FIRST INTERLUDE

 

The relentless sun beat upon Bjólf's back, making his tunic sticky with sweat. It was low in the evening sky now, but still ferocious. In the three weeks that had passed since embarking on their southward journey the heat had been steadily increasing, and the past few days had been the hottest he had ever known in his short life. Like standing over a forge night and day, his uncle Olaf said. Bjarki, Olaf's trusted skipari, claimed that further south the sun was fiercer still. He had seen lands where everywhere the soil had turned to dust, where there was no rain and not a single leaf of green. How people lived in such conditions, Bjólf could not imagine.

The voyage had been hard. By the end of the previous week the sun had burned Bjólf's skin raw, and the wind had rubbed the salt spray into the worst afflicted parts of his face, leaving his lips cracked and blistered. He was healing now - his skin unevenly brown and peeling - but for a while had been delirious with it, feeling as if his skin were on fire. One night, just as Bjólf's fever was hitting its peak, they had put ashore at a small, dusty port where the houses appeared to have grown out of the dry earth like anthills and the bustling throngs of merchants seemed to be perpetually shouting; words that were harsh and alien to his ears. He remembered the sights, sounds and smells like disconnected images from a dream: dark faces lit by the flicker of firelight; cries in a dozen unknown tongues; the smell of hot coals, raw fish, stale sweat, fresh garlic, spices and vinegar; drums and wailing pipes and voices raised in song. He remembered strange loping creatures that snorted and stamped and dropped their dung, or capered and flapped at the end of a chain: a dwarf-like creature covered in hair with arms and hands and a face like a shrivelled man; a squawking bird that spoke whole words, all colours of the rainbow; a black bat hanging from a perch, as big as a seagull. His uncle bought him wine, some skewered, charcoal-grilled meat, and black berries that looked to Bjólf like the small plums his mother used to gather, but which were hard and oily and bitter-tasting. The wine - his first taste of this great, southern luxury - was good, and he wolfed the food down, ravenously hungry, but nonetheless also strangely disconnected, and no longer entirely able to tell what was real, and what the creation of his fevered imagination. He had lain awake all night, sweating and shivering and drifting in and out of maddening, repetitive dreams, desperate for the clear, cool air of the open sea.

Now that the fever was past, the burning flesh calmed, he stood at the prow of the ship under full sail, feeling the cooling air and the fine salt spray on his skin, able at last to appreciate the beauty of this ocean that held such a fascination for his otherwise unsentimental uncle. In these waters, it seemed, one barely had to lower a net into the waves for it to be blessed with creatures that made good eating, and never had the sea and sky seemed so blue, nor the shore glowed with such colours as they did in these long, late evenings. At moments like this, even the crushing heat did not seem so bad.

But there was another, deeper kind of contentment. Although his frame had yet to fill out with muscle, Bjólf was tall and broad for his thirteen winters, at least on a par with the shorter members of the Hrafn's seasoned crew - none of that stopped jibes about his size, of course. But, as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Svein, on watch at the bow, he felt that he had grown in other, more important ways upon this journey. Ways that could not be mapped or measured.

Yet, despite everything that had happened to him, there was one more experience, one more milestone that this trip had to offer. It was something that he had long known would come, but he anticipated it with increasing dread.

"Sail!" called Svein, snapping Bjólf out of his reverie. Olaf stepped up to the prow and curled a hand around his right eye.

Bjólf looked. At first, he could not be sure what he was looking at - just a flash of brilliant white in the far distance off the port bow - but as his eyes found their range, the dark smudge beneath resolved into a distinct shape. As they cut through the waves in their steady advance he could make out a vessel; compact, with one - no, two - square, white sails. It bobbed in the water, apparently without direction, both sails flying in the wind.

He saw his uncle's face crease into a frown as he squinted at the horizon.

"What're they playing at?" muttered Bjarki behind his shoulder.

Even with his limited experience, Bjólf could tell something was wrong. He could see now that one of the sails was only partially secured, flapping limply at one of its corners in the steady breeze; the other had seemingly come completely adrift of its sheets and billowed uselessly from the yard, occasionally catching the sun as it did so.

"Who are they?" asked Bjólf.

"Arab traders," said Bjarki. "From the East." He nodded directly ahead.

Bjólf could now just make out figures on the deck - dark-skinned faces and arms, heads and bodies garbed in white - waving in their direction.

"Arab traders in trouble," snorted Svein, dismissively. "Either their fathers never taught them how to sail, or they have worse problems on board."

Distant raised voices now carried across the water as the westerly wind ebbed. Although Bjólf could make out none of the words, there was no doubting the tone. They were cries for help.

"What do you think?" said Svein.

"Attacked, maybe," ventured Bjarki.

Olaf narrowed his eyes, rubbed his thick beard and gave a grunt. "That's what they want us to believe."

