‘And women! Don’t forget us, god,’ a woman called.
Hovard could not see where this came from. The voice was a little slurred and it brought some laughter. ‘And women too,’ he said. ‘Gods, men and women. We are all at heart a simple folk, are we not? To till our fields, to raise our cattle and our children, to hunt in our forests and on our oceans and in our streams – these are our ways. But we are also a people who love to fight.’ A small cheer came at this, and Hovard raised his voice a little to top it. ‘Gods, men … and women, how we love to fight! It was ever so and Haakon knew that. But what he also knew was that our thirst for the fight could lead to the destruction of all the rest – the tilling, the hunting, the raising of our children. And so he gathered our forebears here and made his laws.’ He raised the white staff and pointed the eagle head over the crowd. ‘Recite with me,’ he called.
There were prayers that men uttered for fortune before battle or the hunt. There were departed gods called upon, and living ones cajoled. But there were only Haakon’s Laws – plain ones for a plain people to live and die by. All learned them from the moment that speech was possible. All here recited them now, no matter where they came from, no matter whether they were from villages or wanderers, landless. Gods, men and women old and young, speaking as one.
‘Gods fight gods, man fights man and none the unwilling.
Quarter is given when asked.
There is no dishonour in refusing a fight.
The victor only takes as much as he can give back.’
Hovard glanced at Stromvar at that – for the Lord of the Seven Isles had come to take Askaug, and would have offered only his barren rocks in return. The fairness of that exchange was the sort of thing that would be discussed and settled at Moots. Hovard wondered then if Stromvar, in seven years’ time at the regular Moot, would have been willing to give up Askaug had he conquered it. Somehow he doubted it. But Stromvar only stared ahead and called, as everyone else did, the last of Haakon’s laws.
‘These, my laws, will stand in my memory. They must only be changed if all life changes … at the twilight of the world.’
As the last cries faded, Hovard looked at Freya. She nodded. He’d brought them together. Now he needed to make them believe that the twilight of the world had come.
‘People of the Land,’ he called, ‘Haakon’s Laws have kept us safe and content enough for centuries. But Haakon also knew that life does change, however slowly, and that is why he gave us that last law. To be invoked only when it was needed.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It is needed now and I, Hovard of Askaug, invoke it.’
A louder murmur came then. More than one voice cried out, ‘Why?’ Hovard lifted the stick, raising the eagle above them. ‘It was once thought that we were alone in the world. That the mountains that no one could climb, the seas that no one could sail, meant that there was no one else. Many thought this could not be true. My own parents drowned trying to prove there was somewhere beyond our boundaries. They failed – but others have succeeded.’
This produced the greatest murmur yet, voices querying in confusion, wonder, mockery. Hovard looked at Freya and nodded. Lifting the bundle at her feet, she headed for the barrow. Hovard raised his voice, needing to in order to be heard. ‘For someone has climbed the mountains. Someone has sailed the seas.’
‘Who?’ came a near universal shout.
It was the High Priest’s shout that came to him loudest, as he was also standing on the barrow. His wrinkled face was anguished. Not surprisingly, as his world was being turned upside down. ‘Who has come?’ he said.
‘He has,’ said Hovard, and stooped to receive the shroud-wrapped bundle that Freya passed up. He stood it up beside him, as his wife joined him on the bundle’s other side. All could clearly see the vaguely human form within the cloth and the sight brought an instant, uneasy silence to the crowd. Hovard reached to the brooch pin at the base and jerked it free. He did the same to the pin at the shoulder. Then, with Freya holding steady, he grabbed the shroud in both hands and ripped it away.
Uproar again. People shrieked, some fell to their knees, others made warding gestures to avert evil, joined hands thrust before them. All had seen corpses before. But none had seen a corpse that appeared to be alive, with hair on the head and a glitter in the eyes that only the very nearest could see were black beads.
Luck did a good job before he left, thought Hovard, seeing the preserved corpse of the killer for the first time since he’d left Askaug. His brother had said that such evidence might be needed, that persuasion and belief might not be enough. Judging by the cries, he’d been right.
