The Slayer Rune (The Viking Series Book 1)

by John Snow

  In the evening, the fishers rowed back, and Sigurd used all the strength his arms could muster. The rowing was difficult; the boat was half-full of fish, but Sigurd wanted to get ashore. He pulled hard on the oars; he had to get to Vik!

  He ran ashore on the beach. He let the men stay behind; they could take care of the fish. He ran up to the farm. Had anything happened?

  Nothing had happened, not in the course of that day.

  Every night, in the darkness, Yljali slipped up to Sigurd's bench in the hall. When she wriggled down beside him, Sigurd instantly knew what he missed all the time – when he was in the house of Grim, or out at sea. It was the smell of Yljali. When he breathed her scent in, his member grew hotter and harder with every breath. His body was filled with a painful and inescapable lust, but every night they lay very still under the blanket, listening.

  Some nights his father sneaked through the room; he always swore when he realized that Yljali was gone. At other times, almost every night, the murderer crept around the hall. The killer also came to an empty bench; Yljali was under the blanket with Sigurd.

  Sigurd was aroused every night. He could not help it; he was already hard when Yljali pressed up against him. Every night she had to feel the size of him there, against her stomach; his shaft was always rock-hard and never receding. But Sigurd didn't act; he was too alert, too apprehensive. His father could wake up, or the killer. Anyway, he could wait. Sigurd knew what he had to do. He was waiting for Thorstein Baldhead, the farmer from Bringsverd.

  The fishing ended. The mackerel were fickle; they came and left. One evening they were gone; no boats had a single bite. Crestfallen, people had to row home, empty-handed. Sigurd put extra power on the oars, and the boat moved speedily inwards. It was empty of fish, but Sigurd didn't mind.

  Now he can come! he thought.

  And sure enough, the neighbour came to Vik. One day, Thorstein Baldhead came riding into the yard; he had six men in his group, and they were all on horseback. Thorstein sprang from his mare; he was small and bald, but his voice was powerful. He asked for Harald, the chieftain. Everyone knew that Thorstein was looking for grain. He had also brought loose horses.

  Harald the Chieftain greeted Baldhead, smiling inside his beard. He went over to Thorstein's horses; they carried blankets and ropes for loading.

  "Those were strong animals!" the chieftain said.

  There was no talk of trade, not that day. Sigurd's father was in a very good mood; he received Thorstein's band as guests. He made a big deal of it, and asked them to stay for a feast.

  For a feast! It was unheard of. The chieftain of Vik inviting the ruler of Bringsverd to a feast!

  The word went flying out. People said the rumour spread like crab lice through the neighbourhood; soon people came strolling in from nearby farms. They came two and three together, even four. Soon the hall at Vik was full, but Harald the Chieftain welcomed them all.

  From Eskdale, Skarphedin came with his good sight and looks. He brought a beautiful younger sister. "Come inside," Sigurd's father said.

  Rowing in from Howlinghead, Big Bork and Bork Berserk came with two notoriously lustful women.

  "Come inside!"

  20

  The drinking was heavy. The men from Bringsverd were thirsty; they had not tasted beer for a very long time. They were very satisfied with Sigrunn, who served the beer. It was her they could thank, they said; the neighbours had heard about the blooding in the field.

  After a while most people got drunk. Many started to go in and out of the hall, but around Baldhead's men on the bench, the women kept calm; they didn't sneak out too often. They didn't dare because of Harald, the chieftain.

  Harald sat on the chieftain's seat. He was cheerful and thirsty but kept a keen eye on everything. So, the women didn't let the neighbouring men up their skirts; they clammed up under the table and chased eager hands away. There were limits to hospitality, they probably thought, except, of course, for the two women from Howlinghead; they could not keep their knees tight.

  Harald the Chieftain kept looking around, and eventually he asked for Yljali. He stopped Sigrunn Silkyhair; she was pouring beer.

  "Are you the only one serving?" Harald asked. "Where is Yljali?"

  Silkyhair poured beer into her father's horn, her eyes seeking her mother, the mistress.

  "Yljali is in the cookhouse," the mistress said decidedly. She had made sure of that.

