The bolt snapped. The door slammed open. Erlan’s head jerked up. Shadows fled to dank corners as Vargalf entered, holding a torch.
‘Good news, friends! Your time is close.’ He aimed a kick at Erlan. ‘Still with us, cripple?’ Erlan groaned. ‘Excellent! And you, old man?’ He bent and struck a blow across Bodvar’s face. ‘I bring tidings of our Danish friend. We asked him to sing and sing he did. Like a skylark! The boy had skill, who knew? Arwakki and his friends were most moved, I must say, when they heard his lurid tale of a Danish plot to betray the kingdom into the Wartooth’s hands. A remarkable performance, really. I would have believed it myself had I not fed him every detail.’
He laughed. ‘I’m afraid you were both implicated. Yes, dear cripple.’ He prodded Erlan with his boot. ‘It turns out you’ve been cat’s paw to the Wartooth all along. Sent here to inveigle your way into the old king’s bosom, murdering his bodyguard Finn Lodarsson along the way so you could take his place – all so that you could gull Sviggar into this false peace. There was even suggestion of an understanding between you and the fair princess, who meant to usurp Sigurd’s succession as the rightful heir. She was won over of course during your heroics of the winter.’ He gave a pained look. ‘I’m sorry to say the earls were only too ready to believe the worst of a cripple. Such malice! Still, they always were a mistrustful bunch of whoresons.’
He went to Bodvar and yanked back his head. ‘And you... Sviggar’s most loyal subject – oh my! We learned that in your ignoble breast lurks such falsehood, such betrayal as may scarce be believed. Rorik told us that gold is what you crave. Gold and land. In return for your cooperation, the Wartooth promised to raise you to your own vassal kingdom – with him as your overlord to be sure – but a substantial realm nevertheless. And all of it sealed with a union between your daughters and the Wartooth’s other sons. Rather neat, don’t you think? Of course, Sigurd wants me to pay your girls a visit. Such lovely young things, too.’
‘You fucking snake!’ snarled Bodvar. ‘You touch one hair on their—’
Vargalf lashed down his fist, stifling Bodvar’s threat. ‘Did I say you could speak, shit-slime?’ he screamed in a shower of spittle. Bodvar groaned, rolling his head in agony, while Vargalf calmly licked away the phlegm on his lip. ‘You should consider yourself lucky. By the time Rorik had finished, Arwakki was ready to rush down here and butcher you himself.’ He gave an empty laugh. ‘So of course, all opposition to Sigurd’s plans has now evaporated. The levies are being called and will be assembled within the fortnight.’
‘What have you done with Rorik?’ Erlan murmured.
Vargalf gave a wry snort. ‘You have an imagination, don’t you, cripple? Suffice to say, he served his use admirably. Indeed, it’s been an altogether useful few days for Sigurd. Word arrived that Starkad the Sea-King is on his way to add his strength to ours.’
‘Starkad?’ rasped Bodvar. ‘That old viking?’
‘The very same. With a hundred ships, no less, packed to the gunwales with his black-hearted killers.’
‘Starkad would never join Sigurd. He’s one of the Wartooth’s oldest allies.’
‘You know the Wartooth’s talent for turning friends into foes. So,’ exclaimed Vargalf, clapping his hands together, ‘I’m pleased to say the prospects are looking good for this king that you scorned. Considerably better than for either of you.’
‘What do you mean to do with us?’ croaked Bodvar.
‘Isn’t it more interesting if you don’t know?’ Vargalf flashed his vulpine smile.
‘You’re going to pay for all this, you sick son of a whore. You do know that? You and that incestuous arse-tick you serve.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that, old man. Besides, you’ll find out our plans for you soon enough.’
The door opened and two guards struggled in, carrying a squat cauldron.
‘Ah. Perfect.’ Vargalf stood aside as they hefted the cauldron to the centre of the chamber, a thick, oily liquid sloshing over its rim.
‘And the rest.’ The guards hurried out, returning a few seconds later with a shallow metal bowl filled with glowing lumps of coke. They set it down in the fire-pit under the chain, then took the cauldron and placed it on top.
‘Now him.’ He pointed at Bodvar.
The guards unchained the earl, dragged him to the middle, then fastened the hanging chain to his shackles.
