He also knew, I learned later, that he would get his share of the spoils, since no one kept anything for himself. In theory. Actually, everyone stole a little: silver dropped down breeks into boot-tops, or stowed in bags under his balls or armpits. Those caught, though, suffered whatever punishment the Oathsworn decided, which certainly started by losing all their booty and almost always included pain along the way.
'We seek what will be easy to find: the Christ temple of St Otmund,' Eionar told us. 'It will be the only substantial stone building for miles, with outbuildings of wood, so look for that. We raid it and get out, fast.
This is a well-defended kingdom and the days of good raiding here are long gone, so take only what you can carry—no slaves, no livestock, nothing heavy.
`The only thing we must get is a . . . a . . . reliquary.' He stumbled over the foreign word, then looked at the puzzled faces. 'It looks like a chest, well made, well carved and decorated. That we must get.'
`What's in it?' asked Ketil Crow lazily.
Einar shrugged. 'Bones, if everything I hear about such items is true.'
`Bones? Whose bones?' asked Illugi Godi curiously.
`St Otmund, almost certainly,' answered Einar. 'That's what these Christ-followers do with saints. Stick their bones in a chest and worship them.'
`Fuck,' offered Valknut disgustedly. 'More spell stuff. What are they cooking up in Birka?' He made a warding sign and just about everyone followed.
`Good question,' growled Skapti. 'What does Birka want with this pile of bones?'
Einar shrugged and looked darkly at them all. 'All you need to know is that they are outfitting us for next year. Every man will get enough for a new set of clothes, top to toe, and the Fjord Elk will be fitted with new gear, too. And we get to keep what we take from raids other than what was asked for.'
Everyone fell silent, nodding at that. Skapti hoomed in his throat and growled, `Just show me where they are, these saints.'
Those who knew better chuckled and Valknut told him: 'Saints are dead followers of Christ. Their chief priests vote the best dead people to be gods in their Valholl.'
`Votes, Sig? Like in a Thing?' scoffed Skapti. 'No fighting for it?'
`They don't believe in fighting,' Valknut said loftily. 'They believe in dying and when they do they are called martyrs. And the ones they think are better martyrs than others become saints.'
People who knew nodded, those who were learning this shook their heads in sceptical disbelief. Skapti hoomed disgust. 'Well, if that's the way of it, then we shall make lots of martyrs tomorrow, with little risk.'
Einar held up one hand, his hair like black water breaking round the stone of his face. `Don't be fooled.
What the Christ-followers say is one thing, yet this kingdom supposedly follows the White Christ and for people who don't believe in fighting, they can make a shieldwall that will turn your bowels to piss if we are unlucky enough to meet one. Move fast, stay quiet and we'll get in and out faster than Pinleg on a woman.'
Laughter and nudgings of Pinleg, who grinned and said, 'I have heard tales of treasure, Einar. Dragon hoards, no less. I would not like to think I am pissing about in the rain chasing some child's firepit story when I could be getting in and out of a woman.'
There was a sudden silence and I wondered why Pinleg had voiced that where others, clearly, had kept their teeth together. Later, of course, I found out why Pinleg could say what he chose.
Einar swept his black eyes over them once more. 'There is such a thing being spoken of . . .' He held up a hand as Pinleg cleared his throat to spit. 'Rest your oar a moment,' he said and Pinleg swallowed. Einar stroked his moustaches, looking round before he spoke.
`This Martin, the monk, is a deep-thinker, who can dive into the world's sea of learning and fish out choice morsels. Lambisson thinks highly of him and keeps him close—and Brondolf is no cash-scatterer, as we know.'
Grim chuckles greeted this and Einar scrubbed his chin. 'I have . . . uncovered some things that make me believe there is more to these Birka matters than is carved on the surface. There's a snake-knot tangle to it, though, so when I know more, you will know more.'
Pinleg grunted and that seemed to be assent. The others milled and muttered to each other.
Einar held up both hands and there was silence. 'Now, we are Oathsworn and have two here—Gunnar Rognaldsson, known as Raudi, and Orm Ruriksson, known as the Bear Killer. You know our oath . . . is there anyone who will stand the challenge?'
Challenge? What challenge? I turned to my father, but he nudged me silent and winked.
Slowly, a man stood, uncomfortably it seemed to me. A second stood with him and my father let out his breath with relief.
Einar nodded at them. `Gauk, I know you have waited for this moment since your foot went bad on you and you lost the toes last year.'
Gauk stepped into the firelight, his face made more gaunt with the shadows playing on it, and nodded.
