“When do you leave Svealand?” the queen mother asked when Sigrid handed Solveig the horn.
“Immediately.”
“I suppose that’s best, yes.”
There was nothing more to say. With Ulf by her side, Sigrid held her head high and left Erik and the Svea forever. Every step away from the hall filled her with joy.
They got to go home.
She ran into her chamber, picked up Olaf from the cradle, and hugged him tight, breathing in the heavy sweet scent of a sleeping baby.
Teary-eyed, she leaned down and stroked Estrid’s cheek.
She was going home, returning as queen of the Geats. Sigrid embraced the triumph and allowed joy to race through her body. The nightmare she had been living was finally over. There would be no more sweaty nights of fear, and no more kissing up to that simpleton of a stranger she had been married off to.
With a smile, she looked at her brother.
“Without you, I’d have gone off to my noose, marked for death and soon a shadow forgotten by everyone. My gratitude is infinite, therefore everything you want you shall have. Become my jarl, and if Ingeborg from Haglaskog still wants you, I’ll pay off her husband so she can become your bride.”
Ulf was delighted, but her offer was a trifling repayment for everything he had done for her. Still, she enjoyed his happiness, being all too familiar with the agony of living apart from your beloved.
“If you can do that, then I will serve you loyally.”
Sigrid nodded, smiling. She could do all that and more, because from this moment on she was in charge.
“He’s here,” Palna yelled, pointing to the Jellings’ royal standard, which rose above the other flags.
Harald’s warriors stood in a formation three men deep on the muddy plain that sloped down toward the sea. A cold autumn wind blew in over the warriors, tugging at their cloaks. This was Sweyn’s greatest moment, the beginning of the stories that would be told about his feats. This was the day when he would kill his father.
Silence hung heavy over the battlefield, where hundreds of warriors waited to win or die.
The Jómsvíkings stood in the first row along with Sweyn’s own hird, their shields up and the spearmen behind their backs, ready to pierce the enemy.
The warriors who loyally followed Sweyn waited like hungry wolves for his sign under the standard his mother had embroidered for him before she died.
Next to them stood the Scanians and the Danes, with a forest of flags flapping and snapping in the wind. Ax-Wolf smiled in anticipation. He wore his bear teeth around his neck for strength from his totem animal. Sigvard sneered, as if he were inspecting maidens at a slave market. Åke stood resolute, his hand on his sword, ready to fight. Hatred and pride swelled in Sweyn’s chest as he put on his helmet and grasped his shield. This was his moment of destiny, when he would take the place he was born to or die.
“Several Jelling flags are missing from the king’s side,” Palna said.
Valdemar nodded, eyeing his brother’s standard with an unreadable expression.
“They have left my son’s assassin,” Valdemar confirmed.
“They’ll soon kneel to my supremacy,” Sweyn said.
He looked up at the falcon circling above them in the gray sky. Freya in her bird form shrieked along with her valkyries. Freya had never left his side. He knew that, now that the mists had been pulled away from his eyes and he understood the true significance of the sacrifice in Lejre.
A message had come from the North that Sigrid had been repudiated by Erik and had returned to the Geats to rule there in Svealand’s name. It was rumored that the babies weren’t Erik’s, but rather that a Jómsvíking was their father. The children were his, begotten by the gods to rule in the kingdom he had been born to conquer. Sigrid had lied to save his life because she knew Styrbjörn’s men were going to die at Fýrisvellir. She had served him well.
The triumphant courage of victory filled Sweyn, and with a nod to Ragnvald, his mother’s banner was raised.
“Men, warriors, brothers!” he shouted, and more than a thousand men turned their faces toward him. “For decades, Harald Bluetooth’s terror has tormented the Scanians, Danes, and Jutes. He prohibited the faith of our forefathers. He took your seed in taxes so you’ve gone hungry while he’s been rolling in wealth. He stole the ancient freedom of the men of the North. This is the day when we take back what’s been lost. Overthrow Harald Bluetooth! Kill the enemy!”
The warriors answered his battle cry with such force the ground shook.
“Kill the enemy!”