  Odd argued, as usual. With Skarphedin this time. They sat at the table and were very much alike, Odd and Skarphedin, the brothers; both had blond hair and curls. Odd was the only one cross-eyed.

  Odd the Squinter mentioned the fabrics from Eskdale, the gifts he had received after Finngjerd the Fair, his mother; they had been burned in the yard. He also took off his bracelet and held it forth; it was an arm-ring.

  "This is poor silver," Odd said.

  "Poor silver?" said Skarphedin.

  "Yes, the silver is not pure."

  "Not pure?"

  "No, not pure!" said Odd.

  "Oh yes, the silver is pure," said Skarphedin.

  They didn't get to argue much further. Big Bork, the black giant, was also quarrelling. Big Bork was fond of beer; he was large as a barrel and could drink a few. One of the neighbouring men had said he could drink more than Bork. Thorstein's man was also a sturdy fellow.

  "I'll drink you under the table," said Baldhead's man.

  This made Big Bork furious; he shouted at the chieftain. He called for a contest.

  "A contest will be!" said Harald the Chieftain.

  At one of the tables, they made space for drinking. The contestants sat on opposite sides of the table. In front of them, Sigrunn stacked up drinking horns full of beer; they would see who could finish them first.

  Skarphedin the Second-Sighted reacted quickly; he arranged a bet. He had not forgotten the silver he lost on the fight between Gisli and Helgi Blackbeard.

  "I'll pay double if Big Bork loses," said Skarphedin.

  The neighbour's people studied their own warrior, and then Big Bork, the human barrel. Nevertheless, they bet on their own man, but they didn't put much money in the wager. Then Skarphedin yelled at Odd the Squinter.

  "You're not betting?" Skarphedin said to Odd; he knew that Odd the Squinter and Big Bork were no friends. They were enemies as only brothers could be.

  "Me?" said Odd.

  "Yes," said Skarphedin. "Do you think Big Bork will win?"

  "No," said Odd.

  "What about the bracelet," Skarphedin said, "isn't that bad silver?"

  "Yes!" said Odd.

  "I'll give you double back, in pure silver," Skarphedin said, "if you bet that bracelet on Big Bork losing."

  Odd the Squinter was in agony. People were looking at Odd; his words had betrayed him – again.

  He took off his arm-ring and put it on the table in front Skarphedin. With the bracelet, there was now a neat little pile of silver.

  "On the neighbour's man winning!" said Odd, the squinter.

  Big Bork and the neighbour's man grabbed a drinking horn each; it was not allowed to spill.

  "Drink!" Sigurd's father said.

  The men started drinking; they gushed the beer down. But the match was uneven; it was soon clear who drank the faster. After five beer-horns, Bork wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the neighbour's man. He was still in his third.

  Big Bork swallowed another five horns; then the neighbour was drinking his sixth. Bork smiled and burped and guzzled down the last two horns. He was declared the winner.

  "Bork won," said Harald the Chieftain.

  "I won!" Bork said, and leaned across the table. Intoxicated with victory, he drank a couple of the other man's beers, horns the neighbour hadn't had time to drink.

  Odd the Squinter was not very happy; he saw the silver disappear into Skarphedin's clothes. Skarphedin held Odd's bracelet up in the air – and put it on his arm.

  "This is pure silver," Skarphedin said to
people around.

  "Pure silver?" said Odd.

  "Pure silver," people said.

  "Pure silver!" Odd shouted; he was less than happy. Odd the Squinter was looking for a way out; he wanted the arm-ring back. Odd was looking at Big Bork.

  Big Bork was piss-drunk after the beer-drinking contest; he barely managed to sit on the bench. When Bork staggered out of the hall, Odd the Squinter followed. On the outside he saw Big Bork on all fours, crawling around, vomiting.

  Odd ran into the hall.

  "Big Bork is puking!" Odd the Squinter yelled. "That means he didn't win, doesn't it?"

  "He didn't win?" said Skarphedin, the ring on his arm glimmering. He pointed at Harald the Chieftain.

  "Of course Big Bork won," Sigurd's father said.

  Still, people went out of the hall to look at Bork.

  Big Bork was asleep.

  "Here is the winner!" people said. Big Bork had fallen asleep in his own puke.