'Aye. Without those toes, my balance is gone. Sometimes, unless I am careful, I fall over like a child. One day I will do it in a fight.'
Everyone nodded sympathetically. If he stumbled in a shieldwall, everyone was put at risk.
`So you will step aside, with no fight and no shame?' asked Einar.
Ì will,' said Gauk.
'For whom?'
`Gunnar Raudi.'
And that was that. Gauk would be free to leave here the next day with whatever he could carry away and Gunnar Raudi would take his place. My mouth was dry. I realised that the way into a full crew of the Oathsworn was to challenge and kill someone already in it, then take the binding oath. Unless, of course, that someone volunteered to go quietly.
Gauk and Gunnar were already clasping forearms and Gunnar was (as polite custom demanded, I learned) offering to buy what Gauk couldn't carry away on his back. Sweating and chilled, I glanced at the other man as Einar turned to him.
`Thorkel? Are you going with no fight and no shame?'
Ì am, for Orm Ruriksson.'
There was murmuring at that. Thorkel was a seasoned fighter, a good axeman and I was, as Ulf-Agar yelped out, only a stripling.
À stripling who killed a white bear,' my father snarled back at him. 'I don't recall any tales of your doings, Ulf-Agar.'
The little man's dark face went darker still and I knew then what Ulf-Agar's curse was—that of legend.
He wanted one to live after him; he was jealous of those who had what he sought and could not steal.
He was welcome to it, I said to myself, since it was a lie and shame made me hide it from everyone's sight, though it sickened me.
Einar stroked his chin, pondering. 'It's hard to give up a good man for an untried one. That's why we fight. How do we know what we get if we don't see newcomers fight?'
Thorkel shrugged. 'No matter what he is like, he will fight better than me, for I do not want to fight at all.
Not against the Christ-followers, for my woman in Gotland is one and I promised her—swore an Odin-oath—that I would not raid their holy places. So best if I leave, for if that is the way Birka's thoughts are going, I cannot go with them.'
Einar scowled at that. 'You swore an oath to us all, Thorkel. Is that to be overturned by a promise to a woman? Is your oath to us less than that to a woman?'
`You have never met my wife, Einar,' said Pinleg gloomily, his wiry body swathed in a huge cloak.
'Breaking an oath to her is not done lightly.'
Everyone who knew Pinleg's woman laughed knowingly. Before Einar could answer, Illugi Godi rapped his staff on a stone and there was silence.
Ìt is not a promise to his wife,' he said sternly. 'It was an oath to Odin. However stupid that may have been, it is still an oath to Odin.'
Òur oath is made to Odin,' Einar argued and Illugi frowned.
Òur oath is made to each other, in the sight of Odin. Thorkel's own Odin-oath may be truer, but I am thinking he must live with the consequence of swearing too many oaths. Anyway, he does not break his oath to the rest of us if one stands in his place.'
There was nodding agreement to that and Einar shrugged and turned to me. 'Well, you take the place of a good man, Orm Ruriksson. Make sure it was worth the trade.'
I stepped forward as bid and clasped Thorkel's forearm. He nodded at me, then moved off.
And that was it. I was now part of the Oathsworn of Einar the Black.
Later, I saw Thorkel and my father head to head in conversation and something niggled at me and worried and gnawed until I had to voice it.
`You arranged it,' I accused and, to my astonishment, my father grinned and nodded, putting a finger to his lips.
Àye. Thorkel wanted to go, has done for a time. He has an Irish woman in Dyfflin, which is just across the water from here, but made no Odin-oaths over her. By Loki's arse, what sane man would do that, eh?'
`Why does he want to leave?'
My father frowned at that and self-consciously scrubbed his chin. 'Tales of Atil's treasure,' he answered gruffly. 'Thorkel believes it foolishness, thinks Einar's thought-cage is warped.'
`Why didn't he say that, then?' I answered, with all the stupidity of youth.
My father batted my shoulder—none too gently, I thought—and answered, 'You don't say such things to the likes of Einar, unless you have a head start and fast feet, or are prepared to fight. No, Thorkel wanted out when he got here and didn't want to fight for it and didn't want to lose all his stuff.
`This way, he gets to leave safely with a bag of hacksilver—and you get a good sea-chest, a spare set of clothes and a decent shield.'
Ì have nothing—' I began and he clasped my forearm, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Ì did little enough for long enough,' he said. 'I need take big strides to catch up and I will not make old bones on a farm now, I am thinking. So I will spend my shares how I choose.' He paused then and added,
'Keep your lips fastened round Einar. He is a dangerous man when his brows come together.'
