“So it is possible.”
He frowns. “For three years, they did not conceive a child,” he says slowly. “Jarl was beside himself with worry. She began to treat him with disdain. When she finally fell pregnant, he was overjoyed. But she took to her bed and refused to see him during her confinement.” Dvalin shakes his head. “Jarl was so happy at the prospect of gaining a child. He did not realise he was losing a wife.
“When the labour came, it was very difficult. Each time Jarl went to her bedside, she sent him away. When Fulla was born, Jarl rushed to her side. He told me later that when he entered the room, she turned her face to the wall. I think he realised then that their marriage was over. That night, she caught fever, and two days later, she was dead. Jarl was left alone to rear the child.” Dvalin stares at Freya. “Fulla was the sole achievement of his life. She was the only thing Jarl could truly call his own.”
“He knew nothing of his wife’s infidelity?”
Dvalin shakes his head. “I don’t think so. At least, he never spoke of it.”
“Odin learnt of her grandfather’s plans to go to Norway. He wanted to meet her, but in a neutral place. He wanted to introduce her to Asgard, to show her that she has a place here among us, should she want it.”
“So you offered to help him.”
Freya hesitates. “He stole the necklace. I had no choice.” “You bartered the necklace for Fulla?”
“You make it sound worse than it is.”
“I do not need to,” he says accusingly.
“He only wishes to meet her!”
“And then?”
“She is free to return, if that is what she chooses.”
“With the memory of her parents forever altered.”
Freya says nothing. He sees her nostrils flare slightly in anger, and then she turns away. She crosses over to one side of the garden, staring down at the flowers with enmity. “I did not know of her connection to you,” she says bitterly.
“He was my oldest friend,” says Dvalin. “And on his deathbed, I vowed I would watch over her. So I intend to take Fulla back with me. With or without Odin’s consent.”
Freya glares at him. “Then it is her consent you should seek,” she says coolly.
They hear the sound of footsteps. Both turn to see Sky and Fulla come through the gate, their faces shiny with exertion. Fulla stops short. “Dvalin,” she says uncertainly.
“Hello, Fulla.”
She takes a few steps forward and glances quickly at Freya. “How did you find me?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Fulla, your grandfather is sick with worry.”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Is that all?”
She stares at him. “What is it you would have me say?”
Dvalin raises an eyebrow. “That you’ll return with me. At once.”
She shoots a look at Freya. “I cannot do that. I intend to stay and meet my father.”
“Fulla, the man who raised you is the only one who has the right to that title. If Odin wishes to see you, then he should come to you on his own terms,” continues Dvalin, “not steal you like some outlaw.”
Fulla hesitates, the blood mounting in her face. “He did not steal me,” she says then. “I ran away. And I have no intention of returning.” She pushes past him and disappears inside.
Dvalin looks at Freya. “You’ve done your work well,” he says dryly.
“What work is that?”
He looks around at Sessruminger. “Persuading her that she belongs here.”
“We are fond of her. And she of us. Is that inconceivable to you?”
He does not reply. They stare at each other a moment, then Freya turns and walks to the door.
“You can leave in the morning,” she says coldly. “With or without her.”
VILI
Vili watches Dvalin until he is no more than a dark speck on the horizon, then walks slowly back to the house. He crosses to the door of Hogni’s bedchamber. The old man lies still in the darkness. The bitter stench of sweat and sickness hits him, together with the pungent smell of herbs from the poultice. Hogni shifts in the bed and Vili catches the glint of an eye. The old man is not asleep as he’d thought. He takes a step into the room, and the two men eye each other uneasily.
“He’s gone,” says Vili.
Hogni struggles up into a sitting position. “He will find her, if anyone can.” The old man begins coughing and Vili steps forward to help him, picking up a rag from the small table by the bed and handing it to him. Hogni takes the rag and holds it to his mouth. After a moment, the coughing subsides. He looks up at Vili, his eyes watering, and nods his thanks.
“I hope you’re right,” says Vili.
