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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Ulf-Agar offered him a twisted smile and said nothing, suddenly interested in the notching on his seax.

Then: 'I have a spear, Bear Killer,' he remarked, with an edge-sharp smile. 'Since you drove your own up into the head of that beast, you may want to borrow it.'

I turned away without replying. Ulf-Agar wanted the tale to be a lie, for it was a task Baldur would have been hard put to manage, let alone a scrawny man/boy. And the nightmare of it hag-rode me to a shivering, soaked waking most nights, which I am sure Ulf-Agar had not been slow to notice.

The nightmare was always one of those where you are running from some horror and yet you cannot get your legs working fast enough—which is what happened when I spilled out of that doorway, leaving Freydis to her wyrd. I was sobbing and panting and struggling in the snow. I fell, got up and fell again.

My knee hit something, hard enough to make me gasp. The wood sled. The bear lumbered forward, spraying snow like a ship under full sail. I had Bjarni's sword still, was surprised to find it locked in my hand.

I picked up the sled awkwardly, stumbled a few steps and half fell, half hurled myself on it. It slid a few feet, then stopped. I kicked furiously and it moved. I heard the bear grunting and puffing through the snow close behind me.

I kicked again and the sled slithered forward, picked up a little speed, then a little more. I felt the hissing wind of a swiped paw, a fine mist of blood on my ears and neck from its ruined mouth as it roared . . . then I was away, hurtling down the hill, the bear galloping clumsily after, bawling rage and frustration.

There was a confusion of snow spray and darkness, a howl from behind me, then the sled tilted, bucked and I flew off, spilling over and over in the snow. I came up spitting and dazed. Something dark, a huge boulder, hurtled past me, still spraying snow and blood, rolling down the hill towards the trees. There was a splintering crash and a single grunt.

And silence.

Shaking woke me and I stared up at Illugi, ashamed that I had fallen asleep at all when everything else was bustle and purpose.

`We are in Strathclyde,' he said. 'We have a task inland. Einar will explain it all later, but best get ready for now.'

`Strathclyde,' muttered Pinleg, shoving past us. 'No easy raiding here.'

The landing was almost a disappointment for me. With my sword in one hand and a borrowed shield in the other—Illugi Godi's, with Odin's raven on it—I waited in the belly of the Fjord Elk as it snaked smoothly into the bow of land.

Shingle beach stretched to a fringe of trees and, beyond, rose to red-brackened hills, studded with trees, warped as old crones. There were rocks, too, which I took for sheep for a moment and was glad I had not called out my foolishness.

Since nothing moved, everyone relaxed. Except for Valgard Skafhogg, who bellowed at my father as the keel ground on shingle stones, calling him a ship-wrecking son of Loki's arse. My father bellowed right back that if Valgard was any good as a shipwright, then a few stones wouldn't sink us and, from what he had heard, Valgard couldn't trim his beard. Which was a good joke on his nickname, Skafhogg, which means Trimmer.

But it was almost good-natured as we splashed ashore, to a smell of bracken and grass that almost made me weep.

It was bitter cold and you could taste the snow. The sail was dragged out, unfurled and draped over a frame—not as a shelter, since it was sodden; we only wanted it to dry out a little. Then we'd put it back, for when we returned to this place, we'd be in a hurry to get away from it.

Lookouts were posted and fires were lit for us to dry clothes and, above all, get warm. I staked out the sheep, as I had before, on a long line for her to crop what she could of the frozen grass and brown-edged fern and bracken.

She had little time to enjoy it and I was almost sorry when she was up-ended, gralloched and spitted.

Brought all that way in damp misery, simply to be the hero-meal before the Oathsworn went into fight: I identified strongly with that wether.

I wondered about the fires, since the wood was wet and smoked and you could see it for miles, but Einar didn't seem bothered. Now that we were so close, he had tallied that warmth and a full belly was worth the chance of discovery.

My father, now free of any duties, since he had done his part, crossed to where I sat shivering by the fire and trying not to wear my drying cloak until the rest of me had lost some water.

`You need some spare clothing. Maybe we'll get some soon.'

I glanced sourly at him. 'A seer now, are you? If so, tell us where we are raiding.'

He shrugged. 'Someplace inland.' He stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully and added, 'Strathclyde's not a place to raid these days, never mind inland. Still, Brondolf is paying good silver for it, so we do.'

`Brondolf?' I asked, helping him as he started to erect a shelter from our cloaks, making a frame of withies.

`Brondolf Lambisson, richest of the Birka merchants. He hires the Oathsworn of Einar the Black this year. And last, come to think of it.'

