Chapter Twenty: Varg

CHAPTER TWENTY

VARG

Varg sat on the cold stone of the dockside and stared at his hands. They were shaking, blood spiralling a pattern across his skin.

People were moving all around him, Jarl Logur’s drengrs filling the docks, a wall of blue-painted shields and bristling spears separating Glornir and the Bloodsworn from Prince Jaromir and his mounted druzhina. Voices were shouting, horses neighing. Varg looked down at the dead warrior on the ground before him. One of Jaromir’s warriors, clothed in lamellar plate, his horsehair-plumed helm twisted at an angle where he had fallen from his horse. Blood bloomed from the wound in his side that Varg had given him, pooled on the stones. But all Varg could see was the man’s eyes: flat and empty, staring at nothing.

Lifeless.

I took that life from him.

Varg had killed before, but he could not remember it. All he knew was that he’d come to his senses with his hands wrapped around the throat of one of Kolskegg’s freedmen, then looked around to see another handful dead, Kolskegg among them, a ragged wound where his throat had been torn out.

This man on the ground before him, that had been different. He remembered everything, but most of all the sensation of his seax grating along the steel plates of the druzhina’s lamellar coat, finding the gap between plates and stabbing into it. Flesh parting; the hot rush of blood. It had been so easy, like slicing open a skin of wine. The man’s strength was fading, emptying from him along with his blood.

Varg’s guts spasmed and he vomited on to the stone.

“Huh,” a voice said and Varg looked up and saw Røkia standing over him. She was blood-spattered, arrows embedded in her shield. Her gaze moved from Varg, to the dead druzhina, to the pile of vomit between Varg’s feet.

“Your first kill then,” she said.

He didn’t feel like explaining, just spat bile from his mouth and looked back at her.

“It gets easier,” she said with a shrug.

There was a blowing of horns and the scrape of timber on timber. Varg climbed to his feet and saw the first of three huge drakkars pulling in alongside a pier close by, ropes thrown and moored. The eagle-sail had been furled and lowered, now, but the sight of the ship still made Varg gasp. Out on the fjord the three dragon-ships had looked impressive, but it had been the eagle-inscribed sails that had stopped the fighting and silenced all on Liga’s docks. The image of Orna the eagle-god spread in gold across the black sails: Orna, who had been slain on the day of Guðfalla, and was now the banner of Queen Helka. Now that the drakkar was close Varg saw it was almost twice the size of the Sea-Wolf. Figures leaped over the top-rail on to the pier, a gangplank laid out.

And then people were walking across the gangplank, passing from the ship to the pier. Six, eight, ten, twelve of them, spreading in a loose half-circle across the pier, facing Varg and the docks. Warriors, clothed in mail, men and women, the sides of their heads shaved, skin covered in flowing, swirling tattoos. Swords and seaxes hung from their belts, grey woollen cloaks upon them, edged in fur. Even from this distance Varg knew there was something different about these warriors, just by the way they walked. They had that warrior’s confidence in their gait that Varg was becoming accustomed to in the Bloodsworn and Jarl Logur’s drengrs, but there was something more to these warriors on the pier, something fluid. They moved like a flock of birds, or a pack of wolves, as if without looking each one knew where the others were. But the thing that stood out most to Varg was the thrall-collars about their throats. He had never seen a thralled warrior before.

After them a woman crossed the gangplank, tall, hair long and black as ravens’ wings. It was pulled tight at her nape and braided, threads with gold wire curling through it, a red flowing cloak across her shoulders pinned with a brooch of gold. Arm rings glinted as her cloak blew and lifted in the breeze off the fjord. She, too, walked like a warrior, a sword at her hip, gold on the pommel and crossguard, gold wire wrapped around the leather hilt, the scabbard ornately tooled, a throat and chape of gold.

Queen Helka.

Behind her followed a man, young, black-haired, tall and broad, his clothing almost as fine as Helka’s, but where she wore gold, he wore silver. Beside him walked another man, equally as tall, dressed in a dark tunic and breeches, blond hair and beard braided with what looked like pewter or bone tied into and hanging from the braids. A thick, twisted torc coiled around his neck like a sleeping serpent. He wore no weapons upon his belt, just a gnarled staff in one fist, but he walked with the same confidence as one of the Bloodsworn. Behind him came more warriors in mail, spears in their fists and shields slung across their backs, though none of these wore thrall-collars.

Helka strode down the pier, her retinue keeping pace before and behind her.

Jarl Logur stepped out to meet her, and Varg saw Jaromir dismount, hand his reins to one of his druzhina and stride towards the queen.

