Minutes later, that’s where he was, standing in a large encampment on a marshy plain, inhabiting the body of a giant. David immediately turned his mind inward, toward Östen’s, facing his ancestor in all his human successes and failures. His family, his stubbornness, his hard work and honor, his stoniness, his victories in battle.
His thrall.
David felt his anger rising at the thought of Arne the Dane, but this time he didn’t try to extinguish it or ignore it. He didn’t try to force himself to agree with something that he never could. Instead, he reminded himself that he could still synchronize with his ancestor in spite of it. David could still converse with him. He could find other common ground with him. And he could stay angry with him.
Like Grace had said, it wasn’t David’s job to justify Östen as a man of his time and his people. David didn’t have to excuse him at all.
You’re doing well, Victoria said. Much better than last time. You’re almost there.
David needed only to talk with his ancestor, and so he opened his mind to Östen’s thoughts, and he listened, accepting what he heard not as truth, but as Östen’s truth, however wrong it might be. Gradually, he felt himself synchronizing, not because he saw things the same way Östen did, but because he understood Östen without forcing himself to agree.
That’s it. You have it.
David sighed and gave Östen his voice.
Before him in twilight lay the Fyrisfield, a great plain that followed the course of a marshy river from Uppsala south to the lake Mälaren. Hundreds of campfires burned across its breadth, like the sparks of Muspelheim fallen to the earth from the firmament. Large tracts of its sodden expanse never dried out during the year, and it was not a place Östen would have picked for a battle. But it lay in Styrbjörn’s path to Eric’s hall, and the army of the true king would make its stand here.
Östen turned back to the fire he shared with a dozen other men, including Olof, his neighbor back home. Most in this circle were farmers and herders who had likewise answered the call of the Bidding Stick. Some of them were seasoned fighters, others only barely come into their beards, but each of them knew they might not leave this place except in the winged company of Odin’s warrior women.
As Östen took his place and sat down, a shadowy figure neared their camp.
“Who approaches?” called Alferth, a man whose right hand possessed only three fingers.
The figure came into the firelight, and Östen recognized Skarpe, a freeman from West Aros. Mud covered his legs from his boots to his thighs, the rest of his clothing wet through. It looked as though he’d suffered a mishap in the marsh, and some of the other men laughed at the sight of him.
“Skarpe, you fool,” said Alferth. “There isn’t any gold on this plain.”
“So you’ve said.” The soggy man took a seat close to the heat of the fire.
“Then why are you out there rooting around in the marsh like a pig after mast?” asked another.
“You know the story as well as I,” Skarpe said. “The difference between us is that I believe it.”
Alferth pointed off into the darkness. “You believe that Hrólf scattered his gold out there, and that Eadgils stopped to collect that gold instead of pursue his enemy?”
Skarpe shrugged. “Eadgils was a greedy king. And I think there’s a good chance he didn’t find every piece of gold on this plain.”
“Bah!” Alferth said. “You know what I think? I think you’re a raven starver, and one of these days you plan to run off—”
“I’m no coward,” Skarpe said. His hand had gone to the knife at his side. “I’m certainly not afraid to fight you, Alferth. Nor any man here who—”
“There will be no fighting under the ledung,” Östen said.
Every man around that fire turned to look at him.
He continued. “Or have you forgotten? Until Eric dismisses you, the only men you’ll fight and kill will be Styrbjörn’s men. When the battle is over, if the gods have kept you alive, then you can kill each other if that is how you wish to spend your good fortune. But not before. Am I understood?”
Östen wasn’t in command of these men, but they nodded toward him nevertheless, and he looked each of them in the eye before returning his gaze to the thread tied around his wrist. He yearned for his wife and his bed. It had never bothered him before to sleep in a war camp and listen to the bluster of frightened men facing their deaths. He had never complained against the rough ground he lay upon or the biting flies that found his neck. Perhaps he was getting old, or a bit white in his liver.
