A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  He nodded. Another wave of relief. She reached out to the Kingshelm, suddenly remembering: she had seen this. Had seen him come to her. So her sight had been correct.

  She wanted to see his face. Her fingertips touched the cold iron. ‘Take it off.’

  The mask shook.

  ‘You’re angry with me.’ She heard the trace of shame in her voice. ‘I didn’t flee.’ She was speaking too fast. ‘My arm – it’s broken.’

  The eyes in the Kingshelm were unblinking.

  ‘But see now!’ She managed something like a laugh. ‘The All-Father gave you victory! My work had done enough. And you doubted my tellings were strong! I told you. The Spear-God favours the strong. Always.’

  He moved not a muscle. Only stared at her.

  ‘Spare me your anger, husband.’ She poured honey on her words, as well as she knew how. ‘Forgive your queen. Forgive your wife.’ She smiled. Nothing. His silence was discomforting. ‘Well, if you can’t forgive me yet, then I must win your forgiveness.’ She reached out with slender fingers and found the buckle of his belt. ‘Soon, my love, there’ll be nothing you won’t forgive me.’

  He caught her wrist. She winced as he turned it over. But before she could object, he had placed something in her palm. It had a weight to it, soft yet solid, wrapped in a rag that glistened. Her chest tightened with excitement as he peeled away the wet cloth and she saw—

  It was a heart.

  A human heart. The flame-light shimmered red and gold on its surface.

  A shock shivered through her, delicious, tingling her blood. ‘Erlan’s?’

  The Kingshelm nodded.

  ‘Oh, my king! My lord!’ She squeezed the grim gift in her elation. Blood oozed through her fingers. ‘My love. You’ve outdone yourself.’ It was no flattery. Perhaps this man would prove useful to her after all. ‘And Lilla?’

  He made no sign, only reached out and took back the ugly thing, then dropped it on the floor with a slap. His eyes glared out from their dark recess. She saw danger in them, the violence of battle too. But then, they released hers and moved over the rest of her. His breathing deepened. She knew that change. Had heard it often enough in other men.

  ‘It’s better you don’t speak. Better the silence and darkness cover us both.’

  He reached out and pulled at the fur that covered her. She made no move to stop it, embracing the cool air on her body as the fur fell away. She lay back.

  This, she knew.

  She let the disquiet of his silence dissolve away. Men had different reactions to the storm of battle, after all. Some grew hot and fierce and hungry as fire. Others grew quiet, so quiet – as if their minds had never left the field, like the bodies of the dead and the maimed.

  But here, she was in control. She stirred, letting tiny movements snake over her body, drinking down his lust.

  He stood, and then, stiffly, he went to the lamp and blew it out. Perhaps he is wounded. Most would be. But questions could come later. For now, the darkness was enough.

  She heard his cloak fall to the floor, sensed him return to her bedside. In the darker shadow, she saw a movement, felt a finger trace over her belly. Her muscles stiffened. His fingertips were rough. But soon she relaxed, enjoying his touch, feeling his hand brush aside the loose strands of hair that spilled over her chest. For a moment it hesitated. She felt him toy with the little silver amulet nestled between her breasts. ‘Don’t stop,’ she urged, not wanting him to be distracted. The metal dropped onto her chest. Then his palm slid around her breast, his leathery thumb tracing over her bud of flesh.

  ‘Take off your helmet,’ she murmured.

  He leaned away. She heard a thud as the iron helm hit the floor. For a second she caught an outline, then the shadow bent over her; his warm breath was on her skin, his lips on her breast, his teeth biting, sending sparks of pleasure through her nipple. The heat was building inside her. Looking down, she could only see the shape of a man. Hair black as tar, matted with sweat. He stank of it. She inhaled the sour tang deep into her lungs and desire welled through her. Ordinarily, she didn’t find this man to her taste but the reek of victory on him was irresistible. His victory.

  And hers.

  ‘I want you.’ Her fingers threaded the tangle of his hair, gripping his skull, pulling him closer. She felt his hand slide around her wrist, then close tight, crushing her veins. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  Something slipped over her hand, something rough. It pulled tight with a jerk and she realized it was a rope.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  But before she knew what was happening, he yanked her broken arm straight. Pain raced up her arm into her armpit. She cried out, tears springing to her eyes.

