A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

‘The boy has gone the way of the fire-head, I’m afraid. Gutted like a Gotar swine.’

  ‘You fucking weasel. What harm could he do Sigurd or his murderous bitch?’

  ‘None. If he’s dead.’

  The wooden door slammed shut and the smokehouse was left in darkness.

  Erlan hung for a while, blocking out the pain in his wrists, struggling to breathe, telling himself not to believe his tormentor. And at length he felt strong enough to take his weight again. His eyes followed the chain up to the beam above him. If he could just get over that, his pain would ease. Only a few feet, but he might as well have wished to touch the North Star as have any hope of getting over it.

  A chain clinked in one of the shadowy corners. ‘Erlan.’

  He recognized the hoarse voice. ‘Bodvar?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I thought they let you go.’

  ‘Then you’re a bloody fool. Like me.’

  ‘Are you... all right?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘Can you move at least?’

  ‘No more than you. They chained me here before they brought you in. After they’d worked me over some. Did you refuse the oath, too?’

  ‘Many did after you. But I didn’t get the chance.’ His ribcage suddenly spasmed painfully and he sucked the air. ‘I’m here because the queen wants revenge,’ he said when it had passed.

  ‘Revenge? For what?’

  ‘I offended her vanity.’

  ‘Hah! Then certainly you must die.’ The chamber fell silent. When Bodvar spoke again, his voice was grim as death. ‘It’s an evil tide that’s rising, mark me. And with it comes a flood of the raven’s wine.’

  ‘Do you think Kai is really dead?’

  ‘Well, if he is still alive, only the gods can help him now.’

  ‘And who’ll help us?’

  ‘I don’t know, lad,’ Bodvar muttered. ‘I don’t know.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Kai stood still in the dark.

  But his eyes flicked from corner to corner, restless as his mind. He knew the shape of the house, knew its smell, knew where every object lay. But something had changed. That morning, this had been their home. Now it felt like a fist closing around him.

  He listened to his fingers drumming on the table.

  Come on, think!

  He had to clear his head. Anger still burned hot inside him, its billowing smoke smothering his reason. He knew what he wanted to do – imagined sneaking into the Great Hall, slipping into the queen’s chamber. Imagined the pulse of alarm in those green eyes as his hand closed over her mouth; heard the sob of fear when his knife touched her skin; felt the panic as the point went in. Afterwards he would slip away, like a grave-ghost that was never there... That was what he wanted to do. But that was just rage calling. It served him nothing. He must use his wits.

  Staring into the darkness, he saw Bara’s pleading eyes, the flecks of red spattered across the clan-fathers’ beards, the roaring flames snapping at her blood-soaked shift.

  My beautiful little fool!

  But what use his anger? For her, it was too late. She was dead. He must live for the living. That meant Erlan. At least, he hoped it did, though he acknowledged the very real possibility that his master was already dead.

  And he knew: if the queen was tying up loose ends, it wouldn’t be long before her attention fell on him. He had to stay clear of Vargalf’s clutches.

  Vargalf...

  Suddenly, it was clear as water. They would come for him. They would come for him tonight. He had to get away. If he was to be of any use, if he was to find out anything, he had to get away. It didn’t matter where.

  His fingers stopped drumming and his hand reached out for the cloak sprawled over the table. He snatched it away. Even in the gloom, the axe-blade murmured with a dull shimmer. These were Erlan’s weapons but they were no use to his master now. He would take them, would see them safely back into Erlan’s hands, if the gods were good.

  He swung the cloak over his bony shoulders, the wolf pelt warm against his neck. The thing was too big for him, but Erlan wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it a while, would he? Besides, Kai needed the eyes of a wolf now. Needed its nose, its claws, its teeth. He smiled grimly in the darkness. He could see more now. The table, the stools, the jumble of pots and pitchers; the shields, the long-knives, the pair of spears arranged on the table.

  Only Wrathling was missing. Kai figured the king must have that now. He snorted. That was too bad. He would just take what he could carry and be away.

  He slung a shield over his back and pulled the strap tight across his chest, then slid the long-knife into his belt and picked up one of the spears in his left hand. Lastly, he seized the axe in his right.