Bjólf frowned at his uncle. Olaf seemed to sense his question without once taking his eyes off the horizon.

"They're no merchants," he muttered.

"Who then?"

"Pirates."

Svein nodded. "A trap." Without a word, he reached down beside his sea-chest and began to strap on his sword. Olaf gave a curt nod to Bjarki, who turned and gave a shrill whistle towards the helm. The tanned and weather-beaten faces of the crew looked up to see him make a concise gesture - a single slap of his clenched fist against a flattened palm. It was a signal Bjólf had seen only twice before, when arming for a raid. There was a creak deep in the timbers of the ship as it changed course directly for the Arab vessel. Olaf made a sudden turn and headed back along the length of the ship.

"But, how can you be sure?" said Bjólf, hurrying after.

"If they'd been attacked, they'd be dead. But since they have a good many able-bodied men on board, alive and well, one has to ask how they got this far if they can't even secure a line."

Bjólf, alarmed, gawped at his uncle and then towards the nearing vessel. "They intend to trap... us?"

Olaf gave a deep, rumbling laugh. "No! They don't intend that." He stopped and stared back at the other ship for a moment. "They don't yet realise what we are."

His uncle gave another hoarse grunt, then resumed his purposeful march.

"The sun is behind us," he continued, stopping at the place where his sea-chest stood. "They see only a silhouette of a square sail. They assume we are a trading ship returning to the East - exactly what they are pretending to be." He hauled out his coat of mail "Fully laden. Easy prey, especially when coming to the aid of another we believe to be in distress."

"So, what do we do?"

Olaf shrugged matter-of-factly. "We go to their aid." He flipped the mail coat over his head, shook it down over his huge body and began strapping his wide belt around it. "No reason to disappoint them." In a few swift moves he had slung his sword over his shoulder and tucked his axe into his belt. All around, without a word, men were doing the same, checking blades, passing out shields and tightening helmet straps. "Better arm yourself, little man," said Olaf. And with that, he took up his battered helm and headed back towards the prow.

Bjólf hastily grabbed his weapons and scurried after, struggling with belts and straps as he went. He recalled the words of his uncle a few days before, when they had first entered these calm, blue waters: "Take care," he had said. "Our people inflicted great damage upon these regions in past years, and some hereabouts have long memories."

"But... What happens when they realise who we are?" Bjólf called nervously. Olaf stopped next to Svein at the prow.

"They just have..." said Svein.

Bjólf looked again towards the Arab ship. The urgent babble of voices was clear now, but the pattern of movement on board had entirely changed. Instead of waving in distress, their attention had now turned inward. One of the sails had already been secured, and the rest dashed about in a bustle of frantic activity, some shouting impatiently at each other. Just one man - their lookout - was completely motionless; a strange, still point amidst the mayhem, staring silently back at them. Bjólf could just begin to make out his features. It seemed to him the man wore an expression of barely concealed horror.

"Hoy!" called Olaf, standing high on the prow. Despite the Arabs' haste in securing the other sail, it was clear the longship would be upon them before they could get underway. Some turned and began more wild gesticulations. Voices called out urgently. Olaf's booming voice answered in what, to Bjólf, seemed disconcertingly friendly tones.

"What's going on?" he asked. He thought he had caught odd words - it was not the Latin his uncle was teaching him, but the Byzantine Greek that was spoken so widely in this region.

"They are saying there is plague of some sort on board, that we should stay away," said Svein.

"Then, should we not just go around?" said Bjólf. Svein said nothing.

There was barely any distance between the two vessels now. Olaf called out again, even more cheerily this time. Svein chuckled at his words. "Now he's saying we have many healers on board, who can release a man from his sickness."

"Do we?" said Bjólf, bemused.

"Oh, yes," said Svein. "Though it may not be quite the release they are after."

Bjólf frowned. But before he had a chance to even ask the inevitable question, Svein had drawn his sword.

"Better get ready," he said, bracing himself against the gunwale.

With that, the helmsman leaned hard on the rudder, bringing her right alongside the Arab ship. The crewmen on the halyards dropped the yard, several more on the deck reefed the sail in one rapid, fluid motion, and the hull of the dragon ship butted violently against the Arab's bow. As it did so, to Bjólf's utter amazement, Olaf launched himself from the gunwale and landed heavily with both feet upon the enemy deck. A space instantly cleared around him, like a stone dropped among swarming ants. For a moment the man stood, regarding them in silence on the swaying deck, towering over all around by at least a forearm's length. Bjólf could make out their faces now - gnarled and seasoned, much like Olaf's crew, but with skin of every hue from the palest brown to the darkest black - what some of the older Norse crewmen referred to as 'blue men.' Among them were expressions ranging from nervous dread to simmering defiance. One stepped forward, speaking rapidly, and, Bjólf thought, with barely contained agitation, despite a fixed smile, gesturing repeatedly at something on deck, something Bjólf could not see.

