Brandewyne, Rebecca (37 page)

"Nay,
if the storm comes, we will ride it out here. Nay, do not try to dissuade me,
Flóki. My mind is made up— and truth to tell, you've naught but yourself to
blame for it," Wulfgar reminded him, not wanting to quarrel,
"although I do not hold it against you. In your place, I should have done
the same, such is my deep love for my lady. Now, do you get some rest. 'Tis
going to be a long day and an even longer night, I am thinking;
for I do not
believe that the storm will overtake us before dusk, if it catches us at all.
If the gods be willing, we can outrun it, mayhap. At least, 'twill hit Ragnar's
longship first." Wulfgar gazed at the western horizon, where the crimson
sail that was their nemesis was barely visible. "Unless he chooses now to
turn back, to give up the chase, and to put in to a harbor on the coast."

"He
will not." Flóki laughed shortly, harshly. "Like the gods, he is
against us!"

It
was soon seen that this was the case. Ragnar's longship pressed on, the rising
force of the storm wind in the distance such that he began actually to gain
upon the
Siren's
Song,
which
was far enough ahead for the moment to catch only the dying gusts, not powerful
enough to propel the vessel as quickly as Ragnar's own was being driven
forward. As the day wore on, the sky growing steadily darker and Ragnar's
longship steadily gaining, Wulfgar knew to his despair that Flóki had spoken
truly, that the gods were against them, that they were not going to be able to
outrun the storm, as he had hoped. Along toward dusk, he gave orders for the
hide coverings that protected the vessel when it was moored to a wharf to be
brought forth and stretched across the bow and the stern, to provide a modicum
of shelter, and for
everything that could be, save for the men's sea chests, to be crammed into the
shallow cargo space beneath the deck, in preparation for what he feared was
about to descend upon the
Siren's Song.

The
temperature had fallen drastically in the last several minutes; and now the
mist, which had never dissipated, wafted up from the sea, in ever-thickening
sheets that twined like a shroud about the longship, so only the wind's
piercing its veil permitted Wulfgar to see what lay ahead— and behind. Black
thunderheads massed and roiled in the seething sky. Like a portent, the first
hard drops of rain struck the deck, a warning of what was soon to come. He
should strike the sail, Wulfgar knew. Yet his gut instinct told him that
somewhere behind him, Ragnar's own sail was still boldly spread, bearing
swiftly down on him; and so he set his teeth against the order that would have
rendered the
Siren's
Song
virtually
helpless.

"Rhowenna!
Get back beneath the hide!" From fear, Wulfgar spoke more harshly than he
had intended, startled by her suddenly coming to stand behind him, her long
black hair whipped loose from its braid, tangling wildly about her, her face
uplifted to the spurts of rain.

"Nay,
I will not!" Rebelliously, she shook
her head, grasping his arm to hold
herself upright as the deck rolled and pitched ever more fiercely beneath their
feet. "Whatever happens, I want to be here by your side when it
comes!"

"That
is foolish! A storm is about to hit us, and you are in danger of being swept
overboard! By Odinn!" Wulfgar roared when, still, she did not move, her
chin set stubbornly, but her eyes so beseeching that it was all he could do to
stand firm against her. "Do as I say, wench, else I'll tie you up myself
and throw you in the hold! By the gods, I swear it!" He knew from the
sudden tears that started in her eyes how he had hurt her; and grabbing her, he
kissed her hard and savagely before abruptly shoving her down beneath the hide.
"Now, stay there, and do not come out again!" His bronze visage was
such in the sudden flash of lightning that exploded in the heavens that, biting
her lower Up so hard that she drew blood, Rhowenna could only nod her obedience
mutely, not trusting herself to speak, for fear that he would actually strike
her.

