Icefall (3 page)

There are men everywhere.

A week ago, in the span of a single day, our steading went from a household to a garrison. It doesn’t help that the fjord
has finally frozen over, and we are sealed in with them. There are twenty. Twelve wolves and eight bears, and all of them rough and wild. I do not care to learn their names, and they barely look at me. Perhaps, like Raudi, they resent being sent to a prison when they have done nothing wrong. Well, I resent them, too.

No matter where I go, they are there. Standing at the cliff. Snoring in the hall. Laughing in the yard. They cease speaking with one another when they see me and resume when I move on. I feel unwelcome in a place that is already unwelcoming enough.

I decide to go down to the shore to see if I can find a moment of solitude there, and leave through the gates. The path descends a steep hill through a grove of tall pines. The sweet spice of their fragrance clears my head. We have had our first snowfall, and the trees look black against the fresh white. The snow crunches and creaks under my feet.

The
drekar
has been dragged up on the shore, a feat I can believe of the berserkers. If it had been left in the water, the movement of the ice over the course of winter would have crushed it. The dragon head at the tall prow snarls down at me, and I look away from it.

“An impressive ship, yes?”

I turn, and Alric is sitting on a rock behind me. I can’t help but feel nervous around him. He speaks too carefully, his words too well-chosen, and so I never know what he’s really thinking.

“Yes, it is impressive,” I say. “Now I think I know what the Irish feel when they see our people on the horizon, come to invade.”

Alric has his mouth open to say something, but doesn’t for a moment. “Indeed.”

I won’t find peace down here with Alric around, so I start for the path.

“Wait, Solveig,” Alric says. “Can we talk?”

I have nowhere I truly want to go and can think of no reason to offer for leaving. “I suppose.” I sit next to him on a log polished smooth by the sand and the waves, and stare out over the fjord turned still and white between the steep mountains on either side.

“Have you noticed that ice is the only thing that can tame the sea?” Alric asks.

“Perhaps. But is it truly tamed if you can’t see what’s going on under the surface?”

Alric has his mouth open again, the same speechless expression. “Indeed.”

It is an odd thing to be by the water, and yet hear nothing. An occasional crackle, the wind, and that is all.

“I watch you, you know,” Alric says. “As you watch others.”

I keep my eyes on the ice and squirm a little at the thought of his eyes on me when I wasn’t aware of it.

“You are very observant, Solveig. And you are intelligent. You would make a fine skald.”

That turns my head. “What?”

Alric holds up two fingers. “Memory and sight are all that is required. Memory and sight. Everything beyond that, a pretty voice and commanding visage, is honey for the curd.”

“Sight?” I ask.

“Yes. A skald must watch people. You must recognize the changes in their mood before they become of aware of it themselves. Your father is angry for a day before he ever raises his voice.”

“How can you know?” I ask.

“He walks around with his right hand in a fist, as if he holds his sword.”

I think about that for a moment, and then I widen my eyes in surprise. “You’re right.”

“When you know what to look for in your audience, you know what is required. The moment may call for you to entertain, to flatter, to reverence, to encourage, or to soothe. So long as you have learned and can recall the appropriate story, song, or poem, you can deliver it.” Again he holds up two fingers. “Memory and sight.”

“And you think I have them?”

He nods. “I do.”

I swell a little at his praise, though it is tempered by the fact of who it comes from. But I realize I have always liked telling stories. To Harald mostly, and I used to tell stories to Raudi when we were younger. But I never thought of it as being like
a skald. My stories have always been light and silly things, a way to fill the cold, long spaces of winter. “Are there many women skalds?”

“Not many, but there are some.”

“My father would never allow it.”

“Why not? What other purpose does he have for you?”

I snap my gaze back out over the fjord. So still, on the surface.

“I don’t know,” I say.

A
lric was wrong. The berserkers do not like their food raw, and I am the one who has been helping Bera cook these last weeks, while Raudi splits the hearth-logs. And even though there is little time and so much work, Bera still insists on making the meals we prepare respectable.

“Your father knows my cooking,” she says to me. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Most days since the warriors came, Asa has rarely left her bedcloset, let alone the hall. She peeks out for meals, and to wash her face, but otherwise hides herself away. Without even knowing what it is, her secret pain has become my pain, and I find I am more patient with her. I only wish that I could reach into that bedcloset to pull her out and help her.

Tonight we’ve made a thick gravy with turnips and peas and glistening pork fat to pour over dry barley bread. The smells set my stomach talking.

When it is suppertime, the men pile in from wherever they’ve been. There is a restlessness about them, growing by the day. They do not like being penned in. Arguments break out between them more readily, and they complain about every thing. Hake controls it when he is present, but when he is elsewhere, I fear what the berserkers might do. Back home, some berserkers have been known to sack their own villages if they go too long without raiding or war. And I have heard stories of the
berserkergang
, the battle fury, coming upon them without warning, and when it does, neither friend nor foe is safe.

