Forged in Blood Read online

  Hakon picks up a hull-scraper discarded moments before by Dantzk; grips the shaft in two hands; holds it like a spear. Vermund and Stein have been fitting strakes keel-side at the bows. They help their mother to safety inside the hull. Both have cleavers. Vermund grabs the seine-net that Fergal had hung to dry after fishing in the river. Thrandt throws down riving-wedge and mallet — he and Hrut claim their felling-axes from the woodpile.

  Dantzk pulls his hunting-knife from his belt. Halp has his blade out too. He wipes it on his thigh. Baldr signs a warning for Kru — they are slow off the mark — but soon Pigtail, Kru and Fjak, all three, have staves to hand.

  ‘Let’s see what you are made of!’ shouts Fjak.

  In surprise I turn to face him.

  ‘Fancy stuff, Thralson,’ says Fjak again. ‘Swirling the axe, eh! I hope you know how to use it!’

  Unaware of what I was doing — at the sound of a wolf close by — I had swung a shipwright’s wood-axe above my head, battle threatening, in the way that Cormac and I did at Thwartdale, years before, when he and I played at ‘warriors’ in the woods as boys.

  *

  A hunting-hound springs out of the forest. He is lean and powerful, a shaggy-coated breed, high in the shoulder with long neck and pointed jaws. The ears are droopy and hairy. They fly like feathered wings from his brow as he runs. Head and ears remind me of Kol — russet in colour like Da’s dog, brindled markings on the chest too — but massive by comparison. His long frame skids to a halt in a stagnant puddle: the muddied track that marks the dragging of a derelict long-ship. From nose to pads, standing on hind legs, the hound’s length would outstretch the height of a man.

  With a dazed look in his eyes, the hound crouches, tail tucked under. His fore-paws scrape the mud. He stares at us in confusion, tongue out, panting. He had expected a wolf in front of his nose, not men closing in on him, armed with shaft and blade, barring his way with trap-net and stave. He had expected at his back other hounds making chase, but none of the pack have followed him into the clearing. A she-wolf bolts from the bracken. She is scrawny. She has whelped this summer. Her teats are raw from giving milk. The she-wolf sees the hunting-hound. She swerves to avoid him. Her wild eyes, blood-red, widen at the sight of our staves and blades, and waiting net. The she-wolf turns back across the hound’s path to regain the forest. She bares her teeth.

  The hound is startled. His feathery ears prick, and drop. He shrinks back, unmoving; eyes like slits, neck out; head forward. He closes his jaws; hides his teeth. He won’t threaten the she-wolf. He won’t challenge her alone. A she-wolf is half the size of a hound. But, if cornered, she will pounce. Even with her last breath, she will close her jaws on an adversary’s neck. A single hunting-hound won’t tackle a wolf — unless to finish off a craven whelp or wounded cur. Ten or more hounds will hold an adult wolf at bay. They will snarl and circle, prance and claw; gnash their jaws — everything short of combat — until a huntsman casts his net over the prey and drives a spear-spike through heart or head.

  *

  Hounds rush out of the forest, first three — then after them, seven, eight more — a hunter-pack of russet, red and grey. They fly into the clearing, sleek-necked, steam on their breaths; wet noses in the air. Hairy ears flutter behind their brows. Wolfing-hounds are ponderous, ungainly — heavy and loping on their pads unless in hot pursuit in sight of prey, when their bedraggled shapes take to the air on each bounding leap.

  Amidst the oaks, ducking under the branches, figures on horseback; their mounts lathered in sweat. Steam simmers off the horses’ hides. Six riders enter the clearing at a canter after the hounds.

  The first two riders are women: they have out-ridden men in the chase — one woman younger than the other, both bare-thighed astride the horses’ lathered girth. Trotting hotfoot behind the riders, huntsmen come hooting and hailing, horns a-bleat. Yet more huntsmen at their heels, weighed down by axes, ropes, trap-nets and spears.

  The she-wolf is their quarry. She backtracks from the first three hounds, runs into the horses, scatters the riders, throws their mounts into disarray; unseats one of the men. She makes for the cutting by the river. Stein blocks her path. The wolf stares at the cleaver, not the man. Vermund throws the seine-net. The wolf hops in panic, escapes the net, turns from the advancing hounds, darts left under Halp’s legs, under a swishing blade — Dantzk’s hunting-knife — comes face-to-face with Hakon.

