Robert Low - The Whale Road

• Название: The Whale Road
• Автор: Robert Low
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

A band of brothers, committed only to each other, rides the waves, fighting for the highest bidder, treading the whale road in search of legendary relics.

Life is savage aboard a Viking raiding ship. When Orm Rurikson is plucked from the snows of Norway to brave the seas on the Fjord Elk, he becomes an unlikely member of the notorious crew. Although young, Orm must quickly become a warrior if he is to survive.

His fellow crew are the Oathsworn---named after the spoken bond that ties them in brotherhood. They fight hard, they drink hard, and they always defend their own.

But times are changing. Loyalty to the old Norse Gods is fading, and the followers of the mysterious "White Christ" are gaining power across Europe. Hired as relic hunters, the Oathsworn are sent in search of a sword believed to have killed the White Christ. Their quest will lead them onto the deep and treacherous waters of the whale road, toward the cursed treasure of Attila the Hun and to a challenge that presents the ultimate threat.

Robert Low has written a stunning epic, a remarkable debut novel. Not only a compelling narrative, The Whale Road also brings a new Viking landscape stretching from Scotland through the Baltic and on to Istanbul.

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"A company of warriors, desperate battles, an enthralling read."

---Bernard Cornwell

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Every house had a light and noise from it: laughs, shouts, singing. All the treacherous walkways had people—so many people, in streets that stank of cooking and spilled ale and shite. They say, at that time, a thousand people lived in Birka. I had never seen a hundred people in one place at one time.

I scarcely realised we were climbing until the pulsing crowd of humanity slackened, then disappeared, and we emerged from the shadowed eaves of quieter houses almost under the stockade and main gates of the Borg.

Inside, unadorned and massive, the dark masonry of the fortress loomed, sparked with golden glow here and there. A small, iron-ringed door and a flight of steps took us into a flagged courtyard, on the other side of which some more steps spiralled wearily to yet another door.

Through this I stumbled, following the others, drunk on the sheer sensation of it all, spilling into a great golden glow of light from torches on sconces, which made the guide's feeble lantern look as if it had gone out.

The place was hung with rich tapestries crusted with gold threads and embroidered with scenes that, in the flickering light, looked as if they were coming alive. I didn't understand any of them—save a hunting scene—but several had those people with round hats of gold, so I thought they must be to do with the White Christ.

The very floor, of polished wood, seemed to gleam and I felt my boots on it were an affront.

A new figure appeared, nodded to the guide and smiled affably at Einar, quizzically at me and, lastly, offered a fixed politeness to Illugi Godi.

He wore a brown robe tied with a clean, pale rope and soft, slippers. His face was sharp, smooth, clean-shaven, his eyes black and his brown hair cut the same length all round. The torchlight bounced off his bald scalp—no, not bald, I realised suddenly. Shaved and, by the fuzz on it, in need of renewing.

`Martin monk,' acknowledged Einar with a nod. 'Brondolf has news, then?'

Òur master has something to impart, yes,' answered Martin smoothly, then turned to Illugi Godi. 'Still a heathen, I see, Master Illugi? I had hoped Our Lord would see fit to deliver another miracle as we approach Easter.'

Ànother miracle?' responded Illugi. 'Has there been one recently, then?'

Ìndeed,' answered Martin, almost joyously. 'My own bishop, Poppo, has convinced Harald Bluetooth of the power of God and Christ, who died for our sins. He wore a redhot iron glove to prove it. So it is that Bluetooth is now to be gathered into the flock of God and given His mercy.'

`Where is Brondolf?' Einar demanded.

Òn his way,' replied Martin easily. 'He has asked that I offer you his hospitality—please come to the fire.

And who is this?'

Einar jerked a thumb at me and shrugged. Òrm, son of my shipmaster, Rurik. He has never been anywhere, or seen anything, so I thought to bring him, for the learning in it.'

Ìndeed,' mused Martin. 'I see you have seen the Light and been gathered into God's grace.'

Puzzled, I saw him glance at the cross on my chest and was appalled that he should think me a Christ-follower. 'I had it from a man I killed,' I blurted without thinking. Einar chuckled. Martin, unsure whether I had just been witty or stupid, led the way to a table with benches and we sat.

It was here, for the first time, that I found food could be remarkably different. Women came, soft-slippered so that they scarcely made more than a whispering sound, and served up fillets of fish stuffed with anchovies and capers, shellfish which we hooked out with silver picks, cutlets of lamb, bloody-rare, ripe with wild garlic and melting in my mouth, all washed down with wine, which I had never tasted until now.

Food. Until Birka, all food was mud-coloured—brown, or yellow or red—and tasted of fish, even the meat, since we fed livestock on fish leavings. I could hardly breathe for the sight and smell of that table.

And all the while Martin chattered about the storms and the news of Stord and how unfortunate it was that Hakon could not be gathered into the bosom of Christ as was proper, but no doubt God would overlook the heathen propensities of his followers and gather him anyway.

