A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  Erlan shoved him away. ‘Back off, you big troll.’ He glared around the circle of faces. ‘Now we have him, we keep him alive. His friends could be back any moment – and a lot more of them for all we know.’

  ‘Them piss-livered færies are long gone.’ Aleif spat disgustedly. ‘You can smell their soiled breeks from here.’

  ‘Sure that ain’t your own, Red-Cheeks?’ Einar drawled, one finger absently digging in his nostril.

  ‘Maybe they are gone,’ said Erlan. ‘Maybe not. But we can’t take that chance. And the king will want to see this prisoner as soon as possible.’

  Sigurd snorted. ‘My father will have no interest in this piece of dog-dirt beyond what he has to tell. After that, he’s a dead man.’ He yanked back the prisoner’s head. ‘You hear that, Gotar? You’re a dead man.’ He spat in the man’s face.

  Erlan watched spittle slide down his cheek in the light of Jovard’s fire. ‘Look at me.’ The prisoner’s eyes shifted to his. ‘Will you tell us what we want to know?’

  A shallow smile crept across his pain-drawn features. ‘Dead men don’t speak, do they?’

  ‘Vargalf could have him singing like a lark in the time it would take you to sharpen that knife there.’ Sigurd pointed at the seax on Erlan’s belt. ‘Couldn’t you?’ Vargalf was standing a little back from the circle. He looked from the prince to the man on his knees, then nodded.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Erlan replied. ‘The longer we stay here the more we risk the lives of these men.’

  ‘And if we drag him all the way to Uppsala, what are the chances the fool dies on us on the way? Then what? All this will be for nothing. Do it now and the job’s done.’

  ‘But the men—’

  ‘They don’t care! If you doubt me, put it to a vote.’

  Erlan looked from face to face. A couple were missing now. Gloinn Short-Shanks, Eirik Hammer. He looked at the prisoner. Even in the half-light, his face was pale and bloodless. If he did die on them, Gloinn and Eirik would have died for nothing. Erlan spat into the dirt. ‘Piss on it then. Who wants that we stay and do this now?’

  There was a rattle of war gear. Except for Jovard, everyone had raised a shield or an axe. Even Einar. ‘You too, fat man?’

  Einar shrugged. ‘Reckon toting his sorry carcass halfway across Sveäland ain’t worth the bother. I don’t suppose his crew would return the favour if it was one of us.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Sigurd said, grinning. The prisoner stirred uneasily. Vargalf stepped forward.

  ‘No.’ Erlan palmed his chest. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Tie him up.’

  The prisoner was soon bound with his back to a beech-trunk, arms pinioned at the elbow to his side. ‘First we need to seal that.’ Erlan pointed at the stump of his severed hand, from which droplets of dark blood still dripped. ‘Ready?’

  The prisoner said nothing. His mouth was a weld of hate and fear. Erlan went to the fire and put his seax in the flame. It soon began to drink up the heat, the patterns in its spine shimmering and shifting in colour. He removed it just before it began to glow red.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Arn Skytja.’

  ‘You’re an archer then?’

  The prisoner scoffed. ‘Not any more.’

  Erlan picked up a stick and told him to bite down on it, hard. Arn obliged, and when the blade touched he gave a long, deep moan, clamping his jaw against the wood. Soon as he caught the whiff of burnt flesh, Erlan snatched his knife away. He wanted to seal the wound, not roast it. Still, he couldn’t help thinking this was all upside down – trying to save a man’s life only for as long as it took to get out of him whatever he knew.

  After that...

  ‘You’re going to give me answers, you understand?’ Arn’s eyes were still half-closed from the pain. ‘Who is your lord?’

  Arn tipped back his head and smiled. ‘Go fuck a goat, Sveär.’

  Erlan buried his fist in Arn’s stomach. The prisoner bucked forward. Erlan grabbed his throat and banged his head back against the tree. ‘I’m no damn Sveär.’

  ‘One turd stinks like another.’

  Erlan stepped back, then punched him as hard as he could in the jaw. There was a crack. Arn’s head slumped forward. When Erlan pushed it back blood was streaming from his mouth. ‘Now – again. Where do you come from?’

  Arn laughed, making the blood on his lip bubble. ‘From Freyja’s wet cunny.’

  Erlan grimaced. He had never had to break a man before. It suddenly occurred to him he didn’t know how. Killing a man was simple enough. But to make a man talk...

