All of them waiting.
Waiting for the lofty company of the king to fill the table running the length of the platform at the end of the hall. Behind the table stood the largest chair Erlan had ever seen, grand, empty and elaborately carved. To one side, he recognized the steps where he’d cracked his knee.
It felt odd – to have been within a glance of death one moment, and now, with the sun hardly set, he was about to take the king’s salt with a hall full of strangers. But for the king’s sharp eyes, he would be with his forefathers. Instead, he had what he wanted. A roof. A table. A lord.
Yet he still felt empty.
Had he been naive to think that finding a lord could even touch the dark abyss of pain in his heart?
He stood among these strangers. Yet he was the stranger.
He tried to remember the feasts of old at Vendlagard, when he’d sat with half a hundred friends and kin, faces ruddy with ale, eyes bright with laughter. What would a stranger have seen in those faces? A welcome table? An open hand? Or only the mark of death that overshadowed them all? Or behind each laughing face a killer, or the mother of a killer, or the child of a killer?
That’s what he saw, in this magnificent hall, among these noble Sveärs. Killing faces all around him – hard and hostile.
All of them.
He looked down.
Well. . . all, save one.
‘I don’t know how many hedgehogs they had to kill to make this undershirt,’ complained Kai, scratching himself madly.
‘Stay still, can’t you? Folk’ll think you’ve got the pox.’
‘Looking round here, there’s a few lasses I wouldn’t mind catching it from.’ Kai leered at a passing thrall-girl, earning himself a giggle.
Incessant itching aside, Kai looked a new man. His freshly washed hair gleamed under the torchlight, and in the tan breeches and rusty tunic that Finn, Sviggar’s bodyguard, found him that afternoon, he looked halfway presentable in spite of his gaunt cheeks. They’d tossed his old rags on the fire.
Finn had done no less for Erlan, and, although his breeches were loose and his tunic hot enough to melt the winter, he was grateful to be clean. He’d scrubbed his face till the water went black. Then, after trimming the more wayward parts of his beard, he’d had Kai comb out his hair to the last louse, before tying it back in a tail. He hadn’t looked this well since his own Feast of Oaths.
The night that Inga—
‘That skaldman wasn’t lying, was he?’ whispered Kai as another lissom servant went by, breaking the chain of thought that always seemed to be dragging him down and down. Kai dug an elbow in his ribs, eager for a response, instead catching his master’s dark look. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘No matter.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Kai shrugged. ‘Oh, we’re going to get along fine here. Aren’t we just?’ Seeming tickled at the prospect, he gave himself an especially vigorous scratch.
‘What the Hel’s the matter with you, boy?’ said the man across the table, breaking off his conversation. ‘You got that many fleas, why don’t you go eat with the other dogs?’
‘Sure,’ returned Kai. ‘You should come too. I saw a nice little pigsty outside. With a face like yours, you’d fit right in.’
The man’s skin was pockmarked, with a couple of sores by his mouth weeping pus into his whiskers, and an eyebrow split by a badly healed scar. Not the kind of face with which a boy did well to trade insults.
‘Shut it, shit-wit, or you’ll find my fist down that big mouth of yours.’
‘That’s a relief!’
‘Eh?’
‘For a moment, I thought you might bleed pus on me!’
There was a scuffling of feet. Next moment, the man had reached across a meaty fist and hauled Kai out of his seat. Just as suddenly, everything froze.
‘Let him be,’ snarled Erlan, his dagger point at the man’s throat. ‘He’s with me.’
‘And who the fuck are you?’ the man said, eyes brimming venom.
‘A man holding a knife is all you need to know.’
‘A man with no friends is what I do know.’
‘We three manage well enough,’ said Erlan, nodding at Kai and pressing the knife closer to make his point. The man’s gorge rose and fell awkwardly. ‘And I don’t see your friends lifting a finger.’
Suddenly, a fart thundered loud as a horn-blast down the bench. ‘How ’bout an arse-cheek?’ drawled the man on Erlan’s left, leisurely scratching his nose. ‘That’s about the wisest thing I’ve heard on the matter.’