‘You can see this man is not from our lands. We have clear proof that he came across the mountains to kill the gods,’ Hovard shouted. ‘He nearly did kill Einar the Black, as he will tell you and show you his scar. We believe others have been coming and killing for years. Look around you. Where are half the gods? You people who wander the land, where did your gods go?’
He hoped they heard him. It was hard to tell, the tumult was now so great. Men, women and gods were shouting at him, at the priest, at each other. The crowd was shifting, people moving as if they would soon run mad. Hovard lifted the stick, waved it back and forth, called. Beside the priest, a man lifted a horn and blared a rallying call, such as would warn a village of surprise attack, or rally a force in battle. Under its deep bellow, gradually, the noise slackened, falling at last to a silence that somehow still shrieked.
Hovard took another deep breath. Freya smiled. He had them. Now he had to lead them.
The clapping began a moment before his next word. Came from but a single pair of hands, and yet was shockingly loud in that uneasy silence. People jerked, looked around, seeking the source – and saw the strangest sight.
They had not been there before. They would have been noticed for the oddness of their dress – or rather, their lack of it, for the dozen men who walked forward were all but naked, save for the white and black paint stripes that covered them forehead to toes, and the cloth at their waists which scarcely concealed their maleness. All men, then – though the one who led them through the stunned crowd towards the barrow, the one doing the clapping, could have been man or woman. He or she – the bulk perhaps indicated a man – was the only one fully clothed, though his garb was different from anyone else’s in the bowl of Galahur. Whatever region they came from, near ocean, mountain or forest, most people in Midgarth dressed the same – shirts, jerkins and coats of tanned hide, wool leggings and cloaks – practical clothing of darker hues. This person wore a tunic made of fur, and dyed with reds, yellows and green in random patches. Buttoned at the neck, it swept to his feet, there to pass not over boots but over strapped, painted skin.
It was only when the strange crew were at the base of the barrow that Hovard realised what had confused him more about the person than the gaudiness of his clothes. His face wasn’t his own. He wore a mask, a near perfect replica of someone else made from a soft and pliant material, like hardened beeswax. The face reminded him of someone; but Hovard couldn’t think who, distracted by the strange figure now climbing the turf steps cut into the barrow. Alone, for the twelve followers remained, silent and staring, below.
The figure halted. ‘May I?’ he said. It was definitely a man’s voice, though high-pitched. And Hovard, as transfixed as any, found himself yielding to the gesture that came with the question – and yielding control of the speaking staff to the newcomer.
‘Thank you, ssso much,’ the man said, and turned to face the gathered people. ‘Greetings, people of Midgarth. My name is Peki Asarko. I am a mortal, and I dwell on the Lake of Souls.’
A shudder passed through the crowd. All there knew of the lake – its reputation, if not its truths. No one believed that any but ghosts dwelt there, and all avoided it for that reason, and because of the marsh gases that killed. All had also heard stories of the few who strayed near, and never
returned.
The mask face dipped, acknowledging the feeling. ‘I know,’ Peki said. ‘None of you thought that your nightmares would join you at the Moot, did you? But believe this: we of the Lake mean you no harm. We are different, yes, lead different lives there. But we are not your darkest fears. For we are dwellers of Midgarth too and when our land is threatened, like any other people we answer the call to defend it. Defend it from those who truly threaten it.’ He turned now, and faced Hovard. ‘And those who truly threaten it now are its so-called gods.’
Hovard shook his head, to wake himself from the spell the man’s arrival and appearance had cast on him. He didn’t know what was happening here. But he knew that the people, who had been ready to listen to him after the reciting of Haakon’s Laws, were being swayed away again. He stepped forward, held out his hand. ‘We do not listen to men in masks, Peki Asarko,’ he said. ‘Everyone here, god or man, is prepared to show his honest face to the world and be judged.’
