The Lords of the North (5 page)

It was an outrageous price, and it was meant to be, but Bolti did not baulk at it. 'Only
two are mine, lord.' he whined. 'The third is his woman.' He pointed at me.

'Yours?' Sven looked at me. 'You have a woman, leper? So that bit hasn't dropped off yet?'
He found that funny and the two men who had fetched the women laughed with him. 'So, leper,'
Sven asked, 'what will you pay me for your woman?'

'Nothing,' I said.

He scratched his arse. His men were grinning. They were used to defiance, and used to
defeating it, and they enjoyed watching Sven fleece travellers. Sven poured himself more
ale. 'You have some fine arm rings, leper,' he said, 'and I suspect that helmet won't be much
use to you once you're dead, so in exchange for your woman I'll take your rings and your
helmet and then you can go on your way.'

I did not move, did not speak, but I gently pressed my legs against Witnere's flanks and I
felt the big horse tremble. He was a fighting beast and he wanted me to release him, and
perhaps it was Witnere's tension that Sven sensed. All he could see was my baleful helmet
with its dark eye holes and its wolf's crest and he was becoming worried. He had flippantly
raised the wager, but he could not back down if he wanted to keep his dignity. He had to play
to win now. 'Lost your tongue suddenly?' he sneered at me, then gestured at the two men who
had fetched the women. 'Egil! Atsur! Take the leper's helmet!'

Sven must have reckoned he was safe. He had at least a ship's crew of men in the village and
I was by myself, and that convinced him that I was defeated even before his two men
approached me. One had a spear, the other was drawing his sword, but the sword was not even
halfway out of the scabbard before I had Serpent-Breath in my hand and Witnere moving. He
had been desperate to attack, and he leaped with the speed of eight-legged Sleipnir, Odin's
famed horse. I took the man on the right first, the man who was still drawing his sword, and
Serpent-Breath came from the sky like a bolt of Thor's lightning and her edge went through his
helmet as if it were made of parchment and Witnere, obedient to the pressure of my knee was
already turning towards Sven as the spearman came for me. He should have thrust his blade
into Witnere's chest or neck, but instead he tried to ram the spear up at my ribs and Witnere
twisted to his right and snapped at the man's face with his big teeth and the man stumbled
backwards, just avoiding the bite, and he lost his footing to sprawl on the grass and I kept
Witnere turning left. My right foot was already free of the stirrup and then I threw myself
out of the saddle and dropped hard onto Sven. He was half tangled by the bench as he tried to
stand, and I drove him down, thumping the wind from his belly, and then I found my feet, stood,
and Serpent-Breath was at Sven's throat. 'Egil!' Sven called to the spearman who had been
driven back by Witnere, but Egil dared not attack me while my sword was at his master's
gullet.

Bolti was whimpering. He had pissed himself. I could smell it and hear it dripping.
Gelgill was standing very still, watching me, his narrow face expressionless. Hild was
smiling. A half-dozen of Sven's other men were facing me, but none dared move because the
tip of Serpent-Breath, her blade smeared with blood, was at Sven's throat. Witnere was beside
me, teeth bared, one front hoof pawing at the ground and thumping very close to Sven's head.
Sven was gazing up at me with his one eye that was filled with hate and fear, and I suddenly
stepped away from him. 'On your knees,' I told him.

'Egil!' Sven pleaded again.

Egil, black-bearded and with gaping nostrils where the front of his nose had been chopped
off in some fight, levelled his spear.

'He dies if you attack,' I said to Egil, touching Sven with Serpent-Breath's tip. Egil,
sensibly stepped backwards, and I flicked Serpent-Breath across Sven's face, drawing blood.
'On your knees.' I said again, and when he was kneeling I leaned down and took his two swords
from their scabbards and lay them beside my father's helmet on the table.

'You want to kill the slaver?' I called back to Hild, gesturing at the swords.

'No,' she said.

'Iseult would have killed him,' I said. Iseult had been my lover and Hild's friend.

'Thou shalt not kill.' Hild said. It was a Christian commandment and about as futile, I
thought, as commanding the sun to go backwards.

'Bolti,' I spoke in Danish now, 'kill the slaver.' I did not want Gelgill behind my
back.

