‘You’ll never take my child,’ snarled Hakan. ‘I’ll kill you before I see you do that.’
But Haldan seemed to care little for his son’s threat. ‘You’ll see the sense in it soon enough. A child would embarrass the plans I have for your sister.’
Hakan could hardly believe his father’s cold heart. ‘And when were you going to tell me these plans?’
‘At the proper time.’
‘The proper time!’
‘It has all been arranged. Inga knows it, and she will obey.’ Haldan cleared his throat. ‘She is to marry Konur, heir to the Karlung lands.’
‘No,’ replied Hakan, a weird smile curling on his lips. ‘She won’t.’
Haldan lurched to his feet, slamming a fist on the table. ‘You test my patience sorely, boy. I am lord of these lands as one day you will be. You’ll soon learn there are greater concerns than a pair of mooning lovers. I’m sorry if your heart must suffer. But if it must, so be it. Inga will marry whomever I choose for her. It’s decided. Konur shall have her.’
‘No, Father – he will not.’ Hakan laughed, and soon his laughter grew to fill the chamber. The rafters echoed with his mad cackle, mocking the great Lord of Vendlagard.
For a heartbeat, doubt glimmered in Haldan’s eye. ‘He will.’
‘He’s going to find that very hard.’
‘What do you mean? Why?’
‘Because I killed the bastard!’
His father gaped, eyes aflame. ‘What?’ he whispered.
‘Stuck him in the heart.’
Haldan covered his face. ‘You stupid, selfish, hot-headed fool! Do you realize what you’ve done?’
Hakan nodded, unable to shift his weird grin. ‘You mean what you have done. More fruit from your honourable lie.’
Suddenly, there was a scraping of wood as Haldan shoved back his chair. The high seat toppled with a tremendous crash and Haldan was across the table in an instant. Hakan lurched backwards, surprised at his father’s speed, and before he’d blinked, strong hands were around his neck, and they went sprawling to the floor.
Hakan thrashed wildly under his father’s weight, but Haldan was heavier by far. Hakan writhed, eyes bulging, ears ringing.
And then, as abruptly, all was still. His father stopped. Frozen. Listening. His grip slackened, eyes darting to the doorway. Then Hakan heard it too.
A thin, whistling noise.
It was moments before he realized what it was: a woman’s wail – high, piercing, desperate. Father and son looked at each other, confused. Then panic sank cold fingers into Hakan’s heart.
He shoved off his father. Haldan yielded, rolling clear. Hakan jumped to his feet and rushed to the doorway, hauling aside the drape.
He ran and ran, ignoring the pain – out of the chamber, through the hall, into the yard, summoned all the while by the ever-loudening wails. He ran, horror rising in his chest.
The sound led him to the stream running down to the wash-pool. Another scream. He quickened his pace. He could see the alder tree. The memory of her body flashed through his mind – supple and white in the moonlight.
He reached the bank, dropping down onto the clearing around the pool. His eyes snatched at details: Tolla on her knees in the muddy grass, apron crumpled under her chin, the dreadful wailing spiralling from her mouth into the leaden sky. Next to her, Einna, rolling on her belly, head twisting in anguished sobs.
And beyond her. . .
He stopped.
There in the pool was Inga.
The water was smooth as silver. Only her pale fingers and the crimson bulge of her belly broke its surface. He stepped to the edge of the pool and looked down on her, unable to blink.
She was floating just under the surface, suspended in the crystal water, her eyes shut. Her fair features were calm. . . as if her mind had flown far away in a dreamless sleep. The folds of her favourite dress quavered with the current, her long dark hair fanning out about her face. Strange billows of crimson clouds swirled about her body, moving as though to some silent dance. An eddy from somewhere in the depths teased the dark tresses around her neck, drawing them aside.
And then he saw it.
A gash slashed deep across her throat. A wound like he’d never seen – ugly, gaping, livid against her delicate skin. Blood was leaking from it in weak ripples. Something glinted at the bottom of the pool. The image of Inga’s knife rippled up from the silt, glittering.
No words came. No thoughts.
