The Ice Queen (10 page)

Men shouted and unseen bodies plunged away through the underbrush. Harald and I dismounted and went in a little way with our swords drawn, but we found nothing except a maggoty goat's carcass several days old lying at the foot of the idol.

Harald shoved against this idol with all his might, straining until he was purple-faced, but he couldn't budge it. It was easy to read his thoughts: Olaf, by the grace of God, had thrown down idols by the score, just by touching them, by merely commanding them. And could he not throw down even one? In the end, he had to be content with hacking up its face with his sword, and we made our way back to the others.

“Perun,” said Ingigerd, as we resumed our ride, “was their name for Thor and this was his place. The original statue was huge, so I'm told; its face made of beaten silver with a moustache of gold. But that was fifty years ago, before Saint Vladimir abolished the old religion and broke up the idols. Even so, the country folk here have made a new one which they sacrifice to in secret. Dvoeverie we call it: ‘double faith'. It persists not only in the countryside but even in our cities. Last year my husband hanged a dozen sorcerers in the town of Suzdal alone; we could hang many dozens more and still not root them all out.”

Here, I thought, was the obvious place to unite the praises of Olaf
to those of Vladimir—the two champions of the new religion in their respective countries. Oddly, though, no one did. Perhaps Harald, Dag, and the princess felt reluctant to shatter this momentary truce by mentioning that man's name, whose legacy set them at each other's throats.

To fill the silence, I remarked that the old gods seemed to be everywhere in retreat.

“True,” said Ingigerd, “and yet, the heathen devils do not give way easily, do they?”

“I am of the opinion, Princess, that we ought to be free to choose the devils we prefer.”

“Are you? What an extraordinary idea,” she laughed. “But I suppose we must make allowances for a skald—poetry and deviltry being much the same thing.”

Dag was doing frantic things with his eyebrows to get my attention; Harald was giving me puzzled looks.

“Gospodin Odd,”—she regarded me now quite seriously—“for some reason it amuses you to play at being a heathen, but I doubt whether you have seen very much of heathenism, really. I have. Despite my father's sternest efforts to forbid it, the old religion still flourishes in Sweden. To this very day the blood sacrifice is performed every ninth year at the great temple of Odin in Uppsala—not a mile from our hall.”

“I've heard of it,” I replied. “I once knew a Swedish berserker who was initiated there as a boy.” (Poor Glum—I hadn't thought of him in a while. Blasted by Thor's hammer while he stood on the pitching deck of my ship. Was he in Valhalla now, matching his frenzy with One-Eyed Odin? I mightily wanted to believe it.)

“Do you know what happens there?” Ingigerd pressed on. “They hang nine men by their necks from the trees that grow in the sacred grove. Nine men and nine males of every other sort of animal—much as was done here in Perun's grove once upon a time—and they let the carcasses hang there till they rot. This is no idle rumor. I and my brothers were taken there as children to see this wickedness with our own eyes. I will never get the smell of the place out of my nostrils. Now, Odd Tangle-Hair, think carefully, for I know you are a young man who thinks about things. Are these really the devils you would have us be free to choose?”

“Princess, I would not willingly hang anyone. But were you not boasting only a moment ago of the twelve that your husband hanged in Suzdal?”

“But, in God's name—!”

“Precisely.”

“Heigh ho!” cried Dag, breaking in upon us with a desperate laugh. “Can't we talk of something less gloomy on this fine morning?”

Our conversation was ended more effectively by Sirko at that moment dashing into the midst of a flock of cranes that were hidden among the tall reeds by the side of the lake. Red-headed and dagger-beaked, they rose up with a great clatter of wings.

Instantly all else was forgotten in the excitement of the chase. Ingigerd, unhooded her falcon and made three swings with her arm, letting go the jesses on the third and launching the huntress into the air.

The little peregrine soared upwards on knife-blade wings until she was only a speck in the sky. Then, choosing her target, she dove, falling like an arrow, while below we earth-bound creatures held our breath. But at the last moment she missed the mark, while the cranes continued to gain altitude.