Bolti did not move. He was too scared to obey me, but, to my surprise, his two daughters
came and fetched Sven's swords. Gelgill tried to run, but the table was in his way and one of
the girls gave a wild swing that slashed across his skull and he fell sideways. Then they
savaged him. I did not watch, because I was guarding Sven, but I heard the slaver's cries and
Hild's gasp of surprise, and I could see the astonishment on the faces of the men in front of
me. The twin girls grunted as they hacked. Gelgill took a long time to die and not one of
Sven's men tried to save him, or to rescue their master. They all had weapons drawn and if just
one of them had possessed any sense they would have realised that I dared not kill Sven, for
his life was my life. If I took his soul they would have swamped me with blades, but they were
scared of what Kjartan would do to them if his son died and so they did nothing and I pressed
the blade harder against Sven's throat so that he gave a half-strangled yelp of fear.

Behind me Gelgill was at last hacked to death. I risked a glance and saw that Bolti's twin
daughters were blood-drenched and grinning. 'They are Hel's daughters,' I told the watching
men and I was proud of that sudden invention, for Hel is the corpse-goddess, rancid and
terrible, who presides over the dead who do not die in battle. 'And I am Thorkild!' I went
on, 'and I have filled Odin's hall with dead men.' Sven was shaking beneath me. His men seemed
to be holding their breath and suddenly my tale took wings and I made my voice as deep as I
could. 'I am Thorkild the Leper,' I announced loudly, 'and I died a long time ago, but Odin
has sent me from the corpse-hall to take the souls of Kjartan and his son.'

They believed me. I saw men touch amulets. One spearman even dropped to his knees. I wanted
to kill Sven there and then, and perhaps I should have done, but it would only have taken one
man to break the web of magical nonsense I had spun for them. What I needed at that moment
was not Sven's soul, but our safety, and so I would trade the one for the other. 'I shall let
this worm go,' I said, 'to carry news of my coming to his father, but you will go first. All
of you! Go back beyond the village and I shall release him. You will leave your captives
here.' They just stared at me and I twitched the blade so that Sven yelped again. 'Go!' I
shouted.

They went. They went fast, filled with dread. Bolti was gazing at his beloved daughters with
awe. I told each girl they had done well, and that they should take a handful of coins from the
table, and then they went back to their mother, both clutching silver and bloody blades.
'They're good girls,' I told Bolti and he said nothing, but hurried after them.

'I couldn't kill him,' Hild said. She seemed ashamed of her squeamishness.

'Doesn't matter,' I said. I kept the sword at Sven's throat until I was sure all his men had
retreated a good distance eastwards. The folk who had been their captives, mostly young
boys and girls, stayed in the village, but none dared approach me.

I was tempted then to tell Sven the truth, to let him know that he had been humiliated by
an old enemy, but the tale of Thorkild the Leper was too good to waste. I was also tempted
to ask about Thyra, Ragnar's sister, but I feared that if she did live and that if I betrayed
an interest in her, then she would not live much longer, and so I said nothing of her.
Instead I gripped Sven's hair and pulled his head back so that he was staring up at me. 'I have
come to this middle earth,' I told him, 'to kill you and your father. I shall find you again,
Sven Kjartanson, and I will kill you next time. I am Thorkild, I walk at night and I cannot
be killed because I am already a corpse. So take my greetings to your father and tell him the
dead swordsman has been sent for him and we shall all three sail in Skidbladnir back to
Niflheim.' Niflheim was the dreadful pit of the dishonoured dead, and Skidbladnir was
the ship of the gods that could be folded and concealed in a pouch. I let go of Sven then and
kicked him hard in the back so he sprawled onto his face. He could have crawled away, but he
dared not move. He was a whipped dog now, and though I still wanted to kill him I reckoned it
would be better to let him carry my eery tale to his

father. Kjartan would doubtless learn that Uhtred of Bebbanburg had been seen in
Eoferwic, but he would also hear of the corpse warrior come to kill him, and I wanted his
dreams to be wreathed with terror. Sven still did not move as I stooped to his belt and pulled
away a heavy purse. Then I stripped him of his seven silver arm rings. Hild had cut off part of
Gelgill's robe and was using it to make a bag to hold the coins in the slave-trader's tray. I
gave her my father's helmet to carry, then climbed back into Witnere's saddle. I patted
his neck and he tossed his head extravagantly as though he understood he had been a great
fighting stallion that day. I was about to leave when that weird day became stranger still.
Some of the captives, as if realising that they were truly freed, had started towards the
bridge, while others were so confused or lost or despairing that they had followed the armed
men eastwards. Then, suddenly, there was a monkish chanting and out of one of the low,
turf-roofed houses where they had been imprisoned, came a file of monks and priests. There
were seven of them, and they were the luckiest men that day, for I was to discover that
Kjartan the Cruel did indeed have a hatred of Christians and killed every priest or monk he
captured. These seven escaped him now, and with them was a young man burdened with slave
shackles. He was tall, well-built, very good-looking, dressed in rags and about my age. His
long curly hair was so golden that it looked almost white and he had pale eyelashes and very
blue eyes and a sun-darkened skin unmarked by disease. His face might have been carved from
stone, so pronounced were his cheekbones, nose and jaw, yet the hardness of the face was
softened by a cheerful expression that suggested he found life a constant surprise and a
continual amusement. When he saw Sven cowering beneath my horse he left the chanting
priests and ran towards us, stopping only to pick up the sword of the man I had killed. The
young man held the sword awkwardly, for his hands were joined by links of chain, but he
carried it to Sven and held it poised over Sven's neck.

