“The Saxons probably won’t attack until the ground is dry,” Sweyn said.
He was going to have to conquer Erik first and drive the Svea out of Denmark, then put together an army from the half-starved farmers and take on the Saxons’ superior forces.
Sitting on the Jelling throne was like riding a wild horse over thin, new ice, and it seemed unlikely that he would survive this ride a second time. Still, he had sworn an oath to Knut Danaást, and he needed to live up to the three promises he’d made.
“Erik’s power is weak, and the hatred people feel toward his jarls is strong,” Palna said. “Danes and Jutes will welcome you as a liberator and will clamor to fight for your cause. Eighteen chieftains have already sworn they will fight with you, and many more will join once you return home and fan the flames of hatred for Svealand.”
“From the moment we land, we’ll be surrounded by enemies,” Ax-Wolf said. “We won’t know who’s on our side and whose loyalties lie with the Svea or your brothers. Erik’s power may be weak, but his jarls are hunkered down in ring fortresses, and taking those will be no easy matter.”
Sweyn nodded, because what his fellow soldier said was true.
“How much support do my brothers have?” Sweyn asked. “Do people hate Torgny and Erik for betraying me and Denmark?”
Nothing would please him more than seeing them ripped to shreds and people pissing on their putrefying flesh.
Palna took his time answering.
“Your bothers have support among those who prefer the old ways, but many have already turned their backs on Svealand. The second they see you with Knut Danaást beside you and Battle-Fire in your hand, they’ll know who their rightful ruler is.”
Sweyn drank his mulled mead and studied Palna. His foster father was clearly hiding something.
Palna was tremendously cunning. He was responsible for Sweyn’s birth father, Harald, becoming king, but when Palna began to fall out of favor with him, Palna made sure that Sweyn took power. Now when there was a threat that enemies would overtake Denmark, Palna was urging Sweyn to return and fight. Sweyn clearly needed the Jómsvikings to win. But even as much as he wanted to, he still couldn’t fully trust his foster father.
“What about the Scanians?”
“They’re really suffering because the Svea jarls are charging them ship geld to use the sound. They’re hoping and praying that you’ll return. Jarl Sten Starke kicked the Svea jarl and his men out of Hedeby when they claimed the city.”
Sweyn laughed in delight. Sten Starke was a peculiar guy and slippery as an eel, but he could definitely hold his own when it came to doing battle.
“When I retake the throne, people who have been loyal will be rewarded,” Sweyn said, running his hand over Battle-Fire’s hilt.
Knut Danaást kept a close eye on him, sizing him up and assessing his every gesture and breath.
“We’ll strike with the speed and strength of Thor, but we’re going to need more men.”
Palna’s eyes twinkled with glee, and a faint grin was visible on Knut Danaást’s lips.
“The Jómsvikings are with you, and one of them is worth more than three regular warriors,” Palna said. “Plus you can hire plenty of men willing to fight in Normandy with the silver you’ve won.”
Sweyn stood up and surveyed the battle-hardened men who had followed him through success and adversity—Ax-Wolf, Ragnvald, Finnvid, Farman, Thorleif, and the other men of his hird.
They waited with bated breath, and the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the rain pattering on the roof.
“You know what I’m asking of you,” Sweyn said, and they nodded somberly. “This clash will claim many lives, but those who sacrifice themselves for Freya’s fertile countryside will live on in song until the end of time. This will be the mother of all fights as we battle for the land of our ancestors.”
The hair on Sweyn’s arms stood up. The air felt charged. He knew now that the Æsir were on his side.
“The gods sent me the sword of my forefathers, Battle-Fire, the undefeated, and I have sworn an inviolable oath to liberate Denmark or die.”
As he drew the sword from its scabbard, the blade blazed blue in the firelight from the crackling hearth, and at that very moment, thunder rumbled across the sky.
“Are you with me?”
“Yes, by Kvasir’s cursed mead!” Ax-Wolf cried, and as he raised his fist, thunder boomed again. “To Valhalla!”
