by John Snow
"I will judge," said the king, "that all men who see straight in this matter go to the one who sees crossways. Tell him to give Odd the Squinter the gifts he owed Finngjerd the Fair!"
As the king sat down, a growing murmur rose from the field. People were whispering and chattering. Sigurd cast a glance at his father; it was a strange sentence, but he did understand it. They all understood it. All were looking in the same direction: the king's warriors, the Bork brothers, the farmers, and the women. All were staring at the same man. They were looking at Ivar the Cross-Eyed from Eskdale, Odd the Squinter's father.
"Now the miserly geezer has to pay up!" people said on the plain. "Did he really believe that warm hands were free?"
There was a pause at the assembly after the king's verdict. People were stretching out and relaxing in the grass; it was a good day. Now they were waiting for the big case, the one between Vik and Bringsverd.
After the break, the murder case started, and Sigurd sharpened his ears. Witnesses were called, and the neighbour rose up under the stone.
The neighbour, Thorstein Baldhead, was a small man with a bald shiny head. It was a disease, people said; he did not have a hair on his body, but he was strong. He had powerful arms and spoke with a voice of authority. Everyone could hear what the neighbour said. The Thing-field was quiet.
Thorstein Baldhead explained that his son, Eigil, was found dead in the morning, with two stab wounds in his chest.
"In bed," he said; "was where he was found."
No one had heard anything, Thorstein said, but they did find blood tracks. The tracks led in the direction of Harald's farm; they had followed the blood into the woods.
Gisli stood up and spoke, denying everything. After him, Harald, the chieftain, had his say. Harald stood under the stone and spoke with a confident posture; he didn't wave his arms as so many did. He said that no one could know who had killed the son of Thorstein Baldhead. Maybe some of the neighbour's own people tried to fool everyone?
The Vik farm's people gave approval to the chieftain's speech, but neither the neighbour's people nor the king's warriors shouted at Harald's words. Helgi Blackbeard laughed. He spat a splotch into his palms and tried to smooth out his beard.
Finally, the king was to pass judgement; he looked grave. He held a staff in his hand; it was decorated with gold. King Godred stood steady under the rock and spoke.
"In this case, the killing was done in secret," said the king, "and the killing is therefore murder. A murder demands a severe sentence.
"Only those who did the deed know who the killers are," said the king again, "but all tracks lead in the direction of Harald's farm. Someone on Harald's gard is guilty of murder. Since the killers belong to Harald's people, I will fine Harald the Chieftain for the murder: one fine to Thorstein here, and one to myself!"
Harald was furious when he heard the king – his verdict, and the sentence. This was not common: two penalties. And such a ruling coming from Godred!
Sigurd saw his father stand up, reaching for his sword. But what could he do? The king's warriors had already risen; they were reaching for their helmets.
The chieftain sat down, reluctantly.
"The king sets the fines," said Harald.
"For the murder of Eigil," said the king, "Harald the Chieftain has to pay Eigil's father twenty marks of silver. In addition, as a penalty, paid to me, I judge Harald to give up one of his slaves. The young Yljali shall be released from Vik and given into my custody."
People were looking at each other; mutterings spread on the plain, but Harald's men breathed a sigh of relief. A slave! What kind of fine was that? A thrall! But Sigurd couldn't believe what he heard – and what came next.
"Tomorrow," said the king in a loud voice, "there will be competitions between my warriors and the warriors at Vik, as everyone knows. After the great sword fight between my armourer, Helgi, and Harald's armourer, Gisli, arrangements will be made for marriage."
The king paused. Then he continued.
"Outside the horg, before the gods, Yljali shall be given to Helgi Blackbeard."
8
The ruling was over and done with. Thorstein got the silver from Harald, and the Thing was dissolved. People rose in the field, stretching their legs. Satisfied, Helgi Blackbeard struck his fist into his palm; he spat into the air, grinning.
Harald, Sigurd's father, was not utterly displeased, after all. It could have been worse. Twenty marks was a lot of silver, but when the king demanded two fines, he had feared for two times twenty, or so he said.
