‘Ha!’ one man barked into his ale. ‘He means he’ll send someone else out to get wet as an otter’s arse and the skin peeled off his damned bones.’
‘Careful, Bram,’ the man beside him warned, nodding towards their jarl on his high seat against a tapestry that was rippling and flapping from the wind eking through the cracks in the wall. But the jarl had caught Bram’s words amongst the general hum of the hall. Not that Bram could give a fart about that, though he tried none the less.
‘Do you have something to say to me, Bear?’ the jarl asked, as a silence fell over the drinkers like a thick fur, so that the howl of the wind out there in the night beyond the staves sounded like the moaning of those condemned to Hel.
Bram did not even look up at the man, instead taking a long draught of ale and dragging an arm across his mouth and thick beard. ‘I was just wondering if this wind was coming from your flapping tongue,’ he said, snapping together the fingers and thumb of his left hand, ‘for it keeps on blowing and yet is empty as my cup.’ He turned the cup upside down then held it out to be refilled. The thrall glanced at his jarl but came forward anyway, filling Bram’s cup with trembling hands.
Otrygg’s champion, a man oath-sworn to fight for him, stood up across the bench from Bram, his face dark as a great wedge of granite cliff jutting high above the foam-flecked strand.
‘Sit down, Brak,’ Bram said, with a flutter of hand, ‘I have no quarrel with you.’
Brak, a man with a reputation as a good fighter, though he had run to fat now and was more accustomed to vanquishing plates of boar and elk, stood there stranded like the whale on the beach, not knowing what to do. He glanced over at his lord, whose mottled baggy face suddenly cleared like sun breaking through cloud, and who dipped his head, gesturing at the food in front of his champion.
‘Sit down, Brak,’ Jarl Otrygg said, holding a smile on his face that did not want to be there, ‘Bram means no offence.’ Beside him his wife Hallveig hissed something, her own face like the storm outside, but Otrygg ignored her. ‘We have all let our tongues slide away on the ale many times and woken to regret it in the morning,’ he said.
Clearly relieved, Brak nodded to his jarl and grinned in Bram’s direction then sat back down and went to work on a fleshy bone.
Bram shrugged and the hall thrummed back into life as men and women took up where they had left off and the ale flowed and the grease glistened and the lamp and hearth flames danced as though to defy the raging storm beyond the oak of Otrygg’s hall.
But Bram could no more let it go than could the wind and rain out there in the dark suddenly forget its wrath and sneak away.
‘This is a hall of sheep and goats,’ Bram said, not loudly yet the snarl of his voice was like an iron file against the grain. Tongues went still and eyes fixed on him again. ‘I have seen more backbone in an eel than I see here. When was the last time we went raiding?’ he asked, his eyes raking those around him like fire irons over glowing embers. ‘When was the last time you put a crew together, hey?’ This was to Jarl Otrygg, whose face had drained of all colour now and turned corpse-white. ‘Your ships grow worm-riddled and rot at their moorings. Your warriors grow fat and soft as Frigg’s tits and where once I heard the sword song now my ears crawl with the sort of idle prattle I would expect from old women at the loom.’
At this Brak stood up again, wiping greasy fingers down the front of his tunic, and this time when he glanced at Otrygg the jarl did not look at him but neither did he tell him to sit.
‘Insolent man!’ Hallveig snapped, looking at her husband to do something and fast.
‘You will hold your tongue, Bear, or see it cut from its roots!’ Otrygg spat, his eyes bulging like boiled gulls’ eggs. ‘You would insult me in my own hall? You have drowned your wits in my ale, you heap of pig shit. You drunkard!’
‘Aye well I’d rather be a drunkard than a hrafnasueltir,’ Bram said, which got a rumble filling that hall like thunder across the roof of the world, for it was no small thing to call any man, let alone a jarl, a raven-starver. A coward.
‘You forget your oath, Bram!’ Brak rumbled across the ale-stained bench-boards, one greasy hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip.
‘You forget that I am not oath-tied to Jarl Otrygg,’ Bram said.
‘I have not forgotten it,’ the jarl said, and nor would he have, Bram thought, recalling the day, three years ago, when he had come to Steinvik to offer his sword to the jarl.
