“Rejoice, my queen,” said a warrior sitting on the bench with one leg bandaged. “Styrbjörn’s head is stuck on a stake out in the field. Your son’s kingdom has been secured.”
Valhalla’s victory was also her son’s. He had been born amidst blood and death. Sigrid forced herself to smile.
Thousands of torches burned on the hillside. Erik was being carried around on a shield while the Svea cheered and praised their king, defender of Svealand. The shouts of hurrah mingled with the screams of pain in the hall.
“Erik the Victorious! Erik the Victorious!” people were chanting.
Haldis looked up from the young man she was tending, wiped the blood off her hands with a cloth, and smiled.
“He didn’t let us down, my esteemed son,” she said, her voice filled with pride.
Sigrid forced herself to smile yet again. “Odin has blessed the king of Svealand,” she said hoarsely. “Loved and honored be his name.”
Haldis gave a slight nod and said, “The funeral pyre will burn high tonight. Now, now, quiet your howling.”
She walked over to a screaming boy who was bleeding from a spear puncture. She gruffly patted his sweat-sodden hair and then started bandaging his wound with nettle cloth.
Hopefully Emma and Ulf weren’t lying wounded on the field crying for help, alone in the night among the beasts and other beings. Worry was like a bleeding wound in her chest. It ran through her body and poisoned her blood. She looked at the men’s vacant stares, as if they had looked into the deepest darkness and still carried it in their chests. Sigrid shared their despair. She stood at the precipice herself, she who ought to be the honored queen of Svealand.
Then a familiar shadow filled the doorway, and Sigrid breathed in relief. Ulf stepped into the hall, grim, his armor blood-spattered. Without even looking at the wounded, he walked straight over to her with his shield in one hand and his helmet in the other.
“Victory,” he said succinctly.
She grabbed his arm and squeezed so hard her knuckles whitened.
“How many of ours died?” she asked.
“Eight Scylfings,” he said grimly. “An expensive price for Erik’s power.”
He practically spat out the words. There was no joy in his eyes, just brooding and resolve. Sigrid faltered.
“You’re going to faint,” Ulf said.
He grabbed her arm and led her back to the room where Soot was watching the babies. With a tired sigh he sat down on the footstool beside her bed and put his sword on his knees. Sigrid inhaled the smell of blood and sweat as her gratitude for her brother’s life burned in her blood.
“Aren’t you going to celebrate your victory, look after your men, and drink with them after the battle?” she asked. “It is customary, after all.”
Ulf gave her a piercing, gloomy look and said, “Calm down, Sigrid the Haughty. I know what I’m doing.”
Sigrid didn’t ask any more questions. Exhausted she curled up on the bed and finally fell asleep.
Sigrid heard Emma’s voice like a song. It was talking about things so beautiful that mortals couldn’t appreciate their beauty.
“Wake up, my sister. I have returned as promised.”
Sigrid opened her eyes and saw Emma leaning over the babies’ cradle. Her back was scorched from fire, and parts of her hair were charred. All the same, she was here and babbling to the babies. Sigrid slowly exhaled as the worry let go of her heart.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you forever.”
Emma laughed, straightened her back, and said, “I would never leave you and the children.”
Sigrid jumped in sheer horror when Emma turned around. Her face was charred black, her lips scorched, only a blackened bit of bone was left of her nose, and her eyes were gone—only empty sockets remained. She was horrific to behold, and her death must have been gruesome.
Sigrid swallowed and remembered how Emma screamed with pain on the bonfire before the rain put out the flames and how, filled with her own powerlessness, Sigrid had pleaded for the life of her beloved sister. Now she was responsible for sending her to an excruciating death.
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Sigrid, tears running down her cheeks. “I hoped and prayed nothing would happen.”
Emma leaned forward and stroked Sigrid’s hair. The flesh on her hand was burned away, her fingers like claws.
“My borrowed time ran out; my fate was done.”
Sooty teeth peeked out from behind charred lips as Emma’s face contorted into a smile. Sigrid leaned her cheek against Emma’s hand and cried over her sister and her own loneliness.
