Erlan grunted, nursing his jaw. Next to his sword, the boy’s gratitude was about as much use as a fire on a frozen lake.
A short while later, the companions were slung astride their horses, trussed like a couple of hens for market. Kai looked decidedly glum.
‘At least we’re headed in the right direction,’ muttered Erlan.
‘Your bloody oath,’ spat Kai. ‘Nearly had me stuck like a pig.’
‘If your master pulls a trick like that on the king,’ said Bodvar, overhearing, ‘I promise you, boy – you both will be.’
If their acquaintance with Bodvar had begun on a bad footing, the earl’s prickly disposition did little to improve it. The most the earl would tell them was that Sviggar’s Seat lay two hard days’ ride to the northeast, three with the snow. ‘Four with you two beggars on those things,’ he said, with a scathing look at their mangy mounts.
He was right. It was hard work keeping pace with their escort, and Bodvar boiled with impatience at their slow progress. Each day when evening fell, the party sought refuge from the cold in farmsteads along the way. Under Sviggar’s law, folk were obliged to provide the king’s men with whatever little they had. The scraps that found their way into Erlan’s belly after they’d had their fill were few enough. Even so, he was grateful for the roof overhead and the warmth of a proper hearth. Rest for his road-racked bones.
But his mind gave him little peace.
Perhaps Grimnar was right. Destiny, he thought. The web of destiny. He felt it now. For now it was not only his own past which had led him there, which stretched before him to shape the road he must walk. It seemed the threads of other men’s lives were being woven into his – other pasts and other futures. Debts graven into the bark of the Tree of Worlds.
What must be. . .
The past, unchangeable. The future, inexorable. The debt of every deed, inescapable.
In the darkness, he saw the glint of Kai’s bright eyes, still awake long into the night. Doubtless he too was anxious about the fate awaiting them at the hall of the Sveär king.
Soon, the waiting would be over.
On the fourth day, they rode the final leagues to Sviggar’s Seat. A blazing sun lit up the land.
Along their road, trickles of passers-by swelled to a stream, the stream to a river. Traders with carts laden with pelts; bondsmen with mules labouring under grain-sacks; peasant women, so wrapped up they looked like bales of wool come to life, racks of dried fish propped on their shoulders. Everywhere children played, crunching their feet through icy puddles. Warriors and karls eased along on horseback, chatting and spitting and chuckling, indifferent to the low folk slopping through the slush beside them.
All stared, wide-eyed, as the earl and his riders passed, with the dark stranger and his scrawny companion in their midst.
Hammering rang out from the smithies lining the road. Erlan saw roaring forges, half-wrought blades aglow in coals, piles of leather cuttings, heaps of crude-cut brooches. Women huddled under stalls where wool-stacks awaited spinning on trestles straining under their weight.
The air brimmed with the homely smells of mead and barley-ale from brew-houses, sour milk from dairy-barns, bubbling broths from cookhouses, fresh sawdust from sawmills and carpenters’ booths.
Erlan had never seen so much industry. Could hardly have imagined it.
‘Look there!’ cried Bodvar. ‘The King Barrows of Uppsala.
Sviggar’s halls are beyond.’
Erlan looked. Beyond the bustling craftsmen, three huge earthen mounds rose up into the morning sky, each high as the grandest hall, each covered in snow, perfectly round, perfectly alike.
‘They look like giant tits!’ cried Kai. ‘What are they?’
‘The reason for all this,’ said Bodvar.
‘For what?’ asked Erlan.
‘All you see,’ replied the earl, with a sweep of his hand. ‘Long ago, the rulers of the Sveärs were mere chieftains. But later, the seed of Yng were named kings.’ He nodded at the three mounds. ‘Here three of the mightiest Yngling kings were lain. Since then, this place has been the seat of the Sveär king.’ He leaned over and spat. ‘Whoever holds it holds the right to rule.’
‘Is Sviggar of this Yngling line?’ asked Erlan.
Bodvar shook his head. ‘The last Yngling king perished in the flames of his own hall.’ He grunted. ‘They say folk hated him like a boil on the bollocks by the end. He was mad. Sviggar’s father – Ivar Wide-Realm – took the kingdom from him.’