  So, the feast was very much as usual.

  People went back inside and let Big Bork lie where he lay. Inside, they sang legends from ancient times. Their voices rose with the deeds of Thor and Njord; it was a great clamour. They drank.

  "Wasshail!"

  "Drinkhail!"

  In the midst of the racket, Sigurd pulled his brother Hakon out of the hall; they went over to the yard-tree.

  "I have something important to say," Sigurd said.

  When Sigurd had said what he had to say, Hakon Mute stood gaping; he was scared.

  "Chieftain, I?" he said.

  "Of course, you're the oldest," Sigurd said.

  "Besides, mother is on your side," he added.

  "Yes," said Hakon. "But can I trust you? How can I trust you?"

  "I will lend you Gisli's sword," Sigurd answered.

  Hakon nodded and seemed to agree to Sigurd's plan.

  Somewhat later, when the neighbour, Thorstein Baldhead, went out of the hall, Sigurd took care to follow the farmer from Bringsverd. He saw to it that no one could see them together.

  Outside they stood whispering, Sigurd and the farmer, also after Thorstein Baldhead had finished pissing.

  He looked happy, it seemed, the neighbour, with what he heard.

  21

  Next day, all was made ready for trading. People gathered in the yard, everyone from the farm. Even Grim and Yljali and all the neighbours showed up.

  Big Bork towered high above his brother, Bork Berserk. Skarphedin stood smiling; he loved to see a deal being made, he said. Tore the Captain knitted his brows; he was serious. He asked Odd the Squinter to calm down for once and not cause any trouble. Odd scowled but did not argue.

  Sigurd's father paced around the yard, grinning; he kept stroking his beard with a look of mischief. Everyone expected something to happen, but the neighbour, Thorstein, waited patiently. His bald head glared, but he stood remarkably quiet. Behind Thorstein Baldhead, his men were standing. They were not armed.

  Sigurd's mother had also come out in the yard. For once she looked gentle, or at least not angry; she did not bother Yljali today. Yljali stood whispering with Sigrunn Silkyhair.

  His mother walked over to Skarphedin the Second-Sighted.

  "How much money does Baldhead have?" his mother asked. Skarphedin had an eye for such things.

  "Thorstein Baldhead?" Skarphedin said; he studied the neighbour.

  "He has double up."

  When everyone was assembled, Harald the Chieftain told Tore the Captain to fetch the grain. Tore said to Odd the Squinter and some warriors that they should start carrying out barrels of barley. The warriors looked at Odd, and Odd pointed at the thralls.

  "Aren't the slaves going to carry?" Odd the Squinter asked.

  The chieftain came forward. He gave Odd a well-aimed punch in the face. Then the men did as Tore the Captain had said; they went to the storehouse.

  The men carried. Barrel after barrel was rolled out into the yard, until his father said stop.

  "That is enough," he said, studying the piled-up grain.

  It was a lot of grain, enough for the neighbour's entire farm with all its people for a whole year. His father pointed at the barley and the barrels.

  "Twenty marks of silver," he said, "is what I want for the grain, and twenty marks more."

  Forty marks of silver! A murmur ran through the crowd. Forty marks was a lot of money and an awful lot of silver. And there wasn't that much grain, not when you thought about it. People counted the barrels anew. That wasn't much grain for forty marks; the grain was hardly worth half in a normal year. What could Thorstein do?

  Thorstein Baldhead was calm; he seemed to have a strange reserve of strength.

  "Done," Thorstein said, and people were stunned.

  The neighbour's people began to load the grain on their horses; the men themselves would return on foot. When the men had finished, and the barrels were lashed together, Thorstein Baldhead walked over to Harald, the chieftain.

  The neighbour took out two large leather pouches. He handed one to Harald.

  "Here are twenty marks of silver," said Thorstein.

  "And here's another twenty marks," he said; he held the other bag in the air. "It is the fine you paid me for the murder of Eigil, my son."

  People remained watching; they were looking at the pouch the neighbour held out. Even Harald was in doubt.

  "There are many who know that Eigil was killed because he was in love with Hild," Thorstein said, looking at people around. "And everyone knows that you, Harald, killed him, my oldest son."