Erlan glanced at him. The man had an enormous round belly, cheeks red as two cuts of beef, and a wry look in his eye. ‘You know, you may well be right.’ Erlan withdrew his point an inch. ‘Well?’
The pock-faced man gave a grudging nod and let Kai sink down. ‘By the hanged, Einar, you stink worse than Hel’s breath.’
‘You can blame my old woman’s cooking.’
There was a loud rapping at the back of the hall.
‘Our noble lord comes to plant his noble arse on his chair.’ Einar gave Erlan a wink. The hall fell silent. Everyone rose as Sviggar and his retinue filed into the hall, one by one taking their places along the table.
At first, it was the king who caught Erlan’s gaze. Even from there, he had the air of a man of well-worn authority. He was tall and walked surprisingly erect for a man of so many winters.
Erlan meant to get a look at the other high folk filing in, but his gaze never got past the figure behind the king.
He had never seen the like.
She was something impossible.
Stupefying. . .
Some mythic creature from the old tales, from another world even. No woman of flesh and blood could bewitch the eye like that. Her body moved like a lynx prowling through the forest. Beautiful. Dangerous. She wore a silk robe of shimmering black and midnight blue, which clung to her like a viper’s skin. Her black hair fell, unbound and gleaming, over one shoulder.
He watched her take her seat, sweep up a cup of wine and put it to her lips. Then she settled back, tracing a languid finger along her collarbone, as if she could feel the weight of his eyes, and the eyes of every man, upon her body at just this place.
‘You can sit down now.’ Erlan looked down and saw Einar grinning up at him. Glancing round, he realized everyone was already seated. He sat down hurriedly.
‘Something got your attention?’
‘No, just. . . My mind was elsewhere.’
‘Nestled between a fine pair of paps, perhaps!’
‘Least you’ve got taste, master,’ grinned Kai. ‘I was beginning to wonder.’
‘Just ’cause I wouldn’t jump the village goat given half a chance, like you?’
Kai’s smile died. Erlan felt suddenly foolish.
‘Easy on the lad,’ said Einar. ‘There’s no shame in it. The queen tends to have that effect on a man. Yep – you can’t fault Sviggar, the old bugger. He reckons a king deserves the best, and he damn well got it.’ He snapped his fingers at a thrall carrying a pitcher. ‘Here – let’s meet properly.’
The thrall filled their cups and Einar raised a toast. ‘To a long life!’
‘A long life,’ the others echoed, tapping beakers and sinking a few gulps.
‘Though I did hear life might’ve proved regrettably short for you earlier today,’ added Einar.
‘I guess Sviggar decided we’re more use to him alive than dead.’
‘No thanks to you,’ put in Kai.
‘He would’ve been a fool to kill us.’
‘Even kings can be fools,’ said Einar. ‘You were lucky. Fact is, folk like to know a man’s story. I heard you weren’t over-keen on sharing yours.’
‘You hear a good deal.’
‘A turd don’t fall round here but that everyone hears about it.’
Erlan grunted.
‘Well then – your names?’
‘Erlan. This here is Kai.’
‘I’m Einar.’
‘The Fat-Bellied!’ cried the pockmarked man.
‘If you like,’ grinned Einar. ‘My wife ain’t proud of the name, but what can you do? A fact is a fact.’ He gestured at the other. ‘That handsome devil is Aleif Red-Cheeks.’
Aleif shot Einar a hostile look but he ignored it.
‘Then there’s Jari Iron-Tongue,’ gesturing down the bench. ‘Ivald Agnisson; Eirik the Hammer – the hall-girls gave him that one. And Dofri, Gloinn, Flok. And on down the bench. Anyhow, you’ll soon catch up.’
Those who’d caught their names gave a nod to the newcomers.
‘I’m not one for names,’ replied Erlan. ‘But I never forget a face.’
‘Some of these poor bastards are so ugly, you’ll wish you could!’
Erlan chuckled.
‘So, friend – what brings you to Sviggar’s Seat?’
‘You didn’t hear that too?’
Einar shrugged. ‘I’d rather hear it from you.’
‘We came to offer service to the king.’
‘What kind of service?’
‘Well, we didn’t come to wash his arse. We heard there was trouble in his kingdom. My sword for his salt. You know how it goes.’
‘And him?’