‘I drink your ale and eat your meat in return for growling at your enemies,’ Bram said, ‘but you have no enemies because the other jarls have forgotten that you are here. To them you are worthy of no more note than the boil on their wife’s arse.’ He knew he had gone too far, knew that in truth Jarl Otrygg did not deserve to be so insulted in front of his people even if he was hardly worthy of a hall and a high seat. But Bram had come to the end of the rope and it was time to haul the anchor from the weeds and slime amongst which it had settled for too long. ‘I drink your ale and eat your food and yet I am still hungry,’ he said, downing the ale in one go and slamming the cup down. ‘I am a warrior and a warrior needs silver and fame. Here, with you, there is just rust and dishonour.’
Around him men and women were climbing out from the benches, scattering as folk will from the fierce heat of a newly stoked fire. Like Bram himself they knew he had gone too far. Knew what must surely come.
An old spear-shaker called Esbern, whose fighting days were far behind him and whose long beard and braids were white as snow, pointed a bony finger at Bram. ‘You insult us all. You dishonour your own name,’ he said.
Bram was too drunk to feel the sting in that. ‘I have long tarnished my own name by staying here, old man,’ he said. ‘Back to your straw death with you, unless you want one last chance at a seat in the Allfather’s hall?’
Esbern showed his teeth, his hand falling to his scramasax, and for a moment it looked as though the old man would indeed end his days blade in hand like a proper Sword-Norse, but a big hand shoved him aside.
‘Out of my way, white-hair,’ Brak snarled, coming round the long bench to get to Bram, who felt the blood run hot in his veins for the first time in too long.
Brak’s sword whispered from its scabbard and in that moment Bram respected Jarl Otrygg’s champion for doing his duty even though he knew the man could not win.
Bram ducked the first wild swing, Brak’s sword slicing the smoky fug above his head and burying itself in a roof post like an axe in an oak’s trunk. Brak cursed and Bram hammered a fist into his stomach, doubling the champion over, then grabbed one of his braids and stepped past him, hauling the man’s head backwards, and Brak was all flailing arms as Bram chopped a hand into the exposed throat. Brak went down choking, legs thrashing as his lungs fought for breath that would not come.
‘Get up, you fat fool!’ Otrygg yelled as other retainers went for Bram, swords drawn. The first of them thought he was Beowulf hacking at Grendel’s arm, the swing so wild that it might have cut Bram in half. Had it been anywhere near him.
‘Sit down, Anlaf,’ Bram said, slamming a fist into the man’s face, bursting his nose in a spray of blood and gristle. Anlaf dropped like a rock and Bram hauled the spear from another man’s grasp, broke the stave across his thigh and pummelled his attacker with the two halves, the man throwing his arms either side of his head and retreating under the onslaught.
‘Sheep and goats!’ Bram bellowed as the man fell into a heap against the wall all curled up like a hedgehog before a snarling hound. A big man launched himself at Bram from behind, wrapping strong arms around him to stop his progress towards the jarl. Bram lashed his head backwards into the man’s face and the arms fell away, then he turned and clutched Gevar’s bloodied face between his hands and squeezed. The big man’s eyes bulged and his legs gave way but Bram did not let go. ‘You will all die in your sleep,’ Bram snarled, ‘and no one will ever know you lived.’ His arms were trembling with the effort and he wondered if he could
crush the man’s skull, wondered if the brains would spill through his fingers. But his quarrel was not with Gevar and so he drove his knee into the blood-slick face and Gevar keeled over into the floor reeds.
The jarl was up out of his high seat now, a big boar spear in his hands and at last some steel in his eyes.
‘Come then, you oath-shy son of a long-dead sow,’ Otrygg said, inviting Bram forward with the spear’s gleaming blade.
‘I will give my oath to the man who is worthy of it,’ Bram said, side-stepping Otrygg’s thrust and wrenching the boar-sticker from the jarl’s grasp. ‘As for my mother,’ he went on, spinning the spear over and driving its butt into the jarl’s stomach, punching the air out of him, ‘she is still alive, I think.’ He jabbed the butt end into the jarl’s temple and Otrygg’s eyes rolled back in his head as his wife threw herself across his body, snarling at Bram to leave her husband alone.
