A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  ‘You cannot cross the Rainbow Bridge.’ Each word hits like a hammer-blow. ‘Your place lies there,’ the One-Eyed whispers, raising a baleful finger. ‘In the mistlands below.’

  A hand pushes him. He hears his own scream and he is falling and falling, down into the grey darkness...

  King Harald sprang upright. Sweat chilled the crook of his neck. He looked about the chamber, trying to remember where he was, trying to discern in the gloom something solid that would tether him back to the world of the living. Slowly, his breathing began to subside.

  The fear did not.

  The dream again. That cursed dream.

  ‘What have I done?’ he muttered. This peace his son had talked him into... Was that his last chance, gone? Vanished with the swearing of an oath? ‘I’ve lived too long.’ He buried his face in his hands.

  No. If death would not find him, then he must find death.

  He lay back on his pillow, listening to the air rattle in and out of his lungs. Then something made him stop. Was he still dreaming? He strained his old ears. It was faint, but...

  Something else was breathing in his chamber.

  Harald lunged for his sword as the shadow peeled from the wall and leaped. Then the world collapsed into a tangle of furs and fists, sour sweat and wicked steel. Some stinking, lowborn churl, he thought even as he struggled to fight off his assailant. Ever the cat’s paw of ambition. If someone wanted him dead, they might at least have sent a killer worthy of his death.

  Worthy or no, the man had him pinned, fingers clamped on his throat. But Harald had the dagger-hand gripped tight. He yelled, as best he could. A paltry cry although, with luck, it would be enough to rouse the guards, if they weren’t as deaf as he was.

  The killer snarled reeking breath in his face, struggling to smother him, but the Wartooth had slain a hundred foes a hundred times more savage than this one. He jerked his head back then bit down hard, his dagger-tooth sinking into sour flesh. The attacker shrieked and Harald tasted blood.

  He didn’t wait for a second chance. He could still fight like a wounded boar if he had to. He lurched forward, rolling the man onto the floor, his age-riddled fingers clasped like an iron fetter around the killer’s wrist.

  That was when he smelled the fear on the man. No doubt whoever he was had expected an easy kill. An old man, dispatched without a whisper. But that wouldn’t be Harald’s end. He hadn’t lived this long to die a worm’s death. He twisted the wrist, heard it crack. The man wailed in pain. Not that it would do him any good. Harald had his measure now, had him from behind with the man’s own blade at his throat, its wicked edge kissing flesh.

  The man froze.

  ‘Who sent you?’ Harald rasped.

  He heard footsteps running.

  ‘If you want to live, you’ll answer me!’ He pressed the knife closer, yanking back the man’s head. ‘Who sent you?’ he screamed, spraying spittle.

  But the man said nothing. His eyes only glared wide with terror. There were voices, a yell and the door was torn open. Light flooded the chamber. Harald looked up for an instant, but an instant was too long. He felt his hand pulled closer, saw the jerk of the man’s head, heard the schick of steel ripping flesh.

  He roared in protest, but it was too late: blood was pumping out over his fist. The cat’s paw slumped to the floor, shuddering.

  Harald stepped back in disgust. This man’s secrets were for the ears of the dead now, and the dead alone. He looked at the other faces arriving in the chamber. Faces full of alarm, bodies crowding round him, mouths demanding if he was hurt. But he didn’t answer. Because he didn’t trust a single one of them.

  Instead he stooped, grimacing at the body on the floor, lungs creaking like old bellows.

  I’ve lived too long, he thought, remembering the One-Eyed’s cold gaze.

  I’ve lived too long...

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Sviggar was weeping.

  Erlan had never seen him weep. Yet tears were streaming down the deep cracks in his face and all for a dead traitor.

  ‘You gave him every chance to give up his madness?’

  ‘Just as you asked, sire,’ Earl Bodvar said. ‘But he was set on his course.’

  The council chamber stank with the summer heat. Stale beer, wood-smoke, burned animal fat, mingled with sweat and unwashed wool. Erlan tugged at the golden torque around his neck. In this heat, it was uncomfortable as Hel but it had been a gift from Sviggar and the king liked to see him wear it.

  ‘Then he died as he lived,’ Sviggar murmured. ‘A stubborn ox... It shouldn’t have been this way.’

