A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  She refused. She thought of her son instead. His would be the last face she saw, not this monster’s.

  ‘Stupid bitch,’ the voice said, its tone unhurried. ‘Go on, open them.’

  Someone stepped forward. She felt rough fingers pinch her neck. There was a chuckle and she recognized the guard’s laugh. Nails dug into her eyes. She tried to screw them shut, but the fingers were too strong, prising open the lids until she saw she was face to face with the brothers.

  Except now White and Black were daubed chin to toe with her kinsmen’s blood, each glistening red as a butcher’s bib. She tried to look away but the guard held her neck firm.

  The White stepped forward, gazing at her wonderingly with those uncanny pink eyes. He lifted his sword-point, his upside-down smile a gash across his blood-spattered face. She felt the steel tip rest coldly on her sex.

  ‘I anoint you with the blood of your kin,’ the White murmured hoarsely, with another slow, guttural laugh. She stiffened, then shuddered with revulsion as he traced the steel through her triangle of hair. The point came to rest over her womb. That was when she realized she despised these devils as much as she feared them. She remembered what she had done, right there under that bloody blade. She had made life, grown it within her. She had created. These brothers knew only how to destroy.

  The pressure increased. She sucked a breath, feeling the tip break skin.

  ‘Do you know who we are?’ His voice was hardly a whisper.

  She gave a clumsy nod, watching a droplet of blood fall from the White’s hilt.

  He whipped the sword away.

  ‘This one lives,’ the Black said. Someone started laughing. ‘Cut her down.’

  And before Gerutha could make sense of the words, the rope had snapped and she crumpled to the ground, relief and fear flooding warm and wet over her thighs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On the morn of their departure, Einar and Kai made an underwhelming sight – Kai looking like a badly made scarecrow, albeit one weighed down with razor-sharp steel, and Einar balanced precariously on his horse, big belly resting on his thighs like a barrel of butter, slowly melting in the spring sunshine.

  ‘It’s so damned hot,’ Einar grumbled. It wasn’t, but the fat man’s cheeks were already glistening with sweat. ‘At least give me an ale-skin. You can’t expect me to listen to the runt’s drivel all the way to Dannerborg and stay sober.’

  ‘Sorry, friend,’ Erlan replied. ‘You need a clear head. Orders straight from the king’s mouth.’

  ‘The king’s arse, more like. Anyway, the king’s dying – hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘He’ll mend,’ Erlan replied firmly, as much to reassure himself as the fat man.

  ‘Huh! I guess he usually does.’

  Kai, on the other hand, was happy as a flea. ‘Cheer up, fat man. They say a journey never took no hurt from a story of two. Did I tell you about that time last winter when Erlan and me were—’

  ‘Gods – spare me!’ Einar groaned.

  ‘Just keep your ears open and give that tongue of yours a rest.’ Erlan was more worried about Kai than he cared to admit. But it was out of his hands. It was Einar’s job to protect him now.

  ‘All ears. No tongue.’ Kai leered past Erlan at Bara who, to his delight, had come to see them off.

  ‘Take care of yourself, pup,’ she said, shading her eyes against the morning glare. ‘And keep your hands off those Gotar girls. They’re pox-riddled sluts, every one.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Kai grinned.

  ‘I’ll keep the runt out of trouble,’ said Einar.

  Somehow Erlan doubted that.

  ‘So long then!’ Kai cried and he was off in a clatter of hooves, yelling over his shoulder, ‘Back before you know it!’

  ‘Aye – make sure you are!’ Erlan called after him, adding in a murmur, ‘Sveäland is counting on you.’

  Einar grunted. ‘That’s what worries me.’ He gave his grey a kick, rousing it to an unenthusiastic trot and away he went, joggling like a sack of turnips.

  Erlan and Bara watched as the figures grew smaller until the distant woods finally swallowed them completely. Erlan wondered whether he ought to say something vaguely encouraging, though the gods knew he wasn’t feeling encouraged. But she beat him to it.

  ‘Well then, hero, guess you’ll have to do your own damn cooking now, won’t you?’