“Now,” breathed Ingigerd, “now show us your heart, little one.”

To strike a second time she must get above her prey again, at the cost of enormous effort, for even one steep climb is enough to tire a falcon. The cranes were moving out of our view now in a direction away from the lake. Ingigerd, laying her head on her horse's neck, spurred it into the trees, heedless of branches and pitfalls, shouting encouragements to the bird. We raced madly after.

Again the falcon climbed and dove, and high above us there was a silent explosion of feathers. The dead crane, all legs and neck, fell to ground, the falcon descending after her.

Reining in our horses, we found her perched on the crane's body, which was easily six times her size, beginning to pluck at it with her beak. Sirko stood guard beside her in case the other cranes returned, seeking vengeance, for catching her on the ground, they would kill her.

Ingigerd, with careful movements, stroked the peregrine's back with one hand while she deftly hooded it with the other. Then, opening the crane with her knife, she cut off a bit of the flesh and fed it to the bird.

“I won't fly her again today, she's exhausted. You've done an eagle's work this day, pretty one.”

After that, Harald, Dag, and I each flew our birds with good success at grouse and wild goose. As the afternoon light began to fade, we handed
over our falcons to the servants.

“Let's go back again by the shore,” said Ingigerd, “though it is not the straightest way to Novgorod. The lake is very beautiful at sunset. The loons call to their mates and, if we're lucky, we may hear a nightingale sing. The Rus grow sad and weep whenever they hear one,” she smiled.

The setting sun splashed fire on the clouds, while we rode, not talking much, but listening to the conversation of the birds, and the lapping of the water, and the scrunch of our horses' hoofs on the pebbly shore.

We were skirting Perun's grove again and Harald turned to me and said he wasn't sure what a nightingale sounded like but he thought he heard—

What he heard was the whistle of a sling bullet. The first one flew wide but the second hit his right shoulder. He slid to the ground, writhing in pain while his horse reared and plunged away. Out of the shadowy grove figures leapt at us, their faces hidden behind grinning leather masks such as mummers wear, and shouting, “Perun! Perun!”

One seized my horse's bridle, another dragged me from the saddle and struck me a blow with a cudgel at the base of my skull that laid me out senseless. When I came to, the clangor of steel on steel rang all around me. I struggled to my feet, drew my sword, leapt into the melee.

“The princess!” shouted Dag to me. “Find her, watch her!”

But I had no chance to obey. One of our attackers came at me with a spear. I dodged his thrust and drove my blade into his side, then skewered another between the shoulder blades. Dag took his place beside me—leaping, whirling and striking everywhere.

But Harald was having the worst of it. It was like the bloody field of Stiklestad all over again. Just as on that day, he stood with his feet planted wide apart and wielded his long sword with two hands. But he had more assailants to contend with than either Dag or I, and as fast as one fell another took his place.

We cut our way to him and the three of us fought back to back. Soon seven or eight of the enemy, about half their number, lay dead or dying on the ground, their masked faces smiling as though death were a pleasure to them. The cries of “Perun!” grew thinner.

Finally, they'd had enough.

Three of them kept us in play until the others could drag their fallen friends out of sight; then those three broke off and dashed after their comrades into the trees.

We sagged against each other, gasping for breath. I felt my skull where I'd been clubbed, and hoped it wasn't cracked. It hurt like anything. From the ground nearby came a moan; Ingigerd raised herself on an elbow and called to us. Sirko, quivering in every muscle, stood guard over her. Helping the princess to stand, we saw on her forehead a red swelling and a smear of blood.

“A stone,” she said, touching the place and wincing.

“You're very lucky,” replied Dag, “it only grazed you. And none of them came near you to finish the job with steel?”

“I suppose they shrank from killing a woman.”

“But Princess, you are dressed as a man.”

“Well, then, God has been merciful! Would you rather I'd died?”

“Oh, on the contrary, Princess, your death, alone in our company, would be most awkward for us.”

