CHAPTER SIX

 

THE WHALE ROAD

 

Gunnar immediately sensed something was wrong. "You hurt? Apart from your pride, I mean..."

Bjólf, still staring back upriver, ignored his question. "I need you to take the helm."

"Thorvald has it."

"It's going to need more weight behind it..." Gunnar frowned. Bjólf spoke without turning. "They were heading back to their ship. In haste. The north river joins us up ahead - and it flows faster than this one." Without another word, Gunnar turned and hurried towards the stern.

Bjólf climbed high in the prow, arm wrapped around the dragon's neck. "Úlf! Full-stroke on the oars!"

Some of the men - until now laughing and joking with relief, blood still fizzing in their veins - looked at one another in concern. A silence fell.

"We're not out of this yet," added Bjólf, a sense of foreboding in his voice.

With a terse nod, Úlf changed to a new chant - a song, this time, slow to begin, but gradually picking up the pace, from short-stroke, through steady-stroke, until the men were rowing at the limit of their abilities. The ship creaked and cracked, lurching forward as each pull on the oars ploughed its timbers on through the water. The song told of sailing north to Tronhjem - a cheerful song of homecoming. It was the one Úlf always used when speed was required. They needed a cheerful song then; rowing at full-stroke meant they were rowing for their lives. At other times, when the rowing was more leisurely, the men would often raise their voices together, but this song was always sung alone.

Leaning hard into the steer-board, praying to Thor that the old leather of the rudder-band would take the exertion, Gunnar steered the straightest possible course through the bends of the river, taking the ship as close to the banks as he dared. Magnus and Godwin, not needed at the oars, positioned themselves amidships to port and starboard, signalling to Gunnar at any sign of rocks or sandbanks, while Thorvald, relieved from his position at the helm, had taken up a section of planking just behind the mast-fish - the huge block of oak that held the mast - and stood waist-deep below the deck, wooden scoop in hand, ready to bail when they hit wilder waters.

None spoke. Only Úlf's voice rang out, strangely muffled by the fog, its beats matched by each dip of the oars.

His eyes straining as they struggled to penetrate the fog, Bjólf could finally make out the swirling waters where the north river joined immediately ahead. They would pick up some speed here, but would also find out if they had escaped the wrath of their pursuers. If they could not see each other in the mist, Bjólf knew they were safe.

As the ship pulled past the dwindling promontory of land separating the two rivers, the current caught the ship and turned its bows away from the mouth of the north river. Looking upstream, struggling to see past the mast and stowed yard and sail, Bjólf could see nothing in the grey gloom. He breathed a sigh of relief. But as Gunnar pulled against the steer-board, straightening the line of the ship, he heard a faint cry in the distance, and - as if from nowhere - the gaunt shadow of Grimmsson's ship hove into view. Up by the stark dragon's head, holding aloft a burning torch, the unmistakeable figure of Grimmsson himself. Before him, just visible on the front edge of the prow, thick iron spikes projected forward like great thorns, a gesture of contempt - and a hint of what was to come - for any vessel that got in their way. Another of Grimmsson's affectations. Another reason to detest the man. Yet Bjólf could not deny the tenacity of his crew. How they had made up the distance so fast, he could not imagine. But there was no time to think about it.

"Row! Everything you've got!" he roared. Similar cries went up from Grimmsson's ship. It would be a race all the way to the estuary and the open sea.

A pair of arrows, their tips aflame and sticky with pitch, flew towards them, falling short and hissing in the water near the rudder. "They mean to make a fire-ship of us." bellowed Gunnar. "We need to stay out of range!"

"I'm not ready for a funeral just yet," roared Bjólf, and leapt down from his position on the prow. He raced the length of the vessel, eyes wide, willing on the straining muscles of his crew as he passed. "Come on!" he cried. "Leave the bastards standing!"

Úlf had abandoned his song and was now shouting the strokes, pushing them faster, faster.

Bjólf stood by Gunnar, looking back from the stern at their dogged pursuers with a deep frown, the defiance from seconds before now turned to consternation. "How did they do that? Fully-laden, with a poor start and a crew that ran over twice the distance, and still they're right on our tail."

"They must really hate us!" cried Gunnar, leaning hard into the rudder.

Bjólf turned an eye to the bronze weather vane on top of the mast. He knew they could easily outrun Grimmsson's ship under sail. But, in such weather, a decent wind was a remote hope. Up above, the bronze vane swung loose, the black ribbons tied to its edge flapping limply.

With thirty-two oars and now only thirty-eight men - including himself - there was no chance of respite for any but a handful of his crew. Each man could normally manage around a thousand strokes before needing rest, but at this pace, their backs would start to break at six hundred. He only hoped it was enough.

As they pulled away from the mouth of the estuary the fog thinned, the jagged coastline curving away into the murk on either side of them. "This is where it begins," said Bjólf, and turned towards the bow again.

"Which way?" called Gunnar.

Bjólf pointed straight ahead. "The open sea." He swung past the mast and headed back to his position at the prow.

Gunnar stared after him in alarm. Ahead, the flat, leaden grey swell of the ocean heaved beneath a shroud of luminous mist.

"In this? It's madness!"

"Let's hope they feel the same," called Bjólf, and gave a disconcertingly wild laugh. Somehow he seemed to thrive in such moments of desperate adversity.

