In the end, Sigurd and the others gave up asking and the only sound the rest of that way back to the village was our ragged breathing and the women weeping and the ring of hooves on the ice of the marsh.
I did not know what they were, those creatures, or what had made them — but snakes will protect their young, I reasoned, so it is better to kill them when you see them, rather than wait for them to bite you.
Yet they had fought as a family, those afflicted and those not, and had done it brave as Baldurs; the bile rose in me every time I thought of the wild-haired boy and the red-eyed babe — and especially the girl who pleaded.
We came back to the village and were swept into the joy of the people there, now freed from fear of the creatures. The rescued women, no tears left and silent as tombs, sat like stones in this stream of triumph and said nothing.
I also said nothing to Kovach, just stared into his pale eyes and held out my hand so that he could see what I had discovered. To anyone else, it would be a stone, no more. But he knew and took it from me and, as I walked away, I felt his eyes on my back like arrows.
Shovels and picks and a spoil heap, that's what I had found. Behind the hov, a narrow cleft, dug out and shored up and, nearby, a neat, hidden heap of good iron ore which these. . creatures. . had traded to the sword-forgers of Malkyiv.
In the end, the price, perhaps, became too high — from good livestock, to spare women to keep the little marsh clan going, despite whatever god had inflicted fish-skin on them.
Then there was the grand-daughter, with forearms muscled from forge work. In the north, we did not have women at the forge, but we were no strangers to it and some fine blades were crafted by women.
Once Kovach had to part with his skilled grand-daughter to get the all-important iron-ore, that was the end of it for the miners in the marsh. Kovach had, indeed, sent men — but it was to wipe out the marsh-miners and take over. Nor did it surprise me that the marsh and the miners had done for them all.
Well, we had done for the little marsh clan and brought Kovach's grand-daughter back, blonde and weeping; the cunning old man wept his thanks to the gods, then told the villagers to bring out the hidden supplies and declared a celebratory feast.
Now they had what they needed, Kovach and his village; they would get the rescued women to guide them back through the marsh and work the ore for themselves, which they had gained at no loss.
I wished them well of it, though I thought they would never be free of what they had done — nor would I. I would have it in my dreams forever, while Kovach's own doom lay under that blonde head he caressed; once, she caught my eye and the misery in it was plain, as was the plea. I had seen her, protecting her belly with those muscled forearms as I came stumbling into the hov, all metal and edge.
I did not know what she would give birth to — and neither did she — but I suspected Kovach would not be caressing her this time next year, blade-working skill or no.
I told some of it to Vladimir and Dobrynya, quietly, while Sigurd and Crowbone listened and it was clear they were there to make sure I told it true. I left out what we had burned and what might still appear with the spring.
In the end, little Vladimir nodded, smiling and generous as a prince should be. 'Good work, Orm Bear Slayer. Skalds will sing of this for a long time and the saga of it will be told round fires for ages yet to come. Eh, Olaf?'
'I will tell it myself,' agreed Crowbone, 'especially since I am in it.'
They smiled, bright little suns to each other. Vladimir and Olaf were the coming men and showing all the signs of being rulers you did not want to be anywhere near when they grew into the full of their lives.
I left them, avoiding the mad joy gracing the village. The night was washed with moonglow so that the land glittered blue-white; I tried to get enough clean, cold air in me to wash away the sickness I felt. I watched from the shadows as Crowbone went off, whistling vainly for Bleikr.
Cooking smells drifted, meat rich and mouth watering. Somewhere, Thorgunna would be seasoning what was in our pot, the others clashing cups and ale horns, grease-faced and grinning and making verses on the bravery of Orm Bear Slayer, Finn Horsehead and Kvasir Spittle. The number of creatures would grow in the telling, the hero-work swell and all of it, like the bear that had given me my name, was a lie.
I knew, though, that Finn and Kvasir would be quiet in a corner, saying nothing, thinking — like me — of the well-built hov, now ashes and smoulder and what we had burned in it and at the cold-hearted people who had engineered it.
A dog barked, then howled, a sound I did not like much. Someone called my name and I trudged down to where I thought it came from, near the frozen river, thinking one of my men had spotted wolf and wanting to be sure the pack was not lured by desperate hunger into going after our horses. I wanted to lose my thoughts in simple tasks. In the distance behind me, music suddenly squealed out, a tendril lure that made me half turn.
I stumbled and went down on one knee, came up cursing and wet. The obstacle was almost invisible against the drifted snow, but it was a dog. A white elkhound. And my hands and knees were too wet just for snow.
Just as I saw the blood, I saw the shapes and started to turn. The blow was a hard dunt, a star-whirler that knocked me flat but not out. For all that, I could only see the raging fire of the pain and the sickness that rose up, so that someone cursed as I bokked it up on his shoes.
I thought of Short Eldgrim and panicked at the idea of waking with my mind smoothed out like a sea after a storm, empty and blue and featureless.
'Struggle and you will get another one,' snarled a voice I did not know.
'Enough,' snapped another. 'Sack him up and bring him with the boy. Fast now. .'
That voice I knew, even as my head flared and roared and darkness fell with the grain sack they bundled over my face to keep me from shouting.
Martin.
10
'Someone took the sack off when the day came up and they thought themselves far enough away. I blinked into the glare until my watering eyes made out the shape of Olaf, sitting next to me in one of the sledge-carts, bundled in his white fur cloak. There was blood on it.
The air was full of shimmering ice particles despite a blue sky. The snow squeaked, the horses' breath froze and we slid, in a panic of haste, across a sea that surged and swelled in pearl-white waves.
'Are you well, Jarl Orm?' he asked, peering at me this way and that from under his fur hat, his face pinched and pale with cold. 'You took a hard dunt.'
I felt it. Anyone who boasts of being knocked spinning by a crack to the head, then springs up the next minute to take his enemy by surprise is a toad-puffed liar. I did not want to move my head at all for the first hour after I had woken, for it made my belly heave. The lurch and sway of the sledge-wagon was barely tolerable.
The light hurt and I shut my eyes, but I heard everything; voices I did not know, Geats or Svears from their accents. Martin, that cursed monk, with his rasping Saxlander bite urging them to move. And a Slav accent that sounded familiar, though I could not put a face to it.
Eventually, I managed to open my eyes again — the tears had frozen them shut and for a brief moment of panic I thought I had been blinded. Wrapped to the eyebrows in his fur-trimmed cloak and goat-wool hat, Olaf huddled in the lee of horse-fodder and food bundles, watching me. There were little icicles on the strands of his hat and one from his nose that he did not want to remove, I knew, because he would have to unwrap himself.
I leaned over and wiped it away and he smiled, shivering.