Daughter of the Wind (19 page)

The cheese was heavy—it was like carrying an axle attached to a wheel made of food. Cow-Bjorn had sworn it was the last edible cow's cheese in the village, and had wiped a tear at the thought of the children who, he said, would have “wrinkled little bellies because you've taken the only real nourishment.”

He hurried along the path to the beach. The wind-battered shrubs on either side of the path shook and trembled, and more than once Hego paused to listen. He could make out what sounded like muttered curses, and the whisper of a knife withdrawn from a leather scabbard.

Hego hastened forward.

When two men in ragged gray wool leaped into the muddy path, and a pair of arms hugged him from behind, he was not totally unprepared. It was a ploy associated with disreputable villages—sell provisions dear, and then steal them right back again.

The young Spjotman shrugged his shoulders and sent the assailant on his back crashing into a puddle. The two youths in the path ahead crouched, holding their knives the way men in alehouse brawls were known to do—blades loose in their grips, ready to slash.

Hego struck the taller of the two with the heavy cheese, and the youth went down hard. The remaining attacker lunged, and suffered a blow to the temple, followed by another. Hego belabored his attacker with the cheese until the youth sprawled, covering his head and calling out for help.

The remaining youth scampered from his puddle and was running fast toward town.

Gauk hurried from the boat.

“This is a village of rank shorerakers,” said Hego, using the derogatory term for landsmen. “
Cutthroat
is too good a name for this place.”

“You aren't hurt?”

“Thor protected me,” said Hego. “Thor, and his great hammer of cheese.”

Gauk laughed hard at this.

Hego did not know why they didn't take advantage of the ebbing tide at once, row out into the current, and leave this place far behind. But Gauk saw no need for speed. He produced his skinning knife and sawed the cheese's tough rind. Hego urged him to hurry, but his companion was deliberate.

As Gauk worked, several men appeared on the beach from the direction of the village, walking in the stiff-legged, theatrical manner of folk expecting trouble. Gauk handed Hego a wedge of cheese.

One of the band, a broad, hairy man with eyebrows growing together in the middle of his face, trudged down to watch them feast.

It was the finest cheese Hego had ever eaten.

The hairy man was wearing a sword, but as he eyed the two Spjotmen he made no move to draw his weapon. “Cow-Bjorn knows nothing,” said the hairy townsman at last. “That's how he earned his name—for his cow-like stupidity.”

Hego was finished trading words with the people of this place. Gauk spat a bit of rind and shrugged, as if to say:
What message have you come to deliver
?

“My name is Ox-Onund, and I can sell you five more cheeses just like that one,” he said. “But much better.”

“If we wanted more cheese, we'd take it,” said Gauk. “And spare your lives, if we felt so disposed.”

Gauk spoke amiably enough, but he gave just enough emphasis to his words to impress Hego, who began to wonder just how capable in battle his friend might prove to be.

“We'd be grateful if you spared our lives,” said the hairy man, with an unruffled air that belied his words. “Dead men eat very little in the way of cheese.”

This brought a quiet laugh from Gauk. “For a price we will leave your village unpillaged, your women intact, and sail away.”

The group of men had fanned out along the beach, one or two of them collecting stones, a few of them resting their hands on their sword pommels. These were heavyset men, with thick legs and heavily muscled arms, the fathers or older brothers of Hego's assailants. A few carried shields, and several brandished wood-axes.

“Name a price,” said Ox-Onund evenly.

“The sword at your belt,” said Gauk.

Hego knew that some warriors sailed to seaside villages and extorted valuables from the town's elders in exchange for leaving the village unscathed. He had never met an outlaw so reckless, and had never dreamed he would be in a position of sailing with one.

Or pretending to be one himself.

Ox-Onund snorted, thought for a while, and smoothed out a rough place in the sand. “This sword is the product of dwarf craft, found by my grandfather on a glacier.”

Gauk pared another portion of cheese and chewed for a while.

“This pommel is silver, marked all over with magic runes,” said Ox-Onund. “If you plunge this blade into a river, a floating leaf will part around the blade, cut in two—it's that keen.”

Gauk chewed and swallowed.

“So the price you ask,” added Ox-Onund, folding his arms, “is too high.”

