Lords of the North s-3 Page 4

  “His name,” Bolti said, and his voice was a trembling squeak, “is Thorkild the Leper.”

  Sven made an involuntary grimace and clutched at the hammer amulet about his neck, for which I could not blame him. All men fear the gray, nerveless flesh of lepers, and most lepers are sent into the wilderness to live as they can and die as they must.

  “What are you doing with a leper?” Sven challenged Bolti.

  Bolti had no answer. “I am journeying north.” I spoke for the first time, and my distorted voice seemed to boom inside my closed helmet.

  “Why do you come north?” Sven asked.

  “Because I am tired of the south,” I said.

  He heard the hostility in my slurred voice and dismissed it as impotent. He must have guessed that Bolti had hired me as an escort, but I was no threat, Sven had five men within a few paces, all of them armed with swords or spears, and he had at least forty other men inside the village.

  Sven drank some ale. “I hear there was trouble in Eoferwic?” he asked Bolti.

  Bolti nodded. I could see his right hand convulsively opening and closing beneath the table. “Some Danes were killed,” he said.

  Sven shook his head as though he found that news distressing. “Ivarr won’t be happy.”

  “Where is Ivarr?” Bolti asked.

  “I last heard he was in the Tuede valley,” Sven said, “and Aed of Scotland was dancing around him.” He seemed to be enjoying the customary exchange of news, as if his thefts and piracy were given a coating of respectability by sticking to the conventions. “So,” he said, then paused to fart again, “so what do you trade in, Bolti?”

  “Leather, fleeces, cloth, pottery,” Bolti said, then his voice trailed away as he decided he was saying too much.

  “And I trade in slaves,” Sven said, “and this is Gelgill,” he indicated the man beside him, “and he buys the slaves from us, and you have three young women I think might prove very profitable to him and to me. So what will you pay me for them? Pay me enough and you can keep them.” He smiled as if to suggest he was being entirely reasonable.

  Bolti seemed struck dumb, but he managed to bring a purse from beneath his coat and put some silver on the table. Sven watched the coins one by one and when Bolti faltered Sven just smiled and Bolti kept counting the silver until there were thirty-eight shillings on the table. “It is all I have, lord,” he said humbly.

  “All you have? I doubt that, Bolti Ericson,” Sven said, “and if it is then I will let you keep one ear of one of your daughters. Just one ear as a keepsake. What do you think, Gelgill?”

  It was a strange name, Gelgill, and I suspected the man had come from across the sea, for the most profitable slave markets were either in Dyflin or far off Frankia. He said something, too low for me to catch, and Sven nodded. “Bring the girls here,” he said to his men, and Bolti shuddered. He looked at me again as if he expected me to stop what Sven planned, but I did nothing as the two guards walked to our waiting group.

  Sven chatted of the prospects for the harvest as the guards ordered Hild and Bolti’s daughters off their horses. The men Bolti had hired did nothing to stop them. Bolti’s wife screamed a protest, then subsided into hysterical tears as her daughters and Hild were marched toward the table. Sven welcomed them with exaggerated politeness, then Gelgill stood and inspected the three. He ran his hands over their bodies as if he were buying horses. I saw Hild shiver as he pulled down her dress to probe her breasts, but he was less interested in her than in the two younger girls. “One hundred shillings each,” he said after inspecting them, “but that one,” he looked at Hild, “fifty.” He spoke with a strange accent.

  “But that one’s pretty,” Sven objected. “Those other two look like piglets.”

  “They’re twins,” Gelgill said. “I can get a lot of money for twins. And the tall girl is too old. She must be nineteen or twenty.”

  “Virginity is such a valuable thing,” Sven said to Bolti, “don’t you agree?”

  Bolti was shaking. “I will pay you a hundred shillings for each of my daughters,” he said desperately.

  “Oh no,” Sven said. “That’s what Gelgill wants. I have to make some profit too. You can keep all three, Bolti, if you pay me six hundred shillings.”

  It was an outrageous price, and it was meant to be, but Bolti did not baulk at it. “Only two are mine, lord,” he whined. “The third is his woman.” He pointed at me.

