The Yelling Stones
Page 14
The second thing he noticed was that they hadn’t moved – they were still standing together inside the circle. Only, Jelling itself was gone. The hall, the mound, and every living person except the two of them – gone. Instead on every side there stretched a forest, thick and dark and wild and breathing. The light itself was wan, thin, barely there. A mist rose from the dank green grass. It was dawn, or the moment just before.
The third thing, which he realised just a little too late, was that the two stones he could see, didn’t look like stones any more. In the dim, spider-webbed light, they looked far more like – like what exactly? Trolls? Witches? Both? It was hard to tell, for they wore their hair long to their toes.
Anyway, that was what explained the growing pain in both his shoulders, where the third sister held him fast with taloned fingers.
If he came out of this alive, Leif promised himself, he would be earning his supper with the story till his hair turned grey.
Then he tried to struggle free of those claws, but his left hand was still bandaged and useless, and the witch-sister – the short, stout one – was far stronger than him. It was some small comfort to see Folkmar just as helpless in the clutches of the long, lean sister. He tried to think. This wasn’t like before, when they’d spoken through a vessel. This was the real thing. Perhaps he had been wrong to defy them; perhaps this could all have been so much easier. Oh if only the scream would stop, he could clear his head …
The scream. That was it.
The chief sister, who dwarfed even Folkmar, was staring straight at him, mouth wide open in the awful yell. But her eyes were asking a question.
Leif focused on the scream. For the first time, there seemed to be words in it. Maybe no one but a skald would have noticed the tiny ripplings of sound for what they were. It was like picking snowflakes from a blizzard, droplets from a torrent. If he tried really, really hard, he could fish the words from the yell’s rush.
‘You … spurned … us,’ the words said. ‘But still you dare to come.’
He nodded.
‘You are brave. Headstrong. Until now, you were weak. You did our will, and there is no honour in being anyone’s thrall, even ours. But now … you are perhaps a worthy champion.’
Leif almost laughed at this. It had been the right choice. Still, he wasn’t ready to trust them yet. There had to be a catch. ‘But you have waited here a thousand years. Surely, others have been brave before me?’
‘None so quick, none so gifted. None so humble as to bring a worthy offering. The last to try brought us nothing.’
‘“The last to try” – you mean Bragi?’ he said, and then, ‘What offering?’ But the word stream flowed on, growing faster.
‘Let us show you,’ they said. ‘Let us show you what such power will bring.’
And again he was spinning, caught up in a storm. The needling claws never slackened their grip on his shoulders, but what he saw before him flickered and shifted like a guttering flame.
The dark, ancient forest was gone. Now, he was looking at the great hall, from an unfamiliar position. He was in Gorm’s old ash throne. Astrid sat at his right. Before him on the floor, Haralt and Tofi bent their heads. With them were others whose names shimmered in his head. Haakon of Norway. Bjorn and Emund, kings of Sweden. The lords of the North, paying him homage.
The image blurred, faded. Blinking, Leif saw himself on the shore of an unknown country. In the distance, fumes rose out of the black and red earth. Iceland. A man was strolling towards him, arms spread in welcome, the glow of respect in his eyes. From the man’s enormous size and dark colouring, Leif knew him to be his hero – Egil Skallagrimsson, the greatest skald alive.
The scene changed again, and now Leif was watching from horseback as men – his men – poured in an unstoppable flood upon a shining town many times the size of Hedeby. Screaming townspeople fled to the shelter of a great stone church. He spoke a word and its walls crumbled. He spoke again and Hamburg was his.
‘None will stand before the power of your voice,’ they said.
Now vision crowded upon vision, as he strode across Germany, England, Ireland, and at his side was a merry throng. A laughing man upon a boar; two beautiful women, one in a chariot drawn by cats, one with hair of pure gold; the thunderer himself, swinging his hammer; and an old, old man, leaning on a staff, the brim of his hat tugged low over his one good eye. He walked across the world, and the gods walked with him.
‘It will all be yours.’
