'Just six weeks ago. He only kept it for a week. Then he made me a fantastic offer for it, which I refused. I remembered how rare you believed it to be.
`Not rare, unique!' he answered. 'Kept it for a week, eh? Yes, that would be ample time to copy the information he needed.'
'Information?'
'Directions from the book,' Crow explained. 'Oh, they in there, all right! In the prose related to the poems, and—'
`Hang on a minute, Titus, I rudely cut him off. 'I'm afraid you're moving a bit too fast for me. You mean you've actually known of this – menhir – for some time?'
'For four years, yes, since I myself borrowed Loftsson's book from you and tracked the tomb down. Incidentally, did you bring the book with you? Ah, I see you did! Give it to me and I'll show you what I mean. The initial clues are here in the poems. I've always been interested in these battle sagas, and being something of an archaeologist – albeit an amateur – well, I couldn't resist the challenge. I wish I had now. But listen–' He found his page and commenced to read.
'In Skardaborg we had no yearn,
To pillage, plunder, sack, and burn;
We'd plow the waves to Whitby where
We knew a war fleet waited there.
But Skardaborg's men laid a trap,
Our great wavebiters to enwrap
In floating nets till, tangle-oared,
We had to stand and fight the horde.
No quarter asked and none proffered,
As shields were lifted, spears prepared,
Till came the furious battle-clash,
And axe and sword were soon awash . .
Crow paused in his reading and looked up: 'So commenced the battle,' he commented. 'Now, de Marigny, the poem goes on in pretty much the same "thud and blunder" fashion for many a couplet, until King Eystein, ever in the thick of the battle, notices one of his ships to be doing extremely well. With blood in his eyes so that he can't see to his best advantage, Eystein flings yet another spear while enquiring of one of his men:
"The sea-chief, name him, of yon ship,
Aye, him who stands with mail adrip,
In foemen's guts, in berserk glee;
Now tell me, Gudrod, who is he?"
'He is answered:
"Tis Ragnar, son of Hildursleif,
Commands the Seasnake like a chief,
Aye, Ragnar Gory-Axe his name,
And in the stern there, see that Dame?
A witch most learned of Lapland's art,
'Tis Ragnar's mother, legs athwart,
Calling no doubt to Ragnar's side,
The Aesir o'er the bloodied tide."
"Of wizard or witch-son I've no ken,
But say thee, Gudrod, given ten
Like him who wields yon axe so red,
We'd soon put all these foe to bed!"
'So you see, Henri, this Ragnar Gory-Axe was only an "up-and-comer", unnoticed of Eystein until this battle at Scarborough. And yet — if we can believe the book, and of course we've proof in the stone that we can — he'd been in many a fray before; and always with his mother, Hildursleif the witch, beside him. The poem goes on to describe Ragnar's death, Eystein's wrath, and Hildursleif's woe. Let's see, now — yes, here:
'And then on Seasnake's bloodied flank,
Tossing his helm down to the plank,
Young Ragnar with a berserk shriek,
Turned on the foe his dragon's beak.
But as his golden locks flew free,
An arrow speeding o'er the sea,
Brought forth a scream the world to chill,
And gored his brain with iron bill —
'Of course, Crow paused again, 'you'll notice that the poems aren't up to the standard of Skalaglam's or Thjodolf's — but I can't tell if the faults lie in the original work, which I would consider unlikely, or in the translation. The kenning is too slight to warrant comment. Anyway, Eystein wins the battle, and the saga goes on like this:
'With dragons fore and snekkes behind,
King Eystein in his blood-rage blind,
Slid in the bay and took the town,
And burned Skardaborg to the ground.
Grey Hildursleif, calling the Aesir,
Made heard her voice through all the ether,
And raised a storm and Thor's bright blade,
To guide her to a forest glade.
In craggy cleft she made his mound,
Where Ragnar's Bauta-stein she found,
And writ in ancient, northern rune,
A curse upon't before his tomb.
The stone was raised in forest bower,
Where died the Dame in that same hour,
And Seasnake's lads, all sore dismayed,
Beside her son the witch-wife laid . . .
'So there you are, de Marigny. . Of course I looked for further references in the prose, and eventually I tracked down the tomb in Allerston Forest.'
'The tomb? Gory-Axe's tomb?' I stupidly queried, still feeling the dull weight of the previous night's party
'Ragnar's tomb, yes,' Crow sighed at my slowness. 'And his Bauta-stein, with the runes still on it beneath the moss of centuries. Now Sorlson has found it, too —and it's my fault, I fear!'
Here my interest picked up greatly. 'And you say the curse is still active? You think Sorlson's in danger, then?'
'That's exactly it, Henri. He's in desperate trouble if ever he tries to move that stone, o'r even interfere with it. That part of the forest site is abhorred by locals, has been for hundreds of years. They say the area's haunted — and of course it is — and they won't go near it. The shade of the Viking walks there still, and the runes on the stone make it clear that there's a doom in store for anyone foolish enough to disturb it!'
'And you could read those "ancient northern runes"?' I asked.
'No, not immediately, but I made a copy and later used Walmsley's Notes on Deciphering Codes, Cryptograms, and Ancient Inscriptions to translate the thing. More about that later.'
'But didn't Ragnar's, er, shade — didn't his ghost make itself known to you?'
'I copied the runes — that's all. I made no attempt to disturb the stone, none whatever. But I did have a rather peculiar dream, yes!'