutching of amulets and talisman pouches.

Even I had to shake my head with mock sorrow, though there was less mock in it than I would like. That was not the sort of matter you aired when you suspected any gods were listening — sure enough, we would have an answer to it.

Red Njal's da's ma, as ever, had something to say.

'When you hear the gods whisper,' he offered, savage as a wet cat in a bag, 'hurl your spear into their breath.'

Not long after, we saw smoke as we slid down and round the black, ice-fringed river that had started to wander like a drunk down a street. We steered for those fuzzed grey curls, round one bend which almost had us pulling in opposite directions to turn the strug, and came across a swathe of sand and pebble beach with a clot of yurt beyond.

People scattered and yelled and I had to balance awkwardly in the prow, my arms upraised to show how my hands held no weapons. Behind me, hidden from view, Fish nocked an arrow and watched.

We came in slowly, not wanting to beach the boat, because Gizur warned that we might not get her off again in a hurry. Finnlaith and Hauk splashed ashore with lines and fastened them securely; slowly, creep by creep, cautious people came closer to us.

They were Khazars, wintering here in their yurts with flocks and herds. When they found the magic glint of silver rather than steel in our fists, all fear was forgotten and we carried Thorgunna off and into a yurt, which amazed me with its bright comfort. Almost as amazing as finding I was paying for it with coins stamped with the head of some ruler called Valentian and dedicated to the glory of Old Rome.

We stayed there all that day and the rest of the night, in the cloak-wrap comfort of sights, sounds and smells we had all but forgotten — the hanging braids of garlic and onions, the limp, naked, dangle-necked bodies of duck and hare, the stink of burning hair and singed feathers, the quarrelling snarls of dogs fighting over the same scrap.

That night, Klepp Spaki proudly held up a louse between finger and thumb and declared that, with the return of such vermin, he now knew he was alive.

We spoke no common tongue with these Khazars, for all that we could summon up Greek, Latin, our own Norse, a good smattering of Serkland Arab and even some Krivichian and Chud. The Khazars spoke their own tongue, which some said was the same as the one spoken by Atil's Huns long ago and so no-one among us knew that. They also had the language of the Jews, but all anyone knew of this were the foul swearwords Morut used.

However, trade is a common tongue to all and so we had food and even some green wine — which Finn immediately took charge of — and, above all, news that the ice was melting from the centre of the Azov, for the whole sea had been frozen. It meant that there was now a flow to it and that had broken the ice in the narrowest part, where it entered the Sea of Darkness.

'So there is a way out for us,' beamed Gizur, having laboriously learned all this. 'We can sail anywhere you want, Jarl Orm.'

Onund cleared his throat meaningfully. 'As long as it does not take us more than a long swim from land. I do not trust this log boat.'

In the morning, I was chivvying them up and loading stores on board. In the night, we had howed up the Bjornsson brothers, re-wrapping them in full view of the Khazars so that they would see the dead had nothing with them worth digging up. That and a gift of hacksilver from the hoard would make sure the Khazars let the brothers sleep peacefully. They had no weapons or armrings, but I had openly promised their shares to their mother, so I thought their fetches would stay happy with what had been done.

Kvasir stayed with us, all the same, though I was not sure where he would finally rest — he would not last all the way back to Ostergotland — but Thorgunna had to have a say in that and she was pale as milk and sleeping when we brought her into the shelter of the boat's prow.

We pushed sweatily away into the middle of the river, while children ran up and down, cheering and pitching sticks at us as their parents looked on and waved, smiling.

Slowly, groaning with the effort of it, we swung the riverboat round the bend and away down the black river, the oars chopping up the thin porridge of ice, while the banks grew thicker with birch and willow. I watched until even the smoke of the Khazar camp had vanished, then turned and almost fell over Crowbone, wrapped in his filthy white cloak and staring over my shoulder with his double-coloured gaze.

'What?' I asked, thinking he still brooded on Finn's blow. 'Do not let Finn's manner bother you; he thinks well enough of you, but tempers are short. .'

'No,' he said, still looking over my shoulder, 'I am not concerned with Finn — one day, I will claim weregild for that blow, all the same. It is the birds I am watching.'

Then I turned to look, squinting into the low, creeping mist. A skein of ducks arrowed high overhead.

'Good to see birds back,' I agreed, smiling. 'The winter is losing grip.'