He was back in the circle of sisters, and the deep green forest sighed and heaved. Unseen shapes writhed and rustled among the trees. This place must be Jelling as they had known it – the wilderness where they had wrought the spell, the moment before they turned to stone.
He was all at once aware of a cold weight in his right hand. Looking down, Leif saw he was holding a knife.
‘Make the offering,’ they said. ‘Make the offering, and end this fight.’
He looked around, confused. There was nothing but himself, the three sisters … and Folkmar, deaf to their words, unseeing, still stammering through his prayers.
And he understood.
THIRTY
The second choice was upon him. ‘Three choices,’ the witch-rider had said. ‘The first will be right. And the others … will be wrong.’ The first choice had ended up bringing him here, when he made the harp and forsook the flyting. But that choice had been simple. This one was not.
There were words in the yell once more.
‘It will be so easy,’ they said. ‘What is a man, when the knife slips in, but flesh and blood?’
Flesh and blood. Flesh … blood …
He looked at the priest. So soft. So afraid. So dangerous.
He had a duty to the trolls. To Astrid’s Nisse. To a whole world he held dear, of gods and spirits, words and magic. A world that the priest would destroy if he let him go.
A world that, now and ever, had its wergild: its blood-price. A world bought every year by sacrifice to hungry gods. Bought by the blood of birds, rams, oxen – by the slaughter of gentle grey mares. Folkmar’s world, he knew, had been saved by the blood-price of his god, by Christ’s self-sacrifice. Why shouldn’t Leif’s world be saved by the sacrifice of Folkmar?
He held up the blade. So sharp it almost sang. Folkmar was helpless, unaware – he wouldn’t feel a thing.
‘No,’ he said, and dropped the knife. It was swallowed by the tall grass.
‘Then our use for you is at an end,’ came the words. ‘Both of you shall die.’
The scream grew louder, monstrously louder, as the sisters closed for the kill. With his one good hand Leif groped behind him, searching for his captor’s eyes. Sharp teeth closed upon his fingers, and he felt the splintering of bone.
His skin prickled, burnt, blistered with sound. The last thing he saw as he fell into darkness was Folkmar, eyes open, arms raised high. Even now, Folkmar believed that his god would save him.
‘Phanuel!’ the priest called.
The angel fell from the clear dawn sky, the rush of air knocking Leif down. A new cry arose amid mad hacking and rending as the angel tore into the sister that held Folkmar, feet and teeth ripping, wielding the burning sword.
But Leif was a dumb, terrified beast, flames taking hold, and the very last two things he knew were red – flame red – and black.
Astrid had just decided to stop blaming herself, when it happened. She hadn’t really forced Leif into this at all. It had been what he’d wanted, since the beginning, just as much as Folkmar: to test himself against the stones.
So she would blame him instead. In fact, when she got hold of him, she’d –
And Leif fell out from between the Yelling Stones, a human candle; fell with a moan and a spluttering hiss into the heaped snow. She ran to him at once, and at once was shoved aside, as the court healer – a man named Hrafn – barrelled his way through the crowd.
‘Get his rags off,’ Hrafn ordered, and Astrid pulled at his tattered,
smoking tunic. Some of his skin stuck to the weave as she tugged, and she winced, fearing his pain, but Leif never moved. He was gone from her, gone far, far away.
‘You can do nothing more now, girl; leave him with me,’ said Hrafn, not unkindly. He and Kolga, his assistant, pulled Leif’s limp body aside, sluicing it with snow, then set to laying pads over the worst of the burns. Astrid smelt violets as they applied the poultices – a strangely sweet scent, amid so much horror.
Odin, Christ, whoever, I don’t care, she thought. If you can hear me, then please. Don’t take him too.
But now more was happening behind her. Astrid wheeled round to see Folkmar loom out of the circle. Then there was a rush of hot, desert wind, and everyone blinked at the sudden glare.
The angel was there, among them, a brilliant whirl of light and fury, and all the Danes saw it swing its sword. The blade sheered through the thinnest of the Yelling Stones as if it were a hollow log.