Olof leaned in toward him. “That was well-spoken.”
“But perhaps not well-heard.” Östen nodded toward Skarpe, who glowered at the fire in his sodden clothes, his eyes full of flames.
“Let every man wait for battle in his way,” Olof said.
Östen nodded, and David nodded with him. Östen looked up into the sky and saw the Great Wagon in the stars. He was about to lie down to sleep under his cloak when a commotion rose up out on the plain. Men called and shouted in the distance, and some carrying torches ran between camps. Östen rose to his feet.
“What is this?” Olof asked.
Some moments later, one of the runners passed by them, but paused long enough to tell them that Styrbjörn’s fleet had entered Mälaren, and he brought not only the Jomsvikings with him, but Dane ships as well.
“How many ships?” Östen asked.
“I don’t know,” the runner said. “You can count them when they land in two days’ time.” With that, he moved on toward the next camp.
“Two days,” Olof said. “Two days until we fight.”
Östen sat himself back down. He wasn’t counting the days until the battle. He was counting the days until he went home.
Thorvald and Torgny approached Eric’s long hall. Though not as impressive and imposing as the temple, it was large and fitting for a mortal king, ornamented with carvings of gods, warriors, and beasts that fought endlessly along its walls and pillars. At its wide doors, the marshal of Eric’s personal war band met them and blocked their entrance with five of his men. Javier sensed within Thorvald that this was unusual, but not necessarily unexpected.
“Hail, Lawspeaker,” the marshal said. “And to you, skald.”
Thorvald nodded a reply, but remained poised and alert.
“Hail, stallari,” Torgny said. “We would speak with the king.”
“The king is in war council,” the marshal said.
He offered no further answer, and neither he nor his men moved aside, making their full intention known. Thorvald then looked each of them over, assessing stance, size, arms, and armor. If necessary, he could mortally wound three of them before the remaining two had drawn their weapons.
“The council is why I have come,” Torgny said.
“The king has counsel enough, Lawspeaker,” the marshal said, without meeting Torgny’s blind gaze. “Your time would be better spent at the temple, appealing to the gods on Eric’s behalf.”
“You should guard your words more carefully,” Thorvald said, “lest the gods take a dark interest in you.”
The marshal’s jaw hardened. “And you should—”
“At all times the gods take interest in courage and honor,” Torgny said. “Which they reward. Or punish when found lacking.” He stepped closer to the marshal and looked up at him with his clouded eyes. “The king has never refused my counsel before, stallari. On whose order do you stand here before me?”
The marshal recoiled as far from Torgny as he could without physically giving ground, appearing unnerved by the Lawspeaker’s words and gaze. “I take no orders from any but the king.”
“But the king did not command you to bar me. We both know that.” Torgny took another step toward him. “But someone did, so tell me, how much did your honor cost? Was it cheap? Perhaps I might wish to buy it at some point in the future.”
“Watch yourself, Lawspeaker,” the marshal said, but his voice had no
strength behind it.
“I am watching you,” Torgny said.
The marshal blanched, by a degree, and Thorvald seized the moment.
“The king awaits his Lawspeaker,” he said. “We will keep him waiting no longer.”
Then he led Torgny around the unmoving marshal and through his confused men, who looked to their leader for guidance. But the Lawspeaker had disarmed the marshal and rendered him harmless, all without Thorvald needing to lay a hand on him.
Inside the hall, dozens of members of Eric’s court gathered in clusters at tables and along the two middle hearths that ran nearly the length of the room. Banners hung from the heavy beams above, and the air smelled of roasting pork and red wine. Some of the nobles looked up at the Lawspeaker’s entrance, and some of them bowed their heads in deference as he passed. Some of them simply glared, for jealousy and rivalry could be stronger than a fear of the gods.
“Someone here does not want us influencing the king,” Thorvald said in a low voice.
“Is that not always the case?” Torgny said.
“I worry the Order might have already found a way in.”
