behind him.
‘Jarl Orm,’ he began. ‘We wish to take your Oath.’
I was dumbed by this; Finn grunted and found the words which were dammed up behind my teeth.
‘You are sworn already, to Jarl Brand,’ he pointed out and Abjorn shifted uncomfortably, with another glance to the men behind him for reassurance.
‘He gave us to Jarl Orm,’ he countered stubbornly. ‘And Jarl Brand is almost brother to Jarl Orm.’
‘He lent you,’ I offered, gentle as a horse-whisperer, not wishing to anger him. ‘Not gave.’
‘For all that,’ Abjorn pushed, his chin jutting out. ‘We have all agreed to ask – Rovald, Rorik Stari, Kaelbjorn Rog, Myrkjartan, Uddolf and myself.’
As he said their names, the men stepped forward, determined as stones rolling downhill.
‘This is foolish,’ Finn said, pausing in his flaying of the horse. ‘Jarl Brand will be angered by it and with Jarl Orm for agreeing to it. And what if they come to quarrel, what then? Who will you fight for?’
‘We will leap that stream when we reach it,’ Abjorn replied. Finn threw up his hands; a gobbet of fat flew off the end of the seax and splattered on the turf.
I knew why they wanted to take the Oath. They needed it. They had heard that Odin favoured the Oathsworn, held his hand over them and with all that snapped at their heels they needed to know that hand cradled them, too.
So I nodded and, stumbling like eager colts with the words of it, with the stink of fresh blood and the gleam of blot -iron in their eyes, they took it.
We swear to be brothers to each other, bone, blood and steel, on Gungnir, Odin’s spear we swear, may he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.
Afterwards, laden with horse meat – the head left on the stone for the birds to pick – we went back down to the path and hurried to catch up with the others.
Abjorn and the new-sworn men were cheerful, chaffering one to the other and with Botolf and even Toki, when they would not usually have looked twice at a scrawny thrall boy. They were so happy I felt sorry for them, knowing how the smell of blood and iron appeals to One-Eye even as the happy plans of men do not.
An hour later, the ulfhednar caught us.
I did not hear or see them at all, having my shoulder into the back of the rearmost wagon, my whole world taken up by the pothole the left rear wheel had sunk into and not wanting to have to unload it to get it out again. The rest of the column was further ahead, round a bend and out of sight.
So, with Botolf alongside, Finn and Kuritsa on either rear wheel and little Toki trying to get the sagging-weary horses to pull, we strained and cursed and struggled with it. Somewhere up ahead, round the next bend, the others laboured on.
‘Give them some whip!’ bawled Finn.
‘The fucking trail is too hard for this,’ Botolf grunted out and he was right; I had no breath to argue with him anyway.
Then Toki yelled out, a high, piping screech and we all stopped and turned, sweating and panting, to see the four men come round the bend behind us in the trail. It was moot who was more surprised by it.
‘Odin’s arse…’
Finn sprang for The Godi, sheathed and in the wagon; Botolf hurled after his axe, which was in the same place, but all I had was my seax and that was handy, snugged across my lap. But Kuritsa, who had said he had been a hunter in his own land, showed that he had been a warrior, too.
Three of the men wore oatmeal clothing, carried spears and axes and shields, but the fourth was big as a bull seal and had the great, rain-sodden bearcoat that marked him. He whirled and gestured; one of the others started to run back and Kuritsa sprang up on the top of one wheel, balanced and shot – the man screamed and pitched forward.
The bearcoat roared at another, then hefted his shield in the air, caught it by one edge and slung it, whirling in a one-handed throw that sent it spinning at us, like a wooden platter hurled by a
‘Jarl Orm,’ he began. ‘We wish to take your Oath.’
I was dumbed by this; Finn grunted and found the words which were dammed up behind my teeth.
‘You are sworn already, to Jarl Brand,’ he pointed out and Abjorn shifted uncomfortably, with another glance to the men behind him for reassurance.
‘He gave us to Jarl Orm,’ he countered stubbornly. ‘And Jarl Brand is almost brother to Jarl Orm.’
‘He lent you,’ I offered, gentle as a horse-whisperer, not wishing to anger him. ‘Not gave.’
‘For all that,’ Abjorn pushed, his chin jutting out. ‘We have all agreed to ask – Rovald, Rorik Stari, Kaelbjorn Rog, Myrkjartan, Uddolf and myself.’
As he said their names, the men stepped forward, determined as stones rolling downhill.
‘This is foolish,’ Finn said, pausing in his flaying of the horse. ‘Jarl Brand will be angered by it and with Jarl Orm for agreeing to it. And what if they come to quarrel, what then? Who will you fight for?’
‘We will leap that stream when we reach it,’ Abjorn replied. Finn threw up his hands; a gobbet of fat flew off the end of the seax and splattered on the turf.
I knew why they wanted to take the Oath. They needed it. They had heard that Odin favoured the Oathsworn, held his hand over them and with all that snapped at their heels they needed to know that hand cradled them, too.
So I nodded and, stumbling like eager colts with the words of it, with the stink of fresh blood and the gleam of blot -iron in their eyes, they took it.
We swear to be brothers to each other, bone, blood and steel, on Gungnir, Odin’s spear we swear, may he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.
Afterwards, laden with horse meat – the head left on the stone for the birds to pick – we went back down to the path and hurried to catch up with the others.
Abjorn and the new-sworn men were cheerful, chaffering one to the other and with Botolf and even Toki, when they would not usually have looked twice at a scrawny thrall boy. They were so happy I felt sorry for them, knowing how the smell of blood and iron appeals to One-Eye even as the happy plans of men do not.
An hour later, the ulfhednar caught us.
I did not hear or see them at all, having my shoulder into the back of the rearmost wagon, my whole world taken up by the pothole the left rear wheel had sunk into and not wanting to have to unload it to get it out again. The rest of the column was further ahead, round a bend and out of sight.
So, with Botolf alongside, Finn and Kuritsa on either rear wheel and little Toki trying to get the sagging-weary horses to pull, we strained and cursed and struggled with it. Somewhere up ahead, round the next bend, the others laboured on.
‘Give them some whip!’ bawled Finn.
‘The fucking trail is too hard for this,’ Botolf grunted out and he was right; I had no breath to argue with him anyway.
Then Toki yelled out, a high, piping screech and we all stopped and turned, sweating and panting, to see the four men come round the bend behind us in the trail. It was moot who was more surprised by it.
‘Odin’s arse…’
Finn sprang for The Godi, sheathed and in the wagon; Botolf hurled after his axe, which was in the same place, but all I had was my seax and that was handy, snugged across my lap. But Kuritsa, who had said he had been a hunter in his own land, showed that he had been a warrior, too.
Three of the men wore oatmeal clothing, carried spears and axes and shields, but the fourth was big as a bull seal and had the great, rain-sodden bearcoat that marked him. He whirled and gestured; one of the others started to run back and Kuritsa sprang up on the top of one wheel, balanced and shot – the man screamed and pitched forward.
The bearcoat roared at another, then hefted his shield in the air, caught it by one edge and slung it, whirling in a one-handed throw that sent it spinning at us, like a wooden platter hurled by a
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