It was cold, a day when the last leaves whirled in russet eddies and the trees spitted a pearled sky. Thorkel nodded in friendly fashion, twisting his stained wool hat nervously in his hands, indicating the men.
'This is Finnlaith from Dyfflin, Ospak, Tjorvir and Throst Silfra. They are all wondering if you need good crewmen. As am I.'
I looked them over. Hard men, all of them. Finnlaith was clearly a half-Irisher, the other three were Svears and all had the rough-red knuckles you get from rubbing on the inside of a shield. I knew they had cuts on the backs of their other hands and calloused palms from sword and axe work, even though I could not see them. They had probably been fighting us only recently, but that was all over and a king over both Svears and Geats was being crowned in Uppsala this very year.
'Silfra,' I said to the one called Throst. 'Why do you need me, then?'
His by-name Silver Owner was a joke, he explained in his thick accent. He never owned any for long, for he enjoyed dice too much. He needed me, he added with a twisted smile, because he had heard from Thorkel and elsewhere that I had a mountain of it. Thorkel had the wit to shrug and look ashamed for a moment when I shot him a look.
'Find Kvasir inside,' I said. 'Thorkel will show you who he is. Do what Kvasir tells you and enjoy the hospitality of my hall. There is a ship being built which may need a crew and then again, it may not.'
Even as I said it I felt the heart of me sink like stone. The word was out, leaping from head to head like nits Orm the White Bear Slayer, the Odin-favoured who held the secret of a mountain of silver, was preparing a ship. That attracted hard men, sword and axe men, from near and far, as Kvasir had pointed out.
That day was the beginning of it. Every day for the next few weeks they arrived, by land and sea, in ones and twos and little groups, all wanting a berth on the Elk. The hall filled with them and their noise and Thorgunna grew less inclined to smile and more inclined to bang kitchen stuff together and cuff thralls round the ears.
Then came the moment I had dreaded, when Gizur and Botolf came up, beaming, to announce that the carved prow-head had been placed and the Fjord Elk was finished.
I remembered the first of that name, the one I had been hauled up the side of at fifteen, plucked from a life at Bjornshafen into the maelstrom of sea-raiding, stripped from a life of field and sea into one of blade and shield. There was, it seemed to my sinking soul, no way back and the hulk of all those steading dreams was wrecked beyond repair by my own heart-leap of joy at the sight of what Onund and Gizur had crafted. I had paid it scant attention before, not wanting to see it grow, not wanting to feel the power of the prow beast, dragging me from the land. Now the sight of it struck me like Thor's own hammer.
It was sleek and new, smelling of pine and tar and salt, rocking easily at the wharf we had built, while men flaked the new sail on the spar, a red and white striped expanse which had occupied two years of loom work. I had paid Hoskuld in silver and promises for that sail; this new Elk had sucked the last of what little fortune I had away.
There was carved scrollwork on the sides and on the steering board; the weathervane was silvered. The meginhufr, that extra thick plank fitted just beneath the waterline on both sides of the hull, was gilded and, even now, the thralls' hands were stained blue and yellow from the painting they had done. That also had cost me a fortune lapis and copper for the blue, ochre and orpiment for the yellow and all mixed with expensive oil.
No wonder Hoskuld's grin was as wide as the one splitting Gizur's face the trader could live idle for two seasons on what I had paid him for bits of this ship. The joy was on Gizur over what had been made, but it was rightly Onund's work, though the hunchback gave no more sign of contentment than the odd grunt, like a scratching bear.
Thorgunna admitted it was a fine-looking ship, even if she sniffed at what it cost and the uselessness of it compared with a new knarr, or some decent fishing craft. And the hours it took good men to build, when they should have been mucking out stables, or spreading seaweed on fields.
But no-one listened to her, for this was the Fjord Elk, with its antlered prow-beast and wave-sleekness.
Gizur looked at me pointedly. My heart scudded with the wind on the wave. The moment was here and I knew what was needed a blot ceremony, with a pair of fighting horses, the victor's sacrifice and an oath-swearing. The old Oath that bound some of us still.
We swear to be brothers to each other, bone, blood and steel, on Gungnir, Odin's spear we swear, may,fie curse us to the Nine Realms and beyond if we break this faith, one to another.
A hard Oath, that. Once taken, it was for life, or until someone replaced you, which happened by agreement, or by challenge from a hopeful. I had not thought Odin done with us only that he dozed a little but I should have known better; the One-Eyed All-Father never sleeps and when he does, one eye is always open.