  “Yours?” Sven looked at me. “You have a woman, leper? So that bit hasn’t dropped off yet?” He found that funny and the two men who had fetched the women laughed with him. “So, leper,” Sven asked, “what will you pay me for your woman?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He scratched his arse. His men were grinning. They were used to defiance, and used to defeating it, and they enjoyed watching Sven fleece travelers. Sven poured himself more ale. “You have some fine arm rings, leper,” he said, “and I suspect that helmet won’t be much use to you once you’re dead, so in exchange for your woman I’ll take your rings and your helmet and then you can go on your way.”

  I did not move, did not speak, but I gently pressed my legs against Witnere’s flanks and I felt the big horse tremble. He was a fighting beast and he wanted me to release him, and perhaps it was Witnere’s tension that Sven sensed. All he could see was my baleful helmet with its dark eye holes and its wolf’s crest and he was becoming worried. He had flippantly raised the wager, but he could not back down if he wanted to keep his dignity. He had to play to win now. “Lost your tongue suddenly?” he sneered at me, then gestured at the two men who had fetched the women. “Egil! Atsur! Take the leper’s helmet!”

  Sven must have reckoned he was safe. He had at least a ship’s crew of men in the village and I was by myself, and that convinced him that I was defeated even before his two men approached me. One had a spear, the other was drawing his sword, but the sword was not even halfway out of the scabbard before I had Serpent-Breath in my hand and Witnere moving. He had been desperate to attack, and he leaped with the speed of eight-legged Sleipnir, Odin’s famed horse. I took the man on the right first, the man who was still drawing his sword, and Serpent-Breath came from the sky like a bolt of Thor’s lightning and her edge went through his helmet as if it were made of parchment and Witnere, obedient to the pressure of my knee was already turning toward Sven as the spearman came for me. He should have thrust his blade into Witnere’s chest or neck, but instead he tried to ram the spear up at my ribs and Witnere twisted to his right and snapped at the man’s face with his big teeth and the man stumbled backward, just avoiding the bite, and he lost his footing to sprawl on the grass and I kept Witnere turning left. My right foot was already free of the stirrup and then I threw myself out of the saddle and dropped hard onto Sven. He was half tangled by the bench as he tried to stand, and I drove him down, thumping the wind from his belly, and then I found my feet, stood, and Serpent-Breath was at Sven’s throat. “Egil!” Sven called to the spearman who had been driven back by Witnere, but Egil dared not attack me while my sword was at his master’s gullet.

  Bolti was whimpering. He had pissed himself. I could smell it and hear it dripping. Gelgill was standing very still, watching me, his narrow face expressionless. Hild was smiling. A half-dozen of Sven’s other men were facing me, but none dared move because the tip of Serpent-Breath, her blade smeared with blood, was at Sven’s throat. Witnere was beside me, teeth bared, one front hoof pawing at the ground and thumping very close to Sven’s head. Sven was gazing up at me with his one eye that was filled with hate and fear, and I suddenly stepped away from him. “On your knees,” I told him.

  “Egil!” Sven pleaded again.

  Egil, black-bearded and with gaping nostrils where the front of his nose had been chopped off in some fight, leveled his spear.

  “He dies if you attack,” I said to Egil, touching Sven with Serpent-Breath’s tip. Egil, sensibly stepped backward, and I flicked Serpent-Breath across Sven’s face, drawing blood. �
�On your knees,” I said again, and when he was kneeling I leaned down and took his two swords from their scabbards and lay them beside my father’s helmet on the table.

  “You want to kill the slaver?” I called back to Hild, gesturing at the swords.

  “No,” she said.

  “Iseult would have killed him,” I said. Iseult had been my lover and Hild’s friend.

  “Thou shalt not kill,” Hild said. It was a Christian commandment and about as futile, I thought, as commanding the sun to go backward.

  “Bolti,” I spoke in Danish now, “kill the slaver.” I did not want Gel-gill behind my back.