‘Up with him.’
Bodvar moaned as he was hoisted off the ground. When they were finished, he hung there, naked and twisting and three feet off the ground. His skin, already marked by dozens of battle-scars, was caked with filth, blood oozing from the freshest welts that streaked his body.
‘Now I have you where I want you, as they say.’ Vargalf’s mouth curled. ‘You know, it’s amusing to think what a fool you proved to be in the end, old man. What did you imagine you would gain by rejecting Sigurd? Did your pride really demand so much?’
‘Not my pride.’
‘Your honour, then.’
‘Neither are worth wasting on a lump of dog-dung like Sigurd.’
‘Huh! For a lump of dog-dung, Sigurd has raised one Hel of an army.’
‘It’s one thing to gather an army, another to make it fight. Few will stand true when the testing comes.’
‘Well, now you come exactly to my point!’ Vargalf cried delightedly. ‘You see, this is where you – both of you, in fact – can finally be of service to your king. Once our new friends have seen exactly what becomes of traitors to his cause, I’ve little doubt they’ll do everything that Sigurd tells them. Now,’ he said, peering into the cauldron, ‘I believe we’re ready for our little game.’ The bottom half of the cauldron was glowing with heat. Inside, the liquid was bubbling away. Steam rose in billowing clouds around Bodvar’s filthy feet.
‘Such ugly things – feet,’ said Vargalf, with a casual slap at them. ‘Ungainly, aren’t they? They stink. They ache. We hide them away in shoes. Yet without them, we can do very little. A man won’t achieve much sitting on his arse all day.’ He gave them another slap. The noise was blunt and ugly. ‘A man should be grateful for them.’ He peered up at Bodvar’s haggard face. ‘Are you grateful for your feet, old man?’
Bodvar said nothing, only looked down, grim-faced, eyes filled with defiance.
‘No? Perhaps we can teach you some gratitude, eh?’ He nodded at the guards. They unhooked the chain and, inch by inch, lowered Bodvar’s blackened toes into the billowing steam. The earl bucked crazily, trying to escape the fierce heat, but Vargalf held him steady.
Then the smokehouse was filled with the hiss of flesh and oil.
Erlan had heard many men scream, but nothing like the strange strangled groaning that rose on and on from Bodvar’s throat. His body spasmed, but Vargalf only gripped him tighter, oblivious to the heat, his grotesque laughter mingling with the bubbling and the scream and the sigh of the oil.
‘Up!’
The guards hauled on the chain. The smell of boiled human skin coiled into Erlan’s nostrils.
Bodvar’s russet beard, now a filthy black, drooped down his shit-smeared chest. But his feet were spotlessly clean, bald to his knees, glistening... and even as Erlan watched, huge bubbles of skin began to blister and burst all over his shins. His toes were quivering, the nails scarlet and pushed up at crazy angles by the swelling flesh beneath.
Vargalf peered closer at them, fascinated. ‘Well?’ He looked up.
‘What do you want from me?’ sobbed Bodvar.
‘Want?’ Vargalf smoothed down his beard. ‘Only that you suffer. You think you can do that?’
Bodvar didn’t answer.
‘Shall we go again?’
CHAPTER FIFTY
It had taken him days to find. Weeks, even. But now Kai knew.
Those innocent, lifeless faces had jolted him. Made him see the time for skulking like a wild animal was over. He had to learn the truth. If Erlan was dead, he would go far from this place – where, he had no idea, but he woul
d survive. The moon and the forest would show him the way.
But if Erlan was alive...
Lately, the old dream had come to him often. The bloody rain, the screaming. He would awake wild-eyed, ready to strike, only to see he was alone. Alone with a thousand spirits and ten thousand stars.
After his grim discovery, he’d begun watching beyond the dawn, venturing out before dusk. Days had turned into weeks. All the while Sigurd’s host grew. He’d had to be sly as a fox, lying up at a distance until darkness settled, drawing him nearer to the halls and the one great secret they had kept from him.
The secret he now knew.
He winked up at Yngvi-Freyr, grateful for the crumb the luck-god had tossed him. The night before, Kai had spotted a figure he knew at once. Knew from the way his blood ran cold.
Vargalf.
