The Prow Beast (16 page)

‘Well, Hallgeir?’ demanded a cold-eyed Randr.

‘Silver,’ said the man, scarcely able to speak. ‘Great piles of it – look.’

He thrust out a hand and men crowded to it; in the charcoal dim, the soft glow of coin and silver torc sucked the breath from them with a hiss. They looked at the handful, seeing it in dragon heaps.

‘Well,’ said Randr, straightening. ‘Now we have the silver.’

‘Untie me,’ I said and he laughed, a crow-snarl laugh that let me know it was not about to happen.

‘There is another matter…’ Hallgeir said, trying to thrust himself through the crowd that wanted to see, to touch, part of the fabled hoard of the Oathsworn.

Scowling, Randr turned, impatient at being thwarted from killing me, which was his next act, I knew. Odin was about to get his sacrifice. Make it quick, AllFather, I was thinking, while part of me was gibbering and wanting to flee rather than stand there like an ox at a
blot.

‘Where is Skeggi Ogmundsson?’ demanded a voice.

Before anyone could speak, something flew out of the shadows, whirling like a stone. It smacked wetly on the ground and rolled towards Randr, who stepped back from it; all hackles were up when they saw it was the bloody ruin of a wild-bearded head.

‘There was a grey gull.’

The voice came out of the darkness, down the trail from where the head of Skeggi the bearcoat had come. A piping voice, not yet broken.

A boy’s voice.

Heads turned and voices stilled; I saw Randr Sterki’s face just then and it was white round eyes which flicked briefly with fear, like Hati the moon goddess hearing the howl of the devouring wolf which pursued her.

‘That is the other matter,’ Hallgeir sighed, wearied with resignation. His hand fell to his side and the silver in it dropped, unregarded by anyone, to the rain and the mud.

Crowbone stepped to where men could see him. He wore a ringmail coat made for his size and carried a spear in either hand, was bareheaded so that his coin-weighted braids swung, and he did not look like a mere boy. Alyosha, as ever, was at his shoulder and, behind, the creak and shink and breathing of ringmailed men, gleaming faint and grey in the twilight, was a cliff at Crowbone’s back.

My legs sagged; now I knew why Ljot had been rowing so hard for the open water – to avoid Crowbone coming up. That Ljot had not informed Randr Sterki of it told a great deal.

‘There was a grey gull,’ Crowbone said, stepping closer and shouting less. ‘A raiding gull, who lived high on a cliff, on the flight’s edge. A king of gulls, whom men called Sterki – Strong – and who laughed at those same men and stole their fish and shat on them for fun.’

There were nervous sniggers, for they had all suffered that. Meaningful looks were shot at Randr Sterki, who shared the same name as this gull and at whom the tale was clearly aimed. I saw men sidle sideways, away from the rest; the last of the bearcoats, I was thinking.

‘I need no talk of gulls,’ Randr began, but Alyosha, only eyes showing in the helmet of his face, made a little gesture with a big axe that spoke loudly. The bearcoats stopped moving.

‘Better listen,’ I offered. ‘Better one of little Prince Crowbone’s sharp stories than the sharper alternative.’

Randr licked his lips; the alternative stared back at him from all the faint faces behind Crowbone’s back. Yet here was the boy who had turned his hate on all Randr had held dear. Here were all his enemies, all those he wanted revenge on and he hovered on the sheer cliff of wanting to hurl himself at them. He also knew, in the little part of him not blinded with red mist, that he would fail and that leash held him a little yet.

‘This king of gulls had an egg, a fine egg,’ Crowbone said, after a pause during which the silence became painful as my nose. ‘He knew it would hatch to be a fine son to replace him in his time and he left his fine gull-wife to sit on it while he flew away in search of food.

‘When he returned, he found his gull-wife with her neck broken and the fine egg gone and he knew, at once, that it was the blacksmith who had done it. He had shat on the smith many a time, stolen the fish right from the fingers of his children – and he knew the smith could climb any cliff.’

‘Speak up,’ yelled Ref from where the fire burned. ‘I think I know this man.’

There were soft laughs, but they had no mirth in them and Crowbone went on, level and firm and slow, in his rill-clear voice.

