The Ice King

by Hume, M. K.

  Ivar gnashed his teeth.

  ‘Ask Thorketil, the Troll King, what happens to honest and loyal jarls who risk their lives in the Crow King’s service,’ Arthur added.

  All too easily, Ivar Hnaefssen could imagine the king’s response to their victory over the Hundings and knew in his heart of hearts that this young Briton was correct in his assertions. The Crow King only respected brute strength, while showing a reluctance to fight for those causes he was morally bound to champion. For a man such as Hrolf Kraki, trust was a curse and undeserving loyalty was the refuge of fools.

  With much reluctance, Ivar finally nodded in agreement. He longed for a drink to wash the foul taste out of his mouth, but once given, his word was his bond.

  ‘Very well, young man, I’ll grant you that the king will be angry that we’ve beaten off the threat from the Hundings, even though it makes no sense that Hrolf Kraki should blame us for doing so. I can also accept that we must try to identify the traitor in his court while we have an opportunity to force his hand. Again, the best time will be while we have our whole force at our disposal outside the gates to his hall. The mere threat of an open revolt will probably force the Crow King to listen to any demands we make.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Ivar. I only hope you’ll not regret the advice I’ve given you. I gave this matter a great deal of thought before reaching my conclusions.’

  ‘I also hope so! Now, can we forget our woes for the night and enjoy our feast? I’ve discovered I have the most prodigious thirst.’

  The best part of a week was needed for the jarls to recover from the debaucheries that took place on the night of the council meeting. But much planning was also needed. Once agreement on their course of action had been reached, there was no need for hurry because the army would be forced to travel on foot in the middle of winter; deep snow would make their journey very difficult. Not only would they need skilled woodsmen and guides to help them negotiate the snow-covered landscapes, but they would also be forced to carry all their supplies and weapons with them. Their plunder could be safely left in Ivar Hnaefssen’s halls, where a token force of one hundred men would guard their rear from any attack from along the borders, unlikely as such an assault seemed. Arthur’s caution dictated that he make these plans. As for food supplies, they could hardly live off the land in the depths of winter, so would need to bring their own. The logistics of the journey were complex, and the constant calculations kept both Arthur and Stormbringer occupied for many cold and miserable hours.

  Eventually, Arthur convinced Stormbringer that they should use Roman military practices for long-distance travel as their guide, and these tried and true tactics were then wedded to hard-headed Dene practicality. The warriors should be grouped into pairs and, between them, would carry dried provisions wrapped within their tents. Dried meat, fish and lentils were far lighter than fresh rations and an efficient system of cooking was devised whereby small groups elected their own cooks. These simplified arrangements avoided the need for wagons and oxen, animals that would inevitably become bogged or trapped in the snow-shrouded landscape.

  The most efficient means of moving supplies and weaponry seemed to be the ancient practice of sleds mounted on skis. Arthur had never used this form of transport before, but he’d seen peasants use sleds and sleighs often enough in the Dene lands, so he understood the principles of this mode of transport.

  Arthur was forced to devise the most efficient organisational model possible to facilitate the movement of the column. He again decided to fall back on the practices of the Roman legions and use centuries, or cadres of one hundred men, each of which would use two large sleds to carry the excess rations and heavier items of equipment and armour.

  He determined that twenty sleds would be sufficient to meet the requirements of the column for supplies alone. In addition at least one more sled would be needed to transport the injured and sick, and medical supplies. Finally, Arthur decided that if Stormbringer was to retain the high moral ground in his discussions with Hrolf Kraki, he would need to give a share of the spoils from the Hundings’ campaign to the king, although he suggested it should be lightly taxed to cover expenses.

  All in all, twenty-five sleds were eventually purchased from Ivar Hnaefssen’s subjects.

  The frames on the sleds were far larger than anything that Arthur had ever seen, and attached to wicked iron skis that permitted them to slide easily over the snow and ice.