“My friend Hego will cut the legs off your neighbors,” said Gauk, “before he roasts the poor folk alive.”

Hego understood now the sport Gauk was playing. A battle boast was an ironic form of courtesy—the more outrageous the threat, the less likely it was to be carried out, and yet the more obviously impressive your opponent was made out to be. After an interlude of swapped boasts, both sides could retire in dignity.

Hego tried to ready a boast of his own. He tried to assume the grim expression he imagined such a boast would require, if he was required to make it, but it was hard to look brutally self-assured while eating cheese.

“I think,” said Ox-Onund, “that my friends and I will teach you a lesson in hospitality.”

Later, Hego would puzzle through what happened next, making sure he kept the order of events clear in his mind.

A breathy whistle cut the sky high above. A thin shadow plummeted from the blue. With a splintering crash a spear quivered in the planks of
Strider
.

When an Odin initiate hurled a spear over the heads of the enemy, it consigned his opponents to death. A townsman Hego had not yet encountered now hulked down the sandy beach. He was, by all appearances, a berserker.

Every trace of false bravado vanished within Hego. This was a big man, taller and beefier than Gauk. His bear pelt was soiled, trailing in tatters past his knees. Two bear paws dangled from his belt, and black claws gleamed on a cord around his neck. His fellow townsmen cheered the berserker's arrival. Others followed, young and old, a small army of spectators.

“Yngvar Vemundsson!” called Ox-Onund theatrically. “Come and help me with our visitors.”

The pelt-clad warrior descended the slope, drawing his sword.

Forty

Gauk was surprised, but not, as yet, very concerned.

He had not expected to confront another Odin initiate, it was true, and he was unprepared for what might follow. But the big man had only two arms and two legs, Gauk reminded himself, and Odin rewarded the cunning.

Hego gave Gauk a worried glance, but the young blade smith was a Spjotman and would not panic. Gauk offered his friend a brief, reassuring smile. Later, when he had time to reflect, Gauk would realize that this was where he made his mistake.

I should have been praying, Gauk would think. Instead, I was putting on a demonstration of unconcern, pretending that I had invented courage. My cockiness offended the gods.

Yngvar parted his lips in what might have been a grin or a grimace. The sound of the big man's laughter reached Gauk's ears—full-chested, boastful laughter—followed by a bear-like roar. The big stranger put on a demonstration of berserker mannerisms, shaking his beard, spit flying. He raised his eyes skyward, invoking the divine.

Hand-to-hand combat had a protocol. A terrified man sang a war song to conquer his fear. Some lyrics mocked the opponent. Others praised the pedigree of the weapon being drawn from its scabbard, usually an heirloom associated with many years of lore. Gauk responded with an attempt at an ursine bellow of his own.

But he forgot to pray. Immediately he was struck by a deep unease. His sound was fake and without power, even to his own ears, a falsetto shriek, lost in the ocean air.

When he tried to roar once again, his voice failing, a sick doubt swept Gauk. He went cold, and his muscles went slack. Too late, he tried to whisper a prayer to the One-Eyed God, but the words would not come.

The fight was already lost.

The armed spectators jeered, observing Gauk's weakening spirit, marking his fading courage. These shoremen had the look of seasoned fighters, scarred and deep-chested. They'd seen many men die bleeding. They pointed at Gauk, and laughed. One man let out a breathy scream in mockery of Gauk's bear yelp.

“Odin be my strength,” the young berserker rasped.

Far, far too late—the god had chosen sides.

Gauk shrank inwardly. Odin did not have to be fair. Capricious, even fickle, he gave—and he took away.

As the bearded berserker closed in on Gauk, the young man did not feel his courage quicken. He felt no electric anticipation as he found the pommel of his sword and drew his weapon. Gauk realized that he had tarried too long on this shore, and misjudged his own strength. Now he was as good as dead.

Snorri would have told him as much. Bad sleep, troubled dreams, and days of sailing had made him weak and worse—he was careless. And soon to be humiliated.

Hego pulled Head-Splitter from his belt, but Gauk put a hand on his companion's arm.

“There's no use both of us dying,” said Gauk. “Get into the boat.”