“For Alda Bergr, protector of humanity!” Sweyn yelled, and their cheers rose to the rafters while Thor shook the heavens, and the earth and the valkyries howled out their hunger as they swooped through the leaky walls.
This was no mere Viking raid; this was a war for the survival of the Danes and Jutes.
Battle-Fire’s strength filled his chest and assured Sweyn of victory. He smiled to Knut Danaást, who put his hand over his heart.
“It won’t be an easy matter to fight both the Christians and the heathens,” Palna said quietly. “You will need to tread carefully.”
Sweyn reached for his goblet of mead and said, “Good thing I know what I’m doing, then.”
Erik had a slight limp as he walked over to stand beside Sigrid like an injured wolf. Axel followed right behind him, his helmet under his arm, and with him came the rest of Erik’s retinue. Erik greeted the Scylfing chieftains with ebullient but phony friendliness as his predatory eyes sought their weaknesses.
“If we’d known you were traveling with such a large hird, we’d have made better provisions to feed you,” Sigrid said as they stepped into the hall.
Erik’s face gave nothing away.
“This is a worthy escort for Svealand’s kings,” he said with a nod toward Olaf.
Sigrid had a hard time hiding her joy as triumph washed through her body. Twice now he had acknowledged the boy as his son, so there was no doubt Olaf would receive his promotion.
Everything was finally going her way.
The herbs burning on the hearth dispersed an intoxicating fragrance, and the flutists stood in the middle of the hall, their music so beautiful that it moved even the most hardened hearts.
Erik’s amorous looks fell on the rows of maidservants, who, in turn, disarmed Svealand’s king with caressing smiles.
“This is like entering Folkvang and being welcomed by Freya,” Erik said with sincere admiration.
Sigrid’s formal hall had been built to impress visitors and show Sigrid’s closeness to the gods in this world and the next. The few who were permitted to enter trembled before the strength of Vanadís and the Scylfings, and they honored Sigrid as the family’s ruler.
“You’ve always been good at using illusion and devious wiles to bend people’s wills to your wishes,” Axel said, exchanging an amused look with Erik.
The kingmaker had clearly strengthened his hold on Erik.
“The powers that reign here are not of this world,” Sigrid replied.
“Whatever you choose to believe, my queen,” Erik said.
That insult did not go unheard by either the Svea or the Geats present. The guardian of the Svealand temple, the abode of the Æsir in this world, the holiest of places, had just spit on Vanadís in Sigrid’s own hall.
He will be punished a thousand times over for this, Sigrid thought, willfully suppressing her anger. Vanadís had killed Erik’s other sons to pave the way for Olaf to become king, thus forcing him to come grovel for his son. Sigrid had already won.
She gestured to the throne that had been positioned beside her own on the dais at the far end of the room.
“Have a seat, my king.”
Erik sat down, and Asta hurried over immediately and offered him a gilded stoup of wine flavored with herbs that heightened the senses and clouded the mind.
Asta bowed so low that her breasts were visible within her thin dress, which made Erik grunt with satisfaction.
Sigrid leaned over to his ear, so close that she could smell the scent of smoke and sweat in the king’s grayi
ng hair.
“Drink, my king. Relax and enjoy the pleasures of my hall.”
Erik smiled at her charming invitation and then emptied his cup, his eyes on the maidservants as they showed the guests to their seats. That pig’s mind was already being governed by his insatiable desires. Then Erik lowered his cup and burped loudly before turning to her.
“Let’s not pretend we’re friends, because we both know why I’m here.”
“You’re here to pick up your son,” she said calmly.
Erik’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile.
“Oh, I’m here for more than that.”
So, the games had already begun. Sigrid lifted her head with dignity and looked unflinchingly into her former husband’s eyes.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll let you know if you can have it.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Katla pleaded again, but Estrid wouldn’t respond.
Even she, the most loyal of her friends, was full of treachery. If Olaf had visited her bed, Katla must have known about it. And yet she’d said nothing.