'All the ducks are skinny,' remarked Crowbone. 'Like the ones hanging in that village we left. They are feeding furiously now that the ice is broken.'

I frowned, remembering the skinny ducks and not understanding why he was so concerned. Then he turned his flat, two-coloured gaze on me.

'Why, then, are hungry ducks flying off the water?'

It took me several seconds to answer that in my head and when I did, my heart leaped up and threatened to bang through my teeth and out my mouth entirely. Everyone else started with astonishment when I suddenly sprang forward, screaming.

'Row, fuck your mothers — row!'

We were too few and too late. The long black shapes slithered round from where they had set up feeding ducks, seemed to fly up to us, even laden with Vladimir and his mailed druzhina warriors.

Two boats; my heart collided with my battered boots. One would have been enough. In the end, I told my crew to ship oars and they did so in a scramble and started sorting out weapons and equipment, even before they had stopped puking and heaving in air.

'Well,' growled Finn, climbing up beside me in the prow that faced them. 'This will be a hard dunt of a day, I am thinking.'

A deadly dunt of a day, I was thinking, as I hefted the only weapon left to me, an adze axe I had found on board. All they had to do was sit back and have those Slavs and their curved bows shoot us down; half of us had no shields and we had one bow and a handful of arrows left.

The boats came closer, one with Dobrynya and the little shape of Vladimir up in the prow, the other with Sigurd Axebitten and a strange half-animal which dragged gooseflesh up on my arms until I realized it was Kveldulf, with a whole wolf pelt draped round his shoulders, the mask up and over his helmet.

'Well, well,' murmured Finn. 'There is the bladder I have to prick.'

'Is he really a Night Wolf?' I heard Ref ask fearfully.

'If he is such a shapechanger,' Onund answered scornfully, 'then he is no danger, for it is broad daylight.'

They came closer, a couple of boat lengths away and backed water, sliding to an ungainly halt. Together, we drifted like leaves, sluggish and turning imperceptibly.

'Give up Prince Olaf and the treasure you stole,' I heard Vladimir shrill. I had half an idea it was not what he wanted; what he wanted was to get close enough to throw his little spear and yell 'Idu na vy' then slaughter us to a man. What stopped him was. .

Crowbone. He slithered between Finn and me, clear and vulnerable on the prow and between us and any arrows, making it impossible for them to even try and hit us. I laid a hand on his shoulder: despite the strange seidr in him, despite all he had inflicted on us, I liked the boy and did not want to see him hurt.

He looked up at me for a moment, then turned his head forward and cupped his hands to his mouth. 'There was once a man,' he shouted, high and shrill, 'let us call him Vladimir.'

'This is not the time for such matters,' Dobrynya interrupted, his voice echoing blackly over the waters.

'Vladimir had to drive his sledge a long way to the wood for fuel,' Crowbone went on, ignoring Dobrynya completely, his voice an arrow aimed at the little prince. 'Then a Bear met him and demanded his horse, or else he would eat all his sheep dead by summer.'

'Prince Olaf,' Dobrynya tried, then fell silent when Vladimir raised one imperious little hand, listening intently. His uncle, face as grim as Perun's wooden statue, fumed silently.

The boats slid closer together, so that Crowbone did not have to shout to be heard.

'The Man was faced with freezing or agreeing to the bargain,' Crowbone continued. 'For no Man likes to see his sheep eaten dead. He promised the Bear he would bring the horse to him tomorrow if he could be allowed to cart home the wood that night. On those terms the Bear agreed and Vladimir rattled homewards, but he was not over-pleased at the bargain you may fancy. Then a Fox met him.'

'Enough of this!' roared a familiar voice, a bellow that startled thrushes from hiding with a whirr of wings.

'Is that yourself, Kveldulf?' Finn shouted back. 'I hear, with my one ear, that there is some part of me you would like to own. It may be that once this boy has finished with his tale I will present you with the gift of a priest.'

'I have heard of that sword,' came the roared answer. 'I shall use it to cut off your other ear. .'

'The Fox,' trilled Olaf into the end of Kveldulfs scorn, 'asked Vladimir why he was down in the mouth and the Man told him of his bargain with the Bear. "Give me your fattest wether and I will soon set you free, see if I cannot," answered the Fox and the Man swore he would do it.

'The Fox laid out a clever plan, that when Vladimir came with the horse, the Fox would make a noise from hiding and when the Bear asked what it was, the Man was to say it was a bear hunter, armed with a powerful bow.'