  With long leather harnesses attached to their shoulders while walking on large snowshoes, up to twelve men at a time would tow the supplies for the whole group. As each group of warriors began to tire, other men were detailed to take their place in a rotation system.

  Arthur and Stormbringer were determined that the army should travel as lightly as possible so they could minimise the time and energy expended while crossing the unforgiving landscape. Arthur had never experienced such cold and snow, although he had lived at The Holding and spent time in Skania during the past few years; on the islands, the sea provided some measure of warmth to the land. Meanwhile, Stormbringer laughed at his friend’s awe, and described how the cold in Noroway would take away a man’s breath and how unwary travellers had regularly been known to drown in the worst snowdrifts. Fortunately, the landscape along the route of their march was mostly flat.

  As the long journey began, Arthur prepared his furs and leathers with obsessive care, for his life and health depended on warmth. Meanwhile, he prayed that he’d not disgrace himself during the trek into the frozen north and his dangerous tilt at fate.

  The journey itself was very slow and was agonisingly drawn-out in the grim weather conditions; in spite of the relatively flat terrain, the snow was twelve feet thick in some places and only the use of snowshoes made movement possible. Even so, it was thanks to Ivar’s skilled guides and woodsmen that made the journey feasible for such a large group.

  The land was criss-crossed by a network of streams now choked into silence by ice. At least, as Lorcan dourly noted, they didn’t need to swim, although they had to be well balanced on their feet. Small injuries were commonplace during the journey, for the snow concealed low bushes and tree branches which caught out the unwary. So far, none of the men had broken bones, but Arthur was prepared for the inevitability of such injuries as, on some mornings, the murky darkness was impenetrable, while even torches did little to light the way when the gusting wind threw snow directly into their faces.

  For three straight days of blizzard, the host was unable to move at all; men were forced to huddle in their hide tents while trying not to think of being buried alive.

  Stormbringer showed Arthur how walls of packed snow around the tents could insulate the men against the cold, and keep them alive and healthy in even the worst of conditions. Arthur’s respect for the dogged stubbornness of the Dene character increased tenfold and he saw why nature had determined that there would be very few short Dene men. In the coldest of cold winters, they tended to flounder in deep snow and often died young before they could breed.

  When the host finally emerged from under the blanket of white that covered the landscape, the warriors’ first thoughts were to forage for precious firewood. One thought was predominant throughout the column: war should never be waged in winter. Somewhere in Arthur’s agile brain, an idea stirred and twisted, then returned to its restless sleep until needed.

  After the storm had finally abated, Arthur gazed out on a landscape that was pristine and other-worldly. His breath caught in his throat at the loveliness of what he could see before him. Only Gareth, also awed by what God had wrought, stood with him to enjoy the wonders of the landscape.

  The snow had been carved into waves and troughs by the wind, so it was firm and crackling with icy particles underfoot. A thousand diamonds or stars seemed to be dancing in every branch of every tree, tinkling with frozen ice crystals. The trunks of the forest giants were large and hea
vy, for willows and smaller species would be torn out of the ground by the weight of snow. Even so, many branches had fallen to earth and would be burned in the army’s temporary fire pits. Fire was life here, so some fuel was also carried on the sleds if room existed. Various small groups within each century constructed communal fireplaces, and all the warriors shared cooking pots to collect the snow used to soften their dried meat. Snow heated for cooking was safe for drinking, so no man could die of thirst in such a landscape.

  Apart from their thick clothing, the most important item of equipment that each man carried was his snowshoes. These flat and ungainly paddles permitted the warriors to slide over the surface of the snow at a greater speed than normal walking, although the shuffling movement could exhaust a novice.

  And so, under skies that were either startlingly blue and clear, or white with patches of charcoal from distant storms, the army of the Sae Dene continued on slowly towards Heorot. During the trek, the sagas of the north were recounted around the fires and various warriors told tales of their own experiences. Arthur told one eager audience of the massacre at Crookback Farm in Arden Forest when, as a young lad, he had come across the corpses of a farming family murdered by a secret cadre of Saxons. He recalled the horror he had felt when he saw the body of the farmer’s wife. She had been repeatedly raped, and then her throat had been cut. Afterwards, her corpse had been cast away like a useless husk of dead flesh; the men had even killed an innocent infant, and tossed it into the snow.

