by Swan Road
Like the thick snow clouds massed in the pale, sullen sky, the breath of the dogs, oxen, and horses billowed and swirled, mingling with the fine clouds of powdery snow churned up by paws and hooves alike, and with the white wisps of clammy mist that curled and drifted across the low-lying land, clinging to its wet hollows. Ahead, beyond the wide stretch of wild, snowy plain and the icy edges of the still, weed-grown mere, where swans and ducks could be flushed aplenty in the shorter summer months and brought down by the great gyrfalcons of the jarlar, rose the dark-forested hills that were the destination of the hunting party, cutting a jagged oblique against the horizon. At the fore of the hunting party, the dogs danced, yapping and straining at leashes held by the hunters; and beside his father, Ivar rode, mounted upon a strong, spirited steed as white as the new-fallen snow.
There were in the Northland two kinds of men: those who were short and dark, and those who were tall and fair. Ivar was one of these last. His long, flowing mane of red-gold hair gleamed like flame-kissed wheat in the grey light of day, reflecting the frosted rays of the dull sun in such a way that it seemed a halo shone about his proud, handsome head. But he was no angel such as Wulfgar had heard populated the heaven of those whose god was the Christ. In truth, Wulfgar thought Ivar a demon, the personification of the giant Loki, who had insinuated himself into Asgard, the realm of the gods, and who was the contriver of all wickedness. Except when alight with malice or cruel mirth, Ivar's blue eyes were as hard and cold as ice— even stern Ragnar's had more warmth— and as watchful as those of a predator alert for prey. His face was lean, the bones finely molded, and in combination with his aquiline nose gave him a fierce, hawkish appearance. As was customary, the ends of his long mustache were neatly braided and his beard was short-cropped, both forming an elegant frame for his sensual lips, habitually curved in a faint, arrogant sneer.
Although tall, broad of shoulder, long of limb, and powerfully muscled, there was nothing slow or ponderous about Ivar. He moved with such suppleness and grace that he had on his first raid earned his sobriquet, the Boneless, when, blessed with the ability to contort his body in ways that were uncanny, he had effortlessly evaded enemy weapons and dealt his foes many a death blow. Now he was in his prime, and his lithe figure and superior skill with a broadsword were such that his very name struck terror into the hearts of men. But Wulfgar's own heart held jealousy and hatred for Ivar, as well as a grudging respect and admiration for his prowess as a warrior. Only now and again, when Ivar turned those pitiless blue eyes on him, did Wulfgar scent a mortal danger. Someday, Ivar would slay him, he thought, or he would be forced to kill Ivar. This, Yelkei had told Wulfgar once, long ago, insisting that his destiny and Ivar's were forever intertwined, like the interlaced branches of the pine and spruce trees that stood close and thick in the woods. But young and frightened by Yelkei's eerie prophesying, Wulfgar had flung away from her angrily, crying out that she was an old fool and a fraud and a spiteful-tongued witch. Since then, hurt and offended by his rejection, she had held her peace and had not spoken to him again of what she saw in the fires and mists, and in her castings of the rune stones.
Still, Yelkei had done a strange thing this dawn as Wulfgar was tightly strapping the last of his father's and half brothers' gear and provisions onto the sledge: She had glided up beside him, as dark as a raven of ill omen in her old, worn fur cloak, and laying one yellow, bony, clawlike hand upon his arm, she had muttered:
"Have a care, Wulfgar. This day, you will decide your destiny."
