A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  Ubbi grimaced. ‘So death has come for me at last, eh?’

  ‘Egil Seal-Head’s come for you,’ the painted man cried. ‘And death with him!’

  ‘Damn you – I’ve a taste for life yet. Come! I’ll have that black head off your shoulders!’

  Egil roared, lurching at the old champion. Ubbi met spear with shield-rim. The shaft scraped wide and Ubbi stepped in, putting his boot in the other’s stomach. Egil reeled back, feet slipping, scrabbling to land another thrust. But Ubbi hadn’t lived so long giving second chances. His sword swept over Egil’s shield-rim and bit into his skull, splitting it open like a boiled egg. Egil slumped to the ground and the old man roared in triumph, shaking the mail that covered his face, baying for his next victim.

  But instead came a shout of a command. The line parted like a curtain and behind was a line of archers. For an instant, Ubbi glared. He’d seen many sights during the Valkyries’ song but never this. A row of stars – arrowheads and eyes, twinkling. He opened his mouth to cry one last shout of defiance but the first of the arrows was faster, piercing his face-mail and plunging into the back of his throat. He shuddered, blood bubbling from his mouth as a dozen arrowheads slammed into his body. He swayed, stumbled, tripped on his cloak, and finally crashed over into the mud.

  Ubbi the Hundred had found himself a glorious death at last.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  A cheer burst from the middle of Sigurd’s line, loud enough to turn Lilla’s head.

  She strained her eyes, scanning the writhing bodies to see what it meant. But it was too far, too many heads and arms and weapon-shafts to make out one happening in the ten thousand unfolding before her.

  From her vantage point behind Ringast’s centre, the plain was a roiling sea of carnage, a bloody, dizzy swirl, banners and standards tossing like ships on its surface.

  She had watched Sigurd’s line advance, watched it met and held as the shieldwalls crashed together, watched Ringast’s banner snap back the point of her brother’s attack, then drive into the ranks of the Sveär host. But that too had been checked.

  Her hands were shaking. She looked down. Her knuckles were white, tight around her staff. There was fear in her blood – fear and wild excitement. Both rose like a vapour off all those warriors, imbuing each breath she inhaled.

  She re-doubled her chanting. Since the first arrow, she had been invoking spells of protection over her husband, over Erlan and all the rest. Her bow and arrow-quiver lay at her feet, should the unthinkable befall her husband’s army. Next to them in the dirt was a patchwork of runes: seidr-magic to blunt the weapons wielded against them, words to strengthen their blades and shields. And now, both of them were lost in a maelstrom of steel. Her husband. And the man she loved.

  She scanned the plain to the west. On the far left of Ringast’s line, she could make out the whirling bearskins of the Hedmarker berserkers. To their right, the Skanskar bondsmen led by Galdalf’s sons. Against them, she saw the banner of the Jotnunger – the tallest Sveär clan from the north who took their name from the giant race of old. Shrieks and bellows carried to her as the animal-warriors hurled themselves against those men of stone. Those still alive were butchering each other over an ever-growing pile of the dead.

  In the centre, she searched for Sigurd’s standard – the banner of her own house. She found it, blue and black, rising from the centre of his line. At first, it had been pushed back. But the ranks behind it had swollen as more and more men appeared from the trees to fill the places of the fallen. And for the first time it was gaining ground as Ringast’s banner slipped back.

  How could he have gathered so many? Sigurd’s reserves were so numerous, while her husband had none – save for the waning hope that his father would come.

  To the right, the crush of warriors stretched all the way to the marshland. She fancied she saw the figure of Thrand laying about him with his deadly axe, wearing no armour, like the Rus berserkers around him. They and Thrand’s Gotars had been pushed back but were holding still, despite the Sveär onslaught. She recognized the standard of Arwakki among the Sveär wolf-warriors and near that the banner of Harling Snake. She knew them both – men tempered in the fire of many battles. Thrand would have no respite. Howls mingled with death-cries and screams, swirling towards her with a mist blowing off the Snow Lake in ever-thickening skeins.

  Something about that mist was wrong...

