A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

She heard the thud of hooves and, looking up, saw two horsemen approaching on the far side of the river. She glanced at the stone in the fire and noted with satisfaction the glow to its edges. Quickly she laid out the cuts of meat on its flat surface. They began to sizzle and spit.

  ‘My noble mother!’ hailed Sigurd over the noise of hooves stomping across the ford. ‘Good day to you!’ He slouched atop one of his purebred stallions. A towering beast, black as midnight and broad as a bull. Vargalf sat beside him, astride the stallion’s twin.

  ‘Prince Sigurd. And Vargalf... as always.’

  ‘A bit late for breakfast, isn’t it?’ said Sigurd, nodding at the sputtering meat.

  ‘I always make provision for the occasion,’ she replied obscurely. ‘And you – out for a ride?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He threw his leg over his horse’s withers and jumped down. ‘Shall we dispense with the mummery, my lady? Vargalf said you wanted to speak with me. Here I am.’

  Saldas smiled demurely and crouched beside the fire, turning over the meat with her knife. ‘Are you in some kind of hurry, prince?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  That was good. She wanted him to be impatient. She carried on turning the cuts of meat until she judged she had made him wait long enough. ‘Sweet Sigurd, I am afflicted.’

  ‘Afflicted, is it?’ He lifted a wry eyebrow.

  ‘With a terrible fear.’

  ‘You – afraid?’ Sigurd scoffed. ‘For what?’

  ‘Why, for the kingdom, of course...’

  She paused, waiting for him to bite.

  His jaw shifted left and right. ‘Go on.’

  ‘This business we have concluded with the house of Danmark – it seems fraught with hazard. I mistrust the oaths they have sworn.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he replied carefully, but she could see in his eyes the hook had caught.

  ‘Forgive me, prince, I must speak my mind. Your father remains in fragile health. And worse, I’ve begun to suspect he is losing his reason. He is beguiled by this pretty illusion of peace. But I fear the kingdom remains in terrible peril.’

  Sigurd’s eyes flicked uncertainly from hers to Vargalf’s and back again. Suddenly, almost violently, he stepped closer and seized her hand. ‘I agree,’ he said, voice shaking with passion. ‘By the fires, how I agree! This same fear gnaws at my heart.’

  ‘I fear these Danes have gulled your father into a stupor, feeding him oaths like milk to a babe. And now he talks of his lofty plans for the kingdom. But are they not so many mad mutterings? To send ships to the ends of the earth in search of gold and who knows what? And all the while the Danes and their Gotar vassals may fall on us at any moment.’ She flashed her eyes wildly. It was important that Sigurd should not doubt her sincerity.

  ‘He’s blind to it,’ the prince growled. ‘Blind and complacent... You’re right. Every new idea he has carries him off like a feather in a storm. Do you know he actually means to name the cripple his foster-son at the Summer Throng?’

  Saldas had to cover her mouth to conceal her smile. Now here was news! Gods, it was too amusing how her husband played into her hands again and again. ‘There, you see. His reason is slipping.’

  ‘That louse-ridden beggar!’ spat Sigurd.

  His whining was pitiful, of course, though perhaps the prick of jealousy could ease her task. ‘It’s certainly odd,’ she said, ‘that this man should have risen so high and so fast in your father’s esteem. Yet nothing is known of him. Nothing of his past nor where he is from...’ Although I know one of his secrets, she smiled inwardly. ‘Who’s to say he’s not the Wartooth’s man, sent to usurp you – the rightful heir – like a cuckoo in the nest? He is clever, undoubtedly. Perhaps in his seemingly guileless way, he intends to turn the realm over to his real lord.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was Sigurd’s eyes that were aflame now. ‘That makes sense. I’ve never trusted the man.’

  ‘Of course, I may be wrong,’ Saldas demurred, satisfied that the seed had taken. ‘Erlan has done much for us, after all. And besides – such a plan could never succeed. You’re Sviggar’s true son. He loves you. You can’t be jealous of Erlan, surely?’

