by Damien Black
Focusing his eyes against the gloom Guldebrand saw it was true. The single gate in the walled enclosure was open, and through it now came Canute, accompanied by twenty seacarls, all well dressed in their best furs and wools.
Canute Mountainside, Magnhilda’s cousin and champion, the man who had stood at her side and helped her win the Principality of Scandia. His reputation was legendary – perhaps even Walmond might quail before such a man.
Canute stepped into the uneven circle of light that undulated across the wharf.
‘Magnhilda, Thegn of Scandia, bids you and your made men right welcome,’ boomed the seacarl. He stood more than a head taller than the tallest Northlander there, and was built like an aurochs. His scarlet beard flowed to his waist and was plaited in two great braids. The finger bones of men he’d killed were woven into it. His arms were covered with scars from many battles – his arms, but not the rest of his body. It was said that was as close as men came to doing the great warrior any harm, before he crushed them like flies.
‘The Thegn of Kvenlund-Jótlund and his made men are glad to be here,’ replied Guldebrand, dispensing with formalities quickly and doing a good job – he hoped – of masking his intimidation.
‘Good!’ bellowed Canute. ‘All is good! Come now, let us walk up to Utvalla – the Shield Queen awaits your arrival.’
Shield Queen – Magnhilda had earned the epithet for her stalwart defence during the years when her warband had been severely menaced and brought to the brink of destruction. But Guldebrand also suspected it had been a shrewd and deliberate choice: designed to give her favour with the lowly shieldmen, simple farmers who gave military service for land but held no title.
Without another word they all went through the gate, following the trail up towards Utvalla. Canute had only addressed Guldebrand, giving brief nods of acknowledgement to Varra and Brega – but had pointedly ignored Ragnar though he was standing right next to them. Guldebrand guessed the Shield Queen’s temporary reversal of the wizard’s banishment had not gone down well.
Up close the fortress looked even uglier than it did from a distance. Guldebrand hoped its mistress was more pleasing to the eye – he’d heard her praised as beautiful, but had met enough shieldmaidens to doubt that. They were mostly berserkers – female disciples of Tyrnor whose religion permitted them to abrogate customs that prevented women from fighting. At least the stone hall’s builders had made some effort towards ornamentation, he reflected wryly as he looked at the crude statues flanking the entrance. The graven forms of Sjórkunan, Lord of Oceans, and Thoros, Bringer of Storms, looked down on the new arrivals with unimpressed neutrality. The Lord of Oceans clutched a trident similar to the one carried by Ragnar; the Bringer of Storms held his giant hammer aloft. Whenever he brought it down to strike Middangeard, thunder rolled across the firmament. Or so the priests claimed.
Another sculpted deity caught his eye, just above the crooked lintel: this was of a slender man, a cunning expression on his cruelly handsome face as he ran on winged feet. Logi, the Trickster God. That did not bode well. Rightly reviled as a devil throughout the Frozen Wastes, he was commemorated by few. Perhaps the curse of Utvalla had not been lifted entirely.
Thus it was with a sense of increased foreboding that Guldebrand stepped into the hall. This was a large square room lit by soapstone oil lamps hanging from hoops at all four corners and a great firepit in the centre. It was crowded with seacarls crammed on long low platforms lining the walls. There were also many women, dressed in masculine garb like the men they ate with – shieldmaidens who served their mistress as honour guard.
No dais had been erected, no table set apart, but he recognised the woman he had come to marry immediately. She was sat in the middle of the far row of tables, distinguished only by having a chair to sit on. Magnhilda was certainly not unattractive, though her outlandish appearance destroyed all semblance of femininity. Nearly as tall as a man, her wiry frame was scantily covered with a woollen jerkin, tight hose, with just a short cape of ermine and deerskin boots to ward off the cold. The effect was more convenient than erotic: as though the Thegn of Scandia dressed in anticipation of the need for swift action at any time. She had a broad nose, thin lips and a wide mouth. Most striking of all was her hair, a shock of flaxen locks cut short that stuck out in all directions, giving her a look of untamed wildness. About her knotted wrists were bracelets of bronze and silver; no circlet graced her brows, but a torc of white gold proclaimed her regal status.