  Bolti did not move. He was too scared to obey me, but, to my surprise, his two daughters came and fetched Sven’s swords. Gelgill tried to run, but the table was in his way and one of the girls gave a wild swing that slashed across his skull and he fell sideways. Then they savaged him. I did not watch, because I was guarding Sven, but I heard the slaver’s cries and Hild’s gasp of surprise, and I could see the astonishment on the faces of the men in front of me. The twin girls grunted as they hacked. Gelgill took a long time to die and not one of Sven’s men tried to save him, or to rescue their master. They all had weapons drawn and if just one of them had possessed any sense they would have realized that I dared not kill Sven, for his life was my life. If I took his soul they would have swamped me with blades, but they were scared of what Kjartan would do to them if his son died and so they did nothing and I pressed the blade harder against Sven’s throat so that he gave a half-strangled yelp of fear.

  Behind me Gelgill was at last hacked to death. I risked a glance and saw that Bolti’s twin daughters were blood-drenched and grinning. “They are Hel’s daughters,” I told the watching men and I was proud of that sudden invention, for Hel is the corpse-goddess, rancid and terrible, who presides over the dead who do not die in battle. “And I am Thorkild!” I went on, “and I have filled Odin’s hall with dead men.” Sven was shaking beneath me. His men seemed to be holding their breath and suddenly my tale took wings and I made my voice as deep as I could. “I am Thorkild the Leper,” I announced loudly, “and I died a long time ago, but Odin has sent me from the corpse-hall to take the souls of Kjartan and his son.”

  They believed me. I saw men touch amulets. One spearman even dropped to his knees. I wanted to kill Sven there and then, and perhaps I should have done, but it would only have taken one man to break the web of magical nonsense I had spun for them. What I needed at that moment was not Sven’s soul, but our safety, and so I would trade the one for the other. “I shall let this worm go,” I said, “to carry news of my coming to his father, but you will go first. All of you! Go back beyond the village and I shall release him. You will leave your captives here.” They just stared at me and I twitched the blade so that Sven yelped again. “Go!” I shouted.

  They went. They went fast, filled with dread. Bolti was gazing at his beloved daughters with awe. I told each girl they had done well, and that they should take a handful of coins from the table, and then they went back to their mother, both clutching silver and bloody blades. “They’re good girls,” I told Bolti and he said nothing, but hurried after them.

  “I couldn’t kill him,” Hild said. She seemed ashamed of her squeamishness.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. I kept the sword at Sven’s throat until I was sure all his men had retreated a good distance eastward. The folk who had been their captives, mostly young boys and girls, stayed in the village, but none dared approach me.

  I was tempted then to tell Sven the truth, to let him know that he had been humiliated by an old enemy, but the tale of Thorkild the Leper was too good to waste. I was also tempted to ask about Thyra, Ragnar’s sister, but I feared that if she did live and that if I betrayed an interest in her, then she would not live much longer, and so I said nothing of her. Instead I gripped Sven’s hair and pulled his head back so that he was staring up at me. “I have come to this middle earth,” I told him, “to kill you and your father. I shall find you again, Sven Kjartanson, and I will kill you next time. I am Thorkild, I walk at night and I cannot be killed because I am already a corpse. So take my greetings to your father and tell him the dead swordsman has been sent for him and we shall all three sail in Skidbladnir back to Niflheim.” Niflheim was the dreadful pit of the dishonored dead, and Skidbladnir was the ship of the gods that could be folded and concealed in a pouch. I let go of Sven then and kicked him hard in the back so he sprawled onto his face. He could have crawled away, but he dared not move. He was a whipped dog now, and though I still wanted to kill him I reckoned it would be better to let him carry my eerie tale to his father. Kjartan would doubtless learn that Uhtred of Bebbanburg had been seen in Eoferwic, but he would also hear of the corpse warrior come to kill him, and I wanted his dreams to be wreathed with terror.

  Sven still did not move as I stooped to his belt and pulled away a heavy purse. Then I stripped him of his seven silver arm rings. Hild had cut off part of Gelgill’s robe and was using it to make a bag to hold the coins in the slave-trader’s tray. I gave her my father’s helmet to carry, then climbed back into Witnere’s saddle. I patted his neck and he tossed his head extravagantly as though he understood he had been a great fighting stallion that day.

