‘What harm can it do?’ asked Hakan, amused.
‘These folk trade in curses,’ said Tolla. ‘They rob a man’s purse and put his feet on the road to Hel.’
‘Tolla!’ protested Inga. ‘She’s our guest.’
‘Not yet, she ain’t.’
‘Seems you have a dim view of a vala’s talents,’ smiled Heitha.
‘Talents? Is that what you call it? You meddle with darkness.
I’ve seen it. Your touch is death.’
‘Come, sister. These are lies.’ And for the first time, a little heat crept into Heitha’s cheeks. ‘A vala sees what will be, that’s all. I meddle with nothing. The Norns have woven all our fates. I only tell where the thread must run.’
Hakan’s mother had said the same. She would often sing of the three Norns – three sisters dwelling in the shadows among the roots of the Tree of Worlds, spinning and weaving the destiny of men. Each thread unbreakable as iron. Unchangeable as granite.
Tolla gave an indignant grunt. ‘That’s how it should be. But there’s none love gold more than a vala. None who’ll curse so black to get it.’
Heitha was peering at Tolla. Seeming curious at first, but then harder and harder, like she was looking right inside her. And then, unexpectedly, she gave a brittle laugh. ‘Now I begin to understand! I see what’s sown in your face.’ Tolla shifted uncomfortably. The vala cackled. ‘How much of the past is in the masks we wear!’
‘Never mind about my past.’ For a heartbeat, Tolla looked as though a shadow had crossed her soul.
‘It’s not for me to mind. But perhaps for others . . .’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Oh Tolla!’ broke in Inga. ‘Enough of this. You’re so serious! Let her stay. It could be exciting.’ She clapped. ‘Perhaps Heitha has brought us a great blessing.’ She looked around for Hakan. ‘Cousin – it’s your day. What say you? Wouldn’t a telling be fun?’
Hakan wasn’t sure. It might be amusing to know the course his life must take. But to have that knowledge . . . to be bound by it. Did he want that?
Before he could answer, a familiar voice called his name. They all turned to see his father crossing the yard.
Haldan Haldorsen – Lord of Vendlagard, headman of the Vendling blood and ruler over the Northern Jutes. He was taller than his son with shoulders broad as a bear, but the rest of him lean and hard as a knife. Folk often said Hakan was his father come again. Certainly they shared the same tousled black hair, same sharp nose, same square stance. But Hakan’s face was still young, while his father’s beard grew thick as tar, and twenty years of steel and slaughter leave their mark upon a face.
‘You should be getting ready, so you still have time to visit your mother before things get under way.’
‘All the way up there?’ Hakan’s mother was nothing now but bones, drying to dust in a barrow-grave on the hill where his father had laid her eight years before.
‘Just get it done. It’s what she would have wanted.’
‘If you say so.’ His father seemed to care a lot more what his mother wanted now that she was dead.
‘Who’s this?’ Haldan nodded at Heitha.
Inga started tugging excitedly at his hand. ‘Uncle, you have to help us. This is Heitha. She’s a vala, offering us a telling tonight. Please say she can.’
Haldan looked Heitha up and down.
‘All she wants is your gold, my lord,’ said Tolla. ‘Did you ever meet a vala wasn’t grasping as a dwarf when it came to gold?’
‘A woman has to live, my lord.’ Heitha smiled at Haldan.
The Vendling lord considered her. ‘A good vala speaks truthfully what she sees. An evil one what she thinks will please whoever’s paying her. Which are you?’
Heitha opened her palms. ‘I cannot speak for myself.’
‘Aren’t you curious, Uncle?’ asked Inga, excitedly.
‘I’ve known many folk regret learning too much about what will be,’ Haldan answered.
Hakan shrugged. ‘Surely it’s useful to know what good or evil is coming our way.’
His father’s mouth tilted in an ironic smile. ‘So you want to become all-wise, do you, my son?’
‘The vala’s word binds, my lord,’ pleaded Tolla. ‘It brings no good.’
Hakan saw the vala was staring at him intensely, and then at Inga, apparently heedless of the outcome of the talk. There was something discomfiting about those far-seeing eyes.
‘Then she can bless as well as foretell!’ cried Inga. ‘It’s simple. Give her gold to speak the truth of what she sees, and gold to speak a blessing over each of us.’