All he knew was that he could no longer hear Tolla’s wailing, nor Einna’s sobs. Some other sound was blotting them out, filling his ears, ringing in his head like the shrieks of the whole world in the Final Fires. And as he sank to his knees, he couldn’t have said what the new sound was.
He didn’t know that he was screaming.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The women would long tell of the anguish on Haldan’s face when he saw Inga floating amid those red clouds.
He arrived moments after his son and dragged him screaming from the pool. But Hakan, mad with grief, tore himself free and staggered away from the horror of his beloved sister.
Blindly he ran towards the shore, dark clouds sweeping in from the sea, blanketing everything in a downpour. He ran and ran, legs screaming, heart tearing at his chest, till he collapsed, sobbing, among the dunes, the wind sweeping over him, the rain hammering his head.
He lay a long time, clothes soaked through, not caring whether he lived another day. Finally the cold began to seep through him and he took himself to the wood where they had so often made love. There, he found shelter. He squatted at its edge, his mind lost in the grey swirl of the sea and the rain.
The weight of the skies crushed his heart. No one’s death could make her his now. No word, no reason. No strength, no wisdom. Nothing. She was dead. Their child was dead.
The storm swelled. Lightning lashed the sky. He cowered back, overwhelmed by the power of the gods, all courage shattered by their cruelty.
A league away, thunder stirred among the black-bellied clouds. The rumble rolled on and on. Closing his eyes, he saw Inga again. This time, there were no eddies plucking like invisible claws at her hem. This time, the crimson cloth whirled in delight. She was clapping, face bright, as a thousand fists beat upon the tables. Rumbling. . .
‘A telling, a telling!’
He remembered. A telling they had, all right. Beauty and love are slaughtered like swine, the vala had cried. You must drink the cup of sorrow to its dregs.
Hakan shivered, shaking off the images of that night, his back stiff against the knotted bark of a tree, the rain running down his neck.
The fates of men are graven on the World Tree. They cannot be undone. The words echoed again. Now Inga’s fate was settled. Beauty and love are slaughtered. . .
Rage ground his heart. Night was falling. He stood and peered into the listless banks of rain, shrouding the sea in gloom. The road he was fated to walk stretched away, bleak and murky.
But he had decided.
Walk it, he would.
When he returned, his face was dark as the night and changed. Before, some might have looked upon him and seen a youth. But now grief had wiped away all trace of boyhood.
He passed furtive figures skulking from the rain, but none dared approach him or utter a word as he stalked into the hall. He felt their eyes upon him.
The place was an open grave now. His beloved home, laced with the tang of death. He had to get away.
There was no sign of his father or Tolla. He hurried to his purpose, pulling off his wet things and finding a clean undershirt and tunic. He dug out his winter cloak from his chest of belongings, hesitating only to smell the wolf-skin trim. Inga had made him this, too. A token to remind him of the twilit dusk when he had gone back for her. A lifetime ago. . .
He shook away the memory. He’d shed enough tears for one day.
He went to the armoury, took a long-knife, his axe and shield. Another knife for good measure. ‘Never be m
ore than a pace from your weapons on the road,’ his father often said. Aye, and have plenty of them.
He stopped, an idea coming to him. His mouth tightened. There was a kind of justice to it. His father wouldn’t see it that way, but he was beyond caring.
He shouldered his weapons and hurried to his father’s chamber. Waited a moment, listening. Hearing nothing, he pulled aside the drape. The chamber was empty. Fresh torches had been lit. And there, mounted on the wall, was what he sought: two ring-swords. He lifted down the lower one.
Wrathling. His uncle’s sword.
He drew it and held it to the torchlight. The blade gleamed nearly white, polished to perfection, edges sharp as Loki’s wits. He played with its weight: iron tempered with hard steel, so skilfully balanced it danced in his hand.
It would do.
Hastily, he sheathed the blade, bundling it up in his cloak. When it was done, he stood a moment for a last, deep breath. The smell of his father’s chamber – its heady mix of wood and leather, rush smoke and tallow – filled his nostrils. He’d known it since infancy, but now it would be nothing but a memory.
Thus, the Norns had woven.
With that, he was gone.