  In the days that followed, talk among the halls was all of the coming war. A little hasty, by Erlan’s reckoning, but then it didn’t take more than a spark to burn a hayrick to dust, and even he had to admit what they knew already was more than a mere spark.

  He could see the worry in their faces, specially the womenfolk – could hear it in their voices when they called to their young. Fear was seeping through them like a flood tide, rising higher each day. There are always shadows that roam. Inga had said that, and how right she was proved. Still, whatever shadows were out there hadn’t swallowed them yet.

  Of course, the smiths and fletchers and leathermen were content enough. It was a good time to be in that line of work. But even their faces grew etched with apprehension when news filtered back to Uppsala that the southern earls had begun to call their levies. Each new wrinkle a mark of the fear that gnaws at a man’s belly when he wonders what fate the Norns have spun him.

  Nevertheless the hall-folk cheered themselves with the prospect of the horse fair held each year on the feast day of Idun, the goddess of spring. It met about six leagues south of Sviggar’s Seat, at Sigtuna – the little market village nestled against the waters of the Great Bay. Cargo boats could land there, many from faraway Gotland, laden with horseflesh. Finnish traders came too, from across the East Sea with their furs and amber, and Sami from the north bringing reindeer skins and a thousand trinkets and tools fashioned from bone or antler – all of them looking for a ripe deal and a little amusement on the side. Gotlandish horses might be the finest around the circle of the East Sea, but every trader knew the best whores and the best ale were to be had in Uppland.

  With the fate of his friends still on his mind, Erlan hadn’t planned to go along, but on the eve of the feast day, Sviggar summoned him to his chamber. Erlan approached, dread tickling his conscience, half-expecting some accusation or worse. But apparently the queen had kept their indiscretion to herself. Instead he found the king in better health and a fine mood and with a quite different reason for summoning him.

  ‘My daughter tells me her horse has been lame for weeks,’ Sviggar explained. ‘I want you to help her buy another and see she returns safe before sunfall.’

  ‘The princess asked for me?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t!’ Sviggar cried amiably. ‘She insists she needs no escorting. But I’ve suffered too many new grey hairs on her account, and with all this other business... You understand.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Besides, a woman with a pouch full of silver needs watching! You ride with her in the morning.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Sviggar gave a hoarse laugh. ‘She should count herself lucky. I’m sure there isn’t a safer pair of hands in the kingdom.’

  A safe pair of hands?

  The irony cut like a blade.

  Dung and horsehide.

  The place reeked of it, and hovering over it all was a haze of dust. Naturally, the animal enclosures were filled mostly with horses, but folks had also brought oxen and goats and sheep, even hunting dogs, to trade.

  ‘Four ounces.’ Lilla folded her arms defiantly.

  ‘Four ounces of silver for my best mare?’ screeched the Gotlandish woman. ‘Why not have the clothes off me back while you’re at it?’ She tugged at her smock. ‘Here – go on!’

  But that only made Lilla giggle. ‘Four is fair. You know it.’

  The woman had named a price three times that. The tall black mare gazed down on them with bored disdain, as if haggling was a thing far beneath her. And there was no doubt, she was a noble-looking beast. Her coat sh
one like warm tar. But a mark and a half of silver was a Hel of a price for one horse.

  ‘My husband would divorce me on the spot if I took less than ten ounces.’ The older woman scanned the faces behind Lilla. ‘Curse the man, where is he? Probably sucking on the end of an ale-skin if I know him.’

  ‘Come on – what’s your best price?’ Lilla grinned. She enjoyed this game. She was good at it, too. They had been through this five times already, each time Lilla screwing down the price till the seller was gnawing their knuckles off, only to walk away on the flimsiest pretext: a phantom swelling of a tendon, some invisible crack in a tooth.

  Erlan palmed the sweat off his brow, feeling his temper fraying. Surely there was nothing wrong with this one? Far as he could see, the mare was as fine a beast as silver could buy.

  But apparently there was a lot more haggling to be done: Lilla pretending to drag him away, only to be called back; poking and prodding till there wasn’t an inch of the mare hadn’t been argued over at length. He wondered if Sviggar appreciated how tight-fisted his daughter was with his silver.

  ‘For the love of Freyja,’ he whispered at last, ‘I think you can spare another ounce.’

