He could hear his brothers-in-arms snoring from the sleeping benches, and over by the hearth a servant was blowing life into the coals to get the fire going.
He was a better man than his father, so Knut Danaást had said. Sweyn reached for Battle-Fire, and the last remnants of the mare’s torment faded as he held the sword in his hand.
A king had to be the strongest in the pack and couldn’t show weakness.
Sweyn ran his fingers over the blue-hued blade and felt his heart once again beating strongly in his chest.
He would not give in to doubt or demon mares. He was the chosen one, who bore the Ulfberht sword of his ancestors. Old Denmark, Freya’s hall, called him back, and he would be victorious or die fighting for the Jelling throne. It was the only thing that had any meaning, because the events of the past were the will of the gods.
The sword’s power enticed him, radiating heat as he stroked the gleaming blade. The sweetest battle-filled days awaited him, and soon Erik the Victorious would lie dead next to Sweyn’s brothers. The realm of Denmark and his own name would once again be respected far and wide.
“Come back to bed, my king,” Agnes mumbled sleepily beside him. He put his arm around the girl whom he had captured in the village and enjoyed during the night.
They lay naked, closely intertwined, but Sweyn was filled only with antipathy toward the girl, such a far cry from Sigrid in his dream. Enough, already!
Feeling restless, he got up and saw Ragnvald come hurrying over to him.
“Is Crowbone back?” Sweyn asked.
Olav “Crowbone” Tryggvason had sailed away several days ago, and no one seemed to know where he’d gone. Sweyn needed Crowbone’s warriors so he’d have enough men to return home and keep the sacred promise he’d sworn to Knut Danaást.
“No, not yet,” the boy said, shaking his head.
Sweyn grunted grumpily. “Do you think the rumors are true?”
People said Crowbone had left Hemvick to go shake down King Æthelred and form an alliance with him.
“Yes.” Ragnvald’s eyes were reliable and steady.
Sweyn nodded somberly. If it was true, it wouldn’t be long before he turned against Sweyn.
“Then we agree on the matter.”
“The Jómsviking ships are entering the harbor, my king.”
“Why would you wait to tell me something like this?” Sweyn exclaimed, reaching for his shoes and pants. “Wake up, you good-for-nothing drunks!”
Ax-Wolf sat up and pulled his tunic down over his bulging gut. Finnvid was already dressed and had his cloak on.
Sweyn held out his arms so Ragnvald could fasten his armor around his chest.
Only something important would cause Palna to brave the spring storms to get a messenger over the seas to Sweyn. At least Battle-Fire was his now.
A chilly gray fog lay so thick over Hemvick’s houses that it was like walking through the afterworld.
The few filthy Saxons cowered in their hovels, packed so close, the whole place smelled of shit. Those who dared to peek out caught a glimpse of the Vikings and instantly ducked back behind their doors.
“Sigvard was lucky to die so he didn’t have to put up with this accursed place,” muttered Ax-Wolf, the red-bearded giant. An icy rain made him pull his bear pelt tighter around his shoulders.
“This is an asshole full of shit all right,” replied the tall, gruff Finnvid, his head still heavy from the previous night’s drunkenness.
Sweyn walked proudly at Knut Danaást’s side. The old man was wearing the sumptuous wadmal clothing that Sweyn had given him and had pulled his thick woolen cloak around himself, seeming quiet and uncommunicative this morning. Perhaps he quailed at the approaching sea voyage, because it would be no easy matter for such an old man. Or maybe he was moved at the prospect of returning home after all these years. No one could know for sure what a man bore in his chest.
“Soon we will drink together at the royal estate in Jelling and enjoy Jutland’s lush countryside,” Sweyn said.
The old man only nodded. Sweyn shrugged his shoulders and looked out at the harbor.
The water was crowded with ships as far as the eye could see, and many more were pulled up on shore, where the men were huddled against them around the fires that had been lit to keep them warm in the cold rain.
Out on the fog-shrouded water, three warships slid over the glossy surface by oar. The torn sails bore the mark of the Jómsvikings, which grew clearer the closer the men rowed the ships into port.
