When Hakan had finished, he murmured his thanks and, still clutching his bundle, fell back on a sheepskin and let exhaustion engulf him at last.
He had longed for dreamless sleep. But his eyes were hardly shut than he dreamed he was gulping from a skin of ale, more and more until the liquid was gushing from his mouth down his body. The ale rose around him, submerging him, drowning him. And suddenly it wasn’t ale but the freezing sea, and he was kicking and kicking for the air. He touched sand, broke the surface to see the strand at the Skaw. Above him, the stars were shining, and a wolf was there on the dunes, calling to the cold night. Inga was there in a linen shift. He looked and the shift grew darker, as if the moon had cast a shadow, till he saw it was no shadow, but blood; blood running down her breasts and bare arms, over her fingers onto the handle of an axe. She ran at him, screaming, and he saw now he held a child, and Inga was raising the axe, and he was shouting for his father, but he knew his father wouldn’t save him because he had foresworn his oath. And the child was wailing, and Inga screamed and screamed, and the axe fell, biting deep into his arm.
Hakan sprang up, breathing hard, his cheeks wet with tears. The scars in his arm ached. His head throbbed. He saw two solemn eyes staring straight at him. Arik’s little son. Startled, the boy rushed outside, yelling that the man was awake.
Hakan looked about, feeling groggy. The fire burned on; a different pot hung over it, but otherwise the room was the same. Footsteps squelched in the mud. Arik appeared in the doorway. ‘Had a good rest?’
‘I think so,’ Hakan whispered, his head still pounding.
‘Must’ve needed it. Been out half the afternoon.’
‘I’m grateful. You didn’t have to do this.’
‘A man never knows when he might need a favour back,’ said Arik, cheerfully. ‘Anyways, my lad has secured your boat. And everything’s ready for you. Horse’s all set. So now – where’re you headed?’
Where, indeed?
It was a bitter question.
Hakan stood up. Pain crackled down his legs. Suddenly, he had to get out of there, had to clear his head. ‘I need some air,’ he mumbled, snatching up his bundle and shoving past Arik.
‘Well, we ain’t going nowhere,’ the merchant called after him.
But Hakan wasn’t listening. He blundered on, away from the village towards a bluff overlooking the harbour and, beyond, the sea.
Reaching its lip, he threw down his bundle and dropped to his haunches, looking west, out over the waves. Towards his home.
Except it isn’t my home any more.
Loneliness weighed like lead in his heart. Suddenly he wanted to see his land again. Had to. He looked about, and there, a little back from the bluff’s edge, stood an old beech tree. He threw himself at it, hauling himself up through its branches as if pursued by the slaves of Hel. When he reached as high as he could go, he turned to the west and scanned the horizon. There, faint in the distance, he could just make out a sliver of land.
Jutland. The land of his fathers.
Would he never go back? Never?
His gaze lingered on the horizon a long time until he noticed a mist slipping down from the north, swallowing up everything. The seam of land in the distance disappeared into the greyness until he could see it no more.
That’s how you must remain to me. . . For ever. I shall never return. Let my life to this day be cloaked in darkness, sealed by this vow. I swear I will never tell of it.
‘Never,’ he said aloud.
His father had named him Hakan – his ‘Chosen Son’. But the Chosen Son was dead. A stranger now walked in his shoes. That would be the name by which he was known.
Erlan: Stranger.
Hakan’s life must end. The life of Erlan would be his new beginning.
On the ground, picking up his bundle, he realized he still had no answer to Arik’s question. Where was he headed?
Trudging back, he tried to figure what to do. Until yesterday, he knew his path. But love had led him only to death. He’d foresworn his land and his birthright. He was no farmer. No craftsman of any skill. He had neither the cunning nor the greed of a merchant. What else had he to offer? What had he ever done?
He had a killed a man. More than one.
Was that all he was? A killer.
He could kill again.
Hadn’t his father impressed on him again and again what a bloody world they lived in? In a world like that, there would always be need for a killer. But if he put himself in the service of some lord. . . Such a man should be a lord worth serving. A lord greater even than his father. Maybe the greatest lord in all the land. No – in all the wide world!
