A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  ‘I’ve told you. My name is Aksalf. I’m a swineherd from the coastlands.’

  ‘A swineherd!’ Vargalf laughed. ‘You certainly stink like one. Let’s try again. Who are you?’

  ‘What else can I say?’ The prisoner was twisting on the chain like a fish on a hook. ‘Please!’

  ‘Perhaps you’re too ashamed to recall who you are in your present condition.’ Vargalf grinned. ‘We’ll soon overcome your coyness.’ He drew his sword and without a moment’s hesitation smacked the flat of it across the beggar’s hamstrings.

  The beggar yowled like a kicked dog. ‘My name’s Aksalf! I’m a swineherd. From Nordshamen by the East Sea.’

  ‘Nordshamen! I dare say such a place even exists.’

  ‘I swear to you—’

  ‘Swear what you like. I only want to hear your own name from your own lips.’

  ‘Aksalf. It’s Aksalf.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Vargalf sighed. ‘I guess we’ll take the long road.’ So saying, with horrifying deliberation, he began beating the beggar’s legs till they were swollen with scarlet welts, so raw they glistened.

  ‘Njord damn you with a black and lonely drowning death, you sack of swine spunk,’ the beggar gasped when Vargalf gave his arm a rest.

  ‘A curse! Ha! So our swineherd has some bollocks on him after all.’

  The door flew open and the guard returned wearing heavy leather gauntlets and carrying a brazier brimming hot coals, with an iron rod thrust in it.

  ‘There,’ Vargalf pointed. The guard placed it in front of the beggar. ‘Perhaps this will get us where we want to be a little quicker.’ He stirred the rod among the coals. When he pulled it out, its point glowed orange.

  ‘Now then – your real name.’

  The beggar’s eyes widened with fear. ‘Aksalf, a swineherd from—’

  ‘Nordshamen,’ interrupted Vargalf, losing patience. ‘Yes. I tell you what,’ he held up the glowing point to the beggar’s nose, ‘you’re going to answer my question. Because if you don’t, by the time I’m done with you, there’ll be nothing left of you but a stain on this fucking floor!’ His voice had become a shriek. He snatched away the iron. ‘Let us begin.’

  Erlan would always wish he could blot the hours that followed from his memory. He did his best to bury his face in the wall while the smokehouse filled with the reek of burning flesh and the echoes of the man’s screams. How long it went on, he couldn’t have said. Too long. But the wretched beggar proved of sterner mettle than he first seemed, doggedly refusing to say more than his name and his village.

  ‘I begin to believe you’re slow-witted,’ Vargalf said at last, scowling in frustration and shoving the rod deep in the coals. ‘Except that I’ve heard folk speak highly of you.’ He sniggered. ‘True – folk say other things about you, too. That you’re not like other men. You are a man of... different tastes.’

  The other only whimpered.

  Abruptly, Vargalf seized the iron and circled behind him. Then he lifted the point and simply laid it against the man’s naked buttock. The beggar uttered a soul-shattering scream.

  As it died away, all it left was Vargalf’s ugly snigger. ‘They say you enjoy a bit of heat around the backside. In fact, they say best of all you like something hot and hard right up it!’ He roared with laughter. ‘Shall we find out?’ He signalled the guards. ‘Hold him.’

  But it seemed that was enough to break the man. ‘Stop!’ he sobbed. ‘Stop! I’ll tell you – I’ll tell you who I am. Please.’ He was gasping in his panic.

  ‘Go on.’ Vargalf’s face creased into a vulpine sneer.

  ‘Rorik. My name is Rorik. I’m a Dane.’

  ‘A Dane called Rorik,’ Vargalf crowed. ‘Imagine that! And your father is?’ The point still hovered near his branded backside.

  ‘Harald,’ he snivelled. ‘My father is Harald, King of the Danes.’

  Vargalf expelled a long breath and lowered the point. ‘Release him.’

  The guards let go and the young Dane swung gently on the chain.

  ‘That’s enough for now.’ Vargalf tossed the iron onto the brazier. ‘So we have restored you to your noble name, young Rorik. That’s a start. But I’m afraid tidings like this must be brought before the king at once.’ Rorik made a pitiful figure, eyes clamped shut in agony and shame. ‘And don’t worry, my other dear friends, I’ve not forgotten you.’

