THIRTY-ONE

Haralt was baptised at once, in a barrel of heated water. Dressed only in a shift, he stepped in up to his waist, letting Folkmar sprinkle him with droplets, pass his hands about and speak still more Latin. It was not unlike a child’s naming ceremony, something the Danes had all seen many times before, and whilst a few titters arose at the sight of the king being treated like a baby, it was all done with great dignity, and enough about it was familiar to please them.

‘And now that’s done,’ said Haralt, towelling himself dry, ‘I suppose the most important thing is how best to bury the body.’

Leif was an ash tree. He was an ash tree and something was gnawing at his roots. Claws dug and scratched the length of his trunk; hoofs beat hard upon his branches. How long this went on, he had no idea.

The witch-sisters crept slowly down his girth, spiralling the steps of the tree. Two hairy old things with the third dead sister slung between them, swinging by arms and legs, hanging all askew. Two old things creeping in the night, creeping all the way down to Hel. No one else saw them go. And they weren’t coming back.

He liked being a tree, he thought. If only all the things on him would try to hurt him less. All this passed into darkness.

‘There’s really no point in staying, girl,’ Kolga was saying. ‘Come on; let’s get something to eat.’

‘I could sing to him,’ Astrid said. ‘You’ve often sung over wounds to heal them.’

‘That was then,’ said Kolga. ‘Before Folkmar broke the stones. After what we’ve just seen, do you think those old tricks are going to be any good? We’d best trust to Hrafn’s herbs and bandages. Come on.’

‘I’m not leaving him,’ said Astrid. ‘I can’t just leave him.’

The older woman backed away. There was bloody murder in the girl’s eyes.

He was a fox cub, trembling in the earth. Something was pacing above the den, and soil scattered on him. It would spoil his perfect fur.

He curled up tighter, wishing that his mother would come back. But now the something was hopping up and down; the earth was caving in. He mustn’t stay there. He had to come out.

He heard the beat of wings as he approached the surface. He thought the angel had come back, and he turned to flee, back down. But his home was gone. There was only soil.

So he looked up, and a black eye returned the look. Stared right into him, direct and painful as an arrow.

It was a raven.

‘Astrid,’ said Thyre. ‘Astrid, come away.’

She laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder – and snatched it away, aghast at the bloody scratches the girl’s nails had rent.

‘No,’ Astrid said.

And through and through her head, a single thought was hammering. Why hadn’t she followed him? Why hadn’t she been there?

Why hadn’t she done something?

Leif eyed the raven warily. He didn’t like that cruel, curved beak, those heavy talons, and the rising stench of carrion. ‘Am I dead, o drinker of the corpse-sea,’ he said, ‘that you have come to sup upon my flesh?’

The raven opened its beak. ‘Greetings, Leif, son of Ibrahim,’ it croaked. ‘You have been noticed.’

Leif was confused. The Yelling Stones were gone, broken; he had seen them leave. But no: its eye was alive, not stony. And then he realised who must have sent the huge black bird.

‘Greetings to you, and Odin your master.’ If he was dead, his fate was in Odin’s hands. It couldn’t hurt to be polite.

The raven ruffled its dark plumage, hopped closer. It was clearly restless. Maybe it was hungry. ‘You have won the gods’ attention, Half-Dane. Even the High One heard the scream, as it shattered on the angel’s sword. A hard fight lies ahead if the North is to be freed of this outlander’s pestilence. A pity that your liver proved too weak, when the knife was in your hand.’

Leif stared back, defiant. ‘There’s too much blood in this old world of ours.’

‘And more will be shed before this is over.’ The thought seemed to excite the horrid bird, and it jigged about for a moment, snapping its beak.

‘So Folkmar lives? He’s won?’

‘For now. We will be better prepared for the next battle. In time his whale’s carcass, his pig’s eyes, will make me quite a meal!’ And it crowed at the prospect.

Leif suddenly felt very, very tired. ‘Listen, raven, why are we meeting here? Why in this burrow – why am I a fox?’

‘The Yelling Stones sent you visions. They came to pass. This was the vision you sold the Danes. They believed you. So your words created this place. We’re in your head, after all.’

Words, belief, creation … if this was his head, no wonder it hurt so much. What did the raven want with him? Shouldn’t he be in Valhalla by now? Or else, Hel?

And then he understood.

‘I’m not dead, am I?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘And you’re here because … because you need me.’

The raven shuffled, from one foot to the other.

‘All along, this has been about power. The power of the Yelling Stones, they said. But Folkmar never sought to steal that power. He only wanted people to believe – believe in Christ, and not in the old ways. That’s where the power comes from, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps.’ The bird’s gimlet eye was less ferocious now.

Leif was thinking aloud. ‘The power of the stones came –’

‘From the land,’ the raven insisted. ‘They wrought their spell from rock and river, tree and earth. They were of the land; from it they drew their power.’

‘Yes, from the land at first – but then it grew, from centuries of worship and belief. That’s where the power of the gods lies too; it must be, and that’s why you’re running scared!’ Leif recognised the bird’s behaviour now. It wasn’t hungry, or excited. It was scared; helpless and scared.

‘Both gods and stones have grown strong on belief; on sacrifice and praise and poetry. If that dries up because of Folkmar’s words; if all of that belief now goes to Christ …’

‘Then we are finished.’ The raven hung its head.

‘First the stones asked me for my help. Now you,’ he said. ‘Because my words help people to believe.’

‘Yes, yes,’ snapped the raven. ‘You have the power. But will you use it?’

‘I don’t think it’s my fight any longer,’ said Leif. ‘I made my choice when I made her the harp.’

‘And then again, when you let fall the knife. But that does not mean it must be over. There are other, lesser knives. And even priests must sleep. You know what you must do.’

‘It seems to me I may do as I please.’ Leif’s eyes flashed, and his lip curled. ‘Now go, before I turn you to an egg!’

The raven edged away a little. ‘You would never dare anger the High One so!’

‘Be gone, beggar of death,’ Leif began. ‘Back to the unborn shell …’

With an almighty clatter of wings, the raven bolted.

‘Hrafn!’ said Kolga. ‘I think he’s coming round.’

‘What?!’ Astrid sprang to his side.

‘Don’t crowd him, girl, get back. Give him air …’

Leif blinked, moaned, raised his head. His body was one living hurt. Astrid thrust a straw bolster under his head, helping him sit up.

Hrafn was holding a ladle to his lips. ‘Drink this,’ he said.

‘Wassit …?’ muttered Leif.

‘Broth,’ said Hrafn. ‘It’s good for you.’

Leif struggled to swallow a few mouthfuls of the hot stew. It smelt strongly of leeks, and onions, and made his eyes water.

‘Should he really be eating right now?’ Astrid hissed to Kolga.

‘This is for Hrafn’s sake, not his,’ Kolga whispered back. ‘Once the broth’s gone down his body, Hrafn will have a good sniff of his chest. If he can smell the leeks, the burns are deep, and we’ll have little chance of saving him.

‘But,’ she added, forestalling Astrid’s explosion, ‘if he can’t smell anything, then there’s every chance he’ll pull through.’

‘Does it hurt terribly?’ Astrid asked, turning to Leif.

‘Yes, but I’ll cope. What’s happening over there?’

They all turned back to the burial mound. The crowd had formed two lines, jostling for a better view, leaving a clear path to the hall.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Astrid.

Then Haralt emerged, a group of men behind him. They were carrying spades. ‘Dig in from the front, not the top,’ the king was saying. ‘I want him carried out, not hoisted like a sack of meal.’