  But that was the way the Norns had spun it. Sveär had slaughtered Sveär, and all so that Sviggar’s precious peace could stand.

  ‘And the son,’ said Sviggar, wiping his tears. ‘Is there no news of him?’

  ‘He escaped.’ Bodvar raised a sardonic eyebrow at Erlan. ‘At least we found no body.’

  ‘But he was wounded, you said?’

  ‘Aye,’ Erlan said. ‘In the shoulder.’

  ‘Hmm. That one could prove a stone in our shoe.’ The king took a pull on his wine cup. Suddenly he got to his feet. ‘You did well, Aurvandil. Both of you. Better than any lord could wish. You have my thanks.’

  Sigurd, standing apart from the other councillors, scowled. ‘Perhaps if they’d roused more men, fewer need have fallen. And Gellir would not have escaped.’

  ‘They did well to be discreet. And Huldir’s son can do little mischief now our oaths are sealed and the Danes gone. Nevertheless, something must be done about his lands. By law, Huldir’s title falls to this traitorous son.’ He mulled over the question a little longer, then he cleared his throat. ‘A decree, then... Let it be known that Gellir, son of Huldir, is outlaw in these lands. His life is forfeit. As for the lands of Nairka...’ He extended a long finger at Erlan. ‘I hereby name Erlan Aurvandil the new Earl of Nairka, with all rights and claims of land in that title.’

  Erlan was stunned. The Earl of Nairka?

  ‘You can’t simply override the claims of Huldir’s kin,’ Sigurd blurted.

  ‘I can do as I like! No man is more deserving.’

  No man more deserving? Erlan nearly choked. No man had come closer to wrecking Sviggar’s careful plans than he had... Still, he knew how to act the part. ‘You do me too much honour, my lord.’ That much, at least, was true.

  ‘We shall see! Your title will be confirmed at the Summer Throng, according to proper law.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘How many days till then?’

  ‘Twelve, sire,’ answered Bodvar.

  ‘Only twelve.’ Sviggar scowled. ‘Gods – and more damned hosting! It’ll be the death of me.’

  The king suddenly clapped his hands. ‘Enough of this bad business with Huldir. We must look forward.’ His spirit had returned and no mistake. It hardly seemed possible this was the same man who had been hunched, hacking, over his wine cup a handful of days before. Perhaps all the Old Goat had needed was a good night’s sleep. ‘So,’ he cried, rapping the table with his knuckles. ‘The west is now secure.’

  ‘If you trust Ringast,’ Bodvar said.

  ‘We’ve sworn oaths.’

  ‘Men break oaths.’

  ‘Some men, true. But not this Ringast. Unless I judge him wrong.’

  ‘What about his father?’ said Sigurd gloomily.

  ‘The son seems shrewd enough to rein him in. No,’ he said decisively. ‘To my mind, the west is secure.’

  ‘And the east?’ said Erlan.

  ‘Ah.’ The king’s face warmed with a knowing smile. ‘The east, my friends, is where our future lies.’

  ‘What future?’ Sigurd sniffed.

  ‘One that glisters with gold.’ The old man’s eyes flashed.

  ‘We’ve long known that far beyond the East Sea lie lands that are rich beyond the wildest tales. Great kingdoms, they say, whose halls stand ten times as big as this one and shine like vast white mountains of stone. And across the East Sea are rivers that are r
ipe for trade, rivers that can carry our ships as far as the Black Sea or even further. Trade,’ he repeated, whispering the word like a secret. ‘That’s our future. Didn’t our forefathers once seek their fortunes in the south and east long ago? We will do the same. Think how rich we are in skins and slaves and amber. Think how much richer still we could become! In silver and gold and silks and precious stones, and who knows what other marvels.’

  ‘It’s war that makes slaves. But you’ve rejected war,’ Sigurd reminded him.

  ‘So I have. A pointless war that threatens this kingdom for no better reason than to sate the Wartooth’s spite! There are far greater horizons to conquer. Look here, if any man would make himself a sea-king and test his fortune across the East Sea, he will find in me a generous backer. Imagine – the great sea-gate of Miklagard! What treasures await there? Bodvar, don’t they say it takes a whole day to walk across it – that it’s as big as a hundred of our villages? A thousand, even!’

