A Mighty Dawn

by Theodore Brun

  Sviggar snorted. ‘Flattering words no better than horse’s wind. What do you know of my wisdom?’

  ‘He speaks these weasel words in plea of his life. If he’s so precious to the gods, let’s make an offering of him to them,’ said Sigurd with a scornful laugh.

  ‘The gods know my life is worth little enough,’ answered Erlan. ‘But I’m loath to give it up on account of another man’s stupidity. Whatever killed your son – I swear on that blade, it wasn’t I.’

  ‘I swear the same,’ cried Kai.

  ‘Be silent, boy!’ snapped Bodvar, striking him.

  ‘There’s been hatred between Autha’s line and mine too long,’ said the king, voice soft. ‘And yet. . . And yet, Harald would do this.’ He rubbed at his temple with a thumb half-missing. ‘But then there is this other thing. This. . . shadow. . .’

  He went to the table and seized Wrathling, throwing off its sheath. The blade flashed, and all of a sudden, its point was at Erlan’s throat.

  ‘My son has the right of it. I cannot take the chance.’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Erlan.

  ‘Master!’ shouted Kai, earning another blow from Bodvar. ‘I will honour you by doing this myself, and with your own blade. Hold him.’

  Strong hands seized him; a boot kicked the back of his knees. He buckled. Fingers like iron tongs forced his head down.

  ‘Hold him still!’

  Kai was whimpering.

  So the king is a fool after all. He and I both – and love and honour and blood and oaths. The whole stinking world is a jape in the mind of a fool! Hel take us all!

  Out of the tail of his eye, he saw the king stand ready, heard the sweep of his cloak as he threw it back over his shoulder.

  Then he felt the cold kiss of steel on his neck as the king measured his stroke. Suddenly the sword was snatched away. Erlan waited for the end, a dizzying, dismembered nausea filling his limbs.

  ‘Inga,’ he murmured, wanting to feel her name on his lips one last time.

  He waited. An eternity seemed to fill that moment – a hundred thousand lifetimes between the rising and falling of his blade.

  But the stroke never came.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Erlan twisted his head and saw Sviggar was staring at Wrathling’s hilt, eyes aglow. ‘Bring him here.’

  The guard hesitated.

  ‘Get him up, man!’

  Sviggar thrust Wrathling’s hilt into Erlan’s face. ‘What’s this?’ He pointed at a device cut into the larger of the two rings that formed the grip. ‘That engraving – an eagle with a wolf’s head – you see it?’

  Erlan saw. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does it signify?’

  He hesitated, still trying to gather his wits. ‘It’s a symbol favoured by the smiths where I’m from.’

  ‘But does it not mean something?’

  Erlan knew exactly what it meant: the mark of the Vendlings, the line of his blood stretching back through his fathers, and theirs before them. Back into the mists of the past, back to Vendal the Grey, who had sailed down out of the north. ‘It is the mark of my blood. I can say no more.’

  Sviggar’s face hardened. He went to his council seat and reached behind, produced another sword and unsheathed it. The firelight gleamed off a blade no lesser than Wrathling.

  He thrust the point inches from Erlan’s nose. ‘Bjarne’s Bane. The Sveär kings have borne this blade many generations. My father took it from the dead hand of Ingiald, the last of the Ynglings. Now, it is mine.’

  Suddenly, he dropped the point and proffered the hilt to Erlan. ‘Look. The same spot. The same mark. Not just similar. Exactly the same.’

  Erlan looked. The mark was there, identical to the first.

  ‘This is the mark of the Sveär people. And yet, you are no Sveär.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  The old king laughed, a coarse, gravelly rumble in his chest. ‘It is an auspice,’ he cried. ‘An omen!’ He slapped Erlan’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come, stranger. Perhaps you’re from some brother line and we share something of this shadowy past of yours.’ He nodded agreeably. ‘Yes – I will spare you. You may serve me.’

  Kai gushed a lengthy sigh. Erlan’s wasn’t far behind it.