So, in the star-glimmered dark before dawn, I found myself assembled with the others, sword in hand, clutching Thorkel's shield with its swirling design of rune snakes, shivering and sick to the pit of my stomach.
We helped shove the Fjord Elk back off the shingle before the tide went out and stranded it there for hours. My father, of course, was staying behind since he was shipmaster and Pinleg would need him if they came under attack. So was Valgard, in case the ship was damaged. The eight others who stayed were hard enough men, but were all those who, for one reason or another, were not the fastest on their feet.
I was surprised that Skapti was going with the main body—not that I was going to say aloud that he was too fat to move fast—and more surprised than that to see him wearing a mail hauberk. A few others had mail, too, but had left off the padding of spare tunics usually worn beneath it.
Later, of course, I learned that no clever man expecting a fight and having good mail will willingly give it up and, since the easiest way of carrying it is to wear it, that's what they did.
The two who were leaving said their farewells, hefted their bundles and packs and struck off in the opposite direction from the one we would take. By the time we reached the Christ temple, they would be far enough away not to be considered part of the act. If they moved fast, of course.
Ulf-Agar had unrolled his mail from the fleece it was kept in, the sheep-grease fending off the rust. I thought to try to mend the rift between us and stepped forward to offer a helping hand as he hefted the ring-heavy mail by the shoulders.
Instead, he slapped my hand away and scowled. This was too much and I felt my hackles rise. Then Illugi Godi stepped between us and ushered me away, talking the while as if nothing had happened.
`Good sword you have there, Orm Ruriksson. Here's a tip, though: run it through the fleece of one of those fresh-killed sheep a few times. It's been splashed on by the sea and that rots metal faster than anything I know. Really, you need a sheath for it, but not a soft leather one, since that rots the metal fast, too. Better one made from wood, with a sheepskin lining. That way you can use the sheath as a good club if you have to
. . .'
Out of earshot, he clasped my shoulder in friendly fashion and glanced back to where Ulf-Agar's tousled head was emerging from his mail, his arms flailing. 'You meant well, but I fear you've made things worse.
It's a thing among mail-wearers that if you can't put it on or take it off unaided you shouldn't have the stuff.
So you just insulted him.'
Ì didn't know,' I said, my heart sinking.
Ì think he knows that,' answered Illugi Godi, 'but it won't help. Some evil gnaws him, and until he beats it to a pulp you and he will always be glaring. Unless you can fight him, I'd steer away wherever possible.'
My father came up as Illugi strode away and, at his questioning look, I told him what had happened. He stroked his chin and shook his head. Ìllugi is a good man, so you can take his advice. Mostly. Like us all, he has his reasons for being in the Oathsworn.'
`What are his?' I demanded and he shut one eye and squinted at me quizzically.
`You want to know a lot. He thinks Asgard is under siege from this White Christ and our gods are asleep.'
Ànd you? What are your reasons?'
He scowled. 'You want to know too much.' Then he forced a smile and produced a round leather helmet.
'One of Steinthor's spares. He picked it up last year, but can't wear it himself.'
It looked fine to me—a little too big, no fastening strap and a nice metal nasal. 'Why can't he wear it?'
My father tapped the metal nose protector. 'He's a bowman. Blocks your sighting, does a nasal. Bowmen all wear helmets without them. And no mail—even half-sleeves snag the string. That's why they stay well out on the edges of a fight and pick people off.' He spat. 'No one likes bowmen—unless they are your bowmen.'
We clasped hands, forearm to forearm. `Stay safe, boy,' he said and turned back to the ship.
Einar, helmeted and mailed and wearing two swords in his belt, shield slung over one shoulder, looked at the assembled men. He handed a spear with a furled cloth on it to skinny Valknut. 'Move steady and quiet.
Stay together—anyone who stops for a piss or a pull on the way risks being left on his own and we won't be going back to find them. We hit fast and hard, collect what we came for and get out. Don't try and carry off anything that weighs more than you. You'll either fall behind or have to leave it in the end.'
He glanced around one more time and nodded, then took the head of our pack and led us at a steady, fast walk up through the trees, into the night-shrouded land, towards the first silvered smear of dawn.
It was a good pace, uphill. No one spoke and there was silence until the pace began to tell in louder, ragged breathing. That and the shink-shink of slung shields on mail, the swish of the bracken underfoot and the odd clink and creak of equipment was all that marked the passage of nearly fifty fully armed men.
