After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

  “Leiknarr,” he said, “perhaps we should content ourselves with our host’s good ale. He is right. The price is too high.”

  The Saracen smiled. “I do not barter.” Turning to the maiden, he said, “All the good things in life are expensive, is that not right, Sigrun?”

  “Loyalty to one’s comrades cannot be bought,” the maiden answered. “And that is the best thing in life of all.”

  The Saracen’s dark eyebrows pinched. “Clearly you have not seen much of the world. Loyalty can be bought and sold like anything else. And it does not require a dragon’s hoard, either.”

  “That is not true in Daneland,” Abjorn declared.

  The maiden lifted her chin. For a moment it seemed she was taller than the Saracen. “The sort of loyalty you describe has not the worth of that which is given freely, from foster-son to foster-father, or wife to husband.”

  Leiknarr pounded the table in approval. Abjorn’s blood stirred. He wondered who the maiden’s father was, and how much silver and cattle it would take to purchase his favor.

  “Well said, fair maid,” Leiknarr declared. “For that, I ask that you pour the first round. Abjorn, give her a pair of silver pennies. It is a custom I learned in the wine shops of Rome after we sacked the place. The youngest always buys the first round.”

  Abjorn fished two silver pennies from his purse and handed them to the Saracen. The Saracen nodded to the maiden. With her own hands she poured out two small glasses of al-kuhl, and two large cups of ale.

  “It is also the custom,” the Saracen explained, “to follow a measure of al-kuhl with one of ale.”

  Leiknarr raised one of the tiny glasses in a toast. “To Odin,” he cried. “May he bring all of us to Valhalla.”

  Sigrun smiled.

  Abjorn’s heart beat faster.

  Leiknarr gulped the contents of his glass. He blinked, his eyes watered, and he shook his head like a dog killing a squirrel. Without taking a breath, he grabbed his mug of ale and downed that, too.

  Wondering how bad the al-kuhl could be, Abjorn sniffed his glass. The smell of the drink tickled the back of his nose, sharp and almost sweet. Whatever al-kuhl was, it was not water. But a mouthful could hardly kill him, so he followed Leiknarr’s example and swallowed it all at once.

  It was like drinking fire. For a moment he thought he was going to spray the entire mouthful like a seal coming up for air at a hole in the ice. Even after managing to force it down his throat instead of out his nose, he let loose a gigantic sneeze.

  “Here! Get your filth off me!” A large Rus with a mustache like a pair of oars wiped his tunic and reached for his knife.

  Leiknarr pounded Abjorn on the back and offered the Rus an apology. “Our pardon. My friend here is not used to al-kuhl. He meant you no disrespect.”

  Eyes tearing, Abjorn wiped his nose and reached for his ale. But, even after draining his cup, his mouth still tingled. He felt strangely alive, and expectant. He was ready for anything, from battle to another glass of al-kuhl.

  The Rus slapped a silver penny on the table. The Saracen served him a measure of fire. With a sneer for Abjorn, the Rus placed the glass at his mouth and, throwing his head back, tossed its contents down his throat.

  “It takes a little getting used to,” Gisl offered as the Rus wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pushed his way back into the packed hall. “It is not distilled for the taste, but for how it makes you feel. Can I pour you another?”

  Abjorn’s chest heaved. The feeling of alertness and invincibility was increasing with every breath. He reached for his purse.

  Leiknarr pushed him back. “My turn.”

  Abjorn was glad to see that his sister’s husband was also still blinking back tears.

  “I feel as if I could row all the way to Wessex on my own after one taste,” Leiknarr said as he placed two more silver pennies on the table. Then he winked. “While bedding three Saxon maids at the same time.”

  Three rounds later, they pushed their way back down the hall. The Saracen would not allow them to take the tiny glasses with them, explaining they were too valuable to let out of his sight. Instead they each carried a large horn of ale, most of which they lost in the jostling as they crossed the hall. Abjorn nearly got into a fight with a Gotlander who made him spill the most, but there was no room to throw a punch so he just glared at the man instead. The Gotlander glared back, and their chins came closer and closer until finally Leiknarr pulled Abjorn on past the fire.