  ‘Besides, it’s ill luck to make a man break his oath. And to bloody my hands on a gift from the gods will only bring a curse on my head. As if there aren’t enough of those already – eh, Bodvar?’ He looked around at the earl and the others for a response, but his councillors were struggling to share his mirth. ‘Keep your oath, stranger, and add to it another.’ He signalled to Bodvar’s men. ‘Release him.’

  They did as commanded and Erlan dropped to his knees for the third time that morning. ‘I’ll gladly swear to you, my lord.’

  ‘Sire,’ began Bodvar, ‘I would not advise—’

  ‘I know, good Bodvar. But my mind is set. It is an auspice, I tell you!’

  ‘As you please, sire.’ Though the earl looked doubtful.

  Prince Sigurd turned away, not bothering to hide his disgust.

  ‘You – come forward.’ The king beckoned Kai for the first time. ‘Your name, boy?’

  ‘Beg pardon, I’m no boy, my lord king, sire.’ Kai shuffled closer. ‘I’ve near sixteen winters behind me. I go by Kai, son of Askar. A Gotar by blood.’

  ‘Well, forgive me, Kai son of Askar,’ chuckled Sviggar. ‘You’re a man, indeed. And a Gotar, eh? Can you wield a sword?

  ‘Good as the next man.’

  ‘A regular hero,’ smiled Finn.

  Kai cut him a scathing look. ‘Well, it’s true, my lord, I’ve not yet stood in a battle-line or shieldwall or such. But I know my strokes.’

  ‘Ha! Doubtless you do. Well, there’s plenty of time for that, lad. Can you do anything else?’

  ‘He has a gift for singing, lord,’ said Erlan.

  ‘Gods spare us! Another blasted skald-singer, is it? These halls are infested with them – drinking my ale and bedding every maid in sight.’ He peered down at Kai. ‘Though you look a little young for that.’

  ‘With respect, my lord – I’m not too young for anything.’

  ‘In quite the rush, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll face down whatever comes my way, my lord.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that too loud. Some of our womenfolk are like to take you at your word. Now, stranger,’ he said, turning back to Erlan. ‘Keep your sword and your secrets. If you are honest and willing, you may eat at my table, fight for my honour, and die in my service.’ He offered Wrathling’s hilt.

  Erlan took it. ‘I am, lord.’

  ‘Fine. Then here is my hand.’

  Erlan dropped to one knee and bent over the king’s withered old claw. ‘Lord Sviggar, king of the Sveärs, I swear my allegiance to your person, your crown and your blood.’

  ‘Excellent. Let all here know it.’

  And with that, Erlan had himself a new lord.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Lilla sucked smoke deep into her lungs and fell back against the tree. The bark was hard, but so familiar that it was comforting as a mother’s arms.

  She looked up, gazing through the branches of the ancient ash into the half-lit sky. The tree had stood for more than a dozen generations, her mother told her. When her eye roved along its long, sinuous cracks and among its crooked branches, she well believed it was so old.

  Older even. Old as the land. Old as the world.

  She closed her eyes, the smoke filling her blood, seeping through her sinews. Her limbs began to feel weightless. Soon she would fly.

  She blew out through her nostrils, listening to the seeds snap in the pan, letting smoke tendrils float into the fading light. Among the treetops, night-dew was gathering into mist. Dusk, the borderland between night and day – a time for crossing over. A time to slip between worlds.

  She reached beside her and took another pinch of dry strands from her pouch. Urtha’s Weed – the flower of fate. The key that unlocked the
secret roads of Yggdrasil. She tossed it into the pan and watched the strands glow, then curl and cinder. Suddenly the little heap caught aflame and smoke started to billow in earnest. She bent her head and inhaled, this time feeling the rush to her fingertips and the edges of her body begin to dissolve.

  She lay back on her furs. The cold couldn’t touch her now. Weightlessness flooded her bones. She went on reciting the words, just as her mother had taught her. Although, in the end, her mother no longer needed Urtha’s help to enter the world-between-worlds and ride Odin’s steed. Her words and will alone were enough.

  ‘One day you will do as I do,’ she promised, never saying when. Now she never would. It was five years since they buried her. Five years since she abandoned Lilla, half-taught, half-ready.

  Half-wise.