"Never mind Yljali," he said, walking amidst his men. "I've still got Hild; she hasn't lost her grip. Her nether grasp." Harald started to rave about Hild's bodily skills: her kneading clench and her tight squeeze. Her snatch.
Despite his ravings and stupid grin, the chieftain could not cover the fact that he would not let slip the fine – the silver money.
Collecting their gear, people left the plain. Sigurd, however, stayed. Seated. Stunned. The verdict had smashed Sigurd like a mallet in his chest. He could not breathe; he was speechless, and he hated his father for taking it so easy. How could he let go of Yljali, with no further actions? Just like that!
Sigurd sat a long time in the field but got up at last. He tried to walk straight, but he staggered down towards the farm. He lumbered around in a daze, not paying attention to anything.
In the courtyard, people lay around in groups, taking it easy. Some spoke of the strange marriage between a captain-of-arms and a thrall. Was it strictly legal? Some claimed the verdict granted Yljali her freedom. How else could she be married to Helgi?
People discussed the fine, the silver. That's how things go, they said, when free men fall in love with slave women. They were referring to Eigil, the neighbour's son. He had been sneaking around the house of Hild and was killed. The Arab slave was quite a woman, they had to agree. Many of the men could very well understand why Helgi wanted her daughter, Yljali.
Around the yard people were talking about Finngjerd the Fair, about her trips around the countryside. The men had fond memories of her trips, the women only bitter ones.
Odd the Squinter stood in front of one of the stalls. He was speaking to Ivar from Eskdale; they were quarrelling about the fine. A dog stood barking at the two of them, but Odd gave the dog a kick and it darted off. Skarphedin, Ivar's son, sought to keep nosy neighbours from eavesdropping; too many wanted to hear what was said in front of the booth. What would Odd get out of Ivar?
Most people relaxed; they were looking forward to the blood sacrifice. Three sheep were being prepared in the barn, one for each of the gods. Later they would be slaughtered and their blood collected in a vessel.
The sheep bleated sorely when they were dragged across the yard; they could sense what was coming.
Inside the horg, Grim and some elders tended the gods. The gods were carved figures painted in bright colours: Odin, Thor, and Frey. They were appeased before the sacrifice. Without pampering, they would not accept the blood.
Odin was the most unyielding of the gods. He looked terrifying, a big tongue dropping out of his mouth. The painted carving looked like Odin had been hanged; his tongue was blue. But then, Odin was the dead people's god. He was also master-of-runes, and he knew all the forces, both past and present.
Thor was the biggest of the carved figures; against his chest he held his hammer, Mjolnir. Thor fought relentlessly against all evil powers, against giants and gygres. When Thor threw his hammer, it would always return.
Frey was the only handsome god. Being the god of love, he stood in the horg with his bulging rod. The member was carved in dark wood.
After much tending the gods were carried out of the horg and thoroughly washed by the elders. Grim caressed Odin especially. Outside the horg, the gods could see the sheep. They were tied to a corner post.
The holy grounds, the hov, down in front of the horg, were cleared and made ready by some of the women.
Sigurd drifted around and
saw little of this. Why didn't the gods help him? Yljali was not to be seen; she was gone, and Sigurd felt she had already disappeared. Where was she?
Is there no way out of this? Sigurd thought.
He did not want to, but Sigurd was forced to join the blood sacrifice; his father's words were law. Many worshippers had gathered outside the god shrine, in the hov. Here, the gods were facing the evening sun, and people, with the sun at their backs, were looking at the gods.
Thor was the first of the gods to receive his praise. Sigurd's father splattered the figure with blood, and everyone sang the old songs. All moved back and forth; their bodies moved back and forth. Thor gave protection against giants, evil spirits, and bad crops. He was a mighty god, demanding a great sacrifice. Both men and women sang.
Sigurd used to love sacrifices, but today his thoughts were far away. The smell of blood was like a heavy fog to Sigurd, and the song was a squawking in his ears. The sound and the smell filled not only the sacrificial grounds, but all of his head.
While making sacrifice to Frey, the god of love, folk pulled the dwarf forward. His male pride was standing straight up; it was just as large as the carved member of Frey. After his father had thrown blood at Frey, he poured blood over the bulging dwarf staff.