Estrid doubled over as burning needles of shame stabbed into her back. The young girls’ weird laughter echoed falsely under the rafters. Yet their preening still aroused the sticky lust of the chubby chieftains who sat leaning back on the benches, full to the bursting point with mead and their own conceit.
Stigbjörn from Sjöhall pulled the dark-curly-haired Eir onto his lap. Giggling, she played with his beard while his hand found its way under her kirtle, but behind these toying flirtations she felt only hatred and scorn.
Estrid inhaled the sickly sweet stench of dead bodies decomposing. Something unfamiliar and foul had entered her mother’s hall. People were laughing and chatting as the silence around her grew until all she could hear was the hammering rhythm of her heart.
The dancers moved in stiff, jerky motions, as if unknown forces had taken over their bodies and bent their joints in unfamiliar ways. The servants darted back and forth, faster and faster, with pitchers and dishes.
Afraid, Estrid turned to her father and saw a mask of hatred over the king’s face. The faces woven into his cloak were twisted with horror and grief, but it was really the three little shadow children clinging to his arms and legs that drank his life force.
Estrid turned away from her father’s sordid grief as the cloying odor of corpses intensified around her.
Estrid.
She clenched her fists as the cross worshipper’s voice found its way through the bloodred fog.
Release me.
He had no power over her, not here, not anywhere.
Her hand shook as she drank her mead. That cross worshipper should be dead by now. Everyone said he hadn’t moved for a long time, hanging on the cross out there. What if he’d become a draugr? Reanimated corpses like that would feed off their victims’ flesh and blood and torment them until they went mad and died. Then they moved on to the victims’ families, killing them one by one until they were all gone. Estrid’s heart was fit to burst in her chest.
Release me, and I will release you, the voice said.
“You have to come back to me,” Katla whispered, but Estrid wasn’t listening.
She put her hands over her ears and rocked back and forth. Gracious Freya, what should she do? Too many things were going on, too much evil. She couldn’t take it anymore.
“Estrid?”
She jumped in surprise to see the ever-deceitful Asta squatting in front of her. Just then the silence gave way, and the din in the hall flooded back into her head, which felt like it was about to split open.
“What’s the matter?” Asta asked coolly.
Estrid shook her head as if to say, Never mind.
“Is the cross worshipper a draugr?” Estrid asked. “Speak, maidservant, for I cannot tolerate his voice in my head any longer.”
Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t think clearly as she tumbled into the abyss.
“Come with me,” Asta said, immediately taking Estrid’s hand and leading her out of the hall.
Madness must have finally subsumed Sigrid’s daughter. Filled with contempt, Asta watched Estrid pacing back and forth in the darkness behind the hall, rambling on and on about a draugr, cross worshippers, and the death of the Scylfing dynasty.
Few in the hall seemed to have noticed the king’s daughter sitting in there, talking to herself, wide-eyed, and that was good, because Sigrid shouldn’t have to endure affronts from her daughter on an evening like this.
“I’ll be going to the afterworld soon anyway, so it doesn’t matter if he takes my life. But I can’t let him take the lives of those nearest to me,” Estrid muttered, feeling all the more frail.
Asta sighed heavily. If Estrid would just die, they would be free of her suffering. From the day of her birth, she’d had every advantage: status, wealth, and even beauty, because she was as lovely as an elf despite her failing health. And even though her ailments worsened, she shuffled around, wretched and coughing, like a slave who’d been whipped too much. It would be a relief for the whole estate when Estrid stopped clinging to life and her dark madness and moved on to the afterworld. The maidservants had new stories on an almost daily basis about how Estrid shrieked curses at dark dísir and how beds and chests moved around in the night. In her kindness, Sigrid tried to protect the girl by claiming she had been chosen by Hel, but everyone knew the girl was controlled by darker forces than that.
It would have been a real blessing if Asta beat Estrid’s foolish, driveling skull against a tree over and over again until her face was shredded into a bloody pulp, and then put her hands around the girl’s throat and squeezed until she choked out her last breath.