‘He has his uses.’ He gave Kai a wink; the boy beamed.
‘Charming pair. So this trouble you’ve come to save us from. What have you heard?’ Einar leaned in, curious.
‘We heard of murders. Disappearances.’ He and Kai exchanged a glance. ‘An enemy.’
‘Oh, we have an enemy all right. Haven’t you heard?’
‘The Wartooth – aye. The Danish king has many enemies. But the way we heard, it’s something else.’
Einar tugged at the curls of his beard. ‘Talk gets around. So you think you can solve our little mystery?’
‘Wouldn’t say that. We needed a place. Sviggar needs protection.’ He shrugged. ‘His own son is already dead.’
‘That was a deer,’ said Einar, carefully. ‘An accident.’
‘Whatever. We’re here now. If the king needs my sword, he’s welcome to it.’
‘And what do you know?’ broke in Kai. ‘Of murders? What are the stories?’
Einar leaned back, thoughtful. He beckoned a thrall, who went to pour some ale, but he stopped her. ‘Second thoughts – if we’re telling tales, it’s mead we need.’
The servant called over another, who filled their cups with the golden liquid.
Einar took a long draught. ‘Finest brew there is.’ He wiped his lips.
‘Well?’ urged Kai.
‘A story, aye. I heard one. Something my wife got from Vermland by way of her cousin. He told her some bondsfolk on his farm went visiting, not half a league from home, towards the forest. They reached their friends’ house – pit-house it was. Tiny. But not a soul about, not a lick of smoke as they came up. Their boy was used to fooling with these other folk’s son so on he ran into the house. He came out saying there’s no one there, only it’s dark and wet inside. His parents couldn’t make sense of it, but as he walked about, they saw red footprints in the snow, and coming closer, they caught a foul smell on the air, and went on inside. What they found made ’em sick to their guts. The floor was thick with blood, near an inch deep. ’Course they raised an alarm and found neighbours to help search. But they never found a hair of ’em.’
‘Wolves?’ asked Erlan.
‘Who knows? But that’s the story.’
Kai’s eyes were big as platters.
‘Huh!’ Aleif snorted across the table. ‘If you want, I heard another like it.’
‘Where from?’ asked Einar.
‘Up the Dale country.’
‘Bah!’ scoffed the Fat-Bellied. ‘They spin nothing but long tales up that way.’
‘Maybe, but this I heard direct from my brother. He’s taking a wife from up there and he had business with her father. Anyways, on his way back last trip, he rode across a lake called the Birch Water – it was already frozen, mind.’ Aleif leaned in, and Erlan caught a whiff of foul breath. ‘So he comes across a fire on the shore, still burning. And beside it, a pile of furs and some other gear. He looks about, sees a hole in the ice and guesses some fella was fishing there. Well, he’s hungry, ain’t he? So he figures he’ll wait and try his luck, figuring this fella had only gone to drop his breeches. After a while, the man still hasn’t returned so he goes looking. And in the shadows there, he finds something.’
Aleif was enjoying the attention. He paused, waiting for the newcomers to bite.
Kai obliged. ‘Come on. What he find?’
‘Bones. Human bones – piled up neat. He reckons there was some pattern to it. Like it had some meaning. Then up he looks and sees a skull hanging there on a branch. Was horrible, he says. Damn near pissed hisself, he says. The face was all torn away, but hair still stuck off the back. Poor bastard’s braids were soaked red, but there wasn’t a drop of blood to be found anywhere else. After that, my brother just comes away.’
‘And was it the fisherman?’ asked Kai.
‘Who the bloody else could it’ve been?’
‘I’ve another,’ offered the man Einar called Jari Iron-Tongue.
‘Aye – you would have,’ said Einar, adding aside to Erlan, ‘This one could out-talk Loki.’