  ‘Sigurd – it’s broken! What are you doing?’

  Still no answer. She tried to wriggle free as he bound her, but that only sparked more pain so she lay still, his full weight pressing down on her chest.

  ‘Are you mad? Please, Sigurd... Stop! I beg you.’ She had pleaded for nothing in her life. She hated the pathetic whining sound on her tongue.

  He pulled the rope till her wounded wrist was secured as tight as the other. All she could do was suffer the burning in her arm.

  ‘Are you still angry with me?’ she gasped. ‘Sigurd – please. Answer me!’

  She felt his hair brush her face as he bent close to her ear.

  ‘Sigurd is dead,’ breathed the shadow, his hand closing over the amulet between her breasts. ‘And this—’ The leather snapped. ‘This is mine.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Erlan watched smoke rising into an autumnal sky above the King Barrows.

  The new king and the remains of his army had made weary progress. There wasn’t a shieldman or shieldmaid who didn’t carry some wound. Most carried many. And the ruined flesh and cracked bones, the cuts and bruises all lingered a good deal longer than the thrill of victory, or even the relief of being alive. Of course, blood poisoning would reap more lives before the autumn leaves fell or sooner. So each looked to his wounds.

  Nevertheless, the sight of Sviggar’s hall roused a cheer that rolled down the column of riders. A few hall-hounds approached, sniffing suspiciously at the warriors and their unfamiliar scents, running alongside, barking warnings that their masters would never hear.

  Erlan rode among them. His revenge was almost complete. But now doubt gnawed at his guts.

  Was it enough? Enough for Kai? Enough for him?

  His belly growled. Empty like his heart. He had feasted on blood and what had it come to? An emptiness inside him. Nothing more.

  Vargalf. Then Sigurd. Two deaths, and the third to come.

  He looked ahead at Ringast’s sloping shoulders rocking with the motion of his horse, his broken hand cradled in his lap. He was the King Over Them All now. The Half-Hand Lord. A worthy lord, and beside him rode Lilla. His queen. His wife.

  Erlan scowled. How the Norns love to weave their knots. And we little men writhe and wrestle, only making them tighter.

  There was hardly a fighting man left in Uppsala. Sigurd had taken every man who could hold spear or shield. Few who had ridden away were riding back among the victorious Danes and their allies.

  ‘A different sky today, brother,’ called Thrand. The big Dane’s face was pale, a seam of dried blood streaked across his nose and down one cheek. ‘No bowing before kings this time.’

  ‘Not for me, anyway.’

  Thrand gave a begrudging smile. ‘Suppose I can stretch to that... So then, which hall suits you and that kingly arse of yours? Leithra or here?’

  ‘There’s no mightier hall than this in all the north.’ Ringast nodded at the Great Hall, which rose majestically before them. ‘And this is the land my queen loves the most. So you take Leithra and the Danish mark. You’ll answer to none but me, as your king.’

  ‘Gods! Father would choke on Odin’s mead if he knew his hall fell to me,’ laughed Thrand. ‘But I’ll serve you true, brother. For his sake. Aye – and yours!�
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  ‘Good. Meanwhile, there are new lords to make and lands to distribute. Our Sveär cousins died under our blades, but I mean to make a good peace with them.’

  There was an audible scoff beside Erlan. Saldas rode sullenly next to him astride a shaggy cart-horse, her wrists bound, and garbed in nothing better than a heavy cloak – all Erlan had allowed her the night he had dragged her back to Ringast’s lines, spitting and cursing and writhing like a wildcat. Her hair was a dishevelled tangle, the bandage under her cloak soiled and ragged.

  ‘You have something to say, Saldas?’ called Ringast.

  ‘Children and fools talk of a good peace,’ she said scathingly. ‘Peace is nothing but a bloodless war. It awaits only the first head to fall.’

  ‘Well then. That head will be yours.’

  ‘Kill me and you kill any chance for this pretty peace you desire. The Sveärs will not stand for it.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  By evening, a crowd of low folk had gathered, huddled and murmuring in the dusk of the day. A breeze had swept clean the slate skies, unveiling a horizon bruised purple and a falling sun that glistered like gold.

