‘Adalrik?’
The tousled head turned and he saw it was Leikr.
‘He’s dead,’ the boy wailed. ‘Dead!’
Erlan splashed down beside him and took him by the shoulders. ‘Easy,’ he said softly, ‘easy.’ He repeated it over and over, clasping the boy to his chest. But for a long time Leikr was inconsolable.
At last he grew calmer. Together, they dragged Adalrik’s body up onto dry ground. He weighed far more than he could have done alive. Probably his lungs were full of water. The boy’s face was a horrible distortion of what it used to be: the skin slick, almost blue, the jaw twisted, the eyes staring. When they laid him out on the grass, his head flopped over and there was an ugly black crater where his skull was stove in.
Snot and tears streamed unchecked from Leikr’s nose. ‘What do we do now, Erlan? Hey? What do we do?’
Aye, thought Erlan. What indeed?
Instinctively his hand reached for the silver amulet hanging at his chest. For luck. But his fingers found nothing but skin. He’d given his luck away. He scowled, looking around, and began noticing evidence of their boat’s fate. Strakes smashed to kindling, shivers of wood lapping forlornly against the bank. Most everything else was gone.
His gaze drifted back upriver. In the distance he saw an awesome sight, a white thunder of tumbling water, its roar a constant behind every other sound.
The little knarr never stood a chance.
‘Erlan.’ Leikr wiped his long fringe out of his face. ‘I said, what are we going to do?’
‘We bury your brother. And then. . . we go on.’
It took them a day to follow the river beyond the last of the rapids. Leikr hardly said a word. As for Erlan, he tried not to think how every friend he ever made seemed to die. Except for this dog, and this boy. It was his fault. The twins should have stayed behind to sit out the last of the winter in Osvald’s rotten hall. Then again, he hadn’t forced them to come. They wanted adventure, to win a name and if they were lucky, a fortune. But all Adalrik had won himself was an unmarked grave in a sodden piece of turf, far from his home and hearth.
It was another day before they spied the first sign of any human habitation: a few smears of smoke in the sky.
‘You think it’s safe?’ asked Leikr, nodding ahead to a sizeable village spread along the Dnipar’s eastern bank.
Erlan cast a look over their sorry crew. ‘Safe from us, certainly.’
‘We could go round it.’
‘No. We’re going to have to face the folk in this land sooner or later. Might as well be now.’
Still it was a risk, and with only a sword and a couple of knives between them, Erlan felt severely under-armed.
The riverbank was a bustle of small craft coming and going from a shallow landing beach on the inside of a curve in the river. By the time the pair reached the outlying dwellings, the bustle had turned into a commotion.
Suddenly they saw why. A large boat loomed around the bend downriver. A stout, cumbersome vessel, making heavy way upstream with a bright orange sail that bulged with the wind.
‘A raiding ship?’ asked Leikr.
‘No. Trade, is my guess,’ Erlan replied. ‘Though what they hope to trade in this place, I’ve no idea.’ There was no way a boat that size could progress much further, not with those rapids less than a day’s voyage upriver. That meant, whatever its business here, it had to be returning whence it came. That meant south. That meant the sea. ‘We need to get on that boat.’
Cautiously, they walked down towards the landing beach where already a considerable crowd had gathered. The handful of women left behind who noticed them prudently backed away into shadowy doorways, pulling their little ones after them. But no one challenged them. Most were short, fair of complexion, with a rusty tinge to their hair.
By the time the two companions and their dog had reached the shoreline the ship had dropped anchor. Some locals had poled out flat-bottomed skiffs alongside into which the traders were unloading their cargo. Erlan touched Leikr’s arm. ‘Let’s watch a while.’ They backed into the lee of a forge left unmanned for the moment.
The menfolk were like their women – small, slight, pale and red-haired, dressed in homespun hose and ill-fitting tunics. But the traders looked very different. They had swarthy faces, hair as black as pitch, and stocky limbs. Their tunics were looser and fell lower, almost like the summer-skirts of some womenfolk back north. One man in particular caught Erlan’s attention. He had a cropped beard and wore a dark green tunic, with an expensive-looking cloak slung over one shoulder. A pair of brooches glistered in the sun.