‘There ain’t a man on this bench hasn’t heard something,’ returned Jari, indignant. He was young, with ale-stained whiskers that ruffled when he spoke. ‘No blood nor bones with this one, though. Still, it was mighty strange. A trapper from Gestrikland was heading south with a cartload of furs to trade, his wife in tow and her with a babe in the belly. It was snowing heavy and he wanted shelter for her, so they stopped at a farmstead and begged a little kindness. Well, they settled in fine. But she was near her time and often up in the night. Sure enough, up she jumps in the dead of night, heads outside to make water. No one misses her at first. But on a sudden, the whole damn household is waked by screaming outside. They see she’s missing and all of them rush out with torches to take a look. They find her footsteps easy, which lead off under some pines, but not a sign of her.’ Jari slapped the table. ‘None, I tell you! Nor any other marks, neither. Only the stain of her piss in the snow.’
Kai leaned back and released the breath he’d been holding in.
Erlan sniffed, unsure what to make of it. He was about to say something when there was another knocking from the platform. The company fell silent as Sviggar dragged himself out of his chair.
‘The stranger, where is he? Our gift from the gods,’ he croaked. ‘Erlan, is it? Where are you, man? On your feet.’
Erlan stood.
‘Hah! Come here, lad. We want a look at you.’
The man that rose at first looked like any other. A shade darker than most Sveär men, maybe. Thin, though broad of shoulder. He stood up bold enough, but she saw at once he didn’t like the eyes of all those folk on him. She soon understood why. The man was a cripple.
‘The rest – eat up! Drink! Talk!’ cried her father, which most were happy enough to do. But some watched to see how the encounter would go for this limping stranger.
Her father had become quite spirited when he described this man’s arrival and the fabulous coincidence that had saved his life. When he told of the stranger’s oath never to speak of his past, Saldas had mocked him.
‘A foolish oath. Only a fool would trust such a man.’
But her father was adamant. The gods had sent this man for some purpose.
‘You know nothing of him,’ said Saldas.
‘Then you shall see him for yourself.’
And now here was the man, standing before them, dropping his head in an awkward bow.
‘I don’t believe I’d have recognized you now you’re not half-buried with furs and covered in dirt,’ exclaimed her father. ‘You look well enough cleaned up. Now we need to feed you up a bit too, eh?’
Lilla thought he looked a little better than well, despite the obvious marks hunger had left on his face and frame. T
he man was strikingly handsome. Oh, not like her brother had been: with sky-blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and all. No, there was something different with this one, something in his eyes. He was young, younger even than her twenty summers, she guessed. But his dark eyes seemed to carry in them wisdom beyond their years. The rest of his face was hollowed out, almost gaunt. A tight jaw, short-trimmed beard, thin in parts – hardly a beard at all – with a tousled mess of hair, a few strands of which fell across his eyes. He seemed content to leave them there, as if a strand of hair could hide him from this attention.
‘Meet your queen,’ her father said. ‘She thinks you a fool already.’
‘I’m grateful, lord.’
‘Are you, by the gods? Why’s that?’
‘It’ll take little to raise her opinion of me if she already takes me for a fool.’
‘You flatter yourself that I shall keep any opinion of you at all,’ murmured Saldas.
‘A hard woman to please,’ laughed her father. ‘And I should know! Nevertheless, she is your new mistress.’
‘I’m honoured to serve you, my lady.’
Lilla watched Saldas trace her finger down her jaw, pausing at her chin, her green eyes moving languorously over the stranger. With a tilt of her head, she offered him her hand. He took it, bending to kiss the ring on her finger. Lilla noticed how lightly his lips brushed the cold, yellow metal.
Saldas withdrew her hand, calling impatiently for more wine.
‘My son, Sigurd, you’ve already met. Prince of the Sveärs and my heir.’ Her brother received the stranger with his customary lack of grace. He stood, with that nervous jerk of his head that was his habit, and held out his hand. The stranger took it, bowing over it.
‘You have my allegiance, my lord,’ he said, mechanically.
‘Save your oaths till you mean them, cripple.’ When the stranger didn’t reply, Sigurd added, ‘Well, are you going to stand there gawping like a fish?’
The stranger hesitated, unsure whether to stay or take his leave.
‘I see you still have nothing to say for yourself,’ went on her brother. ‘My father let you live for reasons I won’t pretend I agree with. . . At any rate, you must have luck.’
Lilla watched the other’s face carefully. On it, she could read almost nothing. She wondered if there was any insult that her brother could utter that would ruffle this man’s cold composure.
A Mighty Dawn Page 28