After an hour, Einar stopped us. The sky was milk-white, shading to grey towards us. Somewhere behind that, a winter sun fought to claw over the thin, black edge of the world. Trees were outlined in skeletal black—and there was something else.
It was a dark bulk with a tower and the faint, reddish glow of a light. Everyone saw it; there was a general, hushed business of tightening straps, unshipping shields, hefting weapons.
Einar had us take to one knee, then sent Geir and Steinthor off into the night. Briefly silhouetted against the dawn sky for us, they would be invisible to any watcher from the tower. I rubbed dry lips, hearing my breathing magnified by the helmet's cheekpieces into a rasp. That looked like a powerful strong building—
and, as the light grew, you could see other, smaller buildings huddled round it.
Geir and Steinthor slid back. We all listened.
`The light is on the gate in a wooden wall that stretches all round it,' reported Geir, rubbing his dripping bag of a nose. 'The gate is the only way in unless you want to go over seven feet of timbered fence. It was built for defence, was this place.'
He paused, for effect as it turned out, since Steinthor grinned and added, 'But the bloody gate is wide and welcoming open. It's been a long time since anyone attacked them. They have forgotten.'
À big stone temple and six outbuildings,' Geir added, 'all wattle and withy. A stable, for sure. Perhaps a smithy—I can smell the banked fire and tinsmith metal. There's a good covered bread-oven. The others could be anything.'
Einar rubbed his nose and squinted. Then he shrugged. 'One way in, so that simplifies the planning.'
He rose up and we followed. At a fast pace, we followed Geir and Steinthor, almost running through the bracken and, as we neared the gated wall, where the first rose-light of the rising sun touched the moss-gentled points of the timbered fence, we broke into a silent run, piling through the gate under the light set to welcome weary travellers.
Resistance was slight, almost none. By accident, Ketil Crow stumbled over the watchman, a slumbering man in brown robes, huddled in a little but beside the gate. Ketil had turned aside and gone into it looking for loot, but couldn't see anything in the dark.
Until the querulous voice revealed the watchman, he thought there was no one else in the building, which was so small and cramped he couldn't get room to swing a slashing sword properly. Ketil Crow was flailing around, while the unseen watchman screamed and then the sword stuck in a beam and, cursing, Ketil Crow couldn't get it out.
By this time, half the company had heard the commotion and, seeing his predicament, were howling with laughter. The watchman, crashing into Ketil and knocking him off his feet, stumbled out of the building, mad with fear and near flying in his panic.
That was when Valknut stepped forward and threw his hand axe, which smacked into the left side of the man's forehead with a sound like dung thrown against a wall. The force flung him sideways and he fell on his back, gurgling like some strange, long-nosed beast, the blood welling out of the mess of his face in a growing pool.
Ketil Crow hurtled out of the building, dark with anger, and the jeers stopped as he swung this way and that. But, as the men congratulated Valknut on his throw—it was generally agreed to be a fine one, since it wasn't a balanced throwing axe—there were chuckles and sniggers in the darkness at Ketil's expense.
Wordlessly, Valknut put one foot on the dead man's bloody chest and, with a flick of his wrist, removed his axe. It came away with a small sucking sound and Valknut, with a brief, blank look at Ketil Crow, wiped the blood and brains on the dead man's brown robe and strode off, axe in one hand, spear with furled banner in the other.
Ketil Crow caught me looking and I blinked at his expression, then wisely found the stone temple with the tower more of interest and trotted towards it.
It was, it seemed, one large hall, with an impressive flagged floor. The tower held no archers, nothing more than a bell. There were two brown-robed figures sprawled, spewing blood on the flagstones. Half a dozen others were penned at the far end of this hall by the rest of the Oathsworn and Einar was head to head with Illugi Godi.
It was a strange place and I gawped. It had benches and a sacrificial altar, which was where most of the people were. Behind the altar, above their heads, was a window, filled with pieces of coloured glass in the shape of a man wearing, it seemed, a glowing hat. The walls, too, were painted with strange scenes.
The dawn light that spilled from that window was like Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, and it stained the altar.
I did not know it then, but such a window was as rare as teeth on a hen—I did not see another until the Great City, Constantinople.
But it was nothing next to what was below it, stuck on the wall. Two thick beams, one vertical, one horizontal, held the wooden figure of a man, hanging there by his hands.
No, not hanging, I saw. Nailed, through his hands and his feet. He had some strange crown, which stuck spikes in his forehead, and what seemed to be another gaping wound in one side. It was a fine carving.