When he paused to take a breath, you could hear the water gurgle in the silence.

'Next day, matters worked out exactly as the Fox had said and the Bear grew afraid when he heard of the hunter and his bow. The voice in the wood asked if the Man had seen any bears. "Say no!" pleaded the Bear. And the Man did so. "So, what stands alongside your sledge?" demanded the voice in the wood. "Say it is an old fir-stump," pleaded the Bear. And the Man did so.'

'I have heard this story,' said a delighted Short Eldgrim behind me, but everyone shushed him to silence, for the story held us all, while the sweat trickled coldly down our backs at what might happen when it was done.

'The voice in the woods,' Crowbone continued, 'said that such fir-stumps were worth rolling on a sledge for fuel. Did Vladimir want a hand? "Say you can help yourself and roll me up on the sledge," said the Bear and the Man did so. "Bind it tight or it will fall off," said the voice in the woods. "Do you need help?"

"Say you can help yourself and bind me fast," demanded the Bear. And the Man did so.

"You need to drive an axe into that stump," said the voice in the woods, "to help steer it down the steep paths."

"'Pretend to drive your axe into me, do now," pleaded the Bear.'

Even with the tension visible as mist, there were a few who chuckled at what they saw coming.

'Then the man took up his axe,' said Crowbone 'and at one blow split the helpless Bear's head and so the Man and the Fox headed home to Vladimir's farm, where Vladimir said he would bring the promised wether out to him.

'When he came back, he had a sack in which something moved and the Fox started drooling, for it had been a hard winter. "Give me what I am owed," said the Fox and Vladimir untied the sack and two red hounds rushed out.

'The Fox sprang off, too fleet to be caught like that, but his voice was bitter when he said: "Well done is ill paid. The worst foes are those you trust to be honourable."'

The silence that followed crushed all sound save the quiet rill of water on wood.

'You did not behave like a prince,' Crowbone went on, breaking it like a slap. 'I am also a prince and my mother was a princess. She did not teach me such bad behaviour, Prince Vladimir. I counted you as a friend, as did Jarl Orm — is this how you repay friends for their help?'

'I remember your mother, boy,' bellowed Kveldulf and then Sigurd silenced him with a blow on his shoulder.

'I remember you also, Night Wolf,' answered Olaf. 'So does my mother.' His voice, scarcely a whisper, carried across the water, sibilant as the hiss of a snake and like to shave the hair off the nape of your neck.

'Surrender the boy,' Dobrynya persisted.

'Once,' I answered, 'you told me how one day I would be thankful for the friendship of princes.' The cold sweat pooled where my belt cinched my mail tight at the waist. 'There is another side to that coin — a prince may be grateful for the friendship of the Oathsworn.'

'I will stay with Jarl Orm,' piped Crowbone firmly. 'Until he brings me to Lord Novgorod the Great and reclaims his ship there. If any harm comes to him, I will not count it as a princely thing to do.'

He did not say what the consequences would be and, peculiarly, no-one thought to question what such a boy could do — they all had their own ideas on it and only one was not afraid as he bellowed out his anger.

'Fuck this,' roared Kveldulf and there were mutterings behind him; I saw then that some of the crew in his boat had been Lambisson's men, those who had fled and left Fish behind. That, I was thinking to myself, was a dangerous hiring.

'You will come to me in Novgorod?' demanded Vladimir.

'I will pledge myself to you there,' replied Crowbone. 'Soon, you will need men to fight for you, Prince Vladimir, if you wish to be Grand Prince of Kiev. Between us, we will scatter all our enemies. Here also, Jarl Orm is a better treasure than any silver and, if you fight him here, you lose his strength with you — and I would not be surprised if a careless blade cut my throat.'

It was so close to prophesy that I shivered and I was not alone, judging by the murmurs that leaped from head to head. Kveldulf was open-mouthed with disbelief, so stricken he could not speak at all and I was a little stunned myself; had this nine-year-old ancient just said I would kill him if we were attacked? Had he just pledged me to help Vladimir against his brothers?

There was a brief whispered exchange, then, Dobrynya's iron-grey voice rumbled over the water.

'The prince agrees,' he declared loudly. 'Go in peace and take what you have, Jarl Orm. Bring Prince Olaf to Novgorod by the end of summer next, unharmed. If you fail, the prince will hunt you down and have you and all your men staked along the Volkhov Bridge.'