“Never underestimate a dwarf,” says Hogni. Vili looks at him with confusion. Hogni grunts. “You didn’t realise. Many people don’t. He hides it well. Though he has nothing to be ashamed of. His father was a great king. His people have knowledge and skills that lie beyond the scope of ordi nary men.”
Vili frowns. “I thought that he was merely short,” he offers.
Hogni smiles. “He is that as well.”
“Dwarves,” murmurs Vili. “My father used to speak of them.” His voice trails off. Too late, he realises his error. The air in the room suddenly thickens. Hogni shifts uncomfortably.
“I need water,” he says grumpily.
Vili turns and goes out of the room, returning a few moments later with a jug of water. He pours a cup for Hogni, who drinks it noisily. “You should eat,” says Vili.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Did Dvalin say where he was going?”
Hogni shakes his head. “He refused to tell me.”
Vili frowns. “Do you trust him?”
“More than anyone alive.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to.”
“You have no choice.”
Over the next few days, the old man and the youth minister to each other’s needs. There is little else for them to do but wait, a situation that frustrates them both, but eases the course of their friendship. Vili tends to Hogni’s wound with care, changing the poultice every morning and cleansing the wound. Slowly, the infection subsides, and the old man gradually regains the use of his arm. They pass most of their time within the dark room, playing chess and nine men’s morris.
On the third day, Hogni feels a pang of guilt that he has not told Vili of their impending trip to Norway. It is evening, and a thin shaft of dying light comes through the slit in the wall, throwing an orange rectangle upon the bed. They play chance, a game they have only just taken up that morning, having exhausted all the others. Hogni can see the restlessness in the lad’s face. He yearns for Fulla and for his life to begin, while Hogni knows that his own life is nearly over.
“Vili,” he says quietly. “There is something I must tell you.” The boy looks up at him, his face a question. Hogni takes a deep breath. “We were leaving, Fulla and I. We were due to sail for Norway in a fortnight.”
“Norway?”
Hogni nods. “My home. Our home.”
Vili frowns. “Fulla has never been to Norway,” he ventures.
“No, but it is part of her. Just as it is part of me.”
“She agreed to this?”
Hogni hesitates. He feels the guilt rise up in him like bile. “Yes,” he utters.
Vili’s face sinks with dismay. “I didn’t know,” he murmurs.
“There’s something else,” says Hogni. “She is betrothed.”
“Betrothed?” For the first time, his voice is sharp. “To whom?”
“Does it matter?” asks the old man quietly.
Vili looks at him for a long moment. “I suppose not,” he says finally. He stares down at the playing pieces in his hand. Carved from the antlers of deer, they are small and worn and smooth. “Then there is nothing left for me here,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Since the death of my mother and my grandfather, I
have no wish to remain.”
Hogni frowns. “What of your kin? Your uncles and their families?”
“I feel no bond with my father’s brothers,” he says bitterly. “Their lives are governed by the sword. I do not wish to live by violence and greed, as they have done. It was violence and greed that tore apart my family. And yours.” Vili pauses. The silence stretches out between them. Both men think of those who are absent: Vili, of his father, Hogni, of his son.
“You are a fine young man,” says Hogni, laying a hand upon his arm. “A man to make any father proud,” he adds.
“If Fulla is to marry, then perhaps I too will go abroad and seek my fortunes elsewhere,” says Vili half-heartedly.
Hogni nods. What else is there for him to say? The two men sit in silence. The orange rectangle slowly slides across the bed. After a few minutes, they hear a commotion outside: the sound of riders and men’s voices shouting. Hogni rises a little unsteadily, just as Helga rushes in. “It’s Thorstein,” she exclaims. “Together with his men.” She glances at Vili. “They’ve come for the lad.”
Vili looks at Hogni. “What is it you would have us do?” asks Hogni urgently.
“I will go and speak to them,” says Vili uncertainly.
He turns to go, but Hogni grabs his arm. “You do not wish to return to your uncle’s people?”
Vili shakes his head. “No.”
“Then you are welcome to remain here.”