“You always knew I was going to die for you,” Emma said. “I accomplished what you asked of me. Sweyn left Svealand, and Valhalla stands strong. Rejoice in our victory.”
Her voice was as gentle as a caress, but Sigrid would not be comforted. No one had so loyally protected her and shown her such sisterly care. She should never have sent her out there. Now Emma had died all alone, a grisly, horrific death.
“It’s not fair!” Sigrid cried. She lost everyone she cared about: her mother and Emma. There was only death and suffering.
“Calm down,” Emma said, looking at her with her empty eye sockets. “You still need to fight for your life and the babies.”
The noose of sorrow around Sigrid’s throat tightened. My sister. She fumbled for Emma’s hand, but her sister pulled away, straightening up. Sigrid stared at Emma’s scorched, ghastly face and empty eye sockets looming over her bed.
“Run, sister, run,” Emma warned. “He’s coming for you.”
Sigrid woke with a start to screaming and heavy footsteps. Ulf stood by the edge of her bed, his sword dripping with blood. A slave lay on the floor, breath rattling in the throes of death. Sigrid started trembling when she saw the pool of blood spreading across the floor.
She gasped. “The babies?”
“They’re alive,” her brother said.
Soot stood by the babies’ cradle with Olaf in her arms. The slave girl’s eyes were wide with fear, but she nodded.
“Nothing’s happened to them,” Soot confirmed.
“A murderer was sent to end their lives,” Ulf said with suppressed rage, bending down to take the dagger out of the dying slave’s hand.
Sigrid could scarcely hold Olaf when Soot put the baby in her arms. Soot was back in a flash with Estrid, who yawned wide when she was placed beside Sigrid in the bed. A murderer, in my bedroom. Sigrid stared into her daughter’s eyes. They wanted to murder her babies. It was as she’d feared.
The dark forces rumbled back and forth menacingly. They wanted to devour her. If Ulf hadn’t been there, they would all have died in their beds. How could a murderer be in the king’s house, when no one could even approach the estate unseen?
“You knew this was going to happen?” Sigrid asked, puzzled.
Ulf nodded tiredly and said, “On my way back from the battle I heard a rumor that you had died in childbed. I was afraid Erik wanted to help you along into the afterworld, which he might have gotten away with on a night like this with the battle victory to celebrate and the funeral pyres burning.”
Sigrid ran her fingers through her hair.
“What am I going to do?” she said, gasping, feeling darkness descending around her.
The bed rocked beneath her. Erik wanted to murder her and the children. Everything around her disappeared: Emma, Alfhild, Jorun, Sweyn.
She got out of bed and started gathering her things. She had to pack immediately, flee with the babies, and get far away from here. Emma stood in the doorway in all her gruesome, singed ghastliness, watching her calmly.
“Did Erik burn you?” Sigrid whispered. “Is he going to put me on the bonfire, too?”
Emma shook her head. The next moment she was gone.
Gracious Mother, help me.
Sigrid paced back and forth in the room, unable to find anything she was looking for. Her sack was gone, and she had no way to carry the babies. How could they escape if she c
ouldn’t find anything to carry the babies in?
“Pull yourself together!” Ulf said and slapped her. The pain of his blow brought her back to her wits. She rubbed her cheek and looked into her brother’s pleading eyes.
“We can’t run away,” Ulf said. “Erik will follow us and after he burns our ships, he’ll come take the Scylfings’ land. You have to find another way.”
Sigrid gasped for air. Forgive me for my weakness. Soot stood leaning over the babies, protecting them with her scrawny body. Ulf’s face was filled with repugnance and pleading. Sigrid pulled her fingers through her hair again.
Ulf was right. Erik’s honor was everything to him and he would never let them leave alive. Now that he was victorious, chosen by Odin, he was the darling of everyone in Svealand. Sigrid shuddered as she looked at the dead slave’s blood. Erik could easily snuff out their lives and no one would speak ill of him. They were all doomed.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
Ulf took her hand and squeezed it firmly. He said, “You’ll find a way. You always do.”