‘The gull-king knew at once that the blacksmith must have taken it. So he went to the man and demanded that he give the egg back. But the smith pretended it was just a shrieking bird flying round his head and waved the gull-king away.

‘The gull-king was heartbroken and flew about looking for help. On the way he met a pig, and asked him to root up the carrots of the smith who had stolen his egg, to make him give it back.

‘The pig grunted once or twice. “No, not I,” he said and walked away.

‘The gull-king then met a hunter, who bowed politely and asked why the mighty lord of gannets was so distressed. The bird said: “Will you shoot an arrow at the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith and make him give me back my stolen egg?”

‘But the hunter shook his head. “Why should I? Leave me out of this.”

‘The gull-king wept tears of pure bile and flew on till he met a rat, who also asked why he was in tears. The gull-king said: “Will you gnaw and cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith and make him give back my egg?”

‘The rat squeaked once, then twice, then promised to do it – but ran away instead.’

‘Heya,’ yelled a voice from the dark. ‘I know that rat.’

‘I wed her,’ yelled another, which brought grim laughter and calls for silence equally. Crowbone waited until the silence again became painful, then continued.

‘Next, the gull-king met a cat and asked her to catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith and force him to give back the egg he had stolen.

‘The cat licked her whiskers once, then twice, then said she would rather mind her own business and ran off.

‘The poor gull-king was beside himself with anger and grief. His wails attracted the attention of a passing dog, who asked what was bothering the mighty gannet. He asked: “Will you bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not dig up the carrots of the smith who stole my egg?”

‘The dog barked once. “No, not I,” he said and ran away.

‘The gull-king’s wails grew louder and louder. An old man with a long white beard came that way and asked the screaming bird what the matter was. He said: “Grandfather, will you beat the dog who would not bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith who has stolen my egg and will not give it back?”

‘This greybeard shook his head at such foolishness and went his way. The gull-king, in desperation, next went to the fire for help and asked it to burn the white beard of the old man, but the fire would not do it. Next the gull-king went to the water and asked it to put out the fire which would not burn the beard of the old man who refused to beat the dog who would not bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith who had stolen his egg and would not give it back.

‘But the water just gurgled and refused to help Sterki the gull-king.

‘Frantic and furious, the gull-king swooped down on an ox, demanding that it stir up the water which would not put out the fire which refused to burn the beard of the old man who would not…

‘But the ox did not even wait for the explanation; it lowered its massive head and went back to chewing.’

Crowbone paused, as if to take a longer breath and those who knew the way of it stirred, for here was the closure of the tale; no-one moved or spoke.

‘Then,’ said little Crowbone, ‘the gull-king spotted a flea on the arse of the ox, who also asked what was troubling the mighty Sterki, king of gulls.

‘The gull-king, who would never have even noticed such a creature before, sprang eagerly up and bowed. “O flea! I know you can help me. Will you bite the arse of the ox for not stirring up the water which would not put out the fire which would not burn the beard of the old man who would not beat the dog who would not bite the cat who would not catch the rat who would not cut the bowstring of the hunter who would not shoot the pig who would not root up the carrots of the smith who stole my egg and will not give it back?”’

At which point there were admiring noises about Crowbone’s feat of memory, from those who did not realise he was not the boy he appeared.

‘The flea,’ said Crowbone, ignoring them, ‘thought about it for a moment, then said: “Why not? Here I go.” And he crawled right up the arse of the ox and bit, which made the beast dash into the pool of water and stir it up. The water splashed and began to put out the fire, which went mad and burned the white beard of the old man, who beat the dog, who ran after the cat and bit her. The cat caught the rat, who had to gnaw the string of the hunter’s bow before she was freed. The hunter tied on a new one and shot an arrow at the pig, who went and rooted up the carrots of the smith.

‘“Aha, aha!” shrieked the gull-king in triumph and the smith, looking ruefully at the remains of his carrot patch, shrugged and said: “You have succeeded, right enough, Sterki.”

‘The gull-king swooped and laughed. “Then hand back my egg,” he screamed. The smith blinked once and blinked twice.

‘“Is that what this is all about?” he asked and shook his head. “I ate that egg for breakfast days ago.”’