  The young Arthur had killed his first man on that terrible day and could still remember the face of his victim. Sometimes the dead Saxon came to Arthur as he slept and would gaze at Arthur with silent, accusing eyes.

  Although Arthur’s reason told him that he should feel no remorse for having survived the confrontation, he still felt twinges of pain for the man’s wife and children who had been left behind to suffer after his death.

  Stormbringer had listened to Germanus and Lorcan as they described the boy’s night in the tree tops of Arden Forest with only a rescued kitten to keep him awake, so the king of the Sae Dene looked at his friend with sympathy. In the long night, when it seemed that daylight would never return again, Arthur told other stories of his youth and then, when those were finished, he recounted all the tales that Bedwyr and Elayne had told him about his father.

  Arthur had a deep, rich voice and a talent for story-telling, so Stormbringer could visualise the curved walls of Cadbury Tor as it rose up to repel all enemies. He could stand with Bedwyr on the shield wall of Moridunum and feel the sticky coating of congealing blood cover him from head to toe. And he could hold Caliburn, Artor’s great sword, just as Bedwyr had done when he cast it high into the air so that it fell into the impenetrable darkness of the tarn at Caer Gai. Thus Bedwyr had ensured that no hands other than those of King Artor would ever wield that blade.

  Sagas such as these made Stormbringer’s heart ache and dance by turn whenever he heard the bitter history of the Britons and their struggle for survival, and he learned to appreciate why his friend felt such guilt when he acted in ways deemed to be dishonourable. Arthur had referred to this weakness as the poisoned blood of his grandfather, Uther Pendragon.

  ‘The dragon is truly the totem of your forebears, my friend,’ Stormbringer said reflectively as the firelight danced in his eyes. Snorri was drowsing in a corner of the tent, weary from pulling the sled but unwilling to close his eyes in case he missed more of the wonderful tales. Father Lorcan and Germanus drank from a small leather bottle brought with him from the south, and Arthur swore he could smell apricot brandy on the Frank’s breath.

  ‘Aye, Arthur! As the Last Dragon, I fear that you’ll have to return to your homeland sooner or later,’ Germanus said sleepily, filling the hearts of both Stormbringer and Snorri with dread.

  ‘Yes, I suppose the day must come when I’ll want to return to Britain and I’m given permission to end my service to the Dene people. I still have unfinished business with my nephew, King Bran, who is interfering in the lives of anyone who threatens the future accession to the throne of Ector, his son. Bran tried to have me killed on at least one occasion; such a murderous man has lost his right to rule, even if he is my kinsman.’

  ‘I remember,’ Stormbringer said and stirred the fire with a piece of wood. ‘You found your kinsman’s torc among the spoils I collected in Britain and your words upset Hrolf Kraki mightily. Yes, I told you at the time that your kinsman – I forget his name – had been assassinated on the orders of King Bran.’

  ‘It was Gilchrist, the grandson of King Gawayne, my uncle. At least I think he was! My kin are very difficult to determine because King Artor fathered me late in his life. In fact, I discovered that my sister was a woman of fifty when I was seven years old.’

  Stormbringer smiled with a sad finality. ‘So you think you’ll eventually leave us? I agree, but that will be in the future, and I’d like to discuss the matter with you. Many of the Dene and their families may wish to migrate to strange lands with you on your ship. If anyone can carve out a successful kingdom in a strange land, my friend, it is you.’

  ‘But Britain isn’t a strange land,’ Arthur protested. ‘Britain is my home!’

  ‘When I travelled down the east coast of Britain, I found that all the lands belonged to the Saxons. You know this is true, for you travelled through the towns of the east coast of Britain with Eamonn and the girls. I think you’ll find that your Britain is a cold and unfriendly place, now that the Saxons have pushed west as they pursue the Celtic peoples.’

