A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  Erlan hesitated, casting a diffident look at Lilla.

  ‘Gods, don’t let her stop you! This’ll be a sight worth seeing, I promise you. It won’t take long for Vargalf to finish him.’ As if to make his point, another cheer rose from the crowd.

  ‘Go, if you want,’ said Lilla, but he could see the distaste in her eyes. Even so, it wasn’t that which stopped him. To his surprise he found, now given a choice, he didn’t want to leave her company.

  ‘You go,’ he told Sigurd. ‘Your father charged me to watch over Lady Aslíf.’

  ‘Did he now? I guess you’d better see to that then, cripple. Just be sure to watch your step!’ With that he feigned a stumble and set off, laughing, for the arena. Erlan let the slight pass. Flies were but flies, after all. Instead he turned to Lilla but she looked far from happy.

  ‘If it’s only my father’s charge that keeps you with me, then please yourself. I didn’t ask for your company.’

  ‘I am pleasing myself.’

  ‘Oh.’ She seemed surprised by that answer. Perhaps as surprised as he was to give it. Her frown disappeared.

  ‘Are we done here?’

  She nodded up at him. ‘Yes. Take me home.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  She had got what she came for, but as they rode away from the fair, Lilla’s heart was restless as an autumn sea. She knew why, too. It was him. There was something unsettling about him. This closed man. And try as she might, she couldn’t turn her mind away from him, as if he were a door that she sat beside, waiting for it to open, unable to leave it alone, too curious to know what was inside, too convinced that what lay behind it was hers. But why?

  Maybe she was wrong.

  She watched the back of his head, wondering what he was thinking, his tousled hair hanging loose, rocking with the motion of his horse, his shoulders broad and strong, telling her no more than a stone wall.

  Maybe if her mother had lived, she could have explained what she was feeling, could have shown her how to understand this man. But her mother was gone.

  They had ridden perhaps three leagues since Sigtuna. Afternoon was spreading into early evening, the warm southerly wind carrying with it a bank of cloud. It soon overtook them and the air grew thick and humid.

  Erlan looked up. ‘We’re going to get a good drenching by the look of things.’

  There still lay a fair distance between them and the shelter of her father’s hall. ‘There’s another way.’ Through some woodland and it would take a little longer, she explained, but at least there would be cover if there was a real downpour.

  Erlan followed her off the main pathway, leaving behind the column of stragglers trudging their way home to Uppsala. They were soon alone, riding across open country, only slipping under the trees as the first raindrops fell.

  They’d hardly spoken since setting out and under the damp foliage the silence between them seemed to grow louder. The only sounds were the rain above, the drip of water off the leaves and the soft pad of the horses’ hooves, side by side. The more she listened, the more oppressive they became.

  ‘Do you agree with her?’ she suddenly blurted.

  He turned to look at her. ‘Agree with who?’

  ‘The woman at the stall.’

  ‘Your conscience bothering you, is it?’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s hard not to feel responsible in some way. Or at least complicit. The fault lies all within my family.’

  ‘No one’s dead yet. At least, none of that crowd anyway,’ he corrected himself.

  She closed her eyes, but all she could see were faces of the fair-folk, their merriment worn in mockery of the horrors she feared were to come. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. Those children. All those young men.’

  ‘They’re not your responsibility. None of it is.’

  ‘That’s no reason not to want to help. Every life is worth saving, isn’t it?’

  ‘To save a life means being willing to fight. Willing to take another life, come to that. How else could it be if someone’s bent on killing those you care about?’

  ‘I don’t know. There must be other sacrifices that could be made, besides more killing.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘You mean like your stepmother’s sacrifices?’

  ‘No. I don’t mean that,’ she replied quickly. ‘Just that there must be another path to peace that doesn’t plunge us into war.’ She shook her head. ‘What would all that killing serve anyone anyway?’

  He shrugged. ‘Blood debts are repaid. Vengeance is satisfied.’