Kai had followed him, skating from shadow to shadow as he marched through the halls, trailed by two men struggling along with a cauldron of some kind. They had gone well beyond the last hall, beyond even the wattle-and-daub houses scattered beside the East Road that ran towards the coast.
There, Vargalf had entered an old smokehouse, while the guards went for another container – this one full of coals. The smokehouse was unremarkable in itself, with crude-cut planks for walls and a turf roof that sloped nearly to the ground, standing a little distance from the other buildings. Kai had never even noticed it before and wondered what Vargalf could want with a hovel like that.
The question had barely formed before he knew the answer. Erlan.
It must be.
He waited, not daring to creep closer for fear they would suddenly reappear. Much later, when the night was at its blackest, Vargalf and his men had left. Then all had fallen silent.
He lay there in the dark, watching and waiting. But it was a night like none he’d ever known. Strange signs appeared in the sky – a shimmering green mist rose out of the horizon, snaking up into the air, glowing like an emerald sunrise. Kai watched, his mouth agape in fear and wonder, as the light shifted and gathered, forming a river that flowed with great sweeping curves into the black abyss. Then, somewhere in those emerald waters, clouds of crimson began to appear, until the green flood throbbed red as if stained with blood. He watched the shapes dance and twist like a living thing, a wild fascination seizing his heart. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful, so awesome.
So dreadful.
Were the gods speaking to him? He had learned to hear the spirits of the forest, but not yet these mighty spirits of the sky. He listened hard. But they didn’t speak. And yet somehow his heart was strengthened, and at last, with the dawn’s onrushing light, the vision had faded and then disappeared.
Figures began to stir in the dissolving darkness.
Kai shifted his weight, his hip numb from the hard ground. His back was damp from the soaking dew. He shivered. But he didn’t have long to wait. He could already smell the first fires of the smithy-boys.
The sun was hardly past the mid-morn mark when two men appeared from the direction of the Great Hall. They wore swords and one clutched a rag of sorts. They went inside. Kai crawled closer. But the little door soon snapped open and the men reappeared, dragging between them a third man, his head covered in a hood.
Erlan.
Alive, but... at once Kai saw that the figure slumped between the guards was a ruin of a man. He was garbed in rags, head lolling – and his feet... there was something queer about them. They were naked, white as flour, trailing limply in the dirt.
Was this really him? Not the man he knew. Hardly a man at all.
Kai cursed violently, cursed the time he’d wasted in the forest, cursed his damned caution. He was too late. His brother had needed him and he had failed him. Seeing what those bastards had reduced him to, rage clawed at his throat.
The men were dragging Erlan towards the Great Hall. Kai followed, keeping his distance, until he could get closer under cover of the other byres and dwellings.
As they went along, more people followed them – warriors mostly, from their dress, and outlanders of every kind. But there were many Sveär men and women too, all headed for the hall-yard.
Kai didn’t like the look of this. Nothing but trouble could come from another of Sigurd’s assemblies. The guards dragged their prisoner on through the throng, yelling at them to make way.
Around the hall-yard a crowd was already forming. Kai wanted to get closer. But how? It was all happening too fast.
Looking skyward in frustration, his eye was drawn to the Sacred Oak. It stood tall as a watchtower, looking down on the Great Hall and its yard. Of course! Up there, he would see all and, more importantly, no one would see him.
He peeled off the crowd, skirting the dark rectangle of earth where the topsoil had been scraped for the foundations of Sigurd’s new temple. The place was deserted, curiosity having called away the workers, so that he passed unnoticed.
A minute later, he was breathing hard, his cheek against the cracked bark of the ancient oak. He looked up into the branches overshadowing him like a giant’s hand. He could hear them, the soft chorus of spirit voices: whispering, sneering, sobbing, some wrathful, some plaintive. Echoes of the sacrifices that hung each year from the blood bough. Nine of every creature – man and beast. Nine for the Nine Worlds. Was this where all those spirits were now, trapped in the limbs of this ancient tree? He shuddered.
Nevertheless, stowing his cloak, he swung himself onto the lowest branch and began to climb. Higher and higher he went, shutting his ears to the murmur of voices until, some forty feet up, he was able to move out onto a branch strong enough to hold his weight. He inched out until he could see down through the foliage onto the assembly.
