The White Raven

Vladimir's two iron pillars were with him, his uncle Dobrynya on his right, and Sigurd, the head of young Vladimir's druzhina, on the prince's left.

Of that pair, it had to be said that Sigurd was the one who made you blink, for he was called Axebitten for good reason and what the axe had bitten was his nose, legacy of a fight where he forgot to draw back all the way in good time. Now he wore a silver one in its place, strapped on with a silk ribbon that tied at the back of his head and was almost covered by his greying beard and hair, so that it seemed nothing at all held on that marvellous nose.

Nor did you mention it if you valued keeping your own; losing a nose was punishment in most vik for thieving and so was a dread mark for a man who loved his dignity and valued his honour highly, as Sigurd did.

But it was little Vladimir, in blue breeks and a simple white linen shirt belted at the waist, who was the one who mattered, for all he only had a dozen years on him. He was capless, his hair shaved from his head save for two plaited braids hanging from his temples in the Khazar style, like his father; Sviatoslay.

'I am told we have met before,' he said in his light, high voice, frowning at me.

We had, when Einar was jarl of the Oathsworn and Vladimir; all of six then, had stopped to watch us when we were part of his father's army bound for the Khazar city of Sarkel to siege it.

I told him this and he nodded. 'I remember Einar. I have heard how he betrayed my brother Jaropolk and vanished into the steppe in search of some treasure. I hear he died there.'

'True, great. prince,' I said, feeling the slow slide of sweat down my back. 'The years have flowed like the Dnepr under all that.'

'Rare is it to have laughter from my prisons,' he answered, after a short pause to make it seem as if he considered his words carefully. He played the prince well at twelve.

'Rare it is,' I countered, sweating more and desperate, for I knew our lives rode on how gold-browed my words were now, 'to have a tale to laugh at.'

'I told it,' interrupted Olaf and I cursed the little rat. 'Would you like to hear it?'

I closed my eyes with the horror of it, while Vladmir, back-footed by this surprise stroke, wanted to turn and look to his Uncle Dobrynya, but had enough prince in him to resist it. That and boyish curiosity made him command Olaf to tell it.

'There was once a good Slav from Lord Novgorod the Great,' Olaf began, while my belly flipped over and my mouth dried so much my tongue almost choked me.

'We shall call him Vladimir.'

And he told the whole tale, only it wasn't a priest, it was an uncle called Dobrynya and, at every new stanza of it, I felt the wolf-hot breath of the Valkyrie wash closer and closer.

Then, at the end of it, while Vladimir hid his grins behind his hand, I saw Dobrynya smiling through his salted-black spade of a beard and felt a moment of light. A chance. There was a chance. Then I saw Sigurd, who was frowning above his silver nose and that was enough to drive my hopes deeper than the pit prison.

'What name do you have, boy?' demanded Sigurd so harshly that both Vladimir and Dobrynya looked at him in surprise. 'Olaf, lord.'

'And your father's name?'

I closed my eyes, for Olaf would never reveal that. The silence stretched.

'Was it Tryggve, by any chance?' growled Sigurd and I blinked as Olaf jerked.

'And your mother was called Astrid,' he said, softer now and again Olaf jerked again like a speared whale. Then the truth of it smacked me like snow from a roof — Sigurd. Olafs lost uncle.

'You know this boy, Sigurd Axebitten?' asked Dobrynya and the druzhina captain nodded, smiling at long last — not that it was a better sight than a frown with that silver nose.

'I believe he is my nephew, who was being sent to me for safety after his father was slain. Some raiders kidnapped him and his mother and fostri — that was six years ago and I have heard nothing until now.'

'We freed him,' I interrupted hurriedly. 'Klerkon it was — the man little Olaf here killed. He had been mistreated, chained up, beaten, his mother was cruelly. .'

I tailed off, realizing the whole story, the final tug of that ring, unearthing the whole glorious sword of it.

Olaf, son of Tryggve. I knew of a Tryggve whose son would be a prince, whose mother was a princess called Astrid, daughter of Eirik Bjodaskalle from Obrestad in Rogaland.

King Tryggve Olafsson, of Viken and Vmgulmark, grandson of Harald Fairhair of Norway. Not a king really, but enough of a mighty jarl — a rig-jarl — to call himself so in the north of Norway, until he had fallen under the blades of the sons of Eirik Bloodaxe, driven on by their mother Gunnhild.

Aye, there was a woman. Gunnhild, the fearsome witch who could nurse night-wolves with the bile that she held in her breast. Who could chew grindstones to powder when she gnashed her teeth on a matter. She had searched out what she called 'the brat' all over Norway, determined to end the line and make her sons safe. Everyone thought she had done so since the boy and his mother and foster-father Lousebeard — properly known as Thorolf, I now remembered — had simply gone from every view and, in the end, from every lip and mind.

Now here was the truth of it, standing in this pine-smelling hall, frowning uncertainly up at the man with a silver nose who claimed to be his uncle.

I looked at the boy, pulled up as tall as he could, his chin jutting. A knife slipped between his ribs at any point would have been worth more than his own weight in gold to Gunnhild. Half the men who crewed the Elk would have done it in an eyeblink — the other half would have hoisted him on their shoulders and gone off to claim him king.

'Then we cannot kill him, surely,' Vladimir said in a shocked voice. 'Not a prince of the Norways, a nephew of Sigurd Axebitten.'

Dobrynya said nothing, though he looked at Sigurd, then at us, then at Olaf. I almost hoiked my guts up there and then, for you could see it written on his face, like a birch-bark account.

No, they couldn't stick a stake up little Olafs arse — but the veche would want their blood price for the killing of Klerkon.

So Vladimir started with one of the thrall women, to see if the veche would be satisfied with that.

They took us all out to witness their sharp judgement on the thrall woman, Danica.

While his skilled men worked with their stake, I looked up to where little Prince Vladimir stood. Today he was a fine-looking prince, in brocaded breeks and silk shirt, his dark-blue coat hemmed in red and with gold at the cuffs, wearing an over-robe of the same colour decorated with gold and fastened with a ruby clasp. Topping all this was a sable cap crowned with silver and the great crushing weight of an eagle-headed gold torc screaming on his chest. His two pillars were with him. And nestling under the embrace of Sigurd's comforting hand on his shoulder was Olaf, who had found his lost uncle.

At the end of it, both Dobrynya and Sigurd inclined their heads to the beards of the veche, the horsehair plume on Dobrynya's helmet stirring in the snow-thick wind. This one slave woman was clearly not enough: the veche shook their heads to a man. They wanted us all in a neat line, turning the snow to red slush.

Martin waved his hand in front of his chest in that Christ-sign they use to ward off evil and even Finn and Kvasir looked stone grim when the guards prodded us back to the pit. The other thrall woman was dissolving into snot and tears and had to be carried by Thordis and Thorgunna.