‘It’s still boring into Floki though,’ I said. ‘Like woodworm.’
Olaf grunted. ‘Floki ought to just let it lie. Ought to thank Sigurd himself if you ask me. But you know Floki. He was born miserable.’
‘Why did Sigurd do it, Uncle? He knew Halldor had asked Floki to do it. We all did.’
Olaf glanced round to check that no one else was close. Most of the others were in their furs, either asleep or getting there. ‘Sigurd’s boy,’ he said eventually.
‘He died young. Horse-kicked,’ I said, wondering what that had to do with things.
‘Aye. But the poor little swine didn’t die quick as he should have.’ Olaf tilted his shaggy head as though trying to weigh up whether to speak, or chew the words back down. ‘The boy was as good as dead it’s true. I’d seen rocks with more life in them. But he wasn’t dead. Still breathing, he was, though barely enough to call breathing.’
Penda turned to say something else, then saw Olaf’s face and turned back to his fishing instead, muttering that our heathen language was scaring off the fish.
‘And he stayed like that for two weeks, might have been three. The poor little sod.’ Olaf cuffed a tear from his eye and I glanced away for a heartbeat.
‘A slow death,’ I said.
Olaf shook his head. ‘One night, Sigurd carried the boy out into the pasture leaving Gudrid weeping at the door. He finished the boy himself. His own bairn.’
Our eyes were locked and I felt the shards of ice in mine.
‘He had no choice, lad. The boy he knew was long gone. There was nothing else for it.’
‘The Norns are bitches,’ I said, setting my jaw.
‘I’ll not argue with that,’ Olaf said, twisting the horsehair again. ‘But Sigurd knows how it feels to kill your own kin. It weighs a man down. Will drag him under, like that Christ cross dragged Tufi to his end. Sigurd took that burden from Black Floki. Why? Because he’s the best son of a wolf jarl who has ever led a crew across the whale’s road. And Floki knows it too. He’s pride-stung, that’s all.’
‘If I ever get the wound-rot I’ll cross Bifröst before I begin to stink,’ I said.
Olaf nodded, tugging his beard thoughtfully. ‘Just don’t ask Osk to open you up, lad. He’d bloody miss.’
I smiled but felt the cold in it, watching Olaf’s surprisingly nimble fingers working the horsehair into fine, neat ropes.
‘The fish are sleeping.’ Penda broke the silence. I locked eyes with him but my mind saw Sigurd killing a small boy. Pendanodded at the line still clamped between my finger and thumb. ‘We might as well sleep too,’ he said, winding his line around the block. Then, shrugging, he turned and walked off.
And I stayed there at Serpent ’s stern, snores, farts and the low murmur of men’s voices breaking the whisper and slosh of the sea against the nearby rocks, until a crimson wash stained the eastern sky.
Three days later Bragi the Egg spotted a white sail. The small craft was cutting north-west towards the mountainous coast, making slow progress against the same westerly that kept our oars up in their trees and our salt-stained sails stretched. It was not the first vessel we had seen in these waters – there had been many – but as we came closer we knew that this one was a trader. She was broad in the beam like a knörr, so that she could not have used more than four pairs of oars and these only for docking or keeping her bows into the wind in rough weather. She sat low in the water too, meaning she had a full hold, and it was likely that there were no more than twelve crew.
Bragi was standing at Fjord-Elk ’s bow and I could see his predatory smile even from a distance.
‘My mother always says you should never turn down an invitation!’ he called across to Sigurd. ‘That looks like an invitation to me, hey!’
‘Bragi’s mother also said I was the best lover she had ever had,’ Bram the Bear growled, stirring a smattering of laughter.
Sigurd was up on Serpent
Olaf grunted. ‘Floki ought to just let it lie. Ought to thank Sigurd himself if you ask me. But you know Floki. He was born miserable.’
‘Why did Sigurd do it, Uncle? He knew Halldor had asked Floki to do it. We all did.’
Olaf glanced round to check that no one else was close. Most of the others were in their furs, either asleep or getting there. ‘Sigurd’s boy,’ he said eventually.
‘He died young. Horse-kicked,’ I said, wondering what that had to do with things.
‘Aye. But the poor little swine didn’t die quick as he should have.’ Olaf tilted his shaggy head as though trying to weigh up whether to speak, or chew the words back down. ‘The boy was as good as dead it’s true. I’d seen rocks with more life in them. But he wasn’t dead. Still breathing, he was, though barely enough to call breathing.’
Penda turned to say something else, then saw Olaf’s face and turned back to his fishing instead, muttering that our heathen language was scaring off the fish.
‘And he stayed like that for two weeks, might have been three. The poor little sod.’ Olaf cuffed a tear from his eye and I glanced away for a heartbeat.
‘A slow death,’ I said.
Olaf shook his head. ‘One night, Sigurd carried the boy out into the pasture leaving Gudrid weeping at the door. He finished the boy himself. His own bairn.’
Our eyes were locked and I felt the shards of ice in mine.
‘He had no choice, lad. The boy he knew was long gone. There was nothing else for it.’
‘The Norns are bitches,’ I said, setting my jaw.
‘I’ll not argue with that,’ Olaf said, twisting the horsehair again. ‘But Sigurd knows how it feels to kill your own kin. It weighs a man down. Will drag him under, like that Christ cross dragged Tufi to his end. Sigurd took that burden from Black Floki. Why? Because he’s the best son of a wolf jarl who has ever led a crew across the whale’s road. And Floki knows it too. He’s pride-stung, that’s all.’
‘If I ever get the wound-rot I’ll cross Bifröst before I begin to stink,’ I said.
Olaf nodded, tugging his beard thoughtfully. ‘Just don’t ask Osk to open you up, lad. He’d bloody miss.’
I smiled but felt the cold in it, watching Olaf’s surprisingly nimble fingers working the horsehair into fine, neat ropes.
‘The fish are sleeping.’ Penda broke the silence. I locked eyes with him but my mind saw Sigurd killing a small boy. Pendanodded at the line still clamped between my finger and thumb. ‘We might as well sleep too,’ he said, winding his line around the block. Then, shrugging, he turned and walked off.
And I stayed there at Serpent ’s stern, snores, farts and the low murmur of men’s voices breaking the whisper and slosh of the sea against the nearby rocks, until a crimson wash stained the eastern sky.
Three days later Bragi the Egg spotted a white sail. The small craft was cutting north-west towards the mountainous coast, making slow progress against the same westerly that kept our oars up in their trees and our salt-stained sails stretched. It was not the first vessel we had seen in these waters – there had been many – but as we came closer we knew that this one was a trader. She was broad in the beam like a knörr, so that she could not have used more than four pairs of oars and these only for docking or keeping her bows into the wind in rough weather. She sat low in the water too, meaning she had a full hold, and it was likely that there were no more than twelve crew.
Bragi was standing at Fjord-Elk ’s bow and I could see his predatory smile even from a distance.
‘My mother always says you should never turn down an invitation!’ he called across to Sigurd. ‘That looks like an invitation to me, hey!’
‘Bragi’s mother also said I was the best lover she had ever had,’ Bram the Bear growled, stirring a smattering of laughter.
Sigurd was up on Serpent
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