Gold.
The first Erlan had seen since Dunsgard.
‘The one in green,’ he murmured to Leikr. ‘That’s our man.’
They waited for him to be ferried ashore. The villagers and other crew members were already unloading their goods and hauling them to firmer ground. The man in green hopped into the shallows.
‘Stay close,’ Erlan muttered, limping a few strides towards the beach. ‘Hey, friend!’ he called.
Abruptly, everyone stopped what they were doing. A few hands went to knife-hilts. Erlan opened his palms to show he meant no trouble. But he kept walking.
One of the traders stepped in front of the captain to block Erlan’s path, but his master shooed him out of the way.
Erlan stopped a few yards short and pointed at the ship. ‘Your boat.’ He patted his chest, then jerked a thumb at Leikr and the dog. ‘We need passage. To the south.’ He pointed that way.
The captain muttered something to the man nearest him. They both chuckled – thin, nasal sounds, not like the belly laughter of a Dane or the throaty hoots of a Sveär. Erlan waited till they’d laughed themselves out. ‘Passage,’ he repeated.
‘Sarmatoi?’ The captain pointed at Erlan. ‘Esse. Sarmatoi?’
He shook his head. Gods, this could be painful. But at least the man was talking. The captain pointed at the villagers. ‘Tous – Skythei,’ then at Erlan and Leikr. ‘Allá esse – Gothei?’
Erlan scratched his beard.
‘I think he’s asking where we’re from,’ offered Leikr.
‘Yep – I got that,’ said Erlan irritably, nevertheless unsure how to answer. Gothei sounded a bit like Gotar, a tribe who lived south of the Sveär. After the distance they had travelled, that seemed close enough. ‘Aye. Gotar,’ he nodded.
‘Ha! Gothei.’ The captain grinned, then pointed at Wrathling hanging from Erlan’s belt. ‘Svertha venn.’
Almost the same word in the Norse language. Erlan nodded. ‘Sverð.’ Sword.
The man thumbed his chest. ‘Eímai o Ramedios. Ramedios.’
‘Erlan,’ said Erlan, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Leikr.’
Ramedios repeated the names, then gestured at his other men. ‘Eímaste Éllines.’
Perhaps he meant their tribe. Erlan nodded agreeably, then he pointed again at the ship and then south. ‘You go to Miklagard?’
Ramedios grunted, not understanding.
‘Mik—la—gard.’
One of the crewmen spoke up. There followed an exchange between a few of them in their rasping tongue until suddenly Ramedios threw back his head and started laughing.
‘O Miklagard eínai to Vyzántio.’
‘Huh?’
‘By—zan—tium,’ the captain bellowed in his face, and his crew laughed with him. He held out his hand. Uncertainly, Erlan took it. ‘Vínur,’ said the captain.
‘Sounds like vinr,’ muttered Leikr.
Friend.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Who did this to you?’ Gerutha gently swabbed a linen cloth at the cut on Lilla’s swollen temple.
She winced, shying away from the pressure. The blood could be wiped away in a moment. The swelling would last days, the pain below even longer. ‘Who do you think?’ Perhaps the shame of it could never be erased.
Gerutha’s eyes fell away. She shook her head. ‘There’s only one man would dare.’
/>
‘Yes.’
‘And did he. . . did he do more than strike you?’
Lilla said nothing. The two women looked at each other. There was too much understanding between them to speak of such things aloud.
Gerutha grimaced, dipping the cloth in the bowl and wringing it out as if it were the man’s neck. ‘Then he deserves death.’
‘Yes. He does.’ Maybe it was the shock of it. Lilla had known other women be raped. Had pitied them, seen their humiliation stamped on their faces. But she didn’t pity herself, she didn’t feel humiliated. She felt only a granite-hard rage. ‘He will pay for it. One day.’
‘What does he mean to do?’
‘Take the kingdom for himself.’ She had little doubt of that.
‘You must stop him.’
‘With what?’ she said in disgust.
Gerutha’s brow clenched. ‘It’s not safe for you here.’
