‘What did the seidman do?’
‘He took him away. Gave him up to the sea. To the—’ Tolla’s voice choked with sadness. It was some moments before she could speak. ‘To the sea-god.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
‘How horrible,’ murmured Inga.
‘So it is. I’ve never forgotten the seidman and his kind for what he did, nor forgiven them. Nor will I ever. Their practice is wickedness.’
‘And what about my uncle? You must hate him.’
Tolla sighed, wearily. ‘I didn’t blame him. It was the choice he was given that maddened him. What he did, he did out of love for Guthrun.’
‘And she lived.’
‘She did. But whether from his sacrifice or not, who can say? Soon afterwards the sickness broke, her strength returned. By then, Haldan had made his choice. And he named the boy he kept, “Hakan”. His “Chosen Son”.’
‘Poor little wretch,’ murmured Inga, thinking of Hakan’s twin.
‘Aye.’ Tolla’s face clouded. ‘The irony was Haldan made the sacrifice to keep his love. His punishment was to lose even that.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause though Guthrun lived another ten years, she stopped loving him the night he gave away their little boy. And though he loved her till her last breath, by the end she despised him.’ She gave Inga a thin smile. ‘You were too young to remember, but there was a frost hung over this hall all those years that never quite thawed.’
Inga didn’t know what to make of all this. She thought of her uncle, his brooding features, his implacable will. She knew those ice-blue eyes had seen terrible things, but never could have guessed at this.
‘So you see why his heart is hard to anything but his Chosen Son?’
‘I still don’t believe it. Don’t believe after all these years he could cast me away like Hakan’s brother.’
‘I respect your uncle. He’s wise and strong. But tender, he is not. The sooner you understand why, the easier you might accept it.’
Inga’s heart sank. The chance of finding a way through seemed more remote than ever. ‘But you will speak to him.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Then there’s hope.’ She looked pleadingly into Tolla’s eyes. ‘Tell me there’s hope.’
Tolla, usually so quick to reassure her about anything, furrowed her brow. But then she nodded, forcing a smile. ‘There’s always hope.’
But Inga could see the lie in her eyes and felt sick.
‘Are you quite well? You look so pale.’ Tolla reached out and touched her cheek. ‘So hot.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘What’s the matter with you, girl? You’re burning up. Whatever are you doing with so many clothes on? You’re going to give yourself a fever. Come, let me take that off you.’
‘Tolla, I’m fine!’ screeched Inga, snatching back the hem of her cloak and folding it round herself.
Tolla let her hands fall. ‘As you wish.’
‘Look, here’s Einna!’ Relief washed over her at her friend’s return. Tolla was eyeing her curiously. ‘I should get on with all this.’ Inga motioned at the piles of washing. But Tolla was only half-listening, stroking at her long nose thoughtfully. ‘You will speak with my uncle, won’t you?’
Tolla nodded slowly.
‘Thank you.’ Inga dropped down by her tub and took up her washing. But all the while she felt Tolla’s eyes on her. And it was a long time before her footsteps squelched away in the mud.
Smoke billowed from damp firewood. Hakan crouched, waiting. Listening. Watching the outline of furs beside the dying fire.
Three leagues away, his companions slept on, oblivious to the empty blankets beside them. He had risen without a whisper and followed the path west, fording the stream that emptied into Odd’s Sound, before turning southwest towards Karlsted.
He’d wondered whether Konur would ride through the night. In summer, he might. But now? Only madmen and shape-shifters and sheep-thieves rode through a night like this one.
And murderers.
The rain had moved on, leaving a silver sheen over everything. He hadn’t ridden far when a solitary orange light had winked at him out of the darkness. He had tethered his horse and crept forward, stealthy as a shadow, his mind numb to the pain in his ankle.
Now he waited, the tang of horseflesh sharp over the rotting leaves. The wind was blown out. Stillness hovered in the treetops, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he was surrounded by shadows. Draug-spirits – the souls of the unquiet dead. Curious. Impatient.