  She glanced behind at the other seidkonur lined along the rise: old women and some younger ones, her handmaid Gerutha among them, singing their galdr-songs around a blazing fire, their charge to protect Ringast’s forces from sorcery, securing him victory in the unseen places while his warriors held the battle-line.

  The mist swirled closer. Lilla felt her gaze drawn to the treeline behind Sigurd’s host. There was evil there. She could feel it.

  Saldas...

  That moment she heard a piercing screech overhead. She shuddered, recognizing the sound from her dreams. She strained her eyes among the banks of cloud chasing overhead. The cry sounded again. Closer now, above her. But after a few more seconds of scanning the sky, she gave it up, dread weighing heavy in her chest.

  The mist was swallowing up the eastern end of the line. She looked at the flask in her hand: a gift from one of the seidkonur. Her mother had forbidden her this deeper magic. But she had to see more. How else could she stop Saldas? If not now – when?

  She moved closer to the fire, pulled the stopper from the flask and poured its contents down her throat.

  Somewhere towards the eastern end of the Sveär side, Einar Fat-Belly was wishing his by-name was Hard-Head or Stone-Skin. Least then he might have a chance to live through this madness.

  His wolf-warrior friend had fallen in the first volley of arrows. So much for brave talk. By now, he’d be well on the road to Valhöll. Einar might have been happy to join him, sat on the Spear-God’s benches, with a frothy ale and a soft tit or two to fondle. But these things had their time and place. He wasn’t quite done with this world yet.

  The other Sveär lads weren’t faring too badly. Madmen, most of his kin, for sure, and Arwakki was maddest of ’em all. Just as well, since some big Wendish bugger was trying to take his head off.

  That much he’d gathered anyhow, glancing away from the yellow-haired savage gaping at him right now. The berserker’s whiskers were stained red and he had the battle-mist in his eye, but fortunately for Einar the man sorely lacked brains. Einar lifted his arm, sidestepped left and deflected the berserker’s blade into the mud.

  They should call me Einar Elfin-Toes, he thought, slamming his shield-boss into the berserker’s shoulder.

  ‘Silly boy,’ he snarled, jabbing his spear-point under the man’s beard-braids. Blood gushed over his fist as he ripped it clear.

  Einar stepped back, letting two of his mates go ahead. He was blowing like an ass. All he really wanted to do was sit down. Slim chance of that. He wanted to be sick, too. That was more likely.

  To his left, a Gotar, big as a troll with a bare chest slick with gore, was bellowing like a skewered ox. He looked vaguely familiar but Einar let the point slide.

  Reckon some other hero can deal with him.

  He looked for Arwakki’s banner and spotted it away east.

  That was when he noticed the mist, curling round its flapping hide. It was thick and moving fast, so that even the carnage around the Gotar troll-man was becoming obscured. The first tendrils slipped past Einar’s face. It felt cold. Strange sibilant whispers seemed to join the battle-babble.

  He didn’t like this one bit, and there was already plenty else not to like.

  ‘Come on, you fat son of a whore!’ someone cried. ‘Lend a hand!’

  He snapped his head and saw one of his Bredlunger kinsman straining against the wall.

  Einar tried to grin away his terror. ‘Better ’n that, my lad – I’ll lend you my belly!’ He flung himself against the line of linden shields. ‘Right, you bastards, heave!’ he roared. And t
he world grew darker.

  The stink was worse than Hel’s own shit-pit. The ground was littered with piles of the fallen. Erlan’s world had shrunk into a chain of moments, lurching forward through the blood and bodies. There was no memory of the past, no thought of the future. Only this terrible, awesome present.

  Was this the Ragnarök – when the world of men would be sucked down in a whirlpool of pain and fury and slaughter for all time? Was this the destiny of men? To burn till the end of time with the savage rage of battle, to kill or be killed for ever? Rising, only to die again and again.

  Sigurd’s banner was too far to see now. So many fresh waves had been thrown into the Sveär line that Ringast’s centre had started to bow backwards. Slowly the Sveär tide was starting to tell, and like a rudderless boat on the ocean, Erlan was carried wherever the flood took him.