  “This is no place to start a blood feud,” he said. “If you cannot hold your drink, go home.”

  “Speak for yourself, brother. I never felt better in my life.”

  It was true. What Leiknarr had said before about rowing and Saxon maids was exactly how Abjorn felt. He wondered if Sigrun, or one of the other two beautiful maidens helping her, would be interested in taking the imaginary Saxons’ place.

  He was not the only one wondering that. A Frank slapped the backside of one of the women as she passed. In response, the maiden slammed the Frank’s head into a post so hard he slumped to the floor.

  The crowd roared.

  The door opened. More men pushed their way inside. The heat and noise grew. Even the maidens had trouble pushing their way through the press. A Danelander and a Frisian began arguing about who was buying the next round. The Danelander pulled his knife. Before he could strike, the Saracen jumped between them. The crowd fell away on either side of him like birch trees bent back by an angry bear. The Frisian, enraged at the Saracen’s interference, bashed him in the ear. The Saracen grabbed the Frisian by the chin with one hand and lifted him off the floor. The hall went quiet. Still using only the one hand, the Saracen carried the Frisian to the door and threw him out.

  The crowd roared again.

  Abjorn slapped his leg. “That man is no thrall. I would like to have him with us next spring when we sail to Mercia. We should ask him to drink with us.”

  Leiknarr beckoned the nearest maiden. Three men at the next bench smashed their drinking horns on their foreheads and laughed. The maiden went to fetch the Saracen.

  “Begging your pardon, Gisl,” Abjorn asked as their host arrived clutching the precious barrel of al-kuhl. “But why are you wasting your time in a place like this? Clearly you are a leader of men.”

  “It is a long story.”

  “We have plenty of time.”

  Leiknarr plunked down three more silver pennies. “And you have conveniently brought the al-kuhl with you. Drink with us.”

  “That is exactly what I wish to do.” The Saracen poured three glasses, one for himself, and two for his new friends.

  “To Odin!” Leiknarr cried, and drank his down.

  “To Odin!” everyone around them agreed.

  Pleased with the acceptance of his toast, Leiknarr essayed another. “To the fair maidens of this hall!”

  “To the fair maidens!”

  The Saracen got into the spirit of things as well. “To Shamash!” he proclaimed.

  “To Shamash!” the crowd answered.

  Leiknarr blinked several times and leaned forward. “Who’s Shamash?”

  The Saracen poured another round for himself and his friends. “It does not matter.”

  “To King Helge!” shouted a voice from the back.

  “To Helge!”

  “To Harald Fairhair!”

  “To Harald Fairhair!”

  A man with a wolf’s head cowl glared at Abjorn. His eyes glittered. “Hail, King Harald!” he repeated.

  “I just did,” Abjorn answered.

  “Then do it again.”

  Abjorn had nothing against King Harald. But he did not like being told what to do by any man.

  “Who are you to tell me whom to hail?” he demanded.

  The man’s eyebrows disappeared into the wolf’s upper jaw. “I am Botni, and Harald is my king. Do you dishonor him?”

  “I dishonor no one,” Abjorn answered. “I hailed your king. If you did not hear me, here is my spoon
to clean your ears.”

  Botni started forward with an oath. Abjorn knocked him sideways. The Norseman fell, his head cracking against the edge of a bench. He slumped to the floor. Abjorn was sorry he did not rise so he could hit the man again.

  “Well struck,” said the Saracen.

  “Abjorn! I knew I would find you here!”

  A giant appeared, looming over the heads of the other men in the crowd. Abjorn wondered why he had not noticed Joffur before—there was no mistaking the man. Perhaps the al-kuhl had distracted him more than he thought.

  Joffur shook his fist. “You told my son I am a liar.”

  “I have not spoken with your son.”

  “It is the same thing. You told your sister-son to tell my son I told him lies about the Sons of Odin. And my son told me! Since Tyrvi is just a child, the insult comes from you!”

  Leiknarr gave Abjorn an irritated look and started to rise. “What exactly did my son say?”

  Joffur pushed him back onto his seat. “This is not your affair, old man. It is Abjorn I accuse, not you.”