  Vargalf went out, laughing, and the guards with him, toting the brazier and with it any hope of warmth. The bolts snapped shut.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Erlan when all was quiet.

  ‘Someone had to come,’ Rorik wheezed. ‘Ringast had to know... Someone had to come... I had to... had to show my father...’ His voice filled with bitterness. ‘Would he not be proud to see me now?’ His body was pink and red where ugly blisters bubbled on his skin.

  ‘How did they take you?’ asked Erlan.

  ‘I trusted in that disguise... like a fool. It worked for my father. Of course it worked for him! Everything works for him. But never for me. I’m cursed. A man born with no luck.’

  ‘How did they take you?’ Erlan repeated.

  ‘That devil recognized me.’ He spat out a long string of saliva. ‘May every god curse him! The first I knew of it something smashed my head. I was dazed but tried to fight, though I had only a knife.’ He gulped awkwardly. ‘I remember staggering, taking another blow... Then they were dragging me here.’

  ‘Did you witness what happened at the Throng?’ Bodvar asked.

  ‘I saw all I needed to see. This Sigurd is an oath-breaker. My father was right about this house of the Bastard King.’

  ‘Tell us what you heard.’

  Rorik sucked in a hoarse breath, as if so much talk was too wearying. But after a time he did speak. ‘Your law. Disputes. Judgements. After that came Sigurd’s boasting. He made much of his kingship and the destiny of the Sveärs.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He harked back to the Wide-Realm – so he called it.’

  ‘Ívar’s rule.’

  ‘Aye. He’d have you believe his grandsire ruled half the world.’

  ‘Ívar was your forefather, too.’

  ‘So he was. To my shame. Sigurd thinks he can restore this Wide-Realm. He plans to raise a host.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Immediately. He’s already dispatched riders to every chieftain, every king, every sea-lord who might rally to his banner. And with them, any man who can hold a spear.’

  ‘For whom will he send? Be specific.’

  ‘For whom won’t he? Finns, Norskmen west beyond the mountains, the Western Gotars, Sami raiders and forest-men, the Estlander lords, and more.’

  ‘Who, boy? Tell us!’

  ‘Kurslanders, Gotlanders, the Rus of the northern marshes, Kvenlander riders. Besides this, he means to levy every axe and spear in these lands. The riders carry with them promises – of gold, of slaves, of land for the outlander lords and the sea-kings if they come.’

  ‘The Niflagard hoard,’ Erlan murmured, remembering the gold they had found that winter deep under the earth.

  ‘He’s gold enough there to pay every hero in Valhalla,’ said Bodvar.

  ‘And blood, of course,’ Rorik continued. ‘He promises plenty of that. Aye, he’s fond of talking of Danish blood. But he’ll find it’s not so easily spilled.’

  ‘And the earls and other nobles? Are they with him?’

  ‘Most. But some oppose him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One called Arwakki.’

  ‘The Gestrikland earl.’

  ‘And another, Kafli.’

  ‘The Earl of Sodermanland.’

  ‘They spoke up. But there were others who supported them.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They argued with Sigurd. Said he couldn’t make them break solemn oaths sworn on that sacred ring.’

  ‘Adils’ Ring.’

  ‘That’s it. And more. They said it’s too late in the ye
ar to raise a host from lands so distant, that even Sveärs would be loath to leave their harvest.’

  ‘How did he answer?’

  ‘He said it was a little late to change their minds, that they’d already sworn to him as their king, but they only shouted the louder – as long as the Danes kept their oaths, then so shall they. Said the Spear-God would never bless a war built on broken faith. Sigurd railed at them, called them traitors, said he’d dispatch riders to the four winds then and there, whether they were with him or not.’

  ‘Did they reply?’

  ‘Arwakki protested that they were loyal, but that in this, they couldn’t act. Sigurd mocked them for cowards. Arwakki said Odin knows they’re no cowards, that they do but honour sworn oaths. He ended saying only if we Danes break faith first will they support a war.’

  ‘Gods! This all sounds better. For them and perhaps for us. If opposition to Sigurd grows, one of the earls may challenge his crown.’

