Raven: Sons of Thunder (43 page)

‘You know me, Sigurd,’ Olaf said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I go where the wind takes me and where there is no wind I will row. You’ll have my oath.’ Sigurd nodded curtly, as though it was only natural that men such as these would follow him even to the world’s edge.

‘I am not going home until I have filled Bjorn’s journey chest as well as my own,’ Bjarni said.

Then the others declared their loyalty, each man out-boasting the next and claiming riches he had not yet clapped eyes on, so that even those who had had half a mind on going home forgot all about it and even Halfdan laughed at his earlier talk of farming. Old Asgot went off to scatter the runes and Black Floki simply nodded at Sigurd, his eyes dark and edged with malice, and Sigurd nodded back, for that was all that was needed between those two.

‘I go where you go, lord,’ I said when Sigurd looked at me.

‘Of course you do, Raven,’ he said, ‘for we have a saga tale to weave and we are joined, you and I.’

So I joined the others greasing their tongues with mead so that they might glide across the words of the oath we would give, and perhaps so that the speaking of them might weigh a little less, for an oath is a soul-heavy thing. And then I walked to the west side of the island to watch the sun slide into the grey sea, holding my breath in case I could hear the far-off hiss of fire quenching itself, like a red-hot sword plunged into a barrel. And in Valhöll the gods laughed.

IT’S ALL RIGHT, GUNNKEL, YOU CAN BLINK NOW. WASH THOSE MILKY
opals of yours before they dry and shrivel like an old man’s breeks snake. Take a breath, Arnor, and whilst you’re at it have one for me, would you? It has been a rare ride, hey! You all look rough as oak bark and wild as trolls – as if you’ve ridden the back of this night in Thór’s own chariot pulled by the goats Tanngnjóst and Tanngrísnir and them with their tails on fire! But I suppose it’s only natural you should sit there like that: mead holes catching flies, eyes round as pennies and hair on end like hedgehogs. For it is some saga tale and don’t I know it. Most of you, I’d wager, have never been past your own privies. There are rocks that have travelled further. There are snails that have seen more of the world than you hearth lovers. Ah, don’t give me that sour milk face, Hallfred. I heard you only found Hildr’s honey pot because she drew you a map, isn’t that right, Hildr?

So, you now have your teeth in the tale and a taste for those old days. And yet the feast is still to come. As you see, I am no young Baldr, wet behind the ears and boasting my first bristles. I have lived a very long time and you have only just
jumped aboard. We are barely off the jetty and into the fjord. The mooring ropes have yet to snake out their kinks and the anchor is still weed-slimed. Listen to me trying to spit it all out before it’s too late! You would have thought age and patience were kinsmen, but I have found them to keep company less as the years roll by. Come again tomorrow night, but only if you have the stomach for it, for the next chunk of my tale will take some swallowing. Like the ox-head Thór used to bait his hook when he went fishing for Jörmungand. As for today, if the chill in my bones is anything to go by we will have snow before dark. We’ll be breaking ice on rain barrels and bringing our animals inside. Perhaps it will be the beginning of Fimbulvetr, which will mean many kin-slayings and battles and all sorts of degradation, the chaos that begins Ragnarök. If that is so I will be ready. You think I’m a hoary old wolf who has outlived his wyrd, but you know my sword is still wicked sharp. Only a fool lets his blade dull or waits to watch the rust spots appear before cleaning it.

Tomorrow night then. If we are not all snow-tombed by then. And bring me some of that wine you’ve got stashed away, Olrun. Even I will need to take the edge off that tale’s telling.

Having Viking ancestors himself, Giles Kristian believes that the story of Raven has always been in his blood – waiting, like the Norsemen, for the right time to burst upon the world.

Inspired by both his family history and his storytelling heroes, Bernard Cornwell and Conn Iggulden, Giles began writing a thrilling tale of an English boy’s coming of age amongst a band of marauding warriors from across the grey sea. This novel,
Raven: Blood Eye
, was published to great acclaim, including a wonderful accolade from Bernard Cornwell.

Giles currently lives in Leicestershire where he writes full-time, though he enjoys nothing better than working in his family cottage that overlooks the mist-shrouded Norwegian fjords.

To find out more about Giles and his writing, visit his website:
www.gileskristian.com