  Yes, everyone knew!

  "And that now, by Odin's holiest oath, you have vowed to kill the one who murdered Hild, your lover."

  Thorstein untied the leather pouch and took the silver out. He held the silver up so everyone could see that the silver was the fine for Eigil, his son. Then he put the silver back into the leather pouch and tied it up.

  "Twenty marks is a lot of silver for the grain," Thorstein said, pointing at the uploaded horses. Then he looked at Harald.

  "But twenty marks of silver is very little for the life of a son," he said and gave the bag with the fine to Harald.

  "I know who killed Hild!" Thorstein Baldhead shouted. He let his eyes pass over everyone in the yard. Finally, he looked at Harald, the chieftain.

  "It was Hakon, your oldest son."

  People looked in disbelief at the neighbour, and then at Harald. He stood with the fine in his hand; it was twenty marks of silver. Finally, all were staring at Hakon Mute, his son. Hakon stood tall, with black eyes.

  No one knew what to believe, but the neighbour and Sigurd exchanged a hardly noticeable glance. Sigurd saw the vision he had had while hearing the crone's prophecy. He envisioned the knife Hakon used to deliberately cut up Hild. It was the same knife Hakon was sneaking around with at night, in the hall. He wanted to kill Yljali with the same knife he had thrust into Hild.

  All was quiet in the yard, everyone looking at Hakon Mute.

  "It was because you loved Hild and hated me!" Hakon shouted at last. "That is why I killed her! And that's why I stopped talking!

  "Do you remember the day I stopped talking?" Hakon yelled again, pointing at his father. "You beat me so hard I couldn't get out a word! It was because I came into the house while you and Hild – while you were…"

  Hakon didn't get to say any more; Harald the Chieftain had seized his sword. His father realized that Thorstein had told the truth. Hakon had driven the knife into Hild. He was the killer!

  Hakon saw his father draw the sword; he ran over to Sigurd, reaching for Gisli's sword. Sigurd seemed to be caught off guard; he didn't hinder him. He let Hakon get hold of the sword. With sword in hand, Hakon attacked his father, and his father attacked Hakon.

  Their mother screamed. She wanted to run in between, but she was held back by Odd the Squinter and Tore the Captain.

  They agreed on this, Odd and Tore. Not yet another broken oath, they said.

  It was a terrible fight. Father
against son, and son against father; hatred burning in both. It was a fight to death.

  Hakon was the wildest. He swung the sword with a crazed frenzy. It was just with the breadth of a hair his father evaded the blow, but his father was slick. He knew that Hakon was wild with hatred. He waited for Hakon to tire; he jumped steadily away. Gisli's sword was heavy. Gradually Hakon tired; there was less force in his blow.

  Sigurd stood watching, almost frozen. He was afraid of the wildness in both. Inside himself he muttered the slayer rune, Tuul, Tuul, but it did not help. His father had the upper hand. He began to drive Hakon backwards.

  "Tuul, Tuul," Sigurd finally said, softly, but out loud this time.

  In the same instant, Hakon attacked his father. He jumped at his father, front on. His father was surprised, and before he could make a defence, Hakon drove Gisli's sword into the throat of his father and out the back of his neck. There was a rattling sound from the throat, but his father was dead. He lay on the ground with the sword straight through his spine.

  People were completely stunned at what had happened; the son had killed his father.

  Hakon Mute was looking around with scared and enquiring eyes. The looks he got back were terrified; people saw a man who had killed his own father.

  "I am chieftain now!" Hakon shouted. He watched them all; he sent a hateful glance at Yljali. Instinctively he touched the scabbard of his knife with his fingers.

  "Now it is I who rule!"

  "No!" cried Sigurd, he ran forward and pulled Gisli's sword out of his father's throat. "Not before you have fought with me!

  "I will avenge the murder of my father!"

  Hakon went for his father's sword which lay on the ground, but he stared with disbelief at Sigurd and his sword.

  "This is deceit!" Hakon called out.

  "It is revenge!" cried Sigurd, and the brothers clashed together.

  This match was absolutely insane. Brother against brother, and brother against brother. Nothing could have been worse. It was impossible for anyone to go in between; the fight was far too wild.