Viking Beast: Viking Warriors Series

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  Eldberg gave his agreement, and they proceeded about the business, Yusuf decanting small quantities of colourful powders and potions, giving their name and application: turmeric and ginger—to counteract soreness in the body and aid digestion, clove oil for relief of tooth pain, and cinnamon to ease breathing. There were twenty or more, each with its own remedy, which I committed to memory.

  “And this, my friend, I’m sure you have no use for.” The captain shook a small ball, making it rattle. “It increases a man’s ability and sustains his force, for the creation of many children.” He gave a small smile. “Though you need it not, I shall place this nutmeg with your other medicines, in case one of the men under your command wishes to test its potency.”

  Shaking hands, Eldberg thanked him for his thoroughness and opened the pouch upon his belt, counting out the necessary coins. When he’d finished, he held up an extra five.

  “What else do you have for me then, Yusuf? Show me your best. Something fit to be worn by my golden queen.”

  I reddened to hear him call me such, for the jest was at my expense. Whatever he named me, I was still his slave, without any right to refuse him or his gift.

  The captain considered a moment before giving instruction again, sending another of his men to fetch what he requested.

  There were three bolts of fabric, each of sufficient length to make a gown. The first was of rich green brocade, the next in pale gold, threaded through with silver, and the last a silk of shimmering blue—its hues similar to those of the fjord. In addition, Yusuf produced an arm circlet intricately shaped in silver and studded with pearls, with brooches to match.

  I was speechless, for not even the fabric of my own wedding gown had been so fine, and I’d never worn any adornment of value—other than the ivory brooch given me by Asta.

  Eldberg nodded. “You have a good eye, Yusuf. Pack everything, and we’ll leave you. I wish you a safe journey and shall look for your return.”

  “Veda arkadaşım. Farewell, my friend.”

  As we rowed back to the pier, Eldberg leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees. “You will look most elegant, my Elswyth, but I meant what I said.”

  “And what was that, my lord?” I looked over the water, not trusting myself to meet the intensity of his gaze.

  “No matter how fine your gown, I shall always prefer you out of it.”

  13

  Eldberg

  October 31st, 960AD

  The skuas, gulls, and terns had flown, leaving the wind to moan its loss through the crags that hung above Skálavík.

  Eldberg raised his face to the rolling pulse of shivering light—flickering green, silent. Even with his eyes closed, the shimmers remained, rippling and breaking—as vivid as the memory of her face.

  In his mind, he reached for her.

  Do you see me, Bretta?

  They’d gathered to mark the rite of Alfablót, to honour the souls of the dead and the spirits of the dark—the Dökkalfar. Unseen by the living, mysterious, and at their most powerful during the long nights, such forces dwelled in the mountain above Skálavík. Tonight, they would receive their sacrifice, and all men would remember their frailty in the darkness of the unknown.

  Sweyn led the young bull within the sacred circle—a stone for each man of Skálavík, and each man behind a stone.

  “We call upon our male ancestors to protect us—to speak for us among the dark ones.” Eldberg’s voice rang out, addressing all surrounding him. “We offer this blót, this libation, and we beseech mercy through the winter’s long cold, that we may live to see the sun return.”

  Raising his axe, Eldberg swung it thrice about his head before burying it with a splitting thud in the calf’s skull. It was a clean kill, the creature falling to the ground with the blade still lodged in the bone. It gave no bellow—only a sudden jerking and a wide-eyed stare.

  Planting his foot firmly against the calf’s shoulder, Eldberg released the weapon and gestured to Sweyn. With a shallow bowl placed beside the creature’s neck, his sworn-man knelt and plunged his dagger deep, bringing forth a gush of blood.

  When the vessel was full, he raised it up and Eldberg dipped his thumb into the liquid, marking the forehead of his commander and then his own. While the bull’s life-force soaked the ground beneath their feet, Eldberg brought the dish to his lips and drank.

  “Pledged in loyalty, we stand, brother to brother, until we enter that other realm.”

  “Until we enter that other realm.” The response travelled the circle with the passing of the bowl, all drinking and receiving his jarl’s mark.

  Having completed its journey, the dish returned to the centre of the circle, and each man nodded soberly to his neighbour. There would be revelry later, with the animal’s meat roasted and a portion brought back to this place with a tankard of mead. For now, they would depart in silence, carrying the carcass of the beast between them.

  The wind was rising, and Eldberg could smell storm clouds gathering.

  “I would speak with you, my jarl.” Sweyn touched his arm, drawing him aside. “For there is more for us to fear than the forces of the hidden world.”

  Eldberg surveyed his commander. “You wish to warn me, Sweyn?”

  The other squared his shoulders.

  “That wench—she has bewitched you.” He wetted his lips, hesitating. “And the rounder her belly grows, the more she has you under her spell.”

  “You’re brave, this night, Sweyn.” Eldberg fixed him with a hard stare. “You think to tell me whether this thrall deserves the warmth of my bed?”

  Sweyn’s glance darted away. “She rules not only your bed, my lord. The clothes she wears are finer than Sigrid’s, and she no longer performs the duties of a thrall. There are two mistresses now, for the other slaves follow her more willingly than their true lady.”

  “If ’tis true, then it speaks more of Sigrid’s lack than Elswyth’s. As to her duties, they are mine to decide.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Sweyn dared to raise his gaze, “But the men are saying you let this woman—an enemy of Skálavík—twist you to her bidding, that you neglect your visits to the harbour and the mines.” He swallowed hard. “Give her to the men of the guard and you’ll be free again, my lord.”

  Eldberg tasted ashes on his tongue. No man had the right to speak to him thus. No man should dare.

