The Lords of the North by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online

tell him the

dead swordsman has been sent for him and we shall all three sail in Skidbladnir back to

Niflheim.' Niflheim was the dreadful pit of the dishonoured dead, and Skidbladnir was

the ship of the gods that could be folded and concealed in a pouch. I let go of Sven then and

kicked him hard in the back so he sprawled onto his face. He could have crawled away, but he

dared not move. He was a whipped dog now, and though I still wanted to kill him I reckoned it

would be better to let him carry my eery tale to his
    father. Kjartan would doubtless learn that Uhtred of Bebbanburg had been seen in

Eoferwic, but he would also hear of the corpse warrior come to kill him, and I wanted his

dreams to be wreathed with terror. Sven still did not move as I stooped to his belt and pulled

away a heavy purse. Then I stripped him of his seven silver arm rings. Hild had cut off part of

Gelgill's robe and was using it to make a bag to hold the coins in the slave-trader's tray. I

gave her my father's helmet to carry, then climbed back into Witnere's saddle. I patted

his neck and he tossed his head extravagantly as though he understood he had been a great

fighting stallion that day. I was about to leave when that weird day became stranger still.

Some of the captives, as if realising that they were truly freed, had started towards the

bridge, while others were so confused or lost or despairing that they had followed the armed

men eastwards. Then, suddenly, there was a monkish chanting and out of one of the low,

turf-roofed houses where they had been imprisoned, came a file of monks and priests. There

were seven of them, and they were the luckiest men that day, for I was to discover that

Kjartan the Cruel did indeed have a hatred of Christians and killed every priest or monk he

captured. These seven escaped him now, and with them was a young man burdened with slave

shackles. He was tall, well-built, very good-looking, dressed in rags and about my age. His

long curly hair was so golden that it looked almost white and he had pale eyelashes and very

blue eyes and a sun-darkened skin unmarked by disease. His face might have been carved from

stone, so pronounced were his cheekbones, nose and jaw, yet the hardness of the face was

softened by a cheerful expression that suggested he found life a constant surprise and a

continual amusement. When he saw Sven cowering beneath my horse he left the chanting

priests and ran towards us, stopping only to pick up the sword of the man I had killed. The

young man held the sword awkwardly, for his hands were joined by links of chain, but he

carried it to Sven and held it poised over Sven's neck.
    'No,' I said.
    'No?' The young man smiled up at me and I instinctively liked him. His face was open and

guileless.
    'I promised him his life,' I said.
    The young man thought about that for a heartbeat. 'You did,' he said, 'but I didn't.' He

spoke in Danish.
    'But if you take his life,' I said, 'then I shall have to take yours.'
    He considered that bargain with amusement in his eyes. 'Why?' he asked, not in any alarm,

but as if he genuinely wished to know.
    'Because that is the law,' I said.
    'But Sven Kjartanson knows no law,' he pointed out.
    'It is my law,' I said, 'and I want him to take a message to his father.'
    'What message?'
    That the dead swordsman has come for him.'
    The young man cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered the message and he

evidently approved of it for he tucked the sword under an armpit and then clumsily untied

the rope belt of his breeches. 'You can take a message from me too,' he said to Sven, 'and this

is it.' He pissed on Sven. 'I baptise you,'
    the young man said, 'in the name of Thor and of Odin and of Loki.'
    The seven churchmen, three monks and four priests, solemnly watched the baptism, but none

protested the implied blasphemy or tried to stop it. The young man pissed for a long time,

aiming his stream so that