To Wulfgar's deep frustration, there had been no time to ask what she meant by her cryptic words; for just then, talking and laughing boisterously, Ragnar and his sons had exited the great mead hall of Ragnar's hof a large longhouse, and Yelkei had slipped away as silently as she had come, leaving Wulfgar standing there, staring after her, a chill in his bones that had had naught to do with the biting wind. Now, as he thought once more of her low, enigmatic pronouncement, he was unable to repress a shudder. Although Wulfgar professed scorn for Yelkei's unworldly power, this was because he did not understand it, and so it frightened him— as all things not understood by men are frightening. Much of her knowledge, he judged, came from nothing more than an innate shrewdness about human nature, and from her keeping her eyes and ears open in such places as Ragnar's great mead hall and the marketsquare. Yet there were times, Wulfgar was forced to admit, when Yelkei's slanted black eyes took on a blank, farseeing gaze in her wrinkled moon face, and she spoke in a voice that did not seem to come from her own throat, foretelling what could have been known to no man, unless he were told it by the gods. Even mighty Ragnar feared her at those times, and although she was naught but a yellow slave from the vast grassy steppes of the Eastlands, did not dare to lift a hand against her. Only Ivar was brave enough to deride her; but his laughter too died away uneasily when she stared at him steadily, her small, stooped figure suddenly looming large and forbidding in the face of his mockery. Because of this, Wulfgar deep down inside thought that Yelkei was a true spaewife, and he could not deny that her words earlier this morn haunted and troubled him. With all his heart, he wished he knew what her warning had meant.
He was so lost in contemplation of this that he did not hear Ragnar's terse command to halt, and only Ivar's drawled taunt, inquiring whether Wulfgar were bent on going a-víking in a heavily laden sledge, and the laughter of the rest of the hunting party in response to the gibe, brought him to his senses. At that, flushing a dull red with anger and embarrassment, Wulfgar drew the oxen up sharply. Then, springing lightly from the seat, he moved to untie the thongs that secured the provisions and to unwrap the hides that contained generous quantities of salted bear meat, smoked fish, dried fruit, and hard bread; for the gelid air and riding both quickened a man's hunger, especially during the long, dark winter months, the mørketiden, the murky time. The stout barrels of mead and bjórr were opened and cups filled. When all had been served, the hunters, Wulfgar, and the other freedmen and slaves who accompanied the hunting party were permitted to take their own shares. Hunkered down beside the sledge to block the worst of the wind, Wulfgar tore off with his fingers chunks of the tough meat and coarse bread, chewing slowly to savor each bite and washing the food down with long swallows of mead. Gradually, his belly grew replete, his body warmed from the strong drink. For a moment, he closed his eyes, longing to curl up by a fire somewhere and to sleep until the summer sun woke the earth from its winter slumber. But too quickly the small meal was finished; the short break was ended; and at Ragnar's order, the hunting party was already mounting up.
Yelkei was just a fool, a spiteful old fool, Wulfgar told himself again darkly as he repacked the sledge, clambered back onto the seat, and once more took up the reins. She had spoken so to him merely to frighten him, to put him on his guard against perfidy this day; for she feared that Ragnar and his sons would slay him, given the chance to do the deed without fear of blame or reprisal— and more than one man had failed to return from a hunt. The bears, wolves, lynx, badgers, wolverines, and elk that stalked the long-shadowed forests were dangerous creatures, not so easy to kill as the foxes, reindeer, roe deer, lemmings, beaver, martens, and hares that also abided there. Accidents happened, just as they did upon the seas, whether the prey was whales or sea lions— or the towns of the kingdoms of the Eastlands and the Southlands. Still, Wulfgar did not think it likely that Ragnar and his sons would seek to be rid of him when there were others to bear witness against them, jarlar like Björn Ironside and Hasting, who bore Wulfgar no grudge and, indeed, found no small amusement and satisfaction in his being a thorn in his father's and half brothers' sides. There were those who had as great a desire as Wulfgar to see Ragnar and his sons laid low, and who, if the opportunity arose, would be quick and glad to speak against them before the Thing. Although he had carved out his own kingdom in the Northland, Ragnar was still subject to the Jutish king across the Skagerrak, and he was no fool, besides. Yelkei was the fool, Wulfgar thought again, with her fires and mis
ts and rune stones, meddling in what was the business of the gods, not of men. Like as not, she would cause the wrath of the gods to fall upon him, and he would wind up accursed, doomed to wander Náströnd, the Shore of Corpses, along Hel's river Gyoll until Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods.