  Sigurd scowled. ‘When my brother was alive, there was no doubt which of us my father loved more. And now there’s this damned cuckoo! But my father’s wrong about him. And about me—’

  ‘Of course, he’s wrong. You were born into a great line of kings. And who is this upstart? A nobody, a nothing, or something worse. But you... you are destined to be a king. The Norns have woven it thus. How else could you explain your brother’s death?’ She let her voice fill with passion. ‘Believe me, you will be king – and what’s more, a great one. First, lord over all Sveäland, and then – who knows? Surely lord of an even greater realm.’ She paused to give him time to imagine it. ‘If your father doesn’t recognize this in you, then truly he is blind. And I promise you, if he doesn’t see it, his people will.’ She seized his hand, eyes bright and earnest. ‘These are perilous times, Sigurd. Our people are looking for a king who will stand up for them, one with the vision to make them great – to make them first among the peoples of the north.’

  ‘The earls and thanes likewise look for a strong king to follow,’ said Vargalf. ‘Sviggar’s peace dishonours them.’

  ‘Not just them.’ Sigurd nodded grimly. ‘His shame is smeared like shit over all of us. We reek of it. Bah! What good is it to inherit a kingdom that’s been made bitch to those Danish dogs?’ His mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. ‘Each time Ringast mounts my sister, he might as well be shafting every one of us.’

  Saldas held her peace. She knew when to let poisoned thoughts do their work.

  ‘No,’ he murmured, so quietly he spoke almost to himself. ‘I see a way for the Sveär folk – a way to greatness and glory. But Father would never walk that path. He’d rather slither on his belly this other way, with the rest of us crawling after him.’

  ‘Shame shall not be the fate of our people,’ Saldas whispered. ‘But if the Sveär are to win themselves a greater fate, it must be seized. By a man of will.’

  ‘Aye, I see a path,’ said Sigurd wistfully. ‘Maybe I’ve always seen it. Going before me, showing me the way...’ He raised his hand, as if he could reach out and touch whatever it was he saw in his mind. ‘My destiny.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Saldas leaned closer to him, reaching out and cupping his outstretched hand in hers. ‘Your destiny. Yours to take.’ She closed her hand, squeezing his fingers shut. ‘Yours to keep.’

  For a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were the water’s chatter over the rocks, the children’s distant laughter, and the wolf heart sizzling in the fire.

  It was Vargalf who broke the silence. ‘Destiny comes like a wanderer in the night. When he knocks, a man must open the door, else he moves on.’

  Sigurd nodded. ‘It’s time. I must take hold of what is mine.’

  ‘The sacrifice must be made for the greater good,’ Saldas said quickly, still doubting his resolve.

  ‘It’s been done before,’ Vargalf said. ‘The old tales tell how the gods once demanded the supreme sacrifice of King Domaldi before they would restore their blessings to the Sveär people. His nobles did not baulk at the task. To save his people, the king had to die.’

  ‘There,’ said Saldas, her voice sweet and low. ‘Then it’s the will of the gods that guides your hand.’

  Sigurd snorted. ‘Do you know, he thinks he can honour Odin with this temple he plans to build? The greatest in all of the north, he says. But I doubt the Spear-God cares for wooden idols or cavernous halls. He wants blood. The blood of heroes.’ Saldas saw resolve seep back into his face like a rushing tide. ‘It could be done. It should be done.’

  ‘If there were any other way...’ Saldas murmured softly.

  ‘There is no other,’ said Vargalf. Sigurd shot him a look like he’d been slapped in the face.

  ‘I fear Vargalf is right. You must be courageous, dear prince. You bea
r the future of your people in these hands.’ She leaned closer. ‘But know that you don’t stand alone.’

  His eyes flashed in a silent jeer. ‘So you’re with me in this? You – his wife?’

  ‘Life is about the sacrifices one is prepared to make. This is mine. Vargalf – are you with us?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good. So now we shall eat this together to bind our compact.’ She crouched to the fire, stabbing each piece of roasted meat in turn and laying them on the cloth to cool.

  ‘What is it?’ Sigurd said.

  ‘A wolf’s heart. One heart binding us to one purpose.’ She gathered up the pieces and handed one to each man. ‘Eat.’