  Blood streamed into one eye. He recognized the battle-yells of Ubbi’s Frieslanders – those still alive. On the left, the Hedmarkers and Skanskar levies were falling back under the weight of Sigurd’s right – huge men with huge hammers and long-spears. More men were pouring into the centre, pressing the remaining Frieslanders left and Erlan with them.

  Then he glimpsed the standard of Galdalf’s twins: red cloth with two black serpents entwined around a spear, jerking crazily above the fray. That meant he was among the Skanskar hirds, ragged bondsmen with hardly a spear and shield for each man. Some were giving ground, some running away, but enough still stood against the big Jotnungers and were dying, mostly, for their efforts.

  A stocky man in a russet cloak was yelling to another just like him. Erlan recognized Galdalf’s twins, Alf and Alfarin, though only the gods could pick them apart. ‘Fine weather for giant-killing, brother!’ cried one.

  ‘The bigger they are—’

  ‘—the bigger their bloody swords!’ his brother finished for him, and they laughed like devils.

  Wrathling was a long streak of gore. A man in a crude iron helm came at Erlan, snarling through rotten teeth. He lunged his shield-rim. Erlan dropped his shoulder, lifted his shield and scythed Wrathling from the right. An instant later the man landed with a splash in a lake of blood and began screaming, his leg hewn clean off.

  Two Skanskar bondsmen rushed past Erlan, headlong into a maw of Jotnunger spearmen. Next to him, another man screamed, pawing at an arrow-shaft in his arm. Suddenly, arrows were falling everywhere. More men fell.

  ‘Alfar!’ cried his twin. ‘Those lads ain’t too fond of you!’

  ‘Stand close, brother! If one is meant for me, you’ll do just as well!’

  Still, the twins both ducked under their shields. Erlan did likewise. There were rattles and thuds all around as arrows showered shields and bodies. A cold mist was blowing among them now, its damp air chilling his lungs. Erlan stole a glance at the sky, the first since the shieldwalls had met. He blinked, unable to believe his eyes, knowing his mind must have cracked. Because what he saw was far beyond the sight of ordinary men.

  The air was alive with winged creatures.

  Lilla fell to her knees, clawing at her throat.

  She gasped, feeling liquid fire swirl through her, pricking at the inside of her skin like a thousand needles. Her arms shook. She was losing control. Her breath came in short, desperate pants. It was too intense.

  And too late.

  She opened her eyes, but her vision was dissolving, the grey sky above darkening like a bruise. Beside her the fire crackled. She felt a sudden crushing pain all over her skull. She cried out, afraid – but she couldn’t stop now even if she wanted to. The roar of battle grew louder, but the cries outstripped the clash of metal until all she heard was one long scream.

  She dropped her staff, clutching at her belly, the pain more than she could bear. Only then did she realize it was her screaming. She tore at her hair, nails raking her head over and over till suddenly she fell back on the ground. She lay there, staring at the sky, and the pain began to recede, giving way to a new strength that flooded through her shoulders and down her arms. Her screaming stopped. She closed her eyes and listened.

  The battle sounds were changing. Instead of the shapeless welter of noise, she heard ten thousand sounds, each sharp as a pin. She found she could pick out any one at will: the sigh of a man’s last breath; the schick of a knife being drawn; the ring of a sword edge slicing mail; the snap of a banner in the wind; men’s voices – screaming, choking, praying, pleading; the rustle of leaves in the distant wood; the mist slipping through the air. And above her, cruel laughter.

  She opened her eyes and sat up. So she thought, at least. But everything had an unreal quality, every line was sharper, every colour more intense, and she found she could perceive every movement in the battle as though time itself was hers to sift. Shields blocked, spears parried, swords thrust, axes hacked, and somehow she knew how each weapon would find its mark. She saw runes graven on blade edges, saw a serpent-tongue tattooed on a warrior’s neck, a thread of wool tied around the wrist of a severed hand for luck.

  Clearest of all, she saw blood. Blood bespattering everything like scarlet rain, flung by the furious tempest that was swallowing this multitude of men and vomiting them out again in red death.

  All at once the ground fell away beneath her and she rose into the sky, up and up, till she was far above the tumult of battle.