“Well met, Queen Helka,” Jarl Logur called out as he strode to her, two of his oathmen with him. Helka stopped, the warriors spread before her rippling to a halt, barring Logur’s way. Helka said something and two of them stepped aside, allowing Logur to pass between them, but not Logur’s warriors.

“A fine greeting for me,” Varg heard Queen Helka say, looking at the warriors spread along the dockside: Bloodsworn, mounted druzhina and Logur’s warriors.

“There was a disagreement,” Logur said. “I was resolving it.”

Helka looked at him a moment, then nodded.

Jaromir reached Queen Helka’s thralled bodyguards. He walked as if he expected them to part for him. They did not, instead regarding him with cold, flat eyes. One of them sniffed him.

“I am Prince Jaromir, son of Kirill the Great, Khagan of all Iskidan,” he said loud enough for all to hear.

Queen Helka’s eyes flickered to Logur and then back to Jaromir.

“You have esteemed visitors,” she said to Logur. “Welcome to my realm, Prince Jaromir. I hope that my jarl has made you comfortable.”

“He has not,” Jaromir said angrily. “I came to him with a reasonable request, and he has denied me. The blood of my warriors has been spilled on this…” His face twisted as he gestured to Liga’s quayside.

“What do you expect if you attack the Bloodsworn?” Jarl Logur snapped. Queen Helka held a hand up, raising an eyebrow at Logur.

“This is not the place to discuss business such as this,” she said. “Logur, lead us to your hall, where Prince Jaromir and I shall sit and he can tell me of his grievances.”

“My queen,” Logur said, dipping his head. He walked ahead of Helka, her bodyguards stepping aside for him. The jarl passed Jaromir, not looking at him, and strode from the pier on to the docks, a dozen of his blue shields settling around him. Another command from Helka as she followed, her guards allowing Jaromir to walk beside her, and then all of her retinue was in motion. Glornir and the Bloodsworn around him stepped back, opening a wider gap between them and Jaromir’s druzhina so that Helka could pass between them. She saw Glornir and paused, then gestured for him to join her. He stepped out of the Bloodsworn, shield slung across his back and long-axe resting on his shoulder. He raised a hand as half a dozen made to follow him, muttered to Einar and then he was enveloped by Helka’s bodyguard.

Varg stared at them as the procession passed him by, Helka’s bodyguards striding ahead of her, heads swaying as they swept the crowds either side of them with predatory eyes. Varg found them unsettling, a tingling in his blood as they passed him by. An air of violence surrounded them, almost palpable, like a heat-haze on midsummer’s day. One of them eyed the dead druzhina near Varg’s feet, then looked up at him, as if it knew the kill belonged to Varg.

Their eyes met and Varg took an involuntary step backwards. He had expected arrogance, a cold, fierce haughtiness, but what he saw in the warrior’s eyes shocked him.

Misery.

Then they had passed him by, the young man behind Queen Helka talking with the blond-haired man who walked with a staff. Varg saw small bones, what looked like rat and bird skulls, and pewter rings twisted in his hair and hanging from his braids, and his hands were covered in a knotwork of tattoos, disappearing up the sleeves of his tunic.

The whole procession passed them by, marched across the docks and into the street that led to Logur’s mead hall.

“Thirsty?” Svik said in Varg’s ear, offering him his unstoppered water bottle.

Varg realised he was and took the water bottle, drinking deeply.

“Some cheese?” Svik said, cutting a slice from a round he took from his pouch. He had blood on his hands, just like Varg.

“No,” Varg grunted, the thought of food making his stomach churn. “Who are they?” he said.

“Who?” Svik mumbled through his cheese.

“Queen Helka’s bodyguards.”

Svik’s general cheer withered. “Her wolf-pack,” he scowled.

Varg frowned.

“They are Úlfhéðnar,” Svik continued. “Tainted thralls, descended from Ulfrir, the wolf-god.”

“They look fierce, and wretched,” Varg said quietly.

“Aye, well, they are thralls. Treated well, given the finest of everything, but they are slaves, nevertheless,” Svik said. “No one wants to live a life on their knees.”

“No,” Varg whispered, touching his neck. His thrall-collar was gone, but its mark was still there, like a weight on his soul.

“Good in a scrap, though,” Svik said. “Vicious bastards.”

I believe that.

“Who was the man behind Queen Helka?” Varg asked.

“That was her son, Hakon, talking with Helka’s skáld and Galdurman, Skalk,” Svik said.