Sweyn drew his sword and nodded to Palna. His foster father took two steps backward and then flung his spear, which consecrated the battlefield.
“Odin owns us all,” he yelled.
The muffled rumble of the war drums blended with bellowing horns as Sweyn and his men marched toward the enemy. Like a relentless wave of raised shields, they poured toward Harald’s men. The first swarm of arrows cut through the air. Sweyn crouched under his shield, hearing the dull thud as the arrowheads hit the wood. Without hesitation, he kept moving forward. A moment later the two armies met.
Sweyn ducked away from a spear and immediately struck at the enemy in front of him but missed.
A motion at the very periphery of his field of vision made him raise his shield. The ax almost cleaved the wood, and he felt the strength of the blow all the way up to his shoulder. He struck back at the spear bearer immediately, and this time, his blade cut into the gap between the man’s hood and battle tunic. Bleeding, he remained on his feet and pulled back among a jabbing forest of spears.
Sweyn turned toward the ax wielder who was fighting Åke now, took the biting iron in a two-hand grasp, and swung. The blade cut through the man’s skull, and he instantly fell down dead. A curse on Harald’s eagle food! Winded, Sweyn turned his head to follow the battle that undulated around the hird fighting to protect their king.
The shield wall pushed Harald’s warriors backward toward the sea, step-by-step. The spearmen behind the shields lanced down warrior after warrior who were then trampled by the men continuously refilling the ranks. A curse on the condemned devoured by his power.
“Spearmen, forward!”
“Surround him!”
Confident of victory, they met Harald’s men, Sweyn’s men relentless in their strength. Their wedge formations cut into Harald’s defenses and ripped open his line. The entire hird around Sweyn was engaged in battle. Palna fought at his side, thrusting his dagger into a warrior, and then tossing the body aside, only to rapidly dispatch a spearman. Harald’s banner billowed in front of Sweyn, luring him, enticing him onward.
Sweyn tilted his head back and shrieked out his rage: “Forward!”
The hird responded to his roar, and soon the wolves howled their bloodthirstiness. Iron struck steel. Iron smashed bones and ripped apart bleeding flesh. A quick charge and Sweyn lopped the arm off an ax-wielding man, who dropped to his knees screaming.
Blades clashed, men screamed, spears impaled warriors. Sweyn hacked his way forward blow-by-blow. He felt something soft under his feet, a fallen warrior who hadn’t died yet, and chopped into the back of a farmer without armor.
One blow almost broke his shield, but he proceeded ahead, fortified by the ecstasy of battle. Quick as a viper, Sweyn stabbed a warrior in the neck, between his helmet and armor. The man fell to the ground, blood gushing, while Sweyn met the sword blade of a big man in expensive armor. The warrior took a step to the side and attacked with a speed Sweyn had never encountered. He raised his sword, and it was almost knocked out of his hand. Then their blades locked. The warrior’s helmet covered almost his entire face, and the eyes staring through the eye slits were icy. Sweyn’s arms quivered as he struggled to hold out. He took a step back, then two. He tried to knee the warrior, who twisted out of the way at the last second and then hit Sweyn with his shield and his sword simultaneously. The pain that burned in Sweyn’s arm was worse than anything he had felt b
efore. The shield fell from his hands, and only at the last possible moment did he counter the blow with his sword.
He couldn’t lose this battle.
Step-by-step he was driven backward, his sword arm aching more and more from fatigue. Winning was his destiny. He grabbed his dagger with his free hand, but accidentally dropped it on the ground. The warrior’s strength was too much for him. A kick caused him to sink to one knee, but he managed to counter the blow aimed at his throat. Their swords locked again. Sweyn couldn’t withstand the strength pushing his arm down. His whole body trembled with fatigue. Sweat poured down his face, and everything went silent. He could hear no valkyries screaming, no war cries, no death wails.
He was going to die now.
The enemy combatant let go of his shield and grabbed his dagger with his free hand. In the flash of this moment he could lose it all: the Jelling throne, the victory, the conquest, and Sigrid. The combatant’s sword arm pushed relentlessly on Sweyn’s chest even though he fought against it with all his might. Then the warrior raised his dagger. Pain seared like fire as Sweyn raised his injured arm. Defenseless, he prepared himself to die.