  He seized Arn by the throat and squeezed, tighter and tighter. ‘You’re going to tell me who sent you here, or else you’ll never see another dawn.’ There was a rasping sound in Arn’s gullet. Erlan held on a little longer, feeling his nails dig deep into the man’s flesh. Then he released him.

  Arn sucked down a few gulps of air. ‘I’ve already seen my last dawn, you limp-prick fool. Are you the only one here can’t see that?’

  ‘Enough of this damned foreplay!’ Sigurd exclaimed, losing patience. ‘You talk about wasting time, then expect us to listen to this stinking worm throw insults at you. Vargalf – find out what he knows.’

  His oathman drew a knife from his belt. It was narrower than a normal seax, double-edged, with a point that glinted needle-sharp. He looked at Erlan, waiting patiently for him to step aside. ‘This is man’s work,’ he murmured.

  Erlan moved away, feeling his humiliation flush up his neck. But he also felt relieved. Man’s work or not – he had no taste for it.

  Without another word, Vargalf took hold of the man’s collar and cut through his quilted corselet and the tunic below. Once through, he pulled aside the two halves, exposing Arn’s naked torso. The bowman’s skin flickered gold and black and yellow in the flame-light.

  Vargalf nodded to Sigurd. ‘Ask your questions, lord.’

  If there had been any other men lurking in the darkness – or wolves or bears or trolls or foul spirits of the night – the screaming would have sent them running far, far away. At times the sights and sounds were more than Erlan could stomach. Several of the other men turned away despite that, between them, there was little in the way of woundings and inflicted pain that they hadn’t witnessed before.

  And piece by bloody piece, Sigurd got his answers. At first, Arn was iron-hard – harder than many men would have been in his position. But true to Sigurd’s boasting, it didn’t take long for Vargalf to pry his stubborn mouth open. This is what came out.

  Arn was an Eastern Gotar. Most of his war band were, though some came from further south in Skania. They were sworn, he said, to the dead man in the ring-mail – an earl called Thorgil Thorinsson – who in turn was sworn to Ringast Haraldarsson, eldest son of the Wartooth and the man King Harald had appointed lord over all Eastern Gotarland in his stead. Sigurd had leaped on this like a dog on fresh liver, demanding to know more about the Wartooth. But Arn gave up little, except that he’d heard the Wartooth was bent on settling some old scores with the Bastard King – so they called King Sviggar – but he didn’t know the reasons why.

  To drag even this much out of him left Arn mutilated beyond recognition: an eye was gone and one ear – its twin spared only so that the wretched man might hear Sigurd’s questions. His torso was a web of bloody slashes, exposing sinew and muscle beneath. He had only two fingers left on his good hand. His tongue, of course, was untouched. And still Vargalf had not uttered a single word.

  But Sigurd wanted more. More about this score the Wartooth intended to settle. So on it went. In a faltering stream of agonized whimpers, Arn confessed that there was talk of an invasion this summer, though none but the Wartooth knew exactly when, not even his son Ringast. All Arn knew was that King Harald and his sons were gathering two armies: one at the hall of Leithra, on the isle of Zealand in Danmark. The other was at Dannerborg, his son Ringast’s stronghold in Gotarland.


  ‘How many at Leithra?’ Sigurd demanded.

  ‘I— I don’t know,’ Arn sobbed between blood-encrusted lips.

  Sigurd nodded to Vargalf. ‘Again.’

  ‘No! I beg you. Please!... I swear I’ve never even been there.’

  ‘What of Dannerborg then? You know that place well enough.’

  ‘Aye— I do...’

  ‘Well then – how many there?’

  ‘Truly, my lord, I don’t know. Please.’ He was staring out of his one eye with horror at the blade dangling languorously from Vargalf’s hand.

  ‘You will tell me the truth. And soon.’ Sigurd smiled maliciously. ‘Cut him there.’

  Seeing where he was pointing, Arn started babbling. ‘I swear, my lord! I would tell you if I knew. There are many men, but I know not what numbers... Please!’ He continued pleading while Vargalf approached. With grim resolution, he removed Arn’s belt and unceremoniously pulled down his hoes. Arn sagged against the ropes, a pathetic half-skinned carcass, shivering with pain, his manhood slack as a dead stoat.