  He felt strong. Felt like a killer.

  Felt like killing.

  He pricked his ears at the darkness.

  Silence.

  He laughed – a low, mean rasp in his throat. Nothing like his normal laugh. He took a look around the little dwelling that had been their home. He knew it would be his last. Then he turned, poked aside the drape with his spear-point and opened the door.

  The air was cool on his face. He stopped, sniffing the air like a fox emerging from its den. He took a couple of strides, waited again, his eyes scanning ahead. All was stillness. He turned west and began stalking up the slope, keeping to the thicker shadow. But a few more paces on he heard a noise. He stopped and waited.

  Two figures appeared, silhouetted against the gloom, coming down the slope. His eyes narrowed, seeing.

  He smiled. Maybe he did have the eyes of a wolf.

  In each man’s right hand he saw the slender outline of a sword. In the other, one had a spear, the other an axe. Kai recognized the slouched shoulders and bowed legs of Aleif Red-Cheeks and beside him the other, bulkier man with Vargalf the night before. Torlak, wasn’t that his name? Torlik?

  What did it matter?

  He could hear their muted talk, then a brittle laugh. He backed away, taking care not to knock his weapons, and he’d soon reached the door again and slipped inside.

  His own breathing seemed loud as thunder. The lub-lub of his pulse thumped in his ears. He edged back from the doorway, not taking his eyes off it for a second. Outside, their footsteps drew closer.

  Silently, he slipped back under the loft where the darkness was thick as tar, slipped back until his back jarred against the wall with a soft thud. Deep shadow enveloped him. His breathing steadied. Gently, he laid his spear on the ground and drew out the long-knife with a thin scrape of steel.

  He was ready.

  Bare moments later he heard voices approaching the door. He couldn’t make out the words but suddenly the voices stopped. A series of blows to the door shattered the quiet.

  ‘Open up in the name of the king!’

  Silence.

  ‘Kai Askarsson – we’re here on king’s business.’ Kai recognized the nasal lilt of the careless beekeeper. ‘Open up.’ More banging.

  ‘He’s not ’ere,’ said Torlak.

  ‘He might be,’ Aleif hissed. ‘He’s a tricksy little fucker, that one.’

  Kai raised an eyebrow in the pitchy dark. You have no idea.

  The latch lifted. The door flew open. The drape crumpled and then a spear-point appeared. A moment later the men were in the room. They trod cautiously, as if unable to see what was around them. Torlak’s bulk caught against the bench and he shifted sideways, knocking Aleif’s sword arm.

  ‘Watch it, you dozy bastard.’ Aleif shoved him and the big man bumped even harder against the table, making the weapons Kai had left behind clank.

  ‘It’s darker than Hel’s arse-crack in here,’ said Torlak.

  ‘Quit your bitching,’ snapped Aleif, who had moved apart and was turning around, trying to see into the shadows.

  ‘Well, where is he?’

  ‘He must have known we were coming.’

  ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘We find ’
im, don’t we? If he doesn’t come easy, you know what Vargalf said.’

  ‘Slit the little worm’s throat,’ the other chuckled.

  Kai smiled. If this pair of whoresons wanted to hunt a wolf in darkness, they should’ve known better than to come to its lair blind.

  Still, Aleif saw better now. He went to the table and looked down at the weapons there. ‘Check all this,’ he muttered, prodding at a spear handle with his sword. ‘The lad reckons he’s a killer, does he?’ He sniggered. ‘He’ll probably stab himself and save us a job, the silly prick.’

  ‘What now then?’

  ‘Take a look round the back. I’ll check the rest of this place.’

  Kai watched Torlak find the door while Aleif looked around. He must’ve seen the shape of the ladder to the loft because he went to it and put a foot to the bottom rung.

  ‘He can’t be that much of a halfwit, can he?’ Aleif muttered to himself. ‘Hey! You up there, you dopey arse-nut!’ he called. Silence. Kai listened to the reassuring drumming of his heart.

  Outside he could hear Torlak’s footsteps shuffling through the grass. Aleif hooked his axe in his belt and began climbing the ladder. He was soon up it and Kai listened to him scrape his sword across the straw-covered planks. Kai stole two steps away from the wall. There he stood, wrapped in shadow, one pace to the side of the ladder.