The vala smiled. ‘There is much love in this one. She’ll bring a man a good deal of luck one day.’ She turned to Hakan and for an unsettling moment, those darting eyes seemed to know his every secret. ‘Aye – and a good deal of trouble.’
‘You can stay,’ said Haldan.
‘But, my lord—’ began Tolla.
‘I said, she stays.’ Inga clapped her hands in triumph. Tolla bristled, but held her tongue. ‘You’ll get your gold.’ Haldan nodded to Heitha. ‘Only be sure you speak the truth. Now get along, all of you. Our first guests will arrive within the hour.’
Hakan was about to leave when his father beckoned him closer. ‘Are you ready?’ He took hold of Hakan’s shoulders, digging his thumbs in deep. Hakan nodded. ‘You know the oaths you will make?’
‘I do, Father.’ Hakan had known every word of the ritual for five summers past. Longer. Every boy knew them. Every boy dreamed of the day he would get to utter them – in fire, in iron, in blood.
‘The time is on you now, Hakan.’ A smile ghosted over his father’s lips. ‘My Chosen Son.’
CHAPTER TWO
The beat of the drum was insistent. Summoning him.
The sun had fallen some time ago. But overhead the night was streaked with summer light. Hakan stood in the shadows a short distance from the Vendling hall, its doors flung wide and welcoming. Light spilled into the yard, bathing the faces of the arriving guests with the glow of the firepits within.
He’d watched them come a while now. Kinsfolk, near and far; his father’s oathmen with their wives and younglings; house-karls with bonny maids.
The men strutted like stags, though most were ruffians and drunkards. But tonight they had their finest daggers on display, tunics brightly trimmed, mail glinting under newly dyed cloaks. Their womenfolk glided on their arms, long hair brushed till it gleamed, bound in braids of every style, threaded with ribbons and flowers. The air danced with their gossip and laughter.
Hakan watched, trying not to think about the hollow in his belly, or that soon the eyes of everyone who’d passed would be on him.
He heard footsteps running towards the thinning stream of people. It was his friend Leif, late as usual, tugging at the buckle on his belt.
Hakan whistled. Leif pulled up, peering into the shadows. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he cried. ‘The man of the hour.’ He poked a finger into his jug-ear and grinned. ‘So I’m not late?’
‘Not yet. Any tips?’
‘Stand up tall. Don’t scream.’ He shrugged. ‘And if you drink too much, try not to piss yourself. Never looks good in front of the girls.’
‘Sage words.’
He snorted. ‘I learn by experience – same as the next fool.’
‘Well, that’s me.’
‘Exactly.’ Leif winked, scratching at the star-shaped scar above his eye. Leif had been a wild boy. Their battles went back as far as he could remember. But he’d also been the closest thing Hakan had had to a brother.
‘Better get in there.’ Leif slapped his shoulder. ‘Good luck.’
The scar had been a gift from Hakan. Revenge for calling him a cripple after the accident. He’d only been five winters old, but he’d got him a sweet shot with a stone all the same. In the end, it hadn’t been worth it – his mother gave him the beating of his life. ‘You’re to be a man,’ she’d said, ‘not a monster.’
> She’d said that a lot.
Still, Leif never called him a cripple again. Not to his face, anyway.
You’re to be a man . . .
He still wondered what she meant by that. Now he would never know. The dead kept their secrets close.
The last of the guests crossed the threshold; the drum beat on.
Hakan stepped from the shadows.
Inga was in an ecstasy of anticipation. She couldn’t remember a feast so grand. The women were beautiful, ornaments glinting, robes cinched with gilded girdles, their lovely figures whispering through the cloth.
The men looked handsome. Well, as handsome as they could. Even Hadding, her aunt Tuuri’s lecherous old husband, didn’t look quite so like a toad as usual.
Inga wondered whether the other women were admiring her crimson dress in turn. Tolla had helped her re-cut the cloth from one of her mother’s dresses. It had been left along with the small chest of things that were the only link between her and her parents. When Tolla had applied the final touches to the hem, and Inga tried it on, the nurse had gasped. She’d even shed a tear, saying Inga was her mother’s blood and fresh as the spring. Inga couldn’t help but notice the glances of many of the men. She dropped her eyes demurely, as she knew she should. But inside, her heart sang. The last big feast at Vendlagard had been two summers before. She’d been thirteen then, and few men had given her a second look. Now, almost everywhere she turned, she felt their eyes, young and old, on her, which then flitted away like ghosts if she looked up.