  ‘I’ll give you one more chance. Although I am curious to see what Vargalf can make of that,’ said Sigurd with a chuckle.

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ said Erlan.

  ‘Of course he knows! Just as he knew all the rest!’

  ‘Look at him, for Frigg’s sake! If he knew, he’d have told you already.’

  ‘That’s right, lord,’ Arn whimpered. ‘I swear I know no more!’

  ‘You’ve had your chance.’ Sigurd’s mouth was a cruel line. ‘But I promise you, we soon will know how many spears these Danish dogs have gathered. Vargalf!’

  Arn released a long, mournful howl as Vargalf set about fresh butchery. But suddenly something streaked through the air, landing with a thud that cut the scream dead. There, buried to the haft in the Gotar’s heart, was a seax. Vargalf jerked round to see who was responsible.

  ‘Enough now.’ Erlan nodded. ‘That’s enough.’

  Arn had died instantly. No one said a word, not even Sigurd. Erlan went to Arn’s lifeless body and pulled out his knife.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we ride for Uppsala.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a brooding return to Uppsala. They had some certainty now, but little in the way of detail, and Erlan’s first taste of authority had been sour as rotten milk.

  On arrival, of course, they took what they knew straight before the king. He was out on the meadows to the north of the halls.

  ‘You must raise the levies, Father,’ Sigurd had insisted after his breathless report. ‘You must do it now.’

  But his father’s answer was a weary snort. Then he pulled his bowstring a little tighter, making the yew-wood yawn.

  For a change, Erlan had some sympathy with the prince. The king’s intransigence apparently knew no bounds. But it wasn’t his place to say that. Not yet. Instead he watched the old warlord still his breath, narrow one eye and release his bowstring. A second later the shaft slammed into a linen target fifty paces off with a satisfying thtuck. This one had strayed left, outside the cluster of arrows already shot.

  ‘Bah!’ Sviggar scowled. ‘These damned old fingers.’ He gazed up at the bright clouds scudding west. ‘The wind’s picked up.’

  Erlan had already noticed it, feeling the stronger lick of air cool against his face, carrying with it the scent off the patchwork of hayfields to the north-east.

  Sviggar smiled at him over his shoulder. ‘Young Erlan – time was I would have felt the change on my cheek without even thinking. Back then I never used to miss.’

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Sigurd gripped his father’s arm. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t clear. The Wartooth is raising an army against us!’

  Sviggar shrugged off his son’s hand and turned back to his target. ‘Your brother would never have sounded so shrill.’

  Sigurd glowered, as he always did at mention of his dead brother. ‘By all the gods, tell him Bodvar!’

  The Vestmanland earl obliged him. ‘I fear the prince is right, my lord. Summoning the levies is the best course. That much is clear.’

  ‘Is it?’ Sviggar took another arrow from his attendant and nocked it to his bow. ‘Then tell me, my worthy earl, how many spears are there in this army of his, heh?’

  ‘Well...’ Bodvar faltered. ‘Knowing King Harald’s strength—’

  ‘We do not know it.’ Sviggar loosed his shot. This time, the arrow hit among the main cluster. Sviggar smiled to himself and held out his hand for another. ‘There, you see. It was the wind.’

  ‘We would have known it,’ Sigurd shot Erlan a scathing look, ‘were it not that this man couldn’t stomach a few drops of blood.’

  ‘He told us everything he knew,’ replied Erlan.

  ‘So you say... You know, perhaps you’d better serve the queen. I hear she takes a keen interest in needlework. That may be more to your liking.’

  ‘Enough of this foolishness,’ Sviggar snapped, rounding on his son. ‘So, my fine prince, I’ve listened to you. Now you hear me. Suppose an army is gathering somewhere beyond the Kolmark. What would you have us do? Must we ride into Gotarland, yelling like berserks, ready to put every man and boy to the sword?’ He glared at his son. ‘What then would come of my kingdom? Eh?’

  Sigurd didn’t answer.

  ‘Oh, we might win a famous victory!’ Sviggar continued. ‘Danes and Gotars and the whole pack of them might kneel to me as overlord. Perhaps... Or perhaps I’m marked for death. Perhaps we all are – and after we’ve rushed headlong into the battle-storm, my kingdom will be lost between the rise and fall of a single sun. Tell me, my son, are you so sure that’s not our fate?’

  ‘I know not.’