There was silence as the story echoed to a close. Men shifted, not liking the ending much.

‘Take the silver,’ Crowbone said softly. ‘Your egg is gone, Randr Sterki, and all your long revenge will not bring it back.’

There was silence, broken only by the hissing wind and the sibilance of shifting feet.

‘I should have killed you when I caught you running off,’ Randr said bitterly and Crowbone stepped closer, a spear in each hand and his voice sharper than either of them.

‘Instead,’ he said, his voice suddenly deeper than before, ‘you gave me to Klerkon’s woman, to beat and chain like a dog outside the privy. Instead, you had your woman and boy shave me with an edgeless seax. You let Kveldulf put his wean in my ma’s belly and then kick the life out of both of them when it suited him. And laughed.’

Randr blinked and shook his head, as if trying to drive that away like an irrelevant fly – but it would not quit him and he had no answer to it. Slowly, he nodded once, then twice. Behind him, men shifted and muttered and then a bearcoat threw back his head, howled and lurched at Crowbone. The gods alone know why, for there was no profit or sense in it, but those skin-wearing droolers seldom fight for either, though fighting is all they know.

It was like watching a cliff fall on a mouse – yet Crowbone did not even flinch, merely looked up, half-spun and threw with both hands. Two spears smacked the man, one in his chest, the other in his right thigh and he went pitching forward on his nose. Alyosha stepped forward smartly and axed his throat open, knowing a pelt-wearer was not dead until he was really dead.

Someone – from Randr’s own men – gave an admiring ‘heya’ even as the victim curled and writhed round the spears, like a hooked worm; the last trio of bearcoats, trembling on the brink of summoning power, looked at each other – and all their skin-magic soaked away, so that they seemed to wrinkle and sag like empty
skyr
-bags.

‘Courage is not hacksilver, to be shut always in a purse,’ Red Njal growled, seeing this. ‘It needs to be taken out and shown the sun, as my granny used to say.’

‘Finish this,’ Hlenni called out, but I saw Crowbone’s warning eye and held up a stopping hand.

‘Enough has been done, one to the other,’ I said. ‘Take the silver you have dug up and let that be blood-price for any loss. Let this be an end.’

Randr’s face was smeared with twisted hate, yet he backed away then, into the maw of his men, hauling Hallgeir with him; one by one at first, then in groups, they sidled round the half-hidden men of Crowbone and slithered into the shadows, heading for my silver and safety.

Alyosha let out his breath with a sharp sound as the last one vanished and my own men rushed forward to free me.

‘Good throwing,’ Alyosha declared, but Crowbone frowned, looking at the dying man with disdain.

‘Too weak in the left hand,’ he answered. ‘Both spears were meant to go in his chest.’

In later life, Crowbone perfected throwing spears with both hands at the same time and it served him well, but this first attempt was timely enough for me, I thought, as eager hands untied me. I managed to get that out to him before Thorgunna’s embrace drove the air from me entirely.

Crowbone’s scowl vanished.

‘Aye, it was timely at that,’ he answered brightly, as if realising it for the first time.

‘You should have finished Randr Sterki,’ Hlenni pointed out and, even washed by the safe and loving press of friends and those who held me dear, I could feel Randr’s hate and wondered why the boy had not pressed the fight.

‘He still has Sigurd’s nose,’ I said to him.

‘Your sword also,’ he replied, then lost the grin and sighed. ‘I would have, but…’

Right there and then I heard the crack as his voice broke to manhood. He cleared his throat and looked bewildered for a moment or two, then spoke on, his voice breaking on every second or third word, to his annoyance.

‘I came short-handed to the feast. Alyosha was concerned.’ Then he motioned, so that a mere ten men stepped forward from the shadows behind him. If Randr had decided to fight, Crowbone and his men would almost certainly have gone under. Alyosha peeled off his gilded, face-mailed helmet, puffing out sweat-sheened cheeks and grinning from behind a damp beard.

‘We left too many men with
Short Serpent
,’ he declared and shot Crowbone a sharp, sideways look that made it clear whose fault that had been; the boy loved his ship too much. Crowbone ignored him and held out his small fist; I clasped him, wrist to wrist and heard his voice, rising and falling like a ship on a bad sea.