“That is unlikely.” But Torgny nodded. “Let me deal with it.”
They strode the length of the hall to the king’s throne at the far end, and behind it, they reached the king’s private chambers, rooms appointed with Saxon silver and tapestries from Persia. This time, no one denied them entrance, and within the council room they found Eric leaning over a table, surrounded by his highest jarls and closest kinsmen. Thorvald studied their reactions upon seeing the Lawspeaker, hoping to discern which of them might be the enemy, but none of the faces betrayed their wearers.
Torgny bowed his head. “Greetings, my king. May the gods grant you victory.”
“I look to you in that matter, Lawspeaker,” Eric said. He wore a blue tunic embroidered with red and gold, his hair and beard in braids. Two wolves snarled at each other from the ends of a silver torc around his neck, and numerous finger rings from all corners of the world glinted on his hands. “Why are you late?”
“A delay that proved inconsequential,” Torgny said, his response clearly designed to provoke their enemy. “I beg your forgiveness.”
Again, Thorvald searched the reactions of those present, but their enemy remained hidden. He and Torgny drew closer to the king, and, upon his table, Thorvald saw a map of the country and its borders.
“We’re discussing how best to make our stand.” Eric pointed at the mouth of the Fyriswater, where it poured into Mälaren. “Some, like Jarl Frida, argue for a confrontation farther south, here.”
Frida nodded. “Styrbjörn aims his spear at the heart of Svealand,” she said. “I say we place our shield so that he cannot reach it.”
Eric pointed at another place on the map. “Others believe we should wait for Styrbjörn here at Uppsala, where we are strongest.”
Torgny nodded, but said nothing, and Thorvald waited. So did the rest of the room.
A moment later, Eric looked up, his brow creased. “Does the Lawspeaker wish to speak on this matter?”
“Not yet,” Torgny said. “There is another matter I wish to speak of first.”
“What matter?” the king asked.
“A dream,” Torgny said. “A vision. For you alone, Eric.”
That sent a rustle and grumble through the nobles, which the king silenced with a raise of his hand.
“Time is short, Lawspeaker.”
Thorvald spoke up then. “All the reason to give each moment its due.”
Eric frowned at Thorvald, tugging on his beard, but then nodded. “Out, all of you.”
Now the faces of the nobles were indistinguishable from one another for their shared ire, each of them an enemy in that moment. But they obeyed their king and filed out of the chamber, and after they’d gone, Eric went to his chair and sat down.
Now Thorvald and Torgny stood alone before the king, the only other being in the room the king’s house-bear, a brown sow he had raised from a cub and named Astrid. Unconcerned with the affairs of men, she slept chained in a corner of the room, against a wall, and the rumblings of her breathing sent tremors through the bones of the hall. The sight of her surprised Javier, but not Thorvald.
“We both know you’ve had no vision,” Eric said. “So tell me what your blind eyes see. What would you see done?”
The Lawspeaker dropped his empty gaze to the floor, where it stayed until Thorvald could sense the king growing impatient. “May I speak freely?” Torgny asked.
“You are the Lawspeaker,” Eric said. “Of all men, you may speak freely.”
“I wish to bring something into the light,” Torgny said. “You know of what I speak, though you have been content to pretend you do not see it moving in the shadows.”
The king’s guarded expression held its ground. “Go on.”
“You have never asked the name of my Brotherhood, and I have never offered it. But we have watched and supported you, as you have ruled with wisdom and justice. We have advised you. As skalds, we have shaped the stories that are told, to inspire our people. We have fought and killed your enemies, at times with your knowledge, and other times without it.”
Eric shifted in his chair. “There are some things better left unsaid, Lawspeaker.”
“I agree,” Torgny said.
“Then why bring this to me now? Why not leave your work and your Brotherhood in the shadows?”