The stone shattered, exploded, a hundred shards flung wide. They all hurled themselves to the ground as chunks of rock whizzed overhead. And then there was total horror, because the stone circle was broken, and the yell itself came free.
They all heard it, that long-frozen scream, crashing outwards like an ocean wave, echoing and re-echoing off the mound and off the hall, pummelling the listeners, bludgeoning their bodies against the ground.
Haralt himself, halfway up the mound, was toppled off his throne by the sheer power of the noise. He scurried back to his seat, glancing about to make sure that no one had seen.
Astrid’s nose was bleeding. The blood ran across her stone-blasted face, tickling her, but she never thought of wiping it away. Her hands were clapped fast over her ears.
At last the yell rose up from that place like a vast flock of birds, and like a flock it broke, and circled, and fled upon the winter air. Then it was gone, and the Danes helped each other to their feet.
Folkmar stood implacably before them, alone again. No one had seen the angel leave. None could even be quite sure of what they had just seen. But a miracle had happened, they were sure of that, and the Yelling Stones were broken.
THIRTY-ONE
Haralt was baptised at once, in a barrel of heated water. Dressed only in a shift, he stepped in up to his waist, letting Folkmar sprinkle him with droplets, pass his hands about and speak still more Latin. It was not unlike a child’s naming ceremony, something the Danes had all seen many times before, and whilst a few titters arose at the sight of the king being treated like a baby, it was all done with great dignity, and enough about it was familiar to please them.
‘And now that’s done,’ said Haralt, towelling himself dry, ‘I suppose the most important thing is how best to bury the body.’
Leif was an ash tree. He was an ash tree and something was gnawing at his roots. Claws dug and scratched the length of his trunk; hoofs beat hard upon his branches. How long this went on, he had no idea.
The witch-sisters crept slowly down his girth, spiralling the steps of the tree. Two hairy old things with the third dead sister slung between them, swinging by arms and legs, hanging all askew. Two old things creeping in the night, creeping all the way down to Hel. No one else saw them go. And they weren’t coming back.
He liked being a tree, he thought. If only all the things on him would try to hurt him less. All this passed into darkness.
‘There’s really no point in staying, girl,’ Kolga was saying. ‘Come on; let’s get something to eat.’
‘I could sing to him,’ Astrid said. ‘You’ve often sung over wounds to heal them.’
‘That was then,’ said Kolga. ‘Before Folkmar broke the stones. After what we’ve just seen, do you think those old tricks are going to be any good? We’d best trust to Hrafn’s herbs and bandages. Come on.’
‘I’m not leaving him,’ said Astrid. ‘I can’t just leave him.’
The older woman backed away. There was bloody murder in the girl’s eyes.
He was a fox cub, trembling in the earth. Something was pacing above the den, and soil scattered on him. It would spoil his perfect fur.
He curled up tighter, wishing that his mother would come back. But now the something was hopping up and down; the earth was caving in. He mustn’t stay there. He had to come out.
He heard the beat of wings as he approached the surface. He thought the angel had come back, and he turned to flee, back down. But his home was gone. There was only soil.
So he looked up, and a black eye returned the look. Stared right into him, direct and painful as an arrow.
It was a raven.
‘Astrid,’ said Thyre. ‘Astrid, come away.’
She laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder – and snatched it away, aghast at the bloody scratches the girl’s nails had rent.
‘No,’ Astrid said.
And through and through her head, a single thought was hammering. Why hadn’t she followed him? Why hadn’t she been there?
Why hadn’t she done something?
Leif eyed the raven warily. He didn’t like that cruel, curved beak, those heavy talons, and the rising stench of carrion. ‘Am I dead, o drinker of the corpse-sea,’ he said, ‘that you have come to sup upon my flesh?’
The raven opened its beak. ‘Greetings, Leif, son of Ibrahim,’ it croaked. ‘You have been noticed.’
Leif was confused. The Yelling Stones were gone, broken; he had seen them leave. But no: its eye was alive, not stony. And then he realised who must have sent the huge black bird.