'By Thor's arse, no!' bawled Kveldulf, turning white and red in turns. 'Did I split my knuckles rowing for this?'

'You were paid,' Dobrynya snapped back at him, 'and will mind your manners. A stake is as easy to find here as in Lord Novgorod the Great.'

I choked Finn's guffaws with an elbow in the gut that left him coughing, for humble silence was best here. Gizur put everyone on the oars and we strained away from the death we were sure had been our lot moments before, rowing hard and hardly able even to believe our luck.

Eventually, much later and reined in like bolted horses, sobbing for breath and lashed with sweat and drool, we all realized that it was real. We had escaped. We would live.

Finn, pewter-eyed and so tired he could not even close his mouth properly, turned to where a wet-eyed Thordis wrapped Crowbone in her cloak. He patted the boy as if he was a particularly clever pup.

'Odin's arse, young Olaf,' he growled admiringly. 'If ever I quarrel with your tales again, simply remind me of this day on the river and my mouth is clamped shut.'

Olaf said nothing, simply gazed back along the river, only his eyes and the top of his blond head visible in the swathe of Thordis's cloak. I whirled, suddenly fearful, but there was nothing; when I turned back, Crowbone forced his chin out from under the cloak folds and smiled thinly.

'The ducks still fly. They fear the wolf.'

By night we had grown dizzy swinging round the narrowing bends of the river, unable to see much on either side through the thick, skeletal white branches of the trees. We did find an ox-bow curve of shingle where we crunched through the thinning ice and unloaded ourselves.

Crowbone's wolf comments had reached all ears by then, but the Oathsworn were defiant now and lit good cooking fires, daring the Night Wolf to come and find us. All the same, as Finn stirred what herbs and spices he had left into the two upturned helmets filled with a savoury stew, I had Toke and Snorri take first watch.

It cheered us all when Thorgunna hirpled, leaning heavily on the arm of Thordis, into the firelight and, wincing, took a cloak-cushioned seat by the fire. She smiled wanly at the smiles around her and accepted a wooden bowl of stew and even managed a few mouthfuls from her own horn spoon.

After a while, as everyone ate and talked quietly, about everything and anything other than where we were, where we were headed and what we would do with all the wealth when we got there, Thorgunna laid down her bowl and turned to me.

'Thank you for bringing Kvasir,' she said. 'Tomorrow, I will surrender my man to the water, to Ran, who surely lives as much in rivers as in the sea. I do not trust those hereabouts to leave him in peace on land and now that I have his eyes back and he is whole for Valholl, I am content.'

When I looked in her dark eyes I saw the opposite of that — saw, too, that it was not for Kvasir but for the almost-bairn kicked out of her.

That night, I raked through the silver hoard while Finn held a torch up and finally found a hinged torc that even Finn whistled at. Twelve ounces if it was any weight at all, solid and carved in little S-curves connected by rosettes, which were fitted with red stones, most them still there. It ended in an intricate lock and Finnlaith swore that it was Irish and he might have had the right of it.

In the morning, with the mist still in tendrils, I placed the torc inside Kvasir's corpse-wrappings and had a fond smile from Thorgunna for it. She took his stiffened fingers and gently trimmed his nails with her little scissors, for it is, well-known that Naglfar, the boat captained by Loki and which carries the giants of Jotunheim against Asgard at the start of Ragnarok, is made from dead men's fingernails. It is right to delay the building of it.

Then she pulled out the bloody little pouch I knew contained his shrivelled eyes and tied it round one wrist, so they would not be lost. We weighted him with stones from the shingle beach and slid him over the side with scarcely a ripple and he sank quickly, while I commended him to the gods and tried not to choke on the loss.

Then, almost before we had shaken ourselves from the dark of it, like dogs losing water from a swim, Crowbone raised his head and pointed one arm.

'The Night Wolf is here.'

He came on loping swift, hoping to take us by surprise — but everyone, in honour of Kvasir, had been armed and mailed, so all I had to do was go to the prow nearest to the black ship that held Kveldulf and, as I had suspected, Lambisson's old crew.

Kveldulf was in the prow roaring them on, his wolf-pelt draped on him, a snarling mask on his head and shoulders while the oars dipped and sprayed. He had too few men to both row and fight and I knew that he would back water soon and let the forward motion of the riverboat carry him crashing into us while his men got their weapons ready. It is what I would have done.