  ‘Aye, I understand. Still, who knows what can happen in the future? Perhaps I might be permitted to return to some place in Britain with warriors of my own and longboats at my back. It may even be possible to carve out a new Dene kingdom along the eastern coast.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Stormbringer responded with a knowing grin.

  ‘Who knows?’ Gareth echoed. If Arthur should desire to establish an eastern kingdom, then Gareth would happily die to give it to him.

  Arthur’s friends looked thoroughly charmed at the direction of the conversation, so it was probably best for everyone’s peace of mind that the fire suddenly exploded with the shattering of a log.

  Snorri drowsed, Lorcan continued to sip brandy and Gareth began to nod off. But Germanus, Stormbringer and Arthur were all too busy with complicated thoughts of power to feel any weariness. Another day was drawing to a close and they would reach their destination on the morrow.

  After weeks on the move, the long dragon of men labouring through the snow saw the scar on the landscape ahead of them that was Limfjord. A mighty lake gleamed grey and silver in the weak sunshine and, even at a distance, Arthur could recognise the landscape that he had last seen years ago when, frightened and ignorant, the young Britons had been dragged up the hill to the king’s hall of Heorot.

  ‘How the world changes!’ Arthur muttered as he put his back into the struggle of dragging the long sled out of a deep drift of snow. In Dene society, the jarls and commanders were also expected to take their turns with such tasks.

  In the distance, he could see a small group of men coming quickly towards them on long wooden skis.

  Arthur dropped the harness and caught Stormbringer’s attention.

  ‘They seem to be men from Heorot town, brother,’ he called urgently, but Stormbringer had already been warned.

  Six young men were effortlessly sliding towards the advancing army. Within half an hour, the men were clearly visible as warriors, muffled in heavy furs and armed to the teeth.

  Stormbringer had ordered his men to continue the advance, stopping only when the warriors did so. One of them released a makeshift white flag which he attached to a ski pole and waved vigorously above his head. Almost every man in the advancing vanguard of the Dene army could see the black figure of a crow painted on the stark white foreground.

  ‘Now that H
rolf Kraki has attracted our attention, we might just find out what he wants.’ Stormbringer addressed Arthur, although his sharp gaze never left the threatening group waiting on a slight knoll.

  ‘Hrolf Kraki, King of the Dene and your lawful master, demands that you halt your illegal and treasonous advance towards his town and his hall, or else he will be forced to kill you all.’

  Several of Stormbringer’s warriors laughed raucously at the envoys, who bridled angrily at the insults. But Arthur stepped forward to act as Stormbringer’s voice.

  ‘You have made your ridiculous threats, so you can now carry our response back to your master.’ Arthur’s words accentuated the powerful situation that Stormbringer enjoyed.

  ‘This is treason,’ the largest of the envoys snarled with contempt. ‘The Sae Dene mongrel comes to Heorot with an army at his back and attempts to make demands. I am instructed to tell you that you are ordered to turn back and disband your host. Then, perhaps, Hrolf Kraki will let you live.’

  ‘Valdar Bjornsen, whom real men call the Stormbringer, is a brave man. He is not a mongrel who can be insulted or threatened with impunity, even by his king. Nor will Hrolf Kraki’s envoys be permitted to speak of the Sae Dene king with such contempt as you have done. I will settle this matter at some later time when you are not hiding behind a flag of truce. Meanwhile, Valdar Bjornsen wishes to speak to Hrolf Kraki in person, but he has no trust in either the Crow King or his jarls that hide in Heorot and refuse to assist those true Denes who fight off invading forces. Hrolf Kraki’s cowardice has left our people to perish unaided. Valdar Bjornsen refuses to accept the word of a king who banished him unlawfully and confiscated the plunder of Britain out of sheer greed. Finally, knowing that the Sae Dene king was not present at his estates, the Crow King sent a force of assassins to torture and murder everybody at The Holding.’