Read Online The White Raven by Robert Low - Free Book Online

behind. Only the whales and us dared to match skill and strength with those waves — but only the whales had no fear.
    I was filled with the cold and storm, threw back my head, face pebbled with the salt dash of the waves and roared out the sheer delight of being in that moment. When I turned, Finn was roaring and grinning with me, while Thorgunna and the thralls watched us, sour and disapproving, hunched with misery and the deerhounds under a dripping awning that flapped like a mad bird's wing.
    'You look a sight,' Finn said, blowing rain off his nose. Which was hard to take from a man wearing a hat whose broad brim had melted down his head in the rain and was kept on his head by a length of tablet-woven braid fastened under his chin.
    I said so and he peeled the sodden thing off looking at the ruin of it.
    'Ivar's weather hat,' he declared, ruefully. 'There must be a cunning trick to it, for I cannot get it to work.'
    'Keep trying,' urged Klepp Spaki, peering miserably out from under his cloak, 'for if you can get the sea to stop heaving my innards up and down, I would be grateful.'
    Others nearby chuckled and I wondered, once again, about the wisdom of bringing Klepp along at all. He had turned up at the hall with the rest of some hopefuls and I had taken him for just another looking for an oar on the Elk, though he did not look like the usual cut of hard men. When he had announced he was Klepp Spaki, I groaned, for I had forgotten I had put the word out for a rune-carver and now I had no time — nor silver — for his service.

    However, he had looked delighted at the news we were off on a raid and said he would do the stone for free if he could take the oath and come with us, for he had never done such a thing and did not feel himself a true man of the vik.
    Now he sat under his drenched cloak, hoiking up his guts into the bilges, feeling exactly like a true man of the vik and no doubt wishing he was back in the best place by the fire, which was his due as a runemaster of note. It was a joke on his name, this journey — Spaki meant Wise.
    Later, I woke suddenly, jerking out of some dream that spumed away from me as my eyes opened. The deck was wet, but no water washed over the planks and the air was thick with chill, grey and misted with haar that jewelled everyone's beards and hair. Breath smoked.
    Thorgunna squatted on the bucket, only her hem-sodden skirts providing some privacy and I saw the thrall women passing out dried fish and wet bread to those on the oars, who were steaming as they pulled, eyes fixed to the lead oar for the timing. No thumping drums here, like they did on Roman ships; we were raiders and never wanted to let folk know we were coming up on them.
    Gizur rolled up, blinking pearls from his eyelashes and grinning, the squat mis-shape of Onund hunched in behind him like some tame dancing bear.
    'Rain, wind, sleet, haar, flat calm — we have had every season in a few hours,' he said. 'But the Elk is sound. No more than cupful has shipped through the planks.'
    'More than can be said for my breeks,' grumbled Hauk, picking his way down the deck. Gizur laughed, clapping Onund on his good shoulder so that the water spurted up from the wool. Onund grunted and lumbered, swaying alarmingly, to examine the bilges and ballast stones.
    Gizur glanced over at the water. He could read it like a good hunter does a trail and I watched him pitch a wood chip over the side. and study it, judging speed as it slid away down the side of the boat. Two hours later, the haar-mist smoked off the black water and Lambi Ketilsson, whom we called Pai for his peacock ways, stood up in the prow, yelling and pointing.
    Black peaks like dog's teeth. Gizur beamed; everyone cheered. 'Now comes the hard part,' Finn reminded everyone loudly and that stuck a sharp blade in the laughter.
    Not long after, it started to snow.
    The dawn was silver milk over Svartey, the Black Island. We were huddled in a stand of wet-claw trees above