Asta shivered as the valkyries’ dark desires penetrated her body like a red-hot cock. It would have been so easy to grab that skinny neck and break it over her knee.
Feeling all worked up, Asta gulped, and it took all her wherewithal to calm herself. If Asta laid a hand on Sigrid’s daughter, she might lose her mistress’s favor and Vanadís’s blessing and surely be banished if not killed. It was far too big a risk.
Estrid would be dead soon anyway, and then Asta would take her place as Sigrid’s daughter. Sigrid already valued her the most of all her maidservants, and she would need Asta to deal with her grief at losing her daughter when Estrid died. Soon Sigrid would comb her hair and give her jewelry, happy to have a strong, healthy daughter by her side. Asta would be promoted, and everyone would revere her for her beauty and power. She couldn’t risk any of this by taking the girl’s life, no matter how pleasurable the thought might be.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Estrid whined, pulling her fingernails down her face. “The beast chases me and claws me bloody at night.”
Asta cautiously looked around. A number of Geats and some of the visiting Svea were visible in the torchlight in front of the hall, but there was no one to be seen around the corner of the building, where she had brought the girl. Perhaps she could give Hel a bit of a helping hand. Estrid could simply wander off into the night, and if she were lucky, she would drown in the lake or meet some other misfortune.
“You kill a draugr with wood through the heart,” Asta said, taking Princess Estrid’s arm and leading her around to the back of the building, where they would not be seen or heard.
“Can I kill him?” Estrid whispered, her eyes wide. “Will he be quiet then?”
“Yes, you have to kill the draugr. Do it with an arrow,” Asta whispered. “You have to save your family. It’s the only way.”
Estrid shivered, and her eyes seemed to regain focus.
“Where is my bow?”
The stench of sickness hung heavy around Estrid as Asta leaned toward her ear.
“There are bows and arrows in the shed. You can save your mother from the draugr with them.”
“Thanks.” Estrid put her hand on Asta’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re a good maidservant.”
“I am your master, husband, and king,” Er
ik said without even bothering to look at Sigrid. “You will willingly give what I ask of you, humbled by your opportunity to serve me.”
Madness must have corroded his mind. Sigrid felt the old hatred burning as she looked around at the guests of the feast. People were already getting drunk, and they were talking so loudly, the music was barely audible.
Olaf, who sat on the throne beside his father, leaned closer to them, curious to hear what was being said. Sigrid could not afford to falter, for the sake of her son or Valhalla. Sigrid took a deep breath and forced herself to smile.
“Haven’t I already given you the most precious of gifts? Olaf, the son you proclaimed king of Svealand during the midwinter sacrifice when he was still in my womb?”
Erik laughed and nodded slightly to old Håkan Harefoot, who bobbed his head back at the king in ceremonious greeting.
“I am missing the chieftain of the Scylfings. Where’s your father, Skagul Toste?” Erik asked, drawing the words out. “Where is your leader?”
Damn it, he knows. Sigrid exchanged glances with Ulf, who sat next to her, silent and sullen.
“Father’s away,” she replied, as if the matter were not important.
Erik leaned forward and looked her in the eye with a steely intensity.
“Toste is off raiding in England and fighting with Sweyn Forkbeard, the former king of the Danes whom I drove out of his country and off his throne. Your father has deviously sworn his allegiance to my archenemy, which means that the oath you and your brother swore to Svealand when I repudiated you has been broken.”
“Broken?” Sigrid stared icily at the king. “How can the oath be broken when the Scylfing chieftains are gathered here to honor you?” she said, gesturing toward the crowded benches. “It would be foolish to break the peace between the Geats and the Svea for one old man’s crazy attempt to win honor and gold before he goes to the afterworld.”
Axel stepped forward now, tall and stately with his silver hair. He put his hand on Olaf’s shoulder.
“King Erik already rules Geatland through his son. That was your price for being repudiated from your position as his wife and queen and leaving Svealand with your life intact. You also gave Erik the right to inspect his son when he turned seven and to kill him if he determined that he was not the father of the child.”
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 11