  Wordlessly, they did as she bid them. Saldas watched the bloody juices running down Sigurd’s beard as he chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, forcing the meat down, the grease oozing between his fingers. She did the same, savouring the wolf’s sour taste. Soon it was done. She allowed herself a faint smile, remembering the words she had spoken over the bloodied flesh, knowing now that Sigurd’s resolve would never waver, that his heart would become stone in his chest, his ears deaf to all voices but the call of his own ambition. The spell was in him now. It would not be long before it took hold.

  As for Vargalf... She scoffed to herself. As if he needed any goading to the work that lay before them.

  ‘One heart,’ she repeated, wiping her chin clean. ‘One purpose.’

  ‘The death of a king.’ Sigurd’s mouth twisted in a grimace. ‘The death of a husband.’

  ‘And the death of a father,’ she retorted. ‘Our personal interests cannot stand before what must be if we are to save Sveäland from the Wartooth.’

  ‘I’m sure my father would be glad to know his wife is so selfless for his kingdom.’

  She turned away, annoyed at this change in tone. But she bridled her irritation. This next thing was too important. ‘You know, prince, death always ends a woman’s service to her husband.’ She paused. ‘But sometimes it marks the beginning of her service to another.’

  Sigurd circled round her, studying her like a hunter marking a dangerous quarry. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  She lifted her chin, unashamed, presenting herself to him, proud and beautiful. ‘It’s your choice,’ she said sharply. ‘Either I stand behind you in this... Or else, beside you.’

  A slow chuckle clicked in Sigurd’s throat. ‘My father ought to know he shares his bed with a she-wolf. Don’t you agree, Vargalf?’ He turned to his flunkey, smirking. ‘Will you tell him or shall I?’

  ‘If you do, tell him also of the scorpion that shares his salt and his blood,’ she hissed. ‘Listen, gentle prince, if you can find yourself a more fitting queen than I, then the gods grant you good fortune.’

  She watched lust leaching into his eyes as they moved over her figure. How many times had she seen that look? The trick was how to use it. But she could see this battle was already won.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You must learn to control your temper, my lady. I didn’t say I could find any better, did I?’ He smiled. ‘At least, not yet.’

  ‘So you agree?’

  ‘I could see my way to an agreement. There are certain obvious advantages to what you suggest.’ He chuckled. ‘But if I were to agree, I have one small condition of my own.’

  ‘Condition? What condition?’

  ‘Come, come, Lady Saldas – you can’t have it all your own way. After all, did you not say that we must all make sacrifices?’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Oh, a simple thing...’

  And as she listened to him speak, above the chattering stream and her children’s gleeful cries and the crackle of the dying fire, she felt the breath tighten in her chest and his words coil around her heart like the cold fingers of Hel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lilla awoke to the sound of thunder.

  The night was still black as pitch. She listened to the crash and quake roiling in the dark skies beyond. Folk at home would have said of a night like this that Thor was laughing. But the storm raging outside didn’t seem much cause for mirth. Dannerborg’s sturdy rafters shook and the rain beat down like lead hailstones and the wind screamed and whistled through every crack in the walls.

  It was awesome, terrifying, humbling. Each sudden splay of lightning that lit the chamber only further proclaimed its power. Ringast awoke soon after her and drew her close, not saying a word, at least not out loud. But she felt the tremor of his breath on her neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Praying,’ he murmured softly.

  So she let him pray. Though he didn’t seem like a man who would humble himself before the Thunder God – or any other – at the first crack of thunder, however violent.

  But in the grey gloom of a miserable dawn, he rose early. Lilla awoke to find him clothed and strapping on his sword.

  ‘Go back to sleep, my love.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back up to the valley.’

  Only then did she realize her mistake: it wasn’t for himself that he had been praying. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

  Thus, for the second time before a day had turned, she rode westwards with her husband. Only this time, there was no comfortable silence. Instead they rode with a growing sense of urgency. Dread, even.

  And on the far side of the wood, a very different sight greeted them than had the evening before. Instead of the golden dusk, black clouds hung low and sullen over their heads, seeming to brim with malice.

  And below them, devastation.

  There was not a stalk of barley left standing in the whole valley. The fields of gold had been flattened to a carpet of grey weeds, waterlogged and pathetic, hardly better than the soiled rushes of a mead-hall floor after a feast.