  ‘Vengeance is never satisfied. It’s a spiral that never ends, driving us all to Hel. Blood only breeds blood. I hate it.’

  ‘You may hate it. But it’s the way of men. You can’t change that. No one can.’

  ‘What a dismal thought,’ she murmured. She almost felt sorry for him, believing that. It left little room for any hope. They rode on in silence for a while. Her thoughts returned to the horse fair – to the boys wrestling, how they strove so hard to do each other harm, and then the whoops of delight from the crowd at the horse fights when one horse blooded another. ‘Why do men so love cruelty?’

  ‘If the world is cruel, why should the men who live in it be any different?’

  ‘The world isn’t cruel. It’s full of life and light and beauty. Just look around you. Only men make it cruel. You have to tear things down. To destroy them.’

  ‘That’s a little harsh,’ he chuckled. ‘Don’t we build things, too? We build halls, we sing songs, we raise crops. Raise children, come to that.’

  ‘Yet it’s the names of the most deadly killers among you that are raised the highest. Vengeance is esteemed more than love. Death more than life.’

  ‘Sometimes a man has good reason to seek vengeance. Good reason to seek death over life.’ She noticed his gaze drift away into the distance. Remembered how he’d spoken like this before, in the frozen forest. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘I dare say you’re right about most men. But it’s not true for me. Not any more.’

  ‘Then what about love?’

  ‘Love! You’re speaking to the wrong man. I’ve nothing to say about love. Nothing good anyway.’

  ‘Say something bad then.’

  ‘Better to say nothing at all.’

  She gave him a quizzical look. ‘That’s all you ever do, isn’t it? You hold everything in, guarding your thoughts jealous as Fafnir’s gold. Don’t you ever feel anything?’

  ‘Who cares what I feel?’

  ‘I do,’ she said, and immediately regretted it. As usual she had given away more than she meant to. But it was out there now.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t. It won’t do you a lick of good, anyhow.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He chuckled and turned away. ‘Just wouldn’t.’

  But her curiosity wouldn’t let that lie. ‘There’s a sadness about you, you know that? You wear it like a mantle. Maybe even like a shield.’ She hesitated but he didn’t answer. ‘You must have lost something very precious to you.’

  ‘I can’t speak of it... I swore,’ he added softly.

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you that everyone has lost something they once loved? Do you really think you’re the only one?’

  He suddenly rounded on her. ‘Lost something, maybe! Not everything.’

  She waited for the wave of anger to ebb from his dark eyes. She had to be delicate. That was obvious. But she was determined to hunt him down. ‘My mother used to say self-pity will suck you down like a mire. And she was right. Believe me, I know. I’ve tried to walk that way, but it’s a short road to suffocation.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘I know you well enough to know your problem. You’re so blinded by your own pain you can’t see anything else, even when it’s right in front of you. You should let it go.’

  ‘You have no idea what brought me here, Lilla. To lay it down... That would be an even greater betrayal...’ He trailed off with a shake of his head. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I u
nderstand,’ she said gently. ‘I do. It’s the last link to your home. That’s why you can’t let it go.’

  ‘No. I have no home.’ He shook his reins and his horse moved ahead. Apparently he was done talking.

  Well, that went well, she thought irritably. From that angle, she could see the sharp line of his jaw, clenching, unclenching... Why couldn’t she just let him stay behind the wall he’d built around himself? Wasn’t that where he wanted to be? Wasn’t that where he belonged?

  They rode on. She closed her eyes, feeling the rain running down her face, as if it could wash away her frustration. Why was nature so simple, yet people so complicated? She ran her tongue over her lips. The rainwater tasted sweet. There was no wind in the wood. The air was warm. Overhead, the rainfall grew louder.

  ‘We’ll be soaked through if we stay out in this.’

  ‘I am soaked,’ she said. He didn’t seem to hear. Or else he was no longer listening.