Below him were all the great men of the kingdom. King Sigurd stood with his back to the hall, a gold band crowning his head, one of his father’s finest cloaks hanging off his sharp shoulders.
There were others. Men whom Kai didn’t recognize, hailing from any of a dozen lands around the East Sea. Some had the Norsk look about them – white-blonde with many-braided beards. Others with faces and arms marked by swirling tattoos of blue and black – perhaps Finns or Estlanders. All of them looked like killers. Doubtless many named men, renowned men, about whom many songs had been sung.
Behind these warrior-lords, and oddly out of place, were two of the biggest horses Kai had ever seen; lean and muscular, with coats gleaming like jet-stone in the slanting sun. Kai wondered why they were there. Then one of them dropped its head and he saw Vargalf’s hateful face between them. Instinctively Kai shrank back. But Vargalf didn’t look up his way.
The crowd of karls and lesser folk was four or five deep, ringed around the middle of the yard. Erlan’s guards advanced through the crowd, the hemp hood drooped between them. People moved aside as they dragged him into the circle and threw him at Sigurd’s feet. There, he lay still.
The crowd’s murmurings quickly died. Then, painfully, Erlan seemed to muster enough strength to drag himself onto his hands and knees.
‘Sveär lords,’ Sigurd began, ‘and lords of the many lands that have heeded my call. I summoned you today to show you, to show all of you, the fate of a man who sought to betray his people and his king. The fate of a man who betrays me.’ He pointed at the wretched figure. ‘Many of you know this man. Those who don’t, I shall make him known to you now.’ He gave a nod to the guards. The hood was ripped off.
Kai nearly fell off his branch.
Instead of the dark mop he was expecting, he saw a tangle of rusty blond hair. He was so surprised it took several moments before he recognized him.
Bodvar. Crouched like a dog before its master, his feet laid out behind him in a butchered, bloody mess.
‘Bodvar, son of Berik,’ declared Sigurd. ‘Earl of Vestmanland, that was... A man highly honoured by my father. But now, he is marked a traitor – alas, my father ever was a poor judge of character. Now we know this man for what he is. Look at me!’ Sigurd suddenly barked at the br
oken figure. A guard stepped forward and yanked up Bodvar’s head. ‘Many here witnessed your prideful display the day I was chosen king. This man wanted us to believe he was a man of integrity with his refusal. But now we know the truth. You already served another master. You’d already taken another oath.’
Sigurd began prowling around him like a lynx circling its prey. ‘The Danish spy confessed. You all heard him. Rorik, son of the Wartooth, no less. Alas, one son Harald will have to do without.’ He allowed himself a joyless chuckle. ‘Rorik confessed that you were sworn to his brother Ringast. Even as my father lay dying, you plotted to put his kingdom in the hands of his enemy.’
Kai was confused. Where the Hel had Rorik sprung from in this miserable weave of events?
Bodvar said something but his voice was weak and didn’t carry.
‘It’s folly to deny it,’ interrupted Sigurd. ‘You’re a traitor. However,’ he paused and shook out his blood-red cloak, ‘a king should make room for mercy in his rule. Should he not?’ He grinned. ‘You like a good laugh, don’t you, Bodvar? Well, then... Laugh at this. You are free to go.’
The crowd drew its breath.
‘Go, you fool! You’re free.’ He shoved the kneeling Bodvar, toppling him onto his side. For a second he lay like a corpse, but then, slowly, he pushed himself round on his belly, dug his fingers into the dirt and clawed himself a few inches forward. He pulled again, slithering like a worm away from Sigurd and his nobles. Kai could see the bone scraped clean on his feet. He watched as the earl, groaning with pain and defiance, pushed himself onto his knees. He shuffled forward a couple of steps then collapsed in the dust. Someone in the crowd laughed. Then another and another. And suddenly the whole pack of them found their voices: jeers and hoots of derision filled the air while Bodvar clawed his way, inch by dogged inch, to freedom.
When he reached the centre of the ring, the noise reached its loudest. But abruptly the heckling ceased, because Vargalf had led one of the massive horses into the ring. Those were Sigurd’s stallions, Kai suddenly remembered. The ‘midnight twins’. Of purer stock than any horseflesh in the north, dwarfing even a man as tall as Vargalf.
A Sacred Storm Page 40