`To do what?'

My father tied cloak corners together, blowing on his fingers to warm them. The sky was sliding into dour night and it would soon be colder yet. The fires already looked flower-bright comforts in the growing dark.

`He leads the other merchants of Birka. The town was a great trading centre, but it is failing. The silver is drying up and the harbour silting. Brondolf seems to think he has found an answer. He and his tame Christ godi, Martin from Hammaburg. They keep sending us out to get the strangest things.' He broke off at a thought and chuckled, uneasy as all Northmen were with the concept. 'Who knows what he is doing?

Perhaps he is working some spell or other.'

I knew of Birka only from old Arnbjorn, the trader who came to Bjornshafen twice a year with cloth for Halldis and good hoes and axes for Gudleif. Birka, tucked up in an island far east into the Baltic off the coast of Sweden. Birka, where all the trade routes met.

Ìs that where you have been all these years, then: searching out dead men's eyes and toadspit?' I demanded.

He made a warding sign. 'Shut that up for a start, boy. Less mention of . . . such things . . . is always safer. And, no, I wasn't always doing that. For a time I thought to have a white bear safely tucked away, the price of a small farm.'

Ìs that what you told my mother? Or did she die waiting for your return?'

He seemed to droop a little, then looked at me from under his hair—it was thinning, I noticed—one eye closed. 'Go fetch some bracken for bedding. We can dry it at the fires beforehand.' Then he sighed. 'Your mother died giving you birth, boy. A fine woman, Gudrid, but too narrow in the hip. At the time I had a farm, not far from Gudleif as it happens. I had twenty head of sheep and a few cows. I was doing well enough.'

He stopped, staring at nothing. 'After she died, there didn't seem much point in it. So I sold it to a man from the next valley, who wanted it for his son and his wife. Most of the money went to Gudleif, when I made him fostri. Some he was to keep and the rest was for you when you came of age.'

Surprised by all this, I could only gape. I had known she died . . . but the knowledge that I had killed my mother was vicious. I felt clubbed by Thor's own hammer. Her and Freydis. They'd do better to call me Woman Killer.

He mistook my look, which was the mark of us, father and son. Neither knew the other and constantly misread the signs.

`Yes, that was the reason Gudleif's head went,' he said. 'I thought him my friend my brother—but Loki whispered in his ear and he used the money on his own sons. I think he hoped I would die and that would be an end of it.' He paused and shook his head sadly. 'He had reason to think that, I suppose. I was never a good husband, or a good father. Always trying to live the old way—but too much is changing. Even the gods are under siege. But when he fell ill and sent for his own sons, thinking he was dying, Gunnar Raudi sent for me and Gudleif knew it was all up with him.'

`So he did try to kill me in the snow,' I said. 'I was never sure.'

Rurik shrugged and scratched. 'Nor he, I think. If Gudleif had wanted you dead, there were easier ways, though Gunnar Raudi wouldn't have gone with it. A sound blade is Gunnar and you can trust him.'

He broke off, looked sideways at me and scrubbed his head in a gesture I was coming to know well, one that revealed his uncertainty. Then he chuckled. 'Perhaps, after all, Gudleif sent you to Freydis to have her make you a man.' His look was sly and he laughed aloud when my face flamed.

Yes, Freydis had done that, popped me on her the way Gudleif used to put me on his horses when I could barely walk. He made you wrap your hands in the mane and hang on until you learned to ride or fell off. If you fell off, he would pop you on again.

When I thought of it, Freydis was much the same. Blurry with the mead I had brought, greasy-chinned with lamb, she had caught me by the arm and dragged me close, stroking my hair and answered the riddle she had set me and I had failed to understand.

Ì can manage everything, have done since my Thorgrim, curse his bad luck, fell down the mountain,'

she said dreamily. 'The year after that, Gudleif arrived at my door. I can cart dung and spread it on the hayfields, herd cows, herd horses, milk, make bread, sew, weave . . . everything. But Gudleif provided the thing that was missing.'

I couldn't move, could scarcely breathe, though I was hard as a bar of sword-iron and too dry-mouthed to speak.

`Now he cannot and he sends you,' she went on and rolled me on her.

`Come. I will teach you what you were sent here to learn.'

`Good was Freydis,' my father said, himself bleared with fond memories. `Gudleif swore she was a witch and had made him return every year and stay until he could hardly crawl on the back of a horse to ride off the mountain. If Halldis knew, she kept quiet over it. She was rich as good earth, was Freydis . . . but lonely.