  ‘So I have heard.’ Bodvar looked decidedly less transported by this idea than his king.

  ‘Its wealth is quite fantastic. Its markets overflow in silks and spices and oils and wines and glass and fabulously crafted wares. And their roads and temples and houses are adorned everywhere with gold and silver and priceless jewels that hail from every land to the very edge of the world.’

  ‘So some merchants have said,’ Bodvar admitted. ‘Though whether they are to be believed...’

  But Sviggar’s imagination was soaring and he was hardly listening. ‘Why, we could trade with the Danish isles or with the English in the west for a hundred years and never see the wealth we could glean from the east in ten.’

  ‘And just how do you mean to carry out this trade that will make us all so rich?’ asked Sigurd.

  ‘With ships, of course! Dozens of new ships. Longships, strong and sturdy, but light enough to cross the river portages. We will build them, see?’ His old face was positively beaming. ‘Now the Wartooth’s axe no longer hangs over our necks, we will build. And you will be the one to make it happen!’

  Erlan was astonished to see the king’s finger was again pointing at him. ‘Me, my lord? But I’ve no notion how to build a boat.’

  Sviggar laughed. ‘I don’t want you to build them yourself, fool. I want you to oversee the thing. This year we will double our fleet. Then double it again next year! We have the timber and the craftsmen to do it, so what’s stopping us, heh? It will be the finest fleet the north has ever seen.’

  So this was what happened when kings felt full of the strength of summer. This was Sviggar’s great dream. And suddenly Erlan realized, maybe he had been wrong about this king. All the while he had seen vanity in the old man’s plans for peace. And the old man had seen vanity as well, but vanity of a different kind: the vanity of war. The waste of it. All the while he had been planning something like this. And for a second, Erlan thought maybe Sviggar was the only man truly not vain among all these herds of strutting stags, the only man brave enough to scorn the censure of honour for something better. Something truly great. And not for his own sake, but for something that was simply, in itself, a worthy thing to do.

  ‘Well?’

  Erlan had to admit it was quite some vision. ‘I don’t know what to say, my lord.’

  ‘Say you’ll do it.’

  It made a change from killing. And it would take his mind off Lilla. Something had to. ‘Very well then, my lord. I’ll see it done.’

  ‘Gods,’ Sigurd scoffed, loud enough to fill the chamber. ‘You might as well pick a swineherd off a shit-heap to do the thing.’

  ‘Peace, my son, peace,’ replied Sviggar, his good humour apparently unshakeable. ‘I have an even greater task for you.’

  ‘What task?’

  ‘The second great legacy that I mean to leave my people here. A temple, built among these halls.’

  ‘A temple?’

  ‘Aye. But not just any temple. The greatest holy place ever conceived.’

  Sigurd looked dubious. ‘We already have holy places. The goðar have all they need in them.’

  ‘The goðar! What of them? They’re short-sighted as moles. Oh, they may know all about their sacrifices and runes and prayers and all the rest. They may see far into the other worlds, but it takes a king to see the glory that could be in this one.’ He smiled at his son. ‘You will build this temple and it shall be dedicated to Odin, the High God, the All-Father. Let it be a hall to rival this one,’ he cried. ‘Nay – a hall to rival Valhöll itself!’

  The echo of his cry died away. It was some moments before his son answered. ‘Aye,’ he murmured at length, ‘I do begin to see it. A great hall to honour the Spear-God—’

  ‘Precisely! Any fool can die in battle, but no man has ever done a thing like this. We’ll make Odin’s name the greatest in the north, greater even than all the other gods of the world.’

  Sigurd’s face had taken on a strange luminescence, too. Perhaps the king knew his son better than Erlan had credited.

  ‘You begin at once.’

  Sigurd suddenly approached and clasped his father’s hand. ‘I will, Father. I’ll do it. Thank you.’ It was the most affection Erlan had ever seen pass between them.

  ‘Good! Then our business is done. We meet again two days before the Summer Throng.’

  Erlan made to take his leave with the other councillors. ‘A word more with you, Sigurd,’ added the king. ‘And you, Aurvandil. You guards – you may leave us now with the others.’

  Erlan exchanged glances with Sigurd while the councillors and guards quit the chamber. Sviggar beckoned them closer. ‘I’ve one more thing to discuss. It concerns you both.’ Sviggar took his pitcher of wine and filled two more silver goblets. ‘But first let us drink a toast.’