He listened to Konur’s heavy breathing, in and out like waves on a shingle shore. And suddenly his long-knife was in his hand. Just like that. Without thinking.
It wasn’t too late to go back. But then the madness would linger. If only the poison in his head could be drawn, once and for all. Just by doing this thing. Such a little thing, he thought, looking down at his knife. Better the poison is drawn. Anything was better.
Creeping the last few paces was a child’s game. No one ever heard him. Shadow-sneak, Leif used to tease him, and get a bloody nose for it. But Leif had done all the bleeding he would ever do. Now he was nothing but ashes on a cold ocean. And Hakan was here.
The horse whickered. Hakan stopped, knife in hand. But Konur never stirred.
Now was the moment. Two steps and he could sink the blade into his neck. Two steps and Konur would never wake again. Two steps. . . and he would be a murderer.
‘Get up.’
Konur rolled over. ‘Get up,’ Hakan repeated. ‘You sack of shit.’ Hakan slid his knife in its sheath, relieved it wouldn’t be that way, instead pulling his shield over his shoulder and unhitching his axe.
Konur was blundering to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes, sword belt clutched to his chest. ‘Who are you?’
Hakan didn’t reply. Only pushed back his hood, feeling the firelight touch his face.
Konur’s eyes grew wide. ‘You!’ And in a moment his sword was in his hand, the sheath flung in the dirt. ‘What do you want?’
Konur’s shield lay on the ground. Hakan hooked a boot under it and kicked it towards him.
‘Blood.’
The shield landed at Konur’s feet. He scrabbled for it. But there was no rush. He could take all the time he wanted.
‘Is this about your slut of a cousin?’
‘You’re going to die for what you did to her.’ Hakan flexed his grip, fingers cramping with anticipation. Axe against sword was no easy contest. But what else had all those hours sweating in the training circle been for? An axe can beat a sword, Garik had promised. He was about to find out what that promise was worth.
‘You’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’
‘She’s carrying my child.’ Somehow, it felt good to have said it, even if it was to this grinning bastard.
Konur gave a hollow laugh. ‘So that stuck-up bitch opened her legs to her own cousin, hey?’ He flicked his sword around his wrist, ready. ‘After all that, she’s a kin-fucker. Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘One more word and I’ll cut out your tongue.’
‘That’ll be hard to do after I’ve gutted you like a pig. And I promise you this, cripple. When this is done, I’ll drown your Hel-spawned brat and fuck your darling cousin up her tight little—’
Hakan sprang at him.
Konur yelped like a kicked dog, wrenching up his shield. Steel cracked against pine and the blow glanced away. Hakan moved fast, driving his shield-rim at Konur’s teeth, but his opponent had gathered his wits. He ducked, flinging out his shield, cutting down. The sword flashed, murderous; Hakan dodged, the blow juddering against his shield.
The two backed off, circling each other like wolves.
‘You should’ve brought a sword, cripple.’
‘Give me a fucking spoon and I’d find a way to kill you.’
They went at each other again, wheeling round, looking for an opening, blows probing against wood and iron. In reach, Konur h
ad the better of Hakan. His sword cut, lunged, wound around Hakan’s axe, arcing in overhead.
Karsten had him well trained. But Hakan blocked every stroke, his axe gouging chunks from Konur’s shield while he strained to remember what Garik had taught him. Look for a weakness – a man loses a fight more often than he wins it.
Konur’s shield was fast. Maybe too fast. Hakan feigned low; Konur’s arm jerked down. Hakan kicked the rim, hard. Bone crunched against metal, pain ripped up his leg, but Konur wasn’t ready. The shield smashed into his face, jerking back his head.
‘Gaaaaaah!’ he squawked, blood bursting from his forehead. Seeing him dazed for a moment, Hakan hooked his axe over Konur’s shield-rim, yanking hard as he could. The shield flipped away.
Konur saw the danger and went on the attack, a slashing, hacking wind of steel. Hakan parried each blow, giving ground till he could feel the flame-heat on his back. Any further and he’d be in the fire. Suddenly Konur snatched his cloak from the ground. Hakan struck at him, but the cloak whirled, tangling his axe. Konur’s sword fell; Hakan wrenched up his arm. There was a splintering sound and his shield flopped down like a broken wing.