‘Guldebrand, Thegn of Kvenlund – and Jótlund – welcome at last to my merry hall!’ she cried, rising.
The playful smile on her lips echoed the one in her voice. She sounded for all the Known World as though she were greeting an acquaintance upon a chance meeting, not a prince who had journeyed many leagues seek marriage alliance with her.
‘Greetings, Thegn of Scandia, soon – I hope – to be Magna of all the Frozen Wastes,’ replied Guldebrand, using the line he had rehearsed before leaving Valholl. He hoped he sounded suave, but many of the assembled seacarls and berserkers clearly didn’t think so. Mutterings and frowns were exchanged. Did he hear the word ‘beardless’ mentioned once or twice? He felt his cheeks burn. He would have to get rid of that epithet – even if it meant punishing its use by death once he was Magnate.
But Magnhilda just laughed. ‘Perhaps, Guldebrand Gunnarson – we shall see! But first, you shall eat and drink with us! You and your men have travelled long and hard to be with us this night, I shall not have you go unfed – such important matters must be spoken of on a full stomach!’
Approving grunts from his seacarls showed what they thought of that. Canute motioned curtly for them to take up spaces left free on the benches at Magnhilda’s table. A skald struck up a ditty, and soon the hall fell back to feasting as slaves brought fresh meat and mead.
As he quaffed his beer, Guldebrand felt himself relax slightly. It was good to be in a hall of men and music after their long journey: in fact Utvalla seemed surprisingly normal after all the fell tales he had heard about the place.
Magnhilda questioned him closely about his victory over Hardrada, but that was to be expected. Her manner was very informal, which helped to relax him more: she leaned back in her pinewood chair, one foot perched on the seat as she drank from a silver flagon. As he recounted his lightning raid across the Hrungnir he felt pride stirring in him, inflated by drink.
Meeting her steely grey eyes he felt something else stirring too: the Shield Queen was far from a classical Northland beauty, but she was attractive in her own way. Even without the prospect of a formidable alliance, the thought of sharing a bed with her pleased him more with every passing moment.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught Ragnar, sitting at a corner of their table, eating little and saying even less. The seacarls nearest to him did not try to coax him from his silence. At one point he caught Magnhilda glancing sidelong at the warlock, but her face gave nothing away.
The slaves were clearing away the empty trenchers and pouring more mead when Magnhilda abruptly stood on her chair and called loudly for silence. The skald stopped playing his lyre and the chattering ceased. All heads turned to look at the Shield Queen as she hopped lightly over the table past Guldebrand and strode across the floor to stand before the firepit.
‘Seacarls of Scandia and Kvenlund-Jótlund!’ she called in her high clear voice. ‘Men – and women – made strong in the eyes of Tyrnor! A great gathering of the finest of the Frozen Wastes!’
Magnhilda stifled the rising cheers with an impatient wave of her calloused hand. ‘Let us not prevaricate – the noble Thegn of Kvenlund-Jótlund is here for one simple reason!’
She paused to allow a dramatic hush to fill the hall.
‘He seeks marriage alliance, betwixt the two of us, that we might join forces and smash those of the Stormrider!’
This time not even the Shield Queen could stop the chorus of approval. Tankards were introduced to tables with hearty thumps as her seacar
ls and shieldmaidens roared their assent. They clearly liked the idea of conquest at least.
‘But,’ she added when the noise had died down. ‘I did not spend the last ten years crushing men who stood in my way only to suborn myself lightly to another!’
This time most of the yells were female. Guldebrand wondered at the martial harridans, who looked as wild a bunch of women as any he’d ever seen.
‘All right, all right,’ Magnhilda went on, softening her voice to calm her shieldmaidens and placate her guests. ‘Be sure that I mean no disrespect to the Thegn, whose recent prowess deserves praise.’
She turned slowly as she spoke now, as if daring all the listeners to meet her eyes.
‘He may be young in years, but let no man or woman deny what he has achieved!’ she cried. ‘The icicles of blood fell like silver-red rain amidst the tumult of axes when he crossed the Hrungnir! Was it not so?’