‘Where else have I to go?’ Lilla retorted angrily. She tried to think, tried not to remember the iron taste of earth in her mouth. ‘Pass me my cup.’ She gulped down a mouthful of mead, but even the honey sweetness could not wash away the metallic tang. ‘I know you’re right, Grusha,’ she said more softly.
‘Soon it won’t be safe for you anywhere.’
‘Not in Sveäland anyway.’
‘Nor anywhere in the Twin Kingdoms—’
Suddenly there was a rap on the door. Lilla glanced at Gerutha and put her finger to her lips. She was still wearing her marten-skin cloak. She flicked the hood over her head, throwing the swollen side of her face into shadow, then went to stand behind the screen in the corner of her chamber. ‘See who it is.’
Gerutha went to the door. Lilla listened. She heard low voices, then Gerutha addressing her. ‘It’s Einar Fat-Belly, my lady.’
Einar the Fat-Bellied? He was a house-karl, almost a venerable one after Bravik, they had lost so many – but what was he doing here? ‘Admit him.’ Her hand checked that her hood still concealed her swelling and presently the bulky figure of a warrior in dire need of some exercise entered the chamber.
When she appeared from behind her screen, he dropped to his knee, with no small thud on the floorboards. ‘My queen.’ He had served her father since before she was born, then served her ill-fated brother, and lately her husband. And now. . .
He stood. ‘Forgive the lateness of the hour, Queen Lilla. It’s just. . .’ His normally jovial face seemed agitated.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I had to see you. Do you know what’s going on out there?’ He nodded backwards, as if Lilla could see through walls.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Thrand the Dane has called council.’ Einar looked hesitant. ‘He’s sitting in your husband’s seat—’
‘My father’s seat.’
‘So it is,’ agreed Einar. ‘Only Thrand Haraldarson doesn’t seem to know it. He’s ordered an assembly of all able men at noon tomorrow. Did you know about this?’
‘No.’ So it had already begun.
‘Is there something Lord Ringast decided before he . . . well—’
‘If you mean, did Ringast name Thrand his successor. . .? No. He did not. He named me.’
‘You?’ Einar’s docile eyes narrowed. But after thinking about it a moment, he nodded. ‘Aye. I see that. That’s as it should be.’
‘I don’t suppose many others would think so.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. . .’
They looked at each other. There was much unsaid in that look.
At last he rolled his shoulders back and stood tall, though he still looked broad and bulky as the back end of a bull. ‘I served your father for twenty-two years – ever since I could hold a shield. My loyalties are yours, my queen, till my dying breath if you’ll have ’em.’
‘You fought for my brother.’
‘Aye. I was given no choice.’
‘Do you have a choice now?’
‘You tell me,’ he said, a little slyly.
Lilla snorted. ‘Shall I be honest with you, Einar?’
‘Be as you will.’
‘Right now, it feels as if not five swords in the whole world would follow me.’
‘Well, here’s one at least.’ He said it so guilelessly that she had to smile. ‘What will you do, Lady?’
‘I intend to hold this kingdom,’ she said grimly. ‘But to do that, I must first get far away from here.’
‘I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Wouldn’t have something to do with that bruise coming up, would it?’
‘You don’t need to know the details. I can’t stay for now. That is all.’
‘Hmm,’ he grunted.
‘Tell me, my loyal friend, what allies do you judge I have in Sveäland?’
Einar sucked his teeth. ‘Hard to know. No doubt some are with you, knowing you’re Sviggar’s daughter and what you’ve done already. But they won’t show themselves. Not till you have some spears at your back.’
‘Some spears?’
‘An army,’ he said. ‘And one worth a man’s blood to stand in the shieldwall with. If Thrand starts making his mark, there’s many in the north won’t like it. But nor will they do anything till they think they can win. He already has the Danes in his pocket. The Skanskar and Gotar levies, too.’
‘Where can I find an army? If I went south, maybe, to the Wends—’
‘No. Not the Wends. They were allies of the Wartooth, and with them all flush from Bravik, there’s no chance they would go against the Old Boar’s last surviving son. Not unless you had gold enough to drown ’em in.’
‘We have the Nefelung hoard. What’s left of it.’
‘That can’t be much after your brother paid for his army.’ It was true. Sigurd, Lilla’s perfidious brother, had squandered most of their father’s gold on buying spears and the men to wield them in his pursuit of glory the previous summer.