Erlan was about to ask more, but his words died on his lips. Up ahead, through a grove of trees, he spied a vast structure looming like a mountain of oak.
‘Would you look at that!’ exclaimed Kai.
The hall towered the height of ten men. Each verge-beam alone must have been cut from an entire trunk, the wood now cracked by weather and age. Its gable was alive with carvings: beasts, warriors, weapons, horns, ships, shields, all tossed together in a squall of movement, as if the wood was but a breath away from bursting to life and spilling slaughter onto the yard in front. And above it all a monstrous eagle, wings painted black as midnight, spread for flight. But the figure had a wolf’s head, with cruel fangs and pitiless eyes scanning the horizon – the lupine face of Fenrir, Odin’s Bane.
Below, the great entrance gaped like the gullet of some giant of old.
‘Close your mouth, stranger,’ Bodvar chuckled. ‘Welcome to Sviggar’s Great Hall.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bodvar wasted no time finding them a cosy place to rest before their audience with the king.
Cosy, that is, if you happened to be a rat.
He shoved them into a dank cellar, dug under some storehouse. Or so it must have been once, but there was nothing there now, save for broken potsherds, a leaky-looking bucket and a brazier, stained black as Hel, which was making a bad job of keeping off the cold.
Bodvar had at least left them their cloaks. But their rope-bonds he’d replaced with shackles of iron. And now they sat, trussed tight, until it pleased the king to give them a hearing.
Erlan guessed they wouldn’t have long to wait.
His jaw throbbed from Bodvar’s punch. The thick scab from the Boulder’s cut itched like a nest of ants. His hair was crawling with lice, picked up from some host’s bedding. Even the burn scars on his hands from his fight with Konur were still tender.
That seemed a lifetime ago. Someone’s else life. The life of that other man – Hakan.
But Hakan was dead. He died with his sister. . .
It seemed odd to feel that separation. Perhaps it was the only way to protect him from his pain – to contain it within another’s life. Another’s death.
Yet if Erlan’s body could feel pain, he must still be alive. He had his doubts whether he would be, come the morrow.
‘Makes you wonder whether we woke in some other world,’ said Kai, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Eh?’
‘This place. That hall.’
Erlan grunted. ‘I suppose. Sviggar must be a great king.’
‘So he must,’ nodded Kai. ‘And you learn the lesson, master.’
‘Lesson?’
‘Aye – to drop all your arse-headed notions of secret oaths and what not. Speak true, and maybe the old fart will let us live.’
Erlan snorted. What would the truth serve him in this land of strangers? Bodvar had made up his mind. Why should the king do any different? Anyway, he would offer Kai no reassurance.
‘I’d worry about my own head, if I was you.’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’
‘You were the one who wanted to come with me. That was your choice. If you don’t like it, the joke’s on you.’
‘Aye – the thought had occurred to me,’ replied the boy, miserably.
‘And sooner or later, this old king will deliver the punchline.’
Sooner, it turned out.
They came for them at dawn, hauling them out, damp and dirty, with wrists bound an
d sacks over their heads. Erlan’s ankle felt stiff as a rusted hinge after the cold night.
Hemp smelled strong in his nostrils as he hobbled forward, blind to where they were being led.
‘Bodvar never said he’d caught himself a cripple,’ sneered his guard, with a shove that brought him to his knees. The other guard sniggered as he picked himself up. ‘Keep up with the runt.’ He felt a spear-butt jab his back and groaned, but staggered on best he could until he was yanked to an abrupt halt.
‘Follow me.’ It was Bodvar’s voice. ‘And you.’ Kai gave a yelp. ‘Keep your mouth shut unless the king asks you something directly.’
Erlan was pitched forward again, with no choice but to follow Bodvar’s footsteps blindly.
The light through the hood grew dim. The air felt dead. They must be inside, perhaps in the Great Hall itself. He wondered what grandeur was to be seen without the hood. He smelled smoke, cooking aromas, and the dusty scent of ancient oak. He heard women’s voices, hushed but hurried, then footsteps thumping on wood.
‘Steps,’ the guard said, too late. He tripped, cracking his knee, cursing under his breath.
‘Move,’ said Bodvar. ‘The king is waiting.’