Even Hilda seems to know they are not to be readily trusted. She stays close to me most of the time, and when she gets nervous, she rubs her horns up against my leg, asking me to scratch her ears and reassure her.

We serve the berserkers from the steaming cauldron. They grunt their thank-yous and belch their approval as they dig into their bowls. Bera nods to me, then toward them, satisfied. Per is next in line, and I give him an extra large helping, for which I get a smile and a compliment, the same one every evening that causes me to blush.

“You bring grace to this place, Solveig.”

“Thank you, Per.”

“Move along now,” Bera says. “There’s mouths waiting.”

“Solveig?”

I jump. Asa has appeared behind me.

“Oh, sister. I didn’t hear you.” But I am pleased to see her out of the bedcloset.

“I am sorry,” she says.

“Would you like some supper tonight?”

She nods, and I serve her. She then takes a seat by herself in a corner, and the men nearby stare at her. Openly. It grits my teeth with anger. Were my father here, they would not dare lift an eye in her direction. But in this frozen place, so far from their king, with ale so strong and walls so close, they forget themselves.

One of them says something to her — I can’t hear what — and Asa’s gaze drops to her lap. Her neck flushes, and I set my ladle down.

“What is it?” Raudi asks.

“Trouble,” Bera says.

The man says something else, and I hear the leer in his tone, but Asa doesn’t look up. I know that I should do something to help my sister, but in fear of the berserkers I look away. Then I hear Per’s voice.

“You will apologize to the king’s daughter,” he says. He stands between Asa and the berserker, and his voice is iron-cold. “Now.”

The berserker gets to his feet. His hair and beard are long and braided. “I take no orders from you.”

Per strikes him, a full blow on the mouth that knocks the berserker backward over the bench and sprawls him on the floor. He feels his lip and then looks at the blood on his hand.

The berserker gets to his feet and is about to draw his sword.

“Halt!” comes a shout that causes me to flinch. Hake steps out of the crowd now gathered around the two men. “Leave that sword where it rests, or I’ll take the arm that pulls it free.”

The berserker bows his head and drops his arms to his side.

Per stands defiant. “He owes Asa an apology.”

Hake looks at Asa. “She deserves one from me. I am sorry, daughter of my king, that I have allowed my men to become so familiar with you. It shall not happen again.”

Asa gives a bare nod of her head. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You.” Hake turns to the berserker. “Outside. I will deliver your punishment personally.”

The warrior bows and retreats, followed by Hake. Over the heads of the other berserkers, I see the hall doors open and shut.

Per turns to Asa. “I am sorry as well. I will never leave you alone —”

“I’m all right, Per. They are only words.”

“They are words you should never have to hear.” He looks at me. “Nor you, Solveig. If any of these men ever show you disrespect, tell me or Hake.”

I’m comforted by his desire to protect me. He is different from the others. “Thank you, Per.”

I return to the cauldron and pick up my ladle. The gravy is beginning to form a skin.

The next day, the warrior with the braids has a gashed lip, a bruised cheek and eye, and he walks with a slight limp. I should be angry at him and see it as his due, but I feel a little sorry for his pain.

As I watch him cross the yard, Harald comes up beside me.

“I’m bored, Solveig.”

“Have you practiced with your sword?”

He shakes his head. “I’m already good with it.”

“You could watch the berserkers sparring.”

“No. I don’t like them very much.”

“Well, I don’t know what to suggest to you, Harald. Perhaps some chores?”

He kicks the ground. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I laugh at him and rustle his hair. “Have you seen the
drekar
?”

“Of course I have.”

I put my hand on his back. “Well, let’s go look at it again.”

We move toward the gate, and I notice someone following us. It is Hake.

“We’re just going down to look at your ship,” I say.

He nods and continues to follow us.

Harald looks back. “He’s always there, every where I look.”

“He’s protecting you.”

“I don’t need protection.”

We drop through the pine trees to the rocky shore, and there is the ship. A layer of frost has formed over the wood, turning the boat into a pale ghost. The dragon prow snarls down at us, and Harald smiles up at it in admiration. I lead him over to the log, and we sit. Hake stands a distance off. I could no more forget he is there than if a giant were standing over my shoulder.

I remember what Alric said to me down here by the water, about being a skald. “Shall I tell you of Sigurd’s battle with the dragon Fafnir?” I say to Harald.

“Oh, yes,” he says.

So I begin. “Once, Sigurd went to the swordsmith Regin and asked him to fashion a blade. Sigurd needed a sword of legend to carry into battle. Regin made a sword, but Sigurd decided to test it.”

Harald sighs and settles against my side.