"They are telling him to return to his ship, that it is too late for healing," said Svein. Then, craning his neck, added: "It appears the Nubian fellow at their feet is already dead."

Bjólf raised himself as far as he dared, high enough to glimpse a long body in robes of white and tan, stretched out and motionless on the Arab's deck, the dark skin of his face tinged with a deathly, ashen pallor. But already hooks had been thrown over the side of the Arab ship, pulling it tight alongside, and other members of Olaf's crew were now clambering over, while Olaf himself continued to smile at the increasingly nervous Arab sailors.

"Stay close, young cub," said Svein. "I promised your uncle I would keep you alive." And with that, he too slipped over the side. Bjólf followed, his hand on the old sword his uncle had given him and which, as yet, had not shed blood, his eyes nervously scanning the rows of faces that greeted them. Their fingers twitched towards weapons, their tense bodies edging back and forth, keeping their distance from the silently invading Northmen.

Bjólf felt his knees shake. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his sides. Now, with his ship behind him and his feet on this unknown vessel, he had never felt so exposed. He wished to turn - to check his ship was still there, at least - but did not dare.

Looking around slowly, still smiling, Olaf picked up a pail from the deck, and took two steps toward the dead Nubian, ignoring the shouts of the Arabs' leader. Others inched away at his approach. Then, as he looked back at the dead man, Bjólf happened to notice that the deathly pallor of his face was entirely absent from his hands. Finally, he understood, and knew for certain what was to come.

"Time for the cure," muttered Svein. Olaf hurled the contents of the bucket over the Nubian's face. The man roared and leapt to his feet in a fury, easily matching Olaf for height, shaking his head violently, white powder running off his face, his gold-ringed hand grasping a huge curved sword that had been concealed beneath his body. Eyes blazing, he lunged forward, and as one the Arab crew flew at the invaders.

Several fell in that first moment. Less armoured than their Norse opponents, with no helms upon their heads, a few among the Arab pirates succumbed immediately to well-aimed blows. A single strike of a sword or axe to the head was usually enough to settle the matter, but many of the viking's body blows were turned by concealed armour. The fighting that followed was intense and bitter. For Bjólf, it lived as a confused memory, the details of which were fractured and blurred. He remembered men wrestling for their lives all around him, falling in spilt blood, the white robes stained red. He saw Olaf dispatch one with a swing of his axe, catching the small wiry man with the flat of the blade against the side of his head with a sickening crunch and propelling him clean overboard. Near Olaf's feet was the big Nubian, motionless, blood on his head. Then Bjólf was buffeted by something - other men, struggling in each other's grips - throwing him off his feet and knocking the wind out of him. Someone stepped on his left hand with all his weight. He felt a bone crack. Through the pain, he recovered his senses and looked up to see the Nubian, somehow up again and almost upon him, staggering, his blade raised. As it swung wildly at him, Bjólf scrabbled desperately backwards. Something caught his forehead a glancing blow. He crumpled, his head swimming. Afterwards, he remembered being suddenly on his feet again - how, he had no idea. There was a ringing in his head, and he was blinded in his left eye, but he was up, alive and alert, his sword still in his hand. The chaos continued all around, and the Nubian swung at him again. Having no shield, Bjólf parried with his sword. The two blades met with a jarring crash, sending both singing out of the their owners' hands to clatter on the wooden deck. Bjólf staggered back as the Nubian went at him again, hands reaching out towards him, grabbing his throat. He could smell the man's sweat. To his left, he was dimly aware of Svein, sword drawn, trying to fight his way towards them, but suddenly blocked by a small man with a halberd, screaming at the top of his lungs. No help was coming. Without thinking, Bjólf unsheathed his knife and lashed out blindly. The Nubian's eyes suddenly widened, his grip on the boy's windpipe loosened, and with a horrible, rattling groan he slid to the floor, taking Bjólf's knife with him, stuck fast between his ribs. Bjólf stared into the man's face as he gasped his last breath, the life leaving his eyes.

In minutes it was over. Every Arab pirate was dead. The deck swam with blood. In a daze, Bjólf watched it wash back and forth with the roll of the ship. He felt the gash on his left brow from the tip of the Nubian's sword, realising now that it was only the blood in his eye blinding him. A lucky escape. Olaf's men relieved the hold of its plunder, which was considerable. His own crew had got away with only minor injuries. Tonight, they would celebrate. Bjólf would be singled out for special treatment; he had made his first kill. And he was alive. They would drink mead, and sing songs, and make oaths. Olaf would honour him with a new sword - the sword once meant for the son he never had.

The memory faded, but some things remained. Through the middle of Bjólf's left brow there would now always be an angled scar where no hair grew. His right hand would ache in cold weather. And for years he would dream of the face of that Nubian, rising from the dead to kill him.