There was no sound except the rushing of the Dnieper over the rocks below. Hakon’s vivid arterial blood bubbled around the axe shaft that sprouted from the huge gash in his chest. His legs jerked spasmodically.
Haraldr bent over the fallen Titan. Indigo lips parted and the ivory teeth chattered. ‘Mar . . .’ Hakon said, his voice rattling. Blood gushed from his lips and the teeth were no longer white. ’Mar, avenge me. . . .’
‘That’s the last of them,’ said Halldor as he lowered the flap of Hakon’s silk pavilion, blocking out the inky blue wedge of sky. Even Halldor’s imperturbable voice was edged with weariness and irritation.
Haraldr turned to Ulfr, seated on the simple camp stool next to him. ‘What do you think, Counsellor?’
‘I’m satisfied,’ said Ulfr. ‘I’d say the loyalty of two dozen of the Varangians will be suspect, and perhaps one or two of those will have to be watched. But I think your ears will tell you the feeling of most.’
Haraldr smiled. The Varangians were already rowdy with tales of the combat and with extraordinary inventions about the origins and background of their mysterious new champion and leader. There were at least a dozen pagans, young men from small rural communities in Sweden, who were steadfastly certain that Haraldr was Thor in the guise of a mortal.
‘And the Rus?’
‘Well, to my thinking, as good as can be. They’ll all follow Gleb, at least until we reach the Rus Sea. We have assurances from the leading traders. And surely you filled their breasts with joy this morning.’
Yes. What a moment. There had been a hushed silence as Haraldr knelt over Hakon. After the blood had pooled and Hakon’s feet had stopped twitching, no one had moved. Then Gleb had walked forward, sagging cheeks working, stood over the corpse, and ceremoniously spat on it. With that the crowd had erupted in a delirium of joy and praise. Then the Varangians had carried their new leader to the late Hakon’s grandiose pavilion and had entered one at a time to pledge homage and loyalty. And after that came the Rus merchants and traders, begging concessions and asking Haraldr to settle disputes.
‘Now we only need worry about the response of the Griks,’ said Halldor. He was carefully cleaning his nails with his short eating knife. ‘And the commander of the Imperial Guard.’
Haraldr nodded wearily. The Byzantine trade ambassador had been noticeably absent among the day’s endless procession of congratulants and supplicants. Gregory, however, had come by. ‘An unofficial visit, Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ the little eunuch had whispered hastily. ‘I want to express my singular delight in your victory over that gangster, a joy that is only surpassed by the august ambassador’s acute discomfort at the news of your triumph. He hated the Manglavite as he hates all barbaroi, but he views with great trepidation the reaction that Hakon’s death will evoke from Mar Hunrodarson, a man far more powerful than even the august ambassador.’ Then Gregory had looked about nervously. ‘I am not certain that I will have an opportunity to speak informally with you again. I would like to be able to tell you what you may expect when we reach the Empress City, but I fear that fortune still spins that wheel. I am certain that the fact that the Manglavite joyfully acceded to your challenge, in front of many witnesses, is an element in your favour. But much is changing in our Empire. The planets are reeling, and what their final configuration will be, even an astrologer could not say.’
Haraldr had been less concerned about the fate of the Byzantine Empire than the vastly more chilling certainty that he would soon have to come face to face with Mar Hunrodarson. He remembered what Jarl Rognvald had said: ‘There is always another dragon.’
‘And you should have killed Grettir.’ Halldor continued to clean his nails as he delivered his admonition.
‘Halldor, you don’t understand the bond among poets,’ said Ulfr. ‘And Grettir’s just a boy. The bitter taste on his praise-tongue today will make him a better man.’
Haraldr nodded his agreement. Grettir had come literally on his knees to Haraldr, begging forgiveness and a chance to serve. Haraldr had demoted him to a menial stewardship but had promised him consideration as a skald if he showed a more worthy attitude.
‘Well,’ said Halldor drily, ‘it’s as useless to argue with poets as it is to butt heads with an elk. That’s my advice, and I leave it at that.’ He slipped his knife back in its sheath and stood up. ‘It’s not an urgent matter, anyway. Sleep is.’ He examined the blood-encrusted linen bandage around Haraldr’s deeply gashed forearm; other than that and a quick rinsing of the blood from his face, Haraldr’s wounds had yet to be treated. ‘I’ve found a healer for your wounds. This healer is from somewhere to the east. They say she’s very skilled. She speaks some Norse.’ Haraldr thought he detected some signal in Halldor’s implacable eyes. ‘I’ve told her to be available for as long as you need her.’ Halldor turned and left without further ado; Ulfr embraced Haraldr and followed.
Sable-haired and swan-white, thought Haraldr as the healer entered the pavilion. She was the slave he had praised in Kiev. Her chin was cocked haughtily and her agate eyes confronted his. Her linen petticoat whisked over glimpses of white ankle. Her bare arms cradled a small carved wooden chest, folded linen and a silver bowl.
She set the chest and linen and bowl on the camp stool next to Haraldr. Standing while he was seated, her eyes were slightly higher than his. She was more beautiful than Elisevett, Haraldr thought. The closeness of her made his breath come with difficulty.
‘Take off.’ Her voice was high and melodic, with a thick accent Haraldr had never heard before. She gestured with elegant movements of her slender fingers.
Haraldr blushed. The healer seemed amused and politely looked at her feet while Haraldr removed his sweat-soiled wool tunic; he was wearing only breeches beneath.
She began with the lesser wounds. He closed his eyes when she washed his forehead, and he could smell her sweet skin, faintly scented with myrrh. She tended a shallow gash on his thigh, and he was embarrassed by the stirring in his groin.
Her eyes searched his with a seemingly innocent curiosity. ‘I call you Jarl?’
Haraldr shook his head. ‘I’m not a Jarl. And you no longer have a master.’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You . . . not master?’
‘I gave all of Hakon’s slaves their freedom.’ Haraldr spoke very deliberately so she would understand. ‘You are free.’
‘Yes,’ she said proudly, as if he had merely expressed the natural state of things. She pressed her lovely fingers to her breast. ‘Khazar.’
So, thought Haraldr, she is from the desert. The Khazars were a proud and noble people who had once owned a great empire round a vast inland sea to the east. Lately their power had been usurped by a race of horsemen said to be as dark and savage as the Pechenegs but far more intelligent.
‘You don’t belong here, do you,’ said Haraldr, almost to himself.
‘Caught,’ she said angrily. Apparently she understood Norse better than she could speak it. ‘Brothers . . .’ She vehemently brushed the air with her hand. They had been wiped out. She probably had been sold to Norse traders in Khoresm.
She touched her breast delicately again. ‘Princess.’
The word seemed to strike Haraldr’s heart. Yes. She had the air. She probably had learned to heal by binding her brothers’ wounds. She’d certainly not been raised as a servant. His breast pained for her as it had that night in Kiev. I already love you, he silently confessed. But I can see that you have another love, and because of it, you could never be happy with mine.
With one trembling finger he touched her chin. She did not flinch. ‘When we get to the Rus Sea, twenty of our ships will leave to dock at Kherson. I’ll send you with them and see that from there a ship takes you east. Home to your people.’