He strode down the hall, wanting to be away. A couple of thralls gaped, but he paid them no heed, hurtling through the doorway and into the night.
The first lick of rain had fallen on his face when he stopped. His father appeared out of the shadows and moved hesitantly to the light.
He was almost unrecognizable, his thick dark hair plastered across his face, his ice-blue eyes soft with sorrow. Rain dripped from his sodden clothes.
‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ Hakan scowled.
‘Where are you going?’ said Haldan, noticing his attire.
‘Away from here. Far away as I can.’
‘I understand you’re upset, my son. It’s been a terrible day.’
‘Save your words! They’re too late. It all comes too late.’
Haldan shook his head wretchedly. ‘I didn’t foresee this. How could I?’
‘If you had just told the truth. . . I never would’ve loved her. Not like I do. But you kept us ignorant.’ He leaned in, menacing. ‘It was you – you who brought death on your own daughter!’
‘If you’d but told me of this passion,’ pleaded Haldan. ‘But you kept it from me. Both of you kept it—’
‘You’re a liar! A liar! And now she’s dead.’ Hakan wanted his words to stab like steel.
When his father spoke, his voice was unnatural, pained, the words unfamiliar. ‘Can you. . . forgive me?’
‘Forgive you! How could I forgive you? Inga is dead!’ he cried. ‘Our child is dead. You might as well have ripped my heart out. Your lie, your lie . . . !’ He tried to steady himself, bridling his anger. ‘Without her, this place is death. Without her, I cannot stay.’ He levelled his eyes at his father. ‘I’m leaving Vendlagard for ever.’
‘Leaving? You can’t leave!’
‘You chose a lie. Now I must choose.’ Hakan dropped his voice, hardly able to form the words. ‘I renounce my birthright as your son. I am your Chosen Son no more.’
‘Don’t be such a fool—’
‘I’ll not be silenced!’ He had to be heard. Had to say it. ‘You betrayed us both – son and daughter. I swore an oath to you – to serve you, even to death. You swore you’d protect me as my lord. You broke your oath. So I renounce mine. Let the Norns mark me an oath-breaker if they must. I will not stay.’
‘What else have you but this place? Your blood binds you to it. You’re a Vendling. Your name and Vendlagard are one.’
‘Then I renounce my blood! I renounce my name!’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Don’t I? I won’t stay here. Better live a nameless wanderer than stay here with you in this open grave you’ve dug.’
‘You selfish little fuck!’ Haldan suddenly exploded. ‘Shit on your wounded heart! You’re a murderer now, boy. You’ve brought war on your own people. You can’t run from your duty. You must stay and reap the slaughter you’ve sown.’
‘It was you who sowed it long ago. When you lay with your brother’s wife.’ Hakan knew that would sting. ‘If the Whisperer wants blood for his blood, let him take yours.’
‘Honour demands you stay. Vendlagard is your home.’
‘How can you speak of honour? You who couldn’t tell the truth to your own children. No,’ he shook his head with finality. ‘I have no home now.’
His father glared at him a long time. So long, Hakan half-expected him to fly at his throat again. Instead, all of a sudden, he crumpled forward, trying to enfold his son in his arms. ‘My hand bears much fault, it’s true,’ he groaned. ‘But there were things beyond my doing that brought about her fate.’
Hakan allowed his embrace a moment, but found it sickened him. Without warning, he shoved his father so hard the Vendling lord missed his footing and fell on his backside in the dirt. ‘You think you can heal this with a hug?’
‘I won’t beg for forgiveness. By the gods, I don’t deserve it. You’re right – I lived a lie, though I persuaded myself I did it for good.’ He spat bitterly. ‘Now I see. . . The honour of the dead is worth little against the love of the living.’ He scowled. ‘Bah! Was it even honour? It was pure shame that hid the truth. And it’s poor Inga who suffers for it.’
‘Well, she suffers no more,’ said Hakan, voice flat as a windless sea. ‘We suffer for her. You and I.’
His father glanced up, and Hakan watched grief suddenly engulf him. He dropped his head between his knees and uttered a long mournful moan. ‘Oh my daughter, my daughter! Sweet Inga – how I should have loved you! You were so beautiful. . . Inga, my darling. . .’ Tortured sobs overtook his lamenting. Even in the gloom, Hakan saw tears streaming in silver trails down his beard.