  Skip jabs the hull-scraper at the wolf’s eyes, aiming to blind her, misses, splits her brow.

  Instantly there is a spout, a fountain of blood from her head.

  ‘Kill the bitch!’ shouts Thrandt.

  Hrut — both hands on felling-axe — a lopping stroke, but too late: the she-wolf brushes past. She slinks under the front hound’s arching leap, outruns the other hounds, dashes back, past Baldr, past Fjak, past Kru, past me, past axe and stave.

  The she-wolf faces the hound she first met in the clearing. The hound sees the wolf running at him, sees only her. He shrinks from her, waits; watches, cowers, jaws stiff with fear.

  The she-wolf pounces open-jawed on the hound’s neck.

  In that instant I hurl the ship-wright’s axe at the killer wolf.

  A huntsman throws his trap-net over the writhing wolf. Her jaws are locked on the hound’s neck. The man dispatches the wolf by a spear-spike to the throat. He slits her victim on the shaggy chest, opens the flow of blood with a clean incision to the heart — a mercy wound for the hound.

  My wood-axe has sunk deep into the wolf — I was three strides off when I hurled it at the beast. The axe-head flew into her starved belly, breaking ribs, spilling innards. The blow was too late to save the cowering hound. The she-wolf’s neck pulses and throbs after death, her fangs still fast on her victim’s neck. Hounds muzzle the trap-net, sniffing the death-blood spilled from wolf and hound. They sniff a scent of the kill, move off, circle and return. The stink of wolf blood is strong.

  The rider who was unseated — a red-bearded young man of rank — brushes down his fine-stitched woollen jerkin. He retrieves his horse and, with a rueful laugh, he passes the reins to the younger woman still on horseback.

  ‘Look at you, Ingvar,’ says she, gently mocking him, ‘The least thing knocks you off balance.’

  ‘Now, now, daughter,’ says the oldest of the three remaining men on horseback — from the authority of his voice I take him to be Lord Lodin. ‘Be civil to your brother.’

  Ingvar ignores his sister’s taunt. While the others rein in their nervy horses, he steps forward to examine the wolf. Huntsmen clear a space for him. They kick the wolf-hounds away from dead hound and prey. Ingvar pushes past Dantzk, hauls Fjak aside, and untangles the bloodied trap-net from the kill. With a nod at me, the young man draws a short hunting-axe from his belt. He smashes the wolf’s jaw, breaking her death-bite from the hound.

  Chapter 19

  Come winter-fall, a chill river-wind blows down an-Shuir over its long meandering path from the mountains. Dampness hangs over the oak forest and spreads through the shipyard at Ekvith even on days of sparse sunshine. The bitter air has sneaked into Hakon’s bones and plagued him with numbness in the legs. Sleeping at night under our draughty tilts can’t have helped for a man of his age. His limbs and ankles hardened, so that he was barely able to walk. Thrandt couldn’t see our skipper suffer in the open. He cobbled up a bunk for him inside the lodge, much to the annoyance of Sae-unn. From his sick-bed by the hearth, Skip couldn’t oversee our work on the Meuris, which made him an irritable companion for the shipwright and his family.

  News of Hakon’s failing health soon reached Lodin’s ears. Sae-Unn saw to that. She spoke to a wherryman on toll duty on the river, and he passed on the gossip, as she knew he would, at the treasury. The same day, the Custodian sent his son Ingvar to Ekvith urging Hakon to come to Vadrar-fiord. Hakon was welcome to join him as a winter guest earlier than planned — two months before Thor’s day — so that he might recover in comfort at the fort. Skip declined Lod
in’s offer: he had a ship on dry land which had to be made seaworthy. And, besides, it was only a ‘seaman’s chill’ — he would soon shake off his ‘icy legs’.

  Lodin didn’t take no for an answer. Ingvar was sent back to Ekvith to persuade Hakon to change his mind. On the morning, when Lodin’s son paid his second visit to the shipyard, I happened to be in the forest, trimming oak with Thrandt and Hrut, so I can’t vouch for what did or didn’t happen. But according to Fjak, on that occasion Hakon was so unwelcoming to Ingvar that the young man didn’t stop long enough to dismount from his horse.

