The Heudjun Clan would remain the guardians of their ancestral homeland, but they would no longer be the city’s dominant clan. That honor would go to the Torgun. If Norgaard won, he would move from Luda into the Chief’s longhouse in Vindraholm, bringing with him his household and many warriors. Already the Heudjun were getting a taste of what this would be like, for the Torgun were setting up camp on the beach. Torgun warriors would soon be swaggering through the streets.
“We must hold the Vutmana as soon as possible,” Draya told the assembled Priestesses, “or there will be trouble.”
The Priestesses were in agreement. They were aware of the mood of the people. Almost every woman there had been forced to listen to the angry rantings of husbands and sons, brothers and fathers.
“I do not condone what the Chief of Chiefs has done,” Fria said, rising to speak. “Far from it. Still it would be best for the Torgun if they returned home until it is time for the ceremony. Our men have promised they will not fight them, but that promise will be hard for some of them to keep, especially if the Torgun warriors go about the city like young bucks flaunting newly sprouted horns.”
Draya agreed, and as the first order of business, she sent Fria as messenger to Norgaard to explain matters.
Norgaard sent back word that he understood completely. He and the Torgun would sail home with the tide.
Draya was pleased at his response. Norgaard was a man of sense. He would make a good Chief.
“And,” said Fria, squeezing Draya’s hand and whispering excitedly into her ear, “I found out that Norgaard is now a widower. His young wife died last night in childbirth. That is sad, of course, but it makes things easier. Now there will be no messy entanglements, no divorce.”
“I grieve to hear Norgaard’s wife died,” Draya said. “But what else do you mean? Was there talk of divorce between them?”
Fria stared at her, amazed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of this, Draya! If the gods are just, you will have a new husband.”
Draya gasped. She had been so caught up in worrying about how the change to a new Chief would affect her people, she had not remembered that the Vutmana would have a profound effect upon herself.
The Kai Priestess was required to marry the Chief of Chiefs. If the Chief was already married, as Norgaard had been, the law required that he divorce his wife. Such a divorce was most honorable. The woman received substantial compensation and could either remain in her own home or return to live with her family. Norgaard, now a widower, would be looking for a new wife anyway.
Draya considered Norgaard as a husband. He was her elder by some ten years or more; she liked him, but she knew him to be a disappointed man—a somber, cheerless man with a crippled leg who was always in pain. She suppressed a sigh.
“He would be a good husband for you, Draya,” Fria told her. “He can give you children. And he won’t beat you.”
Was that the measure of good husband? Draya wondered. That he didn’t beat you?
In a society where marriages were always arranged between families, few married for love. Songs celebrated love found after marriage, and Draya had only to see the way Sven and Fria looked at each other to know that the words of the poets were not empty. Men and women who had scarcely known each other before they lay together in the bridal bed often found deep and abiding love came after they had said their vows.
Draya longed for such a bond. Instead she saw herself moving from one loveless bed into another. She must hope for a child. That would be her consolation.
“We need to set a date for the Vutmana,” said Draya, addressing the Priestesses. “How soon can all the clans be notified? The other Clan Chiefs will want to attend to serve as witnesses for their people.”
The Bone Priestesses calculated how long it would take messengers to travel from Vindraholm to bring the news to the other clans and how long the Chiefs would need to undertake the journey to Vindraholm. Fortunately the weather was fine for sailing. Most would travel by sea. Add a day or so to take into consideration the possibility of bad weather, and Draya judged they could safely schedule the Vutmana to occur within a fortnight, the last week of the month of Desiria.
Desiria, the month of spring, the time of hope and rebirth, named to honor the Goddess of Life. What dreadful irony! Draya thought. That reminded her of another unhappy task. She would have to tell the people the terrible news about the gods. Now was not a good time, not with all the upheaval and turmoil. Yet she feared Horg would tell them if she did not. He had threatened to do so, after all.
And then Draya realized Horg didn’t dare carry out his threat. If he should win, he would claim Torval’s protection. Horg would be a fool to go around telling people Torval was dead.