Instead of giving back the staff, Peki turned back to the people. ‘You see how the god will bully a mere mortal? How he will stop us speaking? I wear a mask because my face is hideous – for many years ago a god tried to blind me with fire. I do not wish anyone to be distracted by my ugliness from the truths I would speak. Must speak,’ he said, stepping away, holding the staff away from Hovard who’d reached again. ‘Will you let me speak?’
‘Let him speak,’ a man shouted, the phrase taken up, swiftly becoming a chant. Hovard glanced once at Freya, still holding up the black-eyed assassin. She shrugged and Hovard lowered his arm.
Peki passed close to Freya then, the mask turned to the preserved corpse she held. ‘Nice work,’ he whispered, giggled, then turned to face the crowd again.
‘Why do we call you a god, Hovard? Yes, you live ten lives to our one, or more. But during those lives? You eat, you shit, you fuck, you kill.’ Some in the crowd laughed. He turned to gaze out. ‘Is that any different from us mortals?’
‘They can turn into beasts.’
It was a woman who yelled it. ‘Thank you, ssister,’ replied Peki. ‘Yess. They can become animals for a time. And what do they do with that gift?’ He put a hand behind his ear, gazed out. ‘No? I will tell you. They eat, they shit, they fuck, they kill. Such are our … gods.’
Hovard looked out. And it seemed to him that he could suddenly see all the gods, the hundred who were there, standing slightly clear of their twelve followers. As if all the mortals had taken a small step away from them.
‘And now what do these gods tell us? When they sense that we are angry? That we do not wish to follow them any more? They tell us that there is an enemy … beyond.’ He waved to the east. ‘A threat – out there. Killers coming for all of us. All of us?’ He shook his head. ‘Or did I hear him say that it was the gods who were dying? Did I hear him say that he wanted to change four hundred years of Haakon’s Laws because his brothers and sisters are threatened? Their way of life. Did I hear him say his only proof was this,’ he waved at the corpse, ‘desecration?’
Hovard had not said that. But looking out at the faces below, he saw that many there believed he had. Peki Asarko, bringing the mystery of the Lake of Souls and harnessing a resentment that many felt, was swaying them to his cause. What exactly that was, he had not said. Whatever it was, Hovard knew it was against all he’d come there to do. He sought to unite gods and mortals. This man sought to divide them further.
He stepped, placed two hands upon the white staff, as the muttering on all sides turned to a growl. ‘My turn,’ he said softly, for only Peki to hear. ‘For I can tell you—’
It was as far as he got – because suddenly the eagle head of the staff jerked – and struck Peki hard in the middle of his chest. With a cry, the masked man fell back, down, releasing the staff – and leaving Hovard standing over him – as if he’d just hit him.
The roar that came then was twice as loud as the crowd had made so far. Men and women surged forward, shouting. None were as quick as the twelve painted warriors, who ran up the steps and surrounded their fallen leader. Hovard stepped back, protesting, though none could hear him. The High Priest seized the staff, waved it aloft, tried to quieten the mob, who poured around the barrow yelling and cursing. Only when Peki Asarko was helped up and raised his arms for silence too, did hush eventually come.
Stromvar had joined Hovard and Freya, and the three of them faced the painted men and their wheezing leader, who reached and snatched the talking staff from the hands of the startled priest.
‘Very brave, god, to try to end my right to speech with your violence.’
‘I did not—’
‘In doing so,’ cried Peki, overriding him, ‘you have left me no choice.’ He turned to the lake of faces surrounding the barrow. ‘All can see how the living gods accept those who are of a different mind. But we know that our gods in the sky, in the warrior halls and on the thrones of everlasting life, are wiser than their earthly offspring. With Haakon the Great the wisest of all. For there is one other law that has not been spoken yet. Not spoken since he left it to us four hundred years ago.’ He turned to the priest. ‘Tell them.’
‘I … I …’
‘Oh, you’ll need this,’ Peki said, handing over the staff. ‘Now tell them of Haakon’s wisdom and his seventh law.’