A gasp passed through the crowd when the blood flowed, but Sigurd was barely present. A buzz was in his head, the song was faint, he did not hear the poems his father was chanting. He was in pain. His chest and stomach hurt, even his legs ached.
This is what Hel must be like, Sigurd thought. The blood ritual seemed never to finish. It just kept on and on. And on.
Is there no sense of time in Hel?
As they were making sacrifice to the one-eyed Odin – his tongue hanging out – Sigurd suddenly got an idea.
By Odin!
When, at last, the sacrifice was over, Sigurd got hold of his sister, Sigrunn. She owed him a favour for a headband. She had told him so. After a lot of sweet talk, Sigrunn agreed to speak with the maids. During the feast in the hall, they should take extra care of Gisli to make sure he had plenty to drink.
His sister asked why, several times, but Sigurd refused to answer. He kept reminding her of the headband with the silver thread, a gift she had got.
"Just make sure the girls do as you say," Sigurd said.
The evening came, eventually. The feast began in the hall, and the girls did as Sigrunn Silkyhair said. They all enjoyed flirting with Gisli. Sigurd's sister was on guard throughout the evening. She made sure none of the girls followed Gisli out of the hall. "And no special herbs in his mead," she demanded.
Sigurd sat nearby, all the time. He watched Gisli more than anything else in the hall. In the torch-lit darkness, there were movements everywhere, dancing and toasting. Songs were sung, and in the king's company warriors acted out ancient tales and legends. Humours were high; even Sigurd's father was drunk and happy.
Gisli did not get drunk; he wasn't from Iceland for nothing. Time passed slowly, and Sigurd had to fidget with his small knife, just to make sure it was stuck in his belt.
It was getting late, very late, and several of the girls gave up on Gisli. People fell asleep, and the girls moved to the king's table. There, the warriors were still in high spirits. In the flickering dark, Sigurd saw his mother slip out of the hall with the dwarf. He noticed his father saw nothing, drunk as he was.
Finally, Gisli began to lose it; the mead showed its effect. Gisli cursed and yelled; he cried and laughed, until he finally fell asleep, his head on the table.
Loosening his knife, Sigurd could sneak up closer.
9
"Tjodolv carved runes, and Wolf held the spear. Tjodolv set out from Orkney with his longship, and after several days he arrived at his old farm in Norway. Here, Olav was running the farm; there was a fierce battle."
Grim had begun his story anew, and today Grim's eye was even redder; yesterday's drinking had been more than heavy.
Sigurd had to get away from the farm; he could not bear to see Yljali suffer. He was hot and cold in terms of what he had done, of what he had dared to do. He had hardly slept all night, and all morning he had lurked around the buildings, before eventually he went down to Grim.
He worried about Tjodolv and how things would end for him in Grim's tale. Tjodolv had been exiled, but now he was back with a spear full of runes.
Sigurd feared Grim's story would end in slaughter; his stories always did. Grim worshipped death.
Sometimes, when Grim came up to the farm, he walked straight through the yard. On the largest mound he stopped and pulled up his hood. When Grim sat atop the graves, people thought he might be longing for home. He was looking out the fjord, towards the sea – and beyond.
"Do you miss home?" Sigurd had asked him once. "Yes," Grim had answered. "I'm waiting to get home to the dead."
"They fought violently," Grim said, "and after a while Tjodolv stood in front of Olav. Olav ran against Tjodolv with his sword raised, ready to strike, and Tjodolv ran forward with his spear lifted.
"But, as Tjodolv charged, he took a wrong step, he stumbled, and the spear fell into the hands of Wolf. Wolf took hold of the spear and shoved it into Olav so hard the tip came out of his back.
"After the kill, Wolf went berserk; he struck down Olav's people in numbers. None of the fighters were spared. Tjodolv won the battle, and he gave Wolf his spear. After this, Wolf became a far-famed warrior.
"So, Olav, the farm thief, was killed, and the valkyries brought him home to Valhall. Now he sits in Odin's hall and drinks and eats and fights. Olav was always fond of mead, and in Valhall there is mead in buckets."
"And Tjodolv?" Sigurd asked. He didn't feel too well.
