Skar ran two fingers down the left cheek of the Blámaðr. The Blámaðr caught the big man’s hand and pushed it away from his face.
‘No,’ the Blámaðr said. ‘The colour does not rub off. It’s the colour of my skin. If I had a gold piece for every time one of your kind had tried to rub it off, I’d be richer than a king.’
Skar shrugged and sat back on his haunches.
‘Do you have a name?’ he asked.
They were sitting under the awning of Roan’s ship, heading north on the Northern Way whale road. Rain drizzled down from a darkening sky while all around was a rolling grey sea. Roan stood, placid as usual, at the steering oar. The rest, Ulrich, Skar, Bodvar, Sigurd, Atli, Kari, Starkad, Einar, Affreca and the Blámaðr, were huddled under the awning tent strung from the mast for cover from the elements. A fire was lit on the cooking stone and a pot hung over it. The mouth-watering aroma of seething meat filled the air.
Once Einar had freed the Wolf Coats from their bonds on the skerry, escape from Avaldsnes had been simple. With everyone who would have stopped them either dead or already gone, they had grabbed some supplies from the hall and its surrounding buildings. Almost everything had already been stripped and taken, but they were lucky to find some dry travelling clothes. The kitchens of the king had contained too many supplies for those fleeing to take so there was plenty for the taking, and it was food fit for a king. Those of the king’s retinue still there were doing the same as the Wolf Coats – taking things away – so no one questioned them. Best of all, they found several flagons of wine and a barrel of ale. Then they rolled the barrels down to the harbour to where Roan’s ship had been tied up, climbed aboard and set off.
As all the other ships were sailing south, Roan turned north and they sailed up the sound and away from the stragglers of the king’s retinue.
‘My name is Sayf al-Din,’ the Blámaðr said. He spoke the words as if he was even unsure himself.
‘Seifel – what?’ Skar said, his face screwed up as he tried to pronounce the foreign name.
The Blámaðr laughed.
‘It’s so long since anyone used my name,’ he said. ‘That I can barely remember how it is said myself.’
‘Are you a troll?’ Affreca asked.
The Blámaðr smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I am a man. I come from a land far to the south, beyond the great middle sea. Beyond the country you call Serkland.’
‘I was always told there was nothing beyond Serkland,’ Bodvar said. ‘The sun becomes so hot nothing can live there. The ground itself burns like fire.’
‘In some places that is true. I was born south of the vast sand sea,’ the Blámaðr said. ‘Many, many years ago. I was a warrior. A freeborn fighter, not a mamluk. We were enemies of the Fatimids so I travelled in the service of my lord to fight in the armies of the Emir of Córdoba, in al-Andalus.’
Seeing the blank expressions around him, he added ‘It was once a province of the Romans called Hispania before the men of our faith conquered it.’
‘Those Romans got everywhere,’ Einar said. ‘I’m sure they were giants. Or Dwarves.’
‘Your people attacked al-Andalus,’ the Blámaðr said. ‘You did not fare well. We defeated you, burned your ships with Greek Fire. But I was unlucky. In the war against the Fatimids I was captured and sold to berber slavers. I ended up in the slave market of Constantinople, the city you call Miklagard. A Norse merchant bought me there and took me north. He gave me as a gift to King Harald Fairhair. Harald kept me as a ring fighter the way some kings keep fighting dogs.’
He spat onto the hot stone. The others could almost smell the resentment boiling within him.
‘When Harald died, Eirik inherited me and used me the same way,’ he continued. For a moment he stared into the flames of the fire then he looked up at Affreca.
‘A troll is a sort of demon, yes?’ he said. ‘A supernatural creature? Like what we call djinn? An evil-working devil who belongs to the night?’
Affreca nodded.
‘Then perhaps I am one, at least in part,’ he said. ‘When I am fighting, sometimes it’s like a devil takes hold of me and turns me to a raging beast. All I want to do is kill my opponent, even though he has done nothing to me. Is nothing to me.’
‘It sounds like you’ll be in good company here,’ Skar said, looking around at the rest of the Wolf Coat crew.
‘What age are you?’ Atli asked.
‘I have no idea,’ the black-skinned man said. ‘I’m a lot older than all of you. But why ask me these questions now? I’ve seen most of you come and go from the king’s residence over the years. You never spoke to me then.’
‘Folk were only sent to meet you if they displeased King Eirik,’ Skar said. ‘And when they did, they never came back.’
‘Some say that south of Serkland is Muspelheim,’ Ulrich spoke for the first time. He had said little very since the voyage began. ‘It’s the land of fire that on the final day of Doom will spread north and consume the world.’
‘The way to Muspelheim is guarded by Surt,’ Skar said. ‘A giant whose skin has been burned black by the fires of Muspel. I can’t say your real name, my friend. So I think we should call you Surt. What do you think?’
The black man smiled. ‘As long as you keep on sailing me away from this place that has been my prison for so many years you can call me what you want,’ he said.
‘So what now?’ Skar said to Ulrich.
Ulrich sighed and rolled his eyes.
‘A short time ago we had a warship. We had the most expensive swords in the world. We had helmets and mail. We were special warriors of the king. Now we have this merchant tub. We still have not enough men to make a company of twelve. We have no mail, no armour. Our weapon hoard amounts to a couple of swords and a broken spear. We have no king, no lord. Worse, we’re the enemies of at least three kings. We’re landless, homeless. We’re wanderers on the whale roads.’
‘We really are Vikings now,’ Skar said with a smirk.
‘Perhaps,’ Ulrich said. ‘But without a king to fight for, what’s it all for?’
‘We should go to King Eirik,’ Atli said. ‘We should beg his forgiveness. Perhaps he will take us back into his service?’
For a long moment no one spoke. Instead everyone just looked at Atli. Finally, Ulrich stood up.
‘Fuck that,’ he said. ‘Fuck him.’
There were general nods and grunts of agreement from the rest.
‘Has anyone got a better idea?’ Atli said, jutting out his lower lip.
Einar stood up. He looked haggard, his skin was pale and there were dark rings beneath his eyes. He looked around at the others, meeting each of their eyes with an unflinching glare.
‘What do you think, Einar?’ Ulrich said.
‘Half of Norway is rising against Eirik,’ Einar said. ‘We should join the rebels.’
‘And what will we gain from that?’ said Atli.
‘Revenge,’ Einar said.