'Sigurd believes I'm from Óðin All-Father, their chief god,' I said, matching the Norsemen's stroke again. 'He says that Óðin put me in his way for a purpose hidden like a knife in a sheath.'
Ealhstan grunted, rapped his knuckles against his head and sprinkled something invisible across the deck, his way of saying I had wood dust for brains. Then he pointed at Jarl Sigurd, made the same gesture and touched the ship's top strake and banged his fists together. 'You think Sigurd is a fool and I am a fool to listen to him,' I said, 'and you think we might as well jump overboard, for a fool is likely to run his ship aground before long.' I shook my head, and the old man grimaced, turning to look out across the sea once more.
But Sigurd did not wreck Serpent, and neither did his shipmaster Glum wreck Fjord-Elk, the other ship. When there was good wind, their great square sails pushed us westward, and when there was none, the Norsemen rowed as though they had been born at the oar. At night they fished and played games, sang, drank ale and arm-wrestled. A huge red-haired man called Svein sat for the most part looking miserable because no one would challenge him. But what I noticed most about the Norsemen was how much they laughed. They laughed at the smallest things, such as when Olaf complained about toothache or when his white-haired son Eric muttered a girl's name in his sleep. I noticed too that they were younger than I had first thought. Their faces were weather-beaten and their beards unkempt, but in their blue eyes I saw men in their prime, and this new familiarity made it harder to recall the savagery that I knew bristled within them, beneath the wind-burned, salty skin. Now of course I know that it is the young who are capable of the most terrible cruelty. A young man will kill without a second thought, then rejoice in the slaughter. But time will often smother the flames of his heart and the older man is more likely to sheathe his blade, seeing in his opponent his own son or his daughter's husband. These Norse were young men and laughter or no they were dangerous. They were killers.
'If we're lucky it will pass to the east before it breaks,' Eric said. The youngest Norseman's face was turned up to the blackening sky so that his white hair fell straight, and from where I sat at my oar port he looked afraid.
'Not this time, son,' Olaf said flatly. 'I doubt even Sigurd can make Njörd smile today.' Olaf turned to me. 'Njörd governs the flights of the winds,' he called, sweeping an arm westward. 'He controls sea and flame . . .' he grinned sourly, 'and he is in a foul mood today.' Every man aboard was staring up at the evil-looking black cloud sitting so low in the sky that I could have shot an arrow into its belly to release the deluge. Round its edge was a halo of brilliant silver light, but we were far from its edge. An angry wind began to slap the woollen sail and rattle the shields that the Norsemen had mounted on Serpent's sides that morning to warn off another dragon ship headed east on the horizon.
'We're in the storm's maw, Ealhstan,' I said, touching Serpent's top strake and wondering how she would fare in the chaos of a violent storm. The old man was gripping one of the sheet blocks, his knuckles bone white. 'And we'll soon be in its belly,' I said. I had never been at sea in a storm and I was terrified.
'Next time, we'll sacrifice a younger bull before we leave the fjord, Asgot,' Sigurd shouted to his godi. He stood at the ship's prow, one hand gripping the neck of the dragon staring dully out to sea with its red eyes. He grimaced. 'That sack of shit Haeston sold me was a threadbare old beast.'
'Only a fool would insult a god like Njörd with a poor beast,' Asgot replied accusingly. 'Anger one of the kinder, less powerful lords of Asgard if you must. Baldr perhaps. Freyja even, if you don't mind your cock shrivelling and dropping off,' he said, clutching his groin and shaking his head so that the bones in his hair rattled. 'But never Njörd, Sigurd. Never the Lord of the Sea.'
Sigurd bent his legs as Serpent rose and dipped. 'I swear old Njörd's appetite grows, godi,' he said, watching the heavens. 'Furl the sail, Uncle! Let's wet the oars and take her out there.' He nodded southward. Since the previous night, the coastline had promised only jagged rocks and sheer cliffs, and if the wind turned to come up from the south both ships would be tossed against them and broken. And so we gripped the oars and bent our backs, heading out to sea against a swell that kept dropping away so suddenly that my oar bit only the white hair that was spreading across the waves.
Night was falling and Sigurd had to make a decision that would seal our fates. We had to get away from the rocky coast, but row too far and we could lose our way, for the cloud would veil the stars and we would sail blind.