But not all. ‘There’s enough left to whet an army’s appetite. They needn’t know the truth of it.’
‘Does Thrand know of the hoard?’
‘No.’
Einar chuckled. ‘Best keep it that way.’
‘What about west? Over the mountains into Norsk territory?’
Einar shook his head. ‘That journey’s hard at this time of year. And you’d be too long in this realm. Thrand would hunt you down quicker than hounds on a hind.’
‘I know the country better than he does.’
‘No doubt, my lady. Anyhow, you’d find little help in the west. The Norsk tribes are too divided. They spend half of every year at each other’s throats. If the best of their own can’t unite them, a Sveär queen never could.’
‘And east – across the sea? We’d leave Thrand’s territory at once.’ She hated to concede it was already his but why lie to herself? ‘My father has old allies from the Estland Wars that way.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘The Estlander tribes were loyal friends of ours, were they not?’
‘They were.’
‘And we’ve done nothing to break friendship since. King Ostein was close with my father. Will he not help Sviggar’s daughter as well?’
Einar shook his head. ‘Ostein fell at Bravik, Lady. . . fighting you.’
Lilla pinched her brow. It seemed hope was thwarted at every horizon. ‘The Livi are the largest tribe in Estland. Who rules them now in Ostein’s place?’
‘His son. I think his name is Osvald. He’s about the only man of high blood around the rim of the East Sea who didn’t stand at Bravik.’
‘Why not?’
Einar gave a disdainful snort. ‘They say he had a fever. Which either makes him lucky, or yellow.’
‘What sort of man is he?’
‘A wastrel. So I heard. And a greedy one.’
‘Then let me appeal to his greed.’
‘I don’t know. You need men whose hearts are with you – either for love of you or hatred of your enemy. And even if Osvald will help you, I don’t suppose you’d
be getting much for your gold.’
Lilla sighed. It felt hopeless. What then – must she be a fugitive all her days? An exile queen begging mercy from hall to hall? Or worse, stay here, and face the ignominy of Thrand’s rule and the risk of that again? She had sworn to her husband that Thrand would not rule, but what power did she have to keep her oath? Rage boiled afresh in her heart, stirred by the flames of despair. ‘Then there’s no one,’ she said bitterly. ‘No one who can help me.’
‘There may be. . . one,’ said Gerutha softly. She was looking down into her open palm. At first, Lilla couldn’t see what she had nestled there. Then Gerutha reached out and dropped something into her hand. Lilla looked down. It was a little amulet, a crude rendering in silver of Mjollnir, Thor’s Hammer. She recognized it at once.
‘Erlan,’ she murmured, amazed. Just the name on her lips sent a shiver of emotion through her heart.
‘It is his.’
‘How did you come by this?’
She listened as Gerutha explained how Erlan had come to her in confidence before leaving Uppsala. He had given her this amulet to safeguard, perhaps for ever. ‘He said it was the seal on his word. That if ever you had need of him and nowhere else to turn, I was to give you this.’
‘But how were you to find him?’
‘He said to look for him in the east.’
‘East. Is that all?’
‘He knew no more himself.’
‘The east!’ spat Lilla in frustration. ‘Gods, he may as well have said the world.’
‘I don’t know. It may not be so forlorn as that,’ said Einar. ‘If I were looking for a man in the east, first place I’d start would be Dunsgard, high-seat of Ostein.’
‘Where Osvald now sits.’
‘Mmm.’ She could see his mind was working. ‘Osvald ain’t much use, no doubt. But with Erlan Aurvandil. . .’ Einar’s face cracked in a smile. ‘The Aurvandil’s name carries a good deal more weight. With him behind you, you might win many more to your banner.’
‘But he fought with the Danes at Bravik. Why would the Sveärs stand behind him?’
‘Same reason I would. In Sveäland, he’s still seen as your father’s man. Folk know he only changed sides to avenge himself on your brother. But he could bring more spears from both sides of the Kolmark. I heard the thanes of Skania make much of how they stood and fought with him at Bravik. I’d lay my best axe he could swing them to stand with you.’
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