You are sworn already, to Jarl Brand, he pointed out and Abjorn shifted uncomfortably, with another glance to the men behind him for reassurance.
He gave us to Jarl Orm, he countered stubbornly. And Jarl Brand is almost brother to Jarl Orm.
He lent you, I offered, gentle as a horse-whisperer, not wishing to anger him. Not gave.
For all that, Abjorn pushed, his chin jutting out. We have all agreed to ask Rovald, Rorik Stari, Kaelbjorn Rog, Myrkjartan, Uddolf and myself.
As he said their names, the men stepped forward, determined as stones rolling downhill.
This is foolish, Finn said, pausing in his flaying of the horse. Jarl Brand will be angered by it and with Jarl Orm for agreeing to it. And what if they come to quarrel, what then? Who will you fight for?
We will leap that stream when we reach it, Abjorn replied. Finn threw up his hands; a gobbet of fat flew off the end of the seax and splattered on the turf.
I knew why they wanted to take the Oath. They needed it. They had heard that Odin favoured the Oathsworn, held his hand over them and with all that snapped at their heels they needed to know that hand cradled them, too.
So I nodded and, stumbling like eager colts with the words of it, with the stink of fresh blood and the gleam of blot-iron in their eyes, they took it.
We swear to be brothers to each other, bone, blood and steel, on Gungnir, Odins spear we swear, may he curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.
Afterwards, laden with horse meat the head left on the stone for the birds to pick we went back down to the path and hurried to catch up with the others.
Abjorn and the new-sworn men were cheerful, chaffering one to the other and with Botolf and even Toki, when they would not usually have looked twice at a scrawny thrall boy. They were so happy I felt sorry for them, knowing how the smell of blood and iron appeals to One-Eye even as the happy plans of men do not.
An hour later, the ulfhednar caught us.
I did not hear or see them at all, having my shoulder into the back of the rearmost wagon, my whole world taken up by the pothole the left rear wheel had sunk into and not wanting to have to unload it to get it out again. The rest of the column was further ahead, round a bend and out of sight.
So, with Botolf alongside, Finn and Kuritsa on either rear wheel and little Toki trying to get the sagging-weary horses to pull, we strained and cursed and struggled with it. Somewhere up ahead, round the next bend, the others laboured on.
Give them some whip! bawled Finn.
The fucking trail is too hard for this, Botolf grunted out and he was right; I had no breath to argue with him anyway.
Then Toki yelled out, a high, piping screech and we all stopped and turned, sweating and panting, to see the four men come round the bend behind us in the trail. It was moot who was more surprised by it.
Odins arse
Finn sprang for The Godi, sheathed and in the wagon; Botolf hurled after his axe, which was in the same place, but all I had was my seax and that was handy, snugged across my lap. But Kuritsa, who had said he had been a hunter in his own land, showed that he had been a warrior, too.
Three of the men wore oatmeal clothing, carried spears and axes and shields, but the fourth was big as a bull seal and had the great, rain-sodden bearcoat that marked him. He whirled and gestured; one of the others started to run back and Kuritsa sprang up on the top of one wheel, balanced and shot the man screamed and pitched forward.
The bearcoat roared at another, then hefted his shield in the air, caught it by one edge and slung it, whirling in a one-handed throw that sent it spinning at us, like a wooden platter hurled by a woman gone past reasonable argument. Kuritsa, nocking another arrow, did not see it until it hit him, knocking him off the wheel before he could make a sound; he hit heavily and lay gasping for breath and bleeding.
We watched the messenger vanish round the bend and the bearcoat straightened slowly, hefting the bearded axe in one hand. The last man stood slightly behind him, licking his lips.
I am Thorbrand Hrafnsson, the bearcoat bawled out in a hoarse voice, spreading his arms wide, the great tangled mass of hair and beard matted so that his mouth was barely visible. His eyes were two beasts peering out of a wood.
I am a slayer of men. I am a son of the wolf and the bear, he roared.
I, said the man with him, am not eager for this.
He backed away, shield up but sword hand held high and empty. Thorbrand never even turned round when he spat a greasy glob of disdain.
I am known as a killer and a hard man, from Dyfflin to Skane, he bellowed, pointing the axe at us. I am favoured by Thor. And you are Finn Bardisson, known as Horsehead, the one the skalds say fears no-one. And you are Orm Bear Slayer, who leads the Oathsworn and who found all the silver of the world. I see you.
You will not see us for long, said Finn, hefting The Godi and stepping forward. And if you have heard anything of us at all, you will know you are not as god-favoured as we are.
What about me? demanded Botolf angrily. I am Botolf, by-named Ymir. I am Oathsworn. What about me?