She decided she liked it. Tolla would probably say she oughtn’t to, but then Tolla was always worrying. The old goose reckoned it safer to sit among a pack of hungry wolves than on a bench of men.
Tolla doesn’t know everything, Inga giggled to herself. Indeed, there was a lot that Tolla didn’t know.
The drum was banging away. If it kept on like that, it would drive them all mad. But suddenly, a hush fell and all the guests turned towards the door.
All but one.
One face across the hall remained in her direction. She had to look. The face belonged to a man. Quite a young man, but she saw at once he was very handsome. He was looking straight at her, bold as Baldur. In truth, looking her all over, up and down, like he was pricing up some thrall at a market. And now, seeing she’d caught him, he still didn’t look away. Far from it. His stare turned into a smile. Warm but goading.
She frowned a little. She hated to be laughed at. It was one thing for a man to admire her beauty, another to make her feel uncomfortable. She saw him snigger, and looked away sharply, annoyed when she felt her cheeks colouring. In the tail of her eye, she saw this only made him laugh the more.
Well, she wouldn’t let that insolent fool spoil the moment. Because Hakan had entered the hall, and he looked splendid.
Six feet tall and straight as a spear. The firelight bounced off his leather tunic, waxed to a shine. Round his shoulders hung her gift to him – a cloak trimmed with the skin of the wolf he’d slain. Even his limp didn’t seem so pronounced as he walked past their kinsfolk. It would be causing him pain, she knew, but he didn’t let it show.
She clamped her lips shut, afraid she’d end up grinning like a halfwit, and she didn’t want to look foolish. Hakan was close now. She wanted him to look at her. To see how beautiful she had made herself tonight, for him. But his eyes were fixed on his father at the end of the hall. She felt annoyed he could be so cold. But just as he was passing, she saw the corner of his mouth curl and tighten, and knew he was suppressing a smile.
Of course he noticed her! He loved her!
Hakan reached the platform where her uncle sat and stopped before the Lord of Vendlagard.
She sighed. This was the boring part, her uncle Haldan having first pull on the pitcher, as it were. He stood, droning on and on about honour and duty and bonds of blood, or raven’s wine, as he called it. Inga never understood why men liked to talk of things with other silly names. The sea was the whale-road. Battle was the spear-din. A warrior was a feeder of ravens – an image she found especially loathsome.
Wasn’t there enough poetry in the world speaking plainly?
After Haldan, it was Logmar’s turn. White as a corpse from head to toe, with a nose knobbly as an old stick, Logmar was godi to the Vendling clan. Had been for as long as anyone could remember, since he was old as the giants, so of course the prayers and blessings fell to him. Inga rolled her eyes. The Jutes had many gods, true. But it seemed Logmar wanted to squeeze a favour out of every one of them. Odin, the All-Father, god of war and kings – of course. Frey and Freya, the twin gods of prosperity and good luck and fertility – fine, although she didn’t see that fertility had much to do with swearing oaths of fealty to a warrior lord. Thor – for weather luck and strength; Njord – for luck at sea; Loki – for cunning; Tyr – for skill in weapons; Weyland – for blades forged strong. The old godi’s prayers croaked on and on. When he started asking Heimdall for a blessing that Hakan’s horn may ever sound long and true, Inga wanted to stab herself with frustration.
At long last Logmar was done and summoned Hakan closer. Inga nearly whooped with relief.
‘In the name of Odin the All-Father, are you ready to make your oath – by iron, by fire and by blood?’ asked the godi.
Hakan nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
Logmar drew a dagger, seized Hakan’s wrist, and tugged him closer to a brazier. Deep in its heart, embers shimmered red and orange.
Logmar lifted the dagger for all to see.
‘Iron is the mettle of your strength. Do you swear by iron that you pledge your strength wholeheartedly to the service of your lord, Haldan, son of Haldor, chieftain of the Northern Jutes?’
‘I swear it,’ said Hakan.