  ‘It’s the principle. Besides, you know I like to win,’ she whispered back, flashing a smile.

  At last, they settled on six and a half ounces. The Gotlander weighed out Lilla’s hacksilver, grumbling all the while.

  ‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ Lilla said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it was.’ The woman untied the mare and passed Lilla its halter with a forced smile.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Lilla cried when they were out of earshot.

  ‘I’ll believe anything so long as you’re happy... You are happy, right?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be? She’s worth a mark at least!’

  ‘Good. So we can head home?’

  ‘Home? There’s still so much to see!’ She patted the mare’s neck. ‘We’ll leave her with the watchman and look around.’

  ‘I told your father I’d have you back before dusk.’

  ‘It’s not even noon.’ She smiled at him mischievously. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Not even slightly.’

  She laughed and looped her arm through his.

  They wandered among the stalls with Lilla insisting they try everything on offer – a wedge of Varmland cheese, a strip of dried cod from the Botten Gulf, skewers of spiced reindeer meat roasted almost black, straight from the Sami herds. She made him taste the Finns’ favourite drink, a clear liquid they called ‘little water’ but the stuff burned like fire, as Erlan discovered to his cost when he gulped it down in one.

  ‘You could have warned me,’ he choked while Lilla fell about laughing.

  They drifted along a row of booths selling cloth, Lilla dawdling at each, fingering bolts of linen or homespun or felt, and some of the more exotic materials that had found their way to Sigtuna from distant lands across the sea. If the trader was an outlander, Lilla wanted to know all about their homeland and how they had journeyed to the shores of Uppland. Erlan followed along, happy to listen, though often his mind strayed back to Kai who, he knew, must be somewhere south of the Kolmark by now.

  Lilla was picking her way through a pile of homespun, chatting to the stall-keeper, a local woman of middling age, when a boy of ten or so ran up.

  ‘Mother, mother,’ he gasped, ‘the horse fights are about to begin. Can I go? You promised I could this year. Please!’

  Erlan noticed a couple of other boys lurking nearby. The woman looked from them to her lad and must have read in his face the silent plea not to humiliate him in front of his mates. She smiled. ‘The promises we make, eh? All right, off you go. But no betting, mind, or your father’ll have something to say about it.’

  The boy garbled his thanks and raced off with his pals towards two large mounds set back from the shore.

  ‘Most sons wouldn’t be so respectful,’ said Lilla. ‘You must be proud.’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ the stall-keeper replied. ‘Still, I worry for him. Especially now.’

  ‘Why?’

  The woman peered at Lilla as if she were simple. ‘Why do you think? I can’t be sure he’ll even outlive the summer. Who can be when they look at their younglings these days?’

  ‘Surely you needn’t always fear the worst?’ said Lilla, trying to sound encouraging.

  ‘There’s a war coming, girl! Haven’t you heard? And I wouldn’t take no odds of my boy living through it.’ She pointed out a gaggle of young men nearby. Two were stripped to the waist and going at it, sparring fist for fist, while their mates cheered them on. ‘All of them lads – how many do you reckon will be alive to see next year’s fair, hey?’

  ‘It’s not certain there’ll be war,’ said Erlan. At least, that was the line Sviggar wanted his counsellors to take.

  ‘Oh no? My brother got it from that Jari Iron-Tongue who says it’s already started. Men have died. And I’ll tell you why.’ She beckoned Lilla closer. ‘All because of those damned high folk up at Uppsala. A curse on their heads! They don’t know the trouble they cause. It’s their disputing going to put my husband behind a shieldwall and, gods forbid, my boy too if things go bad. That ain’t right, is it? What’s it to do with us low folk?’

  Erlan was about to suggest she watch her tongue given her present company, but he felt Lilla squeeze his hand to silence.

  ‘I heard the king doesn’t want war,’ Lilla said.

  ‘What he wants and what he gets might not be the same thing. But who has to pay to protect the king’s honour and the king’s land, hey?’ She jabbed a finger at Lilla. ‘Your kin and mine, that’s who. And all these folk!’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Erlan. ‘But doesn’t each man have a duty to defend his own kin? Honour demands it.’