“Sigurd set a shield on an anvil and struck it with the new sword. The blade shattered in his hands, and he told Regin to make him another and to make it stronger. Regin made another sword, and this time as he worked the forge, he whispered runes into the metal to strengthen it. During this time, Sigurd dreamt of the dragon Fafnir sleeping under the mountain.”

“Tell me about Fafnir,” Harald says.

“Fafnir crawled through his cave, his scales glittering like mail, his body as long as a company of men marching to war.”

Harald tugs on my sleeve. “And his treasure. Tell me about his treasure.”

“It was a great hoard of gold and silver and all manner of gems. It was treasure enough to turn a man into a god, and Sigurd dreamt of it piled under the dragon’s body and scorching breath, and he coveted its wealth. So Sigurd returned for the second sword, and this time when he smote the shield, the shield broke in two, but the sword bent when it struck the anvil. When Sigurd saw this, he went to his mother and told her of his design.”

“What did she do?”

“She gave to him the pieces of Gram, the sword that Odin had given to Sigurd’s father, and which had broken in battle upon his father’s death. Sigurd took the pieces of Gram to Regin and bade him make a third sword out of them. Regin labored for days at his forge, until the sword was complete. It gleamed brightly, and when Sigurd held it, a flame ran along its edge.”

“Then he tested it,” Harald said.

“He did,” I say. “And what happened next?”

“He smote the shield, and it broke in half, and it cut through the anvil as well.”

“It did. And Sigurd took the sword to the lair of the dragon Fafnir. The heath was black and blasted all about the entrance to the great worm’s cave. Sigurd entered with his sword, and he battled with Fafnir. The dragon struck with his talons and his
teeth and his venom. But the sword forged from Gram cut through the dragon’s scales to his heart and killed him.”

“And the treasure belonged to Sigurd.” Harald strikes the air with his fist.

“Well, that is another story.”

“Tell me another.”

“Shall I tell you the story of when Sigurd avenged his father’s death?”

The eagerness fades from Harald’s face. His wide eyes dim, and his shoulders sag a little. “Not that one.”

“It’s a good story.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, and stands. “And now I’ve seen the ship. I’m going back up to the hall.”

“What is the matter?” I ask.

But he leaves me sitting on the log and starts up the path. Hake looks at me and then follows after Harald.

When I think about it, I should have known that story would upset my brother. He wants to be Sigurd fighting the dragon, not Sigurd grieving the death of his father on the field of battle. Not when our real father is at war. I think Alric was wrong about me. I would not make a good skald, after all.

I stay down by the
drekar
for a while to be alone. On my way back up to the steading, I find a miraculous, frozen stalk of yarrow poking out of the snow. It’s one of Hilda’s favorite things to eat, so I dig it out of the snow and bring it up to the
steading for her. But I can’t find her. I ask a few of the berserkers, Ole, and the others, but no one has seen her. I am concerned, and later that night when she does not come into the hall to sleep, I begin to panic. I call for her out in the yard, the yellow light spilling over my shoulder from the hall. I spend a long time doing this, until I have no choice but to go back inside. But I don’t sleep well, and first thing the next morning, I go looking for her.

I search every shed and outbuilding and find no sign of her. I worry that she wandered out of the steading during the day, and tears come to my eyes when I think that she may have been lost in the forest, frozen or devoured by wolves during the night.

But the guards at the gate swear they never saw her leave. And they would have noticed a goat, they say.

The only place remaining to check is the larder, but I don’t see how she could have gotten in there. We keep the door locked and secured to protect against scavengers, even wolves or bears who might find their way into the steading if hungry enough. Bera gives me the key hanging from her brooch, and I go to the storehouse.

At first, every thing inside is dark and indistinct. But then my eyes adjust, and I jump when I see a figure in front of me. Then I realize it isn’t a man, but something hanging from the ceiling. I reach out my hand to touch it. The thing feels cold and slightly sticky. An animal skinned and hung to age before Bera carves it. But the berserkers brought none with them but
cuts of pork, and it is too small to be a deer. Then I see the face and the horns.

“No,” I whisper and cover my mouth.

I fly from the larder into the center of the yard. I look around at all these men, these berserkers. I want to scream. Who did it? Who butchered her? But I am helpless. My chest aches. I remember Hilda looking to me from across the darkened hall as she searched for a safe place to settle among these strangers. I remember her bleating.

I slide to the ground and sob, and then I start to pound the frozen earth around me. I tear at the ice and pummel it. I feel nothing inside. I am only my anger and my fists.

There are several people gathered around me now. A moment later, I hear Bera’s voice, but not what she says.

Then one of the berserkers clears his throat. “She just started having a fit.”

“Something must have happened,” Bera says.

I look up at her. “They killed her!”

She drops to my side and puts an arm over my shoulders. “Killed who?”

“Hilda!” I say, and start weeping again.

Bera whips her head up at the berserkers. “You killed the goat?”

Uncertain glances pass among them. “I thought she was dried up,” one of them says.