The boy hesitates. “Are you certain?”
Hogni nods. “Go quickly and hide. I will deal with them.” Vili bites his lip, his eyes filled with alarm. “Go now!” urges Hogni.
Vili nods, then ducks out of the room and disappears into the scullery. Hogni pulls on his cloak and boots and crosses to the door. Outside, the sun has dropped to the horizon in a dark circle of red. He sees Thorstein and his men, six in all, fully armed. Four of them remain on horseback. Thorstein and his brother stand in front of the house. When Thorstein sees Hogni, he steps forward, halting only a few paces away.
“We’ve come for the lad.”
“He’s not here,” says Hogni.
“We’ve heard otherwise,” says Thorstein.
“The boy was here earlier this week. We sent him on his way.”
Thorstein eyes him suspiciously. He turns to his brother. “Go and look in the stables.” The man runs off to the stables, while Hogni and Thorstein wait, scrutinising each other. After a minute, the man emerges leading Vili’s horse by a rope. Thorstein turns back to Hogni.
“I see he left his horse.”
“He stole one of our mounts.”
Thorstein takes a step forward. “And you’re a bloody liar!” He draws his sword and advances towards Hogni. At that moment, Vili emerges from behind the house.
“Wait!” he shouts.
Thorstein stops and turns to him with a frown. “Vili!”
“I’m here,” says the boy defiantly. “But not against my will.” He walks towards Thorstein, stopping just in front of him. The older man stares at him a moment, then draws his arm back and slaps him hard across the face.Vili doubles over from the blow. When he straightens up, his cheek is bright red and a welt blooms just beneath his eye.
Hogni steps forward. “Leave him,” he says. “He’s with us now.” Hogni nods towards two of his farmhands, who draw their swords and advance.
Thorstein looks from Vili to Hogni. “With you?” he says in a mocking tone. “A grandson of Skallagrim? I’ll be dead in the ground first.” He lunges towards Hogni, and this time the sword finds it mark, deep in the old man’s abdomen.Too late, Vili leaps forward with a cry. He grabs hold of Hogni just as he crumples to the ground, his mouth open but silent. Blood seeps forth from the wound in his gut. Hogni’s men move to defend him, but find themselves instantly outnumbered by the others. A sharp moment of silence follows. No one moves. Vili slides to the ground, cradling Hogni in his arms. He looks up at Thorstein.
“You fool,” he says bitterly.
“It was his time,” says Thorstein. He wipes his sword clean upon the dirt, then replaces it in its scabbard, turns and walks back towards his horse. Vili watches him for a split second, his face twisted with anger, then grabs the knife from Hogni’s belt and leaps to his feet. Thorstein has only just begun to turn when Vili rushes at him, stabbing him in the neck with such force that both men tumble to the ground. Hogni’s men rush forward to defend Vili, their swords drawn, and Vili too spins around towards his father’s other brother, the bloody knife still in his hand. He holds it out tauntingly.
“Come on!” he shouts, his chest heaving. He is crying now, the tears streaming down his face. “We’ll finish what he started!”
Vili’s uncle stares at him in alarm, then slowly shakes his head. He calls to the men behind him to lay down their swords. After a moment, he steps forward to Thorstein’s body and kneels down, feeling for a pulse. He motions towards one of the men behind him for help. Together they lift Thorstein and carry his body to his horse, slinging his lifeless form over the saddle. He walks back to Vili.
“One life for another,” he says grimly. “No one can say that justice has not been meted out this day.” He turns to go, then hesitates. “You have severed the bonds of your kinsmen. Henceforth, let no one call you by the name of Skallagrim.” With that, he returns to his horse and mounts it. He nods to the others and they turn the horses, walking them slowly out of the yard. Vili watches them go, before returning to Hogni’s side, where Helga crouches anxiously, one hand cradling her master’s head.
“Does he live?” asks Vili.
“He has a pulse still. But the wound is deep. I fear it has entered his stomach.”
