A Sacred Storm Read online

  These five were arranged around the council table according to their rank. The guards had been dismissed, all except Gettir, the son of Earl Huldir, who hovered in attendance of his father. There was only one other, gliding back and forth behind the king’s throne like some beautiful spectre, caressing a wine cup in long, slender fingers.

  Perhaps it was natural that Queen Saldas was there: she had been present when Erlan brought word to her husband. Erlan, however, wished she wasn’t. Of course, with her raven-black hair, the smooth fall of her robe over the curves of her body and those restless emerald eyes, she was a distraction to any man. But Erlan had more reason than other men to keep his mind from wandering.

  At the great feast that winter there had been certain words exchanged. A certain look in those green eyes. Now Erlan knew only a fool would set about cuckolding a king. Of course, if the prize were tempting enough, a man might hazard it. Saldas was undoubtedly that – Sviggar afforded himself the best of all things and his second wife was no exception. But there was something dangerous about her, something Erlan didn’t trust. He had decided to give her a wide berth.

  She was looking at him now, a faint crease at the corner of her mouth. He took a swig of ale to break her gaze and the almost-smile curdled into a sneer. She turned away. ‘The message may be unclear, my lord husband, but some things are fact. A man arrives. He is wounded. He utters the Wartooth’s name and the Kolmark forest. He says war is coming. And then he dies.’

  ‘Exactly!’ cried Sigurd. ‘It confirms the rumours we’ve heard all winter.’

  ‘Rumours are like clouds on the horizon,’ his father growled. ‘Not every one brings a storm.’

  ‘We’re not talking about a few drops of rain, are we? All over the southern marches, it’s the same. Merchants from the south say Skania and Gotarland are bristling with spears. Have I not been saying so for months?’

  ‘Aye. To anyone who would listen,’ Earl Bodvar observed drily. Earl Bodvar was a dry man, with a voice so hoarse he might have swallowed a horn full of dust.

  ‘Fine. Mock me, Bodvar,’ Sigurd replied indignantly, ‘but this proves me right. Why else would the Wartooth be gathering men if not to bring war on us?’

  ‘Harald Wartooth would never do that,’ said his father. ‘He knows it’s a war he could never win. He’s no fool. It’s been thirteen years since the last blood was spilled. What could he gain by bringing war now?’

  ‘Vengeance,’ snarled Earl Huldir ominously. ‘Vengeance is what he seeks. And it’s what I will have from him and his seed one day.’ No one needed reminding why. Earl Huldir’s face bore a terrible scar that fell from his hairline, slitting his eyebrow, blinding an eye and leaving a purple seam across his left cheek. ‘The Wartooth owes me one eye and two sons. I mean to have them all before I join my fathers at Odin’s table. If that day is drawing nearer, I say let it come.’

  ‘No one denies your grievances, Huldir,’ said Sviggar. ‘This feud has cost us all much.’ His gaze happened to fall on Erlan. ‘Well, most of us. But if Harald is looking for vengeance, my father is already dead.’

  ‘The blood feud is not over until all debts are paid,’ replied Huldir. ‘While any of your line still lives, so the feud lives.’

  ‘This I know well,’ murmured the king in a weary voice.

  This wasn’t the first that Erlan had heard of the feud between the houses of these two great kings. Princess Lilla had told him of it once before. But he had had no cause to think any more of it until now.

  ‘I hate to see this noble brow so troubled,’ soothed Queen Saldas, laying a hand against Sviggar’s forehead. ‘This talk is idle until we know more. Let me consult Odin. He is the giver of wisdom.’ She gestured at the aged goði leaning on his crutch. ‘Vithar and I will make the necessary offerings. The Hanged Lord will show us the course we must take.’

  ‘No one can deny your sacrifices are effective, my lady,’ the white-haired goði croaked, with an obsequious bow.

  Erlan recalled the nine corpses hanging from the Sacred Oak that winter, sparkling under their veil of hoarfrost, each face frozen, each more beautiful than the last. Such were the sacrifices Saldas was only too willing to make to win the gods’ favour.

  ‘No,’ Sviggar replied at length. ‘Not that way.’

  ‘If war is coming—’

  ‘Aye, if!’ the king shouted.