  Abjorn was in no mood for bullying, and knocking Botni down had hardly satisfied that mood. If Tyrvi had paid no attention to what Abjorn had told him, so much the better. Joffur was large, but he was no swordsman. But Abjorn would have to get him outside first, where there would be room to move.

  He got to his feet.

  The Saracen was between them at once, the barrel of al-kuhl left on the bench. “Warriors, please. This is no place for quarreling. This house is for drinking and singing songs. If you have to fight, go outside.”

  Joffur glared at him. “Go away, thrall.”

  The Saracen’s eyes narrowed. “I am no thrall. My name is Gisl.”

  “You have no name here, thrall.”

  The Saracen lifted Joffur off his feet as easily as he had lifted the Frisian. Joffur, however, kept himself from being carried to the door by grabbing the roof beams beside his head. The roof creaked as Gisl tried to pull him free, but the two men were equally matched. The Saracen let Joffur go before the roof came down around their ears.

  Joffur let go the beams. He landed heavily, and the moment he did the Saracen tackled him. In the middle of the hall the two men strained, arms locked, their feet scuffing for advantage. Joffur used his greater height and weight to try and force the Saracen to his knees. The Saracen leaned left and right, hoping to throw the larger man off balance. Neither budged. They stood still as a pair of runestones, the rest of the hall just as motionless around them.

  The frieze broke. The Saracen gave beneath the giant. Falling backward, he pulled Joffur with him. They rolled head over heels toward the door, and when they stopped the Saracen was on top, his knees pinning Joffur’s arms. Two quick, stunning blows followed. Joffur’s head snapped back at each, then the Saracen picked him up, lifted him over his head, and threw him out the door.

  He looked back at the hall. Sigrun regarded him with open admiration. Abjorn seethed.

  “Anyone else have a problem with drinking and singing songs?” the Saracen asked.

  The door blew open behind him. Frame and lintel followed. An enormous bear, with eyes as bright as coals and strips of shredded clothing hanging from its shoulders, burst inside.

  It roared. Canines sharp as daggers and twice as thick gleamed.

  Apparently Joffur had not been lying.

  Danes and Franks, Norse and Rus, Wends and Gotlanders all reached for their knives. The bear charged. The Saracen met it unarmed, throwing it the same way he had when it had been Joffur. The bear rolled down the hall with men jumping on it from either side. It shook them off as if they were fleas; they bounced off benches and walls. One of them hit the barrel of al-kuhl and knocked it to the floor. Leiknarr grabbed for it but missed, drink splashing his tunic and trousers. The barrel rolled toward the fire.

  “Stop it!” the Saracen shouted. But, instead of the bear, he threw himself at the al-kuhl.

  These southerners, Abjorn thought. Barely winter, and already they were afraid of the fire going out.

  The barrel rolled into the flames. Like a sap-filled pine cone, it exploded. Mouths of flame clamped onto the beams, walls, and nearest men. The Saracen, who had dropped to the floor with his hands covering his head, jumped up and ran for the back as sparks caught in the dry turf of the roof. The hall went up like parchment in a bonfire.

  Abjorn faced the bear. Small tufts of hair smoldered on its back and shoulders. He dodged its blows and plunged his knife into its ribcage. The bear grunted and pulled away as two more men stabbed it in the back. Abjorn was just barely able to hold onto his blade as he pulled it free.

  The bear backed toward the door. Several men began hammering at the walls with their hands as they saw their escape was blocked. Several more faced the bear. It was every northerner’s worst nightmare, to be trapped in a burning house. No chance of Valhalla, in that death. Odin only took those who died as warriors.

  The bear charged again. The men stabbed and slashed at it, but what they really needed were swords. The bear brushed their weapons away. Blood spouted from its chest and arms, but none of the wounds were deep or fatal. Its small eyes blazed with rage.

  Abjorn joined the attack; the bear knocked him down. He fell over a bench as its jaws crunched the head of the man beside him. He hacked at its flanks, but it was hard to do any real damage while lying on the floor.