  King Ringast stood atop the Tiding Mound, ready to address his Danish and Gotar lords, those Sveärs who had bowed to him, and the Uppsala folk. Beside him stood Lilla – his new queen, Aslíf Sviggarsdóttir. They were already calling her the Eagle Queen. The liege-lady of Gotarland, Danmark and her beloved Sveäland.

  Facing them was Saldas, flanked by the Skanskar twins, Alfar and Alfarin. She wore only a linen shift, her hair tied back in a simple braid.

  She looks almost innocent, thought Erlan, looking up from the foot of the mound. Like a maiden on her bridal night.

  Then he remembered: she looks how it serves her to look. Even death was to be a performance. Though in truth she looked utterly natural.

  ‘Saldas, you stand accused of murder,’ Ringast declared. ‘Murder of your husband. Murder of your children. Murder of your handmaid.’

  ‘Murder of my handmaid? You are joking!’ Saldas laughed, hard and hollow. ‘Look at you all – with your solemn, self-righteous faces. And now you charge me with the death of a thrall?’

  ‘You had your own children murdered,’ Lilla exclaimed, unable to contain her emotion.

  ‘Peace, my wife,’ said Ringast.

  Saldas snorted with contempt. ‘By the gods, what is this? You want to kill me? Then kill me. Why stage this mockery by claiming any right or invoking some law? Sviggar died. His children died. That conceited slut died. And now I must die. So be it. I don’t need to explain myself to you, nor suffer this ridiculous pretence of justice. There is no justice. There’s only the last one holding the knife. That is the only law.’

  ‘Do you condemn yourself then?’

  ‘Who else is there to condemn me?’

  ‘The Aurvandil.’ Ringast beckoned to Erlan. He stepped forward to climb the mound.

  ‘Him? What proof has he?’

  ‘Vargalf,’ Erlan called.

  ‘The words of a dead man! A man he murdered. What proof is that?’

  Erlan gained the top of the mound.

  ‘The Aurvandil is a man without honour. I’ll not be condemned by him. You need no witnesses.’

  ‘It is the proper way. According to your own law.’

  ‘The proper way? Then here is your witness! Yes – I killed them. Yes – I would do it again. I would kill all of the seed of that vain old dotard if I could.’ Here she glared at Lilla.

  ‘So you admit it.’

  She tilted her mouth at Ringast in a mocking sneer. ‘Look at you with your proper ways. The new king. But what is a king without sons, eh?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ask your wife there. You’ll get no fruit from that.’ She pointed at Lilla’s belly. ‘That womb is barren as the northern wastelands now.’ She laughed. ‘The King Over Them All? Ha! Aye – but a king without an heir. You may as well spill your seed in the dust for all the good it’ll do in her.’

  Ringast reached out his good hand to Lilla, a searching look in his eye. Erlan saw a pained shadow pass over her face. But she touched her husband’s outstretched fingers.

  ‘Are you so sure you’re done with me, Ringast?’ said Saldas with a sly smile. She smoothed a hand over her stomach. ‘Put your seed in here. It would be no hardship, my lord, I promise you that. I can still give you sons. But you’ll get none from her.’

  Erlan could see in Ringast’s face how the words rankled. But his reply was hard as an anvil. ‘You have admitted your guilt. You shall die for it. Nevertheless, in recognition of your rank, I give you a choice. To be hung from the Sacred Oak until you are dead. Or else the same death you gave your lord and husband. Poison.’

  A grim look settled on Saldas’s beautiful features. For a while, her mouth worked and her green eyes raged. ‘You think I am afraid to die?’ she said at last. ‘You think I favour a quick death? That I would refuse the pain? Hel take you, Ringast. Hel take all of you! I choose poison.’

  ‘By your own hand then.’ He signalled to a boy at the foot of the mound. ‘Bring the draught here.’ The boy approached, holding out a vessel in front of him as though its very vapour reeked of death. ‘This was found in your chambers. Doubtless of your own making.’

  The boy held out the vessel to Saldas. She hesitated.

  ‘Will you not drink, murderer?’

  ‘I’ll drink it,’ she murmured. ‘But first you will hear me.’ Abruptly she snatched the cup and lifted it high. The wind caught her hair and for a moment it shone with a dark lustre, her green eyes dazzling, bright with the fire of the falling sun.