He threw himself forward, heard a crack as his head butted Konur’s face, felt teeth splinter on his crown. Konur wailed, clawing at his face, but Hakan clung on, tight as ivy.
They wrestled, scuffing up ash, Konur gouging at Hakan’s mouth and eyes. Hakan bit down hard through wet wool, tasted blood. Konur screamed, gave ground, then slammed his knee in Hakan’s groin.
Hakan buckled in agony.
Next thing he knew his legs were kicked away. Konur yelled in triumph, then vanished in a fog of smoke and cinder and flame. Hakan screamed, fire scorching his back, as he fell into its midst. He smelled burning hair, saw Konur’s bloody mouth grinning like a devil above him, sword raised for the killing blow.
Without thinking, Hakan plunged his hand into the embers. He shrieked, fingers burning, and flung a cloud of sparks at Konur.
The Karlunger howled, dropped his sword, pawing at his scorched face. With his last strength, Hakan rolled away and hauled himself to his feet.
Konur was doubled over. Smoke and ash clouded everywhere. Hakan’s arm swept down; he felt a dull, thick thud.
His axe was buried in Konur’s spine.
Konur let out a strange sigh. Almost weary. Then reared up, hands pawing uselessly at his sides. A shiver passed through him, he dropped to his knees, and then, very slowly, toppled into the ashes.
Hakan pulled out his knife.
Konur lay twisted, eyes full of fear, yet somehow expectant. As if he wanted just one more word from this world before he went to the shadow-lands of death.
Hakan seized his tunic. Konur hung limp, eyes black with ash – swallowing and swallowing. Like he was thirsty, or had something to say. But no words came.
‘See you in the High God’s halls,’ Hakan whispered, sinking his knife into Konur’s heart. ‘Or else in Hel.’
He gripped tight, until the last shudder had passed. Then he let him fall. Konur lay there, still as stone.
Hakan tore out his knife and staggered backwards, gasping.
Hate is chaos.
What chaos had he loosed now? His father’s plans lay shattered as the body at his feet.
But in his heart, all he heard was a voice. Quiet. Insistent.
She’s mine. Mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vomit tasted sharp and sour in her throat.
Inga closed her eyes, took a deep breath, but another wave of nausea swept through her, bending her double.
The last dregs in her stomach splattered into the dirt.
She straightened up, hoping that was the end of it. For now. This was the worst it had been. So far she had managed to conceal how ill she had been feeling from any watchful eyes, but these last days had been unbearable.
Her whole body felt hollowed out, like some loathsome worm had sucked every scrap of strength from her limbs. Her breasts were swollen and sore.
She walked back towards Vendlagard, hoping it would be over soon. She knew the days of sickness didn’t last for ever. But once they passed, the baby would start growing in earnest, and she’d have far more trouble hiding her belly than her nausea.
How foolish she had been, harbouring moon-headed notions of what it would be like to carry a child: that she would feel so connected to the wonderful fabric of life; that she would know the ageless wisdom of motherhood, the gods’ special gift to her sex; that she would overflow with joy at the little life being knit together inside her.
Instead she felt sick, stupid and miserable.
The morning had begun with an ugly grey smear creeping across the sky, overtaking the darkness with a sullen gloom. The smell of wet grass filled her nostrils.
Perhaps Hakan would return today, if the gods were kind – though lately they had given little enough proof of that. Too many words were filling her mind. If he didn’t come soon, the dam must break and it would all come flooding out. Somewhere.
Onto someone.
She had left the wood behind her and was picking her way down the meadow towards the farmstead gate when she heard a voice call her name.
She turned to see Tolla trotting down to her from the treeline. Her heart sank into her shoes.
‘Come here, you!’
She’d been followed! Inga was incensed. She turned and hurried on down the slope.
‘I saw you,’ Tolla called, running after her.
There was nowhere to go. She spun on her heel. ‘So you’re spying on me now, is that it? How dare you!’