Finn leaped on to the prow alongside me. Fish leaned out from the side, took aim and shot; there was a sharp cry and a rower pitched forward on to the man in front, driven by the smack of the arrow in the back of his head. The oars on that side faltered, the boat slewed sideways and Kveldulf whirled, bellowing with anger and frustration.

'Another good hooking, Fish,' roared Finnlaith, but Fish scowled.

'That cost me dear — that was Milka and he owed me money,' he grumbled.

Kveldulfs ship sorted itself out and Fish fired four of his last five arrows, three of which found targets. He yelled out with each man who fell. 'Leave me behind, would you? Leave me behind. .'

I knew then that Kveldulf had no archers with him and told Fish to stop firing and keep an arrow nocked and in view, so they would not realize we only had one left.

'Good,' growled Finn, bringing his iron nail out of his boot. 'Now it comes to blade edge and arm strength — and we are the Oathsworn.'

This last he roared out and everyone behind clattered their weapons on the bulwarks or on what shields we had. I hefted, my axe and turned, putting my back carelessly to where Kveldulf bellowed and roared his men back to setting his boat prow on to us. It was a spear-throw away, no more.

They looked up at me, even Thorgunna, tucked under my feet which I did not think such a safe place and said so, before turning to those savage grins and reminding them what we were and who we were. Then, just in case any were still afraid of the reputation of the Night Wolf, I reminded them that we had never seen any exploits of his.

'Anyway,' I finished. 'I am Orm, slayer of the White Bear, so a wolf is nothing to me.'

They roared long and loud at that and, when I turned, I saw Kveldulfs men look uneasily, one to the other. Kveldulf, on the other hand, was in the prow, waving a sword and the sight of it made Finn growl, low and hackle-raising.

'Kvasir's sword.'

Once, we had found three north-forged weapons in an Arab pirate hoard. I had kept one and given Finn and Kvasir similar swords, perfect blades, with the story of their making written just below the surface of the metal. Vaegir, they were called — wave swords. Finn had called his The Godi and had it still. I had lost mine long before. Kvasir had died with his in his hand and now we knew who had taken it.

'Take it back,' said a voice and Thorgunna started to scramble weakly out of her shelter under the prow planks.

'Move to the other end,' I ordered her, but then Crowbone shoved between us, as he had once before, and distracted both me and Finn.

'No tales this time, little prince,' Finn declared grimly. 'I do not think the Night Wolf is in the mood to listen.'

Crowbone nodded, but pointed, out into the black ribbon of river and the trails of milk-mist. 'My uncle is coming,' he said.

It was true and everyone saw it. A second black shape creamed round the bend behind Kveldulf, the slap-bang of oars like the feet of a running man. Up in the prow, silver nose flaring bright in the sudden early dawn sun, Sigurd was bawling curses on Kveldulf.

The Night Wolfs men turned and twisted, half-rising from their seats. I remembered Klerkon in the market square of Novgorod, as I came up on one side and Finn on the other. A fronte praeciptium, a tergo lupi he had said — cliffs in front, wolves behind. The wolf himself was now trapped.

Our prows were closer now, a man and a half apart, no more. Finn clenched his nail between his teeth and howled triumphantly and, like the wolf he claimed to be, Kveldulf bristled.

He was brave and strong and skilful was Kveldulf. He would have been a fine man to have fight with you if it were not for the fact that you could not trust him at your back. Yet he showed us the wolf-worth he had claimed that day.

He launched himself, in full mail and with his pelt flying, off his own prow and towards us, stretched out so that the snarling head came alive on his helmet and he seemed to be, just then, a real wolf pouncing on sheep.

He flew up to the thin pole of our prow, grabbed it with his one free hand and let himself whirl round it on to the little half-deck. One booted foot hit an astonished Finn on the beltline and he flew backwards with a sound like a grass-blown cow being pricked open, scattering men like so many tafl pieces.

I dropped into a half-crouch, but Crowbone was in the way; then Kveldulfs swordhand was round and I barely managed to get the axe in its path, so that his hilt alone smashed into the side of my helmet. I staggered back, slipped off the planking of the half-deck and crashed down alongside Finn, struggling like a black beetle with all its legs kicking.