“Because my Brotherhood has an enemy. We oppose an Order that has gained tremendous power among the Franks, and their influence is spreading. They have had dealings with Harald of Denmark, who sails with Styrbjörn.”
“I see.” Eric rose to his feet and paced around his chamber. “You believe my nephew, Styrbjörn, has brought your enemy Order to our lands?”
Torgny nodded. “I fear that is so.”
Eric stopped pacing near Astrid the house-bear, who raised her great head to sniff his hand, her huge nostrils flaring with each powerful breath. “This is your fight,” the king said. “Is it not?”
“It is,” Torgny said. “But it is also your fight. If the Order establishes a foothold here, they will seek to control you, and failing that, they will seek your downfall.”
That seemed to finally catch the king’s ear. “Do you believe Styrbjörn has entered into a compact with this Order?”
“No,” Torgny said. “Styrbjörn is far too willful and unpredictable to serve their purposes. But I assure you the Order is taking an interest in the outcome of this conflict.”
Eric returned to his seat. “What does this mean for the battle?”
“Styrbjörn cannot simply be defeated. His army must be annihilated. We must destroy any agents of the Order who lurk among his or Harald’s men. Not one seedling can take root.”
Eric nodded. “Done.”
“No,” Torgny said. “Styrbjörn fights with his pride above all. He will seek to challenge you, as he did before you banished him.”
“He was a boy then. If he seeks to challenge me now, my honor will demand that I accept.”
“I know, my king. Which is why he must not be allowed to reach you. You must not meet his army on any open field of battle, either here or to the south. Not yet.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
Torgny turned to Thorvald. “Here I turn to my apprentice, Thorvald. You will find him to be even more cunning than I am.”
Eric looked at Thorvald. “Speak,” he commanded, and waited.
Astrid stirred in the corner, awakening. With a deep huffing, she rose and lumbered across the room on her heavy paws, dragging her chain, to stand beside Eric’s throne. The king reached out and scratched her neck as if she were a hunting hound. Javier felt very small under the power of that moment. It was like staring a legend in the face. But Thorvald did not shrink.
“We must harry Styrbjörn relentlessly,” he said. “He must pay dearly with the lives of his men for every foot of ground he gains on his way to Uppsala, so
that when he arrives, his force will be small enough to crush.”
“How?” Eric asked. “He will simply row his ships up the river, which will bring him almost to my doors.”
“Jarl Frida’s plan showed wisdom, but not cunning.” Thorvald turned to the map, and Eric left his seat to join him. Astrid followed at her master’s side, her head high enough to rest her chin upon the table. Thorvald pointed to the mouth of the Fyriswater. “We stop him here, as she suggested, but not with an army.”
“With what, then?” the king asked.
“Let me take a company of men,” Thorvald said. “Strong men, the strongest I can find. Fighting men. We will plant stakes in the river—”
“A palisade?” Eric asked.
“Yes. We will keep his ships from ever entering the river. Styrbjörn is impatient. He won’t take the time to tear down the stakewall. He’ll leave his ships and march overland.”
“And then?”
“I use my company as an axe to cleave away his army’s limbs.”
The king narrowed his eyes, and then he grinned. “I like this plan. My kinsmen and the other jarls may not.”
“They won’t accept it if it comes from my apprentice,” the Lawspeaker said.
“It must come from the Lawspeaker,” Thorvald said. “It must come from the gods.”
“Which god?” Eric asked.
Thorvald thought for a moment. He had no idea where Styrbjörn stood now in relation to Asgard, but in his younger days, he had always favored Thor. That made the choice a simple one.
“Odin,” Thorvald said. “When an impudent son rebels, it must be the father who puts him down and punishes him.”
Next to Thorvald, Torgny nodded his approval.
Eric grunted. “Very well.” He reached under the left sleeve of his shirt and pulled a golden arm ring down over his wrist. He handed the band to Thorvald. “Go with my authority and choose your men well. The Lawspeaker and I will speak to the others.”
Fate of the Gods Page 9