A Galdurman…

Around them the Bloodsworn settled into waiting for Glornir, tending their wounds after the brief skirmish with Jaromir and his druzhina. Varg saw warriors cutting arrows from their shields, helping comrades clean and bind wounds. One of the Bloodsworn had fallen, an arrow through her eye.

The druzhina were doing the same, attending to their injured, all the while a row of Logur’s blue shields separating them.

Varg strode over to his discarded shield and spear, which were still laying upon the ground, and picked them up. He leaned his shield against a wall and saw a slash through the black paint where the druzhina had struck at him with his sabre. He grimaced at the leather cover still on the blade of his spear.

I am an idiot.

“You are an idiot,” a voice said behind him and he turned to see Røkia. She was snapping arrow shafts in her shield, then pulling the iron tips through the inner side. “You attacked a druzhina of Iskidan with the cover still on your spear.”

“Yes,” Varg grunted.

Svik laughed.

“And your helm is still hanging on your belt,” Røkia added.

More laughter from Svik.

“No-Sense,” Røkia muttered, shaking her head.

“Yet he lives, and his foe is walking the soul road,” another voice said. Varg turned to see Sulich, the man this fight had been over. His shield was slung across his back, his sabre scabbarded at his hip. He walked to the dead druzhina and squatted, unbuckled the warrior’s helm and lifted it clear.

Sulich clicked his tongue.

The dead man was young, younger than Varg, his black moustache bound with silver rings. Sulich placed the helm down on the ground and rolled the corpse over, hands moving to the wound in his side where Varg had stabbed his seax into the druzhina. Sulich inspected the plate, pulling at the stitching and gap where the seax had slipped through.

“Travel well, my brother,” Sulich murmured, placing his palm over the dead man’s eyes, then picked up the helm and stood.

“This is yours, now,” Sulich said, holding the helm out.

Varg blinked and shook his head. The thought was repulsive to him.

“I am no carrion-crow, to steal from the dead,” he said.

Sulich’s face twisted. “Do not insult your victory,” he said. “These are the spoils of battle. He knew that.” Sulich looked down at the dead warrior. “Yes, he is dead, but all men die. Cattle die; all that draws breath will one day fail. He fought well, and so he died well. All that lives on is our battle-fame, and this…” He shook the helm at Varg. “This tells your tale. That on this day Varg No-Sense bested a mighty druzhina of Iskidan.” His mouth twitched in a smile. “Even if his spear was still capped and his helm was on his belt and not his head. This is sounding like a saga-tale to be sung around the hearth fire, no?”

Some laughter around them; a few shouts of agreement.

Varg just stared at Sulich.

“He is right,” Svik said. “Look around you.”

Varg did, and saw the other few druzhina who had fallen being stripped of their war gear by Bloodsworn warriors. Even the Bloodsworn who had fallen was being stripped by a druzhina, other Bloodsworn standing by and allowing it to happen.

“This is the warrior’s way,” Svik said.

“Aye,” Røkia grunted, “how else will you earn your battle-fame?”

“And it is fine war gear,” Sulich said. “That coat of lamellar is a mighty prize.”

“You have it, then,” Varg said.

Sulich’s face shifted, his good humour and smile evaporating, replaced by a scowl. He put the helm on the ground and walked away.

“What?” Varg said.

“You have insulted him,” Svik said with a shrug. “No warrior would take from another’s kill. That is stealing. That is not honour,” Svik rapped his knuckles on Svik’s head. “And Sulich is more honourable than most.”

“There is too much to learn,” Varg muttered.

“No one asked you to step into the ring with Einar Half-Troll,” Svik said. “This is the world you have entered, that you have chosen. Best you learn how to live in it. Come, I’ll help you.” He squatted beside the dead druzhina and started unbuckling his lamellar coat, then looked up at Varg. “Come on, then, I’m not your thrall.”

Varg crouched down and helped Svik strip the warrior of his kit: a belt with a long-handled knife and the sabre scabbard, the sword lying on the ground, which Varg retrieved. A bow case and curved bow, a quiver of grey-feathered arrows, and then they moved on to the coat of lamellar plate. It was heavy, and had extra panels to protect the upper legs, shoulders and upper arms. Beneath it the warrior wore a thick coat of quilted wool, but Varg left this on the druzhina.

“How do you carry all of this kit around?” Varg asked when he had it all piled in front of his shield, next to the hemp sack that stored all of the kit he’d purchased in the market earlier that day.

“We wear it,” Svik said with a shrug, “it’s easier to carry that way, or we store it in our sea-chest.”

