‘You are a little diminished,’ he pointed out. ‘A king with no crown, a prince with no hird. A shadow of what you were, boy. Soon even that will be gone.’
‘A shadow is still a powerful thing,’ Crowbone said. ‘Once there existed somewhere in the world — do not ask me when, do not ask me where — a place where the Sami learned to be workers of powerful seidr magic. Wherever this place was, it was somewhere below ground, eternally dark and changeless. There was no teacher either, but everything was learned from fiery runes, which could be read quite easily in the dark. Never were the pupils allowed to go out into the open air or see the daylight during the whole time they stayed there, which was from five to seven years. By then they had gained all they needed of the Sami art.’
‘Ha,’ scowled Bjarki. ‘What a poor tale. How did they eat in all this time, then?’
‘A shaggy grey hand came through the wall every day with meals,’ answered Crowbone without as much as a breath of hesitation. ‘When they had finished eating and drinking the same hand took back the horns and platters.
‘They saw no-one but each other and that only in the dim light of the fiery runes,’ he went on and Bjarki, scowling, was fixed by it. ‘Those same runes told them the only rule of the place, which was that the Master should keep for himself the student who was last to leave the school every year. Considering that most folk who knew of the place thought Loki himself was the Master, you may fancy what a scramble there was at each year’s end, everybody doing his best to avoid being last to leave.
‘It happened once that three Icelanders went to this school, by the name of S?mundur the Learned, Kalfur Arnason, and one called, simply, Orm; and as they all arrived at the same time, they were all supposed to leave at the same time. Seven years later, when it came to taking the bit of it in their teeth, Orm declared himself willing to be the last of them, at which the others were much lightened in mind. So he threw over himself a large cloak, leaving the pin loose.
‘A staircase led to the upper world, and when Orm was about to mount this Loki grasped at him and said, “You are mine!” But Orm ducked his head, slipped free and made off with all speed, leaving Loki the empty cloak. However, just as he reached the heavy iron yett beyond the door, it slammed shut. “Did you imagine that the Father of Tricksters would be fooled by that?” said a dark voice from the blackness.
‘A great hand reached out to drag Orm back just as he saw the sun for the first time in seven years, a great blaze of light which fell on him, throwing his shadow onto the wall behind him. Orm said: “I am not the last. Do you not see who follows me?”
‘So Loki, mistaking the shadow for a man, raised the yett and grabbed at the shadow, allowing Orm to escape — but from that hour Orm was always shadowless, for whatever Loki took, he never gave back again.’
There was silence and then Bjarki gave an uneasy laugh, while Finn beamed like a happy uncle and clapped Crowbone on the back.
‘As I said — I like your tales. They seldom miss the mark.’
‘A boy’s tale,’ Bjarki scowled back. ‘There will be no shadow-escape for you and the Oathsworn are unlikely to be storming this fortress.’
He broke off and smeared a grin on his face, ugly as a hunchbacked rat.
‘Well — here is one of your saviours coming now, fresh from this hero-saga,’ he added as sounds clattered at the door. It swung open and two huge Saxlanders dragged in a slumped, dangle-headed figure. Two more men scowled their way in after them.
Bjarki moved to the prisoner and lifted his head by the hair; it was Styrbjorn and the surprise of it must have showed in all our faces, for Bjarki frowned; he had not been expecting that. His face twisted even more when one of the Saxlander guards slapped his hand free with a short, phlegm-thick curse. The other fetched the key, opened the door and slung Styrbjorn in, so that he crashed to the floor and bounced.
Bjarki sniggered, hovering by the door and the irritated guard shoved him back, so that he staggered and almost fell; one hand flew to the dagger at his belt and the guard, ringmailed and helmed and armed with a great stave of spear looked inquiringly at him, then laughed when Bjarki saw what he was about to do and took his hand away.
‘You are not as welcome here as you make it seem, little bear,’ Finn said with a dry laugh. One of the men who had followed Styrbjorn into the room, bald-headed and stubbled on a sharp chin, spat at him then, which narrowed Finn’s eyes.
‘Your welcome is worse,’ Stubble-Chin said. ‘This Styrbjorn killed Pall, which is red murder. No matter what happens, he will swing in a cage for it.’
‘Which one are you?’ asked Crowbone. ‘Freystein? I did not ever hear the name of the fourth man.’
‘I am Freystein,’ said the second man and jerked a thumb at the bald-headed one. ‘He is Thorstein, Pall’s brother.’
‘Ah,’ said Finn knowingly. ‘Same litter — I thought I saw it, but was not sure. All rats look the same to me.’
The door opened again and the Saxlander guards straightened a little as Kasperick came in, lifting the trailing hem of his robe from the floor of the place. He surveyed the scene with a satisfied smile and moved to the table where our possessions had been left, lifting Crowbone’s sword admiringly.
‘A fine and cunning weapon,’ he said, drawing it out and swinging it once or twice. ‘A little light, but perfect for a boy.’
Then he drew mine, which was Jarl Brand’s and he smiled like a cream-fed cat over that one. Then there was Styrbjorn’s; the silk wrapping was gone. When he drew The Godi, Finn growled, hackled like a hound on a boar scent.
‘Four swords of price,’ he declared. ‘Not a bad day — you three can take the rest of their possessions as reward. Get out.’
Bjarki and the others blinked and Bjarki looked as if he would argue, but the two huge guards leaned forward a little and the three of them left, summoning up as much swagger as they could, which was not much.
‘They expected more,’ I said, ‘for whispering in your ear about the Mazur girl.’
Kasperick waved a languid hand. ‘They are little yaps, from that large dog Pallig Tokeson. One day, we will deal with Pallig, but his little pups are useful and of small account to me when they have barked. To each other, too, I am thinking — the death of Pall will not concern them much, save that they can now split the reward I gave them into thirds instead of fourths.’
He settled his rump on the edge of the table and looked us over.
‘You will send word to release the Mazur girl,’ he declared. ‘In return, I will release all of you — except the one they call Styrbjorn, for he is guilty of murder.’
‘Styrbjorn? What does one of Pallig’s little yappers matter to you?’ I countered and he nodded, a nasty smile on his face.
‘Nothing,’ he agreed, ‘save that justice must be seen to be done — anyway, I have gone to all the trouble of lighting a brazier and started heating up instruments. I will not have all my enjoyment removed.’
The threat was plain enough and he saw it had hit home as he slid his arse off the table.
‘You have until first light to think,’ he added flatly. Then he swept out, followed by the two guards; the door banged shut behind them, leaving us alone in the fetid half-dark.
‘One who sees a friend roasting on a spit tells all he knows,’ Red Njal noted. ‘My granny said so and it remains true.’
‘Spit-luck for us, then, that Styrbjorn is a few wrist-clasps short of a friend to any of us,’ Finn answered and prodded the luckless subject with one toe. Styrbjorn groaned and Red Njal bent briefly to look at him.
‘Lump like a gull’s egg and a bruise, nothing much more,’ he growled, straightening. Finn took the pisspot and emptied the contents on Styrbjorn, who surfaced, wheezing and blowing.
‘Better?’ Finn inquired as Styrbjorn blinked into the Now of it all. The enormity of where he was crashed on him like creaming surf and he subsided.