"Tjodolv lost his luck that day," Grim said. "When he fell, he sprained his foot, and the foot was swollen for a long time. But Tjodolv got the farm back; he swore allegiance to King Harald Fairhair, his enemy. King Harald gave Tjodolv one of his sons to foster.
"Tjodolv later became King Harald's skald; the man on Orkney had taught him how to work poems. It was Tjodolv who wrought Ynglingatal, the great poem recounting King Fairhair's bloodline. Tjodolv the Bard he was called.
"Tjodolv himself was unhappy. When he was going to battle, something was always the matter. His foot was swollen so he could not walk, or his horse was lame. His only joy was his foster son, but the boy drowned at sea.
"Tjodolv grew into an old and bitter man, full of disease and gout. Eventually he got the plague and lay on his deathbed. The stench from his mouth was such that nobody would stay in the room when Tjodolv died. They also feared he would make forebodings when he died. He was a sage, after all."
"And after that?" Sigurd asked. He was squirming on the bench.
"Tjodolv is the one who reeks worst of all in Hel. There, he floats about like a shadow and is freezing all the time. He cannot talk to anyone; there is no sound in Hel. And where there is no sound, there is no time. In Hel time passes so slowly that no wound will heal. In Hel, Tjodolv's foot aches forever. All the pain Tjodolv has ever had, from wounds and losses, of sorrow, disease, and pestilence, he can feel in Hel, all at once."
"But why?" said Sigurd. He did not like the story of Tjodolv, not at all.
"Because he used the slayer rune wrong," said Grim.
"Wrong?"
"Yes, when he carved the runes, Wolf should not have held the spear," said Grim. "And remember: Using the runes wrong will always bring disaster."
Things were getting worse and worse. It turned freezing cold in the room. The draft got the candle to flicker. Sigurd felt the draft came from Grim.
"What runes did Tjodolv carve?" he asked.
"Two of these," said Grim. His fingers pointed at the rune-wand. "They are slayer runes. And this, Sol, the rune for strength. And also these two," Grim said, pointing at two more of the runes. "They are called Need, the most disastrous of all runes."
Trembling all over, Sigurd broke into an ice-cold sweat.
10
Si
lenty the door opened. Sigrunn Silkyhair said that Sigurd had to come along. Shortly the sword fights would begin, and his father was looking for him. As they stepped out of Grim's house, his sister sent Sigurd a prying look, but he would not respond.
They started to walk up the hill, and Sigurd knew he had to find Gisli – and fast!
Softly, Sigrunn took Sigurd's arm.
"Now they have started to dress up Yljali," she said.
"Dress up?"
"Yes, Hild demanded Yljali dressed up, and father went along with it. Mother too, incidentally.
"She gets no jewellery and stuff," Sigrunn said, "just a plain frock with a belt and a simple buckle. Mother has already made the clothes ready for her."
They reached the hall, and Sigurd followed Sigrunn through the door.
Sigurd screamed with pain when he saw Yljali in her wedding clothes. She was so incredibly beautiful. Someone had combed her hair, and the belt highlighted her breasts. But Yljali tried to hide herself; she was crying.
Sigurd tumbled out of the hall. He had decided to tell Gisli what he had done. But what about Yljali?
In the yard, the first sword fight had started. The king's warrior looked cruel; he had the upper hand from the first clash. The Vik warrior didn't have much of a chance, but he was steadfast and did not give up; it was Odd the Squinter.
Sword-clamour rang in the air, and the battle surged back and forth; the king's warrior most often attacking. Several times Odd the Squinter was driven out of the ring.
People screamed and shouted, but there was no betting, the fight was too uneven. Eventually Odd was forced to his knees; the king's warrior charged with too many strokes. It was impossible to resist. Odd gave up.
The king's warrior was declared the winner, and he kissed his sword. The sword was every warrior's dearest property, and Sigurd frantically began to search for Gisli. Where was he?
He searched among people in the yard, but Gisli was not around.
"What are you whining for? Come and watch the fight!" his father said when Sigurd asked about Gisli. His father was angry after Odd the Squinter's defeat. Now he was sweet-talking Bork Berserk. He wanted Bork to fight the king's next contestant, but Bork was not cheap to enlist.