Ìs that their god, then?' I asked Illugi Godi, much to Einar's annoyance.
`The son of their god,' answered the priest. `The Romans stuck him on those poles, but the Christ-followers say he didn't die.'
That was impressive. I had thought any god who allowed himself to be nailed to a bit of wood wasn't up to much—ours were clever or strong fighting men, after all but if he had survived all that and come out smiling, this Christ was to be reckoned with.
`Finished?' demanded Einar pointedly. Then he turned to Illugi Godi. 'So where? You are the expert here, priest.'
Illugi Godi squatted, fumbled in his pouch and came up with his rune bones. I saw the brown figures flailing one hand back and forward on their chests, which seemed to be their way of warding off the evil eye.
I laughed. Illugi wasn't evil.
He cast; the bones tinkled. He took some fine white sand from his pouch and blew it off the palm of his hand towards the altar, then stood and smiled.
`There,' he said and pointed at the altar.
As a hiding place, it wasn't hard to work out—it was almost the only thing in the hov of this hall. And, I saw, the sand he had blown hadn't settled neatly where the altar touched the flagstoned floor. It had sunk into the cracks, which meant it was hollow beneath. He was clever, was Illugi Godi.
Einar and Valknut circled it, but there was nothing: no handle, no mark of any kind. Puzzled, they were scratching their heads when Gunnar Raudi, wiser in the ways of hiding valuables, stepped up, leaned his shoulder into it and gave it a shove.
With a grinding sound, the altar slid back several feet, revealing a set of stone steps. A torch uncovered a small chamber and the contents were soon up and on the flagstones.
There was a thin silver plate, two metal cups—gold, Illugi said—and a couple of hollow silver columns, which Gunnar Raudi said were sticks for holding fat tallow candles. Strange to relate now, but I had never seen the like and was so marvelling at them I nearly missed the next wonders.
Geir came up from the chamber with two chests. The first was clearly the one Einar wanted, a fat, ornate effort about the size of a man's head. The other was flatter; Geir held it up and turned it round. It was studded with coloured glass and had a huge clasp on it, which Geir snapped off easily, bit and announced admiringly: 'Silver.'
Then, to my astonishment, the chest fell open in two halves and loads of leaves riffled. Geir turned it over and over while I stared, my mouth dropped open like a droop-lipped horse. 'It's full of leaves,' I said, wondering. 'With colours on them—and little animals and birds.'
Ìt's a book,' said Illugi Godi patiently as Geir chuckled. 'The Christ monks make them. It has their holy writings. Like runes.'
Not much, I thought scornfully. Runes were worked on stone, or wood, or metal; otherwise, how would they last? Geir ripped one of the leaves out to show me how this book thing worked and I heard a brown-robed man, one with silver hair, moan.
Steinthor, more practical, grunted with annoyance over something else. 'No women, then?'
`Christ priests don't go with women,' advised Illugi Godi and Steinthor shot him a hard glance.
`Bollocks. I have tupped women before in these Christ places.'
`There are women Christ priests,' Illugi said patiently. 'But they don't go with men.'
`Just as well,' grunted Einar, cuffing Steinthor on the shoulder. 'No time to plough any fresh furrows here and no one is dragging any shrieking women with us. Anyway, why are you here? Didn't I tell you to make sure all these brown-robes were rounded up?'
As if in answer, the air was split with a massive ringing boom, followed by another. There was a moment of stunned panic, then Einar roared, 'The bell. The fucking bell . . .'
Gunnar Raudi was first, spilling into the little chamber at the far end beneath the tower.
The defiant man in a brown robe lasted long enough for a second pull on the rope before Gunnar's blow sprayed his teeth and blood and brains against the opposite wall. The bell, as if his ghost still tugged the rope, continued to boom a couple more times before swinging to silence.
In the main hov of the hall, the men were licking their lips, weapons up, uncertain and on edge. Steinthor, aware that he had put everyone at risk, shrugged apology, ducked hastily under Einar's scowl and scurried off to scout.
Black-raging, Einar swept up the fat chest, indicated to a couple of men to pick up the rest, then turned to Ketil Crow and Ulf-Agar, jerking his chin at the huddled brown-robes. 'Kill them, then join us at the gate.
We'll have to move fast now.'
I left, half looking back—Valknut pushed me impatiently through the door as the screams began.
Outside, the Oathsworn gathered silently together. No buildings had been torched, the ringing bell had interrupted that and someone said we should do it now, but Einar pointed out how long it would take to get a fire lit. 'They'll be coming after us,' he growled. 'Now we head for the Fjord Elk and fast.'