  The next day, a third message came from Lodin, his time borne by his daughter Clithna — sister of Ingvar — the young woman who had gently mocked her brother for having slipped off his horse on the day of the wolf hunt. Within days of Clithna’s visit to Ekvith, Hakon boarded a toll-wherry to Vadrar-fiord. Since then, he has been Lodin’s guest at the fort, in the care of the Custodian’s wife, Lady Aghamora. She and her daughter are sparing no efforts to nurse him back to health.

  Our midshipman Halpin visits Hakon once a week to report progress of repairs on the Meuris and also, no doubt, to pass on stories about the crew, while he drinks Hakon’s warm ale.

  ‘Our skipper is a lucky old sod,’ says Halp. ‘I wouldn’t mind being in his boots — and have Lodin’s wife to look after me hand and foot, but as for the young hussy, her daughter, that’s a different kettle of fish!’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Ah,’ says Aghamora, when I step into Lodin’s family apartments for the first time. ‘The young man who slew the wolf. Welcome, young Ostman. Hakon has told us a lot about you and your voyage from the ice-lands. Come. Join the men in a game of “Kroners”. Someone needs to stop Deasún’s winning streak. My son-in-law has won every game since Thor’s day.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Clithna. ‘Watch out for my husband. He cheats. But being an Erse-man he knows how to charm an opponent, smile across the chequerboard and empty the poor man’s purse.’

  Deasún Mac Bric is unabashed in his reply. He has a twinkle in his eye. ‘A rare gift of mine, Clithna, to have a silver tongue — you should be proud of me for this at least.’

  Hakon speaks out on my behalf. ‘Thralson is a beginner at “Kroners”. I had only just taught him the rules of the game, a matter of days before I left Ekvith. Let young Jötunn play against Deasún. His luck is bound to change.

  ‘No,’ says Jötunn — he is the son of King Orm at Weis-fiord and for two years foster son of Lord Lodin. ‘Count me out! I have lost too much already. It is Ingvar’s turn to win back his pride.’

  Ingvar turns huffily to his foster-brother. ‘It is not pride that I have lost,’ says he, ‘but hard coin.’

  ‘Coin or pride,’ replies Jötunn. ‘It matters not. Sit down by the bench and give Deasún a run for his silver.’

  ‘Kroners’ is a simple game in rules, though not simple to master the tricks and turns. Discs move on the black squares, only, of a chequerboard — white squares are out of bounds. A player starts with silver or brass discs. While the game is in play, he can top an opponent’s disc, crowning his own, making it into a ‘kroner’. In doing so, he has gained double power for his ‘kroner’ and has stolen a disc from his adversary.

  Usually a ‘kroner’ is won, when the other man’s disc has become trapped or isolated on the board. Each ‘kill’ strengthens a player’s hand and depletes his opponent. The fun is in backing your play on the board with a wager. And diverting your opponent is the sport. The trick is in ‘bluffing’ the other player to risk an ill-advised move — and to bet on it, while he is unaware how weak his position is on the board — then pounce to ‘kill’, having lured the opponent into a trap.

  Ingvar sits down with his brother-in-law and begins the game.

  Lord Lodin is snoring gently with his favourite hounds by the hearth.

  Chapter 21

  Deasún empties rainwater from his boots. It sizzles on the stones by the hearth of Lodin’s chamber, a modest bothy where ‘the Custodian’ receives family and friends. Deasún nods a welcome to Hakon and me, but he addresses his father-in-law.

  ‘Not the best morning for Ingvar and Jötunn to ride to Criadain strand. No doubt you are itching to have news from the strangers — and to learn what they are after.’

  ‘No one was more surprised than I,’ replies Lodin, ‘to hear of long-ships in the estuary so late in the season. Glun Amlavson has chosen the stormiest month of the year to voyage from Linn-dubh. What on earth brings him here?’

  Hakon smiles sourly. ‘You ask: what brings a king’s son to another man’s coast? You know the answer as well as me! Always — whatever the season — the motive is gripe or greed.’

  ‘And more often both,’ adds Lodin.

  *

  Lodin’s bothy is a lean-to adjoined to the outside wall of the great hall. It can be entered only from his private apartments. Here, away from wife and daughter, Lodin can feel at home like a fox in a lair. The mud walls are plastered with quarry grit, once white, but now stained with smoke from the fire. The turfed roof has a smoke-hole in the outer corner. Below the hole is a winter hearth, an iron grid heaped with peat-coal. A supply of peat, still claggy from the bog, is stacked, drying out against the inner wall. The air is smoky. Only a dull grey glow comes from the peat fire. Tallow-lights are in a pewter basin on the rush floor. Ale-bucket and pots — carried in by Aghamora’s serving-girls — were on the bench waiting for us when we arrived.