  ‘Honour? Pah – here’s to your honour!’ She made a rude gesture. ‘Next you’re going to tell me all is fine because a dead husband and a dead son will end up in Valhalla. But what bloody use is either of them to me there?’

  ‘Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that,’ replied Lilla.

  ‘Oh aye, the gods’ll want their cut. But if the Gotars and Danes and gods know who else do come, how many of these mothers will be weeping?’

  ‘The king won’t let that happen.’

  ‘You’re naive if you think that, my girl,’ the woman scowled.

  Lilla just smiled and pressed her hand. ‘We must be getting on.’

  As they walked away, Erlan could see she was shaken. ‘She’s right,’ she said. ‘Why should all these folk have to suffer because of my family’s mistakes?’

  He didn’t have an answer to that.

  They strolled on in silence. The air was full of chatter. A gentle breeze mingled the smells of mead brews and hot berry juices and newly baked bread with the stink of fresh dung and the musky tang of fox skins. Traders meandered among the crowds peddling amber stones from shallow baskets, some with jewellery fashioned from antlers or bead-stones, others hawking mushrooms and forest-herbs. Old men huddled in circles, shuffling tafl-pieces around gaming boards, while the younger men proved their mettle in wrestling bouts, to the cheers of their friends. Youngsters splashed in the shallows. Skaldmen earned a few slivers of silver, singing lays or sagas or drapas, plucking at lutes or blowing mournful melodies on goat-horns. Whores lounged beside their booths – those not already occupied – sizing up passing menfolk like cattle. Benches were lined with drinkers while their wives and daughters clustered nearby, chattering like starlings.

  But in spite of the air of merriment, the delight had gone out of it for Lilla, and every time they passed talk about the possibility of war her despondency deepened.

  As if to match her mood, the southern horizon grew murky, clouds towering high above the water, portending a storm. Watching it, Erlan knew she was thinking the same as him. What would happen to all these folk if the Wartooth came?

  The sun was well past the midday mark when Erlan noticed a sw
ell of folk making their way towards the two mounds where the horse fights were to take place. He was about to suggest they take a look when a voice called, ‘Good day, sister.’

  They turned to see Sigurd emerging from a nearby booth, fastening his belt. A young woman in a shift slit to her thigh followed him out, her hair dishevelled and turning a silver ring in her palm. She went to talk to her friends.

  ‘Enjoying yourself I see, brother.’

  Sigurd stooped to a bucket and sluiced water over his face, then took a long swig from a nearby pitcher. ‘Ahh! Nothing like ale and a good fuck to refresh the spirit.’

  ‘Mother would be so proud.’

  ‘Mother’s dead. Or hadn’t you noticed?’ His eyes shifted to Erlan. ‘I see you’ve found yourself a bit of flesh, sister. How much did he cost you?’ When Erlan bristled, he laughed. ‘Oh lighten up, cripple. You take yourself so bloody seriously.’

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ said Lilla.

  ‘Who the Hel hasn’t! I suppose you’re going to chide me for that as well?’

  ‘No. You can please yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to... while I still can,’ he added, with a scornful look at the crowds flocking towards the mounds. ‘There’s so much damn croaking round here, you’d think we’d already lost a war.’ He turned back to his sister. ‘Let them come, I say! The sooner they do, the sooner they’ll be sorry for it!’ He threw back another swig of ale and then tossed the pitcher back on the table. ‘Well, sister, are you coming to watch the fun?’

  ‘You go ahead. We’ve other things to see.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right... Couldn’t sully those pretty eyes with a drop of blood, could we?’

  ‘It’s not the blood that’s not to my taste. It’s the faces. Folk need no encouragement to be cruel.’

  ‘Bah! And you, Erlan Aur—van—dil?’ He slurred the name like a curse. ‘I suppose you think a bit of sport between dumb animals is cruel too, hey?’

  ‘If a man wants to see his best horse come to harm that’s his business.’

  ‘I’ve a horse in this myself, and I promise you, with Vargalf handling him, he comes to no harm at all. In fact, he’s about to challenge last year’s champion.’ A loud cheer erupted from beyond the mounds. ‘Hel, that must be it now! Well, are you coming or not?’