“Oh,” Varg said.
A sound drew their attention and Glornir emerged from a street and came striding towards them, a glower seared into his brows. Three others walked close behind him. One was the blond-haired man with the staff who had walked with Helka’s son. Skalk, Svik had called him, Helka’s skáld and Galdurman. The other two were warriors in mail, a woman and man.
“Make ready to sail,” Glornir called out as he reached them, striding on past Varg and the others, the Bloodsworn rising and falling in behind him.
Jarl Logur’s bondsmen had pushed the druzhina back from the pier that led to the Bloodsworn’s drakkar, and Glornir marched on to the wooden boards and down to the Sea-Wolf. Without pause he leaped over the top-rail and started shouting orders.
Varg tried to pick up all of his gear, buckling the horsehair-plumed helmet to his belt, slinging his shield across his back, the lamellar coat and weapons belt of the dead druzhina across one shoulder, his hemp sack of kit across the other, his spear clutched clumsily in his fist, and he set off after the Bloodsworn. Svik walked beside him, smiling.
They reached the Sea-Wolf and Svik stepped nimbly across, turned and waited for Varg to clamber over the top-rail. He was usually well balanced and agile, but carrying more than his own weight in kit did not help. He managed to climb on board without a slip or fall, the ship rising and falling on a gentle swell.
The drakkar was filling quickly, the mast heaved up and slotted into place, its woollen sail still furled, Einar wielding a huge mallet to hammer the mast-lock into place. Edel’s wolfhounds found a mound of rope and curled up upon it.
“Your sea-chest,” Svik said with a flourished bow as he led Varg along the deck, pointing to a chest between two ribs of the drakkar.
With a grunt of relief Varg dropped his hemp sack and shouldered the lamellar coat to the timber deck, then unbolted the sea-chest and opened it. It was big, and empty, so Varg quickly stored his kit inside, shutting and bolting it when it was done.
“Your shield here,” Svik said, shrugging his from his back and slotting it into a rack nailed and pegged along the rim of the top-rail. Varg took his shield and pushed it in tight.
“Swap your spear for an oar,” Svik said, pointing to a rack full of oars.
Varg took an oar, sat on his sea-chest, swivelled the shutter that closed off his oar-hole and threaded the oar through.
“Now, get comfortable. Your arse and that chest are about to become the best of friends.” Svik smiled over the lid of his own chest, immediately in front of Varg. He frowned. “You do know how to row?”
“Yes,” Varg grunted. He had rowed small fisher boats on the lake that bordered Kolskegg’s farm, and hauled goods on the river. But never at sea.
Many of the Bloodsworn were sitting with oars ready. Glornir walked to the prow with Vol at his side, Skalk and Helka’s two warriors behind them. Glornir stood in the prow and turned to face them all.
“Bloodsworn, we have work to do. Queen Helka has a problem in the north of her realm. A problem that is eating her people. We are going to find whatever it is, and kill it.”
There were cheers from warriors. Varg felt a trickle of ice in his veins, and excitement.
Glornir looked at Skalk and the two warriors.
“Find an oar. You will work if you are going to add your weight to my ship.” Then he turned and ushered Vol into the bow. She stepped into Glornir’s place and rested a hand against the prow as Glornir vacated it, striding back down the deck to the steering oar at the stern.
Ropes were untied from mooring posts, looped and stored, Einar and a few others using oars to push away from the pier. The current of the fjord tugged them gently into open water.
“OARS!” Einar bellowed, and sixty oars hovered over the fjord’s ice-black water.
“PULL!” Einar yelled, and Varg dipped his oar into the water with hardly a splash and pulled, watching Svik in front of him for his rhythm.
Lean and pull, lean and pull, and the drakkar moved away from the pier and Liga’s harbour, sluggishly at first, but gaining speed.
Pine-cloaked peaks reared about them, distant waterfalls slicing through them like flowing tears as the Sea-Wolf cut through the fjord, Glornir steering them south and west, a white-foamed wake rippling from the prow, and someone began to sing. A steady, lilting kenning about the gods-fall, and Varg found himself joining in.
I cannot believe I am here, on a drakkar, one of the Bloodsworn, and sailing towards adventure and battle-fame.
The familiar seed of guilt bloomed inside him, but it could not overcome the flutter of excitement in his belly. A smile split his face as he rowed.