'The prince smiled to himself. "Put Silver Bell into a wooden barrel," he declared. "Bind the barrel with nine iron hoops. Nail down the bottom with copper nails and throw the barrel into the rushing river."
'This said, he rode off to his hall in the fine, large borg and called his thralls round him. "Go to the river," he told them. "The water will bring down a large barrel. Catch it and bring it here, then run into the woods. If you hear weeping, do not turn back. If cries and moans spread through the woods, do not look back. Do not return to my hall in less than three days."
'For nine days and nine nights the people of the encampment could not bring themselves to carry out the prince's orders. For nine days and nine nights they bid the girl farewell. On the tenth day they put Silver Bell into a wooden barrel, bound it with nine iron hoops, nailed down the bottom with copper nails and threw the barrel into the rushing river.'
'This sounds a suitable punishment for one who insults a prince,' noted Dobrynya. Vladimir frowned uneasily and I swallowed the thickness in my mouth.
'It is a tale about Odin,' I declared and saw Sigurd's head come up at this manifest lie.
'Is it?' asked Vladmir, his frown deepening. 'He does not sound godlike to me.'
'A master of deceit,' I acknowledged. 'Always his gifts are suspect. Recall the tale of the nine thralls and the whetstone. .'
I was babbling and heard myself, so I stopped. Olaf, blank as a cliff, gave me his two-coloured stare and cleared his throat, a high little sound.
'On that day,' he began, 'the day the barrel went in the river, the hunter who loved Silver Bell was examining his traps, saw the barrel, caught it, brought it out of the river, picked up an axe and knocked out the bottom. When he saw Silver Bell, the hand that held the axe dropped and his heart leaped like a grasshopper. At last he asked: "Who put you into the barrel?" She told him.
'The hunter thought for a minute, then went to his traps, where a huge wolf, white as silver glared at him and then got back to gnawing through its own paw. At this point, the hunter would have knocked it on the head; instead, he caught it by the ruff and dropped it in the barrel, nailed down the bottom with copper nails and let the barrel float downstream.
'The prince's thralls pulled out the barrel, brought it to the great hall and put it before the prince, then left as he had ordered. Even before they had closed the door, they heard him knock out the bottom of the barrel and call for help. Faithfully, they did as they had been bidden. They heard shouts, but did not turn back. They heard moaning and cries, but did not look back. For such were their lord's orders.
'Three days later they returned and opened the door. A great, silver-ruffed, three-legged wolf, dead of exhaustion and blood-loss, lay on the floor. Nearby was the prince, more dead than alive — his flesh was torn to shreds, his fine clothes were tattered and torn and, when the thralls crowded round to find out what had happened, all that he could say that made sense was. . "silver" and "curse". He never spoke sense ever again.'
Into the silence that followed, Sigurd cleared his throat. Olaf, unsmiling and cool as a river stone, hopped down from his bench and silently placed a hand on Vladimir's shoulder. I waited, dry-mouthed, for the flaring of princely rage that would follow.
Instead, Vladimir blinked once or twice, then nodded, as if Olaf had whispered to him.
'When this business is finished,' he said, 'you must stay with me in Lord Novgorod the Great.'
'Of course,' said Olaf with a smile. 'And you will give me ships and men and I will fight on your behalf. Jon Asanes must also come, for he is a clever man. Together we will make your name greater than that of your father.'
The clarity of it shocked me, like the stun of a blow taken on your forearm. Of course — little Vladimir, hag-ridden by his father's memory, wanted only that; to be greater. That was what drove him after Atil's hoard.
I stood up and took my leave while I was in the eye of this storm and — not that I was surprised — little Crowbone caught up with me not long afterwards. Outside, in the dark of the dead day, he trotted at my heels, pulling his cloak round him and trying to keep up with my strides.
'You were right,' I said to him angrily. 'That is an affliction.'
He shook his head, glancing up at me with that two-coloured frown and I was disconcerted, for he looked wise as a greybeard, then grinned like the boy he was.
'That was clever about Odin,' he declared. 'As you say — beware his gifts, as the nine thralls should have done.'
Then he was gone, silent as an owl, leaving me with the vision of those thralls, scrabbling for the whetstone One Eye threw in the air and cutting their own throats with their scythes in their greed. I shook my head over him, and not for the first time. Like his eyes on colour, I could not make up my mind on Olaf Crowbone.
At the hut we had taken over, the original family bobbed and grinned, eager to please and keep their lives while they tried to hide valuables and food. The Oathsworn counted, washed and prepared the dead for burial.
'How many?' I asked and Kvasir looked up, his good eye red and weeping. Thorgunna had warm water and was bathing it.
'Two will lie on either side of Harelip — Snorri and Eyolf.'
Snorri I remembered getting an arrow through the foot. I did not recall seeing Eyolf, whom we called Kraka — Crow — because he was left-handed.
'Aye, Snorri got pinned in the one place and danced round his foot until he ran out of steps,' Kvasir said, waving Thorgunna away irritably. She made a disgusted face at him and went. I saw she had applied more soot-black round his good eye.
'A big Slav cut him down when he could dance no further,' Kvasir finished.
'Eyolf?'
'His sheath killed him.'
I remembered how Eyolf had loved his hand-tooled sheath, leather the colour of old blood, stretched over oak and sheep-lined. I looked at Kvasir and he shrugged.
'He would not take it off and the baldric caught on the timbers on top of the gate. He could not get free and hung there, afraid of being shot with arrows. So he wriggled until the strap broke and he fell — the sheath snapped and the wood of it drove into his liver and lights and he died.'
I remembered the man struggling at the top of the gate while I fought for Cod-Biter's life. I remembered, too, the same man crashing down, the screaming and writhing. An idiot death; no man wears a sheath in a battle, for if it does not tangle in your legs then something stupid like this happens. Stabbed by his own sheath — there was a straw death to make Odin's hall ring with laughter.
'Cod-Biter?'
Kvasir shrugged and pointed to where Bjaelfi was working, Jon Asanes holding up a pitch torch for more light. Bjaelfi's elbow was pumping furiously and I knew what he was doing — trimming Cod-Biter's arm straight, cutting more bone and flesh from him. Cod-Biter was mercifully limp but not dead, otherwise Bjaelfi would not be bothering.
Finn sat nearby, watching and silent and Thordis, between tending to the fire and the food bowls and other business, shot him frequent, worried glances. Then she fetched me a bowl that steamed and a chunk of black bread, hunkering at my knee as she delivered it.
'This looks good,' I said and it was no lie; I was astonished at how savoury the stew was.
'Food is not a problem now, Jarl Orm,' she said. 'It seems these nithings we defeated had stolen most of the supplies from Lambisson. The ones who went on will be hungry by now, I am thinking.'
I would have been pleased, save that Short Eldgrim was one of them. I had the feeling Cod-Biter would not last the night and now Short Eldgrim looked more doomed than ever. What with Runolf Harelip's death, it seemed the old Oathsworn were fated not to get back to Atil's hoard.
Thordis nodded seriously when I said this. She jerked her head in Finn's direction.