Which prompted a sharp response from Illugi Godi and then they were off into argument, leaving Einar and me behind. I listened with half an ear as Illugi tried to explain that the Vanir were not the same as the Aesir, were older gods and some, like Ull, were not much worshipped.

Einar. I caught him looking at me as I looked at him, and saw that his expensive silver cup was scarcely touched. Then I saw myself as he saw me, cheeks bulging with lamb, gravy on my chin, wild with the sheer, unbelievable sensuality of the whole affair.

I swallowed, sobered. Einar grinned and I followed his gaze to the arguing pair.

Illugi was in heated debate about the tale of Bishop Poppo and the wearing of the red-hot glove and Martin was smiling and answering him blandly.

Suddenly, as if a veil was whipped away, I saw, as I knew Einar did—had done since we arrived—that Martin was stalling. The wine, the food—even the argument—were all a feint, as when a man looks for an opening under a shield.

`Where, then,' Einar demanded, 'is Brondolf?'

If he had hurled the silver cup to the polished wood of the floor he couldn't have created more of a silence. Martin looked round, blinked and sighed.

Ì had hoped he would be here to tell you himself, but it seems that he has been caught up in events,' the monk said in his gentle, accented voice. 'Things are happening in the wider world—Bluetooth, for one—

which have to be dealt with.'

`What was in the saint's box?' asked Einar quietly.

Martin shrugged. He paused, then answered, 'Bones. Some writings, but not what I had hoped.' He rose and crossed to a small chest, opened it and took out a cloth bag, which chinked softly. 'Brondolf is disappointed in me, I fear,' he went on with a wry, deprecating smile, which twisted his face into a gargoyle mask for a moment. `He is now looking for more . . . practical . . . ways of restoring Birka's fortunes, since my poor efforts have failed.'

Ànd what were these poor efforts?' asked Einar, leaning forward so that the black pillars of his hair framed his face, making it even more pale than usual, his eyes deep-sunk pools. I was reminded of Eyvind, who had seen Thought, Odin's raven.

Martin spread his arms dismissively and smiled. 'I thought I had found a great ikon of Christ, one which would have made a church in Birka a pilgrimage for Christians everywhere. It seems I was wrong.'

`What was this ikon?' asked Illugi. Einar's dark-pool eyes never left Martin's face and made it hard for the priest to broaden the smile. I knew, at that moment, he was lying and the vision of a great mountain of silver, Atil's hoard, made my heart lurch. It could be real after all.

Martin spread his thin-fingered hands—stained with what seemed to be burn marks—and shrugged. 'It scarcely matters, Illugi,' he said smoothly. 'You know how many there are. Like so many others, this turned out to be a fake. If you took all the knucklebones of St Otmund and assembled them you would find a miracle. He had four hands, at least.'

Smiling, he stepped forward and placed the cloth bag in front of Einar with a soft, chiming chink.

'Brondolf thanks you for your efforts. You are free to go where you please.'

The air grew still and no one moved. It was as if we were all frozen and the longer the moment went on, the more painful the attempt to move became.

Then Einar, with a swiftness that startled us up like swallows, scooped up the bag and stood. In a second, there was nothing but movement, as if that had released us from some spell. Einar strode off without a word.

Illugi Godi, I saw, sensed that something had happened but wasn't sure what. Politeness stayed him long enough to thank Martin and offer all the usual platitudes and get them in return.

For my part, I saw the monk's eyes flick, just once, to the door. On the back of it, on a hook, hung a hooded cloak.

Einar waited for us in the courtyard, where a fresh, clean, cold wind drove out the cobwebs, streamed out our hair, hissed over the flagstones and rattled the little gate as we were quietly ushered out and handed a lantern. No guide back to the Guest Hall, then.

`You might have had more regard for hospitality,' chided Illugi Godi and Einar, only half listening, grunted a reply.

`He paid in silver, in a town where silver is scarce as hen's teeth. He wanted no argument and he wanted no bartering for goods on tally sticks. He wants us gone, does Brondolf Lambisson—but had to leave it to the monk, such a delicate thing. So what could have been more pressing to him that he could not come himself?' He turned to me suddenly. 'What did you see?' he asked.

I knew at once what he meant, felt strange, as if perched on a cliff like some fledgling gull, waiting for a suitable wind, working to that moment of hurling off and trusting to new wings.

`He was lying,' I said, sure of it as I was of my own palm. 'Brondolf is somewhere else, as you say. Since he is so important, it must be someone more important than him. Since, I am thinking, there is no one more important than him in this place, then it must be a foreigner and a chief at least . . . '

Ànd the monk was waiting for us to go, for he has business abroad.'

I told him of the cloak on the back of the door. Illugi's eyes widened and Einar halted, so that we all nearly ran into him. He turned to me, a grim smile on that pale face. I wished he wouldn't do that, since it was worse than no smile at all.

