Blood Eye(52)

That night after making camp, I took the small knife which Ealhstan had found round my neck and turned it over in my hands, as I often did, in the hope that the feel of it might kindle some spark in my mind to burst into memory. But the two swirling serpents carved in the white bone hilt were silent, their secrets safe as a dragon's hoard.





'Men are not supposed to think so much, Raven,' Bjorn said, beckoning me to my feet, an ash spear in each hand. I had barely stood when he threw me one of the spears and gave a great beaming smile. 'Let's make better use of our time.'





And so, that night, my lessons began. Bjarni and Bjorn taught me how to kill with sword and spear. The next night, they taught me the use of the round shield, and the night after that they showed me how the shield was not merely for defence but could be used in the attack, to smash a man's face to bloody pulp. They worked me hard, making me repeat every move, whilst introducing new techniques that tested me sorely.





For my part I found that the more cuts and bruises I got, the better I became at avoiding them next time. Techniques that had at first felt clumsy became instinctive. Moves began to flow one into another, my feet working in harmony with my upper body as they stirred the forest litter. I sought openings in the Norsemen's defences, desperate to land blows in vengeance for my pains.





At first we fought with our swords wrapped in cloth, but even then we risked breaking bones and the blades themselves, so Bjarni made Ealhstan fashion practice weapons of ash, and because they were light I borrowed several of Svein the Red's great silver arm rings to add weight to my thrusts and shield parries. I admit during these bouts I let my imagination roam freely and in those wanderings the warrior rings were my own. Eventually, when at last I had mastered the basics, the other Norsemen took an interest in the fights, and every night I would take on all comers and they would batter me. I never won in those early days.





CHAPTER EIGHT




'YOU'RE GETTING HANDY WITH THE SWORD, RAVEN,' OLAF SAID, tearing off a chunk of stale bread before handing the loaf to Black Floki. My shoulders ached from the previous night's training, but I felt a strange joy in the discomfort, as though my muscles and limbs had earned the right to rest. The forest floor was damp with dew and the day promised to be warm and bright. 'Still clumsy with the spear though, but the spear is not as easy as it looks,' Olaf added. 'Oh, every man and his dog uses the spear, but few do it well.' The ghost of a smile touched his face. 'My Eric was a good lad with the spear. But not as good as you with the sword. Comes natural to you, eh?'





'Like falling asleep after a good ploughing,' Knut said distantly, his mind no doubt on some braided blonde beauty.





'I've not won a bout yet, Uncle,' I said, rolling my shoulders to rekindle the warm pain. But Olaf's thoughts were of Eric.





'He'd have taken you with the axe, I'd wager,' he said. 'We spent months with the axe. It takes a rare skill and even then many years to master.'





'One of these days I'll give Bjarni some bruises to match these,' I said, rubbing my left arm, which had taken a hundred blows beneath the shield and was an angry purple. Olaf blinked slowly, then gave a shallow nod of thanks for my poor attempt to steer his mind from his son.





'I miss the lad,' Bjarni said, a sad smile hiding in his beard. 'When we return to Harald's fjord, I'll pay a good skald to sing of how he wet his axe in that worm Ealdred's blood.' The smile cracked several drying cuts and one of them spilled new blood into his beard.





'Eric was brave, Uncle,' I said, 'and his mother will be proud of the way he served Jarl Sigurd.'





'No, Raven, she won't,' he said, shaking his shaggy head. 'She cursed me for taking the lad away and she'll have my balls for getting him killed.' Now Olaf smiled but there was no warmth in it. 'I'll be lucky to eat another good meal as long as I live and breathe.'





'Quiet your bleating, Uncle,' Black Floki said. 'Your woman's no dried-up stick yet. You'll have another son, you old bastard.' I thought Olaf would burst with anger then, but he simply stared at the fire, which was pale in the dawn light, and half raised his eyebrows as though Floki was right. 'No woman stays angry for ever,' Floki added, plaiting his glossy black hair. He turned to me. 'They never forgive you, Raven, you'll learn that much, but they still like a good hump on a cold night just like the rest of us.' A murmur of agreement stirred the camp.





'Does Sigurd have a son?' I asked, glancing at the goldenhaired jarl who sat talking with the English priest and his bodyguard Mauger.





'He did once,' Olaf replied, 'but the boy's head was broken by a horse's kick. Seven winters ago that was. Sigurd's fury could have turned back the sea,' he said, shaking his head in remembrance. 'Poor little whelp died before he could talk.' He looked at Sigurd. 'A man like Sigurd must have a strong son. It's the way of things, but old Asgot reckoned he had somehow upset the gods and I think Sigurd believed him. He's been trying to win Óðin's favour ever since. And he will. You can bet your teeth on that. The All-Father must love a jarl like Sigurd.' His smile was warm this time. 'Look at him. He's not far off a god himself, and that's why men follow him. Any of the lads you see here would die in the shieldwall with Sigurd.' Olaf pursed his thick lips. 'Even Floki would cross Bifröst, the shimmering bridge, with Sigurd. Am I right, Floki?'