32
The flyting was in full session and the skald was doing well. A huge jarl had shouted that Styrman was skinny, mean and too lazy to find his own food — at least Vali thought that was what he said. He could speak good Danish, his time with Barth the thrall had seen to that, but in the tumult of the hall he had difficulty picking some of the words out. He heard the skald’s reply as something like, ‘Food scarce. Lord Fastarr, none can eat but he. Esteemed lord keep cloak on as you pass the pigs, lest you be a birthing sow.’
The crowd roared, banging cups and knives on the table. Vali, though, could not find the contest funny. He glanced at Bragi. He had told the old man not to get drunk, but clearly Bragi had interpreted that as, ‘Don’t get very drunk indeed.’ He was guffawing into his beard and shouting, ‘He’s got you there, Fastarr! You asked for that one!’
‘How can you tell what they say?’ Vali asked Bragi.
‘I can’t get much of it, but you know it’s quality stuff from the skald — you only have to look at the fellow,’ said Bragi. He was enjoying, more than enjoying, wordplay in a language he hardly understood. Vali shook his head and returned to thinking about the business of the night.
The wolfman, Vali knew, was outside, sitting, as he always did in the evenings, down by the ramparts, staring into nothing. Feileg couldn’t stand the noise of the hall and in company retreated into long silences, hovering between animosity and something like fear. It was fear, Vali knew, of the unfamiliar. Vali looked around at the Danish nobles, the huge hall, the rich attire of the jarls, at their strange manners; he heard their weird ways of speaking. He was happier with ordinary people. Was he any different to Feileg? Yes, he was, because he would live to see the dawn tomorrow and Feileg would not.
Vali thought of the ships out on the water, symbols of the freedom he wanted. Even a rowing boat or Veles’ little delivery vessel would do.
He was ready. Everything had unfolded just as he had thought. The visit of the skald was such a big occasion that the longhouses lay empty. Only a single guard sat on the perimeter wall of the harbour by the chain and another at the gate. It was going to be easier than he had imagined.
Vali slipped out of the hall. It was late and the Danes had drunk their way through four of Veles’ big barrels, or at least they had been emptied. Vali knew very well that on such occasions people filled up whatever they could, and quite a lot of the wine would be transported in bottle and pan back to the longhouses to be consumed at a later date. The barrels had been upended and the ends prised off, people filling containers by dipping them in, tied to cords if necessary, to get the last out. The push to be first to the wine had been an unedifying spectacle.
He whistled to the wolfman, who turned and came towards him. Vali could sense his hatred, which was as strong as it had ever been. He was glad — it would make his task easier.
‘We go tonight and need cloaks,’ he said. ‘Take three from a longhouse.’ He had noted that everyone was in their best clothes for the visit of the skald. Their workaday stuff would be there for the taking.
‘I need no cloak in this weather.’
‘You do, for disguise. Go and get them.’
Soundlessly the wolfman moved away, more like something liquid than solid, flowing from shadow to shadow. Vali steeled himself while Feileg was gone. His sword was leaning against the outside of the king’s hall, along with Bragi’s. It would take too long to draw though. Vali had a short knife and thought he would do for Feileg with that as the wolfman put on his cloak. Then he would drag him to an animal pen, change their clothes, walk out of the settlement and steal a boat as soon as he could. His nervousness made him restless, and he went back inside the hall.
The skald was causing general hilarity with his flyting, and people were queuing up to try to best him, though no one had managed it so far. They were standing on the benches, clapping and yelling, toasting and cursing him, and everyone was seriously drunk.
Bragi, who was — incredibly — wearing his byrnie, was proffering a drinking horn to a slave girl who was trying to fill it from a jug. He was making her task much more difficult by pulling at her dress as she did so to get a look at her breasts.
‘Outside,’ said Vali. ‘Now.’
Even though he was mildly drunk, the old warrior caught the seriousness in Vali’s voice and followed him into the cool of the night. Vali took him to the shadows.
‘When Feileg comes back,’ he said, ‘I am going to kill him. It must be done quickly and it must be done without sound. The best place is in the shadow of the stable over there. It’s dark enough and any noise will not be heard from the hall. It is necessary and I’ll explain why once it is done.’
Bragi shrugged. ‘The outlaw was lucky to live so long anyway. Strike true. You’ll be a dead man if you don’t. I’ll be ready, whatever.’
‘Yes.’
They heard the skald shouting inside the hall. Five tuns of wine sends the merchant Veles, Only five little tubs to fill our bellies Let us tell this stingy merchant, ‘Be cursed!’ Ten fat barrels we’ll need to slake our thirst!
There was a tumult of applause and cheers inside the hall.
Feileg was back with three old cloaks in the light Danish style.
‘Over here away from the hall, and I’ll tell you the plan,’ said Vali.
They stepped towards the stable. Vali was very conscious of the knife in his belt. He would make Feileg do up the clasp on his cloak himself. The wolfman was unused to such things, and while his hands were occupied, Vali would stab him to the heart. Vali willed his fingers away from the knife, careful not to give his intentions away. That rune, that writhing, sinuous, shifting rune, was in his head again, but he dismissed it. They reached the lee of the building and Vali passed into the shadow. He was eager for Feileg to follow, eager for it to be over. But Feileg had stopped dead. He let out a low growl.
‘What?’ said Vali.
‘There is danger here,’ said Feileg. His teeth came back from his lips and he sniffed at the shadows.
‘There’s no danger. Come here,’ said Vali. He felt his heart pumping and his head light with nervousness.
‘I will not go there.’
Vali swallowed. Now, he thought. Now!
‘Walk on, you girl,’ said Bragi.
‘Shhhhhh!’ said a voice from the darkness.
Now Vali did draw his knife.
A pale face loomed out of the shadow. It was a child — the slave boy the wolfman had released back in Haithabyr.
‘Please follow,’ he said.
‘Keep out of this, child,’ said Vali. Had he guessed what was on Vali’s mind and was seeking to protect the man who had freed him?
‘Scram,’ said Bragi. He had automatically picked up his sword when he left the hall and now he wafted it, still in its scabbard, at the boy to swat him away.
‘Veles will make you free.’
‘How?’
‘You will go by the wine road. Follow me.’
Vali thought for a moment and then abandoned his plan. If Veles had sent this boy then perhaps there was a better way out. The boy led them to the side of the king’s hall. There were the barrels, open at the top.
‘In,’ said the boy.
Feileg shook his head. ‘No.’
Bragi’s hand went to his sword. ‘We can just as quick kill you here,’ he said.
The wolfman’s eyes were blank.
‘Fine,’ said Vali. ‘Don’t get in, and stay here to face Hemming’s wrath.’
‘I am coming with you,’ said the wolfman, ‘but not in there.’
‘There’s no other way,’ said Vali.
There was a blast of laughter from the hall. Someone had opened the doors.
‘I won’t be captured again,’ said Feileg.
The boy spoke: ‘You freed me. I owe you a debt. This is not captivity but freedom. Please, get in,’ he said.
There were footsteps now, drunken horseplay, voices repeating things the skald had said and wild laughter.