Wolfskin (47 page)

Somerled's fingers closed around the buckle. He slipped it in his pocket. “Not very good at this, are you, Eyvind?” he said. “I keep waiting for you to surprise me with some piece of cleverness and it never happens. I have to say your disloyalty makes me very uneasy. It wouldn't have something to do with the company you've been keeping, would it? I did hear your ghost was spotted at the site of a certain hovel on the barbarians' land.
They say some sort of old crone used to live there before my men put the torch to her sorcery. And there's another little witch too, a comely young one with quite a head on her, and a fiery temper. I met her recently. She was remarkably fluent in our language, and I did wonder just how she had managed that, her uncle being generally so reluctant to have her on show. An impressively forthright young woman. I liked her.”

“Uncle?” Eyvind echoed as the light brightened in the hut around them, and sounds of scraping metal and booted feet on the move increased outside.

“Oh, yes.” Somerled raised his brows. “I refer to Engus's niece, the lovely Nessa. Last princess of the Folk: last hope of an heir for the old man. The girl won't be a priestess long; she has to bear a son. Oh dear, Eyvind, you've gone quite pale. Had she become a special friend? I will ask the lads to watch out for her while they're over there, it's in my own interests to get her out alive, after all. It seems to me a king needs a wife, and there's a distinct shortage of princesses in these parts, so I can't be too fussy. But the sad fact is, my warriors have been spoiling for a bit of action. I can't be certain they'll look too carefully before they start laying about them. Maybe we'll retrieve her safely, maybe not. Now, I think we're out of time. Interesting talk. Shall we resume later? I don't like that look on your face, Eyvind. There'd be no point in putting those big hands around my neck and squeezing the life out of me, Wolfskin. That would only spur the men to greater effort. I think you have forgotten that I am your chieftain now. I suggest you put that fine helm on your head and go out to join the others—back where you belong, in my front line. I don't need to remind you of your own lifelong ambition, do I?”

“You can't do this,” Eyvind whispered with terror clutching at his vitals. “You can't do it. Such an act of evil denies the man you are, the boy you were. It will set a dark curse on your future. These people are blameless, your brother befriended them. The treaty was ring-sworn. Don't do it, Somerled.” And he backed to the open doorway of the hut, as if to prevent the other man from stepping outside. Somewhere across the fields small birds were uttering their first cautious greetings to the day; the dark sky was washed now with palest gray, shading to a rim of darker blue. “You must not,” he said aloud, putting his arms out to block the way. “I beg you, on our oath of brotherhood.”

Somerled looked past him as if he were not there, speaking to someone who stood outside the hut. “Move up,” he said. “Wait for Holgar's sign, then
advance. Keep to the center as I told you, those rocks are treacherous. There's to be no sound until you reach the far shore. We want to surprise these people.”

Behind Eyvind there was a surge of movement, men grabbing spears, men drawing swords, men striding fast, too many men to be counted, their booted feet carrying them in a relentless tide to the west, toward the Whaleback.

“Don't run away again, Eyvind,” said Somerled with a crooked smile. “The next move's yours, and you must play properly now you've started.”

Too late, too late, what point in shouting out accusations now, what point in branding their leader as brother-killer? Eyvind knew all too well how it felt, that moment before the call to advance, every sinew tensed, every muscle bunched, the mind tightly focused on the challenge to come. It would not matter what words of truth he uttered, for they would not even hear him. Quick, then, there must be another way. Holgar was to signal the advance. Holgar and Grim and Erlend would be first, leading the troop across the causeway, spearheading the attack on the unsuspecting islanders. He must be on the causeway before Holgar, and somehow he must stop them.

Eyvind ran, jamming his helm on his head, seizing Biter in his hand, willing strength into his exhausted limbs and courage into his anguished heart. He ran as he had never run before, out along the track that skirted the promontory above the wide rock shelves where gray seals had sunned themselves in warmer times. The tide was well out already, the rocks stretched slick and dark toward the sea. The Whaleback reared up from the waves, its great sloping surface tilting high toward the western end where cliffs fell away to the ocean. Gulls cried; it was morning. He passed men with bows and men with hammers, men leather-capped and iron-helmed, men with spears and staves and swords, silent, all of them, obedient to Somerled's command. Now he could see the causeway that stretched across to the tidal island, a narrow safe path of meticulously laid stones, a great work of construction that had held firm against the pull of the tide through many seasons. At low water it was exposed, its flat surface draped with shawls of dark weed and scattered with pale shells. Two men could walk there side by side, or pass one another. At high tide, the sea would submerge it, making the Whaleback both fortress and trap. To either side of the path great tumbled stones glistened, wrack was strewn thickly in slippery heaps, sudden pools lay dark and treacherous between rock slabs. It
would be possible to pick a way across there, if one were prepared to risk the hazard of broken limbs or sudden drowning. The causeway was the only choice for armed men looking to cross in a hurry and silently.