Then, as he remembered how Yelkei loved him and had cared for him after his mother's death, Wulfgar's heart softened and he felt ashamed of his uncharitable thoughts. She only sought to protect him, as she always had. It was not her fault if her powers disturbed and unnerved him— and if he, being too proud and stubborn to admit that fact, grew angry in order to hide his fear. That was the way of a man; as a woman, Yelkei should understand that— and perhaps she did, for she never reproached him for his harsh words, but quieted like a small, nesting bird and bent her head and hands to her tasks. Later, she would see to it that he had a second bowl of broth or stew to ease his hunger, or an extra cup of mead or bjórr to warm him against the winter wind that crept through the chinks and cracks of the tiny, wattle-and-daub hut he had, as a freedman, been allotted within Ragnar's palisade. The hut had only one room, heated solely by a small stone hearth set in the center of the hard earth floor; but resting there was better than sleeping in the crowded slave pens or bedding down outside in the snow. Yelkei slept curled up in a corner by the door of the hut, and saw to Wulfgar's needs in her spare time, cooking or preserving whatever small game he killed or fish he caught in his own free moments, and cleaning, washing, and sewing for him late into the night, by the dim glow of the fire and the rushlights.
As he thought now of these things, Wulfgar knew in his heart that whatever Yelkei had meant by her words, she wished only to protect him from harm. It would be wise to be wary of treachery in the dark forest, he thought, unconsciously laying one hand upon the scramasax he carried in a leather sheath at his belted waist. He had forged the single-edged knife himself, of iron, setting the blade into a fine, well-polished handle he had fashioned from the strong bone of an elk.
Except for Ivar, Wulfgar feared no mortal man, only the elves who stalked the woods, and the dwarves, giants, and trolls who lurked in the caves of the hills and the mountains alike. He had never forsaken his dream of becoming a warrior, and every chance he found, he practiced in secret with the weapons he had made from materials foraged or filched here and there: a case-hardened spear, its smooth shaft of ash, its sharp head of iron; a longbow, and arrows tipped with iron barbs and fletched with feathers stolen from the gyrfalcons in Ragnar's mews; a round, leather-covered, lime-wood shield with an iron boss and rimmed with strips of gilt-bronze; and his most prized possession, a battle-ax formed of a keenly honed blade he had engraved with battle scenes and Odinn's runes, and mounted to a stout, thong- wrapped ash haft long and heavy enough that wielding it required two hands. He called the weapon Blood-Drinker.
He had no broadsword, for without formal training in its use, he could not have hoped realistically to prevail over those experienced in its maneuvers. But although wielding the battle-ax, too, required a certain amount of skill, its effectiveness relied more upon its user's strength, of which Wulfgar had no mean measure. More than one bush, branch, or young tree had met its demise at the hands of Wulfgar and the blade of his battle-ax; and although it was not meant for hunting, he had, some years back, blooded the weapon on the throat of a great red stag. He had first wounded the animal with his spear, bringing the mighty beast to its knees before setting its soul free, inhaling its last, dying breath, and, afterward, marking his face with its warm, thick blood in his own initiation rite as a man, a hunter, and a warrior. He and Yelkei had eaten well for many long weeks after that.
As most thegns did, Wulfgar carried his favored weapon at his back, in a wide leather scabbard; and the feel of it beneath his fur cloak reassured him, just as his scramasax did, that if trouble came this winter's day, he would be prepared for it. If he must die and spend nine days and nights wandering Náströnd, the Shore of Corpses, to the barred gates of Hel (for being no true warrior, Wulfgar had no thought of being claimed by a golden Valkyrie and borne as a hero over the rainbow bridge, Bifröst, unto Valhöll, Odinn's great mead Hall of the Slain, in Asgard), he would not go without taking his enemies with him.