“Filthy heathen animals!” she shifted ground abruptly. “Obviously, the ones we surprised this morning, waiting in ambush for us. When my husband catches them he'll nail their heads to these trees, I swear it by Christ's Body!”

“Villagers of the neighborhood, you think?” Dag asked.

“What else?”

“Why were they masked?”

She shrugged. “Part of their devilish cult.”

“Aha. But still, rather too well armed for peasants, wouldn't you say?

“Well then who, pray?” she rounded on him sharply.

“I'm sure I don't know.”

While we talked, the servant lads came cautiously out of the trees some distance behind us, leading their horses and still carrying the hooded falcons.

“Why didn't you help us, you dogs?” growled Harald, shaking a fist at them.

“Leave them be,” said Ingigerd, “they don't understand a word you're saying.”

“Useless, then, to ask them what they might have seen,” said Dag to no one in particular.

“What should they have seen, Dag Hringsson? If you have a thought, please say it plainly.”

But at that moment Harald groaned and toppled over like a felled
tree. The right side of his tunic was sticky with blood and a dark stain was spreading. Under the tunic, there was so much blood we couldn't find the wound.

“Spear,” he grunted. “Went in deep.”

“Not as bad as the one you got at Stiklestad old fellow,” said Dag lightly. “Just you lie still now—you'll be all right.” But to me he showed a grim face.

“He can't sit a horse,” said Ingigerd, going to her grey, which stood nearby trailing its reins. “I'll ride to Gorodische and send back help.”

But Dag was quicker and seized the bridle before she could mount.

“I can't allow you to do that, Princess, not with the woods so full of pagan marauders.”

“I don't fear those dogs.”

“Really? I wonder that you don't. I fear them, I confess, and I will feel much safer if you stay with us. Much safer. It's nearly dark now and I don't think they'll risk the chance of killing you by mistake.”

“Who do you mean—the pagans?”

“Why, of course. Who did you think I meant?”

“Let go of my bridle, damn you!”

They stared hard at each other but Dag didn't flinch.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You may be right.”

She'd been beaten in this test of wills. It must have been an unaccustomed feeling.

“Thank you, Princess. Now, tell one of your boys to ride to Gorodische and return with bandages, and a sledge and team. The other two must ride straight to Novgorod and inform the prince what has happened, and ask him to tell Harald's hirdmen to row up to Gorodische at first light tomorrow. He's to say the order comes from me. I want Harald taken to his own dvor at Menevo without delay, and in his own ship.”

“And if my servants are waylaid by the heathens?”

“Then, Lady, we will stay here and defend ourselves as best we can until we're found.”

She issued curt orders in Slavonic to the youths, who saluted and galloped off.

And we four sat in watchful silence as night spread over the lake.

In due time we were fetched back to Gorodische and Harald put to bed in Ingigerd's own chamber. And the next morning his dragon ship arrived and tied up to the landing slip. One hundred and twenty Norwegians poured over the side, demanding angrily to see their young chieftain. Almost unnoticed in this crowd were Yaroslav and Einar Tree-Foot.

“What a business, what an outrage!” lamented the prince as he leaned anxiously over Harald's prostrate form. “Eilif and the whole druzhina are out scouring the countryside at this very moment. He insisted on it himself and rode out before it was even light—uncommon early for him. He'll pull their roofs down over their heads, have no fear.”

Yaroslav, prepared for any eventuality, had brought along both a priest and a physician—the latter being, like Jarl Ragnvald's, a Greek from Miklagard. But Einar shoved his way to the front, and swore, by the Raven, that no one knew more about blade wounds than a Jomsviking. After some dispute, he was allowed to take charge of the patient.

“Boil me six onions cut up in a little water,” he ordered.

A serving woman was sent in haste to prepare this dish. While we waited, he studied his patient. The blood had by now been washed away, revealing a black-encrusted stab wound about three fingers wide.

“The question is,” said Einar tugging his beard, “are his guts pierced? Those other giblets don't matter a fart in the wind so long as the guts ain't
pierced. If they are, start digging his grave. Now, youngster, drink this.” The onion soup had arrived; he held the bowl to Harald's lips.