Authors: Giles Kristian
‘Come then, you oath-shy son of a long-dead sow,’ Otrygg said, inviting Bram forward with the spear’s gleaming blade.
‘I will give my oath to the man who is worthy of it,’ Bram said, side-stepping Otrygg’s thrust and wrenching the boar-sticker from the jarl’s grasp. ‘As for my mother,’ he went on, spinning the spear over and driving its butt into the jarl’s stomach, punching the air out of him, ‘she is still alive, I think.’ He jabbed the butt end into the jarl’s temple and Otrygg’s eyes rolled back in his head as his wife threw herself across his body, snarling at Bram to leave her husband alone.
‘You have bigger balls than your husband, Hallveig,’ he said, respecting her for it and staying his hand. When he turned his back on the jarl and his wife he saw a sea of faces through the smoke and all of them gripped by the shock of what had just happened.
Well that was a night that did not go as I had expected, he thought, wondering if any of them still had it in them to fight him.
‘You have made enemies here tonight,’ Esbern said, his lips curled, his white braids like sun-bleached ship’s ropes.
Bram nodded. ‘A man needs enemies, old man,’ he said, and with that he stepped down and strode through the hall, folk parting before him like water before a dragon ship’s bow, to where his sea chest sat beside the far wall. He bent and picked it up, settling the thing, which contained everything he owned, on his left shoulder, holding the jarl’s spear in his right hand.
I’m a damned fool, he thought, knowing what he was walking out into, thinking he could have at least waited another day or two. But then even one more day as a sheep was not to be endured by a warrior such as he. By a man who would twist the deeds of his life into a reputation the way the blacksmith god Völund forges a sword that will last a hundred generations.
He stopped by Brak, who was still on his arse clutching his throat, and, leaning the spear against his own shoulder, offered the champion his hand. But to his credit Brak found enough breath to call Bram a rancid troll’s fart and spit at his feet, the shame at being so easily beaten carved in his face like runes on a rock.
Bram shrugged, gripped the boar spear again, and when he got to the hall’s door the boy who had found the whale down on the strand opened it for him, looking at Bram as though he had fallen from the sky.
‘Remember me, boy,’ Bram said. The boy nodded and Bram stepped out into the howling, rain-flayed, thundering night.
For a while he stood there, rain lashing his face, already dripping from his beard and braids, and wondered where in the world he would go now and thinking again that he must have been very drunk to leave hot food, a blazing hearth and all the ale he could tip down his throat.
Then he heard the door open behind him and he sighed because he did not like fighting in the rain as it did a man’s sword no good at all to be put away wet.
He turned and saw the great bulk of a warrior standing there silhouetted by the flamelight from the hall behind him.
‘Let’s get this over with, Brak,’ he said.
Runa could see why Jarl Randver had coveted Eik-hjálmr her father’s hall, for his own, called Örn-garð, the Eagle’s Dwelling-place – on account of it being perched on a hill but also, Runa had learnt, because its jarl thought of himself as a lord of land and sea – was at least ten paces shorter and the pitched roof was much lower, so that the smoke from the central hearth which did not escape through the smoke hole was slung like a pall amongst the beams and lingered there. Many of the wall timbers could do with replacing and the jarl had told her, seeming embarrassed, that he would re-thatch the roof come summer. Örn-garð was not quite imposing enough, not saga-worthy enough for a jarl who now owned a fleet of good warships, enjoyed the king’s favour, and had become the most powerful man, but for the king, within some ten days’ sailing of Hinderå or Skudeneshavn.
And yet despite Jarl Randver’s modest hall Runa doubted his people could fault his generosity. All his hirðmen, his retainers and their women were welcome beneath Örn-garð’s thatch and timber, and this night, just like so many others, the place was awash with drunken laughter, the clatter of plates and knives and the rise and fall of many voices speaking at once, like an echo of the sea hurling itself against the rocks of Hinderå’s shore. The hall was smaller than Eik-hjálmr had been but the hearth was twice the size and above it now, spitted, golden and dripping fat that sizzled in the flames, were the carcasses of an elk and four plump geese. Three young thralls were tasked with turning the meat to ensure even cooking and it seemed to Runa that the care they took in their work went beyond the fear of punishment if they burnt the flesh. They were proud to do it.