Yet, curiously, Yelkei had not warned of his death, only of his destiny. At the thought, Wulfgar sighed heavily. There was no point in his dwelling further on her words; he could not fathom their meaning, and he was not an old dog to worry a bone long after its meat had been picked clean and its marrow sucked dry. He would trust to the gods and to his battle-ax to protect him. A man could do no more than that.
The hunting party had reached the edge of the forest now. There, Wulfgar drew the sledge to a halt and jumped down from the seat, for from here, he must go on afoot; the oxen and sledge were unable to keep pace with the horses on the narrow, winding trails in the woods. As did the other freedmen, he filled flasks with mead and bjórr for his masters and wrapped some of the food, as well, into a pack he hefted onto his back. Then he strapped on his snowshoes and, gathering up the spears of his father and half brothers, set out at an easy trot behind the hunters and mounted men, leaving only the slaves behind to guard the oxen and the sledge.
Upon the heath, the winter's day had been twilight-dim, and the forest was duskier yet, long with shadows and deep with silence, so it seemed a place not of man and beast, but of the gods and mythical creatures, and the hunting party intruders, daring to trespass where it was not meet or safe to tread. He was not alone in this feeling, Wulfgar thought. Even the jarlar and the thegns talked more softly as they entered the woods— although it might have been because sounds carried in the forest hush and would alert the herds of elk and deer to the presence of men— and there was awe and not a little fear upon the faces of the freedmen, who came seldom to the woods, which was a place not only of elves, but also of other beings not human and of fantastic beasts, as well. It was said that not only dwarves, giants, and trolls, but also dragons lived in the caves of the forested hills and breathed a fire as deadly as the thunderbolts that flew from Thor's great hammer, Mjöllnir, during a thunderstorm. Wulfgar himself had never seen an elf, a dwarf, a giant, a troll, or a dragon; but as the skálds, the bards, sang of them, they must exist, he thought, and he was glad the hunting party moved so quietly, almost furtively through the woods.
Like stalactites, icicles hung from tree and bush alike, and snow weighed down the boughs and lay thick upon the ground; in places, the wind had blown drifts several feet deep against thickets, brambles, and tree trunks. Scattered upon the snow's whiteness were green needles and brown cones from the evergreen trees, and brittle, dead leaves from the deciduous trees. The naked branches of these last, entangled and heavily encrusted with ice, resembled an enormous cobweb spun by some unearthly, gargantuan spider, Wulfgar thought, and they swayed and creaked in the wind, singing a ghostly song that sent a grue up his spine. Sometimes, the burden of the snow and ice was so heavy that without warning, a dead limb would snap from its trunk to crash to the ground below. He had seen a man struck and killed that way once, long ago, and so he kept a wary eye out for rotten boughs.
But there was beauty as well as danger to be found in the forest. The tall, feathery pine and spruce trees were haunts from which the winter birds chirped their plaintive songs above an earthen floor thickly carpeted with aromatic heather, lichens, and moss underneath the snow. From the summits of the hills, clear-running rills with sweet melodies all their own twisted and tumbled down through deep, narrow, rocky crevasses and shallower, wider gullies they had carved out over the years; they spilled in waterfalls over stony outcrops into small, secluded pools, half frozen now in the dead of winter and whose gentle rippling was a harmonious whisper on the wind. The crisp air was clean, untainted by the smells of smoke from cooking fires and burning fat from rushlights and whale-oil lamps, and fragrant with the scents of pine and spruce and the wintry decay of the rich, dark earth. Inhaling deeply of the forest perfume, Wulfgar trailed along in
the wake of his father and half brothers, his shuttered gaze enviously regarding Ivar, who rode upon the showy, snow-white steed. It was not fair, Wulfgar thought bitterly, that one so wicked should be so blessed by the gods. But then, Yelkei had told him often enough that life was seldom fair, and from the time he was old enough to grasp such things himself, Wulfgar had seen that this was indeed so. Some men were born to the great mead halls of the jarlar, others, to the slaves' iron pens, and most, like him, to that place in between, where a man must struggle to survive, having neither riches of his own nor a master bound by law to ensure his welfare.