Алексей Зелепукин – Journey Beyond the Edge (страница 1)
Алексей Зелепукин
Journey Beyond the Edge
Journey Beyond the Edge
Chapter One: The Storm
“Christians. Someone strikes you on one cheek, you offer him the other. How did anything like that ever catch on?” The enormous fair-haired warrior gave a contemptuous snort as he wiped dried blood from the blade of an equally massive battle-ax. “That religion makes men weak.”
The warrior spat heartily over the side of the ushkuynik.
The sun had not yet risen above the sea, but the darkness was already retreating. A following wind snapped the sailcloth, made the wooden blocks chatter and the taut rigging creak, driving the vessel onward.
Heavy with cargo, the longboat sliced through the smooth water like a knife, hurrying home to the north.
The waves protested noisily, flinging up spray and bleeding white foam beneath the wooden ship crammed with plundered gold and silver.
The old, nearly bald Viking seated opposite him merely smiled and continued sorting bundles of dried herbs. He was shorter than the strapping berserker but no narrower across the shoulders, and the muscles beneath his sun-darkened skin resembled steel cables.
“You’re simply young, Hergen. Young and foolish. Remember how that scrawny Saxon fought. He had neither gold nor livestock, yet he stood alone against six of ours. Alone.”
“You mean the peasant who wounded the jarl with a pitchfork? I still took his head off.”
The warrior dipped his rag into the blood-reddened water in a wooden tub and resumed scrubbing his ax.
“You did.” The healer carefully tied another bundle of herbs with twine. “You—a man whose profession is killing, a man who lives by his ax—are boasting of your victory over a plowman whose weapon left a mark upon your face and nearly sent our chieftain to Valhalla? A glorious victory indeed.”
The healer’s words stung. The berserker gripped his ax haft until his knuckles cracked, but the old man paid no attention and continued:
“Be that as it may, the jarl spared the man’s woman. No one laid so much as a finger on her. That was what the peasant fought for. That was what he died for. Which means he won his battle. Religion does not make men weak or strong. The more a man possesses, the more he fears losing it. Wealth is the true source of weakness. Love is the source of strength. That is why he tossed you around like blind pups.”
“Love…” The fair-haired Viking’s face twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “Blind pups, is it? I twisted my ankle beside that church. Do you know how many Angles I cut down there?”
“They were defending their lives. The peasant stood ready to die. He meant to take as many of us with him as he could.”
“Gods, you’re tedious, Eric. How is the way I treat women supposed to make me stronger? Unless the woman is a Valkyrie…” The berserker tilted his head toward the heavens. “They’re watching me. One of them is destined to be mine—a winged maiden of war who will carry my soul to the halls of Gladsheim.”
“Not one of those heavenly warriors would spare you a glance,” Eric said with a chuckle.
The giant’s outrage was immediate. The berserker’s patience snapped. He flung the rags aside, surged to his feet, and raised his ax—but the elderly healer’s dagger was faster. Steel flashed, and the blade came to rest against Hergen’s throat. Eric’s voice turned hard and merciless.
“Sit down, pup. Move again and I’ll knock that empty head off your shoulders like the cap from a mushroom.”
Several more Vikings turned toward the commotion.
Eric’s eyes, blue as a clear summer sky, burned with fire. They held neither fear of the mighty giant nor any promise of mercy—only the indifference of an executioner or a seasoned predator.
Panic suddenly seized Hergen. A chill ran through his body and paralyzed his limbs, as though Hel herself were looking at him through Eric’s eyes.
For a moment, every sound died. The warriors froze, awaiting the outcome.
“Easy, Eric. Put away the dagger. We have more than one battle ahead of us, and Hergen will still be useful. I ask mercy for my warrior. Forgive him.” Despite the blood-soaked bandages around his chest, the jarl’s voice remained powerful and commanding.
The elderly healer obeyed. The jarl turned to the giant.
“And you—before you threaten a man, learn whom you are threatening. Go below and help Kvasha with the coins.”
Hergen stared at the ship’s healer in bewilderment but heeded his chieftain’s words.
The giant muttered an apology, vented his rage upon the water tub, and headed toward the stern.
The jarl climbed onto the raised platform at the bow and peered into the distance. He drew a deep breath, then doubled over in pain. Fresh blood spread across his bandages in a damp stain.