  ‘I drink this,’ she cried. ‘And I drink it to your deaths. You!’ She raised the cup to Ringast. ‘You who are called King Over Them All! You hope for long years, but your rule shall be numbered in days. With your death, your realm will be cloven, clean and bloody as your hand. Autha’s line ends with you. Dead seed in that dead soil.’ Ringast met her words with a stony glare.

  ‘My darling daughter,’ Saldas sneered, ‘your womb is dead. I curse your heart as well. It will be for ever sick and empty. I see years of loneliness. I put envy on you, to gaze upon the fruit of other wombs and choke. Your father’s blood dies with you.’

  Lilla’s eyes stormed as Saldas turned to Erlan.

  ‘And you – the wandering cripple! You shall bear the blackest curse of all—’

  ‘Does your pride make you so blind, Saldas?’ he said. ‘Your words have no power now. You are broken. Lilla defeated you.’

  ‘Believe that if you like. It won’t stop my curse binding you. Darkness lingers over you. Lives in you, making you its slave. You will run and run, but never be free of it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he replied. ‘A deeper magic overshadows me than any you can conjure. Not even the All-Father’s words can bind my fate. It was seen. It was spoken – by one with farther sight than you.’

  He shuffled closer, peering deep into those emerald eyes, knowing it was for the last time. ‘And what do you see for yourself? Can you see far down the road into Hel’s dark world?’ He snorted. ‘I can tell you what awaits you in this world. They mean to feed your body to Sviggar’s hounds. Soon all this,’ he reached out and touched her shimmering hair, ‘will be nothing better than dog-dirt, ground into the dust... Your glory turned to shit.’

  The certainty in her eyes wavered.

  ‘You once told me we all receive only what we’re calling to ourselves.’ He moved closer still, so that only she could hear him. ‘Is this what you were calling? Is this what you wanted?’ Her lips moved as if to speak. ‘What? No oath? No more curses?’ He shook his head. ‘Then go to the black Hel that’s calling you. That’s always been calling you.’

  The blood drained from her face. She was paler now than he’d ever seen her. But somehow she found her voice again. ‘Listen to me, all of you, listen!’

  ‘No!’ Lilla’s voice cracked the air. ‘There’s nothing more for you in
this life. Nothing.’ She was trembling, but she approached with steady steps. Erlan moved aside.

  With the sunfall at her back Lilla was wreathed in an ethereal glow. She put her hand against Saldas’s cheek. ‘Do you not doubt, my sister?’ she murmured. Saldas stared at her, a kind of dread dancing in her eyes. ‘Did you never doubt?’

  Saldas’s mouth opened, but nothing came.

  ‘You see. There are no more words to speak.’

  Saldas stared right through her, her body stiff, her eyes suddenly dim. And then her gaze fell, leaden, to the cup.

  She looked at it so long that Ringast signalled to Alfarin beside her, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

  At last, she looked up into the skies above. And as she looked her expression changed. A smile formed on her face, sly and cruel. Her head snapped down and she glowered over the crowd one final time, the pride in her eyes bright and hard as a diamond, not a trace of fear in her face. And putting the cup to her lips, she drank the poison down to its last drop.

  Her hands fell to her waist. Then, violently, she lurched forward and flung away the cup, sending it bouncing over the lip of the Tiding Mound. She fell to her knees, trying to retch, trying to scream, only managing a small, stifled gasping noise. She tipped onto her side, fingers tearing furrows at her neck as her body bucked and stiffened. She gave a single, sharp cough and a cloud of dark droplets sprayed from her mouth, staining her shift red. Her eyes bulged and rolled, the green pools turning scarlet, as blood welled through her lips. And finally death passed like a shadow through her, and she lay still, her beautiful lips pared wide into a hideous grimace.

  No one moved. No cheering. No jeers. Nothing. Not a sound.

  ‘It is done,’ said Ringast, breaking the silence. He turned to Lilla. ‘Your loved ones are avenged... Are you satisfied?’

  She was about to answer when a long, screeching cry caused everyone to look up. High, high overhead, an eagle was circling the King Barrows. A dark shadow. Dark wings. It cried again, and Erlan saw a shudder pass through Lilla.

  ‘They’re avenged – yes,’ she answered her husband. ‘As to satisfaction... I feel none.’