FEASTING THE WOLF
CHAPTER ONE
GEESE GOING SOUTH
The axe smashed down on the shield, the force of the blow driving Ketil's raised arm into his face and bucking his knees under him. The inner side of his shield hit his head. Splinters flew. He yelled, “Hold! Hold!”
Ottar laughed, and laid on harder, yelling, “You shall feed the ravens!”
Ketil tried to stand under the blows, but they pounded down too fast. He saw splinters of wood, hacked from his shield, falling around him. Soon there'd be no shield left to protect him from the axe's edge. He gave up and fell to the ground, holding the shield above him, trying to curl up under its shelter.
“Ha!” Ottar smashed down another blow. “Feast the wolf!” He backed off, panting, stooping to lean on his knees.
Ulfbjorn sat nearby, on an upturned bucket.. He laughed at them both.
When Ottar had a little breath back, he looked and saw that Ketil was still trying to hide his big body and long legs under his shield. He laughed too. Laughing and panting, he said, “You can come out now!”
“I'm dead,” Ketil said. “Go away and stop bothering me!”
Ulfbjorn got up and walked over to them. He kicked Ketil's leg gently and said, “In a real battle, you would be dead. You've got to be quicker, Ketil. You want to look round and watch the grass grow – but there's no time for that in battle.”
Ketil rolled and sat up, his hacked shield held before him. He grinned up at his uncle. “Ah, but if we're ever in a real battle, I shall put on my bearskin and run berserk.” The War God, Odin, was supposed to send his followers mad with battle-frenzy. They were even supposed to put on bearskins shirts, turn into bears, and fight with the strength of bears.
“What if Odin doesn't come to you?” Ulfbjorn asked.
Ketil clambered to his feet, a long-legged, long-faced lad with light brown hair. He was as tall as Ulfbjorn, and a head taller than Ottar. “I promise you, Uncle, when I come among the enemy, their dead will number more than their living.”
“Be serious,” Ottar said. “If you won't be serious, we'll never be any good.” Ottar was wiry, with a small, neat round head. His hair, brows and lashes were all very dark, though his eyes were a light grey. He took after his Pictish mother. It offended him that Ketil treated their weapons-practice as a game. Ottar wanted to be best at axe-play and sword-play, the best there was, and that meant practicing and practicing. But Ketil wouldn't practice at all if Ottar didn't make him. He said to Ulfbjorn, “Tell him to be serious.”
“If we went up to the house now.” Ketil said, “I wonder if we could get something to eat?”
“Ketil!” Ottar said.
Ketil laughed and kicked aside the remains of his shield. It had only been a practice one – a few pieces of wood nailed together, with straps and grips made of rope. Good enough to be battered to flinders in a game. In one of the farm's storehouses, he had a real shield nothing fancy, but a good, strong shield, fit for battle. He had an axe too, and a spear, a bow and twenty-four arrows, just as the law said every free man should have, in case the King of Norway called on him to fight. Ulfbjorn had given him the war-gear on his twelfth birthday, when he'd become a man; and it was mostly Ulfbjorn who'd taught him and Ottar to use them. “Don't fret, Ottar,” Ketil said. “We've plenty of time. How long has the Army been pestering the Saxons now? Five years?”
“Nine!” Ottar said. He thought Ketil should know that.
“Nine! Well, they're going to hang around while we get something to eat, then, aren't they, Cod-Face?”
“Aye,” Ulfbjorn said. “Let's go and get something to eat.”
Ketil and Ulfbjorn started back to the house. Ottar stayed where he was. He called after them, “We'll come back and practice afterwards?”
“It'll be dark,” Ketil said, over his shoulder.
“We'll practice tomorrow then?” Ottar said.
Ketil threw back his head and groaned. Weapons-practice was all right now and again – and the law said a man had to be able to use his weapons – but honestly, Ottar thought about nothing else lately. It was becoming a bore.