At that moment the pressure from the combatant’s sword eased up, and the combatant sank to his knees screaming. Without thinking, Sweyn thrust at his eyes and felt the crunch as his blade entered the man’s skull.
It was over.
Winded and bleeding, Sweyn clambered to his feet.
“Achilles tendons, boy,” Ax-Wolf said with a grin from behind the fallen combatant. “I told you that’s the place to cut, right?”
Sweyn was still alive. He pulled his sword out of the man’s head and took a deep breath. The bleeding wound on his arm was deep, exposing bone, but it wasn’t lethal.
He couldn’t die in battle.
Sweyn laughed triumphantly and raised his sword.
Just then he heard the sound of a battle horn across the field. Harald was calling his men back. Harald’s boys turned around and ran toward their ships while Sweyn’s men followed them, slashing at their backs. A bit of cloth was wrapped around the wound on Sweyn’s arm. Palna slapped him on the back, and they ran forward together.
The next moment it was over. Sweyn stopped, gasping for breath, sweat running down his body. Harald stood before him, once king of the Danes and Jutes, surrounded by his most loyal men, who stood blood-spattered, weapons drawn, in a circle around the old man. The king wasn’t wearing a helmet and looked confused, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had a big potbelly under his golden armor. His face was beet red beneath his braided beard. He was a pitiful sight.
Sweyn yanked off his helmet and tossed it to Ragnvald.
“Kneel to your king and ruler,” Sweyn yelled, striding forward to the small group of warriors around Harald.
The stench of fear lay heavy as Sweyn’s warriors closed ranks in a ring around Harald and his men.
“Stop there,” yelled Harald Bluetooth. “Stop where you are or die.”
Sweyn smiled at his birth father’s shrill voice, triumph seething in his blood. Harald, the father who had only mocked and humiliated him, wasn’t so haughty now.
“Put down your weapons and swear your loyalty to me and you may live,” Sweyn said.
Harald’s hird hesitated. They exchanged glances and then eyed the superior forces that had them surrounded.
“Fight!” their king yelled. “God will reward you in paradise.”
Sweyn watched their agony. It didn’t matter to him whether they chose life or honor.
Then a young man in Jelling colors lowered his shield and strode up to Sweyn like a man and tossed his sword at Sweyn’s feet. Then he took off his helmet. Sweyn recognized his half brother Erik right away, the only man in the whole family who’d greeted him kindly in Lejre.
“I honor your decision,” Erik said.
“God will punish you for your disloyalty!” yelled Harald. “You’re snakes that I nourished from my loins!”
Erik looked at Harald’s wretchedness and then turned to Valdemar, who was guarding Sweyn from behind.
“I was close to your son, ealdorman,” Erik told Valdemar.
Valdemar nodded with dignity and then said, “Then do what’s right.”
Erik took a deep breath, bowed his head, and said, “I swear you loyalty, half brother. My sword is yours.”
A ruler had to be magnanimous. Sweyn leaned down and picked Erik’s sword up off the ground and put it back in his hand.
“Then you may keep this valuable item. Come to my tent tonight and we’ll talk, as brothers.”
Erik leaned forward and confided, whispering into Sweyn’s ear, “Father’s out of his senses. Kill him.”
Sweyn turned back to Harald, who was swearing at his warriors as, one by one, they set their weapons on the ground and abandoned him. Soon Harald was alone.
“You ought to grovel in gratitude at my feet because I gave you life,” he shouted, pulling out his sword.
This was the man Sweyn had hated and feared his whole life. This was the moment he had dreamt of, but he felt no triumph or joy now, just hollow disgust. Without a throne and sycophantic chieftains, his father was just a yawning heap of skin and fat, a poor, pitiful wretch of a fool lacking manhood and strength.
“Come on then, lad. Don’t you dare to fight me?” Harald sneered and showed his stinking blue teeth.
Sweyn was next to him in two paces and without hesitation plunged his sword underneath Harald’s armor. It slid through Harald’s flesh with ease, between the ribs.