‘JA!’
‘His forces stand ready to meet the Stormrider’s surf horses, as they tear up the sail-road towards the lands he has taken! Is it not so?’
‘JA!!’
Her voice went up a notch. ‘But together, he and I shall raise an army by the sail-road and the plough-road, and we shall bring the spear din to his shores and break his ears! To Oldrik we will give the sleep of the sword, to his mead halls the bane of wood! His wave-swine we shall cut open on the skin of Valhalla, and give the feeders of ravens to the Lord of Oceans! Will it not be so?
‘JAAAAAA!!!’
‘On two conditions,’ she shouted above the din. ‘First, no marriage shall be consecrated until we stand victorious over the Stormrider’s corpse! I shall not bind myself to a man until I am sure of what I am getting in return!’
Throats made hoarse by shouting roared to the rafters. The hall was a tumult of excitement. It was a feeling Guldebrand shared: her first condition was a fair one and he had anticipated it. All that mattered was that she allied her forces to his own. And it also meant that if he changed his mind after the war he could always refuse to go through with the marriage, depending on how weak the conflict had left her forces.
He was entirely unprepared for her second condition however.
‘Two,’ she yelled. ‘I will not even consent to betroth myself to a man whose mettle I have not tested personally.’
Guldebrand blinked as she turned to look at him. ‘Your deeds speak well of you, Guldebrand Gunnarson,’ she said. ‘But I shall never consent to marry a man who cannot best me in combat. So if you wish your suit to be granted, you must fight me now – to the first blood! If victory is yours, let us be betrothed henceforth in sight of men, women and gods. If not… there shall be no alliance.’
A confused silence fell abruptly on the hall. No one had expected this. Glancing over at Ragnar, Guldebrand could see even he looked taken aback. All eyes turned to the Thegn, staring across the heavy silence. This was his moment, and his alone. No one would or could advise him now.
Placing his tankard firmly on the table, he stood and met her gaze.
‘The Thegn of Kvenlund-Jótlund accepts the Thegn of Scandia’s challenge!’ he declaimed. ‘Let this hall now resonate with the yelling of Nurë’s offspring!’
The next cheer could have reduced Utvalla to one storey by taking the roof off the rafters. Guldebrand allowed himself a slight smile of satisfaction. His courage had been tested, and he’d not been found wanting. He had found his eloquence at just the right time too – skalds personified swords as the children of the fire god, worshipped by all smiths. Two of Nurë’s finest children were already being taken down off the walls, along with a couple of stout shields, when Magnhilda called for silence again.
‘But stay!’ she cried. ‘In your lust to see a good fight, have you so soon forgotten who sits among us?’ She pointed an accusing finger at Ragnar. ‘The White Eye, banished till recently from these very lands!’
Boos and hisses went up from the hall.
‘He shouldn’t be here!’ cried a berserker.
‘He serves the Thegn of Kvenlund – neither of them should be here!’ yelled a seacarl, getting more than a few murmurs of approval.
Magnhilda rounded on him.
‘We shall not judge our honoured guest by the counsel he keeps!’ she cried. Then a cunning look entered her eyes. ‘Not so long as he shows willingness to bring his advisers to heel. I would not have it said I was brought low in single combat by the workings of a warlock.’ She turned to address Ragnar directly. ‘You are here only on my sufferance,’ she said. ‘As such, you shall obey my command or face banishment again from this hall!’
‘And that command would be?’ queried Ragnar icily.
‘You shall consent to have your wrists bound in links of cold iron, to guarantee no sorcery is used to sway the outcome of this duel.’
Ragnar rose, looking genuinely perturbed and angry for the first time since Guldebrand had known him.
‘I shall do no such thing,’ he snarled.
‘Then I hereby declare thee banished,’ proclaimed the Shield Queen. ‘Canute, eject this demonolator from my hall!’
If Canute was afraid he showed no signs of it. He rose to do his cousin’s bidding, other warriors following suit.
‘Wait!’ cried Guldebrand. ‘There is no need for such unseemly behaviour!’ Turning to Ragnar he adopted a conciliatory tone. ‘White Eye, thus far you have served me well and loyally. If you consent to do this, I hereby swear that whatever the outcome of this fight, you shall be freed of your shackles directly after.’