All she wanted was a good man.'

I looked at him and he grinned. 'Aye, me too. And Gunnar, probably. In fact, if there was a man who hadn't ploughed that field, then he lived in the next valley but one and was too lame to travel.'

I said nothing. I wanted to tell him of Freydis and her spell and how she had killed the bear with a spear while I ran . . . A vision, again, of that head, lazily turning, spraying fat drops of blood in an arc. Had she smiled?

When I eventually crawled to the side of it, the bear was already dead, the haft of the spear driven clear up and out the top of its skull by the impact with a tree. It had hit the slope and over-run its own feet. It was still a huge cliff of snow, frightening even when still. I saw, numbly, that the hair under its chin was soft and nearly pure white. One sprawled paw, big as my head, was shaking gently.

I sat down, trembling. Freydis's spell had worked. Perhaps the price had been her own death. Perhaps she knew. I blubbered and there was no one reason for it. For her. For the knowledge of my own fear. For my father and Gudleif and the whole mess.

Eventually, I was shaking too much to cry. I was half-naked in the cold and had to get back to the hall.

The hall and Freydis. I didn't want to go back there at all, where her fetch might be, waiting accusingly. But I would freeze here.

The bear shifted and I scrambled away. A final kick? I had seen chickens and sheep do that with their throats cut through. I didn't trust this bear. I remembered Freydis and my fear, took a deep breath, crossed to it and drove Bjarni's sword into where I thought the heart would be, deep inside the mass of that white cliff.

It was a good sword and I was strong, made stronger yet through fear. It went in so smoothly I practically fell forward on the rank, wet fur; there was no great gout of blood, just a slow welling of fat drops. The sword was in nearly to the cross guard and I couldn't get it out.

Eventually, shivering uncontrollably, I gave up and slogged back up the slope, through the door and into the ruin of the hall, wrapped myself in her cloak for the warmth and waited, sinking into the cold, where Bagnose and Steinthor found me.

It was a bad enough memory to have rattling round your thought-cage. Now, to add to all that, there was a new horror: a vision of me, like a small bear, clawing another Freydis from the inside out, charging out from between her legs in a glory of gore and challenge. I couldn't see the face of the woman, my mother, though.

I shook my head, near to weeping, and knew it was for me more than anyone and wanted to back away from that, ashamed.

My father gripped my forearm wordlessly. Probably he thought I was mourning Freydis, or my mother.

Truth to tell, I was not even sure which myself.

More alone than ever, I picked my way through the camp, where men chaffered and yacked and busied themselves, out into the trees to get bracken, aware of his eyes following me, aware that he was as much a stranger as all the others.

I wondered if he had taken his brother's head, or if Einar had. What must it feel like, to have to kill your brother? Even just to watch him die?

Yet they were still men, these Oathsworn. Grim as whetstone, cold as a storm sea, but men for all that.

Most had wives and families—in Gotland, or further east—and went back to them now and then. Pinleg had a woman and two little ones whom he sent money back to by traders he could trust. Skapti Halftroll had more than one woman in more than one place, but he spent all his money on finery. Ketil Crow was outlawed from somewhere in Norway and had no one but the Oathsworn.

There were others, though, who were men apart. Sigtrygg was one, for he called himself Valknut and wore that rune symbol on his shield, three triangles known as the Knot of the Fallen. It meant he had bound his soul to Odin, would die at the god's command and even the swaggerers walked soft around him.

Einar himself was a mystery, though most people had the idea he was an outlaw, too. Pinleg joked that our jarl, dark and brooding under his sullen, crow-wing hair, had been thrown out of Iceland for being too cheerful. He was the only one who dared joke about Einar.

Later, when bellies were full and the conversation had died, men took to cleaning their weapons, taking great care with the blades to gently grind out all the dark spots they could. Einar stood next to the biggest of the fires and the men gathered silently round him in a half-circle, facing the black sea as it sighed on the shingle. Behind, a wet mist crept stealthily down the mountain.

'Tomorrow, we head inland from here,' Einar said, his dark eyes moving from one to the other. 'Pinleg, you will stay here with nine others and guard the ship and our belongings.'

Pinleg grunted his annoyance at that, but he knew why . . . In a long, fast march, he wasn't the best choice.

He also knew, I learned later, that he would get his share of the spoils, since no one kept anything for himself. In theory. Actually, everyone stole a little: silver dropped down breeks into boot-tops, or stowed in bags under his balls or armpits. Those caught, though, suffered whatever punishment the Oathsworn decided, which certainly started by losing all their booty and almost always included pain along the way.