‘Either that,’ added Kvasir, ‘or they will be confused by a demand for two more ales and a dish of mutton.’
But Radoslav looked at me and both of us knew, because we were more traders than the others, that the ship had held Starkad, or at least some of his men. Traders thrived on gossip: what cargo was going where, what prices for what goods in what ports. They sucked it up like mother’s milk and, to get it, they talked to every other trader they saw coming up against them or sailing down a route with them. Unless you looked like a warship, or a sleek hafskip, which could be more wolf than sheep, you hailed them all for news; you didn’t sheer away like a nervous maiden goosed behind her mother’s back.
Nor, if you were anyone but the Norse, did you run the Hellespont at night.
But it had vanished south and we followed. In the morning, Sighvat cast his bone runes on the wet aft-deck and tried to make sense of it, Short Eldgrim peering over his shoulder. In the end, Sighvat made his pronouncement and Gizur leaned on the steering oar as the sail cranked up; I saw we were taking the most likely trade route and wondered if that course had truly been god-picked or was Sighvat’s common sense.
What nagged me more was where the second boatload was – and if the one we had seen had had Starkad in it. For days I wondered where either had gone and whether we had passed them.
As always, Odin showed the truth, with a finger-nail trace of smoke against the sky.
The smoking boat was a Greek knarr, listing and down at the stern. It had been on fire, but the waves had soaked out the flames, leaving a smouldering hulk. Two bodies rolled and bobbed among the ash and spars nearby, reluctant to leave even in death.
Up in our bow, Arnor used his harpoon to gaff one of the bodies and drag it closer. He was an Icelander and everyone had mocked at him for seeking out a whaling harpoon instead of a spear – but Arnor knew the weapon and it had certainly been of use now.
The bodies were gashed and torn, bled white so that the wounds were now pale, lipless mouths. They had been stripped of everything and made a sorry sight on the deck of the Volchok, leaking into the bilges.
‘Stabbed and cut,’ remarked Brother John, examining them. ‘That’s an arrow wound, for sure, but they recovered it. Barbed, too – look where it hooked out heart-meat when it was pulled.’
‘I know this one,’ said Finn suddenly.
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘That one with the heart-wound and the squint. He was in the Dolphin guarding Starkad’s back. I remember thinking that he was an ugly troll and that if I had the chance I would knock his eyes straight for him.’
Anything can happen on the whale road…
I had that proved as the knarr gurgled and sank. Brother John fell to his knees and offered up prayers to his god and the Christ, which seemed a little harsh to me, for he was congratulating this Jesus on having led these men to this doom rather than us. I had not thought the Christ, white-livered godlet of peace, was so harsh – but I had much to learn; as Finn said, even as he followed me, the horn-moss was barely rubbed off me.
Of course, the rest of us joined in piously and those, like me, who thought no harm in getting all the help we could offered silent thanks to Odin, whose hand was in this for sure.
Now we knew.
We sat and worked out what had happened as the remains of the knarr hissed away to nothing, leaving only the stink of wet char. A ship, perhaps more than one, had come on it and there had been a fight, though Finn reckoned the attackers had sat back and shot arrows until the defenders had given in.
It seemed to him that the others had been taken, probably as slaves, because there were only two bodies, but the defenders had given in when the ship had been fired. This showed that the attackers were skilled, not just for having fire aboard for arrows, but because they would have to have worked swiftly to secure cargo and prisoners in little time before the ship burned and sank.
‘It is a blade path we are on and no mistake,’ Sighvat offered mournfully, which got him some hard looks; a blade path was what steersmen call a hard pull into a gale, where the only progress was by the oarblade.
It also meant the road walked by those who had died as oathbreakers, a trail studded with sharp edges, so that those who cared enough howed such wyrd-doomed up with thick-soled ox-hide shoes, to help them walk their way to Hel’s hall.
While they were shaking their heads and making warding signs, I considered matters. It seemed to me that these Arabs would not go far from home, though that was the arrogance of being Norse and believing that only we dared the far seas. I learned later that the Arabs are good seamen – but I had the right of here, for these Arabs were bandits with a boat, no more.
Radoslav fished out a square of fine sealskin from his purse and unfolded it to reveal another of walrus hide; we all peered curiously, mainly because it was clear he did not like revealing it. Gizur growled when he saw it, for it was a fair chart that he could have used.
‘Well, a sailor’s chart is a precious thing,’ Radoslav argued, scowling, ‘and not to be handed out lightly.’
Gizur hawked and spat meaningfully, then scowled at the lines and marks on the walrus hide. Like most of us, he only half trusted maps for how, as I had been told by better men, can you mark down with little scratches and pictures where the waves change with the mood of Ran? Experience had already taught me that maps were more fancy than fact – like all of the monk-made ones, this had Jorsalir at the centre and a guddle everywhere else – and a man at sea was better off using the knowledge of those who had sailed before, or trusting to the gods when he was on the whale road.
Still, using this one, we worked out that an island called Patmos was not so far from us, at which Brother John brightened considerably.
‘St John the Evangelist was there,’ he informed us. ‘He was one of the twelve disciples and was exiled to Patmos by the Romans for preaching the word of God.’
‘Those Romans are stupid,’ growled Finn. ‘They should have slit his throat. Instead, they stick him on an island with a bunch of goat-humping sea-raiders.’
Brother John hesitated, then decided against throwing light on Finn’s hazy grasp of the Christ sagas. Instead, he told us all about this saint and his revelations.
‘What revelations?’ demanded Short Eldgrim.
‘The Revelations,’ answered Brother John. ‘A holy gospel.’
We knew what a gospel was – a sort of saga tale for Christ-men – and someone asked the obvious question.
‘It concerns the end of the world,’ Brother John answered him.
‘Ah, Ragna Rok,’ Finn said dismissively, ‘but that’s no revelation to anyone.’
Brother John was set to argue the point, but I gripped his shoulder and stopped him. ‘Is there anything you know about this island that is of any use?’
He blinked. ‘There’s a town, Skala. A harbour. A church. The cave where the saint lived…’
‘A nice little pirate haven,’ Short Eldgrim said. ‘Ah well, no ship-luck for Starkad, then.’
‘I trust we are not going after them,’ demanded Radoslav.
That is exactly what I planned to do.
Radoslav shrugged and rubbed one hand across his shaved scalp. ‘I was thinking on it,’ he went on, ‘and it came to me that we do not know how many camel-eating Arabs there are, or that Starkad is there, or this wonderful sword.’
‘I don’t care to know how many goat-botherers there are,’ growled Finn. ‘I just need to know where they are