O Mighty One, guide me. Give me strength.
Sigrid crossed her arms over her chest and rocked back and forth, staring blankly at the wall. The walls were made of rough logs, sealed with tar, and then hung with colorful tapestries. One of the tapestries depicted a Svea king killing a warrior holding a foreign shield. Could this be the answer? Sigrid shivered, suddenly filled with an icy chill.
“Will you support me in anything?” she asked her brother.
“How can you doubt your own flesh and blood, sister?” he said, giving her a concerned look.
She nodded grimly.
“Good. Then I know what has to be done.”
Ravens and carrion feeders feasted on the dead bodies in front of the open gates of the Trelleborg ring fortress. Behind the timbered walls smoke rose into the sky, which was filled with the devouring, terrible winged valkyries.
Harald Bluetooth’s men hadn’t had the strength to withstand Sweyn’s men, who decimated everything in their path, wolflike and drunk with strength. Now Sweyn’s men were enjoying their reward, plundering the fortress of all it was worth. They showed neither mercy nor compassion to those who hadn’t managed to escape.
This was Sweyn’s greatest victory. With his retinue he walked down the line of defeated, kneeling soldiers. One of them impudently looked him in the eye, defiant to the death, but the rest of them hung their heads and stared at the ground.
They knew he wouldn’t show them any mercy. Ruthless was the name of the cloak he wore over his shoulders and which filled his enemies with fear. He had burned the last of his weakness to ashes in Svealand when he was freed from Sigrid. Since that day, no man in this life or the next, be he king or warrior, could withstand him. They had slaughtered Harald Bluetooth’s kinsmen without mercy. Sweyn took the fate the gods had given him with swords and axes, and now the gods wandered by his side—screaming for more victims.
“Word of Trelleborg’s fall has already spread far and wide,” said Valdemar. “We received a fiery cross from Eskil Erlandsson. He swore his loyalty to you and is sending fifty men. The chieftains are abandoning Harald and are crouching in your shadow and looking to you now.”
The old man by Sweyn’s side, with his graying beard and his silver-studded armor, nodded in satisfaction at this news.
“Your assistance makes me victorious, Elder,” Sweyn replied humbly. He still needed the support of these jarls.
“It was opportune that the Svea slaughtered Styrbjörn’s army,” Palna said. “You won’t have to deal with those who didn’t make it out of Fýrisvellir.”
The Svea had killed them all, chieftains and warriors alike.
“Without your wisdom we would have been killed in Svealand as well,” Sweyn replied, noting that Palna appreciated this recognition.
“After your victory here Harald can’t refuse to meet you in battle,” Valdemar said. “Before the summer is over you will have conquered the king and avenged my son’s death.”
Sweyn stopped, bowed his head in respect, and said, “May I be worthy.”
“You are.”
He might have been Harald’s bastard son, but everyone hailed him and respected him. Sweyn found the power sweet and intoxicating as he looked out at his army’s encampment. The tents stretched farther than the eye could see and a forest of chieftains’ banners fluttered in the wind. The clan leaders came to him, obsequious, coveting a share of the riches and the land he seized. The sea sparkled beyond the tents. It was the only thing separating him from his birth father now.
Sweyn was so close to the throne of the Jellings he could almost touch it.
Since they left Svealand’s shores, Sweyn had attacked every village and farm that was loyal to Harald. He had mercilessly conquered any chieftains who fought him and forced them to swear their allegiance to him and promise to aid his fight by contributing warriors, silver, and supplies.
Only four of Harald’s jarls had refused, and he had punished them in the worst possible way. They were hung from a tree and forced to watch their sons being filled with glowing coals and their women and daughters being raped and then skinned. Only then did Sweyn himself slice open their bellies so they slowly went to the afterworld, shrieking and floundering.
Palna’s advice to be ruthless had been extremely wise. Word of Sweyn’s cruelty spread like wildfire and filled his enemies with fear. Their victory was already won even as they approached the battlefield. Many chieftains laid down their weapons and swore allegiance to Sweyn, respecting his strength and ruthlessness.
