'What will you do with it, Asgot?' I asked. He held the thick slice of bark close to his face, then sniffed it and rubbed a finger across its surface.
'Asgot?' I said, not liking being so close to the godi but eager to know what heathen magic he was making.
He did not take his eyes from the bark strip. 'This tree has lived for thousands of years, boy. Maybe since the dawn of the world, and it's not dead yet. Not fully dead, anyway. As it takes many men's lifetimes to grow, so it takes as many to die.' He held up the bark as though it was as precious as a bar of silver. 'This tree has seen many things. It has secrets, Raven,' he stressed the name scornfully, 'and it will whisper them to one who is willing to listen.'
He turned away, so I gripped his shoulder and he flinched at my touch. 'Will you show me, Asgot?' I asked, spellbound. I had heard of the rune lore, but who of us has seen it with his own eyes? Asgot's grey eyes narrowed with suspicion and he screwed up his face as though I stank. Then he stared at Sigurd who was laughing heartily because a flame had leapt up to singe Black Floki's beard. 'Sigurd likes you, Raven,' he muttered, 'and though he has his faults, arrogance and recklessness included, he is far-seeing. I will not deny it. And he respects the gods.' He frowned. 'Most of the time.' Then those eyes flashed and the godi's mouth twitched within his grey beard. 'Yes, I will show you,' he said. 'Soon enough.'
So we journeyed north day after day, rarely seeing a living soul as we pushed deeper into Wessex. A sense of unease had been swelling within the belly of the Fellowship and I grew to understand why. The Norsemen were venturing ever further into a land that was strange to them. It was a land of Christ worshippers, men who despised them. And they could no longer smell the sea.
'It bodes ill to be so far from our ships,' Ugly Einar said. He was a flat-nosed man with a ruined lip and whenever he looked at me I knew he saw me dying beneath his broad-hilted sword.
'And going further still,' Glum moaned, looking up to the leafy canopy and the blue sky beyond. 'Nothing good can come of it, Einar. Only a fool tempts the Norns. I swear I can hear their fingers weaving a dark, bloody pattern for us.'
I knew there were at least two or three men of Fjord-Elk who agreed with their shipmaster. Ugly Einar belched loudly. 'Raven and the tongueless old fool have brought us bad luck,' he said, thumbing at me over his shoulder.
'What are you scared of, Einar?' Bjarni challenged him. 'Look around you, man. This is good land and there's plenty of it. We'll send our sons here one day, hey, Bjorn!' He slapped his brother's shoulder. 'They'll turn the soil and grow fat on pork and mead.'
'Brother, they'll take pasture from the English and live like kings,' Bjorn replied, kicking the head off a tall white mushroom, 'and all because we took English silver and drenched the land with English blood.'
'You two are too dumb to know when your luck has drained away,' Einar countered miserably, tipping an imaginary cup upside down. 'Men will always fight for land like this, even after you take it from them. The English must have won it themselves once. Farmers don't own rich soil for long, not unless they are as handy with the sword as they are with the plough. Remember that, Bjorn. Your brats' swords will never be dry.'
'You're an ugly, whinging woman, Einar,' Bjarni said.
Einar grimaced, his strange lip white beneath his flat nose. 'Say what you like, but it'll be you next, lying stiff and bloodless like the others. Like young Eric with your arse full of arrows.' He glanced quickly at Olaf, then seemed encouraged that he had not heard. 'Thór's balls, Bjarni,' he blurted, 'the English runt put an arrow in you and you let him live!' I shrugged awkwardly at Bjarni, who raised his eyebrows as though he had surprised himself by sparing me. 'As for that dry-mouthed old bastard,' Einar continued, pointing at Ealhstan, 'he follows behind like a stray dog begging for scraps.'
'The lad's more of a Norseman than you, Einar,' Bjarni said, winking at me mischievously. Anger flared in Einar's face then.
'Einar's an ugly whoreson,' Glum added, 'but he's right. We should do what we are good at and leave the mercy to the White Christ followers. Did you know they are told to love their enemies?' He clutched his sword's hilt and I think he feared the words themselves. 'Mercy is the same as weakness.' He nodded. 'And Óðin All-Father despises weakness.'
'He despises cowards, too,' Svein the Red rumbled, 'and men who do not honour their jarl.' The inference was clear and Einar and Glum wisely held their tongues, for Svein would sooner fight ten warriors with his bare hands than betray his oath of loyalty. And his oath, like every man's in the Fellowship, belonged to Sigurd.