Kveldulf, grinning his savage grin, grabbed Crowbone by the collar and threw back his head to howl out his own triumph. In one smooth, astonishing moment, he had defeated us and his men answered the howl with cries of their own, bending to the task of stroking their ship up to where they could board us before Sigurd got up to them and put a stop to it all.

I sat up, my head ringing and my mouth full of blood. Beside me, a frantic Finn was scrabbling to recover The Godi; Fish was screaming with fury, for Finn had crashed into him and had smashed his bow.

Kveldulf leered down at us, Crowbone held in one paw, Kvasir's sword in the other.

'Stone am I?' he thundered. 'Well, you have seen how I fight now, Finn Horsearse. And you Oathsworn fools — pitch this pair over the side and join me, for I have surrounded the kingpiece in this tafl game.'

He was right and we were finished, but I would go down with a blade in my hand and not sinking under black river water, bound and helpless. .

A hand snaked up and Crowbone looked down and saw it. A pale spider it was, white-gripped round a small pair of scissors that you used to trim hair, or the frayed cuff of a tunic — or the fingernails off your dead husband.

Thorgunna, with what strength she had left, brought it down, savage as a snarl, driving it deep into the foot that had kicked the new life out of her.

Kveldulf shrieked and tried to jerk away, but she had rammed it through boot and foot-bones and into the planks, so that he stumbled and had to let go of Crowbone. Thorgunna fell back weakly to the deck and.Crowbone fell into a crouching huddle as Kveldulf, blind with rage and pain, wrenched himself free and brought Kvasir's sword up in a whirling arc, to bring it down on Thorgunna's sprawled and helpless body.

It came as a shock to the Night Wolf, then, when Crowbone popped back up, his face a shrieking, vengeful mask of hate, leaping salmon-high as he had done once before in the market square of Kiev.

'For my mother,' he said, just loud enough for those around him to hear.

It would have sounded like thunder to Kveldulf. Like Klerkon, he suddenly found his worst nightmare staring him in the face, a brief eyeblink of a moment in which the sharp of my adze-axe, plucked by Crowbone from where I had dropped it, must have seemed as big as the edge of the world. Then it split Kveldulfs two faces, wolf and man both, straight across the forehead, side to side.

For a moment the Night Wolf hung there like a strange, one-horned beast, a look of astonishment freezing in the last moments of his eyes; the sword slipped from his fingers and clattered at my feet and the inside of his head leaked down his face in a wash of yellow-white gleet and black blood. He toppled backwards, hit the water with a splash and vanished.

After that was chaos; Kveldulf's crew, close enough to leap aboard, saw their leader fall overboard, dead as old mutton. The Oathsworn surged to the freeboard planks, tipping the whole strug dangerously sideways, but bringing it down to a level where spears and edges could cut and stab across the freeboard. All of this quailed Kveldulf's men; they scrambled for the oars and backed water.

Sigurd came up, his archers opened fire with a hiss like rain on the river and men died in that sleet. Some leaped overboard, tried to swim for the bank, but the arrow storm cut them down and, finally, none remained who could make a sound.

When the screams were done, Sigurd stood in the prow and saluted me with his sword, while his men closed with Kveldulf's stolen boat and clambered aboard to recover it, killing any who still showed signs of life.

'No work of the prince, this,' Sigurd growled. 'He sticks to his oath and sent me to keep your sky from falling, as you did his.'

'I see you, Sigurd Axebitten,' I answered and he nodded, then hesitated.

'Take care of my sister's son. It took a deal of time to find him in the first place.'

'Since I found him in the first place, I am unlikely to put him in harm's way,' I reminded him. I laid a hand on Crowbone's shoulder, as he trembled in the aftermath of what he had done. Less than before, I noted; killing got easier each time you did it and I had no doubt that, one day, little Crowbone would not tremble at all after a day's slaughter.

'An adventure in a strange place, some sweet things to eat and then home,' said another voice and I knew who it was before I saw him, remembered the same words, spoken by Short Eldgrim to soothe a boy wounded by an arrow on the shores of Cyprus and near death. Jon Asanes had the white scar of that on his ribs still, but now he was wrapped tight in a blue cloak, standing behind Sigurd.

'Heya, Goat. Boy,' yelled Short Eldgrim, as Jon Asanes came up to stand alongside Sigurd. 'You are on the wrong boat.'