Still,
she could not resist peeking out from where she huddled with Morgen and Yelkei
beneath the hide across the stern, cringing at the violent crack of thunder
that followed the lightning and seemed to split the very
firmament
asunder. All at once then, the rain came, so ferociously that it ripped apart
the sheets of mist in moments to reveal, as though by some dreadful witchery,
the black sky, the even blacker sea, and the longship that loomed up suddenly,
it seemed, from nowhere. Not only the storm, but also Ragnar Lodbrók was upon
them. But even more wild and terrifying than this evil sight was the vision of
Wulfgar himself, making Rhowenna's breath catch with fear in her throat. Having
turned the tiller over to Flóki, Wulfgar stood like an avenging god at the
center of the deck, his golden hair streaming from his face in the wind and
rain, his sable cloak flapping like a raven's wings about him. His legs were
spread wide, as were his uplifted arms. In his right hand, he held his
battle-ax, shouting above the roar of the storm, "Hear me! Hear me, O
great Odinn, god of warriors, and give me your blessing! Odinn! Odinn!"
and to her horror, as Rhowenna watched him, another bolt of lightning erupted
in the heavens, seeming to strike his upraised weapon. For an eternity, the
blade glittered silvery in the coruscating light. Then, without warning, it
appeared to explode in a dazzling burst of unholy blue fire that streaked like
a shooting star up the mast, now bare of its sail furled and lowered, causing
all who saw the ball of eerily glowing flame to fall to their knees, petrified
that Wulfgar himself had called down upon them the wrath of the mighty god
Odinn. And in that shocking, horrifying, glorious moment, when it seemed that
perhaps Wulfgar himself had become a god, Ragnar's heavy, sodden crimson sail,
which his men had been desperately attempting to lower, tore violently loose
from its bottom spar, the flapping corner striking him hard in the chest and
knocking him overboard into the turgid, churning sea.

Through
the pelting rain, all could see him bobbing helplessly amid the waves. Yelling
frantically, his
thegns
began
throwing barrels and oars into the water, in the hope that he could remain
afloat long enough to be rescued.

"Row!"
Wulfgar demanded harshly of his own men; and like the primordial thunder of
Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, pounding across the firmament, the drummer's
instrument began to sound a barbarous beat, and massive muscles straining with
effort, the warriors bent their backs to their oars, forcing the
Siren's Song
through the
storm, toward Ragnar's longship. "Row, you bloody bastards! Row as you've
never rowed in your life!"

And
they did, the vessel groaning and
creaking as it struggled to stay
afloat, to press on, tossing and heaving upon the rough swells of the sea, the
waves sluicing across the deck, the rain battering it unmercifully. Wulfgar had
gone mad, utterly mad, Rhowenna thought as she clung to the side of the stern
to keep from being washed away as the water flooded in, only to rush out again
as the long-ship leaped from the sea, then plunged back in again. They were
going to sink, she knew, to drown in those cold, dark, terrible waves that
roiled with a fury to match the storm's and Wulfgar's own as his voice lashed
his
thegns,
a cruel and hideous whip that goaded them on. Like a
wildman, he had flung off his cloak and stripped off his tunic; now, naked to
the waist, he stood, his battle-ax sheathed at his back, his hands on Flóki's
own to hold the tiller as they drove onward through the blinding rain until it
seemed that Wulfgar intended them to collide with Ragnar's vessel, to smash
headlong into it, sending both longships straight to Hel. But then, in an
awesome feat of strength and daring. Wulfgar and Flóki hauled on the tiller,
and the
Siren's Song
spun about on her keel to roll and to pitch
alongside Ragnar's vessel.

Now,
as were several of the other men, Wulfgar was running, staggering across the
deck to snatch up a heavy coil of the walrus
hide usually used for rigging; but
these ropes had, attached to their ends, grappling hooks designed to haul in
kills from sea hunts and to secure enemy vessels for boarding. These hooks,
Wulfgar and the warriors were now flinging violently into the sea, where Ragnar
rose and plummeted on the waves, clinging for life to a plank ripped up from
the deck of his longship and tossed into the sea in an effort to save him.

"Hook
him!" Wulfgar shouted fiercely, as though the men fought to capture a
whale and not a king of the Northland. "By the gods, a casket of
hacksilver for those who hook that son of a whore! Hook him! Odinn!
Odinn!"

