Читать книгу The Rule - Jack Colman, Jack Colman - Страница 9

Bjọrn Egilsson came awake gradually, and for a moment didn’t remember where he was.

A cool drizzle finer than sand grains was tickling his cheeks. The sky he saw above him was a shroud of grey vapour, so dense that it swirled and mingled before his eyes like smoke drifting from a damp log smouldering on a low fire. His back ached. His left leg felt like it was lying in something wet, and the woollen cloak that covered him was heavy on the same side with damp. He sighed as his senses returned to him, and then freed an arm to elbow his brother.

Eiric was the deepest of the sleepers. It took three attempts to draw a response, and even then he did no more than throw an elbow back. Bjọrn rolled over and pressed a finger into his eye.

‘Wake up.’

Eiric grunted and slapped the hand away. ‘Not until there’s someone to kill.’

‘I heard a gull.’

‘Then tell it to bloody be quiet.’

Bjọrn shook his head with a helpless smile and clambered to his feet, twisting his cloak back behind his shoulders. He stumbled over to the prow of the ship and leaned against it for balance as he looked around. The great serpent carved into the stempost was glaring off into the distance, head erect, long tongue tasting the air, but at that moment there was nothing for it to see but fog. It had closed in on them from all sides during the black night, so that no more than a yard of ocean was visible in any direction. The water looked choppy and restless. It slapped against the hull, shunting the boat from side to side.

Bjọrn turned and waded towards the stern, stepping carefully through the clutter of stowed oars and sea-trunks and blanketed men in various states of repose. The mast and sail were down and packed away, but even if they hadn’t been Bjọrn might not have been able to see them through the brume. The men he skirted around were huddled together as closely as whelps piled against the teat. All of them were slumbering, apart from one. The man emerged last through the folds of vapour, seated by the steering-board at the rear, where Bjọrn had placed him with the task of keeping them on a straight course while the others stole some sleep.

‘Well?’ Bjọrn asked quietly, as he gained the man’s side. Toki was his name. He was a full-faced, hulking farm lad, too young to have ever been a sea-farer, but he’d been the loudest voice prattling away for most of the voyage, and Bjọrn had wanted to see whether weariness might finally shut him up.

Toki slapped the tiller. ‘I haven’t let this thing so much as twitch. Wind stayed down so we shouldn’t have done much drifting. Waves have only started getting up since first light.’

‘And did you hear that gull?’

‘Now and then since the dark started thinning. Can’t tell if there’s lots of them or the same one circling.’

Bjọrn cast a speculative glance up at the hidden sky above. ‘A gull is supposed to be a sign that there’s land, isn’t it?’

Toki shrugged. He knew as little about sailing, especially the long-distance kind, as Bjọrn did. The glory days of sea-raiding had missed them by a generation or more, Helvik’s sense of adventure having diminished along with her strength. Only a few men aboard the ship were old enough to remember how to read the signs out on the open water, how to chart a course through cloud, and they needed their rest more than most. Bjọrn decided he would probably have to wait until they roused themselves.

He returned to the bow of the ship, and found Eiric snoring gently with his mouth agape like a day-old corpse. A thin swill of water was running up and down the planks, and his brother had somehow managed to sleep through the night with his head in it, the slop lapping up around his ear every time the boat tipped to the steering-board side. If there was that much leakage up by the prow, then Bjọrn dreaded to think what it was like beneath the bodies in the low belly of the ship. Once, the vessel had been the pride of Helvik, but in recent years it had become more a resented reminder of better times passed. For almost as long as Bjọrn could remember it had lain up on the beach on wooden stilts, played on by the children like an old horse, and when the stilts had rotted away no one had bothered to replace them. Moss and slime had caked its hull when, in the half-light just before dawn, Bjọrn and his men came to drag it free from its berth. But it had floated, and there was no time to require anything more. Bjọrn just hoped that it continued to do so.

With the sole of his boot, he pressed down gently on Eiric’s throat until his brother’s mouth started working like that of a landed fish and he burst awake flailing his arms. ‘Get up,’ Bjọrn said. ‘I need your help.’

Eiric scowled and lay there rubbing his neck. ‘What do I know? Just keep going straight and try not to sail up Rán’s arse.’

Bjọrn sighed and kicked his brother in the shoulder. The plan had sounded like such a simple one when they’d volunteered to carry it out. Their father needed riches with which to mollify the invaders, but Helvik had none left, some would say none to begin with, and so it had been decided that a group of Egil’s soldiers would take their old boat and sail along the coast until they found somewhere that did have the wealth to spare, and take it from them instead. But by now, the start of the third day of their voyage, they had lost the coast, and a measure of their resolve. Bjọrn needed his father there, or Hákon at least. It had been his idea, after all. But Egil would not be seen to desert the town at such a time. And Hákon claimed that he had to stay where the invaders could find him, for he was the only one they trusted.