  Queen Dalla was of the Dale Lands, whose folk, she claimed, were closer to the earth than all others. They knew the ways of the forest, the rivers and the hills; kept the lore of the birds and beasts; understood the earth and sky. ‘Each must discover her fate through the mirror of time,’ she would say. ‘But not the Dale folk. We shatter the glass and ride upon the winds of fate like eagles on the wing.’

  Lilla only half-understood. But Dalla insisted, ‘The Dales are in your blood too.’ Lilla was twelve when her mother began teaching her. But after three short years, she found herself alone. She remembered running back to the halls. Screaming. But no one could help. Her mother’s lifeless body lay by the ash tree, her spirit flown for ever. But where? Maybe one day Lilla would find her in one of the Nine Worlds. . . Maybe, if she searched long enough.

  But maybe she just refused to admit the truth: that her mother didn’t want to come back. That she loved the other worlds more than her own. And sometimes, Lilla didn’t blame her. Sometimes, it was hard to love this world. The places she’d seen were far more wonderful than this one. Here, she was bound by time and birth and custom. Here, she knew her purpose was to one day be the wife of a king, and afterwards the mother of kings. Here, love always abandoned her for death.

  But there. . . there, she was free. There, she could soar as high as the stars. There, everything was love.

  The world beyond the veil, her mother called it. ‘Here is truth, my Lilla,’ she had whispered, as they looked upon the ancient ash. ‘The life you live is but a leaf on the tree. In that little life exists the whole of life – root, branch, soil and sky. All these have their part in how the leaf must grow. All is fate. Do you understand?’ Lilla had nodded, half-understanding. ‘I will show you how to ride the great Tree of Worlds.’

  Lilla’s spirit was flying now, her will climbing higher and higher, like Skinfaxi of the Shining Mane, chasing after the dying sun, drawing the cloak of night behind her. Her heart sang as the stars glittered above her, clouds scudding left and right, brilliant under the rising moon. She turned on the cold wind. Joy surged within her – an ecstasy of joy, the cramped prison of her body left far behind. She no longer soared in the sky; she was the sky – clear and bright and pure.

  But then she perceived something far in the east. A tiny spot on the horizon, like a black tear. Seeing it, some part of her shivered. But fear has no place in this world. The teardrop grew, first into a stain, then a smear, then spreading to the ends of the sky. With it grew her dread. She fled the billowing blackness, yet it came on the quicker, towering over her in a wave climbing beyond the highest star, blotting every prick of light. Panic coursed like poison as she saw the darkness was a mist, thick and black as death, engulfing all. Suddenly she knew: this was some foul fog spewing from the bowels of Niflheim, the mistland – the one world forbidden her. Hope died in her heart, and as the darkness swept over her, she opened her mouth and screamed.

  She jerked up. A startled pigeon fluttered in the treetops. She was back in the Kingswood, but the horrors of what she’d seen in the mist still scuttled in her mind like scorpions. The fire was still burning beside her. She couldn’t have been away long. Instinctively, she reached for the gourd lain out in readiness for her return. Her throat was dry as ash. She drained the bitter brew, which would bind her wandering spirit.

  For now.

  She dropped the gourd, her hand shaking, fixing her gaze on it till she could see only that – the flesh of her fingers, the glimmer of silver rings. She breathed a notch easier, the horrible visions loosening their grip, fading to a memory.

  Suddenly, a horn sounded in the distance – three notes, short and clear. She recognized the call at once and laughed, despite herself. Maybe there are some things worth lingering for in this world. The horn was for her. Since she had been an infant, her father had had that horn blown to summon his children homeward. Most fathers would have given it up long ago. Not him. He knew her too well. ‘If Lilla had her way, we’d live in the forest like a pack of wolves,’ he often teased her.

  Unsteadily, she got to her feet, brushing the dirt from her hands.

  It was time to wear her mask once more.

  The fires and shadows of the Uppland halls brought some comfort after the terrors of the mist, but by the time she was in her chamber brushing out her tangled hair, a different kind of dread began to take hold.