  ‘What are we drinking to?’ asked Sigurd.

  ‘To your brother Staffen. He has been in my thoughts often of late.’

  Erlan had never met Sigurd’s older brother, the man who would have been Sviggar’s heir. Though once he’d had good cause to wish he’d never heard the name. When he first arrived at Sviggar’s hall he had come within a whisker of being executed for Staffen’s murder. Only a trick of fate had spared him. The king handed them their cups then raised his own. ‘To Staffen, then.’

  They drank.

  ‘So only you are left to me.’ Sviggar sighed.

  ‘You forget your wife’s children,’ Sigurd replied drily.

  Sviggar snorted, half-amused. ‘Gods, so I did. How strange! Though I doubt I’ll live to see Svein to manhood, nor Katla to her maid’s blood. And with Staffen and now Lilla gone... their absence has left a gap.’

  ‘A gap?’

  ‘Aye. Like two trees uprooted in the forest. They leave an empty space to fill. But not, I hope, for long.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘I have decided. You shall have a new brother. I wish to make Erlan my foster-son.’

  He said the words so fast, it was moments before Erlan understood. Foster-son. Even to his ears it sounded absurd. As for Sigurd... Erlan expected him to explode with fury. But instead the prince remained calm. ‘I see.’

  ‘Is that all?’ The king was grinning at his son. ‘Come, what more say you?’

  Erlan watched Sigurd’s tongue run back and forth along his teeth, as if choosing his words with great care. ‘Erlan Aurvandil has served you well. No one could deny that. He is lucky. Nay, a true darling of the gods.’ A small chuckle clicked in his throat. ‘So I say this.’ Sigurd held out his hand. ‘Welcome, brother.’ Erlan was almost too amazed to take it.

  ‘You’re not too proud to join yourself to us, are you?’ Sviggar exclaimed.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Nor yet too old to need a father’s counsel?’

  But I have a father, was Erlan’s reflex thought. I was a chosen son... Sigurd’s hand was still hovering. ‘If this is your wish—’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then so be it.’ He took it. Sigurd pumped his arm.

  ‘Ha!’ Sviggar clapped both th
eir shoulders. ‘The north has never seen a finer pair of princes!’

  They drank again, this time Sviggar draining his cup. ‘But for now, we keep this to ourselves. At the Summer Throng I’ll make the announcement and bind the thing by law.’

  ‘I’m only sorry my sister won’t be here to see it. Her affection for the Aurvandil is well known.’ Erlan shot Sigurd a sharp look, but he saw in his narrow-set eyes no trace of malice.

  ‘Aye. A pity. Tell me, was her parting sorrowful?’

  But before Erlan could answer, Sigurd begged leave of his father. ‘If you’re finished with me,’ he added. ‘I wish to waste no time in the task you’ve laid on me.’

  ‘Good man! Go to it!’

  Once they were alone, Sviggar wanted to know all Erlan could tell him about his journey to the Kolmark, about his daughter’s mood, her words, anything he could recall. Erlan recounted those details that seemed fitting, leaving out Lilla’s haste to be away and the queen’s strange good humour in the wood, and also one or two other things he didn’t quite understand himself.

  When he had finished, Sviggar smiled, apparently satisfied. ‘A father has to let go one day. Does he not? May the gods take good care of her... Well, my boy, this has all fallen out very well. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘It seems so, my lord.’

  ‘Seems, be damned! It’s turned out for you best of all.’

  Erlan couldn’t deny it. But as he made his way out of the cavernous hall, he wasn’t sure what to make of it all. First an earl – and now this? Foster-son to the king? He should be pleased. Gods, he should be bloody delighted. But something gnawed at his mind, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  The estates of Nairka would bring with them wealth and power – advantages he had never consciously sought, though the Norns seemed determined to thrust them upon him. These were surely good things. But land had a way of binding a man. Land meant a burden, a place that would tie him here for ever... and for ever was a long time.

  Maybe that was what troubled him.

  Or maybe this last and greatest honour represented the breaking of his final link with the past? Vendlagard had been his home; its land, his inheritance – with its leafy woods and loamy soil under the swirling skies of the Juten Belt—