CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

STEINARRSNAUTR

 

"Little man?"

The words caused Atli to start violently, snapping him back to the present. For some time - he did not know how long - he had been unable to tear his gaze from the places along the gunwale where the battle had raged, marked by the dark stain of blood. Now he stood, hunched, feeling small, and stared at Bjólf, his eyes filled with confusion and fear.

"Are you hurt?" asked Bjólf.

Atli shook his head.

"Do you wish to leave us? You're free to go your own way."

Atli, not needing to look at the uninviting shore to arrive at an answer, shook his head again, though less vigorously this time.

"I have never seen a battle..." he said.

"As you see, it is not all adventure and glory. Not even in victory."

Atli frowned, felt sick. "Is it always... like this?"

"You do what you need to."

An sob suddenly escaped Atli's lips. This was not the life he had imagined. He tried to contain himself, embarrassed before the other men, tightening his grip on the axe in an attempt to stop his hand shaking.

Bjólf nodded. "You think this might have been avoided. The bloodshed..." His voice suddenly changed, becoming stern, charged with the same steely defiance Atli had seen during the fight. "Understand, boy, they meant to kill us, and to take this ship. They had no mercy in mind, and expected none in return." Atli knew he spoke the truth. Yet, as he spoke, each blow of Bjólf's axe blade replayed itself in Atli's mind - a parade of faces at one moment filled with passion and vigour, and the next... His face drained of blood, and for a moment he felt he would vomit.

Bjólf slapped his hand suddenly against the mast, making Atli start once again. "This ugly pile of wood... It is no mere chattel. This ship is my livelihood, my home, my family. And these men are my kin, for I have no other I value as much. I am bound to them, as they are to me. Who threatens them, threatens me. And who does so incurs my wrath."

Atli nodded, saying nothing. Tears stung his eyes; tears of anger, now, at his own feebleness.

Bjólf took a deep breath then, and, leaning in, spoke in softer tones: "You may not believe it, but I know what it is you are feeling. I have felt that fear in my own stomach, and on this very ship. There is no man here who has not, and none will think the less of you for it."

"I will do better. I will learn."

"Yes. You will." Bjólf slapped the boy on the shoulder. "And I have just the thing to help you in your quest." With that he made towards the stern, stopped after a few paces, turned and looked back at Atli. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

Atli slipped his aching arm from around the mast and followed.

At the stern, just below the steering deck where Gunnar still stood at the helm, Bjólf had several long chests, at the centre of which was his own; the fine, carved box adorned with dragons that he had inherited from his uncle. To the left was Steinarr's, from which Atli had already gained much, and to the right another of exceptionally dark wood, polished and left plain, but with ornate, green-tinged bronze hinges. All stood open.

Bjólf reached into the black box. "First," he said, rummaging noisily inside, "something to keep you alive." And as he straightened up, Atli saw his hands were filled with bunched swathes of linked mail. "This was Hallgeirr's. He would not mind me lending it out."

"He never liked that shirt anyway," grunted Gunnar.

Ignoring him, Bjólf held it aloft. "Belt," he said to Atli, nodding in the direction of his waist. Atli took a moment to realise what Bjólf meant. "As soon as you are ready, little man, this stuff is heavy..." Hurriedly, Atli undid the buckle and let it fall to the floor. "Arms," said Bjólf. Atli raised them. Bjólf heaved the mail over the boy's hands and let the gathered folds of linked metal fall down over his body to just above his knees.

Atli felt his legs bow at the weight hanging on his shoulders. He had never imagined a garment could be so heavy. But then, had he never seen mail so close up, let alone dreamt he would one day be wearing it himself. Where he came from, you only had such stuff if you were wealthy, and nobody was.

"It was always short, but Hallgeirr was taller..." Bjólf looked him up and down. "I think we have a fair compromise. Good?"

Atli nodded, and even managed a smile. "Why did Hallgeirr not like it?"

"Cheap stuff," said Gunnar dismissively, his arm wrapped around the tiller. "Always complained the links were too large. Said it was too noisy."

"Noisy?"

"Bad for sneaking up," explained Bjólf.

"But what if I need to sneak up?"

"One step at a time, little man," frowned Bjólf. "A moment ago you had no mail at all. Now you're getting picky."

Gunnar chuckled.

Atli looked thoughtful for a moment. "Does mail make you..." - he struggled to find the word - "invincible?"

Gunnar laughed. "No, nothing can do that. Everybody dies."

"And, in case you didn't know, Gunnar is the man responsible for morale aboard this ship - if you can believe that," sighed Bjólf. "But there is one more thing." He looked down into Steinarr's sea-chest. "The other half of the story. Something to make you a true warrior." From the chest, he lifted a long, fine-hilted seax, sheathed in red-stained leather. Drawing it for Atli to see, he held it across his outstretched palms. It was sharp on one side only, like a knife; a narrow, straight, fullered blade, but thick and strong at the back and angled at the end to a sharp point. The grip was girt with black leather, the bronze hilt plain, the matching pommel lobed in three. Along the blade, before the fuller, a repeating diamond pattern had been etched, and close to the hilt the bright blade was marked with runes. Though the whole thing was barely the length of just the blade of Bjólf's sword, it was a handsome weapon. Atli's eyes glittered at the sight of it, all thought of the bleakness of battle, for the moment, quite gone.

"One does not lend swords," said Bjólf. "One can only give them. I therefore give this sword to you, but in doing so, call upon you to make an oath, if you are ready to do so."

Atli nodded.

"Kneel and place your right hand upon the blade," said Bjólf solemnly. Atli did so. "Do you swear on this blade the unbreakable oath of kinship and loyalty to this ship, its crew and its captain, Bjólf, son of Erling, to use this sword in its service and for its protection, and never to spill the blood of your kin?"

Behind Bjólf, Atli saw Gunnar mouth the words: "'I, Atli, do swear it...'"

"I, Atli..." he began. He hesitated, a dim thought coalescing in his mind. Then he raised his voice again, stronger this time. "I Atli... Son of Ivarr... do swear it..."

Gunnar smiled at the words.

"I call this blade Steinarrsnautr - Steinarr's gift," said Bjólf, passing him the sword. "Remember the name, and never put yourself more than two paces from it."

"Something we could all do to remember," muttered Gunnar, recalling Bjólf's use of Godwin's axe.

"Now," said Bjólf in hushed tones. "We must talk, you and I, about this thing you saw in the water."