  She experienced a violent surge of joy. She was amazed, confused, exhilarated – except at once she saw the sky was swarming with other creatures. Hundreds of them, swooping and screaming, shrieking like demon-gulls. As she looked, at first she thought they had the form of women, trailing long black hair like banners of mourning. But the likeness went no further. They wore ragged robes that billowed at every turn, and butchers’ aprons, gleaming wet and red, with wasted arms stretched longingly to the chaos below, sinews twisting, and their hands — their hands were horrible. Crooked like talons and dripping with gore.

  She knew she was no longer in her body and wondered what strange vision this was.

  One of them swept close in a rush of air, turning to look at her. She saw its face was all shadow, its grimace a gaping laugh beckoning to oblivion, and in its eyes some dark, cruel joy.

  She watched the thing dive into the frenzy below like a hawk snatching a hare. Immediately it was climbing away again, except now it held something in its terrible hands.

  No sooner had Lilla the wish to know its prize than she moved closer. And she saw there in the creature’s grip a man, or something like a man. She only doubted because it was such a wretched thing – a husk of a once-proud warrior, all strength and life sucked out of him. His scream was loud enough. So loud and long and desolate that it wrung her heart. The creature climbed higher, clutching the man jealously to its blood-soaked apron, heading for the clouds above.

  Lilla looked away, horrified, wishing she had the power to drive these things away. Were these the Valkyries – the wish-maidens of Odin, fetching his chosen ones to ride in glory to the Slain-Hall?

  But these were no maids. They were monsters.

  She watched as others plunged to earth and climbed away, shrieking with laughter as they carried off the dead, each soul – or whatever it was – more wasted and wretched than the last, writhing in those bloody talons. In vain.

  She felt sick, but steeled her pity. She couldn’t help the dead. But the living – perhaps she might help them.

  Then she heard it again, the sound that pierced through every other. She knew it at once. Looking, she thought she glimpsed a shadow cutting through the clouds. But it was so fleeting she wondered whether it wasn’t just fear taunting her imagination.

  But there it was again, only for a heartbeat but long enough to know it was real. The shadow she dreaded from her dreams. Himinns Freki – the wolf of the skies. The black eagle.

  Saldas’s eagle.

  And then a huge pair of dark wings broke from the clouds and swooped down along the battle-line, skimming the surface of the spreading mist.

  She
watched, and all the while all she could think of was Saldas, wondering what dark magic she was weaving to bend the fate of all these dying thousands to her will. Lilla looked within herself, determined to find a way to counter Saldas’s power. But she hardly had that thought than the black eagle climbed again and banked towards her. She felt suddenly pinned, caught in its sight, unable to move, her will somehow frozen. She could only watch with growing horror as the long smooth shadow swung onto a line straight at her, the cruel hook of its beak looming ever larger until it tore straight through her, ripping through her abdomen as she screamed and screamed, her belly shrieking with unquenchable pain. Her mind insisted it was still a vision, but her body knew the pain was real, and suddenly she was falling. Down and down she fell, spiralling in an ever-shrinking world of agony to the ground below...

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  ‘You see that?’ shouted Erlan.

  ‘See what?’ yelled back Alfarin.

  ‘Those things – swooping from the clouds.’

  Alfarin shot a look to the skies. ‘Can’t see nothing but rain and arrows!’

  ‘I’d keep your bird-watching for another day,’ his twin cried. ‘If you live to see one.’

  Erlan suddenly wondered where Lilla was in all this mess. He felt a sharp stab for her but scowled it away and spat blood. She was another man’s concern now.

  Through the mist, he saw Ringast’s banner had fallen back beyond where battle first joined. Sigurd’s banner was surging on. He cursed, seeing hundreds between them now. And the Sveär numbers never seemed to thin.

  ‘Here come those giant-spawn again!’ cried Alfarin, as a group of Jotnunger reformed their wall. He felt doubt stall the men around him, mostly Skanskar farm-boys. Bondi – probably wondering what the Hel this fight had to do with them. They had fought well in spite of that, but now they were flagging. And dying.