Ragnar said nothing. He seemed genuinely lost for words. Guldebrand leaned towards him. ‘Now is the time to show some trust, Ragnar.’ He could not help but smile as he parroted the mage’s earlier words back at him.
Ragnar looked from Guldebrand to Magnhilda to Canute who stood ready to close on him, his hand on the hilt of a great axe he wore tucked into his girdle like a twig.
‘What guarantee can the Thegn of Scandia give me?’ he asked coldly.
‘I swear to do exactly as the Thegn of Kvenlund-Jótlund has just said,’ declared the Shield Queen solemnly. ‘In sight of Tyrnor, Sjórkunan and Thoros who sees all from his airy palace in the skies.’
Ragnar gave the most barely perceptible of nods.
‘Let’s to it then!’ cried Magnhilda, before turning to tell a slave to fetch the smith.
The hall erupted into raucous applause. More mead was served, the skald began playing again, and wagers were exchanged on the coming contest. Guldebrand could not help but overhear some of the nearest odds being shouted. None of them favoured him.
Ragnar had resumed his seat, an expression of cold fury carved across his face. Guldebrand didn’t envy the smith his next job.
Presently the terrified blacksmith had done his work, after taking two stoops of mead. Ragnar had sat stiff and motionless the whole while, his good eye looking as cloudy as his bad one.
Guldebrand and Magnhilda stood ten paces apart, both armed with sword and shield. He was wearing his mail byrnie, but she had availed herself of no armour. That came as little surprise – she had been a berserker before becoming a thegn after all. At least that gave him a slight advantage in terms of protection.
He sized up his opponent. Like any Northlander of his birth, he had learned to fight from a young age, but the Shield Queen was more than twice his age and had far more experience. She was strong for her sex, though he would probably have a natural advantage over her there. That just left raw skill at arms… and there her reputation preceded her.
‘FIGHT!’
Canute bellowed the command. Magnhilda rushed at him, and within a few seconds Guldebrand knew her reputation was fully justified. They circled around the firepit, exchanging sword blows and shield barges, Magnhilda pressing him hard and forcing him onto the back foot immediately.
His father Gunnar had taught him there were only so many types of fighter. Men like Walmond and Canute relied on sheer strength to win the day; they were big hitters who overpowe
red their opponents with ferocity and aggressive swordplay. Others were more lithe, far from weak but likely to use dexterity and cunning, turning defence into attack. Both he and Magnhilda fell into the latter category, and should by rights cancel each other out. Going on that basis, it was likely to be a long and painful fight between them.
That just left one problem. Magnhilda was a far better fighter of their kind than he was, and Guldebrand knew it after less than a minute.
Hopping back lightly out of range to buy him a few precious seconds, Guldebrand tried desperately to think of some ploy that would avert a disastrous and humiliating defeat. She paused to let him have his respite, her face a fierce mask of concentration as she held her sword point towards him just above her shield. She was seemingly content to let him take the initiative.
His youthful impetuosity got the better of him, and he took the bait.
The ringing of sword on sword punctuated the ravening cries of the spectators as he chased her back around the firepit, the mead he’d drunk pouring out of him in torrents. At one point he thought he had her… but she dodged his thrust and came back at him ferociously, instantly reversing the cyclical dance as she came after him with her questing sword.
He felt himself beginning to tire, ever so slightly. He’d just had a long journey, and at sixteen summers had yet to grow into the fullness of his strength. Endurance now added its weight to the tally of superior skill and experience being thrown at him.
Guldebrand ducked a swipe. They were both pulling their blows so as to reduce the chances of lethality, and that gave him some chance: had it been a fight to the death he had no doubt whose shade would be seeking the Halls of Feasting and Fighting by now. Magnhilda followed up with a vicious shield barge: it caught him in the shoulder and jarred painfully, but fortunately didn’t draw blood.
Staggering back, he raised his own target to fend off another deft strike, managing to get in a counter of his own that at least paused her onslaught. For the next half minute they stood rooted to the spot, trading blows…