Swallowing the pain, Erlan let himself be dragged across some kind of platform. He heard men’s voices murmuring ahead. And then abruptly they fell silent.
‘Remove their hoods,’ said Bodvar.
The guard snatched off the sacking. Erlan blinked stupidly, trying to focus.
The air was dense with heat. The first thing his eyes grasped were flames dancing in braziers in the corners of a large chamber. On the walls, he glimpsed fading tapestries, dusty war-banners and buckler-shields.
Dominating the chamber was a large table, around which stood a group of men garbed in fine cloaks and furs, despite the heat. They varied in age and colouring, but Erlan knew which was the Sveär king in a moment.
The first thing he noticed were his eyes, glistening in the low light, dewy with age. Yet something in them remained sharp. His cloak was of a sky-blue weave, trimmed with wolverine, and around his brow he wore a simple band of gold. Wrinkles cracked his face like weathered oak.
So this is what a king looks like. . . like any other man. Except he holds my life in his hands.
‘These are the men?’ asked the king. His voice, though frayed, carried the mark of authority.
‘They are,’ answered Bodvar.
‘That one is no more than a boy.’ Sviggar raised a thin finger at Kai.
‘The other’s servant, sire.’
‘They don’t look dangerous.’
‘The boy isn’t. But this one.’ The earl shoved Erlan forward. ‘He passes as a traveller, come to offer you service. But his sword gave him away.’
‘So you said. Anything more?’
‘We’ve crossed the Forest of Tyr many times. I’ve had men ride the length of Vestmanland, looking for any sign out of the ordinary. In a month, none had anything to tell. Until we came upon these two.’
The king looked Erlan over with his colourless gaze. ‘My earl thinks you’re one of Harald Wartooth’s men. Come to satisfy the blood debt he thinks he owes our line.’ He turned and the councillors parted. Erlan saw his ring-sword there on the table. Sviggar ran a hand along it. ‘Is the blood already spilled not enough for Harald? Must he take from me even my own seed?’ With sudden violence, he slammed the table. ‘Did you murder my son?’
The silence that followed was heavy as lead. ‘Well?’
Eventually, Erlan spoke. ‘I know nothing of your son. Nor of his death. Nor of this Wartooth king.’
‘Are you so ignorant that you haven’t heard of the king of the Danes? He’s ruled these thirty years past.’
‘I’ve heard his name,’ conceded Erlan. ‘Beyond that, little enough.’
‘Who are you?’
‘His name is Erlan,’ offered Bodvar. ‘But he refuses to say where he’s from.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Sviggar.
‘It is.’
‘The insolence of a madman.’ The voice belonged to a younger man, glowering across the table with eyes set a shade too close. ‘Or else a fool.’
Are you a fool, my love?
‘You have no friends here, stranger,’ added the younger man.
Well, it wasn’t quite true. Then again, his only friend’s prospects looked about as rosy as a fat pig’s in the month of Yule.
Not unlike his own. . .
‘If Earl Bodvar has already spoken of me,’ he replied, ‘he will have told you of my vow – that I will never speak of my past. Neither for man nor gods.’
‘This is supposed to make us trust you?’ asked the king.
‘Whether it does or not, I’m bound by the oath I swore.’
‘Surely you realize how easily we could make you talk? Oath or not – I have men who could make you beg to tell whatever you’re hiding before the sun reaches the mid-mark.’
‘That is your choice.’
The king stepped closer. ‘My son is dead!’ A sinewy hand cracked across Erlan’s face, jerking back his head. ‘If you are responsible, you will admit it.’
The prospect of serving this man as lord was looking less and less appealing. But why else had he come?
Another man spoke up – one of the fair-hairs, not much older than Erlan. ‘Sire, would you hear me?’
The king grunted his assent. ‘As you will, Finn.’
‘You know I loved your son like a brother. If this man – or any – were responsible, I would happily see Staffen avenged. But I was with him that day. I was first to him when. . . well, when he was killed. We saw no one. And we were leagues from the nearest village. All we found was the antler.’ He paused, unsure whether to go on. ‘Then there are these other killings. . .’
‘Disappearances,’ interrupted the man with the close-set eyes. ‘Not killings.’
