A Mighty Dawn Read online

  For Cousin Henry

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: Chosen Son

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two: The Stranger

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part Three: Shining Wanderer

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  The laugh rose in his throat, joyous and wild.

  Around him, dusk dew sprayed in silver showers, his legs pumping through the bracken.

  He glanced back.

  Far behind languished the fastest of his companions. He’d left them all dead-footed. Now they were no more than pinprick shadows darting through the trees.

  He surged on, thighs burning. He felt alive. Beside him ran his beloved hound. The dog had only one eye – half the sight of other dogs maybe, but twice the heart.

  So far the sport had been thin: a pair of foxes and a red deer were all they had to show for a long day. But this was going to make it a day to remember.

  Ahead of him, the beast fled through the undergrowth. A magnificent hart, crowned with towering antlers of a dozen proud points.

  King of the forest.

  And a prize worthy of the son of a king, thought the young man, breathless. The gods knew a feast was long overdue at his father’s table. If he could only get a line on it. One chance was all he needed.

  Suddenly, there it was.

  He pulled up. His dog stopped beside him.

  The wind had dropped, the air now still as death. The deer stood, not fifty paces away, blowing panicked breath into the dirt. The prince sniffed with satisfaction. He’d guessed he would get his chance. With those antlers, it was never going to run far.

  The dog’s one eye stared faithfully up at him, patient as ever. The prince shot him a wink for luck.

  Noiselessly, he nocked an arrow, inching right for a clearer shot. The dog shadowed him, stealthy as a ghost. Up ahead, the stag had found a few old blueberries and was picking at them. The light was fading. This would be his last shot of the day. His last, and his best.

  He stilled the beat of his heart, drew back the bowstring, sucking in a breath, locking it away.

  Just. . . one. . . more. . .

  Suddenly the deer’s head snapped up. For a heartbeat, its eyes pierced the gloom. The prince’s arrow tip wavered. And just for a second his blood ran cold.

  The deer had the eyes of a man.

  Surely he was mistaken. But before he could look again, the beast sprang towards him.

  He backed away. Only a step, but enough to break his concentration. He could shoot a moving target, but deer should run away from their pursuers, not towards them.

  The dog growled as his master’s mind flirted with his sword hilt. But there was no time. The deer was heading straight for him, muscles rippling under its hide.

  He raised the arrow tip again, took aim, felt the power in the bow. One shot.

  Suddenly, the deer swerved across his line of sight. He glimpsed its flank, swung the arrowhead giving the animal a lead.

  And loosed.

  The arrow flew like a comet. But at the last instant, the deer chinked left. The point raked its haunch, but didn’t bite, and the arrow skittered away into the dusk. The animal bellowed in protest and charged. His bow felt sickeningly empty. He backed away, panic rising like bile, then his foot snared and he was falling.

  A dull thud of bone on wood. His head exploded in pain and he slumped against the trunk, only to see the stag drop its thicket of antlers. He had hardly time to whimper before they slammed into his body. He screamed, pain surging through his torso like a burning tide. He tasted blood. The dog was barking.

  Do something, he begged in his mind. But for once his faithful friend failed him. He lay stupefied. Bleeding.

  Dying.

  The stag backed away slowly, as if measuring a second blow. But for the moment, it held off. Instead, its head peered closer, snorting hot breath into his face.

  He groaned. His body was aflame. And then he saw those eyes again. The same terror gripped him, and as he watched through a fog of pain, the animal seemed to change. The bulging haunches shrank, the legs grew thick and long. The fur shrivelled, became taut and smooth. The muzzle melted away. Only those eyes stayed the same.

  Noiselessly, the creature reared up. The dog let out a whine and scampered off into the gloom. The prince’s heart was pounding. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Yet he had to. There was no mistake.

  The hart had become a man.

  The figure stood over him, naked body streaked with dirt, blood streaming from his shoulder. In his hand, he clutched the fragment of an antler, tips wet with blood.

  The prince’s bowels turned to water. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. This was the stuff of old songs.

  The stuff of nightmares.

  A shiver passed over the figure, and then, slowly, he leaned closer. The prince stiffened with the horror of recognition. ‘You!’

  A glimmer of a smile passed over the cold, white lips.

  Then a hand closed around his throat. He coughed, felt blood spatter his lips. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was the son of a king, heir to the realm. But the shape-shifter only snarled and stabbed the antler into his stomach, sinking it deep.

  He felt the bone twist. Caught the foul smell of his own innards. Tried to push the man away, but his arms wouldn’t respond.

  He heard voices, undergrowth cracking. He tried to cry out, but all that came was a crumpled moan.

  ‘Hush.’ The voice was cold as winter. A hand covered his mouth. His heart was kicking like a mule at his ribs. The noises grew fainter. His eyes fell shut.

  And then, he heard nothing at all.

  PART ONE

  CHOSEN SON

  CHAPTER ONE

  Four months earlier, in the faraway land of the Jutes, the farmstead of Vendlagard was a whirl of excitement. These were the last busy days before the Feast of Oaths.

