When he was finished, we all chewed on it, looking for flaws in it until we realized that Kvasir had seen more with his one eye than all of us with our two.
'Can you do that?' Dobrynya asked, when I walked back to his fire to tell him what the Oathsworn would do when morning came.
'We will do it,' I answered, 'for we are the Oathsworn.'
I was glad they could not see my clenched belly and curled-up balls and discover how firmly I believed this.
Dobrynya glanced at Sigurd, then over at the sleeping Vladimir, little Olaf huddled beside him, and nodded wearily. I hunkered down beside him and we stared at the fire for a while, while the pair of them raked around for the delicate words to find out what the prince's pillars needed to know — if I had been so offended by this boy prince that I would leave or, worse, seek revenge.
I had no reason to do it, but saved them the trouble of speaking.
'In return for the lives he held in his hand,' I said to the fire, 'I agreed to hold up the prince's breaking sky. True, no oath was spoken on it — as you know, we oath only to each other, in the eye of Odin — but I am still shouldering the burden.'
There was silence while the fire found ice in its food and spat irritably. Then Dobrynya cleared his throat.
'He is young, but growing well,' he said. 'There will come a time when you will welcome the friendship of such a prince. The death of his father has flung him into this too early and unprepared.'
I nodded. The friendship of a prince would be welcome if I survived the winter — or if he did. I said as much and Sigurd grinned, which pinched the flesh white around his silver nose.
'The one thing I have learned,' he growled, 'is that some are born to greatness. He is one. Little Olaf there is another. They will survive.'
Even if everyone else has to die, I was thinking, while his little Olaf smiled and showed teeth bloody with firelight, as though he had just lifted his head from a fresh kill. Yet, for all his cub fierceness and his strange seidr magic, he was afraid most of the time. Afraid and alone, for all his Uncle Sigurd and his distant, unknown relatives, for Crowbone would always be fastened to Klerkon's privy, waiting in vain for them to rescue him.
Near him, Vladimir stirred and moaned, now only a boy in his sleep and one who could not ever have his father say all the things a father should, nor say all the things a son should.
I knew how they both felt, which was why I held up their sky.
That night, I dreamed of Hild, the woman who had led us originally to Atil's howe and had gone mad there — or been possessed by the fetch of Atil's dead bride who had, legend said, killed him and been fastened alive to his throne in that tomb.
I saw Hild as I had last seen her, hair flying like black snakes, the sabre she had, twin of my own, whirling like a skein of light as she slid away, back into that dark place, screaming curses at me while the flood-water rose round her.
I did not care what Finn believed. I knew Hild, or something like the fetch of her, was out on the steppe, leading Atil's own oathsworn against us.
In the dim light of morning most of us were too numbed to wake, sliding instead into a bleary-eyed awareness of a tiny, white, dreich world, unable to work out whether a night, a morning or a whole day had just gone by.
The strongest kicked the rest of us awake. That was Thorgunna, walking as if her legs had turned to timbers, but still capable of forcing me up, to make me do the jarl-task of forcing everyone else to their feet.
Cracking the skin of rime that had formed on me, clothes and beards and hair, I stumbled around looking for whitened mounds that had been men the night before, thumping them, growling — ranting, even, until the ice and snow cracked and heaved apart.
Slowly, the Oathsworn grunted themselves into the day; the whole camp did, sluggish and reluctant as a thawing river. Two were dead — none of mine, thank the gods — and those were stacked like driftwood, for there was no way even to uncurl them from their last frozen huddle let alone strip them of valuables, armour and weapons.
Ref Steinsson, rummaging in his sea-chest for anything that would give him warmth, showed us what had happened to the bits of poor tin he kept to make repairs on pots — we stared dully at how the cold had crumbled the slivers to a grey powder.
Fires were lit. I choked down some oats soaked in warmed meltwater — the horses had the same — and we armed for the day. By the time the sun was a red half-orb on the lip of the world, we were ready, a band of pinch-faced, sunken-eyed thrall-born, beards dripping with melting ice, faces beaded with melt-water from hair crammed under helmets and heating up, only to refreeze on our faces. We did not look capable of walking to the gate never mind storming it.
Worse than them were the Chosen, of whom I was one. We had taken off byrnies and layers of clothing, down to almost no more than a tunic, a helmet, breeks and boots. The cold no longer seeped, it chewed on us as we stamped and shivered — if it had not been for the battle-fire burning in us, we would already be blue and dying.
Dobrynya rode forward with little Vladimir, now in his silvered mail and plumed helmet, every inch a half-sized warrior. Sigurd led sixty horsemen — the last war horses still capable of being ridden by armoured men — in a long sweep to the far gate, a move designed to drag defenders away from this one. Olaf was with him and gave a cheerful wave.
The rest of the druzhina, on foot and with bows uncased, were lined up and waiting behind the Oathsworn, beyond bowshot range of the defenders. From behind the gate came the sound of hammering; the defenders at work. I worried, then, that they were nailing the bar to the gate, which would make things hard for us.
'A good morning to die,' declared Vladimir sternly, which was something his father had no doubt been fond of saying. I said nothing, for such a statement was far short of a battle speech designed to get our ice-limbed men moving. Beside, unclenching my jaw only made my teeth chatter.
'Time to begin,' declared Dobrynya.
'Just so,' said Vladimir and hefted his little spear. Then the two of them set their shields, kicked their horses and ran straight at the gate.
Say what you like about Vladimir — and many did as he grew into his power — but he had courage. The idea was Dobrynya's, to test how many archers the defenders had and, I learned later, he had wanted to do it alone. A swift gallop, the throw of a spear into the gate — the traditional way to announce the start of a siege with no quarter — then another swift gallop back to safety.
Vladimir added himself to the plan and showed his deep-thinking even then, for the men were as impressed by this display as they had been depressed by his loss of face in front of Farolf the day before.
He thundered his way up to the walls, hurled his little spear over and then yelled, his voice cracked with youth and excitement: 'Idu na vy!'
The druzhina bawled out their approval. Idu na vy — I am coming against you, his father's war-cry to his enemies. Vladimir's followers were so roaring with what had been done that it leaped to the Oathsworn and the blood surged up in them, too, so that they beat on their shields and howled like wolves. Steam rose.
Only a few desultory arrows flew at the pair of riders as they galloped back and slithered to a stop, the horses panting already, unfit and malnourished.
'Well,' said Dobrynya, his eyes glittering with excitement. and amusement. 'We have done our part, Jarl Orm.'
I turned, the belly-clenching fear of what had to come next filling me. The Oathsworn were ready and I fought for something clever to say — then Odin, as ever, stepped in and made the dog bark inside the village.