  Rorik scowled. ‘Enough seem willing. They hang off his every word – especially this “Wide-Realm” song he likes to sing.’

  The three fell silent.

  ‘But now they have you,’ Erlan muttered at length.

  ‘That changes nothing. My father and brothers will fight without me. And they’ll win!’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I don’t doubt Ringast is strong. And your father too. But how strong are you?’

  Bodvar’s head jerked up. ‘You think Sigurd could use him to unite the earls.’

  Erlan nodded. ‘Aye. Whether what he says is true or false, Sigurd has only to make him talk.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Kai Askarsson stalked forward on all fours, the earth crumbling under his fingernails. He could taste the dusk in his open mouth. His fingers squeezed the shaft of his spear.

  Ready.

  A moment more. Wait for night to settle a little heavier. The dark would cloak his movement, just for a second. Long enough to loose the spear.

  The deer lowered its head. Another heartbeat and the spear was lancing through the dusk. There was a quiet thud and five foot of ash lodged, quivering, in its flank.

  It tried to run, buffeting the spear crazily in its panic. Four steps, five, six... then it stopped, keeled over, dead as a stone.

  Kai hissed in triumph. His belly growled in anticipation.

  Moments later, he was dragging his kill to his new home. He had found a hollow under the crooked roots of an old oak tree that teetered on the edge of a bank of earth. There, he had dug and dug, scooping out a hiding place, a den, a place of safety from Vargalf and his dogs. He was safe in the earth, safe and warm. The earth was his shield, his womb. There, he slept all day, curled in the bracken that lined the floor like a nest. Only at twilight did he wake. At twilight his work began.

  He gutted the deer a short distance from his hole, then dragged it back to the oak where he skinned it – enough to take the meat he needed – then sat cross-legged carving out hunks of flesh. Those first days in the forest, he had wanted to build a fire. But he dared not risk it. By day there was smoke; by night, flame. Someone might see. Someone might come. And now he was used to feeding on raw meat when he could catch it. On earthworms when he couldn’t.

  He bit greedily into a glistening lump of flesh. Blood and fat ran through his fingers, down his chin. He wiped his hand across his cheek, feeling grateful. He still hadn’t got used to the way the worms would flick around in his mouth, even after he had bitten them in two, or the metallic taste of their slime. This was better.

  His face was black, caked with dirt and blood, just like his hands. His blond hair was a crust of mud. Wrapped in Erlan’s wolf-cloak, he looked more beast than man as he shuffled around his hole.

  He could feel the meat’s heat in his belly, feel the power of the deer seeping into his limbs as he rocked against the chill.

  Gauta’s hounds rise from the mud,

  Jaw-swords drip with fresh-flow blood.

  He shook his head. His thoughts came more and more like that. Snippets of songs that he couldn’t place. Had he heard them long ago? Or did some voice come to him now? The mad mead of the One-Eyed God’s words, whispering to him from the flesh of the forest.

  Shadows speak and spirits cut through sleep,

  Beast and man bound by the dreams they keep.

  Strange phrases that didn’t fit together – like pieces of a broken rune-stone, its meaning scattered. He didn’t know what to make of them. But he kept listening for the next.

  Ancient roots delve deep through ice and fire,

  Driving one who sees to his desire.

  The more he listened, the more he heard other sounds. The silent voices of the dark. The mocking prattle of the birds and the wind whispering to the weary trees stories from far away. Was this what Grimnar, the old seidman, had heard under his hanging friends? When Kai ran, the branches seemed to bend, stretching out to touch with shy and crooked fingers. But when he turned and looked, they stood mute, blind, waiting, waiting... for something. But what, they wouldn’t say. Among their tangled limbs, shadows danced, living, urgent, bursting with the burden of their knowledge, like children desperate to tell the secrets they must keep. And each night, he saw a little more, heard a little more, smelled a little more. With each kill, as he fed on the forest’s flesh, it seemed to draw him tighter to its bosom and, seeing in him one of its own, began to give up its secrets.