‘You have bigger balls than your husband, Hallveig,’ he said, respecting her for it and staying his hand. When he turned his back on the jarl and his wife he saw a sea of faces through the smoke and all of them gripped by the shock of what had just happened.
Well that was a night that did not go as I had expected, he thought, wondering if any of them still had it in them to fight him.
‘You have made enemies here tonight,’ Esbern said, his lips curled, his white braids like sun-bleached ship’s ropes.
Bram nodded. ‘A man needs enemies, old man,’ he said, and with that he stepped down and strode through the hall, folk parting before him like water before a dragon ship’s bow, to where his sea chest sat beside the far wall. He bent and picked it up, settling the thing, which contained everything he owned, on his left shoulder, holding the jarl’s spear in his right hand.
I’m a damned fool, he thought, knowing what he was walking out into, thinking he could have at least waited another day or two. But then even one more day as a sheep was not to be endured by a warrior such as he. By a man who would twist the deeds of his life into a reputation the way the blacksmith god Völund forges a sword that will last a hundred generations.
He stopped by Brak, who was still on his arse clutching his throat, and, leaning the spear against his own shoulder, offered the champion his hand. But to his credit Brak found enough breath to call Bram a rancid troll’s fart and spit at his feet, the shame at being so easily beaten carved in his face like runes on a rock.
Bram shrugged, gripped the boar spear again, and when he got to the hall’s door the boy who had found the whale down on the strand opened it for him, looking at Bram as though he had fallen from the sky.
‘Remember me, boy,’ Bram said. The boy nodded and Bram stepped out into the howling, rain-flayed, thundering night.
For a while he stood there, rain lashing his face, already dripping from his beard and braids, and wondered where in the world he would go now and thinking again that he must have been very drunk to leave hot food, a blazing hearth and all the ale he could tip down his throat.
Then he heard the door open behind him and he sighed because he did not like fighting in the rain as it did a man’s sword no good at all to be put away wet.
He turned and saw the great bulk of a warrior standing there silhouetted by the flamelight from the hall behind him.
‘Let’s get this over with, Brak,’ he said.
Runa could see why Jarl Randver had coveted Eik-hjálmr her father’s hall, for his own, called Örn-garð, the Eagle’s Dwelling-place – on account of it being perched on a hill but also, Runa had learnt, because its jarl thought of himself as a lord of land and sea – was at least ten paces shorter and the pitched roof was much lower, so that the smoke from the central hearth which did not escape through the smoke hole was slung like a pall amongst the beams and lingered there. Many of the wall timbers could do with replacing and the jarl had told her, seeming embarrassed, that he would re-thatch the roof come summer. Örn-garð was not quite imposing enough, not saga-worthy enough for a jarl who now owned a fleet of good warships, enjoyed the king’s favour, and had become the most powerful man, but for the king, within some ten days’ sailing of Hinderå or Skudeneshavn.
And yet despite Jarl Randver’s modest hall Runa doubted his people could fault his generosity. All his hirðmen, his retainers and their women were welcome beneath Örn-garð’s thatch and timber, and this night, just like so many others, the place was awash with drunken laughter, the clatter of plates and knives and the rise and fall of many voices speaking at once, like an echo of the sea hurling itself against the rocks of Hinderå’s shore. The hall was smaller than Eik-hjálmr had been but the hearth was twice the size and above it now, spitted, golden and dripping fat that sizzled in the flames, were the carcasses of an elk and four plump geese. Three young thralls were tasked with turning the meat to ensure even cooking and it seemed to Runa that the care they took in their work went beyond the fear of punishment if they burnt the flesh. They were proud to do it.
The air was thick with woodsmoke and the mouth-watering aroma of the meat being turned above the fire. On the other side of her bench an old man, bent as a scythe but with eyes that still sparkled, stood playing a bukkehorn and Runa recognized the tune as she would recognize her mother’s face. For the melody had been Grimhild’s favourite. She had danced to it on her wedding night, she had told Runa whenever the melody played out amongst those feasting in Eik-hjálmr, though now the undulating tune was a snake coiling itself around Runa’s heart and she could find no joy in it.