Who is that man?
He turned the question over in his mind. It was something. Some scrap of purpose. Some frayed thread to cling to.
Service to a great lord.
He tried to imagine himself there – in another man’s hall, taking another man’s salt. Another life. A life alone. A life without her.
Suddenly he was bent double, emptying the contents of his stomach into the grass. Bile tasted bitter in his throat. Bitter as his own fate.
He swore and spat into the dirt. What was another lord to him now? What did any of it really matter? What were blood-oaths or honour or loyalty? Maybe he should just wander the earth. A man cursed. An outcast. A stranger with a sword.
His hand fell absently on the sword hilt buried under his cloak. With a sudden jerk, he pulled it clear of the bundle and unsheathed it. Even in the dull afternoon light, the blade gleamed like a sunray. Wrathling – a sword to grace the very gods. For long years it had lain idle in its sheath, hanging unblooded on the wall of his father’s chamber.
He cut the salted air. Once. Twice. The blade sang with each stroke. Here was a different call: the call of steel. The call of red deeds, and valour.
If his own fate had fallen into death and darkness, surely the fate of this shining sword was not yet done.
He grimaced, and slipped it back in its sheath.
It was but a thread. His only thread. And yet, in the darkness of his pain, it seemed to shine like gold.
Like the first ray of a mighty dawn.
‘I’m looking for a man,’ Erlan began, back in Arik’s yard. ‘A lord. . . in need of a warrior.’
‘You are a warrior, then.’ Arik cocked his head. ‘I knew it. Said so to my son when you pulled in.’
‘Then tell me – is there any king in this land? This is the land of the Gotars?’
‘Aye, we’re Gotars of the west, for many leagues wherever you go. But we’ve no king. We have chieftains, seated in different places.’
‘Who is yours?’
‘There’s our clan headman, Ingvar Bardasson. You met his son, Arald. But Ingvar’s a scabby-arsed bully, worse than his son. You’re better spending a lifetime shovelling shit than serving him. Anyways, his hall isn’t a great one – more a farmstead. Same as most of the Western Gotars. We have our leaders and councils and that, but you want a king, or some fella who needs a warrior like yourself.’ He gave a crafty smile. ‘But it ain’t just a question of need.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘First off, you’re an extra mouth to feed. Fine, if another warrior’s wanted. But who wants another mouth with winter coming on? Those that go raiding are likely done for the year. And none of our folk plan on any fighting. Least, not till next spring, if they go at all.’
‘I could be useful in other ways till then.’
‘The crops are gathered and most sown for next year by now. It ain’t much work keeping animals through winter. It don’t help you’re no Gotar, neither. People are wary.’ He added, ‘Don’t suppose it’d help no more if you told the truth.’ ‘There must be something,’ exclaimed Erlan, nearly choking on his frustration.
‘I wish I could say different. But you’ll struggle to find anywhere’ll welcome a big man like you, who’ll eat a sight more than some southern slave-girl, say,’ said Arik. ‘Hel, if you were one of them
, I know a few places’d take you!’
‘So you can suggest nowhere?’
Arik tugged at his beard. ‘Hmmm – well, it’s not much to go on, but now you press me, there is somewhere. I couldn’t tell you much about it for certain.’
‘Go on.’
‘Best I know, it’s a kingdom. A kingdom that lies far north and east. You’d have to cross to the land of the Sveärs. They’re a fine bunch of villains if you ask me, but I’ve heard they have a mighty king.’
‘You know his name?’
‘Not I.’ Arik shrugged. ‘But the Sveärs are strong. Rich, too. Huh! Now I think on it, if they’re rich, they’ll have plenty of enemies.’ He nodded. ‘A place like that might use a fellow like you.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Couldn’t say. It’s a couple of weeks’ ride to the edge of Gotarland, travelling north, maybe more. Hard going too, especially once the snows come. All forests and lakes, far as I know. As for the Sveär kingdom beyond. . .’ He shrugged.
