CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

WAR TOKENS AND WOLF'S FOOD

 

"A fair few rivets rattled loose along the steer-board side," said Úlf, half hidden below the planking. "Caulking's gone in places. We'll need to get some tar on that."

Crouched at the edge of the raised planking, Bjólf looked on anxiously as the big, heavily muscled man - the ship's filungar, learned in the ways of ship-building - continued his examination of the hull, ankle-deep in water. Behind him, Grimm the Stout, who fully lived up to his name, and Áki Crow-Foot, a lanky Dane from south of Ribe, bailed water steadily, while all around a three-quarter crew kept up a brisk pace at the rowing benches. Having no replacements for the two lost oars had meant moving one from port to starboard. They would be fine rowing that way for the time being, fifteen oars a side, although Bjólf knew there was not a man aboard who was not praying for a breath of wind.

"The timbers?" he enquired.

Úlf frowned and ran a huge hand along the point of impact. "Ribs and thwarts are sound..." He grunted and nodded to himself. "Top two strakes are cracked, but they will hold."

Bjólf sighed with relief. He was still master of his own vessel, they were not sinking, and compared to the terrible damage inflicted upon their impetuous attackers, their casualties had been light. Bjólf had often had occasion to curse his acute sense of caution - a trait reflected in his crew. But not today.

Úlf stood and slapped the gunwale where Grimmsson's ship had struck. "We picked up a souvenir, though..." Above the water line, projecting through one of the oak strakes and held so tightly by the wood it had completely plugged the hole it made, was the sharp tip of a rough iron spike, snapped off Grimmsson's prow. "He bit off more than he could chew this time!" chuckled Úlf.

"Well, I hope the raven left a bitter taste in his ugly mouth," quipped Grimm, and patted the deck affectionately.

"Was it his intention to ram us, do you suppose?" said Gunnar from the helm.

Bjólf straightened and shook his head, moving to join him. He stared back out into the fog. "If it had been, we would not have got off so lightly. I think they were as lost as we were." He shrugged. "Pure chance."

"Some chance!" scoffed Gunnar. "I don't believe in chances. Not like that, anyway. Across that expanse of ocean, in all that fog..."

"Please, Gunnar," Bjólf raised a hand in protest, "don't give me the 'destiny' speech."

Gunnar merely shrugged and raised his palms and gave a familiar smirk that said: As if I would...

Magnus approached then, his face strained and tired. He spoke in low tones.

"Mostly small wounds. Gashes and broken ribs. Two were struck by arrows, but the damage was small. And Kjötvi lost a finger in the fight." Bjólf and Gunnar exchanged looks of disbelief at the man's singular misfortune. "He is well - he rallies," said Magnus. "But three others will not see home..."

Kylfing had taken a club full in the face, and though he had at first had fought back despite his entire visage having swollen up like an inflated pig's bladder, he soon after became suddenly dizzy and slurred of speech, and fell into a sleep from which he would not awaken. Then there was Oddvarr, who had taken the spear, and his fellow Swede, the big Gøtar, who had been crushed behind one of the oars as the other ship struck. For one, the fight was already over. The other's breathing was laboured, and periodically he coughed up blood - each bout worse than the one before, and causing such pain that the colour drained from his hands and face when the fit was upon him. A broken rib had pierced his lung. Magnus hung his head as he described what each sensed was inevitable.

"There is no remedy within man's power," he said. "But, I can give dwaleberry to ease his passing."

Bjólf nodded. There was nothing to be said.

Magnus shrugged. "They are beyond my help now." Then he nodded in the direction of the mast. "It's him I'm worried about..."

Bjólf followed his gesture and saw young Atli: pale, trembling, his white knuckles still gripping the shaft of his axe, his other arm still clamped around the mast. He gave the briefest of laughs at the sight of it. "We'll sort him out. Just see that Oddvarr, Gøtar and Kylfing have what little comfort we can give."

Magnus nodded and left Bjólf and Gunnar to their thoughts.

"We must do right by them," said Gunnar. "Give them a proper burial."

"And we shall," said Bjólf. "But we must put more distance between us and Grimmsson first. Just to be certain. Although..." He looked back into the fog.

"You're thinking about what happened on that ship after it hit the shore," muttered Gunnar. "Do you think they turned on each other, or...?"

"Or?" Bjólf looked at Gunnar. Gunnar said nothing. But each knew what the other had in mind. "I need to hear from you exactly what you saw in this forest," said Bjólf. "And to talk to the boy, too. Away from other ears - for the moment, at least."

Gunnar nodded in silent acknowledgement.

"First," said Bjólf with a sigh, "let me see if I can prise our young recruit from the mast."