“Sea-chest?” Varg said.

“By the dead gods,” Svik exclaimed, “don’t you know anything? The chest you will sit on to pull an oar, once you are on the Sea-Wolf.”

“Oh,” Varg said.

A sound drew their attention and Glornir emerged from a street and came striding towards them, a glower seared into his brows. Three others walked close behind him. One was the blond-haired man with the staff who had walked with Helka’s son. Skalk, Svik had called him, Helka’s skáld and Galdurman. The other two were warriors in mail, a woman and man.

“Make ready to sail,” Glornir called out as he reached them, striding on past Varg and the others, the Bloodsworn rising and falling in behind him.

Jarl Logur’s bondsmen had pushed the druzhina back from the pier that led to the Bloodsworn’s drakkar, and Glornir marched on to the wooden boards and down to the Sea-Wolf. Without pause he leaped over the top-rail and started shouting orders.

Varg tried to pick up all of his gear, buckling the horsehair-plumed helmet to his belt, slinging his shield across his back, the lamellar coat and weapons belt of the dead druzhina across one shoulder, his hemp sack of kit across the other, his spear clutched clumsily in his fist, and he set off after the Bloodsworn. Svik walked beside him, smiling.

They reached the Sea-Wolf and Svik stepped nimbly across, turned and waited for Varg to clamber over the top-rail. He was usually well balanced and agile, but carrying more than his own weight in kit did not help. He managed to climb on board without a slip or fall, the ship rising and falling on a gentle swell.

The drakkar was filling quickly, the mast heaved up and slotted into place, its woollen sail still furled, Einar wielding a huge mallet to hammer the mast-lock into place. Edel’s wolfhounds found a mound of rope and curled up upon it.

“Your sea-chest,” Svik said with a flourished bow as he led Varg along the deck, pointing to a chest between two ribs of the drakkar.

With a grunt of relief Varg dropped his hemp sack and shouldered the lamellar coat to the timber deck, then unbolted the sea-chest and opened it. It was big, and empty, so Varg quickly stored his kit inside, shutting and bolting it when it was done.

“Your shield here,” Svik said, shrugging his from his back and slotting it into a rack nailed and pegged along the rim of the top-rail. Varg took his shield and pushed it in tight.

“Swap your spear for an oar,” Svik said, pointing to a rack full of oars.

Varg took an oar, sat on his sea-chest, swivelled the shutter that closed off his oar-hole and threaded the oar through.

“Now, get comfortable. Your arse and that chest are about to become the best of friends.” Svik smiled over the lid of his own chest, immediately in front of Varg. He frowned. “You do know how to row?”

“Yes,” Varg grunted. He had rowed small fisher boats on the lake that bordered Kolskegg’s farm, and hauled goods on the river. But never at sea.

Many of the Bloodsworn were sitting with oars ready. Glornir walked to the prow with Vol at his side, Skalk and Helka’s two warriors behind them. Glornir stood in the prow and turned to face them all.

“Bloodsworn, we have work to do. Queen Helka has a problem in the north of her realm. A problem that is eating her people. We are going to find whatever it is, and kill it.”

There were cheers from warriors. Varg felt a trickle of ice in his veins, and excitement.

Glornir looked at Skalk and the two warriors.

“Find an oar. You will work if you are going to add your weight to my ship.” Then he turned and ushered Vol into the bow. She stepped into Glornir’s place and rested a hand against the prow as Glornir vacated it, striding back down the deck to the steering oar at the stern.

Ropes were untied from mooring posts, looped and stored, Einar and a few others using oars to push away from the pier. The current of the fjord tugged them gently into open water.

“OARS!” Einar bellowed, and sixty oars hovered over the fjord’s ice-black water.

“PULL!” Einar yelled, and Varg dipped his oar into the water with hardly a splash and pulled, watching Svik in front of him for his rhythm.

Lean and pull, lean and pull, and the drakkar moved away from the pier and Liga’s harbour, sluggishly at first, but gaining speed.

Pine-cloaked peaks reared about them, distant waterfalls slicing through them like flowing tears as the Sea-Wolf cut through the fjord, Glornir steering them south and west, a white-foamed wake rippling from the prow, and someone began to sing. A steady, lilting kenning about the gods-fall, and Varg found himself joining in.

I cannot believe I am here, on a drakkar, one of the Bloodsworn, and sailing towards adventure and battle-fame.

The familiar seed of guilt bloomed inside him, but it could not overcome the flutter of excitement in his belly. A smile split his face as he rowed.

He was sailing the whale road with the Bloodsworn.