  ‘We can wait out the worst of it under there.’ Just ahead stood an old blood-beech, its branches spread above them in a thick canopy of deep purple. They dismounted and led the horses off the path just as the first thunder rolled overhead. Erlan tied their halters to a young sapling that was struggling its way through to some light in the shadow of its ancient rivals. Then he unrolled his cloak and led Lilla to the trunk of the blood-beech. There the rain was at least tolerable, certainly more sheltered than the path.

  He passed her two corners of his cloak and they pulled it taut over their heads and then, with their backs to the trunk, they gazed out at the dismal cascade leaking through the canopy.

  There was no birdsong, not even a whisper of wind. The rain muffled all. Lilla breathed in and breathed out. The air smelled damp and earthy. She listened to Erlan breathing beside her – steady, slower than her. She could smell him, too. A slight tang of sweat, the wet wool of his clothes, that indescribable scent underlying them both that she had noticed before. The smell of him.

  She wondered whether he was angry with her. She didn’t blame him. She was angry with herself. She should learn to keep her thoughts hidden, her mouth shut.

  ‘Erlan.’ He looked down at her. Strands of wet hair clung to his temples. ‘You do have a home, you know. It’s here. With us.’

  His eyes smiled. ‘It’s no good, Lilla. I wish I could be whatever it is you think I should be... But I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be any different. I just want you to be happy.’

  She wasn’t exactly sure why but suddenly her hand was against his cheek and she was wiping the rain off his eyebrow with her thumb. In fact, it was more of a caress than a wipe. Perhaps that was why he caught her wrist. She thought he would push it away, but instead he held it there. Closed his eyes. And then he kissed the palm of her open hand. His lips felt warm.

  Almost without her noticing, the cloak slipped from her fingers and slid to the ground. She stood before him, rain plastering her hair to her head, still confused, her mind catching up with what was happening. But in his eyes, she suddenly saw a longing that caught her breath, that seemed to have snuck up on her too, like a thief with a knife at her throat. And inside she felt a dam breaking, filling her body with desire, and in his eyes she saw the same desire reflected. He pulled her closer, lifted her, kissed her, softly at first and then harder. At first it was a shock. But soon she found herself responding, pressing against his chest, almost crushed against him, feeling the flicker of his tongue in her mouth.

  Just as suddenly he drew away.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t. Your father—’

  ‘This isn’t about my father. It’s just you. And me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated in a murmur, ‘I’m sorry.’ It was strange. Like he was speaking to himself, or to someone else. He bent down and picked up the cloak at their feet. ‘I should get you home.’

  The rain continued to fall.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Dannerborg,’ Kai said.

  Einar nodded.

  ‘So we’re agreed? Not a word past those lips, fat man, or it’ll be both our necks.’

  ‘It’s my neck I’m worried about. You watch out for your own.’

  Kai grunted. That went without saying.

  ‘Can’t say I care above half for all this sneaking about.’ Einar fidgeted with his buckle.

  ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Just remember, lad, the less bollocks comes spilling out of that mouth of yours, the less chance we’ll end up the wrong side of Odin’s necklace.’

  ‘Bah! The noose hasn’t been made that Kai Askarsson couldn’t talk his way out of.’

  Einar jutted his whiskery jowls up the hill. ‘Let’s hope it’s not waiting for you up yonder.’

  It looked impressive enough, the high stockade around the mead-hall and its outlying buildings an imposing presence over the landscape, built for defence to serve as stronghold for a lord. The hall was big and dark, clad in stone with a thick turf roof, although hardly a match for the sheer majesty of Sviggar’s Great Hall.

  But what caught Kai’s eye was the bustle around it. So many people. Many more than you’d expect in a place like that. Outside the stockade was a scattering of rough-timber booths for tradesfolk and a few livestock, though by now most sheep and cattle would be out in the pastures.

  ‘See there.’

  Kai looked where Einar was pointing. The ground sloped away west, flattening into an area of reedbeds skirting the edge of a piece of water – some shallow-bottomed lake or perhaps an inland fjord. Carpeted over the slope were dozens of small tents, a good number of folk, mostly men, moving among them.