  Ringast said not a word – just stood there, looking down the valley. She watched him, watched the silence lain across his broad shoulders like a yolk. He stooped and snatched a fistful of the broken plants at his feet, squeezing his fingers until water ran from his knuckles. ‘Ruined.’

  ‘Surely some may be salvaged.’ But looking at the filthy weeds at her feet, that seemed a faint hope indeed.

  Ringast suddenly spat a curse, spat it with such violence that Lilla felt a shiver of fear through her heart.

  ‘You see, my wife?’ he snarled. ‘How man tries to raise something good, and the gods just laugh and tear it all to pieces.’

  She didn’t know what to say. She moved towards him, although doubting her touch could bring him any comfort just then. But before she reached him there was a noise behind her. She turned to see a horseman break from the gloomy wood.

  ‘My lord!’ Lilla recognized him – a karl called Kari. A strong, reliable lad with a thick scar hanging off one corner of his mouth. But despite the melancholy air this gave him, his eyes were bright with excitement. ‘They said I’d find you here!’

  ‘What is it, Kari? Speak!’

  ‘Lord Branni has come. From Leithra.’

  ‘Branni?’ The name clearly meant something to him, and just as clear was his surprise. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He awaits you in the hall.’

  ‘Tell him I’m coming at once. Go!’

  Not pausing for a breath, Kari hauled round his animal’s head and dug in his heels. In another instant man and beast had disappeared into the wood as fast as they had come.

  ‘Who’s Branni?’

  ‘My father’s messenger. And his most trusted friend. If he’s here, whatever tidings he brings must be weighty.’ He gave a sudden snort and flung away the broken ears of corn. ‘Now, my love – you’ll get your answer at last.’

  In fact it was a while later before Lilla was striding down the corridor towards her husband’s council chamber, keys jangling softly against her thigh, a husk of irritation catching in her throat. Ringast had insisted he meet this Branni alone – at least at first. ‘I need his tongue loose. The presence
of King Sviggar’s daughter may hinder that.’

  ‘You mean the daughter of your ally,’ she said pointedly.

  He only grunted and told her to dress as she would to meet a king, adding that by the time she was ready she could join them.

  She had rushed her ablutions, chiding Gerutha for every moment of delay. But now here she was, dressed in all her finery – for what it was worth. She could hear voices, several different voices it seemed to her, despite her husband having said he would meet the Wartooth’s messenger alone.

  She hesitated at the edge of the shadows, knowing once she entered, all eyes would be on her and the talk would cease. Perhaps her husband would turn her away after all. So she moved a little closer to the doorway and listened.

  The voices were hard. Suddenly a fist slammed on a table.

  ‘Damn the old bastard! How can he be sure?’ someone shouted. Maybe her husband, though the voice was so distorted with rage she could hardly tell.

  There was a chuckle, deep and languid and gravelly. ‘It could only be Sviggar’s work. The man was set on murder.’

  ‘It makes no sense. Not after the oaths we swore.’ That was her husband’s gruff voice, calmer now. She peered around the smoke-black doorpost. The top end of the hall was full of men. So much for a private audience, she thought indignantly. Her husband stood behind the long-table, leaning on his fists. Others sat about or leaned against the walls, some drinking, some picking at their hands, all of them listening intently.

  Below the dais stood a tall man in a grey travel cloak, an enormous hand hooked over his sword-hilt. His shoulders were broad and bony, his beard and braids the colour of rust. But most distinctive of all were his eyebrows, which were coarse and thick as straw-thatch. Behind him, standing at a respectful distance, were two others, also dressed for the road, their faces hidden in the shadow of their hoods.

  ‘Your father would never be so trusting,’ said the man with the bushy eyebrows whom she surmised to be Branni. ‘He knows Sviggar is a two-faced villain. Just like his father Ívar, dog that he was.’

  At the mention of her father’s name, Lilla could hold in her indignation no longer. ‘That’s a lie!’ she exclaimed, emerging from the shadows. At once every eye was on her, sharp as dagger points. But she knew she mustn’t wilt. ‘My father is a man of his word. And who are you to deny it?’