  His belly was full. His work must begin. The moon was bright, cutting through the trees with shards of silver. He knew the way to the edge of the halls, had been there every night, scouting the shadows, searching out his master. No – his friend. His oath-brother. Hadn’t he sworn with his own blood in that freezing wilderness? A lifetime ago... So until he’d found out what had become of Erlan, he had to keep returning. And so he had. Seven... eight nights? Ten maybe. In the forest, a man’s reckoning was like to fail him.

  He ran through the undergrowth, his footfall light as a ghost. The outlying buildings were still half a league off, but he ran hard, ignoring the burning in his lungs.

  Stop! A voice within. A scent on the wind. The outline of a shadow. He obeyed, slowing first, then all at once, he halted. Ahead in the gloom he saw a familiar shape.

  Wolf.

  Its head was broad, its black ears pricked forward. But as the creature advanced cautiously towards him he realized it was no wolf, but a dog. A hunting dog, a wolfhound, with long shaggy shanks and a beard that glistened with the dusk-dew. It came closer until it stood face to face with him, not three steps away, its eye glimmering in the shadow, wild and cold. Only when its head ticked to one side did he see that one eye was all it possessed. Its twin was nothing but a maw of shadow.

  A sliver of fear went through him. There was something preternatural in the hound’s unblinking stare. Still they looked at each other, and as they did, Kai saw something else in its eye. A kind of respect. A kind of understanding.

  ‘Whither farest thou, brother?’ Kai heard.

  ‘I run to the call of my blood. And you?’

  ‘I run with the moon. I run the silver way.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Aye, alone, thither to the place where the white mother calls – to life, to the never-dying life.’

  ‘May you find it, brother. Run long and well.’

  ‘And thee, brother. Now go to thy blood. I hear his cry.’

  All this passed between them, though not a sound was uttered. The wolfhound curled its lips. Its fangs gleamed white and fierce but to Kai it was only a smile. Then it backed away, its one eye never leaving his. Kai smiled back and it was gone.

  The moon was not much higher when Kai reached the edge of the woods. He darted from shadow to shadow, closing on the halls and smaller dwellings like a draugr returning from the halls of the dead.

  He’d seen much since the Summer Throng: the herds of low folk departing, the lingering of nobles and their karls. And over the following days, more had come. At first only Sveärs, but then o
utlanders – painted men with shaven faces, others shorn-headed or strangely garbed. The gathering of warriors grew and the halls resounded with their drink and song. But despite all he’d seen creeping through the shadows, he’d found not a hair of Erlan.

  Pale wisps of cloud drifted across a waxing moon. Midsummer’s Eve was long past now and the nights were growing longer. He skirted the hall-yard, slipping under the buttresses along the north side of the Great Hall. Squalls of laughter flurried inside, the murmur of voices. He pressed an ear to a crack, trying to make out the talk, but caught nothing but scraps of idle banter.

  Nevertheless, he listened a long while, until the eating was done and most had taken to their beds. His nose wrinkled in disgust. He’d learned nothing, again, and it was time to move on. Except just then he noticed a light moving through the darkness beyond the end of the hall. He watched it float away from him in short, even arcs. He realized it was someone carrying a torch.

  Curious, he crept after it, taking care to remain in shadow, closing the distance only enough to discern two figures and also a steady rattle. The taller figure held the torch in one hand. By its light, Kai saw that in the other he carried a pick. He was hooded. The second man was squatter, broader, with an unruly shag of hair. Creeping closer, Kai realized he was pulling a handcart, and so the rattle.

  He followed them across the flood-meadow towards the beech wood known as Budli’s Grove, but holding back, staying low, tracking the bank of the stream.

  On the far side of the meadow, the men skirted the edge of the wood and walked on another three hundred yards or so before they cut into the dark trees. Kai followed them, eyes fixed on the flame as it bobbed through the trees, until, all at once, it stopped.

  What the Hel are they doing?

  His scalp prickled with curiosity. He circled round carefully until he came to a spot perhaps thirty paces downwind of them. Satisfied that he could see them but that they would need the eyes of an owl to have any clue he was there, he stopped.

  The taller man had his back to him. He muttered something to the other, who bent over and grabbed whatever was on his cart. He pulled and a long, slender bundle slid off onto the ground with a thud. Then he did the same with a second, slightly smaller bundle. Another thud. Something about the shape of them gave Kai a flicker of unease.