There, where the safe path began, stood three familiar figures, wolfskins on shoulders, weapons held ready, close together with eyes shut and hands clasped in a brief ritual of silent preparation. Eyvind could hear it in his own head, though it was not to him that Thor spoke.
Burn bright for me, warrior; strike true.
This was the moment he needed, and he moved with the breath of terror at his heels, running past the three of them, leaping to stand, legs astride, on the narrow path. He looked ahead to the Whaleback as the first rays of sunlight pierced the sky, touching the sloping fields of the great brough with warm gold.
Let her be safe.

“Wait for the sign, Eyvind,” Grim whispered behind him. “We advance together, running single file, or this will be chaos. Half of these fellows have never fought a proper battle before. Quick tussle behind the drinking hall, that's about it. Wait for the sign, man.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eyvind saw Holgar's arm go up, a red cloth held in his fist. The men began to surge down from the low headland to the shore, lining up haphazardly in preparation to make the run across the narrow path.

“Now!” called Holgar, and both he and Erlend sprang onto the causeway behind Grim, with others following close. Eyvind gathered breath and will. He turned to face them, lifting Biter high. His voice was a mighty shout. “You cannot pass! These folk are defenseless; they are in mourning! Back off! You cannot pass!” Biter swung through the air, this way, that way; Grim took a step backward, his face a picture of shock and dismay.

“What are you doing, man?” hissed Erlend. “Let us by, you fool! And keep quiet, will you, you'll wake the lot of them! What's got into you?”

Grim had raised his hammer, but he did not step forward. “Eyvind?” he ventured. “Move aside, lad, let us through.”

“You cannot pass! I will cut down any man who tries to go this way! Back off now and leave this place. Would you follow a chieftain who killed his own brother?”

He saw Erlend look at Holgar, and Holgar give a tiny nod, and the two of them moved together, pushing Grim out of the way. Holgar came in with the sword, Erlend with the thrusting spear; Eyvind twisted and hacked and turned. Behind Grim, other men were muttering, whispering, “Shadow warrior…walking dead…witch's curse…”

“Back off, Holgar,” Eyvind gasped, wondering how long he could keep
up the pretense of strength. “Order these men to retreat. Somerled is a murderer; he ordered Ulf's killing and Hakon's. I've got proof. Back off before I have to do you some damage.”

The Wolfskins paused; they exchanged glances. It was clear to Eyvind what they were thinking. Two might not be a match for him; three could bring him down. They did not seem to be hearing what he told them. Now Grim had stepped down from the causeway as if to retreat, but instead of going back he moved to the left, nimble on the uneven rocks, his hammer ready to deliver a crippling blow at knee level. Eyvind swung Biter out low; iron glanced off iron, Grim reeled and fought for secure footing. Eyvind completed the axe's circle, thinking to take Holgar with the returning arc, but Holgar had moved too, down to the right, and Erlend stood ready on the path with spear in hand.

“Stop this, you fools,” Eyvind panted, “I don't want to have to kill you! Just give up, will you?” Odin's bones, Biter was heavy; he had forgotten how heavy. And his head was starting to ache again, a fierce pain that came close to blinding him. The rising sun was dazzling now; perhaps it was the first day of spring. Small birds passed high above, fluting their songs to the morning. “Back off, will you?” Holgar's sword slashed at his legs; Eyvind jumped sideways, willing strength to his limbs, willing his mind to stay clear enough. He shifted his grip on the axe. Now Grim had come up behind him, and in front, Erlend's spear-tip was pointed neatly at his heart. Holgar slashed again; Eyvind staggered. The men on the shore were starting to call out helpful advice, voices still low. “Kill the treacherous scum!” “Go in on his left flank, man, take him down!” “Get off the path, we're wasting time!” It would not be long before they began shouting. Eyvind ducked suddenly, and as the thrusting spear came toward him, he rose to grip its shaft in his left hand while Biter struck a glancing blow to Erlend's shield. Erlend dropped the shield and laid both hands to the spear, seeking to use it to push Eyvind off balance and down to the rocks. What was Grim doing? He was somewhere behind, but not moving. Holgar was the danger, coming in again now with the sword; he must kick out, he could not twist to dodge the blow with the spear shaft in his grip. He let go abruptly; Erlend was caught off guard and fell toward him, too close for the axe. Holgar paused; the target was no longer clear, his sword could not strike without risking Erlend. Eyvind let Biter fall; with the last of his strength, he lunged at Erlend, bringing him down, nearly falling himself to sit astride the other man with his hands around Erlend's neck. “Back off or he dies,” Eyvind hissed, not at all sure he had either strength or will to carry out such
a threat. He was dizzy now; his limbs were full of a fiery aching, his breath came in labored gasps. It must be all too clear to the others how weakened he was, for did they not know him like a brother? “Back off! I will kill him! Fetch Somerled, tell him the advance cannot go ahead!”