Draya sent word to Norgaard that the Torgun should return in a fortnight’s time. She sent a messenger to Horg, as well. The girl returned with word that Horg was gone. He and some of his cronies had gone on a hunting trip.
“Likely stalking the woods in search of the wild cider jug,” said Fria tartly. “A good thing he left, given the way people feel about him.”
Draya felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Hopefully he would stay away, far away, until time for the Vutmana. She did not want to have to speak to him or think about him or set eyes upon him until the day she stood before him during the ceremony.
After that . . .
Hopefully there would be no after that.
CHAPTER
5
Long, long ago, a Clan Chief named Thorgunnd Sigrund declared war upon a rival Clan Chief, Krega of the Steppes. The war started innocently enough. Chief Krega sought the hand of Thorgunnd’s eldest daughter in marriage, hoping to ally his clan with the more powerful clan of Thorgunnd. The young woman refused the marriage, as was her right, for Krega had the reputation of being a savage brute.
Krega was angry and affronted, and he urged Thorgunnd to force his daughter to marry him, but Thorgunnd would not do so. A short time later, Thorgunnd’s youngest son, his father’s favorite, went walking in the woods and vanished. When he did not return home, Thorgunnd sent men to search for him. They found the boy on Krega’s land. The boy was dead, an arrow in his back.
Furious, Thorgunnd demanded a blood-price for the life of his son. Krega refused, claiming the boy’s death was an accident. Men had been out hunting and mistaken the lad for a deer. Krega further stated that the boy had trespassed; he had no business being on his land in the first place.
Thorgunnd suspected that Krega had murdered the boy and then dragged his body onto his land, but he could not prove it. Since Krega would not pay the blood-price, the clans went to war.
Each Chief called upon his allies to fight for his cause. The Djevakfen fought alongside Krega. The Martegnan joined forces with Thorgunnd. Not content with victory on the field of battle, warriors burned and looted the homes of their fellow Vindrasi, raped their women, and sold their children into bondage. Every battle engendered another, as relatives of the dead demanded revenge. Soon every clan had been sucked into the terrible maelstrom.
The Kai saw the valiant young men, the future of the Vindrasi people, lying dead on the field of battle. The Kai heard the screams of ravished women and the cries of orphans. The Kai saw their enemies watching, biding their time, waiting for the Vindrasi to destroy themselves. When that happened, they would swoop down, like carrion birds, to pick the flesh from the carcass.
Fearful that this war threatened to fell the World Tree, the Kai Priestess, a valiant woman named Ingunn, undertook a perilous journey. Ingunn traveled to the Nethervold to beg the Goddess of the Dead, Freilis, to end the strife.
Freilis was moved by the pleas of Ingunn, and she left the Nethervold—a thing unheard of. She sailed in a ship drawn by ravens to Torval’s Hall of Heroes. She found the God of Battle carousing with the souls of valiant warriors, listening to them relate their heroic deeds. Freilis reproached Torval with the vast number of dead. She pleaded with him to end the strife before the Vindrasi peo
ple ended up destroying themselves.
Torval roared his refusal. The warriors had died with honor. Their deaths brought them glory. Freilis asked him bitterly what glory there was in a woman lying slaughtered in a pool of her own blood or in Vindrasi children being carried away to slavery.
“I say these so-called valiant warriors are cowards with no honor,” Freilis declared angrily. “They fear to fight each other. Instead they kill defenseless women and old men and helpless children.”
Torval was furious. He thundered that he would stake anything Freilis named upon the courage and valor of his warriors.
“If I am proved right, then you must end this war,” Freilis said.
“I take your wager,” said Torval, pleased, for he was convinced he would win. “How shall it be settled?”
“The two Chiefs, Thorgunnd and Krega, started this war. Let them meet in single combat,” Freilis declared. “This will not be a fight to the death, for we have seen death enough already. Whoever draws first blood will be the victor.”
Both Clan Chiefs agreed, and they met in single combat. Torval favored Thorgunnd, for Torval knew the Chief’s cause was just. As for Freilis, she had tricked Torval, for she knew Krega’s heart was black, and she was certain he would not fight according to the rules.