  Geese flapped, chickens squawked as hairy-chinned thralls chased them round the yard. The womenfolk, up to their armpits in bubbling tubs, scrubbed their finery: bright dresses of tight-woven wool, silken ribbons for their hair or costly shawls to adorn themselves for the revelry. Sunlight danced off blades burnished like mirrors by warriors’ servants. Every man was to look his best.

  The boys and girls were sent to gather flowers and ivy from the woods, and heather growing wild on the heath to the west. The little ones shrieked around the y
ard in delight, strewing foliage in their wake.

  Before long, the hall of Vendlagard was a burst of colour, its dark pillars decked in red and blue and white and yellow flowers, the carved faces in the gable still grousing away, in spite of the colours playing about their ears.

  This day had been a while coming. In nineteen years of service, Tolla had seen many a young man stand before his lord and swear his oaths, kin looking on. No more than boys, every one. Some of them still lived; many had fallen. That was the way of things. The All-Father made his choosing, and nothing anyone could do about it.

  But tonight was special. Tonight it was Hakan’s turn to bind himself, blood and iron, to his lord father. She felt a glow of pride. After all, didn’t she love him like he was her own? Perhaps better even than that.

  And now all the Vendling kinsfolk would come, and many others from the Jutish families, to see him sealed a man. Word had gone out to every corner of Jutland. Lord Haldan’s hall would be full to the rafters with merriment. No seat left empty.

  And it’s past noon already.

  The thought suddenly made her feel sick. There was precious little time before the first guests arrived and still much to do.

  Now where was Inga? Hakan’s younger cousin was flighty as a swallow. Always getting under your feet when you wanted her out the way, and never to be found when there was any work needed doing.

  ‘Einna!’ she yelled at the scrawny maid toting a pail of milk across the yard in a hurry. ‘You seen that dratted girl Inga?’

  ‘Like to get my hands on her myself,’ returned the girl, her cheeks flushed. ‘She promised she’d split half my chores and I haven’t seen a hair of her all morning.’

  Lord Haldan’s spear-master loped by. ‘You haven’t seen Inga have you, Garik?’

  ‘Check the stables. I’d lay my hand she’s off on Sorvind. And Hakan with her.’

  Most days, that was a fair bet, but Tolla had just come from the stables and Inga’s beloved stallion was tethered.

  ‘Thinks she’s too grand for hard work, that one,’ said Einna, setting down her milk and pushing her feathery hair out of her face.

  ‘Just needs taming by the right fella,’ grinned Garik, licking at a crooked tooth. ‘High blood or low – it’s the same for all you wenches.’

  ‘You just keep a-walking, you leery brute,’ snapped Tolla, shooing him away. ‘And mind you don’t talk like that about Lord Haldan’s kin. Especially not today.’

  Garik gave her a wink. ‘They all gotta learn it sometime, sister,’ he laughed, and stalked off.

  Maybe, Tolla thought. But not Inga. Not yet.

  Now where the blazes was that girl?

  ‘They’re going to find out,’ giggled Inga, still making half-hearted efforts to fend off his wandering hands.

  ‘Never!’ Hakan laughed. ‘They wouldn’t know a nail if it poked ’em in the eye.’ He pushed her back against the tree. The sweet, sticky smell of pine mingled with the sea air. This time she gave in, looking up at him. He shook his head, marvelling at those doe eyes. In them he saw a girl and a goddess both. Everything he ever wanted.

  ‘You need a leash,’ she smiled, biting her lip. ‘And that Tolla – she’s got her beady eye on everything. We must be careful.’

  ‘Bah! Hel take the careful! Come here.’ He slipped his hand round her and drew her close, catching a whiff of the sea in her hair. Her lips met his and parted. She tasted salty. Her tongue flickered against his teeth – a trick they had discovered together that summer.

  They had discovered many.

  ‘The best kisses are after a swim,’ she murmured.

  ‘Aye – and more than just kisses,’ growled Hakan, tugging hungrily at her girdle.

  ‘Not here! Not now. Someone might come.’ She glanced anxiously over his shoulder towards the farmstead.

  ‘You didn’t seem to care the other night.’

  ‘That was different.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Besides, they’re expecting me in the yard. Tolla’s probably already marked me for a birching as it is.’

  ‘Just a while longer,’ he murmured into her dark curls.

  ‘I can’t,’ she insisted, pushing him away. ‘There’s too much to do.’

  ‘Horse shit.’

  ‘Well, you can hardly complain, cousin. It’s all for you, isn’t it?’ She broke free and began strutting up and down. ‘Tonight, you must become a man, Hakan,’ she boomed, aping his father’s voice.

  ‘I’m a man already.’ The joke irritated him. Hadn’t she made him that?

  Was it only two months since the morning they had set out for the Skaw, the northernmost tip of Jutland? It seemed like a lifetime ago. They had been two different people then, riding north to the point. To the place where seas collide. That day, they had been cousins – the closest of childhood companions. Hers was the first face he could remember, the last he would ever forget. But that day, under the shadow of the swaying grass, he had tasted her for the first time. Had been able to show her the love he had always felt for her.