'Am I?' asked Jon, but it was Thorgunna who answered, climbing unsteadily to her feet and held there by Thordis. She said nothing, simply spat in the water; Jon's pale face bowed between them and his cry of anguish was sharp.

'No mercy?' asked Finn softly.

Thorgunna's black eyes raked him. 'Mercy is between him and his White Christ,' she answered hoarsely. 'My only obligation to Jon Asanes is to arrange the meeting.' She handed me the hilt of Kvasir's sword with a hard, black-eyed look.

That was bleak enough to stop all conversation and Finn was hurting in his ribs too much to argue, while my head pounded and sickness welled in me.

I stood watching, all the same, Kvasir's sword dangling limp and accusing from one hand, the other on Crowbone's shoulder as we rowed away from his uncle and Jon Asanes, while Thordis led Finn away to strip off his mail and look at his ribs.

Left to herself, below us, Thorgunna held on to the prow planking to keep upright and stared at the swirling black water where we had loosed Kvasir to Ran's mercies.

'At least he has the best of offerings,' I said to her, 'for the enemy who killed him is now at his feet.'

She looked up, smiling radiantly, but I knew she could not see me through so many tears.

'There will always be a place for you at Hestreng,' I added, thinking to comfort her and she knuckled her eyes clear with a swift gesture.

'Ingrid has her feet so far under the high bench that I will never get my keys back, I suspect,' she answered, with a flash of the old fire that made me smile.

'We could be married. Then you would be mistress and no gainsay.'

I said it lightly, as a wry jest, but the words tumbled out of my heart and the rightness, the answer to what I would do now, fell in to replace them. I was so stunned by it that I was left blinking as stupidly as she.

Her mouth opened and closed, then she snorted. 'You can say that, after carrying on with that Aoife like you did?'

'That was then — besides, she is only a thrall.'

'Ah, so you had to hold up her bottom with both hands?'

'No — well, not entirely. .'

My tongue stumbled to a dry halt and I was not as sure of matters as I had been a moment ago.

'Rams rut quieter than you,' she declared softly.

I stifled a groan. My stomach churned. 'Such matters are expected of a jarl,' I managed.

'Such honour and duty from a raiding man, even one of account. Anyhow — my mother warned me. Never marry a raiding man, for his heart is in the wind.'

'Was she a sister to Red Njal's da's ma, I am wondering? Besides — the one time she was right and you did not listen and married Kvasir anyway.'

'So now you mire the good name of my mother? I should get Thordis and both of us will thrash you.'

'Is that the same Thordis who let Kvasir sneak in and away again in the morning?'

She smiled at the memory; we both did. I felt better — then those sheep-dropping eyes hardened and her chin came up.

'Do not you try and throw mud on my good name,' she growled. 'I never let him stay the night until we were proper wed. And I never will you, either.'

'As I recall, your sister and Ingrid begged Kvasir and me both, on bended knee to take you off their hands.'

'They did no such thing!'

Tickleface, they called you. Thor-fist, too.'

'Lies. They would not dare slander me. .'

'Did you really trap Ingrid in the privy? And left a dead rat in Thordis's bed-space once?'

'I will kill them both. .'

She stopped, caught my eye. The wind blew her hair away from her red-cheeked face, streaming it back and flattening the thick cloak against her prow-built shape. She saw me look her up and down and flushed.

'Too soon,' she said eventually, staring at the slow-shifting wake in the black water where Kvasir slowly turned and sank. 'But I thank you for the offer.'

I smiled. She smiled. I pulled her to me and she grunted a little, for I was hard in my nervousness — but she did not shove me away, all the same.

'Was Odin's gift worth it all, then?' she asked. I had no answer to that.

We left the crow-black river for the Dark Sea and Odin's gift became perfectly clear on the evening, weeks later, when we slid into an island bay to make camp for the night. Our minds were glass, where the breath of home misted clear thoughts and we all but missed the three ships arrowing out the dim. It was Onund, his great shoulder-hump made bigger where he hung from the prow, who yelled a warning.

They came sidling up, wary and circling like winter-thin wolves on a fat wether.

'Heya,' Hauk called out, while bows were unshipped and arrows nocked — we were well armed now. 'Who are you there?'

'Men from Thrond,' came the reply, floated faintly across the water. 'With three ships to your one and hard men packed in all of them.'