‘Believe it or not,’ cried Tolla, catching up with her, ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Is that what you call sneaking around trying to catch me out? All you want is to get me into trouble!’
‘You silly creature – you’re quite capable of doing that yourself.’ For a moment, they glared at one another, a cloud of anger between them. ‘Well? I saw you being sick.’
‘I must’ve eaten something bad.’ She hardly cared whether Tolla believed her or not. ‘I can’t help it if your cooking is rotten!’
‘You’re pale as a ghost.’
‘You would be too if you’d just emptied your stomach!’
Tolla circled round her, a she-wolf studying its prey. Fear twinged at Inga’s belly. ‘Tell me straight. Are you carrying a child?’
‘A child! Are you mad?’ She tried to laugh away the suggestion, but it sounded hollow as a reed.
‘Mad I may be, but my eyes don’t lie. I’ve seen you, sick as a sow, and this isn’t the first time. Then there’s your stiff back, your cheeks pale as milk and you’re wrapped up like it’s Yuletide. I’m no fool, Inga. Now are you going to tell me the truth?’
‘I’m not carrying a baby! How could I be? I’ve no husband.’
Tolla snorted. ‘The two needn’t go together, as you well know.’
Suddenly Inga wanted to shout the truth. Scream it to the wind and collapse into Tolla’s arms, sobbing. But some part of her refused to let go; some obstinate, unfathomable part of herself, that wouldn’t let her give up her secret.
‘I tell you, I have no child! So my back is sore – so I’ve been sick? So what!’
But Tolla wasn’t listening. ‘I still can’t figure who the father is. You’ve been too sly for that.’
‘Now you’re dreaming up secrets where there aren’t any.’
‘Am I though?’
‘I can’t help it if your head’s full of stupid notions. I don’t have to stay and listen to this.’
Inga shoved past Tolla, but as she did, the nurse thrust her hand under her cloak. Inga felt strong fingers press hard against the taut swell of her belly. Even under layers of wool and linen, the bulge was unmistakable.
‘You are!’ Tolla gaped, in astonishment.
Inga tried to recoil, tried to think of some retort, but she was crumbling. ‘Oh Tolla – you mustn’t tell! No one can know.’
‘Who’s the f
ather? Just tell me, whose is it?’
‘I can’t. Please.’
‘It was Konur, wasn’t it? It must have been.’ Suddenly, she took up Inga’s hands, her face all earnest. ‘You lay with him when he was here.’
‘No!’ cried Inga. ‘No! I never would. I never will. I don’t care what my uncle’s plans are.’ The shock of discovery was being rinsed away by cold, surging anger.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know! What could you do about it anyway? I can’t think any more. I can’t. . . see.’ She clutched at her head. ‘Everything ahead is so dark.’
Tolla slid an arm around her. ‘My poor little pigeon.’ For some moments, she held Inga, but her sympathy was too late. Too late and too weak. ‘Come, sweetling. Let’s think what’s best done now.’
‘There’s nothing doing,’ wailed Inga. ‘Not now. Nothing.’
‘Tell me, who is the father? I can help you.’
It would be so easy. But we agreed. . . I promised. She looked up
into Tolla’s eyes. She’d been looking into those eyes since the first day she could see. They had never held anything but love. But now, she couldn’t bring herself to trust them. Perhaps she could never trust anyone again.
‘I can’t, Tolla. Just swear you won’t tell my uncle about this. Or Hakan,’ she added hastily. ‘Or anyone.’
‘Oh, what have you done?’ The nurse’s eyes welled in pity. ‘How can I help if you won’t confide in me? Did someone force himself on you?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ sobbed Inga. ‘Just promise me you’ll keep it secret. If you love me, you will.’
‘I can’t promise that. Not if you won’t tell me everything.’ The nurse’s face hardened, as she tried a different approach. ‘Very well – I have no choice. I’ll have to go to Haldan. He’d flay me alive if he found I was keeping this from him.’
‘You want to save your own skin then, is that it?’ cried Inga. ‘But he mustn’t know. Not yet.’
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