  When they rode back to Vendlagard, to the ancient hall of their fathers, as they had done so many times before, they both knew. The world would never be the same again.

  ‘Don’t be angry.’ She brushed her fingertips against his cheek. ‘Come on.’ Taking his hand, she led him back to their things.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ she asked, as he pulled his tunic over his wet hair.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘About tonight,’ she replied, fussing at the brooches that held her work dress in place.

  ‘Maybe. A little.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone’ll be looking at me. But it’s all pointless, don’t you think?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hardly takes a ceremony to make me loyal to my own father. Or serve him. It’s not as if I have a choice.’

  ‘Maybe. But an oath makes all the difference. Your life becomes bound to his in a deeper way. In life. And in death.’

  ‘Gods – you sound like Garik!’

  ‘Well?’ she laughed. ‘Isn’t it true?’ Her face clouded. ‘Now you’ll have to fight.’

  ‘I would fight anyway,’ he said, bristling at the reminder that he had never stood in the shieldwall.

  ‘Yes, but you would be sworn to it.’ He saw a glimmer of sadness in her hazel eyes.

  ‘Inga,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘You know I’d never leave you alone.’

  She forced a brave smile. ‘That’s for the Spear-God to decide.’

  ‘Listen, my fate is joined as tight to yours as any oath can tie me to my father.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Haven’t I a thousand times?’

  She made a teasing pout. ‘Just once more then.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Inga smiled, and the breath caught in Hakan’s throat. Her beauty was fresh as the first morning of the world. Suddenly she pulled him close and kissed him.

  ‘Come on – I’ll race you back to the yard!’

  ‘Bitch,’ he grinned. ‘You know you’ll win.’

  ‘Every time,’ she winked, and took off down the slope, laughing.

  He set out after her, pain shooting up his leg with every stride.

  When they stumbled breathless back into the yard, the air was rich with aromas wafting from the cookhouse – hogs turning on spits, cauldrons filled with bubbling fish soups, garlic sauces and freshly baked bread. And of course the malty smell of ale.

  When they spotted Tolla, she was talking with a woman neither recognized. From a distance, it didn’t seem the friendliest conversation.

  ‘I’ve told you once,’ snapped the nurse, her usually warm features looking decidedly cold. ‘We don’t want your kind here.’

  ‘But on such an occasion,’ insisted the stranger. ‘And such a noble family. The Lord of Vendlagard would be delighted to have a telling. Tonight of all nights.’

  ‘Don’t you presume to know Lord Haldan’s mind. He don’t want bothering with the likes of you!’

 
; The stranger had quick, darting eyes. She couldn’t have seen more than thirty summers, though her skin was hard and tanned. ‘I’ll take my leave from him and none less,’ returned the woman. ‘So you’d better go and fetch him.’

  She was leaning on a staff, for all the world looking like she owned the place. Tolla had a job on her hands.

  Inga tapped Tolla on the shoulder. ‘Did you miss me?’

  The nurse rounded on her. ‘You little pest! I’ll say I missed you. Where have you been?’

  ‘A girl needs to bathe,’ offered Inga.

  ‘Does she just? And while you’re splashing about, the rest of us do your work, is that it?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Inga was doing her best to look contrite. Not one of her more obvious qualities.

  The fraught lines in Tolla’s face showed a woman in an unforgiving mood. Sensing his cousin was in for a tongue-lashing, Hakan decided to intervene.

  ‘Who’s this then?’ He jerked his head at the stranger.

  ‘A spakona!’ Tolla spat the word like a curse. Hakan didn’t see why Tolla was all riled up about a teller of fortunes. They were common enough in those parts.

  ‘My name is Heitha,’ said the woman, unruffled by Tolla’s hostility. ‘I am a vala.’

  ‘Vala? Spakona?’ exclaimed Tolla. ‘They’re all one. Leeches are leeches, I say.’

  ‘Oh, Tolla,’ said Inga. ‘Don’t be such a grouse. Why – this is perfect! You couldn’t have come on a better day.’

  ‘So I heard, little sister,’ nodded the vala. ‘Them folks at Hildagard told me of a feasting here tonight.’

  ‘Hildagard? My – that’s a long way!’

  ‘Not for these old legs,’ Heitha smiled. ‘They’ve carried me many leagues over the years, and they’ll carry me a lot further yet.’

  ‘Did you give the Hildagard folks a telling?’

  ‘Indeed, I did. Happens a fine one. A newling in the spring, and a good harvest before the leaves fall. Some other trifles. What I saw pleased them well enough.’

  ‘And I’ll warrant there’s gold in your pocket to prove it,’ said Tolla.

  ‘Happens there is, sister. I’m bound to say I found the lord of Hildagard an open-handed host.’

  ‘You’ll not find my uncle any the less,’ promised Inga. ‘Hush, you silly girl!’ snapped Tolla. ‘We need no foretellings here.’