“You have to eat,” Ulfbjorn said. “Keep your strength up! Grow a bit taller!”
Ottar was stung by that reference to his height – but the light was dimming, and he was hungry. He followed them.
It was late summer, still warm, and the sheep were in the hills. Only the farm's five strong little northern horses were penned in the home-field. They came trotting over. “I've nothing for you,” Ketil said to them, but he stopped to rub noses with them.
Ottar, catching up, said to Ulfbjorn, “They call it 'The Great Army', don't they?” If he had to give up weapons-practice, then he would get Ulfbjorn to talk about his favourite subject. And he loved to roll the words, 'Great Army' over his tongue. “Why's that?”
“Because it's the biggest army ever seen,” Ulfbjorn said. “More men than anybody could count. Hundreds and hundreds.”
Ottar's heart swelled at the thought of that. Imagine being one of them! Knwing yourself to be part of the greatest army ever! “And it's led by Halfdan?” he asked – though he knew perfectly well who the Army's leaders were. Ketil guessed his game, and was grinning at him. Ottar ignored him.
“There's more than one leader,” Ulfbjorn said. “Halfdan's one – then there's Guthrum – and Ivar, before he died. There are others, but those are the ones I've heard of.”
“Dad says they're nothing but Vikings – just pirates and raiders,” Ketil said, and laughed when Ottar frowned. He'd known that would irritate him.
“He's not far wrong,” Ulfbjorn said. “They're outlaws – or younger sons with no land to call their own – or men who just want to grab some loot and land.”
It all sounded fine to Ottar. If you were born a younger son with no land, you could accept that you'd be poor all your life – or you could join the Great Army, and fight, and make yourself famous and win gold. And when you came home, you could buy the family farm from your brothers, if you wanted to be bothered.
“And was it nine years ago they first came?” Ottar asked. He knew it was.
“Aye... Well, when they first came to the Saxon lands.” He meant the lands far to the south, even south of Pictland. “They'd been across the sea before that, raiding over there. In Frankland. There's a big city over there, called Paris. They beseiged that.”
“Where did they first come?” Ottar asked. “Was it Wessex?”
“No, not Wessex!” Ulfbjorn said. “Wessex is strong. They came to East Anglia – that's ten, fourteen days sailing from here.” Even Ketil looked impressed by so great a distance. “Before that, they're been even further south, down in the Frankish lands, getting gold, horses – drinking wine, not ale, wine.”
Ottar shook his head wonderingly, his eyes wide. It was his secret ambition that, one day, he would serve a king, as one of the king's fighting men. He would be a great warrior and the king would reward him with horses and gold, and give him a beautiful noblewoman for his wife – maybe even one of the king's own daughters. And he'd come back home to Shetland to visit. In his own ship. And he'd ride to visit Ketil and Ulfbjorn on his prancing horse and – he'd give them great gifts, to show he remembered them...
They reached the farmyard, which was paved with flat stones, so that people didn't have to wade through deep muck and mud in wet weather. They came to the storehouses first, and stopped to duck inside and hang their axes on the pegs driven into the stone walls.
Beside the storehouses was a little smithy, where farm tools could be made and repaired; and a bathhouse. The farmhouse was on the other side of the paved yard, beside the stable and the byre. All of these buildings were long and low, with stone walls and turf roofs. Smoke drifted from the smoke-hole of the house.
“Ivar died about a year ago,” Ulfbjorn said, as they came out of the storehouse. “Things have changed a bit then. The Army split up.”
“King Halfdan came north, didn't he?” Ottar said.
“King?” Ulfbjorn said. “He calls himself 'king'. His brother's the King of Daneland, but he's no king.”
“Halfdan made himself a king!” Ottar said. “By fighting! By being the best – by winning gold!”
“By feasting the wolf and raven,” Ulfbjorn said, and laughed. Wolves and ravens came to eat the dead after a battle, so that was the way poets described battle – spreading a feast before the wolf and raven. “But aye, Halfdan brought his part of the Army north, while Guthrum took his men south. Halfdan came up into Northumbria – there's a lot of monasteries and gold in that part of the country...”