Oil lamps flickered in the wake of passers-by or in the gusts which seeped through Örn-garð’s planks, throwing shadows across the stave walls and the tapestries woven with the images of gods and monsters, and despite the pain it brought, Runa let her mind soar back to similar nights in her father’s hall, when the mead had flowed and the raucous voices of Harald’s warriors had boomed like thunder and her brothers had been so full of life and ambition. When her mother and father had sat in their high seats holding each other’s hands, their eyes gleaming with pride.
And perhaps it was because she had entwined herself with memories of the past that she did not at first notice the man who had come in with Jarl Randver and who now sat in a high seat on the jarl’s left. Runa was sitting beside Amleth on the high seat across the hall opposite Randver’s and it was he, her betrothed, who drew her attention to the fair-bearded, handsome stranger with his father. No, not stranger. She knew him well enough.
‘What has Crow-Song done to be given such honour?’ Amleth had asked one of his own spearmen, a tall, sinewy warrior called Ambar who had been drinking mead like a salmon drinks water.
The man had shrugged. ‘I have never heard a song or saga come out of his mouth yet that would earn him that seat,’ Ambar said jealously. And that was when Runa’s sad dance with the past had ended and she found herself staring at Hagal the skald, whom she had last seen in her father’s hall the night before the steel-storm in the Karmsund Strait. What was he doing here, as close as a blade snugged in its sheath to the jarl whose thegns had killed her mother? But then what did a skald know of loyalty? She brooded, the thought sour as old ale. Men like Hagal Crow-Song flew wherever the silver shone brightest.
‘I would wager that Father sent for him because there is to be a wedding soon,’ Amleth’s elder brother Hrani, sitting on his other side, said with a grin, knocking his mead horn against the one in Amleth’s hand, ‘and Hagal will come up with some story for the feast.’
Amleth stirred uncomfortably and Runa guessed it was the thought of their wedding night that had him squirming. For whilst it was clear that Amleth wanted to take her to his bed, he had never forced himself on her nor been unkind. He cared what she thought of him, that was clear, and Runa doubted she would wield that power over Hrani if she had been doomed to marry him. He would have taken her already, perhaps on one of the benches lining the hall where she had seen him taking plenty of young girls before, all sweat and teeth and not caring whose eyes were on them.
&nb
sp; ‘Of course, when I get married we shall have a better skald than Hagal Crow-Song to see us through the night,’ Hrani said. He belched loudly and seemed offended by the smell. ‘Still, he is good enough for you and the daughter of a dead fool, little brother.’
‘Watch your tongue!’ Amleth hissed, glancing at Runa, who pretended for Amleth’s sake that she had not heard. The last thing she wanted was for Amleth to kill his brother in some argument over honour or insult. For Hrani had brought steel and death to her village and Runa wanted him alive when Sigurd came. She would watch her brother kill him and laugh as he did it.
‘I am just teasing you, brother,’ Hrani said, raising his horn to his smiling lips.
Amleth was still watching Hagal and frowning. ‘He has plied his trade here many times before and never been given that seat,’ he said, ‘so I am thinking there is more to it than my wedding feast.’ Hrani pursed his lips, thinking his own thoughts about it as Amleth stood. ‘I am going to find out what Crow-Song has that my father wants,’ Amleth said, hooking his leg out from under the boards.
‘Can I come with you?’ Runa asked, and Amleth was taken aback for a moment because Runa hardly ever spoke to him or even looked at him if she could avoid it.
He almost smiled. Then held out his hand.
As they approached Hagal looked up and when he locked eyes with Runa he swallowed hard and nodded a half-hearted greeting. She thought she saw a flush creep across his cheeks and knew he was embarrassed. And so he should be, she thought.
‘Hagal, this is my son Amleth and his betrothed, Runa Haraldsdóttir,’ Jarl Randver said, sweeping his mead horn towards them as they stepped up onto the raised dais beside the high seats. Then Randver frowned. ‘Though perhaps you have met Runa before?’
Hagal nodded. ‘I visited her father’s hall on occasion, lord,’ he said. ‘And certainly this girl’s face is more memorable than the hospitality I received there.’
‘Your cup was never empty, worm-tongue!’ Runa said, feeling Amleth beside her flinch. It was no small thing to insult the jarl’s guest. But given the warp and weft of it all Randver simply smiled.
God of Vengeance Page 31