Ragnar
and his own men went crazy then, seeing what Wulfgar intended; and Rhowenna,
her eyes riveted to the vicious, fantastic scene, knew then that this could not
be happening, that this could not be real, but must be a dream, a horrible
nightmare from which she could not seem to awaken. Again and again, as great
tridents of lightning stabbed the sky black with the evil night that had
fallen, so the sharp hooks gleamed viciously with each cast as they flew
through the wind and rain into the swollen, frenzied sea. The thunder bellowed
and boomed, as though the gods themselves warred in the
heavens, as
though the Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, were at hand. The longships
surged and fell, timbers straining and moaning so fiercely that it seemed as
though the vessels would break apart in the storm. The wind howled like Garm,
the hound of Hel; the rain shattered down, a hail of stinging barbs. Wulfgar
and his fiendish warriors had metamorphosed somehow into the gruesome monsters
of the Shore of Corpses, Rhowenna thought dully, shocked, stricken as,
incredibly, a hook struck its mark, and then another, so deep that Ragnar could
not stifle the long, hoarse cry of agony that was torn from his throat and lost
in the wind. Still a third hook drove like a blade into his flesh; and then, as
though Ragnar were indeed a whale or a walrus, Wulfgar and the rest pulled his
bleeding body onto the deck of the
Siren's Song
just as the two
longships at last, and perhaps inevitably, collided with a deafening crash that
jarred Rhowenna to the very bone. Timber shrieked, scraping, splintering until
one proud dragon could fight no more and sank swiftly into the gaping maw of
the dark and perilous sea, a rich bounty to be claimed by Ran.

Aella's Snake
Pit

Although
not mortally, the
Siren's
Song
was
indeed badly wounded, Wulfgar saw by the dawn that broke, bleak but at least
clear, upon the horizon after the long, terrible night. They had ridden out the
storm beneath the hides stretched across the longship, rudder and oars drawn in
finally, leaving the vessel to the mercy of the wind and sea. In his hope to
outrun the storm, Wulfgar had waited too long to order the sail furled and
lowered, so there had been no time to take down the mast and to stow it upon
the trestles that rose from the deck. During the storm, it had been struck by
lightning, the top third charred and, breaking away, sent hurling into the sea,
crippling the longship. The strakes on the side that had struck Ragnar's own
mighty vessel were deeply gouged, although the rivets had somehow held fast.
Those
on Ragnar's longship had not, loosening from the repeated blows against the
Siren's
Song;
the strakes had buckled and given way, and the vessel had sunk.
Wulfgar could, however, no longer be certain the caulking of tarred animal hide
between the strakes of the
Siren's Song
would hold. He needed to put in
to port somewhere to effect repairs; and he thought how ironic it was that the
nearest harbor should be the mouth of the river Humber, in that kingdom of
Britain, Northumbria, ruled by Aella, who had put a rich price on the head of
Ragnar Lodbrók.

Yet
as Wulfgar gazed at his father lying trussed hand and foot upon the deck, he
found to his deep anger and frustration that despite himself, regret stirred in
his soul for this man who had given him life, and that there was pity in his
heart for this great king of the Northland, this worthy foe, once so high, who
had been brought so low. Gladly in his fear and rage of last night in the
storm, Wulfgar would have sunk his grappling hook into Ragnar's head or heart,
slaying him. But this morning, with those turbulent emotions drained from him,
with Rhowenna lying safe beside him, Wulfgar somehow could no longer summon his
hate; and he thought that, after all, he did not care to have upon his
conscience his own father's death.

His
face impassive, he rose to move toward Ragnar's prone figure, hunkering down
beside him and staring at him silently. Sensing Wulfgar's eyes on him, Ragnar
blearily opened his own. Last night, he had thought to drown in the treacherous
sea into which his own sail had knocked him. Then, when he had felt the savage
hooks pierce his body, tearing his flesh, he had been certain at least one had
stabbed some vital organ and that he would die. When he had been roughly hauled
onto the deck of the
Siren's
Song
and
bound hand and foot, he had believed he would surely bleed to death. But he was
an incredibly strong giant of a man; and now that none of these things had come
to pass and he was still alive, he knew that the gods had in mind some other
fate for him, and he chafed against what he feared would be the ignominy of it.
He wished violently that he had not retched up the foul seawater he had
swallowed, that it had poisoned him or swallowed the breath in his lungs, that
the bleeding of his wounds had not been staunched as well as possible under the
circumstances by Wulfgar's woman. Had he proved able to free himself from his
restraints, Ragnar would have thrown himself overboard or cut his own throat.