  I was about to leave when that weird day became stranger still. Some of the captives, as if realizing that they were truly freed, had started toward the bridge, while others were so confused or lost or despairing that they had followed the armed men eastward. Then, suddenly, there was a monkish chanting and out of one of the low, turf-roofed houses where they had been imprisoned, came a file of monks and priests. There were seven of them, and they were the luckiest men that day, for I was to discover that Kjartan the Cruel did indeed have a hatred of Christians and killed every priest or monk he captured. These seven escaped him now, and with them was a young man burdened with slave shackles. He was tall, well-built, very good-looking, dressed in rags and about my age. His long curly hair was so golden that it looked almost white and he had pale eyelashes and very blue eyes and a sun-darkened skin unmarked by disease. His face might have been carved from stone, so pronounced were his cheekbones, nose, and jaw, yet the hardness of the face was softened by a cheerful expression that suggested he found life a constant surprise and a continual amusement. When he saw Sven cowering beneath my horse he left the chanting priests and shuffled toward us, stopping only to pick up the sword of the man I had killed. The young man held the sword awkwardly, for his hands were joined by links of chain, but he carried it to Sven and held it poised over Sven’s neck.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?” The young man smiled up at me and I instinctively liked him. His face was open and guileless.

  “I promised him his life,” I said.

  The young man thought about that for a heartbeat. “You did,” he said, “but I didn’t.” He spoke in Danish.

  “But if you take his life,” I said, “then I shall have to take yours.”

  He considered that bargain with amusement in his eyes. “Why?” he asked, not in any alarm, but as if he genuinely wished to know.

  “Because that is the law,” I said.

  “But Sven Kjartanson knows no law,” he pointed out.

  “It is my law,” I said, “and I want him to take a message to his father.”

  “What message?”

  “That the dead swordsman has come for him.”

  The young man cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered the message and he evidently approved of it for he tucked the sword under an armpit and then clumsily untied the rope belt of his breeches. “You can take a message from me too,” he said to Sven, “and this is it.” He pissed on Sven. “I baptize you,” the young man said, “in the name of Thor and of Odin and of Loki.”

  The seven churchmen, three monks and four priests, solemnly watched the baptism, but none protested the implied blasphemy or tried to stop it. The young man pissed for a long time, aiming his stream so that it thoroughly
soaked Sven’s hair, and when at last he finished he retied the belt and offered me another of his dazzling smiles. “You’re the dead swordsman?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Stop whimpering,” the young man said to Sven, then smiled up at me again. “Then perhaps you will do me the honor of serving me?”

  “Serve you?” I asked. It was my turn to be amused.

  “I am Guthred,” he said, as though that explained everything.

  “Guthrum I have heard of,” I said, “and I know a Guthwere and I have met two men named Guthlac, but I know of no Guthred.”

  “I am Guthred, son of Hardicnut,” he said.

  The name still meant nothing to me. “And why should I serve Guthred,” I asked, “son of Hardicnut?”

  “Because until you came I was a slave,” he said, “but now, well, because you came, now I’m a king!” He spoke with such enthusiasm that he had trouble making the words come out as he wanted.

  I smiled beneath the linen scarf. “You’re a king,” I said, “but of what?”

  “Northumbria, of course,” he said brightly.

  “He is, lord, he is,” one of the priests said earnestly.

  And so the dead swordsman met the slave king, and Sven the One-Eyed crawled to his father, and the weirdness that infected Northumbria grew weirder still.

  TWO

  At sea, sometimes, if you take a ship too far from land and the wind rises and the tide sucks with a venomous force and the waves splinter white above the shield-pegs, you have no choice but to go where the gods will. The sail must be furled before it rips and the long oars would pull to no effect and so you lash the blades and bail the ship and say your prayers and watch the darkening sky and listen to the wind howl and suffer the rain’s sting, and you hope that the tide and waves and wind will not drive you onto rocks.

  That was how I felt in Northumbria. I had escaped Hrothweard’s madness in Eoferwic, only to humiliate Sven who would now want nothing more than to kill me, if indeed he believed I could be killed. That meant I dared not stay in that middling part of Northumbria for my enemies in the region were far too numerous, nor could I go farther north for that would take me into Bebbanburg’s territory, my own land, where it was my uncle’s daily prayer that I should die and so leave him the legitimate holder of what he had stolen, and I did not wish to make it easy for that prayer to come true. So the winds of Kjartan’s hatred and of Sven’s revenge, and the tidal thrust of my uncle’s enmity drove me westward into the wilds of Cumbraland.