As they left the protection of the estuary, the ship began to rise and fall on the swell, every timber protesting at the conflicting pressures of oar and ocean, salt spray stinging hands and faces. At the crest of the first steep wave, several of the men in the bows failed to connect their oars with the water and missed a stroke, falling into the men behind them. Hastily they regained their positions, slotting back into the rhythm. Bjólf could not hope for a better crew. But it unsettled him to be heading out from shore into such deep, rolling seas - he'd seen a longship break its back on the swell once, out on the merciless waters of the North Sea. Light and flexible as they were - shallow of draught and slim of build - longships were not at their best in the open ocean. He knew that Grimmsson, with his larger ship and heavier cargo, was at far greater risk. Yet Grimmsson also had more fresh men to relieve his rowers. It would be a battle of wills now. A game of bluff. Bjólf had only one chance, but it meant gambling everything they had.

As the ship rode up the swell, Bjólf looked down onto the pursuing vessel as if from the side of a great valley. They were riding the seas more heavily than Bjólf and his crew, it seemed. The distance between them was growing. The hull of the ship creaked and gave an agonised groan as it tipped again over the peak of the swell, making Grimmsson's ship disappear completely before rising once more above them. The spray cascaded over the bows; Thorvald bailed ceaselessly, the seawater slopping past his feet, keeping time with the rowers - and, amazingly, given the circumstances, humming Úlf's tune to himself. Bjólf felt the timbers shift and twist against each other once again and gritted his teeth. He knew this ship better than any man alive - it was the vessel left to him at the age of only twenty, given to his uncle Olaf years before in recognition of his services to Haakon the Good of Norway. Bjólf never knew the full story, nor the nature of the services (it was the one thing of which Olaf never spoke); all that was certain was that they had earned Olaf the undying hatred of no less than Eirik Bloodaxe, doomed king of Jorvik.

This, then, was one of the great old ships - but for the mast, and a few repaired strakes on the starboard bow, built entirely of oak, and shapely as a swan. She had journeyed to the kingdom of the Rus in the east, and south as far as the Arab lands. She had sailed into Constantinople, and made landfall in Ireland, Normandy, England, the Orkneys and the kingdom of the Franks. She had proved her worth in battle against men, wind and sea, and been Bjólf's true home for the past ten winters. But even he could not be certain of her limits. He would only know them when she finally tore herself apart. Gazing up pleadingly at the dragon's head, he slapped the thick timber of the prow. "Keep it together, old girl. Just a little longer..."

His crew were close to the limit of their endurance now - arms and backs straining, veins and muscles standing out like whipcords, teeth clenched, breaths coming hard and fast. Most had not had time to remove their armour before the chase. Sweat poured off their brows. But, by some miracle - a miracle of muscle and grim determination - they were continuing to pull ahead.

"We have them!" hollered Bjólf. "A few more strokes, and they're dead in the water." The words seemed to drive his men to even greater exertion, a last burst of defiance. Yet, no sooner had he uttered them than one of the men - fourth rower from the port bow - collapsed.

Kjötvi.

As he fell forward, limp and strangely pale, he hit the man in front, knocking him off his stroke. His own oar flailed uselessly, clashing with the two behind. Other oars down the line clashed and faltered as the rhythm broke on the port side. The ship heaved and rocked alarmingly as the uneven pressure of the oars began to turn her. Gunnar fought with the tiller. If they hit the swell at a bad angle, they were in trouble.

Bjólf leapt forward and, as Magnus hauled Kjötvi clear, took control of the oar. Around his feet, the deck was dark and sticky, the froth from the sea spray stained red. Kjötvi's blood. "Pull!" he cried, as the men fought to re-establish the rhythm. "Pull!"

The ship straightened. Bjólf heaved on the oar until he felt it would crack, driving his men on, spurring them to one last effort. After what seemed a lifetime, the waters broadened and smoothed, and Grimmsson's ship gradually receded into the fog, until, finally, only the distant glimmer of the torch remained as evidence of its existence.

"Rest!" called Bjólf. The men collapsed over their oars, gulping at the air. A few whooped and cheered in triumph. Bjólf hushed them. Moving astern, he squinted at the faint orange glow in the fog. Bjólf spoke to his expectant crew in hushed tones. "Keep it quiet. And nothing over the side - you can bet Týr's right hand they'll be on the lookout for that. If you have to piss, you piss in a pot." There were nods all round. Some were only now able to throw off their armour, groaning at the pain in their exhausted limbs. He broke into a smile, allowing himself to feel a glow of satisfaction for these men who placed such trust in him. "Good job."

With that, he kicked open a long, rather battered sea chest, flipped his own mail shirt over his aching shoulders and bundled it inside. Pulling out a thick blue cape, he fastened it around him with a bronze brooch, and, slamming the chest shut, gazed at the lid for a moment, lost in thought. In the surface of the wood - once the colour of a fresh horse chestnut, now bleached by sun and scoured by salt - were delicate carvings of the hero Sigurd slaying the dragon Fafnir. They were in the old style. The chest had once belonged to his uncle, and - despite his father's efforts to keep his eldest son focused on the farm, and the wayward brother at a safe distance - had always inspired him as a child, whenever his uncle came visiting from his voyages. Bjólf had imagined himself as the dragonslayer, travelling the world and doing great deeds; a proud and noble warrior. While the reality of adult life had proved a little more complicated, there were fleeting moments when that childhood dream seemed once again to flicker into life. Despite the terrible misfortunes of the day, this was one of them.

"Is there a plan?" said Gunnar, breaking the spell.

"We gather our strength. Then we row with a half-crew, taking shifts of five hundred strokes, until we lose that..." He pointed toward the stern, where the flame of Grimmsson's ship was still dimly visible.

"And then?"

Bjólf surveyed the blank, still greyness that surrounded them on every side. "One thing at a time."