The air was thick with woodsmoke and the mouth-watering aroma of the meat being turned above the fire. On the other side of her bench an old man, bent as a scythe but with eyes that still sparkled, stood playing a bukkehorn and Runa recognized the tune as she would recognize her mother’s face. For the melody had been Grimhild’s favourite. She had danced to it on her wedding night, she had told Runa whenever the melody played out amongst those feasting in Eik-hjálmr, though now the undulating tune was a snake coiling itself around Runa’s heart and she could find no joy in it.
Oil lamps flickered in the wake of passers-by or in the gusts which seeped through Örn-garð’s planks, throwing shadows across the stave walls and the tapestries woven with the images of gods and monsters, and despite the pain it brought, Runa let her mind soar back to similar nights in her father’s hall, when the mead had flowed and the raucous voices of Harald’s warriors had boomed like thunder and her brothers had been so full of life and ambition. When her mother and father had sat in their high seats holding each other’s hands, their eyes gleaming with pride.
And perhaps it was because she had entwined herself with memories of the past that she did not at first notice the man who had come in with Jarl Randver and who now sat in a high seat on the jarl’s left. Runa was sitting beside Amleth on the high seat across the hall opposite Randver’s and it was he, her betrothed, who drew her attention to the fair-bearded, handsome stranger with his father. No, not stranger. She knew him well enough.
‘What has Crow-Song done to be given such honour?’ Amleth had asked one of his own spearmen, a tall, sinewy warrior called Ambar who had been drinking mead like a salmon drinks water.
The man had shrugged. ‘I have never heard a song or saga come out of his mouth yet that would earn him that seat,’ Ambar said jealously. And that was when Runa’s sad dance with the past had ended and she found herself staring at Hagal the skald, whom she had last seen in her father’s hall the night before the steel-storm in the Karmsund Strait. What was he doing here, as close as a blade snugged in its sheath to the jarl whose thegns had killed her mother? But then what did a skald know of loyalty? She brooded, the thought sour as old ale. Men like Hagal Crow-Song flew wherever the silver shone brightest.
‘I would wager that Father sent for him because there is to be a wedding soon,’ Amleth’s elder brother Hrani, sitting on his other side, said with a grin, knocking his mead horn against the one in Amleth’s hand, ‘and Hagal will come up with some story for the feast.’
Amleth stirred uncomfortably and Runa guessed it was the thought of their wedding night that had him squirming. For whilst it was clear that Amleth wanted to take her to his bed, he had never forced himself on her nor been unkind. He cared what she thought of him, that was clear, and Runa doubted she would wield that power over Hrani if she had been doomed to marry him. He would have taken her already, perhaps on one of the benches lining the hall where she had seen him taking plenty of young girls before, all sweat and teeth and not caring whose eyes were on them.
‘Of course, when I get married we shall have a better skald than Hagal Crow-Song to see us through the night,’ Hrani said. He belched loudly and seemed offended by the smell. ‘Still, he is good enough for you and the daughter of a dead fool, little brother.’
‘Watch your tongue!’ Amleth hissed, glancing at Runa, who pretended for Amleth’s sake that she had not heard. The last thing she wanted was for Amleth to kill his brother in some argument over honour or insult. For Hrani had brought steel and death to her village and Runa wanted him alive when Sigurd came. She would watch her brother kill him and laugh as he did it.
‘I am just teasing you, brother,’ Hrani said, raising his horn to his smiling lips.
Amleth was still watching Hagal and frowning. ‘He has plied his trade here many times before and never been given that seat,’ he said, ‘so I am thinking there is more to it than my wedding feast.’ Hrani pursed his lips, thinking his own thoughts about it as Amleth stood. ‘I am going to find out what Crow-Song has that my father wants,’ Amleth said, hooking his leg out from under the boards.
‘Can I come with you?’ Runa asked, and Amleth was taken aback for a moment because Runa hardly ever spoke to him or even looked at him if she could avoid it.
He almost smiled. Then held out his hand.
As they approached Hagal looked up and when he locked eyes with Runa he swallowed hard and nodded a half-hearted greeting. She thought she saw a flush creep across his cheeks and knew he was embarrassed. And so he should be, she thought.
‘Hagal, this is my son Amleth and his betrothed, Runa Haraldsdóttir,’ Jarl Randver said, sweeping his mead horn towards them as they stepped up onto the raised dais beside the high seats. Then Randver frowned. ‘Though perhaps you have met Runa before?’