She was proved right. Thorgunnd drew first blood, slashing Krega across his cheek. Krega dropped his sword and walked forward to congratulate the winner. But when Thorgunnd sheathed his sword and lowered his shield, Krega drew a knife from his boot and stabbed Thorgunnd in the heart.
Shocked and outraged, Torval conceded he had lost the wager. He cursed Krega and caused him to be expelled from his clan. Krega was forced to become an outlaw—one who lived outside the law. This meant that his life was forfeit. Anyone who came upon him could slay him, and the killing would be deemed justified. Krega had many enemies who sought his blood. Hunted like an animal, he lived a miserable existence and ended up being torn apart by bears—an animal sacred to Torval.
With the war at last at an end, the clan of Thorgunnd Sigrund prospered. They renamed their clan in his honor, calling themselves the Torgun. Their many dragonships sailed the seas, venturing into distant lands, performing deeds that were forever after known as the Thorgunnd Sagas.
Admitting Freilis’s wisdom, Torval decreed that henceforth the Vindrasi would settle disputes through the Vutmana, the Law of the Challenge.
The Vutmana was centuries old, and the Vindrasi still adhered to many of its ancient traditions. Draya had been present at the Clanmeld year after year, listening to the Talgogroth recite the Law of the Challenge.
Since the Vindras had no written language, the Talgogroth—the Voice of Gogroth, God of the World Tree—was a man whose only task in life was to memorize the laws of the Vindrasi and recite them during the Clanmelds, meetings held annually in each clan. Every man fifteen years and older was required to attend the Clanmeld to hear the recitation. Thus no man could claim he was ignorant of the law.
For the first five days of a Clanmeld, the Talgogroth recited all the laws of the Vindrasi nation. Chiefs attended the Great Clanmeld held in Vindraholm every year. Men of the clans attended the Lesser Clanmelds held yearly when the Talgogroth, traveling from clan to clan, came to give them the law. Bone Priestesses were also required to attend the Clanmeld, for a Clan Chief might ask for the assistance of the gods if he felt uncertain on how to rule.
The day after the Torgun’s departure, thirteen days prior to the Vutmana, Draya paid a visit to the Talgogroth, to ask him to relate the Law of the Challenge, ostensibly to make certain she did not offend the gods by leaving out an essential part of the ritual. In truth, Draya needed to ask the Voice of Gogroth an important question.
The Talgogroth was named Balin, and he was about thirty-five. He had learned the law at his father’s knee, for his father had been the Talgogroth, as had his father before him. The Talgogroths were highly regarded among the Vindrasi. The Talgogroth was the only man exempt from fighting, for his knowledge was deemed too valuable to risk. Whenever the Chief of Chiefs sat in judgment, Balin stood at his side.
Balin had been expecting Draya, and he welcomed her cordially to his longhouse. He offered her food and drink, which she accepted to do honor to his house. She listened silently and patiently as he recited the Law of the Challenge and then went into all the details about where it was held, who could attend, how long the ceremonial cloth should be, what it should be made of, the roles of all the participants, and so on.
“Each fighter has three shields, kept for him by an unarmed shield-bearer who takes no part in the battle but provides replacement shields if a shield is broken,” Balin declaimed. “Each fighter strikes a single blow in turn, with the challenged party delivering the first blow. The fight continues until first blood is drawn, whereupon the Kai Priestess ends the fight, proclaiming that Torval has issued his judgment.”
Draya frowned slightly and raised her hand to stop the flow of words. “How is ‘first blood’ to be determined? I assume this does not mean a scratch on the cheek.”
“The Kai Priestess is the one who decides when first blood is drawn. Traditionally, the blood must be sufficient to spatter the cloth at the warriors’ feet.”
“I see.” Draya remained thoughtful.
“You must remember, lady,” Balin said gently, “that the Vutmana was established by the Kai to avoid the shedding of blood.”
“Yet the Vutmana is not the same now as it was when it was first established,” said Draya.