Tradition and good sense called for a fighting verse. Hego began the first words of such a song, one of Spjothof's favorites, Thor climbing the mountain over Spjothof to seize the handle of his great hammer.

A gull overhead laughed, a long, mocking
ha
! Waves tumbled, weakened by the ebbing tide.

Gauk dies
, whispered the winking foam.

Odin, the All-Seeing, gave power and, when he chose, he took it away again. The god knew much, and a young hunter like Gauk knew nothing. He took a deep breath, and let it go.

So be it
.

Hego's song had a certain power to it, and for the moment it gave Gauk the inner fire he needed. The young berserker had no particular fear for his own life, but he regretted bringing Hego to an early demise on this worthless beach.

The big bear-clad warrior warmed up his sword arm with a few passes in the sunny air. Yngvar's weapon was huge, and decorated with runes. Such magic made a weapon even more deadly.

Gauk positioned his own body between the big berserker and Hego, who continued to sing with increasing vigor. Yngvar had left a set of footprints all the way down from the dry sand to the wet, and now, far from acting out an uncontrollable frenzy, the big man took some time to smooth out the sand. He flicked a piece of driftwood with his boot, clearing a flat fighting space.

Gauk made an effort to portray the same confident, prefight ritual the veteran berserker did, kicking a pebble out of the way, shrugging to loosen his shoulders. The spectators doubled over, laughing.

Yes, thought Gauk, there is much to mock—if only they knew.

Yngvar strode down toward the younger man, showing his many teeth in an ugly smile. The big berserker's first assault was an overhead swing, easy to see coming. Gauk fended it off with the flat of his blade—it was important to keep the edge of his weapon from being hacked ragged by the heavier sword.

Block, parry, feint—Gauk performed well for a few moments.

Yngvar stepped back, repositioned his feet, and cut a wide, sweeping arc, with no apparent attempt to catch Gauk off-guard. Yngvar's blade was surprisingly fast, however. Gauk leaped back to keep the point from slicing his mid-section, and brought his own weapon to the attack, a single, chopping blow with both hands on the sword grip.

The blow missed. Yngvar danced away. He was light-footed for such a big man, his bear trophies swinging from his belt.

Gauk knew better, but could not stop himself. He recognized his own foolhardiness even as he lunged after the seasoned berserker. He knew he should remain on the defensive—inexperienced as he was, he would have better luck parrying and giving ground than mounting an attack. And he should keep eye contact with his opponent, read the bigger man's intentions in his glance.

But he was being drawn into the fight, and sweat stung his eyes. A veteran sword fighter would have stopped, backed up a few steps, and wiped his brow. Gauk's blade flashed through the air, and he realized too late that he was unbalanced. The sword missed by an arm's length and plunged into the wet sand.

But Gauk was fast, too, and he wasted no time in recovering. He tugged his blade from the ground, and then warded off a series of blows, each one fiercer than the preceding, until the young man sprawled, his arms numb with the weight of Yngvar's assault.

The big berserker stepped back to give himself swinging room—a heavy weapon required striking distance. Gauk felt no surge of god-given power as he climbed to his feet, breathing hard. He experienced no transformation from young man to bear-like warrior, as he had in the past, and he no longer expected it. The god had chosen sides in this fight, and Gauk had lost. All that mattered now was preserving Hego's life. The young fighter dropped his weapon. He staggered forward, wrapped his arms around the larger man, and hung on.

Gauk grappled with the big berserker, pinning his sword arm. He struggled to hurl Yngvar to the sand, and nearly succeeded, lifting the heavier man off his feet. The big man grunted in Gauk's embrace, and the young man squeezed harder. Years of rowing and walrus hunting had made Gauk strong. If Odin would not help, then love for Hego and Hallgerd, for the brave village of Spjothof, would give Gauk the necessary heart.

He hugged Yngvar until the breath shuddered out of the berserker's body. He squeezed until Yngvar groaned. Something snapped in the barrel chest of this big man, cartilage or even a rib giving away. The berserker shuddered.

But he punished Gauk with the point of his bearded jaw, roaring, the big man's chin striking Gauk repeatedly until the young man's vision began to blur.
Odin, father of Thor
, prayed Gauk.