Others welcomed him with friendship from the beginning. Anger at Harald’s high taxes and his crusade against the old religion was greater than Sweyn could have imagined. Often Sweyn was welcomed with joy, as a liberator.
By the time they reached Scania, his reputation had grown so strong that the chieftains sought him out on their own to pledge their loyalty to him. Having Valdemar, the Jellings’ ealdorman, on his side gave him the legal right to challenge his father. Sweyn was already being called the king of the Danes and Jutes. Ship after ship of warriors joined his army, which grew so strong that few dared to fight them.
Now they had taken the Scania ring fortress, the last of Harald’s strongholds. His birth father had to fight him. If he didn’t, he would be forfeiting his right to call himself king.
“Well?” Sigvard asked, nodding at the prisoners who had survived the battle. “Will they live or die?”
Sweyn looked with indifference at the twenty conquered men who were still waiting on their knees, robbed of hope and livelihood. They had all refused to swear allegiance to him. They were pale souls who clung to the wooden crosses around their necks and the false religion it represented, blindly and loyally following Harald, that old fool of a king. And for what?
One filthy boy, no older than ten, trembled pathetically and was so scared he had wet himself. An elderly man with a gray beard, possibly the boy’s grandfather or a foster father, whispered something to the kid, who stared down at the ground.
Sweyn sighed heavily.
“Behead them, but spare these two here,” he said, pointing out the boy and the elderly man. “Put them in a boat and let them bring the sacks containing the dead men’s skulls to Harald with the message that he will meet me here to die.”
Sigvard smiled grimly and gestured to his waiting men. They dragged off the two that Sweyn had pointed out, and then a warrior started slaughtering the other prisoners. It took him three blows with his ax to sever the head from the body of the first. Sweyn turned to Palna, who nodded with satisfaction.
“Harald can’t hide in Jelling after that indignity.”
“Let him hurry here and meet his fate,” Sweyn replied.
As he walked back to the camp, Sweyn inhaled the stench of death and fire. The men stripped the dead of their clothes, shoes, and valuables, and then let flocks of ravens and gulls feast on the bodies. Warriors came from the open gate
s of the fortress carrying armloads of plunder. Others had found wheelbarrows that they loaded full of things, and a few had found slaves to lug their newly seized loot for them.
Jutes and Danes, side by side with Scanians and Jómsvíkings—they had all rallied by his side. But it came at a price. At the feast that night Sweyn would have to give the best of the spoils to the chieftains and jarls, and this always proved tricky. Sweyn despised the noblemen’s bickering and how carefully they watched to see whom he favored most. But since he needed them, he had to honor each one like an impartial father treats his sons.
It had truly been easier when he was a lone warrior. He walked into the camp, where the boys were divvying up big piles of loot and praising him, flushed with victory.
“Victory!”
“Our king!”
The aroma of the meat from the butchered pigs and sheep roasting over the fires lay heavy over the camp. Two men were fighting over a buckle, pummeling each other with their fists. They rolled around in the dust, eagerly cheered on by their buddies. A drunken youth with a cross around his neck staggered around with a jug of wine in his hand, and when he spotted Sweyn he offered the jug to him.
“Drink with me, King,” the youth said, grinning stupidly as he wobbled back and forth.
Everything went immediately silent.
“Who are you to think you’re the equal of your king!” roared Palna.
Sweyn raised his hand. If they were in Jómsborg, the drunken youth would have been slapped for his disrespect, but these men had fought hard for Sweyn’s victories so he took the jug and raised it to the cross worshipper.
“I honor you for fighting on my side.” Then Sweyn raised the jug to the other men around him. “I honor all of you. You have my great pride and respect.”
When he took a long draft of the sour wine, the men cheered. Their loyalty to him shone from the battle-hardened men’s filthy faces, and at this moment they esteemed him most highly of anyone in this world. Victories, knapsacks full of loot, and full bellies bound them to his cause. Sweyn handed the jug back to the drunken youth and patted his shoulder.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 36