“The Vutmana we know today is very different from those described in the old songs,” Balin agreed.
“How exactly?” Draya asked. “I want to be clear on this.”
“For example, when the Vutmana was first established, two men could fight for any reason under the sun. The idea of a trial by combat became so popular, the Priestesses were doing nothing but watching warriors take swings at each other,” Balin told her.
“The Clan Chiefs were not happy about this. They were supposed to judge disputes, but increasingly the Chiefs were being bypassed by those wanting to bring their petty grievances to Torval. And then there was the problem that if anyone disagreed with a Chief’s judgment, the warrior could challenge the Chief to the Vutmana to try to overthrow him.
“After a few years of such chaos, the Kai decreed that the Vutmana would be used only to settle disputes that might lead to war and to determine who was to be the new Chief. Further, the challenger has to be willing to stake a goodly portion of his wealth on the outcome, to be given to the challenged if Torval rules in his favor.”
Balin reached for his lyre. “For example, in the lay known as ‘Gonegal’s Heart’ there is a verse that goes—”
“Perhaps another time, Balin,” Draya said politely, rising to take her leave.
Balin was a bard, as well as Talgogroth, and if permitted, he would spend the rest of the day singing his songs.
“I enjoy your music, as you know, sir,” Draya added, to take the sting out of her words, “but I must forgo all such pleasures until this important matter is settled. You do understand, don’t you?”
Balin inclined his head and regretfully laid his lyre aside. “I hope I have been of help to you, lady,” he said, rising in turn.
“Your help has been inestimable, sir. I thank you for your time.” Draya glanced at the lyre that resided in a place of honor near the fireside and said politely, “I hope you will compose a song in honor of this Vutmana, so that it will be remembered by our children.”
“That will depend, lady,” said Balin after a moment’s hesitation.
“On what?” Draya asked, smiling. “You bards make everything into a song.”
He regarded her sadly, then said, “Perhaps our children will not want to remember.”
The day of the Vutmana dawned clear and bright. The Sun Goddess Aylis seemed to leap out of the ocean, as though eager to watch the contest. Akaria was reluctant to lower her lantern; the moon was loath to set
, but remained a pale orb in the sky until long after the sun had risen, before sinking down reluctantly.
The Torgun had arrived at Vindraholm the night before. No one was on the beach to greet them, but no one was there to oppose them, either. Norgaard understood. The hearts of the Heudjun were sore and bitter. Norgaard and his warriors camped on the beach and he’d placed strict limits on the amount of ale they consumed.
Horg and his cronies had also returned to the city. Horg had spent the time in the forest brooding over his perceived wrongs and reviling his unfaithful clansmen. His friends had soothed him and flattered him, assuring Horg he had been in the right. Sven was a coward, they said. Norgaard was an ambitious rival who would stop at nothing, while his whelp Skylan was all clamorous bark and no bite.
Horg’s friends had been quick to disabuse him of the pleasant notion that he would be fighting a cripple.
“Ten to one,” they said, “Norgaard will have his warrior son fight in his place.”
Horg shrugged it off. He would have liked to fight Norgaard, not only because of the physical advantage, but also because of their clash over the dragonship. Horg had never forgiven Norgaard for withholding what Horg believed to be rightfully his.
Horg did not mind fighting Skylan. Thinking it over, Horg decided he preferred it. Norgaard was a sly old fox who would know all Horg’s little underhanded tricks and undoubtedly have a few of his own. Skylan was young and inexperienced, a notorious hothead who would make mistakes. Skylan lacked Horg’s advantage in height, nor was the young man as strong. Horg had been renowned during his days as a warrior for his ability to shatter a man’s shield with a single axe blow.
Horg’s hatred was a fire burning in his belly, a blaze so fierce and warming that he lived on it and forwent cider. He stoked the fire of his hatred by feeding it Draya and Sven and Norgaard and Skylan and all the other whoresons who conspired against him. When he was victorious, he would avenge himself on all of them. Horg spent his days practicing his skill with his axe.
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