‘A kingdom to the north,’ mused Erlan. The gods knew it was little enough to go on. But little was all he had. He nodded. ‘Very well. That’s where I’ll go. Is your horse ready?’
‘Ready as she’ll ever be.’
He fetched Idun, who looked about as dubious about taking a rider as Erlan was about getting atop of her. The promised provisions were slung over her rump. Erlan fastened his bundle over them and threw his shield on his back.
‘You’re sure she can take me?’
‘Certainly,’ returned Arik, with a grin that made him look more gaunt and greasy than ever.
Taking the reins, Erlan swung himself onto her back. Idun stumbled sideways. It wasn’t much, but enough to make him catch his foot against the bundle. There was a clang of metal and Idun shied away. Erlan snatched at her mane, keeping his seat, but his bundle jerked loose and went crashing to the ground.
The cloak fell open, and Wrathling lay exposed in the mud.
Erlan swore, regaining control, but Arik was already picking up his sword. The little merchant gazed at the magnificent twin-gilt rings of Wrathling’s hilt, bright eyes round with greed. ‘Why, she’s a beauty,’ he whispered.
Erlan held out his hand. ‘My things,’ he insisted. But Arik seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the beautiful sword. Erlan snapped his fingers. ‘Now!’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the merchant hurriedly, wrapping up the cloak and passing up the bundle. ‘Hoho, friend! Now if you wanted to trade that, you’d get a sight more for it than a horse.’
‘I’d sooner trade my arm.’
‘Aye,’ muttered Arik to himself, ‘it may come to that.’
‘What did you say?’ snapped Erlan.
‘Oh, I was joking – just joking of course! Well, may the gods give you luck on the road, friend.’
‘And you on the wave.’ With that, the stranger touched his heel to Idun’s flank and set his face to the north.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Exhausted though he was, Erlan lay awake for hours that night, gazing through the treetops at the drifting clouds, having made camp not far from the shore of a lake. Awake or asleep, he couldn’t escape the images that came back again and again. Konur’s drooping mouth; his father’s tears; Inga, adrift in crimson swirls.
Questions chased images; images chased questions – each expanding and expanding, filling his heart and mind until it seemed his soul was a rudderless ship, adrift on an ocean of pain. He kept hoping he would come to the end of his grief, somehow slip his fingers round the edge of it – somehow contain it. But then another wave would rise up beneath him, and he would glimpse another endless horizon, rushing away from him.
He could only lie, looking upwards, the lonely ocean of grief lapping all around him, vast and deep and cold. At last, through the sheer exhaustion of his turning mind, sleep did come, dreamless and heavy.
And it was some hours later that he was awoken by Idun’s warm, oaty breath on his face.
‘Go away,’ he hissed irritably, turning over under his cloak. Undaunted, Idun only butted him harder. He groaned, reaching out to shove her away.
But instead, all of a sudden, he sat up.
He sucked in deeply through his nostrils to see if his mind was playing tricks. . . There it was again, faint but unmistakable. No animal of the forest smelled like that. A sickly, sour reek that could only come from the stinking body of a man. A man he’d smelled before.
In a heartbeat he was on his feet, seizing his weapons and Idun’s bridle. The dawn light was seeping under the branches. A little down the slope, he could see the lakeshore fanning out. He swung onto Idun’s back.
‘There’s the whoreson!’ cried a voice Erlan recognized all too easily. Arald. ‘Quick, after him.’ He glimpsed two figures stalking through the wood, each leading a horse. Jamming in his heels, Idun sprang away.
He hadn’t expected much from her. Didn’t get much either. But she went for the shoreline all the same.
‘He’s coming out – look sharp, lads!’ shouted Arald, as Erlan cleared the trees. The lake opened out like a giant’s silver platter. A few wreaths of mist lingered over its surface. He heard a clatter of hooves, and looked right to see two other riders kicking their horses over the flat grey stones.
He hauled the reins left, driving his heels, with only an instant to mark that one of the riders looked familiar.
Arik.
The weasel! So much for Gotar hospitality. Ahead of him, there was no one to bar his way, but his heart sank anyway. A large shoulder of rock sloped out of the trees, stretching fifty yards into the lake. The shoreline was blocked. Idun was struggling on the loose stones. There was no hope of going round in the water, no time to break back into the trees.