Sweyn smiled happily when he recognized the shield hanging from the lead ship.
“My foster father, Palna, is aboard,” he told Knut Danaást. “The Jómsviking chieftain wouldn’t travel so far if he didn’t bring good news from home.”
The old man’s face blanched in the overcast light, and his expression was no longer one of mild reconciliation, but rather outright hatred.
“I am too well acquainted with Palna,” Knut Danaást said. “I have dreaded and prayed for the chance to meet him again.”
There was no end to the tidal wave that was careening toward them. The moorlands shook with the force of it.
Group after group of Svea warriors in their battle gear galloped out of the woods, rushing forward through the sunshine with their banners flying in the wind. Erik rode in the lead on an enormous black stallion, his cloak flapping behind him like a raven’s wings.
Foot soldiers followed behind the horsemen, marching to the sound of the war drums. Svealand was on a war footing and demonstrating its superior forces.
May Vanadís devour your life, you damned pig! Sigrid wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple in the baking heat.
“They’re going to attack,” Ulf said quietly. “I did say this wouldn’t end well.”
Sigrid pushed aside her fear and smiled at the people waiting outside her formal hall.
Chieftains, aldermen, and nobles who ranked high enough to be present stood with their hands on their weapons, vigilantly observing the Svea army ride toward them.
“I’d forgotten my husband’s conceited fondness of pageantry. He certainly likes to dazzle people with his garish displays of power,” she said to herself, but loud enough for the whole group to hear. Then she placed her hand on Olaf’s shoulder. “He does not understand that we are Scylfings and the only thing we fear is the anger of the gods.”
The men laughed, pleased with her impertinent response to the army galloping toward them across the scrubby moorland.
A moment later, as if the Radiant One had heard her prayers, Erik’s hird slowed down to a trot and then stopped altogether. Sigrid slowly exhaled as the knot in her stomach relaxed.
Erik and a handful of horsemen continued their ride into the courtyard between the longhouses at the bottom of the hill, where people stood staring, mouths agape. The riders then proceeded up the hill toward the formal hall.
Next to the king of Svealand rode Axel, the man who had come to see Sigrid so long ago to propose in Erik’s name—but who had only pretended to be her ally in order to murder her and her babies. The king and Axel would surely try to kill her again, but she would be ready.
Hatred filled Sigrid’s heart with an icy calm as Erik reined in his horse, dripping with sweat.
Grant me strength, Vanadís. Protect us from the beast.
My own brother! Red veils billowed before Estrid’s eyes as she stood there beside the abomination that was her twin brother, and now she could see the light shimmering around him, just like in the dream. She should have understood that. She should have seen who he was, but scandalous lust had blinded her.
Incest, incest, incest, the voices whispered, and the words shredded her skin raw. If she thought about it any longer, she would go crazy. Estrid pressed her lips together, her heart bursting in her chest. She was a king’s daughter, a member of the Scylfing nobility, and it was her duty to be quick-witted and beautiful. She couldn’t descend into darkness, not now when the king had just arrived.
Estrid trembled and drew a wheezing breath as she watched her giant father dismount from his charcoal-black horse and stride toward them. His eyes were vibrant, but his face was contorted in sheer hatred. He was terrifying to behold with his cloak woven of faces frozen in silent screams. His belt was carved from the yellowed bones of his enemies, and the sword that rested at his hip screamed for fresh meat, though it was already dripping with blood.
A one-eyed man wandered beside him, supporting himself on his staff and wearing the plainest of garments, but Estrid saw that this was the ruler of the undead, the ancient composer of the magical songs.
“Odin,” she whispered, but as the name left her mouth, the veil was pulled away, and the haggard king with the graying temples and the wrinkled face limped up to her mother and stopped, putting his gnarled hand to his chest.
“I greet and honor you, Sigrid Tostedotter, Queen of the Geats, foremost among Scylfings, mother of Olaf, King of the Svea.”