  Aleif cursed and down he came again, rung by rung, to the floor. He reached the bottom and stopped, one hand still on the ladder-rail, straining his eyes into the shadow where Kai had just been standing. Kai let his axe-handle slip through his fingers, feeling the roughness of the wood scrape his palm. He squeezed. The axe stopped.

  Aleif shook his head, frustrated.

  Kai hissed. Scarcely more than a wisp of air through his teeth, like a wind-gust teasing the treetops in some distant wood. But Aleif heard it and turned.

  Kai was close enough to see the blotches on Aleif’s cheeks, close enough to see his eyes widen in alarm as he stepped out of the shadow. Aleif’s sword was rising, a cry forming in his throat, but too late.

  The axe slammed home. The sword fell instantly as Aleif’s blood began to flood onto the floor. The blow had knocked Aleif against the ladder, where his body now jerked and shuddered. Kai ripped his axe free. More gouts of blood welled darkly from the gaping rent which used to be his mouth. Then, slowly, he slumped to the floor, a heap of broken limbs.

  Immediately Kai downed his axe and shoved his knife in his belt. He wasn’t sure how much noise had been made. But whether or not Torlak had heard anything, he would be back any moment.

  He seized Aleif’s ankles and dragged him under the loft. Blood seeped out of him in an ugly smear, but there wasn’t time to do anything about that. Not now he could hear the big man’s footsteps approaching.

  The hem of Erlan’s cloak was heavy with blood. Kai looked around for the axe but the door was already opening. He was out of time. By pure instinct, he took three steps towards the doorway, positioning himself to its left. The door rattled open. The drape stirred.

  ‘There’s no one there. Didn’t I tell you? The little turd’s run off.’

  Silence.

  ‘Aleif? Are you there? Aleif?’

  Torlak was in the room now, the drape fallen behind him. His head turned, blinking blindly into the thicker darkness inside the house.

  He’s a big bastard, thought Kai, standing directly behind him now, the long-knife drawn and in his hand. It felt good. Sharp. Sharp as a wolf’s fang.

  ‘Aleif, stop pissing around.’ Torlak ventured a couple of faltering steps forward.

  Kai followed him, marvelling at this ogre’s stupidity and his own stealth. He could see everything now – the table, the ladder, the bulky shoulders ahead of him, the clumsy feet shuffling across the floor. Could hear everything, too – the scrape of the spear-butt along the ground, the brush of the man’s clothes, the fear in his breath, the beating of his heart. He could smell the sweat and stale shit seeping off his clothes, the beer and rotten teeth on his breath.

  But Kai... he was the wolf. Silent. Seeing. Deadly.

  He could have put the knife into him by now. But that would be too easy. He wanted him to see his face. Wanted him to recognize his killer.

  Torlak took another step forward. The sole of his shoe slapped something wet. Another step. Same sound. He looked down.

  ‘Aleif?’

  Kai smiled. This was a dead man.

  Torlak stepped level with the ladder. He bent over, leaning on his spear, peering into the darkness. At last he saw it, swearing violently, recoiling from the bloody heap, wrenching round his body, lifting his sword. But even as he turned, it seemed to him as if a shadow had risen out of the very earth. A face pale as the moon, grinning like some mad demon, teeth bared to the gums. He hefted his sword, but the shadow was already past its point. He lurched back from the fierce teeth and the flashing metal, too scared to scream. But the knife was already plunging deep into his terror-stricken heart.

  Kai struck again and again, not a whisper in his throat, despite the savage scream of triumph ringing in his head. Torlak tottered, then crashed backwards over Aleif’s body. For a few seconds, a weird rattle clicked in his throat, his body twitching, and then he was silent and still.

  Kai’s mouth was locked rigid in a grimace. Slowly he backed away, sliding the knife back into his belt. His foot kicked against something. He looked down and saw his axe. He picked it up. It was slick with Aleif’s blood.

  He felt strong. Wild.

  I am the wolf.