  ‘You – know – not... And nor do I. And, I wonder, would our good Sveär folk thank us for rushing them to the brink of destruction? After all that I’ve striven to do for them? To be raped and robbed by that merciless son of a whore?’ Flecks of spittle were gathering at the corners of his mouth as his temper rose. ‘All that I’ve built here fallen into the hands of the Wartooth and his kin. Hands that my own father swore would never touch the Sveär crown!’

  His burst of anger was curtailed by a fit of coughing that went on almost as long as he had been speaking. Meanwhile, his son looked on with eyes barely concealing his contempt.

  ‘It’s well you speak of your father’s vow,’ Sigurd said, once Sviggar had recovered himself. ‘But what of his kingdom – the true kingdom that was lost, which you haven’t lifted a finger to recover? The Wide-Realm.’

  Sviggar glared at his son under hooded eyelids, wiping spittle from his mouth.

  ‘Hasn’t the moment come to take back what’s ours by right? To re-establish our lordship over the southern lands your father once held?’ Sigurd said, suddenly animated. Erlan had already seen for himself that this was the prince’s favourite passion, this Wide-Realm.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’ Sviggar turned back to his target.

  ‘You want prosperity for your people. What could prosper them more than making this the most powerful kingdom in all the north?’

  Sviggar suddenly rounded on him. ‘You do have grand visions, don’t you, my boy? But they are born of your ignorance.’ He jabbed a bony finger at Sigurd. ‘What do you really know of the Wide-Realm, heh? There’s a reason it did not last. It could not be held. It cannot be. And I’m not stupid enough to try.’ He flung his arm in a great arc. ‘Why, it’s too vast! One king cannot hold such far-flung lands for long. Loyalty wanes too thin. Ambition and greed wax too fat. Even when oaths have been sworn.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sigurd returned. ‘If the hand of the king is weak.’

  ‘You dare to speak to me like that,’ Sviggar snarled. ‘You don’t know what strength is, you – you damned puppy! Get out of my sight. Go on! Back to those mud-whores you find so much to your liking.’

  Sigurd didn’t move. Erlan could see him struggling to bridle his anger, apparently preferring to stay and be heard than
give full vent to it. At last he answered. ‘Forgive me, Father. I spoke too strongly. I merely want what’s best for the kingdom.’

  ‘Well, then,’ his father growled, ‘I’ll be the one to decide what that is.’

  There was a flutter in the tops of the oak trees at the edge of the Kingswood. A pair of pigeons took to wing and circled round to the north. One of them, continuing its arc, caught a gust of wind and came sailing straight towards them high over their heads. Sviggar had tracked it and, with a smooth roll of his shoulders, brought up his bow.

  Erlan’s eye flicked from the taut old forearms to the grey wings above. There was a soft thrum, a thud and then bird and shaft plummeted to the meadow.

  It would have been an exceptional shot by anyone, but from this old man, who these days struggled to pull himself out of his chair, it was as surprising as anything Erlan had witnessed in Sveäland. The attendant let out a yelp of admiration.

  ‘Well, don’t stand there gawping, lad!’ Sviggar cried, evidently pleased with himself. ‘Off and fetch it.’

  The servant launched across the meadow and soon returned with the pigeon, its body perfectly impaled on the shaft. He gave it to the king as reverently as if the thing were made of gold.

  ‘Ha! What do you make of that?’

  ‘A remarkable shot, my lord,’ Bodvar answered gruffly, as though the role of sycophant didn’t sit well on his shoulders.

  ‘So it was.’ Sviggar handed his bow to the servant. ‘But see here.’ He turned the dead bird over in his hands. ‘If I were to pull out this shaft and somehow breathe life back into this lifeless thing and fling it back into the sky and see it soar once more on the wind... Tell me, which feat were more remarkable?’

  He looked from face to face. No one answered. Sviggar smiled. ‘It’s easy enough to destroy – even when it takes great skill. It’s much harder to create. And much better, too. This kingdom is my creation. I’ve raised it up from the wreck my father left me, defended it from troubles inside and out. I don’t intend to see it destroyed now.’

  Bodvar cleared his throat. ‘With respect, my lord, what if someone else wields the bow? Even if you had the power to give life to something dead, another might be set on killing it. So too with the kingdom. Even if your wish is to avoid war, you must take measures to defend your realm.’