There was no discernable warmth in his voice or his eyes, and yet he bowed his head to Sigrid, and for this he won the approval of the other Scylfing leaders.
Sigrid’s abhorrence sat like frost on her face as she raised the welcome horn of multicolored glass.
“Enter my hall as a friend and relative, Erik Eriksson, King of Svealand, Odin’s chosen one. You are blessed and honored by the gods.”
Their fingers just grazing each other, they were two enormous wild animals hissing with rage, teeth bared. Then the moment was over, and Erik drank from the horn and passed it on.
Sigrid gestured to Olaf.
“I present to you, Olaf, King of Geatland, your son and heir.”
Estrid could smell her brother’s fear as he stepped forward and let their father inspect him, but he stood up straight and his eyes didn’t waver.
“Good and strong,” the king said after what seemed like forever. “You do the family credit.”
The approbation returned the color to Olaf’s cheeks, and he proudly put his hand to his heart.
“I’m ready to serve you in every respect, my king and father,” Olaf announced.
Estrid gulped down her nausea.
Erik put his hand on Olaf’s shoulder and squeezed it awkwardly.
“We will discuss it on our journey northward,” he said, and gave Sigrid a look of approval. “You have raised him well.”
She smiled her frosty smile.
“He is his father’s son.”
Finally Sigrid turned to Estrid. Blessed be Hel, my dark queen, Estrid prayed as the ground swayed beneath her feet.
“Your daughter,” Sigrid said.
Erik glanced at Estrid and then turned away dismissively.
“She’s ill,” he said.
That’s not all I am, thought Estrid as the red veils once again returned. Dying and with the blood shame of incest burning in me, I see you for the abomination you are.
“She’ll be strong again soon,” Sigrid responded.
Erik shrugged indifferently, as if he didn’t care one way or the other.
“Then she might make a suitable wife for Laslo, if his family line isn’t defeated in the battles with Borislav. Otherwise she can have one of his sons instead. Svealand’s trade with Holmgård is important.”
He directed this at Sigrid and Olaf, who both nodded, as if Estrid didn’t exist. Her brother was right. She should kill herself and spare the family her weakness and instability. Estrid gulped, shame raging in her bosom. She could save her own dignity and the family’s rank only by voluntarily going to Hel. And it would be a relief.
Palna left the ship and nodded slightly to the warriors gathered on the beach before quickly striding over to Sweyn. His scarred face looked grim, but he held his head high, and his eyes were keen as an eagle’s. The men closest to him followed in his footsteps. The Jómsvikings were tall and in their simple clothes vastly more imposing than the showy men who stared at them jealously. Sweyn’s brothers-in-arms were the finest warriors in all the northern realms, and they were the source of his power.
“I hope that Rán gave you an easy crossing,” Sweyn told his foster father, proudly resting his hand on Battle-Fire’s hilt.
Palna gave him a sharp look and said, “I come bearing urgent news. We need to talk.”
“Indeed we do, my old friend,” Knut Danaást said, stepping forward.
Palna was an unflappable leader, but the moment the Jómsviking leader saw the old man, his face went white as snow.
“Impossible,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re dead.”
Knut Danaást smiled, clearly enjoying seeing Palna squirm.
“You didn’t stab deep enough.”
Sweyn looked from one old man to the other, both staring at each other in silence. Harald had tried to have his own brother murdered and sent Palna to do it? Palna had served Harald as a jarl for a long time, but Sweyn would have never believed that he was the one who had tried to take Knut Danaást’s life.
There is much one doesn’t know about a man, much that is hidden in the past.
Palna took a deep breath and then bowed his head to Knut.
“I’m delighted that you’re alive and that the sword hasn’t been lost.”
The old man turned to Sweyn, dignified and strong, like a true Jelling king.
“Palna used to serve in my hird. He was one of my best men. Little did I know that he was secretly plotting with Harald, and even worse, Palna requested that he be my assassin.”
Knut Danaást looked at Palna again, his eyes filled with contempt.
“Many nights I’ve seen his smile as he ran his sword through my gut, my brother’s kingmaker.”