`Most men think in a straight line,' he said, barely audible over the town's noise and the wind. 'They see only their own actions, like a single thread in the Norns' loom, knotted only when they thrust their life on others. They see through one set of eyes, hear through one set of ears, all their life.' He stared at me. 'To look at things through someone else's eyes is a rare thing, which cannot be learned. To those with the gift, it is not hard, nor complicated. But, to survive and be more than any others, it is essential. You have that gift, I am thinking.'

I was stunned and swelled with it. In that moment, I almost loved the great, glorious being that was Einar the Black, yet, even then, the very gift he praised me for slipped a memory, the blade-bright thought: this man had snicked off the head of Gudleif, for almost no reason other than he could.

We tramped back to the North Gate and were almost out when a figure loomed from the dark, with others behind. I saw Gunnar Raudi, Ketil Crow, Bagnose, Pinleg and others, wild-eyed, wild-haired—and sober.

Gunnar Raudi's grim face, grimmer still in the play of lamplight loomed up to Einar and said, 'Ulf-Agar is missing. Steinthor says men took him.'

4 `They were armed,' Steinthor growled. Àrmed and in the town, Einar.' He held out his forearm, showing a rough strip of bloodstained cloth, the ends whipping in the wind. Around him, Einar, I, Illugi and others gathered, stone-grim.

`Who were they?' demanded Einar.

Steinthor shrugged. His eye was closing to a fat-puffed slit. 'Six, maybe seven,'

he said. `We left the ale house at the harbour and they came after us. Danes, it seemed to Ulf-Agar and me, and looking for trouble, for we had offended no one.'

`Let's get there,' snarled Skapti Halftroll. `Weapons or no weapons, I'll grind them.'

There were savage chuckles at that and a few began to push past Einar on the wooden walkway, but he thrust out an arm and stopped them. 'Wait. Let's find out more. Steinthor, why did they take Ulf-Agar? And where did they take him?'

Steinthor touched his eye speculatively, squinting at Einar. 'That's the strange of it. They came for us and we thought it was just a fight. I wasn't up for it much, having been light on my drink, but Ulf pitched right in.

Then I saw the weapons come out—long blades they were and too long to be hidden under a cloak and brought in. Someone turned a blind eye to that.'

`Now you can do that,' called someone from the back and there were more chuckles. Steinthor spat and touched the eye again.

Ìf it had been the edge of that blade, I would be a deadeye, for sure. But it was the upswing that smacked me. Knocked me to the ground, right off the walkway and into the mud and shit. When I surfaced, they were hauling Ulf away and he was not making a move, hanging between two of them. He might be dead.'

That silenced everyone.

`What did you do then?' asked Einar. `Stand there and drip?'

`No, I did not,' retorted Steinthor hotly. 'I followed them, thinking they would kick the shit out of Ulf-Agar and leave him. I thought they had picked on him for some reason I did not know—he can be an annoying little turd, as anyone will tell you.'

Ìndeed so,' Einar agreed, nodding into the chorus of harsh chuckles. 'But they didn't, or else we would be binding his bruises.'

`No,' agreed Steinthor. 'They hauled him to one of the warehouses at the main harbour. There were a lot of men there and two boats, high-prowed and gilded and bigger than the Elk, that were not there yesterday.'

This set everyone muttering. Illugi Godi looked at Einar and Skapti hoomed a bit, then said: 'Two drakkar? What varjazi has two boats that size?'

`None,' muttered Einar, stroking his moustache. 'Nor could a varjazi persuade the merchants of Birka to ignore their laws on weapons. Only a real power could do that.'

`Such as one who now rules two lands?' Illugi Godi said mildly, the wind whipping his hair into his face.

`Bluetooth; Einar said and the name leaped from head to head, swirling away on the wind, setting fire to mutters and darkly exchanged looks. He looked at me. 'You had it right enough. Someone more important than Brondolf Lambisson and a foreigner.'

Bluetooth, new King of the Danes and Norwegians. Somehow, he had heard of the Oathsworn of Einar's Elk and their quest for some treasure. It seemed to me—and, I knew, to Einar—that he had heard more of it than we had, to seize one of us and put him to the question. It did mean, I was thinking, that you had to take Atil's treasure hoard seriously, for surely no one would go to these lengths over some muttered foolishness about a saga tale? Surely he had not come after us over that?

There were chuckles when I hoiked this up, wide-eyed and wild-haired in the Birka wind.

Einar, though, frowned, for it had been revealed then that just about everyone knew the supposed secret of Atil's treasure. And, of course, Einar was going to the same lengths over the foolishness of a saga tale and he did not like to hear that voiced.

`Perhaps so,' he growled. 'I would like to know who has been sent by the King of Norway and the Danes.

And what this someone wants with Ulf-Agar.'

`We must get him back,' said Illugi and there were mutters of approval at that.

Einar nodded. 'We swore an oath to each other,' he said. 'It is Ulf-Agar's bad luck that he knows nothing that would help Bluetooth in this matter, so we will do it quickly, before they kill him by accident.'