An arrow fizzed overhead, clattering against the rocks.
‘Don’t shoot him yet, you dopey potlicker!’ yelled Arald. ‘He’s not going nowhere.’ There was a loud half-witted cackle.
Erlan looked back. The four riders were closing in. He had little choice: he had to face them. He sawed on the bridle. Idun whinnied in protest as he jumped down, grabbing his shield and unsheathing his sword.
The feel of its hilt gave some comfort. Wrathling moved like a thing alive, as if it would guide his every stroke. He prayed to the Spear-God it would be so.
The men dismounted at a distance and came forward in a line. He swallowed, throat dry as dust.
Little Arik’s grimace made him look more like a skull than ever. He had a throwing-axe in one hand and a cudgel in the other. On his left walked a much bigger man, helm pushed down tight, with a long-spear and a mailshirt covering his body. He at least looks like he can fight.
To Arik’s right was a lad with wide-set eyes and a filthy tunic, wearing an open-mouthed grin and carrying a bow with a nocked arrow. On the end was Arald, long tongue licking wolfishly at blackened teeth, brandishing a double-headed axe.
Four men. Though Erlan judged only two were any use in a fight.
‘Fancy finding you here, stranger,’ sniggered Arald. The boils on his face were angry red. ‘Far from home, ain’t you? Bet you’re sorry you left off sucking your mama’s teat now, uh?’
‘Why didn’t you kill me when I slept?’ Erlan was addressing Arik, but eyeing each of them in turn. The lad with the bow was giggling like a simpleton.
‘Well,’ drawled Arik. ‘Gotta be some standards of hosting, ha’n’t there? Besides, I reckoned you a runaway outlaw, and a beggar one at that.’ Arik cocked his head craftily. ‘Till I saw that sword. Now there’s a pretty thing.’
‘You like it that much, come here, and I’ll shove it up your arse.’
The simpleton laughed madly at that.
Arald chortled. ‘We couldn’t let an outlander come through here without some kind of contribution to my father’s chests.’ He twisted his neck till it cracked. ‘Just wouldn’t be right. Where’s the respect? Now we gotta take it for ourselves, see?’
‘If you didn’t stink like pi
gshit, your work’d already be done.’
Arald’s grin melted away. ‘You’re a dead man, stranger. You can make this easy, or you can make it hard. Give us the fucking sword, and we’ll only slit your throat.’
Suddenly the simpleton whimpered, shuffling about like he was about to soil himself. ‘You said, brother. You said.’ He spoke with a lisp, like his tongue was too big for his mouth.
‘Said what?’
The halfwit grinned and bucked his hips back and forward obscenely.
Arald snorted. ‘Oh, aye. See, my idiot brother here doesn’t have much luck with the sluts back at Freyhamen. And you with your pretty face, ’n all, he reckons you might oblige him.’ Arald gave a lewd sneer. But Erlan didn’t see it. He was watching the arrow pointing at his chest, how it wavered with every idiot chuckle.
‘Didn’t I tell you, stranger?’ crowed Arald. ‘Every man has something another man wants. What do you say? My brother might have cowpat for brains but he’s hung like a mule!’ They all broke out in gales of laughter.
But Erlan was remembering Garik’s words. A shield is useless if you’re outnumbered. Use it for one thing:
To narrow the odds.
He flung it at the halfwit.
The shield spun like a discus, straight for his head. But the halfwit saw the danger and, in shock, loosed his string.
The arrow whipped past Erlan’s shoulder, the same instant the shield-edge caved in the idiot’s face. The lad slumped to his knees and fell forward, quivering.
His arrow was heading straight for Idun, but startled by the sudden movement, she was already recoiling. The tip raked her neck, then skittered off into the rocks with a clatter.
The mare reared up with a shriek, barrelling past Erlan like a thunderclap, slamming full tilt into Arik and the big man in the byrnie. Arik went flying. His head hit a rock with a thud and he lay still.
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