'No,' I said.

'No?' The young man smiled up at me and I instinctively liked him. His face was open and
guileless.

'I promised him his life,' I said.

The young man thought about that for a heartbeat. 'You did,' he said, 'but I didn't.' He
spoke in Danish.

'But if you take his life,' I said, 'then I shall have to take yours.'

He considered that bargain with amusement in his eyes. 'Why?' he asked, not in any alarm,
but as if he genuinely wished to know.

'Because that is the law,' I said.

'But Sven Kjartanson knows no law,' he pointed out.

'It is my law,' I said, 'and I want him to take a message to his father.'

'What message?'

That the dead swordsman has come for him.'

The young man cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered the message and he
evidently approved of it for he tucked the sword under an armpit and then clumsily untied
the rope belt of his breeches. 'You can take a message from me too,' he said to Sven, 'and this
is it.' He pissed on Sven. 'I baptise you,'

the young man said, 'in the name of Thor and of Odin and of Loki.'

The seven churchmen, three monks and four priests, solemnly watched the baptism, but none
protested the implied blasphemy or tried to stop it. The young man pissed for a long time,
aiming his stream so that it thoroughly soaked Sven's hair, and when at last he finished he
retied the belt and offered me another of his dazzling smiles. 'You're the dead
swordsman?'

'I am.' I said.

'Stop whimpering.' the young man said to Sven, then smiled up at me again. Then perhaps you
will do me the honour of serving me?'

'Serve you?' I asked. It was my turn to be amused.

'I am Guthred.' he said, as though that explained everything.

'Guthrum I have heard of,' I said, 'and I know a Guthwere and I have met two men named
Guthlac, but I know of no Guthred.'

'I am Guthred, son of Hardicnut.' he said.

The name still meant nothing to me. 'And why should I serve Guthred,' I asked,

'son of Hardicnut?'

'Because until you came I was a slave,' he said, 'but now, well, because you came, now I'm
a king!' He spoke with such enthusiasm that he had trouble making the words come out as he
wanted.

I smiled beneath the linen scarf. 'You're a king,' I said, 'but of what?'

'Northumbria, of course.' he said brightly.

'He is, lord, he is.' one of the priests said earnestly. And so the dead swordsman met the
slave king, and Sven the One-Eyed crawled to his father, and the weirdness that infected
Northumbria grew weirder still. 

At sea, sometimes, if you take a ship too far from land and the wind rises and the tide
sucks with a venomous force and the waves splinter white above the shield-pegs, you have no
choice but to go where the gods will. The sail must be furled before it rips and the long oars
would pull to no effect and so you lash the blades and bail the ship and say your prayers and
watch the darkening sky and listen to the wind howl and suffer the rain's sting, and you hope
that the tide and waves and wind will not drive you onto rocks. That was how I felt in
Northumbria. I had escaped Hrothweard's madness in Eoferwic, only to humiliate Sven who
would now want nothing more than to kill me, if indeed he believed I could be killed. That
meant I dared not stay in that middling part of Northumbria for my enemies in the region were
far too numerous, nor could I go farther north for that would take me into Bebbanburg's
territory, my own land, where it was my uncle's daily prayer that I should die and so leave
him the legitimate holder of what he had stolen, and I did not wish to make it easy for that
prayer to come true. So the winds of Kjartan's hatred and of Sven's revenge, and the tidal
thrust of my uncle's enmity drove me westwards into the wilds of Cumbraland. We followed
the Roman wall where it runs across the hills. That wall is an extraordinary thing which
crosses the whole land from sea to sea. It is made of stone and it rises and falls with the
hills and the valleys, never stopping, always remorseless and brutal.