  His outburst was followed by an awkward silence. It was Earl Bodvar who eventually broke it. ‘My lord, I have a suggestion which you may find more practicable.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This Ormarr was part of a shieldband that was scouting the southern marches. They weren’t due to return for another five days, but we’ve heard nothing else from them. My guess is we won’t. Ormarr mentioned the Kolmark forest—’

  ‘You want to send another shieldband to investigate?’

  ‘It would seem an obvious measure.’

  ‘Except that our border through the Kolmark is fifty leagues long! If he came from there – and it’s possible he did not – then it could be almost anywhere. It might take a shieldband weeks to find anything.’

  ‘Send two, then,’ boomed Earl Huldir, standing and pulling his son out of the shadows. ‘Gettir and his brother can lead a band of my men to scout the southern boundary of our lands in Nairka. No one in the kingdom knows that part of the forest better than them.’

  Gettir Huldirsson looked straight ahead, offering himself for the king’s inspection. He was a lean, dark lad of eighteen or so, not much younger than Erlan himself. And thanks to Kai’s talent for gossip, Erlan happened to know he wasn’t a man to steer clear of a fight. The king eyed him doubtfully. ‘He’s very young.’

  ‘So he is,’ conceded Huldir, ‘but he’s capable. And my men obey him and his brother as they would me.’

  Sviggar looked unconvinced.

  ‘Surely it’s at least worth looking, my lord?’ Earl Bodvar suggested.

  Sviggar scraped a bony finger down his cheek. ‘Very well. We will send two scouting parties. One by the western road through Nairka, the other through Sodermanland.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ replied Bodvar. ‘Would it also be prudent to send word to the other earls to make ready to raise their levies? If the worst should prove true.’

  ‘Of course it would,’ said Sigurd excitedly. ‘We’re wasting precious time even now. We should summon the levies at once, Father.’

  When Sviggar still hesitated, Earl Huldir lost patience. ‘Gods – what are we? Old women! We should be bringing war to the Wartooth and his lands, not sitting here like a flock of hens waiting for him to come to us!’

  ‘Silence!’ cried the king, smashing a bony fist on the arm of his chair, making it shudder. ‘You’re all in such a fine lather to throw yourselves into the abyss.’ His eyes ranged over his councillors, grey and sharp as a well-honed blade. ‘I’ve seen war. Seen death and an ocean of blood. Wasn’t half my life given over to it? And did it ever bring my people any good? Wasted lives and wasted silver. But I did my duty to my father, all the same. When he died, that was the end of it. Instead I’ve built something that will endure. I will do nothing to provoke another war and put my kingdom at risk!’

  ‘Do nothing and your precious kingdom may be taken from you all the same,’ answered Sigurd in a quiet but firm voice.

  ‘A man is dead,’ Bodvar interjected before Sviggar could unleash more invective on his son. ‘As Lord Sigurd said: someone killed him. Even if you want to avoid war, surely it’s unwise to make no preparations.’

  The old king grunted, his brow twitching like scales in the balance. After a while, he shook his head. ‘No. I’ll not be goaded into fanning the flames of war, nor stir up needless panic among these halls. We will dispatch these two shieldbands and they will find out more. But,’ he added, fixing Huldir’s son with a hard gaze, ‘you will keep within our borders. I’ll not give the Wartooth and his sons any provocation for war. Do you understand?’

  Gettir said nothing,
only bowed his head obligingly.

  ‘Do—you—understand?’ the king repeated.

  ‘I do, my lord,’ Gettir murmured, a grin ghosting about his lips.

  ‘Good. Now – who shall lead this second shieldband?’

  ‘I will lead it,’ said Sigurd.

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘What? But why, Father?’ Sigurd was a man of twenty-eight winters. Just then he sounded like a little boy.

  ‘I’ve lost one heir. I’m not about to lose another.’ Sviggar’s firstborn Staffen had been murdered the previous autumn. It was common knowledge that Staffen had been the son Sviggar had wanted for his heir. And none knew it better than Sigurd.

  ‘You can’t keep me from—’

  ‘Enough,’ Sviggar interrupted, waving him down. Sigurd slouched back onto his seat.

  ‘I will go, lord,’ said Erlan, earning himself a hostile look from the prince.

  ‘You? Erlan Aurvandil.’ Sviggar eyed him up and down. ‘No. Your place is here, beside me.’