Thrond was far enough away in the north of Norway for me to realize that these were raiding for preference, though they would claim to be traders if challenged by stronger men. Now they thought they had a fat prize and I could not deny they were right. For all that, I sat with my chin in my hand and tried not to look concerned, which is hard when your knees are knocking.

'We are the Oathsworn of Orm Bear Slayer,' Hauk called out. 'We want no trouble, but will give it if we get it.'

There was a long pause and one boat started backing water at once. On the other two, it was clear that arguments had broken out. Eventually, a voice called out — more polite in tone, this time, I was thinking — that they would come closer to see if what we said was true.

'Come as close as you dare,' bawled Finn, annoyed, 'but Finn Horsehead warns you to keep beyond the length of my blade.'

They turned then, all three of them, and rowed furiously out of the bay, chased by our laughter. Later, I met one of those who had been on the main boat, a good man who came to Hestreng on a trade knarr selling leather and bone craft. He told me that they knew they had met their worst nightmare when they saw Orm Bear Slayer sitting, unconcerned by them and calm as a windless day, chin in hand and waiting patiently for the Oathsworn to serve supper.

I did not tell him I was sitting, stunned, for I had just realized Odin's gift.

Fame.

The one he gave to himself, for our fame was All-Father's fame. Men gave up their White Christ thoughts when they heard of us and what Odin had given us. As long as the Oathsworn stayed in memories, Odin could keep the White Christ at bay in one small part of the north, no matter that the blind-weaving Norns warped the line of Yngling kings to an end and brought in the new god of the Christ.

We were a weapon in One-Eye's hand and had been, as Hild had been and Einar and all the others; the silver hoard was just the goad that had driven us to fame-greatness, the shine on Odin's name.

Yet the glow of that hoard still smeared the eyes. Later, when we stopped for a brief rising-meal, the insidious glitter slid into men's minds as they laughed about the latest escape they had had and the way the men of Thrond had scattered like starlings off stubble.

It was, I heard Gizur say as he chivvied men back to their benches, a sure sign that Odin's hand was over us still and the treasure we had was nothing at all to do with Fafnir and surely could not be cursed.

'On the other hand,' Ospak said, 'it could mean Odin means us still to have all the treasure remaining in Atil's howe.'

There were groans from some at the thought of doing all this over again — yet nods of agreement from those still silver-hungry enough to consider going back. I thought it time that everyone knew, all the same, and stepped forward in such a way that made them all look round at me.

Then I told them what I had avoided saying out on the steppe, the day we had run, panting, from Atil's tomb and the warrior women who ringed it.

I had stayed behind as the others hurried away, watching the slope-headed man-killers who guarded it and the woman who called herself Amacyn. With a runesword in each hand, she had walked to the hole in the tomb roof and straddled it, while all her oathsworn comrades sat their horses on the bank of that frozen lake and bowed their heads.

I had heard the chopping sounds. If her sabre was like mine, then it could cut an anvil and both together, working on that stone support beam, would slice through it long before her arms started to ache or the edge left those blades. I turned away, then, numb and cold and. . relieved.

The others were a long way off when I thought I heard the tomb collapse, but it may just have been the blood rushing in my ears, for I hit a crippling pace to catch them up, especially for a man weakened by hunger and cold.

But we had all heard the cat-yowl wail from those female throats, a last salute to their last leader.

I could see it in my head, the collapse of that great yurt of stone and wood and earth. The ice cracking, the swirl and roil of those black melt-waters rushing in to cover silver, dirt, bones — and the falling woman, her last task done, her oath fulfilled, tumbling down to her wyrd at the feet of Attila.

Last of her line, with no daughter and no secret and no longer any need to pass that burden on. I shivered at the passing from the world of these oathsworn, like us and yet stranger than a hound with two heads. I did not like to think that I had, perhaps, seen my own future in the woman's long, slow whirl of arms and legs.

The river flow would wash the silver into the silt, scatter it and everything else for miles down the river. For years people would pick riches out of those waters; some might even brave the fetch of the place and dig for it in those times when the drought came and the lake was emptied. Perhaps, one day, someone might find a rune-serpented sword, or even two and, perhaps, marvel at how they seemed unmarked by time or weather.

But not us. Odin had given the Oathsworn his last gift of silver, I told them.

They were silent after that and eventually Gizur nodded, straightened and scrubbed his hands over his face, as if scouring away sleep and the last of a bad dream.

'Row, fuck your mothers,' he growled. 'It is a long way home.'