  Breakfast trenchers piled with barley-brack and salt-mutton are served by a giant of a man, no longer in the flush of youth. But the man bears himself well. His broad shoulders and massive arms mark him out as having once been a warrior. He has bright, darting eyes like grey Skar, as if he has to be constantly aware of everything around him.

  Before leaving the bothy, the greybeard bows in a gesture of respect to Lord Lodin. Bowing is a manner rarely seen these days. None of the Erse-men who serve in Lodin’s great hall show any form of subservience and it is the first time I have seen it from the old man.

  Lodin jumps to his feet. He embraces his servant. ‘Bergthor,’ says he. ‘I won’t have any man bow before me. And least of all you! Why should you bow? You are my equal. We were warriors together, when we came to these shores. We were friends for years before that, since boyhood. I wouldn’t be alive today, if it were not for your sword-hand.’

  ‘Thor grant me the days,’ returns the veteran warrior. ‘If needed — and if you can trust an old man’s mettle — my sword-hand will serve you again.’

  *

  Moments after we sit to eat, Ingvar Lodinson arrives, mud-spattered and wet, from the lower estuary. He and Jötunn Ormson have ridden from Criadain over strand and heath to bring word of the long-ships. Lord Lodin sets down his pot and stops eating. He listens to his son’s news — what little there is — and, after hearing it, he signals that he will take a moment to ponder.

  The Custodian ponders with eyes closed, his long forefinger pulling at the hair under his lips.

  Hakon, Deasún and I eat on in silence.

  Ingvar unlaces his sodden jerkin and throws it by the hearth. Deasún offers to pull off the young man’s boots but Ingvar refuses. ‘No, brother in law,’ he returns in a loud whisper. ‘No time for that. Jötunn has gone to get fresh horses ready. If Father has a return message for Glun Amlavson, we will set off to Criadain strand, while there is still light on the heath.’ The young man turns his back on Halon and me, and stands, breathing heavily, facing the fire.

  ‘Come, lad, don’t be so fidgety.’ Lodin opens his eyes, suddenly alert. ‘Thor’s sake, you put me on edge. Sit and eat. Tell me again, is that all there is?’

  ‘Sorry, father, but I have no more to add,’ says Ingvar. ‘I have told you all there is! Glun spoke little — except for the usual formalities and greetings. The news, he said repeatedly, was for your ears only. I pressed him at every turn, Jötunn pressed him to tell us more, but it was to no avail. Not that Glun or his companion wer
e unfriendly — they just refused to share the message.’

  ‘What are they after?’ says Lord Lodin. ‘If it is for trade — livestock or grain, hides or wool — my doors are open. Think it over, son. Did they not let something slip? They may have hinted at what their game is. You may have missed it!’

  ‘Not a hint,’ replies Ingvar. All I can tell you is that Iron-knee — Glun Amlavson — wishes you “peace and warm hearth” for the coming winter. He brings a gift of friendship — he will hand it over once he is able to see you. I know what the gift is: he boasted that it was three chests of walrus ivory from Finnmark. They sailed from Linn-dubh. From what I could tell, the weather was foul as far as Vaes-fiord. Glun has a “message of significance” — as he called it — from his father, King Amlav.’

  ‘What is his strength, did you say?’ Lodin asks again, although his son has already told him.

  Ingvar barely hides his irritation. ‘A fleet of six — what’s that? Nearly three hundred men. He has his long-ships at the bottom end of Criadain strand, just past the point. They will sail no farther, he says, they will make no headway inland. They will not intrude as our guests at Vadrar-fiord until you have invited them to haven.’

  ‘Deasún,’ says Lodin with a click of the tongue, and a wink to Hakon.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘I am thinking, as a precaution, it might be a pleasant thing to give an Erse welcome to our guests from Linn-dubh.’

  ‘Of course,’ replies Deasún. ‘I will have my cousins here by tomorrow morning — mid-day at the latest. There are gangs of hurly-men around too. They have turned up to play their annual match, a “hurly-hunt” in the barley fields. How many fighting-men shall I muster?’