LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

arse is safe, boy.’

      With that he returned to his conjugations and, partly reassured, I resumed my study.

      ∞ ∞ ∞

      Five miles downriver from the town of Stybbor, a long boat with forty shields hung over the side was pulled onto a bar at a bend of the Arwan. Two horses were tethered together, and munched the thick grass as a sentry patted their flanks and muttered unfamiliar but soothing words, while their owners were led up a plank to meet the chieftain.

      The leader of the two men was tall and slim, with a neat black beard which didn’t quite hide a scar on his left cheek. He was dressed in fine clothes as if for a mass, and if he was afraid to be among the savage Danes, he didn’t show it. His companion was shorter and broader, dressed in a shirt of rings and carrying a large war hammer which he surrendered with a menacing grunt at the top of the plank.

      ‘I see you Malgard.’

      The words were spoken by a handsome young man with the iron collar of a thrall, but it was clear that he did not speak for himself.

      ‘I see you Ulrik Dragontooth,’ replied the tall man, ignoring the thrall but speaking directly to the hulking redbeard beside him dressed in wool and heavy leather. His words were translated almost as he spoke and Malgard marvelled at the thrall’s skill which enabled an almost seamless conversation between men of different tongues.

      ‘I expected you a week ago,’ said Malgard, determined to assert himself despite his need to escape the stink of sweat, fish guts and rotting meat that all such longboats carried.

      Ulrik grinned, showing off the reason for the name by which men knew him. His mouth had lost all of the front teeth, upper and lower, in one of his first battles. The remaining teeth, unnaturally long where the adjoining teeth were gone, looked indeed like the mouth of a serpent.

      ‘There was good hunting, to the north,’ he replied, his toothless sibilance untranslated. ‘We are not here solely at your bidding, but do you grudge your brother an extra week of life?’

      ‘I grudge him this!’ said Malgard and, before the Danes could move, pulled a dagger from his sleeve and drove it deep into the gunwale next to Ulrik’s hand. One or two stepped toward Malgard in anger but Ulrik, pleased he hadn’t flinched, waved them back with a laugh.

      ‘This is what he gave me in compensation for my home,’ hissed Malgard. ‘A knife! A stinking, fucking knife! When you kill Holgar, I want him to see that knife before you stick it in his heart.’

      Such was the malice of the man that all, including Ulrik, made the sign to ward off the evil eye.

      ‘Malgard is a not a man to have for your enemy,’ said Ulrik, pulling the dagger free and examining it closely – a beautiful piece with a silver handle carved in the shape of a coiled dragon.

      ‘Remember that,’ said Malgard, ‘when you do your work and come to seek your payment.’

      Ulrik was tiring of Malgard’s arrogance in front of his men.

      ‘If you don’t keep a polite tongue in your head,’ he muttered, ‘I might say fuck your work and fuck you … and take my payment now.’

      A huge man with dirty blond hair and blinded in one eye laughed loudly and the thrall hesitated before translating. Ulrik growled and the thrall complied, but in a softer tone than Ulrik wanted. He responded with a clout over the back of the slave’s head and a guttural snarl which Malgard could not understand. Then the white faced thrall repeated the threat in a louder, if unconvincing shout.

      ‘I heard the first time,’ sneered Malgard, but he pulled a pouch from his belt and tossed it at Ulrik, who caught and weighed it without looking inside.

      ‘This is only half,’ he said.

      ‘There will be more when I have access to Holgar’s treasury,’ replied Malgard. ‘Most of that I will need for rebuilding after you and your men wreak ruin, but I will surely be able to spare a little. Of course, in the raid you will also take lambs, and there is much food and drink prepared for the feast.’

      ‘So the wedding is today,’ mused Ulrik, summoning a slave with a platter of meat. ‘We were here in time after all?’

      ‘Only because the wedding was delayed to allow the guests to assemble,’ said Malgard, waving the platter away. ‘The summer storms have made the roads and fords difficult. If the wedding had been before now the family would have dispersed and there would be competing claims on Holgar’s legacy.’

      ‘How will I know Holgar,’ asked Ulrik.

      ‘Holgar you will know by his position, and his chain of silver and gold,’ said Malgard, glancing anxiously at the sun approaching noon. ‘Gram the son is the groom, and there is a younger son, Brand. Kill them all.’

      ‘What of the women?’ asked Ulrik, gnawing at a pig’s trotter.

      ‘Do what you like with the women,’ replied Malgard. ‘Fyllba the bride is very beautiful.’

      Ulrik shrugged, as he continued to give the pig’s trotter most of his attention.

      ‘No-one is beautiful after being used by twenty men,’ he said. ‘It’s almost a kindness to let them go over the side … their lungs full of water, their holes full of seed.’

      ‘Holes,’ echoed the one-eyed giant, whose name was Olaf Pighammer, and the men listening grinned. Olaf was known as much for his strange tastes as his huge strength and violence.

      ‘You are indeed merciful,’ sneered Malgard. ‘Now, as for the rest, I will be at my brother’s side, helping to protect him. Obviously, I am not to be harmed, but I will be fighting. Send one of your slaves against me, so I might blood my sword. I must be seen to fight so none can question my allegiance to my brother and my right to take over … when you have gone.’

      Ulrik spat a knuckle over the side and considered.

      ‘There will be wine at the wedding feast?’

      ‘Of course,’ replied Malgard.

      ‘Perhaps we will allow the guests a last celebration,’ said Ulrik. ‘Drunken men are less able to defend themselves, and I cannot afford to lose anyone.’

      Malgard glanced again at the sun and prepared to leave.

      ‘Very well … but wait not overlong, and do not let me down Ulrik. There is more at stake than you have wit to understand.’

      Ulrik laughed, as he spat the last of the bones into the river.

      ‘Fear not Malgard. You will be prince of your shithole town by sundown.’

      For the first time, Malgard indicated his companion.

      ‘This is Angdred. He is loyal to me and will lead you to the village via hidden paths so your presence will not be known until it is too late for the rats to escape the trap.’

      Ulrik and Angdred half nodded at each other with the wary mistrust of warriors recognising each other’s prowess.

      And with that, Malgard disappeared back down the ramp and climbed onto his horse.

      ‘Farewell Ulrik,’ he called. ‘I go to celebrate my nephew’s wedding … to which you are uncordially invited.’

      ∞ ∞ ∞

      I had always hated the smell of shit.

      Most men seemed not to notice it, going about their lives as though thousands of turds, both of animals and men, were not heaped in the street or piled in the tanner’s yard. But they were, and I was constantly aware of them. Only on cold winter’s nights did I get relief from the creeping miasma that seemed to permeate all of God’s creation.

      At least my father’s house was a half mile from the town and the worst of the stench, but the wedding feast was to be held in a pavilion on the green outside the church. And while fresh latrines had been dug for the occasion, they were never

Скачать книгу