“Let’s get him inside.” Vili turns to one of Hogni’s men. “Bring a blanket!” The man disappears inside the stable and returns a moment later with a woollen horse blanket. They lift Hogni onto it and carry him inside, where they lay him out upon the bed.
“Quickly! We must bind the wound,” says Helga. She rushes out of the room and returns with a bundle of old linen and a knife. Frantically, her hands trembling, she begins to tear the cloth into strips. Hogni moans.Vili kneels at his side. The old man’s pallor is grey. His eyes flutter briefly, then open. It takes a moment for his gaze to focus.
“Boy,” he says weakly.
“Save your strength,” urges Vili. “Do not leave us!”
Hogni shakes his head slowly. “I am cold.”
“Please, Hogni, you must try. For Fulla’s sake, if not your own.”
Hogni’s eyes wander towards the ceiling. “Fulla,” he whispers. He raises a hand and drops it on Vili’s arm. “Promise me that you will take her away from here. From all this death,” he sighs.
“I promise.”
Hogni takes a deep breath, his body shuddering from the effort. He licks his lips. Vili reaches for a cup of water by the bed and raises it to the old man’s mouth. The water trickles down Hogni’s chin, and he coughs. “Vili,” Hogni whispers. Vili leans in closer. The old man swallows, his chest heaving from the effort of speech. “Take her to Norway,” he says. “That is where her future lies.”
Vili stares at him, uncomprehending. The old man’s gaze has become glassy and unfocused. But he can feel Hogni’s death-grip upon his arm, surprisingly strong. “Do this for me,” Hogni says urgently. “And you will secure my blessing.”
Vili hesitates, then nods. “Of course.”
Hogni takes a deep breath and releases his arm. Once again, his eyes wander upwards, as if searching for escape.
Vili leans forward urgently, sensing that the old man is sliding into death. “Hogni,” he shouts. Hogni looks at him and shakes his head, his eyes rolling backwards. Suddenly he falls still. Helga steps forward, a small cry escaping from her lips. Vili stares at Hogni’s lifeless body in horror, his own chest heaving with emotion. After a moment, he feels the weight of Helga’s hand drop upon his shoulder. He turns to her. “He’s dead,” he whispers.
“There was nothing we could
do,” she says. Vili turns and folds himself into her embrace. They cling to each other in the darkness.
At length, Vili straightens. “Helga, the promise I made, about Norway. What did he mean?”
Helga shakes her head. “I wish I knew.”
DVALIN
Dvalin sleeps badly under Freya’s roof, despite being worn out from the journey. He wakes before dawn, at once conscious of her presence, as if the timbers overhead contain some kernel of her essence. He tries without success to sleep again, but his mind is strewn with thoughts. Eventually, he rises, pulling on his clothes and going out into the large hall, where the fire has burned to only a handful of embers. The house is still, except for the occasional creak of the wooden rafters. He can hear the faint whistle of the wind outside. He lays several squares of turf upon the fire and picks up a bellows to fan the embers into flame. Soon the smell of peat smoke fills the room, and the flames crackle into life. As he lays the bellows to one side, he hears a noise behind him. He turns to see Sky standing in the doorway, the hawk perched upon his arm. The boy regards him closely.
Dvalin smiles at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not set against you.” Sky doesn’t move, but stands watching him intently. Something in his manner causes Dvalin to pause. “Perhaps it is you who are set against me,” he says slowly.
Sky does not respond.
“Come. Sit with me,” says Dvalin.
Sky hesitates, then crosses the floor to where Dvalin sits upon a bench by the fire. He takes a seat next to him. “You are happy here,” says Dvalin.
The boy nods.
“Freya has been good to you.”
Sky nods again.
Dvalin says nothing for a moment. He picks up an iron poker and prods at the fire. “So you do not intend to return to Jotunheim.” It is more a statement than a question, and Dvalin does not expect an answer. Instead, his attention is focused on the fire. He does not see the boy open his mouth to speak.
“No,” says Sky.
Dvalin turns to him, wide-eyed. “You speak?”
The boy nods cautiously.
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