  The wolf had fed well that night. But now it was time to run.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Dawn seeped into the dismal chamber.

  There had been little sleep. Little true wakefulness, either. Dreams and reality had swirled together like muddy clouds in the stream of Erlan’s mind. He was thirsty, each breath scraping his throat.

  The light revealed chains bolted to the wall, a squat black brazier and next to it a stack of iron rods, filthy with grime. Vestiges from the smokehouse’s days of curing meat.

  Erlan shifted. Pain raced down his arms.

  The noises of the new day were filtering through the walls: cartwheels’ rattle, the low folk’s distant chatter, dogs barking, the first muffled hammering from the smithies’ booths, even busier than usual in anticipation of the Summer Throng.

  ‘Bodvar?’ he croaked. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘I don’t know what I am,’ came the weary reply.

  ‘At the Throng. D’you think the earls will accept whatever Sigurd tells them?’

  ‘Till yesterday I’d have said no. But—’

  ‘There must be more like you.’

  ‘Maybe. But the high lords are sworn to him now.’

  ‘Some may break faith with him.’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘What he intends... But who can tell? Men draw their lines in strange places.’

  ‘There’s some hope then.’

  Bodvar grunted. ‘I fear any hope is small.’

  In truth, so did Erlan. ‘Why would he keep us alive?’

  ‘Maybe leverage over the earls. Though more likely...’

  ‘What?’

  Bodvar grimaced. ‘To make a show of us. The fate of traitors.’

  They fell to silence. The day wore on. Erlan hung, joints straining, mind drifting in and out of consciousness, his head rolling back and forth. Rolling back and forth...

  Rolling...

  He hears the ropes creak through the fog, the hull pitching under him. His back aches as he heaves his oar – shoulders burn, hands sting. He looks up. The sky is red. A battle-dawn. Ravens caw and turn on salt-laced winds. He hears a roar and sees his father, his blade wet with the Valkyries’ tears. Next all is stillness; his shoulders throb, rolling, rolling. There are his shield-brothers, gone to the mead-bench; under their stiff bodies the raven’s wine has turned to crimson ice on the frozen deck. His hand trails in the water. The sa
lt stings his wounds and he gazes into the murky deep. He thirsts. He thirsts... A wave crashes in his face.

  Erlan jolted awake. A guard stood in front of him, holding an empty bucket. He felt water running down his body.

  ‘Your drink, arseling.’

  Erlan was already licking thirstily at the dirty rivulets running over his lips. A few drops, but to his parched tongue, each drop an ocean.

  The guard went out, slamming the door behind him. Erlan looked up. The light had changed, though he had no clue which marks of the day had passed. Outside the noises had died some. Then he heard another: someone approaching.

  The door snapped open and Vargalf stepped inside, followed by a guard dragging in a well-built man with a sweep of fire-red hair. The redhead’s hands were bound. Another guard entered after them and shoved the man to his knees.

  The prisoner’s face was swollen. He was bleeding from a slash to his forehead. Blood was smeared in thick streaks over his eye and down his cheek. Yet, despite these disfigurements, there was something familiar about him. Apart from the swelling and his wound, the man’s face was well proportioned, young, handsome even, with a fine straight nose, high and wide-set cheekbones, a strong chin. But the red beard and flaming hair didn’t match the rest of his face somehow. His cloak was filthy and so ragged it was more hole than cloth; his tunic, barely rags. And he stank.

  Vargalf looked up at Erlan. ‘Feeling neglected, cripple? It’s been a busy day. And eventful. Eh, friend?’ He gave the prisoner a kick. ‘I’m afraid our guest here will be needing your place.’

  The chain lurched, jerking Erlan’s wrists. He winced, then collapsed to the ground with the chain falling after in a heap. He was dragged to one side. Another chain-rattle, another tug and he was pulled tight against the wall.

  It took them bare moments to strip the redhead and hang him in Erlan’s place.

  ‘Fetch it,’ Vargalf ordered. Whatever it was.

  A guard disappeared.

  ‘Who is he?’ hissed Bodvar from his filthy corner.

  ‘Excellent question! The very question I must answer, in fact. So then,’ Vargalf barked, ‘who are you?’