With Geir and Steinthor running ahead, he led us off at a fast pace, almost on the edge of a trot. It was full daylight now, but overcast, smirring with rain. I noticed that the birds were mad with song.
We were halfway to the ship, perhaps a little more, labouring up a slope of red bracken, when they caught us up.
Skapti, huffing in the rear, suddenly yelled out and pointed behind us. We all stopped and turned; dark against the browns and withered greens, the horsemen came on, urging their mounts through the tangling bracken and gorse.
`Top of the hill, form a line, three deep,' roared Einar. 'Move.'
The Oathsworn may have been stumbling and out of breath, but they knew their business. I was the only one who didn't.
They slid into three ranks, the mailed men in front, the spearmen second and everyone else in the third.
Einar saw me as he strode along the front. 'Guard Valknut, young Orm. Sig, let them see whom they face.'
Valknut slid the thongs from the furled cloth on his spear. A banner spilled out, white with a black bird on it. I realised, with a sudden start, that it was the Raven Banner. I was about to fight under the Raven Banner, as in a saga tale.
Valknut hefted his axe in his free right hand and grunted at me, 'On my left, Bear Slayer. You are the shield I don't have.'
I nodded. Geir and Steinthor were on the same side, the left flank of the line. On the other, Skapti took station, where there was room to swing his long Dane axe.
Einar chuckled, wiping the drips from the edge of his helmet. 'Not horse, these. Fyrdmen on ponies. You won't have to face mailed horse today, just the fat levy of some local noble.'
I watched the horsemen dismount; saw that most of them were in leather and had shields, spears and axes. Just like us.
One of them, mailed and shouting, bullied them into three ranks, again like us.
There were a lot of them, perhaps twenty or so more than we were and they overlapped us. I heard the swish of Skapti's axe, testing range.
The rain was invisible and soaking. We dripped, waiting in the bracken and heather.
Einar shook rain from his eyes and grunted, peering at the men below us. They were in no hurry to come at us and, suddenly, Einar strode over to Skapti. They had a brief, grunting conversation, then Skapti simply dropped his axe and hauled out the heavier of the two swords he wore, the one he called Shieldbreaker.
Einar fell in behind us.
Skapti strode to the front, swinging his shield on to his arm. 'We can't wait. That's what they want and they will be bringing up more men, I am thinking, before they take on the Raven Banner.'
There was a general mutter of agreement and Skapti nodded. 'Boar snout. We have to break their shieldwall here, scatter them.'
He strode several paces to the front and everyone seemed to slide into position like a cunning toy.
Shields overlapped, they crowded into a wedge, shoulders hunched into the shields, pushing. In front, Skapti pushed back, as if trying to hold them, his feet skidding on the bracken, a delicate balance between strength and footwork.
Balked, the men shoved; the power of the wedge grew as it moved downhill, with Skapti as a brake.
With nowhere to go, I fell in at the rear, still with Valknut.
About twenty paces from the line of the fyrdmen and their overlapped shields, Skapti roared something and the men behind increased their effort. Skapti took two, three steps, raised his shield, lifted his legs off the ground and was shot forward, a huge battering ram at the point of the boar snout.
The fyrdmen's shieldwall smashed apart; men were flung sideways. The Oathsworn were in among them then, the fight a grunting, flailing, slipping, sliding mess of whirling steel and blood and flying bone.
On the fringes, some of the fyrdmen dashed forward; two arrows spanged off their shields and they stopped, seeing Geir and Steinthor nocking fresh ones. They huddled behind their big round shields and backed off, all save two, who came on, heading for the Raven Banner and Valknut.
And me.
Valknut backed off a pace, hefted the axe and then hurled it. It cannoned off one man's shield, spinning through the air into the bodies behind.
With a triumphant roar, he came stumbling at Valknut, who stuck the Raven Banner pole firmly in the ground, whipped out a long seax and, ducking under the swing and the man's shield, kippered him open with a swipe along the belly. He was still running when his stomach opened and all the blue-white coils fell out like rope, tripping him.
The other one came at me. I was petrified . . . but I weathered his first rush; I felt his sword whack on my shield, bounce off the metal rim and just miss my nose.
He hacked a backstroke and, before I knew it, I had done what Gudleif and Gunnar Raudi had taken pains to teach me . . . I slammed the blunt point of my sword at the bottom of his shield, the force of the blow tilting it forward and exposing the whole shoulder and side of his neck.