A dutiful son would have reached out, the sight of a father so distressed awakening some pity. But he felt nothing.
‘Aye – go ahead and weep. Weep for your daughter. Perhaps that stone heart feels something after all.’ He shifted the weight of the gear on his shoulder. ‘Farewell, Father. You’ll not see me again.’
Haldan’s face shot up, and he fell forward on his knees, catching at Hakan’s tunic. ‘No – Hakan! My son. You can’t go! I can’t lose you as well. Not with all the others.’ His eyes were wild with despair.
‘You lost us all a long time ago,’ said Hakan coldly, prising off his father’s fingers. ‘You are the last of the Vendlings. Farewell.’
With that, he turned and walked away. And though his father’s cries arced into the night, he didn’t look back.
PART TWO
THE STRANGER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Princess Aslif Sviggarsdottir tasted salt on her lips, but she refused to wipe away her tears.
No one shall think I’m ashamed to weep for my brother.
The funeral pyre flared red against the grey waters of the distant firth.
No, she was not ashamed. Just broken-hearted. In a world of heroes, none had been so fearless as her brother. She had adored Staffen since she was a little girl, and he already a young man. And he adored her adoration. But she was not blind. She knew he was proud. Too proud for all men to love him. She had forgiven him that. It was only the brittle pride of a boy, hiding behind a handsome face and a strong frame.
Still, he’d always had a tender way with her. It was he who named her ‘Lilla’, the name by which most folk knew her. She liked it a deal better than the name her parents chose.
Now she wept for him. Wept as the smoke engulfed his comely face for ever.
The drums beat their doleful rhythm. The godi’s cries grew in fervour, as the greatest lords of her father’s council looked on, features hard as idols. Down the slope, a ring of spearmen cordoned back the vassals and thralls of the Uppland halls, come to watch their king’s heir take the road to Hel.
She watched his beard shrivel in
the heat; watched his fair skin blackening. For the first time in five years, Lilla was glad her mother was not alive. Not to see this day.
The godi wailed on at the dusk.
‘Enough!’ The exclamation jolted her from her grieving. Her father’s voice. The godi’s chanting ceased. All eyes went to the king. ‘You’ve said enough. Let him burn.’
‘The words must be spoken,’ insisted the godi, ‘if Hela’s gates are to welcome your son.’
‘My son needs no announcing to the Queen of Hel. If there is no welcome for him in that place, theirs is the dishonour, not his.’
The godi shuffled about, unsure what to do. Then, making up his mind, he gave a servile bow and backed away.
Lilla felt a hand slide into hers, soft fingers threading her own.
‘It’s the smell I cannot abide. Like some swine-roast at a feast. How it lingers in the nostrils.’ Lilla turned. Her eyes met with the emerald gaze of Saldas, her father’s wife. The queen’s dark beauty, suddenly so close, startled her despite her grief.
‘Forgive me, I shouldn’t think such things.’ Saldas smiled, and then noticing Lilla’s tears, her voice softened. ‘Why, child, you are crying.’ She pulled Lilla’s head to her bosom. Lilla’s nostrils filled with perfume, spicy and subtle. She tried to pull away, but Saldas held her. ‘Such a sad business.’ She stroked Lilla’s hair. ‘You two were so alike. This beautiful hair. Like honey. . .’ She trailed off, fingers still caressing her. ‘You must take comfort from those who love you. Your father, your brother. . .’
Lilla glanced at the only brother left her now. Sigurd was the image of their father, down to his dark curls and the brooding lines about his mouth. She felt a pang of sorrow for him. His life would change now. But was he ready for it? She wondered what he was thinking. His eyes were dry, gazing at the smoke curling high to the east.
Perhaps it’s too hard to watch our brother burn.
Saldas lifted Lilla’s chin and gazed deep into her eyes. ‘. . . And, of course, you have me.’
‘I know, Lady Saldas.’ Lilla’s throat was tight from crying. ‘I thank you for it.’
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