Logmar plunged the long blade into the glowing embers. ‘Fire is your life spirit,’ his ragged voice rang. ‘Do you swear by fire that your life is now subject to the will of your lord, Haldan, son of Haldor, bane of Gotars, champion of the Vendling?’
‘I swear it.’ Inga snorted. As if Hakan needed to make such an oath to his own father. She found herself detesting the godi and everything he was saying. Perhaps because she knew what was coming.
Logmar withdrew the dagger, its blade glowing red from the heat. He turned his cold eyes on Hakan. ‘Blood is the suffering and death through which all must pass – either to rise to Odin’s table or to go down to the halls of Hel. Do you swear by blood that you are willing to suffer unto death in service to your lord, his land, his people and his good name?’
‘I swear it.’
‘Then let iron, fire and blood be joined in one solemn oath, witnessed before gods and men.’
The godi grabbed Hakan’s wrist, raised the dagger high, and then sliced its searing edge across his palm.
Inga winced at the sound of iron cutting flesh.
Everyone was watching Hakan. To cry out would have brought shame on every Vendling. But his face was stone. Inga saw nothing but a tensing of his jaw. He squeezed his fist and blood dripped onto the dusty floorboards.
The ceremony wasn’t quite complete. Hakan had sworn all to his father as his oath-lord. Now Lord Haldan had an oath to swear.
An oath of love and trust. An oath to provide grain and gold. An oath of protection. Inga felt sorrow well inside as her uncle spoke. He must have made the same oath to her own father, all those moons ago. She gazed longingly at the seat beside her uncle. Her father should have been sitting in that empty place. In his stead Wrathling – the ring-sword that had belonged to him – set there to honour his memory.
A pitiful trade: a father for a sword. What did it matter that Haldan honoured his brother so faithfully? What had his oath of protection been worth after all?
Oaths were but words. And words were weak as the breath that spoke them.
But everyone was clapping, and her bleak thoughts were swallowed up in applause.
‘Drink to our newest warrior! To Hakan! To my son!’
Hakan was free to smile n
ow, and no sooner was he than he sought out her face. She laughed when he found her, his bright eyes dispelling any disquiet in her heart. She must pull herself together. This was a great occasion and she was proud of her cousin. Of course she was.
She would show him just how proud she was.
Later . . .
But now, they must feast.
It was a while later when Hakan decided he wasn’t going to piss himself. At least, not yet. But his head was swimming. Tomorrow he would have Thor’s own hammer beating in his head. But what could he do? Every cousin, every kinsman, every karl – they all wanted to drink a toast with him. Man to man. Brother to brother. And down it all went. Horns of mead, pitchers of ale – cup after cup, drowning him in drink.
By now, the feasting was well under way. Faces swam in a fog of hot breath and steaming food and laughter. Thrall-wenches stalked up and down, serving yet more food or replenishing pitchers. Smoked-fish stews, honey-glazed shrimps, great slabs of hog flesh, roasted to a crisp. Barley pies filled with cheese and leeks, baked beets and boiled lamb; sweet blackberry patties and fruit puddings, flavoured curds and nut cakes. Hakan had never seen so much food.
The guests grew ever louder, bawling across the table, the talk moving from crops and herds to conquests over seas or under covers. Even his father, who usually could raise a lead shield easier than he could a smile, became quite merry.
‘Hadding!’ he cried. ‘A drink to old Ottar!’
Aunt Tuuri’s ogre of a husband bashed his cup against Haldan’s upraised horn. ‘To Ottar and his pig!’
‘What about his pig?’ slurred Hakan, struggling to keep the big man in focus.
‘What?’ roared his father. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard this one!’
Hakan shook his head and immediately regretted it when the oak pillars holding up the roof seemed to wobble alarmingly.
‘You remember Ottar!’ cried his father. ‘Fierce as a bear, dumb as an ox. Always returned from a fight in a Hel of a lather. He’d bundle up his wife and hammer at her till the rafters shook. “Thunder-weather,” they called it when he came home.’ Haldan’s face creased with mirth. ‘Well, he saw to his wife a sight better than he saw to his house. The place was rotten through. One day he comes home and the two of them get to work, and in the thick of it, there’s a cracking and a creaking, and before he knew his arse from her tit, the two of them were crashing through his bower and landed slap on his favourite pig!’
A Mighty Dawn Page 2