  Sigrun appeared, hovering in the air like a swan. Her hair unwound in pale, floating wings behind her. The bear ignored her. Smiling, she reached down for the man who had died. His spirit, ghostly and green, rose to meet her. Gathering it into her arms, she jerked to one side and disappeared in the dark like a bat.

  Abjorn’s heart filled. “A valkyrie,” he whispered.

  Jumping to his feet, he waved his blade. “Odin is with us!” he cried. “The Valkyries are here! The road to Valhalla is open!”

  Leiknarr raced by, his body enveloped in flames. The bear snapped his neck with a blow. Botni staggered to his feet and began to shake. His mouth lengthened into a wolf’s snout, and his ears grew. His cowl crawled over his head. Falling onto all fours, his jaws fastened on the leg of the man beside him.

  The Saracen appeared from the back, his arms full of blankets. “If we hurry and smother the fire,” he said, “we can deal with the berserkers after.”

  Abjorn ignored him. His heart blazed hotter than the al-kuhl or the hall.

  The Saracen looked at him as if he were mad.

  The wolf leaped, jaws gaping. Abjorn caught it in the chest with his knife. With strength greater than he had ever known, he held it on the blade before him. It squirmed like a spitted rabbit, all four legs clawing. Abjorn flicked it away and looked around for the Saracen, but the Saracen had disappeared. If he could only find him again his entrance into Valhalla would be assured.

  Smoke swirled. Heat blistered. Knives and fangs thrust and bit. The Valkyries swept back and forth above it all, happy men in their arms. Leiknarr, the flesh burnt from his face but not the smile. The Rus, the stumps of his arms draped and dripping around Sigrun’s neck. Botni, his great red tongue lolling.

  With an ecstatic shout, Abjorn hacked his way through the flames. A man rushed at him out of the smoke. Abjorn chopped off the man’s hand. The man bashed him with the stump. Abjorn ripped open his belly. Blood sheathed in yellow flames pooled across the floor.

  He dropped his knife when his nails turned to claws. The blood on his teeth and tongue was sweet as honey and hotter than al-kuhl. He ripped and rent and tore at the men and beasts around him. They ripped and rent and tore at him in turn.

  It was glorious. The skalds were right. Dying in battle was the finest thing a man could hope for. Teeth clamped onto the back of his neck. Breath hotter than fire burned his ear. His long claws mauled an eye from the muzzle in front of him. Other claws sliced his belly.

  His heart poured out his life. He looked up into Sigrun’s eyes. His blood stained her robe.

  She smiled.<
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  “Thanks for the help,” Gisl said sarcastically.

  “I have my own interests to look out for,” the old man answered.

  They surveyed the ruin of the longhouse. For the second time in as many days, the place had changed completely. Now it was a pile of charred wood and sod, smoke rising from the wreckage. The collapse of the roof had made sure no one survived.

  “I never saw a group of men so eager to die.”

  Gisl kicked at the smoldering timbers as he spoke, looking for something. Hacked and blackened corpses caught at his feet and ankles. He, of course, looked no worse than he had two days before.

  “You haven’t lived through one of our winters,” the old man said.

  “Why did you let them do it? You could have stopped them at any time. You were the one who turned the big fellow into a bear.”

  “You have your curse, I have mine. And it’s what they expect. Blood and honor is the stupidest code in the world. Someday they’ll see the light and throw me over for someone better, perhaps that Galilean. But until then, they’re mine. I need them.”

  One of the ravens flew up from the rubble with something white and bloody in its beak. An eye. The old man examined it with his one good one, then handed it back to the bird. The raven gulped its prize.

  “You might try Beijing next,” he said, regretting how quickly Gisl’s sojourn in Hedeby had ended. The man might even have felt at home here. “The Chinese are even more civilized than the Moors. They already know how to distill, too, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Gisl bent to pick something up from the wreckage at his feet, frowned, and tossed it away.

  “I have no control over where I go,” he said without looking up.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you. In the meantime, good luck. You need it.”

  He offered Gisl his hand. Gisl ignored it. Instead, he gave a cry of delight as he found the stone he was looking for and picked it up. Snow and smoke swirled, then both he and the old man were gone.