A near silence now, all muttering gone. Only the wind still made noise, in the flapping banners. ‘The s-seventh l-law,’ the priest stuttered. ‘The seventh law states—’ He broke off. ‘It has never been invoked before.’
‘It has never been needed before.’ Peki nodded. ‘Invoke it now.’
The priest drew himself up, took a deeper, steadying breath. This was the law, and he was its minister. ‘The seventh law of Haakon states this: “If all cannot be resolved between gods and men at a Moot, then one god and one man shall fight – and the victor shall decide the course.”’
Upon the field of Galahur, people looked at each other. Hovard who, like all the rest, had never heard this law spoken, suddenly calmed. Though Bjorn was the true fighter among the Askaug brother gods, he knew he was good enough. Good enough certainly to defeat this masked man before him, who played tricks with sticks, and swayed a crowd with lies. ‘Do you challenge me?’
Eyes glimmered in the mask. ‘Yes, Hovard of Askaug. I, Peki Asarko of the Lake of Souls, challenge you.’
‘Good. So let us fight. Here, now. And let the gods who sit above decide between us.’
‘Yesss.’ The voice hissed. ‘Let their power sit in your sword, just as they sit in the sword … of my champion.’
Hovard, who’d started to turn away to Freya, turned back. ‘You do not fight?’
‘Me?’ A soft giggle escaped through the mouth slit. Then the voice came louder, carried. ‘Though of course I wish to, I cannot. For that god who burned my face also crippled my arm. But it is within the laws of our land to appoint a champion to fight over any dispute. You can do the same if you like.’
He giggled again. Hovard grunted. ‘So where is your champion?’ He looked at the painted men still crouched at their leader’s feet. ‘Is he one of these?’
‘Oh no. He is …’ Peki swivelled to the front, and stretched out his arm to the lip of the bowl of Galahur, to the place where he’d first appeared, ‘… there.’
All turned, those on the barrow, those on the ground, following the swing of Peki’s arm. For a moment, nothing stirred. Until something shifted and a man appeared, moving slowly over the crest so that he was only revealed little by little. The bald crown of his head. A face painted in black and white stripes like those who crouched upon the barrow. A neck – which seemed not to be there at all, for the head stood on shoulders that spread wide, bulging with muscles like thick, coiled ropes. The chest no different, the stomach the same, both looking like they could be armoured in leather, but which was just more painted skin. The gasps only got louder as he came �
�� until the moment when the monster crested the hill and stopped, on legs that looked like oak trunks in a forest, bringing a complete silence.
Peki Asarko broke it. ‘My champion. His name is Ut the Slayer,’ he said, waving. And then he laughed.
Stromvar entered the tent. In its corner, Freya looked up from the sword on her lap, and the whetstone in her hand.
‘Is it time?’ Hovard asked.
‘Almost.’ The Lord of the Seven Isles tipped his head to the noise behind him, a buzz of voices that had scarcely diminished since the moment the challenge was issued, and the challenger appeared. ‘It is a feast out there. The men of Kroken have sold almost all their ale. People are eating meat that is barely cooked. I’ve heard three ballads already, telling of the fight.’
‘Did any of those ballads have me winning it?’
Stromvar’s silence was his answer. Instead he said, ‘You should appoint me your champion. Let me fight for you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have a better chance of killing that big fucker.’
‘You do.’ Hovard reached down again to his leather shin guards, and resumed tying them on. ‘And if you do, I will for ever be the one who hid behind you. You will be the leader then, not I.’
Stromvar grunted. ‘Would that be such a bad thing?’
Hovard finished the last knot, stood and crossed the tent to lay his hand on the other god’s arm. ‘We will need your courage, Dragon Lord. We will need your strength and your prowess at war. We will need these things most desperately, I fear, in the times that are upon us. The one thing you lack, forgive me, is restraint. Your power is in your instant actions. But in the time ahead we will need thought as much as courage. Truly, I believe we will need it more.’
‘So let me act for us now, and you think for us later.’
Smoke in the Glass Page 22