  ‘Ormarr delivered his message to me. Am I not responsible for finding out the truth of this?’

  The queen appeared at her husband’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps it’s no accident that the dead man found the Aurvandil,’ she said in a soft voice, never taking her eyes off Erlan. ‘A man’s fate finds him out.’

  The old king regarded his wife, smoothing down his beard with brittle fingers. ‘Hmm.’ He suddenly chuckled and lifted his wine cup to Erlan. ‘Very well. It seems the Norns point their finger at you once more, my young friend. I trust you’ll be as lucky as you proved the last time.’

  Erlan bowed low.

  Lucky? If I were lucky, I wouldn’t be here.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was already far into the night by the time they were dismissed, though Erlan doubted any of them would sleep much. Sviggar, perhaps, least of all.

  Outside, under the vastness of the northern sky, Earl Huldir pulled up with a curse. ‘The man’s a mule-headed old fool!’ His milky eye glared fiercely in the gloom.

  ‘He’s no fool,’ returned Bodvar. ‘He’s just a cooler head than you, old friend.’

  ‘His indecision will get us all killed – whether he wants the fight that’s coming or not.’

  ‘We don’t know what’s coming.’

  ‘Horseshit, Bodvar! This thing has to play out. The Wartooth knows it. So do you.’ He pressed a massive thumb into Bodvar’s chest. ‘And I for one intend to make that son of a bitch pay.’ He nodded grimly at his son. ‘We’ll be ready.’ With that he stomped off into the night, his son Gettir following at his shoulder.

  ‘You think he’s right?’ said Erlan, looking after them.

  ‘That’s what you’re going to find out.’ Bodvar laughed – a short, sharp bark. ‘Count yourself lucky. You’re young. You’re an outlander. You have no blood debts to pay.’

  ‘Not here, anyway,’ muttered Erlan.

  ‘H’m,’ grunted Bodvar. ‘Maybe. But Huldir there – he’s been carrying the weight of those dead sons half his life. A man gets sick of a weight like that.’

  ‘Are there many like him?’

  ‘What a question!’ exclaimed Bodvar. ‘Hel, do you even know what this is about?’

  ‘Some. The princess told me once. Something about a disagreement between the old King Ívar and his daughter.’

  ‘You could call it that. Sviggar’s father was a mean old wolf. They called him Ívar Wide-Realm because no man before him had ever ruled over a kingdom so vast. He stole the Sveär crown from the last of the Yngling kings. The few surviving nobles loyal to the Ynglings escaped west into Norway. So Ívar made his own earls and gave them land. My father was one of them. Anyhow, things settled down. But Ívar’s ambition wasn’t sated. He fancied himself a piece of Danmark too and figured a way to get it. By then, he had a daughter. A handsome creature, by all accounts—’

  ‘Autha?’

  ‘So you know her name, at least.’

  Erlan shrugged.

  ‘Aye. She was handsome. And clever, too. Far cleverer than her father. Maybe too clever for her own good. She liked to make a fool of him, especially in front of his own household, thinking she could get away with it. But he held scores, did Ívar, even against his own kin, and he found a way to use Autha to get what he wanted and see her sorry for it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By marrying her to one of the sons of the King of Danmark. The wrong son, so Autha reckoned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This king had two sons – the older was called Rorik and his brother, Helgi. Rorik was set to succeed his father but he was ugly and awkward. His brother Helgi was silk-tongued and fair as Baldur. Naturally, Autha wanted to marry Helgi, but instead her father gave her to Rorik, who was soon wearing the Danish crown after his father died.’

  ‘So Autha became Queen of Danmark.’

  ‘Aye. But then Ívar starts his scheming. He sets rumours flying that his own daughter has been sharing Helgi’s bed. Of course, King Rorik doesn’t fancy that, so he has his brother murdered. There’s an outcry, and the accusation of Autha’s infidelity is there for all to see. And so, humiliated, Autha sends word to her father, begging him to avenge her honour – aye, and the man she truly loved. And old Ívar was only too happy to oblige. He sent an army south, routed the Danes and slew King Rorik.’ Bodvar gave a low chuckle. ‘It was only then that Autha realized her father had only ever meant to steal Danmark for himself and that she’d been used.’