“What is this?” It seemed Somerled was already here; his clear, crisp voice came from the shore, beyond the crush of waiting men. “Are you not under orders to keep silent? What's going on here?”

Nobody ventured an answer.

“For Thor's sake, man!” It was Grim's voice behind Eyvind, a hoarse whisper. “Let him go; it's Erlend, you fool, a friend and comrade! We've work to do here. Step down. Don't make me—”

“Halt the advance,” Eyvind said, gritting his teeth. “Somerled killed his brother. He burned Hakon. He lied to me; he lied to all of you. I swear on Thor's name that this is true. You cannot go forward.” His grip on Erlend's throat seemed to be slackening, try as he might to maintain it. He could feel Erlend's shoulders tensing, his legs seeking leverage to dislodge Eyvind from his back. Everything was starting to blur; through the eye-guard of his helm he could see Somerled not far away, but his features were swimming, the men around him fading to shadow.

“Now then,” said Somerled firmly. “You can see what's happened here. This fellow is sick; it's plain enough what his malady is, they call it war fetter, though no warrior wants to put a name to such an illness, one which slows the feet and weakens the will for battle. Eyvind is suffering from delusions; it comes of spending too long as a captive of these primitive tribesmen and listening to their poisonous tales. It's them we must blame for this sad change in what was once a fine man, the hero of Ramsbeck. A sorry sight indeed. A sorceress of the Folk has put a spell on our dear Eyvind. As to what he says, it is no more than nonsense. I, kill my brother? Have I not sought vengeance for his murder with all my strength and all my will since the very day those barbarians hung him up to die? Let your fellow warrior go, Eyvind, old friend. It's rest and help you need, not combat. Let others do battle today in your place. Your arm can barely support the axe's weight; your legs can scarcely carry you. See, men, even now his hands slacken their grip, even now his head bows with the weight of the fine helm he once wore gloriously into battle. This is no Wolfskin, but the merest shadow of what once was.”

“Don't listen to him!” Eyvind snarled, fighting to keep his grip as Erlend began to thrash and twist, sensing his captor's flagging strength. “I
am in my right mind, and I tell you this attack must not go forward. I will kill this man if even one of you seeks to pass me.”
Run, Nessa. Hide.
Thor's hammer, it seemed to be growing dark; if he lost consciousness now it was all over. He could not fail her, he must not…The world was going hazy; the rising sun dazzled his eyes. “Run!” he shouted. “Hide! Beware attackers!” but his shout seemed to be no more than a whisper inside his stricken heart.

“Oh dear, Eyvind,” someone said. A moment later there was a ringing blow on his helm, Grim's hammer used with just enough force to disable him without cracking his skull open. A darkness fell on him, a darkness that was not oblivion, for he could still hear the tramping of boots all around him as men surged across the causeway and picked a path on the slippery rocks beside it. Feet passed before him, behind him, on top of him, ever forward to the attack. There were no cries save the harsh warnings of gulls, and the Folk would scarcely heed those. Other sensations returned; there were rocks under his head, his legs were in water, his axe and helm were gone. He was still blind; Grim's hammer had taken away the daylight. After a while, the footsteps ceased. He crawled forward, not knowing who was near, not knowing if he were alone or no. Perhaps they were all gone across, with their spears and swords and axes…
run, hide, quick, quick
…He couldn't see and he didn't seem to be able to speak either. Perhaps it was grief that set this choking lump in his throat. He must go on, he must get across and help her, perhaps even now it was not too late…In the distance, men were shouting, and there was an ominous crackling, and suddenly above the war cries came the sharp, terrified scream of a woman.
I wonder if she screamed,
Somerled had asked him once, long ago. He must move, he must go on, perhaps he could still find her in time, perhaps…He seemed to be back up on the causeway, he could feel the close-laid stones, but he could not get up, his legs didn't seem able to carry him…right, he would crawl if he must, he would find her, blind as he was…he had given his word…he must make it good…