Black Monastery Read Free

not a lump of wood, to smell it. As the laborers laughed, his skin burned, but he said nothing.
    Within weeks, the bones of the longship emerged, like some mythical beast washed up by the waves, and men from all the outlying farms began to arrive, either seeking work or simply coming to watch. Some men helped for free, just to brag they had been involved in the making of a masterpiece of work: the best ship the famous Guthorm had ever built.
    When the time came to mount the keelson—a single piece of oak fifteen ells long in the center of the hull to hold the mast steady—they could move it only with a series of pulleys and nets. It needed to be so large, especially for a longship this size because, resting directly on the keel, the keelson transferred the forces of propulsion from the mast to the hull. When the ship’s decking was in place, the only part of the keelson that would be visible on the deck was the mast fish, which was named for its distinctive fish-like shape. Getting the keelson into its proper position took the entire day. At one point, a walrus-hide rope attached to a pulley snapped and whipped about like a sword blade. Had it hit anyone, it would have cut him in half. But the gods must have been watching, because no one was hurt. After that, the men agreed that luck was with Asgrim’s father.
    Once the keelson was firmly in place, the time had come to mount the mast. At twenty-five ells in length and carved from the trunk of a single massive oak tree, the mast was the longest piece of wood any man had ever moved. As the trunk was finessed into position by Guthorm and his laborers, Asgrim’s father stood with his two sons, each straining against one of the ropes. As the workers pulled in unison under Guthorm’s command, the mast slowly rose. Then, with a single mighty thud that shook the entire ship, the mast slid into position, standing tall and proud. The men cheered, as did Asgrim and his brother. Even Asgrim’s father, a normally stoic man, smiled.
    His father met Asgrim’s eye, and then he squeezed his shoulder. “Someday, she’ll be yours, my son, and no man will remember your first raid. She’ll carry more warriors than any other ship in Denmark, travel faster and farther with more oars. When men see her sail coming over the horizon, they’ll shit themselves in terror and run for their miserable, gods-forsaken lives.” His father barked out a single harsh laugh. “And they’ll be right to do so, by Odin’s fiery asshole.”
    “What will you name her, father?” Bjorn asked.
    “ Sea Eel ,” whispered the older man. “And she’ll earn her name. Deadly and fast, a predator.”
    Once the mast was in place, artisans arrived to carve decorative patterns on the planks. Every exposed surface was worked and trimmed with intricate marks to please the gods. A particularly gifted young man was hired to carve the dragonhead prow. It was fierce and howling, its jaws wide, its teeth long. He built it to be removable, so it could be stored below deck when the longship was at home so that it would not frighten the land spirits and foul their luck.
    Asgrim and his brother stood back and watched the young artisan finish the dragonhead and present it to Guthorm and their father. The elderly shipwright, with just a trace of approval on his weathered face, turned to his father, who nodded solemnly.
    Once all the carvings were finished, the workers painted the hull with a mixture of pine resin and seal blubber that stunk almost as badly as the waterproofing had, but left the wood stained a deep, dark green when it dried. At the same time, other workers built the oar ports and rigging. She was long enough to accommodate thirty rowers on each side. Fully loaded, she could carry more than a hundred warriors, which was an unprecedented number.
    She could only be finished in the water, and it was time to launch her. To accomplish this, the men laid a trail of parallel logs, over which they could slowly roll