Hagal nodded. ‘I visited her father’s hall on occasion, lord,’ he said. ‘And certainly this girl’s face is more memorable than the hospitality I received there.’
‘Your cup was never empty, worm-tongue!’ Runa said, feeling Amleth beside her flinch. It was no small thing to insult the jarl’s guest. But given the warp and weft of it all Randver simply smiled.
‘As you can see, Hagal, my son will have to take his draw-knife and smooth the edges of this one,’ the jarl said. ‘I had to do the same with his mother,’ he added, his sharp eyes softening for a heartbeat. Runa recalled hearing some years ago that Thorgrima, Randver’s wife, had died after some drawn-out illness, and yet clearly she was even now never far from his thoughts.
‘If you think
she
is spirited you should see her brother, my lord,’ Hagal said. ‘Sigurd is strutting around the place crowing like a cock on a dungheap. He thinks he is a jarl already. But jarl of who or what I could not say.’
It was clear they had already talked about this, that Hagal was saying it again for Amleth and Runa’s benefit.
‘He should count himself lucky that he is alive,’ Amleth said, scratching his neatly combed beard.
Jarl Randver leant back as a thrall put a plate of glistening meat before him. He inhaled the steam coming from it then held a piece between finger and thumb as he cut it with his fine bone-handled eating knife. The delicious smell greased Runa’s mouth.
‘Crow-Song has been telling me that he believes young Sigurd will never accept peace between us,’ Randver told his son. ‘I told Hagal that I am willing to pay the young man the bride price that would have lined Jarl Harald’s chest had he still been alive.’ He grimaced. ‘But the skald has convinced me that Sigurd hungers only for revenge. The fool is drowning in his own blood-lust and there is nothing to be done about it.’
‘Nothing?’ Amleth asked.
‘Nothing that will help her brother’s future,’ he said, glancing at Runa. ‘It is a shame though, for having young Sigurd’s blessing on this marriage would have been . . . useful.’
‘Why doesn’t Hagal just tell us where we can find him?’ Amleth said. ‘Better still take us there. Face to face you could convince him that this is the only way. If he still refuses . . .’ he shrugged, ‘then we can kill him.’ He turned to Hagal. ‘How many men does he have?’
Hagal grimaced. ‘Not nearly enough to crew a dragon,’ he said. ‘Some of them are good fighters though and Olaf, his father’s sword-brother, is no fool when it comes to war. There is even a woman. A shieldmaiden.’
Randver’s brows arched and Amleth grinned. ‘If this is one of your stories, Crow-Song, save it for my wedding night,’ he said, but Hagal raised a hand.
‘It is true,’ he said. ‘And she is a fierce fighter from what I have heard. Cut off a man called Loker’s hand.’
‘And this Loker is one of Sigurd’s men?’ the jarl asked.
Hagal nodded, a handsome smile in his fair beard.
Randver laughed. ‘Then perhaps there will be no fight between us after all,’ he said. ‘If we leave them alone they will kill each other.’
Now Crow-Song shook his head. ‘As I have told you, Jarl Randver, Sigurd is coming. As surely as night.’
‘He’s coming here?’ Amleth said incredulously. ‘Is he mad?’
Hagal’s lip twitched as if to say it was possible. ‘He believes he is Óðin-favoured,’ he said.
‘Did you know he hung in a tree for nine days to get the Allfather’s attention?’ Randver asked Amleth, stabbing a piece of meat with his knife. ‘Knowing Crow-Song it was likely four days. Maybe five. But still. What kind of a man does such a thing?’ He popped the meat into his mouth and began to chew, considering the question himself.
Runa’s thoughts twisted in her head like snakes in a pit. Perhaps Sigurd
had
lost his mind. It would not be hard to believe after all that had happened to him. Or perhaps Óðin Draugadróttin, Lord of the Dead, really
was
guiding him, steering him towards some reckoning because he was a god who loved chaos.
‘When is he coming then?’ Amleth asked Hagal directly, his eyes still round with the shock of learning that Sigurd and his rag-tag crew had the balls to come to his father’s land, where they would face a war band second in strength only to the king’s. It would be a slaughter.
Hagal looked at Jarl Randver as though seeking permission to tell them.
‘When is my brother coming, Hagal?’ Runa said, drilling the skald with her own glare. It was to be another betrayal then, this time by a story-teller. An ambush and red murder to finish it once and for all.