“Say hello to my mother Åsa in the afterworld.”
Sweyn smiled in surprise at his father’s eyes. Harald rattled and shrieked as the blood poured over Sweyn’s hand.
“Die, you fat pig. May you agonize in the caves of Hel.”
Harald rasped and rattled as his lungs filled with blood. His eyes were cloudy, and a dark trickle ran from the corner of his mouth. Then he collapsed. Sweyn pulled his sword back out and looked at his bloody hand. It was over. The king of the Jellings, the most powerful of men, his dreaded father, was dead.
Sweyn raised his sword to the sky and looked out at his men.
“Victory!”
One by one they sank to their knees in silence and bowed their heads, their hands on their hearts. No matter which way he turned, Sweyn saw men showing him respect. Only the sea and the wind could be heard in the vast silence. Sweyn looked up at the sky, where the screaming falcon soared, resting on the wind. Sweyn was the ruler of the Northmen, and his will was law. He, the bastard, had fulfilled his destiny and taken the power and riches he wanted. Palna raised his head and looked at him, his face filled with pride and respect. Valdemar stood up and raised his hands.
“Stand up for Sweyn, king of the Danes, Jutes, and Scanians, leader of the Northmen. All hail!” Valdemar shouted.
The warriors stood up, and their roar of victory made the ground tremble. Sweyn raised his hands, their respect and esteem making him invulnerable as the intoxicating joy of victory almost made his chest burst.
“Welcome to the throne of the Jellings!” Palna exclaimed.
Sweyn raised his arms yet again, accepting the adulation of the warriors with laughter as sweet power coursed through him. He was indomitable, the greatest of rulers. But this was just the beginning of his story. He hadn’t taken everything he wanted yet.
Sigrid looked out over Skagulheim’s formal hall, where the Scylfing chieftains crowded around the long table. Torvald Scylfing with his red-haired son Harald, Tibrand from Alfheim with his brother Isar, the cheerful Annfinn, and all the others chatted together merrily as they stuffed their bellies full of the two pigs that had been slaughtered especially for this occasion. Her grandmother sat by the wall looking not at all displeased, having drunk more wine than she could take.
Ulf whispered something into Ingeborg of Haglaskog’s ear, and they laughed together. That bride had cost a fair amount of land, but it was worth it when Sigrid saw how happy they were.
>
The light from the torches danced over the tapestries on the walls. The slaves darted back and forth with pitchers of wine and mead.
Everything was the same as it had always been, ever since the night she walked into the hall to meet Erik’s ambassador. She had been such a young girl, who hadn’t known anything. And yet everything was different.
The hall she had once believed, wide-eyed, to be the biggest in the world now seemed simple and narrow. And she was no longer a young girl who ran around in the woods without a care or any knowledge, believing she had the answers to everything.
Sigrid leaned forward in her throne, rocking Olaf on her knee.
The little one was wearing a battle tunic that Toste, filled with admiration and tenderness toward his grandchild, had made for him, a gesture of reconciliation for the bad blood that had flown between father and daughter. Sigrid’s homecoming hadn’t been as simple as she had thought it would be. Gray and worn after the war with Anund, her father had lost a lot of his standing, but kneeling to his own daughter was the last thing he wanted to do.
The victory he had won had been costly in terms of lives and farms, and Sigrid now knew the personal price her father had paid.
“Never will I give up my land to a woman and a child. That would be a disgrace for the leader of the Scylfings.”
She had listened quietly to her father’s rage and hidden her satisfaction at learning that his wife, Gunlög, had turned out to be a traitor. Her stepmother had moved from Skagulheim when Toste was in Svealand, and no one knew where she had gone until she was captured with Anund’s brother.
She had been sending her lover messages about what the Scylfings were up to for a long time. Gunlög was the one who had told the enemy that they were on their way through the Alva Woods, where Anund attacked them with warriors and battle sorcery. The woman who had tormented Sigrid as she grew up had turned out to be the most treacherous of the Scylfings’ enemies. Toste had killed her with his bare hands, and Sigrid wasn’t at all sorry about that.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 38