You can be last to die, One-Leg, answered Thorbrand, because you are a cripple.
Finn and I moved in swiftly then, just as Botolf bristled like an annoyed boar and we balked whatever he had intended, shouldering him to one side, then moving right and left as Thorbrand flung back his head and howled out a great frothing cry.
Then he went for Finn, but it was a feint, for he suddenly cut back and, only having a little seax and closing on him with it, I was caught flat-footed on muddy scree so much so that I skidded on my arse, which saved me; the axe hissed at what would have been hip height, save that I was on the ground. It thundered past my nose, big as a house and the wind of it fluttered my braids and beard.
Scrabbling away, I saw Finn dart past, slashing; Thorbrand, slavering madly, eyes red as embers, half fell, then turned like a bull elk at bay. Finn stopped and watched; Thorbrand started a run, but the leg was tendon-cut and would not work he fell on one knee and rose up. Marvelling, I saw no blood and it was clear he felt no pain, but the leg would not work properly and Finn sauntered, thinking the man was finished. A normal man would have been.
He was ulfhednar and Finn should have known better, as I said later. Thorbrand simply hirpled forward in two great one-legged leaps and Finn, yelping, managed a block before Thorbrands bearded axe hooked The Godi, trapped it and flung it out of his hand.
He was ulfhednar and Finn should have known better, as I said later. Thorbrand simply hirpled forward in two great one-legged leaps and Finn, yelping, managed a block before Thorbrands bearded axe hooked The Godi, trapped it and flung it out of his hand.
Now Finn was weaponless and Thorbrand, like the bear whose hide he wore, growled and lurched, dragging one leg behind him, but closing fast on the hapless Finn.
I sprang forward, was hit by what seemed to be a boulder and bounced sideways, my head whirring; Botolf stumped down on the bearcoat and was almost on him when Thorbrand heard, or sensed it and whirled round, axe up, the slaver trailing from the edge of his mouth.
Cripple, am I? roared Botolf and grabbed the swinging axe in both hands, tearing it free, as if ripping a stick from a wean. Now we are even matched.
He flung the axe away from him. The great, stupid rock flung the axe away, then closed with Thorbrand as if it was some friendly wrestle at a handfasting. Finn scurried to find his sword and I sat up, trying to stop the world rocking and lurching as if we were all on a boat at sea.
They strained; Botolf suddenly took a step back and swung, the crack of his fist against Thorbrands ear loud as a whip but the man was berserk and felt nothing, which fact Finn roared out as he picked up The Godi.
Feel this, then, grunted Botolf and he gripped and wrenched, so that Thorbrand was spun sideways, the great bear hide ripping free from him and left in Botolfs hands. He flung it to one side.
Stand clear, yelled Finn, hefting The Godi.
Stand back, warned Botolf and went after Thorbrand, who had rolled over and over and now sprang up, as well as his useless leg allowed.
No bearcoat now, Botolf said, spitting on his palms. More bare arse. Now we are evenly matched, skin to skin, leg to leg.
Thorbrand was madder than ever, a slavering wolf who howled out his rage from a corded throat and launched off his one good leg, straight at Botolf, who half knelt and took the rush of it in both hands, one at Thorbrands crotch, the other at his throat.
Then he straightened, the muscles on him bunching so that it seemed they would split, lifted the kicking, screaming madman in the air, half-turned him like a haunch on a spit and brought him down on his knee, the one which had wood four inches below it, anchored to the ground as strong as any bone.
The crack was a tree splitting; I thought it was Botolfs leg until he levered Thorbrand off him. The man still slavered and howled, but not even his head moved, for the back of him was splintered and he was only voice now.
I am Botolf, by-named Ymir, strongest of the Oathsworn, on one leg or two, Botolf panted and spat on Thorbrand. Now you know that, so you know more.
Finn moved in and mercifully silenced the raving screams, while I climbed wearily to my feet. The remaining man, pale and wary behind his shield, stood and said nothing, which showed that he was sensible and braver than his lack of fight seemed to suggest.
There was silence, save for panting, ragged breathing then Finn moved to Thorbrands axe, picked it up and handed it to Botolf.
Your prize, he said. Next time, try not to throw it away.
Botolf reversed it, using it as a stick to lever himself upright; I saw blood on his breeks and pointed it out. He shrugged.
His, I think. He did not hit me.
He hirpled off to the cart, while Finn and I watched him go.
His great heart will be the end of him, muttered Finn softly, still breathing hard and we remembered the other times the giant had saved us. Then we looked at the last man, saying nothing until he swallowed into the silence of it, which must have been grinding his courage away.