“Gold,” Ottar said. He looked at the farm around him. It was a well-kept, comfortable farm, and he envied Ketil for being the only son of his family to inherit it. He, Ottar, was the third of three brothers, and if his father split the land between the three of them, none of them would have enough to live on. If he gave all the land to his eldest son, then Ottar and his other brother would have none – unless they could somehow earn gold enough to buy some. Or win such favour with a king that the king gifted them gold and farms....
“We should join the Army,” Ottar said to Ketil. “Go and get us some gold. And when we've fought in some battles, we can take service with the King of Norway.”
Ketil laughed.
“We should!” Ottar said. “Do you just want to stay at home your whole life? Ulfbjorn went travelling – we should go, shouldn't we, Ulfbjorn?”
“You should travel while you're young,” Ulfbjorn said. “See a bit of the world beyond the farm walls, have some adventures... And it's better to be rich than poor in this world, that's a sure thing.”
“See? Ottar said. “Ulfbjorn thinks we should go!”
Ketil laughed. “One day.” As they crossed the yard, they could look between the buildings and see the hayfield, with its rows of hayricks that everyone had worked so hard over. Further down the slopes were the fields where the barley and oats had been grown. The last sheaves had been brought into the barn only a few days before. Some other men could be seen down there, taking stones from the walls, so the animals could get in to graze on the stubble, and also manure the ground. And beyond those fields were the paths leading down to the beach, andd the racks where they dried fish.
Ketil came to a stop and stood staring. Ottar went on a step or two, following Ulfbjorn, but then turned, wondering why his friend wasn't with him.
Ketil was looking out over the green hills, and the grey stone walls; at the white and yellow of the stubble-fields; and at the blue sky over all. The wind brought him a scent of grass, and heather-bells, and sea. He drew in a deep breath, and felt a deep, wordless contentment rooting him to the ground: his ground.
“Come on,” Ottar said, and Ketil dragged his feet, and his heart, from the spot, and they went on towards the house.
They were nearing the door when a cry from overhead made them look up. “Geese!” Ottar said. A big V of wild geese was flying overhead, honking, as they made their way south, to Pictland, for the winter. “The wind's from the north!”
It was the wind that would cary a ship southwards, towards the Saxon lands, where the Great Army was winning fame and gold. Ketil shook his head, and ducked in through the house door, into the dimness, the smoke, heat and smell of food.
Ottar remained outside, looking up, watching the geese, and wishing he was going with them.
Ottar longs to join the Great Danish Army, to fight for a King, to win gold, to come home to Shetland as a rich and famous man.
Ketil wants nothing more than to farm, in peace, the land he loves.
When a Norwegian ship puts in on its way to join the Army, Ottar persuades Ketil to leave home with him, and join her...
The next two years test their courage, their hardiness, and their friendship to the utmost...
WHY IS THE BOOK CALLED 'FEASTING THE WOLF?'
The title comes from Viking poetry. It's something called a 'kenning'.
A Viking warrior was expected to be able to compose a poem as well as fight, and for a poem to be considered good, it had to describe things in a sort of code. So, you didn't call the sea, 'the sea' – you called it 'the gull's road' or 'the whale's bath'. Dwarfs were said to love gold above all things (as readers of Terry Pratchett will know), so gold was called 'the dwarf's darling'. These descriptions were 'kennings'.
'Feasting the wolf' is a kenning for battle. Wolves and ravens were said to eat the bodies of the dead men killed in a battle. So if a King had won a battle where many men had been killed, his poets would say, 'He feasted the wolf, he spread food before the raven.'
If you're interested in knowing more kennings, follow this link - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whale-road
If you're interested in finding out more about the Vikings, this is a really excellent site: www.vikinganswerlady.com/index.shtml