  ‘What does any of this have to do with Sviggar?’

  ‘Sviggar was Ívar’s only other surviving child. Bastard-born, but still... He was a lad when all this caught fire. Autha rallied support to throw her father out of Danmark, but he soon defeated them and she fled with her own son, Harald.’

  ‘The Wartooth?’

  ‘Aye. The Wartooth.’ Bodvar grinned. ‘Keeping up?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Good lad. Of course, Harald was just a boy then, too. Autha took him east, made alliances, raised an army. And Ívar couldn’t let it lie. He went in pursuit of her. The wars between them flared up now and then. Harald grew to manhood and took up his murdered father’s claim over Danmark. So it went on.’

  ‘Those were the Estland wars?’

  ‘Aye. Many of us cut our teeth there, myself included. And Sviggar... He made a name for himself over there. He was a Hel of a man to follow into Skogul’s Storm, I tell you...’ Bodvar looked up into the night, presumably recalling battles past. Suddenly his eyes snapped down. ‘Anyhow, by the end Autha claimed both Danmark and Sveäland as hers by right, saying no bastard-born son could deprive her of her inheritance. She died making her son Harald swear he would recover both. And then old Ívar died, too – drowned off the Estland coast.’

  ‘And that was the end of it?’

  ‘For a time. Harald Wartooth raced back to Danmark to secure his claim there, and Sviggar did the same here. That’s how things lay for a long while. Sviggar here in Uppsala, ruling the Sveärs and a few other tribes. Harald Wartooth, ruling Danmark and a few other lands from his hall at Leithra on the isle of Zealand. Neither was strong enough to uproot the other. Although they tried a few times.’ He winked. ‘Usually it was the Wartooth flexing his muscles.’ Bodvar nodded in the direction Earl Huldir had disappeared. ‘That’s when two of his sons were slain. Eastern Gotarland saw many battles but they only served to prolong the feud and deepen the debts of blood. So that’s how it stands. The Wartooth holds sway over the Eastern Gotars, from Skania in the south all the way north to the Kolmark.’

  Erlan scratched at his scrub of a beard. ‘I guess that’s where I come in.’

  ‘I guess it is,’ said Bodvar, slapping him on the shoulder.

  ‘Think we’ll find anything?’

  ‘Who knows? The forest is vast and thick as the hair on a bear’s backside. But maybe the gods want to see this feud played out, like Huldir says.’

  Erlan nodded. ‘And what about you?�
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  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Don’t you have blood debts to settle?’

  The lines of Bodvar’s craggy face cracked into a broad smile. ‘I have no brothers, no sons. Only daughters. Three of them, and a giant thorn in my arse they are too. But at least they’re alive.’

  Erlan laughed.

  ‘Well, my friend, I’m to bed. Meet me here tomorrow at the Day-Mark and I’ll pick you a good crew. Something tells me you’re going to need it.’

  A short walk later Erlan was pushing aside the hide-skin drapes that kept the heat inside the house where he lived with Kai. It stood among the smaller barns and dwellings that lay to the east of the Great Hall. A modest place, with a turf roof and strong timber walls – easy to keep warm if there was a chill in the air.

  Erlan slept on the bench near the hearth-fire, but Kai preferred the loft, apparently unfussed by the smoke that gathered in the rafters before it found its way out of the smoke-hole. He maintained anything was better than sleeping near Erlan, who, he claimed, snuffled like a boar digging for acorns all night long. Of course, Erlan denied it.

  He shuffled inside and let the drape fall.

  ‘Frey’s fat cock,’ exclaimed Kai in a loud voice. ‘You took your sweet time!’

  ‘Aren’t you asleep yet?’

  ‘How am I supposed to sleep after the hornet’s nest you’ve kicked over?’ A mess of blond hair appeared over the edge of the hayloft. Kai pushed his fringe out of his eyes and swung his legs onto the ladder. ‘What’s it to be, then? A spear for every man, set sail for Danmark and bugger the consequences?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Erlan slumped on the sheepskin that lay along the bench and began pulling off his shoes. ‘I’m to lead a shieldband into the Kolmark and see what I can find out.’ He leaned back and set about kneading the soreness out of his aching ankle.

  ‘What’s to find out? It’s war, ain’t it? The whole place is saying so.’