Eiric groaned and got up, wringing the seawater from his hair. ‘What happened to your gull?’ he asked.

Bjọrn rested his weary head against the serpent’s neck. ‘Gone. But Toki heard it too. I’ve heard it said that you can follow them to land.’

Eiric rubbed at his beard and nodded past his brother’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t we just follow that light?’

Bjọrn whipped his head around and glared into the fog. There was nothing there, only the cloud dancing slowly before his eyes, opening and closing like drapes in a breeze. He spun back around and aimed a punch at his brother’s head, but Eiric caught his fist, and pointed.

This time he saw it. He’d been looking too low before, scanning the tops of the waves, but now he realised with shock that the light was in fact high above him, shining bluntly through the haze like a star on a winter’s night. It could have been a great bonfire blazing a mile in the distance, or a tiny lantern hanging there just out of reach. But it was certainly land.

Bjọrn clamped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘What make you of that, then?’

‘Settlement. Must be,’ Eiric replied, crowding closer to the rail. ‘A beacon to welcome lost travellers.’

Bjọrn sucked on his teeth for a moment. ‘We need to get out of this fog to see what defends it.’

‘Drift in at this speed and they’ll have the whole army roused before we’re even landed. Even a lonely crofter would turn us back.’

‘Aye, but if we rush in then there’s no rushing out again.’

Eiric shrugged, and his face came alive with excitement. Bjọrn studied the eager eyes of his brother and gnawed on his lip, hesitating. He glanced around at his men, still slumbering obliviously beneath their cloaks, and then back out at the light, twinkling there like a prize waiting to be snatched. ‘What would our illustrious brothers do at a time like this?’ he pondered.

Eiric grinned. ‘Hákon would be too busy throwing his guts up over the rail to do anything. Fafrir would doubtless propose we turn for home. And Gunnarr would probably suggest something sensible like mooring up the coast until the fog lifts. But we’re not as soft or as clever as them, are we Brother?’

Bjọrn smiled, but his lower lip was still clamped between his teeth, and his face made an expression like a cat baring its fangs. ‘I don’t particularly want to lose our father’s ship. Especially when we’re the only hope he has of saving our home.’

‘Courage, little brother,’ Eiric urged, slipping an arm around Bjọrn’s shoulders and worrying his cloak. ‘Let us take this chance to remind the old man that his young sons are worth every bit what his older ones are. Let us make a friend out of this fog.’

Still Bjọrn delayed. He gazed again at the light. It seemed to be growing clearer, as somewhere the morning sun rose ever further and burned away the vapour. High above them, a gull released a keening cry. Bjọrn looked across at his brother, and slapped him heartily between the shoulders. ‘Wake the men,’ he said, and Eiric whooped and ran to obey.

The raiders were up and seated on their trunks in the work of a moment. Those few that owned mail threw it on and then hurried to get their oars in the water with the others. Bjọrn bellowed at Toki to steer them straight at the beacon, and then found his sword and slung it over his shoulder and took up his shield from the rail. The men at the oars grunted in unison with each stroke, driving the sleep from their limbs. The head of the vessel lifted, as if the serpent was preparing to strike, and they flew over the water like an eagle skimming for fish.

As sudden as a ram splintering through a gateway, they burst out from the fog and found the whole landscape waiting before them. Two hundred yards ahead, great cliffs the colour of bonemeal reared up into the air. An empty beach, open and flat, lay at their feet. And at the top, framed against the streaked dawn sky, stood a solitary building, the largest and grandest that Bjọrn Egilsson had ever seen. The treacherous beacon burned in a stand at one end of it, twinkling innocently, guiding the raiders to their prize.

Eiric came to join his brother at the prow, and Bjọrn roared his rowers to even greater speed. A hundred yards out, as their keel began to smash through the rollers, he noticed a single figure scrambling down a cut in the cliffs towards the shore. The man’s feet reached the sand, and he began to labour along the beach to intercept the ship. Bjọrn gave a grunt of admiration, and drew his sword.

The figure was stumbling the last few paces as the ship ploughed its belly into the ash-grey sand. Bjọrn stood high against the masthead and looked down at him. He was some kind of old and wretched man, clothed in only a coarse brown robe with an old length of rope about his waist. The top of his head was as bald as a skull, but so symmetrically so that Bjọrn was tempted to think he had shaved it that way deliberately. He went without boots on his skinny grey legs. He was not even armed.

The man peered up at them and opened a nervous mouth as if to speak, but then he seemed to see something that made his neck gulp and the words crumble on his lips. Too late, he realised he had made a grave mistake. He babbled something in a tongue that Bjọrn did not understand, a beseeching look upon his face, and then turned and stumbled into a run. Before he had made it two paces, Eiric jumped down into the shallows, caught him by the robe, and hacked him into the sand.

‘See?’ Eiric roared, turning back to the ship. ‘Easy!’

Bjọrn and the others leapt down into the surf behind him, and he led them towards the cliffs at a run.