‘As you say, Lord Sigurd. Disappearances,’ Finn conceded. ‘But, maybe there’s another explanation.’
‘Whoever heard of a deer charging a man?’ This Lord Sigurd looked sceptical. ‘There’s no way my brother died like that.’
‘I was thinking of something else,’ replied Finn. ‘Or someone. . . in the appearance of a deer.’
‘Witchery, you mean?’ Sigurd gave a derisive snort. Some of the others sniggered with him. ‘That’s clutching at straws.’
Finn shrugged. ‘Maybe. But your lord father is a just king. Is it not true, sire – you seek only the one responsible?’
But Bodvar had lost patience. ‘Man or beast – I’ve scoured the area, sire. I can offer you nothing but these two.’
King Sviggar scraped a wasted hand over his chin. ‘We need not indulge these wild ideas.’ He turned to Erlan. ‘I only ask you again, stranger, and if you want to avert suspicion, you will make a defence. Who are you? Where are you from?’
I am from nowhere. That other man is dead. Erlan shot Kai a rueful look. The boy wore a mask of anguish. ‘I cannot answer, my lord.’
‘You warrant your own death if you refuse the will of a king.’
‘A foolish king, perhaps.’
‘Watch your tongue, vagrant!’ snapped Bodvar.
‘I know nothing of the Wartooth.’ Erlan looked hesitantly at Kai. ‘But. . . we’ve also heard rumours – of an enemy come against you.’
Behind the king, the councillors exchanged glances.
‘What enemy?’ asked Sviggar.
Erlan shook his head. ‘I’ll not waste words on what I don’t know for certain. But I swear this: I came here to serve you. Whatever enemies you face, I will face for you. I will not speak of my past, but I pledge my future to you.’
It sounded grand enough, but Sviggar hardly looked convinced.
‘This cripple makes mock of you, Father.’ Sigurd took his father by the elbow. ‘Beggar or murderer – look at him. His word is no better than a whore’s to a prince.’
‘Something you know all about.’ Sviggar gave his son a withering look an
d turned away, scowling. ‘Tell me. Has he any skill?’
‘I’d wager he is high-trained,’ answered Bodvar.
‘And?’
‘He has courage,’ the earl admitted. ‘If not for his loyalty to this boy, I might already be feasting with my fathers.’
‘We’ve all heard how he bested you, Bodvar,’ sneered Sigurd. ‘That hardly makes him worthy of being a king’s man.’
‘I disagree,’ said the king. Bodvar nodded his thanks, masking his irritation. ‘Age slows the best of us – but not my faithful Earl of Vestmanland. And so you. . .’ His watery eye turned to Erlan. ‘Have I to choose whether you are the Wartooth’s catspaw, or else some unlooked-for blessing?’ His mouth curdled with irony. ‘Well? Must we take you as a gift from the gods, dropped from the sky? Whichever it is, you come well disguised.’
‘A rare disguise indeed,’ laughed Finn. ‘The pair of ’em stink worse than polecats.’
‘Father, you can ill afford the chance of being wrong,’ urged Sigurd. ‘You always were too soft on the Wartooth. And yet, he mocks you as a usurper. As the Bastard King.’ A ripple of discomfort passed over the other councillors. ‘Staffen’s death is sweet news to his ear.’
‘Don’t you say a word about my son,’ whispered Sviggar, menacingly.
‘Staffen was my brother too,’ replied Sigurd, looking stung. ‘The Wartooth and the rest of Autha’s line won’t forget the feud, even if you would.’ He stabbed a finger at Erlan. ‘You should kill him. If he didn’t do it – make an example of him. Send a message that you will countenance no threat to your throne or your blood. And if he did do it, then he will die for the wrong he’s done us all.’
‘I tell you – no man did this,’ insisted Finn.
Sigurd rounded on him, losing patience. ‘You should know your place, vassal.’
Bodvar stepped between the younger men. ‘Sire, I’m in the unusual position of agreeing with Lord Sigurd. This smells like the Wartooth’s work—’
‘Lord,’ interrupted Erlan. ‘I am blameless for your son’s death. My past is nothing to you, I assure you. And yet the weaving of fate has brought me before you. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps I am a blessing of the gods. If so, then you are surely too wise to destroy their gift.’
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