  ‘Someone’s hosting a lot of guests.’

  ‘Food for ravens,’ Einar grunted.

  Kai’s blood tingled. This was the first sign of anything out of the ordinary since leaving Uppsala. The ride through the Kolmark had been anything but eventful. Of course, crossing the forest they’d had an eye out for the usual. But even bears and wolves didn’t hold the same terror for him they once had. Not for old Kai Wolf-Hand. Nevertheless, they had taken extra precautions when they crossed into Eastern Gotarland proper, travelling by night, tracking away from the road and only returning to the main route south four or five leagues into Gotar territory.

  By then, they had their story straight.

  It had been decided – mostly by Kai, admittedly – that however well Einar knew the idioms of the Gotar dialect, his accent marked him out as a Sveär without any shred of doubt. Kai insisted it was better he said nothing at all. Instead Einar would pose as Kai’s mute protector, with Kai the younger son of a freedman on his way to become heir to a childless uncle living on the shore of the Lake of Two Forests. Kai had suggested he style himself son of a lord, but Einar pointed out that most lords of the land would be known to Prince Ringast. Besides which, the fat man observed, he’d met swine who looked more lordly than Kai.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ a voice croaked behind them. It belonged to an old man pulling a ramshackle handcart up the track. ‘What’s the hold up, you dozy dungheads?’

  Kai was so surprised he forgot to speak, forgot that Einar wasn’t to speak.

  ‘One of them foreign buggers, heh? Can’t understand a word I’m saying.’ The carter jabbed Kai’s thigh with his stick.

  ‘Cut that out! I am too a Gotar.’

  ‘Well then – what’re you doing standing like some arse-head mule taking up the road? Out the way, man!’

  Kai moved his horse off the track and the shrivelled old man ploughed on up the slope. Watching him, Kai had an idea. He jumped down, tossed Einar his reins and ran on to the handcart.

  ‘Need a hand, old father?’

  The carter snorted, sniffed and spat. ‘Huh! First finger any of you outlanders has lifted for me.’

  ‘I told you, I’m a Gotar.’

  ‘So you are then,’ he said, ceding the handle to Kai. ‘Guess I’m obliged to you.’

  ‘Enough for a favour in return?’

  ‘
Depends.’ The carter’s nose wrinkled with suspicion.

  ‘Won’t cost you a thing. Just want to know who’s in charge up there.’

  ‘Lord Ringast Haraldarsson. Any halfwit knows that.’

  ‘I mean who runs his household?’

  ‘Ahh,’ croaked the carter. ‘You’ll be wanting Sletti the steward. They call him Smjörreðr.’

  Kai chuckled. Smjörreðr meant ‘Butter-Cock’ in the Gotar tongue. ‘What the Hel for?’

  ‘Ask him!’ he smirked. ‘Anyhow, he’s the smooth-faced bugger with the big mouth and skin the colour of pig-piss. Can’t miss him.’

  Kai pulled the handcart to the top of the slope, only passing it back once they were through the gate. Einar had dismounted and was leading the horses behind. Kai flashed a grin. The fat man rolled his eyes in reply.

  Inside the stockade the atmosphere was an odd mix of idleness and bustle. Those idling were mostly warriors, it seemed. House-karls, or hearthmen maybe, chatting, drinking, leering at passing thrall-maids, who hurried about like Garm himself was snapping at their heels.

  It took only a moment to pick out the steward, Sletti. Hall-folk were buzzing round him likes flies round a fresh turd, while the man himself was embroiled in a heated exchange with a servant-girl.

  As the carter had said, his face was oddly smooth and tanned. He wore a long tunic – so long it looked more like a woman’s dress. In fact, altogether the impression was of someone neither all man nor all woman. His voice carried higher than an ordinary man’s too, yet there was no mistaking its assurance.

  Kai always thought it best to go straight in. He laid an arm across the girl’s shoulder and grinned at the steward. ‘Good day to you, Master Sletti!’

  ‘Do I know you?’ the steward replied irritably.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of something.’