The healer sprang up and rushed toward him.
The jarl merely raised one hand to stop him. Eric inhaled and was about to return to the herbs laid out across a rowing bench, but the chieftain spoke before he could.
“Wait, Eric. Stay with me. Dawn will come soon. It is beautiful above a stormy sea. And the smell—such freshness. Breathing it makes me feel free. I wonder, is there a sea in Valhalla? Can heroes savor the caress of a gentle breeze, brushing their brows like a virgin’s first awkward kiss?”
“I have never been to Valhalla, my prince. But I am certain it contains more than a hall filled with sweat and the reek of stale drink. Heroes should not spend eternity carousing and indulging their appetites. Though, admittedly, a little indulgence now and then would do no harm.”
“What did you and my finest champion quarrel over?” The jarl tore his gaze from the horizon.
“The usual. I tried to bestow wisdom upon someone who had no need of it. Forgive me, my prince. The fault was mine.”
“You still mean to disembark upon that deserted island?”
“Each of us has his own purpose. You needed a healer for the voyage; I needed a ship that would pass Buyan. A bargain is worth more than coin, my prince. I kept my promise. Now it is your turn.”
“And I have kept mine. I calculated your share of the expedition as fairly as I could. Here is what you requested, down to the last coin.”
The prince handed the healer a small but tightly packed purse.
“Thank you, Jarl of Windale. All that remains is to set foot upon the island, and our bargain will be fulfilled.” Eric tucked the purse inside his tunic.
“Why do you want those tokens? They may be gold, but they aren’t real money. A trader will pay no more than scrap value for them. You should have taken a candlestick instead. It weighs more.”
“Thank you, Jarl. But what is worthless here may be a vast fortune elsewhere. Take the word of a pilgrim—a wandering minstrel. Some questions are better left unanswered.”
Unable to withstand the healer’s blue-eyed gaze, the jarl lowered his head.
“There is no changing your mind?”
The healer merely shook his head.
“Then now is as good a time as any…” Sadness entered the chieftain’s voice. Once more, he breathed in the fresh wind as deeply as his bandages allowed, then roared, “To the helm! Set a course east!”
The Vikings leaned upon the steering oar. The ushkuynik groaned through its taut rigging and began to change tack, its sail flapping in protest.
For three days, the longboat held its course toward the dawn. For three days, the sail hung from the yard like a discarded cloak. Exhausted by rowing, the Vikings began to grumble. The horizon remained clear; only in the far distance did sea and sky merge in a blue-gray haze.
Determined to honor his word, the chieftain had turned the vessel east toward the mysterious island, but it seemed the gods themselves opposed the landing. The wind died the instant the helmsman aligned the bow with the rising sun. The sail sagged like a hanged man from a tree limb. The war drum began to pound, and the Vikings bent to their oars. It fell silent only when the sun surrendered the heavenly hall to the yellow-faced moon and a myriad stars. Each morning, as soon as pink streaks began to lighten the sky, the clatter of spoons gave way to the thunder of the drum and the splash of resentful waves.
Their chieftain’s will drove the warriors to plunge their oars again and again into the mirrored surface of the deep. By the zenith of the third day, the northerners were drained by relentless rowing and the midday heat. The jarl signaled a halt. The drum had scarcely fallen silent when clouds spread across the northern sky. A hard, gusting wind struck the vessel broadside.
A horn wailed. While the warriors tied themselves down with ropes, the chieftain rushed to help the helmsman.
“Bring her around! Bow into the wind!” The captain’s roar rose above the howl of the sea. “Secure the cargo! The sai—”
The first great wave heaved the longboat aside. The steering oar slammed into the chieftain’s chest and knocked him from his feet. Eric caught him with one shoulder. The old Viking remained upright and preserved his dignity, but a fit of bloody coughing robbed him of the power to command.
Moments later, the storm broke.
The ship pitched from side to side like a yellow leaf in a mountain stream. Waves rose one above another, threatening to swamp it. They tore shields from the gunwales and licked everything unsecured from the deck. The sail bellied and dragged the frail vessel onward, forcing the bow dangerously low. Tons of water crashed aboard and swept one of the crew into the sea.