  With Staffen dead, who was there to talk to now? He at least had been able to make her laugh, and laughter eased her loneliness. In truth, Staffen had been the one to make them all laugh.

  With him gone, a dour mood had crept in. There were the trappings of mourning, to be sure, but this was something else. A part of each of them had died with him. As though Staffen had been the hub of the wheel. Without him, how long could the wheel turn before it flew apart?

  Her father, under his brittle exterior, was a caring man. But he hadn’t the patience to hold them together. If her mother was still alive, she might have. Instead, they had Saldas. . .

  Once again, that strange discord of feelings. It had been three years – more even – since her father had taken Saldas to wife. Lilla was still wary of her. Jealous too, perhaps. Yet, there was something about her. . . Maybe only the same thing that dulled the wits of all the men around her. . .

  But something in Lilla wanted to reach beyond the beautiful exterior. Reach inside where she was sure a fiery passion burned. A passion seldom seen, a flame she was drawn to, which she wanted to reach out and touch. She wondered what it would be like to feel the heat of Saldas’s love. But Saldas dealt only in cold formalities, offering no warmth in her affected words.

  Lilla’s head throbbed from the smoke. She felt more alone than ever.

  ‘Lilla, child, are you ready?’ It was her father’s voice through the door of her chamber. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘Just a moment, Father.’

  She pulled the embroidered mantle over her long black shift. Her slender reflection shone back off the polished bronze mirror. Her father expected her to look fine whenever she appeared at the feast table, but that would never shift the drab feeling inside her. She adjusted the brooches at her shoulders. Oh, that’ll have to do.

  Sighing, she drew her braid over her shoulder and left the chamber.

  A few moments later, she had joined her father’s retinue, gathered before going in to the feast-hall.

  Her father was speaking with the leather-faced Earl of Vestmanland. Her brother had his back to her, talking in hushed tones with his attendant. Several other men turned and murmured greetings. She returned each with a word.

  ‘No, no, no! I won’t – I won’t!’ The cries were embarrassingly loud. Everyone turned to see Svein, the boy Saldas had borne her father. He was all dark curls and cool, green eyes – startlingly bonny. But a little menace with a temper like a boiling kettle.

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told, you little brute.’ Saldas was crouched beside him, wrestling with his belt. ‘There, now – leave it alone.’ No sooner had she released him than he unhooked it and flung it on the floor, jutting his bottom lip in defiance.

  ‘If you won’t wear it round your waist, let’s see how you like it on your backside!’ H
is mother seized him by the neck, bent him over and would have given him a thrashing if Lilla had not caught her arm.

  ‘You only make him more stubborn,’ she said. ‘Let me try. Please.’

  Saldas scowled in exasperation, dropped the belt into her hand, and went to join her husband.

  ‘She’s so mean,’ sniffed Svein. ‘She hates me!’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. She just wants you to look smart for your papa,’ said Lilla, wiping away the angry tears speckling his cheek. ‘Won’t you let me put this on?’

  ‘It pinches! I hate it!’

  She cupped his cheek. ‘I’ll fix it so it doesn’t.’

  He shook his head, crossing his arms.

  ‘Listen – if you’re good, I’ll take you to the woods with me tomorrow. We might even find some lingonberries, if we’re lucky.’

  The boy’s frown softened. ‘Lingonberries?’

  ‘I know just the place.’

  With a little more persuasion, Svein relented, and Lilla fastened his belt, taking care not to pinch him.

  ‘The brat needs a beating, not the coddling you give him.’

  Lilla looked up and saw Sigurd standing over them. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for beating when he’s grown. You must be tender with children, or their spirit grows mean.’

  ‘Tenderness is weakness.’ He turned away, uninterested.

  Then you’re the strongest man in this hall, brother.

  There was a sudden banging. She straightened up. By the entrance to the main hall, the whitebeard Vithar was rapping his staff on the floor. Lilla smoothed out the folds of her dress.

  It was time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Erlan gazed at the sea of faces with his back against the wall. Chatter buzzed around the cavernous space, skeins of laughter swirling up into the smoke-stained beams.

  Most were men, with the look of warriors or farmers. But there were a few women, perhaps wives of the men they stood beside.