‘Greetings to you, and Odin your master.’ If he was dead, his fate was in Odin’s hands. It couldn’t hurt to be polite.
The raven ruffled its dark plumage, hopped closer. It was clearly restless. Maybe it was hungry. ‘You have won the gods’ attention, Half-Dane. Even the High One heard the scream, as it shattered on the angel’s sword. A hard fight lies ahead if the North is to be freed of this outlander’s pestilence. A pity that your liver proved too weak, when the knife was in your hand.’
Leif stared back, defiant. ‘There’s too much blood in this old world of ours.’
‘And more will be shed before this is over.’ The thought seemed to excite the horrid bird, and it jigged about for a moment, snapping its beak.
‘So Folkmar lives? He’s won?’
‘For now. We will be better prepared for the next battle. In time his whale’s carcass, his pig’s eyes, will make me quite a meal!’ And it crowed at the prospect.
Leif suddenly felt very, very tired. ‘Listen, raven, why are we meeting here? Why in this burrow – why am I a fox?’
‘The Yelling Stones sent you visions. They came to pass. This was the vision you sold the Danes. They believed you. So your words created this place. We’re in your head, after all.’
Words, belief, creation … if this was his head, no wonder it hurt so much. What did the raven want with him? Shouldn’t he be in Valhalla by now? Or else, Hel?
And then he understood.
‘I’m not dead, am I?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘And you’re here because … because you need me.’
The raven shuffled, from one foot to the other.
‘All along, this has been about power. The power of the Yelling Stones, they said. But Folkmar never sought to steal that power. He only wanted people to believe – believe in Christ, and not in the old ways. That’s where the power comes from, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps.’ The bird’s gimlet eye was less ferocious now.
Leif was thinking aloud. ‘The power of the stones came –’
‘From the land,’ the raven insisted. ‘They wrought their spell from rock and river, tree and earth. They were of the land; from it they drew their power.’
‘Yes, from the land at first – but then it grew, from centuries of worship and belief. That’s where the power of the gods lies too; it must be, and that’s why you’re running scared!’ Leif recognised the bird’s behaviour now. It wasn’t hungry, or excited. It was scared; helpless
and scared.
‘Both gods and stones have grown strong on belief; on sacrifice and praise and poetry. If that dries up because of Folkmar’s words; if all of that belief now goes to Christ …’
‘Then we are finished.’ The raven hung its head.
‘First the stones asked me for my help. Now you,’ he said. ‘Because my words help people to believe.’
‘Yes, yes,’ snapped the raven. ‘You have the power. But will you use it?’
‘I don’t think it’s my fight any longer,’ said Leif. ‘I made my choice when I made her the harp.’
‘And then again, when you let fall the knife. But that does not mean it must be over. There are other, lesser knives. And even priests must sleep. You know what you must do.’
‘It seems to me I may do as I please.’ Leif’s eyes flashed, and his lip curled. ‘Now go, before I turn you to an egg!’
The raven edged away a little. ‘You would never dare anger the High One so!’
‘Be gone, beggar of death,’ Leif began. ‘Back to the unborn shell …’
With an almighty clatter of wings, the raven bolted.
‘Hrafn!’ said Kolga. ‘I think he’s coming round.’
‘What?!’ Astrid sprang to his side.
‘Don’t crowd him, girl, get back. Give him air …’
Leif blinked, moaned, raised his head. His body was one living hurt. Astrid thrust a straw bolster under his head, helping him sit up.
Hrafn was holding a ladle to his lips. ‘Drink this,’ he said.
‘Wassit …?’ muttered Leif.
‘Broth,’ said Hrafn. ‘It’s good for you.’
Leif struggled to swallow a few mouthfuls of the hot stew. It smelt strongly of leeks, and onions, and made his eyes water.
‘Should he really be eating right now?’ Astrid hissed to Kolga.
‘This is for Hrafn’s sake, not his,’ Kolga whispered back. ‘Once the broth’s gone down his body, Hrafn will have a good sniff of his chest. If he can smell the leeks, the burns are deep, and we’ll have little chance of saving him.