“You carry the same madness that later doomed Harald,” Palna muttered.
“Silence! Your king is speaking.” Knut’s voice was like the crack of a whip, and Palna jumped as if he’d been struck. Sweyn had never seen such a chastised look on Palna’s face as he did when Palna once again bowed his head. This was truly unexpected.
Sweyn scratched his beard thoughtfully.
The old man’s rank was much higher than Palna’s, and he had every right to hate and castigate the man who had robbed him of his inheritance and very nearly his life.
On the other hand, it had to be acknowledged that Palna had stood by Sweyn’s mother after Harald raped her. He had taken Sweyn in and raised him as a Jómsviking. Without Palna, Sweyn would never have had the strength to kill his father and claim Harald’s royal power.
Now he had learned that Palna’s sword had cleared the way for Harald to take the throne in the first place. His head ached.
“Let us discuss these matters by the fire,” Sweyn said tiredly, and started toward the house.
It was not a simple matter to choose between birthright and power, and no matter what happened, the bad blood that had been spilled would need to be laid to rest.
“I need a drink,” he muttered to Ax-Wolf.
The berserker nodded somberly.
“You’re really not the only one.”
“I was just a senseless young boy the last time I saw Battle-Fire,” Palna said, his voice so quiet, the rain hammering on the roof almost drowned him out.
The hall was nearly empty except for the warriors of the hird, who were seated on the benches around the fire, and the servants setting out the meal on the long table behind them.
Palna leaned forward to admire the sword as fondly as if it were a woman he loved.
“Believing I had killed Knut, I searched everywhere for the sword but couldn’t find it. Only now do I understand the will of the gods.”
Wrapped in an animal fur, Knut coughed even though the hall was warm. He continued observing them with quiet vigilance.
“What brought you across the sea?” Sweyn asked.
The light from the fire danced over Palna’s scarred face. His foster father’s sinewy body was tense as a bowstring and his eyes somber.
“You have to retake Denmark, otherwise the kingdom will be lost.�
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It wasn’t like Palna to say such a thing. Ax-Wolf, Finnvid, Ragnvald, and the other members of the hird looked tense as they listened.
“The Svea are using the realm like a granary to feed their own people. They’re stealing all the seed corn and cattle from the farms. Erik’s jarls have been plundering and burning churches, so the priests have asked Emperor Otto for help, and he has responded to their entreaties.”
Palna nodded convincingly at Sweyn, who was starting to see where this was going.
“Emperor Otto’s hirdman, Odo, is amassing men in Saxony to attack Denmark at the Danevirke,” Palna continued. “If this comes to pass, they’ll overrun the kingdom of your forefathers, and you’ll be left empty-handed forever, your good name eternally lost.”
Sweyn stared into the flames.
Saxon dogs were barking at Denmark’s heels. They’d been trying to conquer Jutland since the dawn of time, and many good men had died at the Danevirke, the earthwork fortification their ancestors had built to protect their southern border. This certainly wouldn’t be easy.
Sweyn had already bowed to Emperor Otto’s power, paying him tribute and relinquishing the old gods. He had reluctantly been forced to submit to the decree to preserve Denmark’s independence, including the trade across the border that had proven so lucrative. Of all the agreements he’d been forced to break as king, this was the worst.
Sweyn laughed glumly. “So Emperor Otto’s cur, Odo, is back now with his prick in his hand.”
Jarl Odo’s land bordered the Danevirke, and he’d been yearning to get his hands on Jutland’s fertile soil and Hedeby, which had been the richest commercial town in the North for ages.
“That the Svea cling to the old ways is reason enough to attack.”
Sweyn ran his hand over his beard thoughtfully, staring into the flames.
The Sveas’ hold on Jutland was weak, and Odo’s men wouldn’t encounter much resistance unless Sweyn led the fight. Most of Erik’s men were established on Zealand and in Scania. The foreigners would rip Denmark in half, and the kingdom Gorm had managed to unify would be torn apart.
Sweyn was really going to need Battle-Fire’s help for this.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 10