  He closed his hand around Sweyn’s neck. “You think to judge me?” Eldberg squeezed harder. “You go too far, Sweyn.” Slowly, he raised the man in his grip, lifting his feet from the ground. “She has soothed the disquiet of my grief, and her skills have brought healing to my eye; for that I favour her, but I am her master.”

  “Your eye, my lord!” He spluttered, kicking his feet. “She sent my brother deep into the caves of the fjord, making Thoryn bring back every seaweed he could find. There was one she wanted. ’Tis that she used in the poultice—a type that grows only in the dark, hidden.” Sweyn gasped for air. “Her spells use not the medicines you purchased from the Mikklagard Turk. She’s no better than the old woman who lives in the mountain, dabbling in things no man should know.”

  Eldberg let Sweyn drop, his lip curling in distaste.

  “You’re relieved of your post as commander of the guard. From tomorrow, you’ll report to the mine.”

  Sweyn crawled back, clutching at his throat. “That place! No!” He looked up at Eldberg, his mouth slack, disbelieving. “I’ve served you faithfully. I’ve done all you bid.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve this.”

  “You’ve served yourself.” Eldberg touched the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist. “I release you from your bond. You’re a free man. Go where you will. If the mine doesn’t suit you, find your fortune elsewhere.”

  Sweyn scrambled to his feet, eyes dark with hatred. He went for the blade at his own belt, but Eldberg was too quick. His weapon slashed the back of Sweyn’s wrist before he could draw.

  Stumbling back, Sweyn cried out, clutching the w
ound beneath his arm.

  “I have your answer.” Eldberg wiped clean the blood from his dagger. “Know that I let you live only in token of your past service. Tomorrow, you’ll leave. I care not where you go. If I see you again, my blade will open your throat.”

  Sweyn spat on the ground. “Curse you to the mouth of Hel, and that bitch!”

  Eldberg took a single step forward. It was enough. Sweyn ran, down the headland and away, toward the longhouse.

  Rain was falling. He ought to get inside, join his men, but a stronger desire was calling to him, beneath the shadow of the mountain.

  He wanted to see the wise woman, Hildr. It was an auspicious night—Alfablót. The night of the dead.

  What better time to consult those unseen forces? To seek out the seer who existed between the dark souls of the mountain and the world of men.

  He’d only once visited her cave. When Beornwold had first taken Eldberg as his commander, offering him a permanent home, he’d insisted on Hildr casting the runes.

  She’d spoken in riddles, of course. He’d been impatient, wanting to know what she beheld. Those white-shaded eyes had unnerved him; blind, yet seeing something others could not. She’d touched his left side, then pulled her hand away. Too hot, she’d said. Then, covering his eye with her palm, had mumbled something about Odin’s mark.

  It had seemed nonsense at the time.

  He knew better now.

  Eldberg pulled his wolfskin closer and turned his face to the mountain.

  * * *

  His memory hadn’t failed him. Though the entrance was overhung with vines, the patch of ground in front bore evidence of feet; those of the crone and those who visited her.

  There was a flapping of wings and an owl swooped low, coming to rest in the tree to one side of the entrance, turning its slow-blinking gaze upon him.

  Inside, the cave was as he remembered it. Twigs and stones sat in piles, runes were scratched into the walls, and there were the rudiments of living—bundled blankets, a cooking pot, knives, and an axe.

  The scent of her fire—pine branches and moss—was strong, but the cave was cold, despite the well-stoked flames, brought high by a draught from above. Smoke curled upward, drawn through a crevice in the upper rock. Water dripped somewhere in the back.

  Hildr lifted her head, sniffing the air, her clouded eyes turned in his direction. She was more bone than flesh, sinew wrapped in rags.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” She gestured with her hand. “Sit. Drink with me.” There were two cups.

  Eldberg brought his nose cautiously to the brew; fungi and twigs. He grimaced and heard her chuckle.

  “Nothing to poison you—only to help.” She sipped from her own cup. “You’ll live long yet, but you’ve not come to ask that, have you?”

  “Nay.” Eldberg took some of the liquid into his mouth, making himself hold it there, ignoring the bitterness.

  The runes were laid out beside her: fragments of bone—some carved, beaks and claws, an owl’s feather. She touched them lightly with her fingertips. “But you have a question.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then tell it to the dark ones.” Her voice, previously as frail as a moth’s wing, was insistent. She reached for him, taking his hand, placing it within the runes. “Picture all in your mind. They will hear.”

  He enclosed the fragments between his two palms, rattling them as he’d done the first time, then tossing all upon the ground. They scattered, falling randomly. He peered, looking for some pattern, but there was none. Nevertheless, the seer bent forward, her fingers trembling over the pieces, feeling for where each had settled.

  “Yes,” her voice crooned. “I saw it even before you came.”

  “What?” Eldberg had to stop himself from shaking her. “What do you see?”

  “Two claws are touching. There is conflict. In your past, in these days you are living, and more to come. The beak is upward—sharp, dangerous, the threat of wounding. Life hangs in the balance. Someone wishes ill upon you. There is envy. There is betrayal.”

  Eldberg hissed. “This I know without you telling me. What else, old woman?”

  Revealing more gum than tooth, Hildr smiled. “What you desire will not bring you happiness.”

  Eldberg closed his eyes, suddenly weary. His journey had been wasted. She’d told him nothing of value.

  “You do not wish to hear, but you must learn.” Carefully, she gathered up the runes, placing them as they had been, each in their allotted place. “You are the spider in the web and the fly. Each movement determines what will come. Much is written, but there are many paths. You must choose.”

  Eldberg sighed. He’d heard enough.

  Only as he stood, did she crawl forward, her fingers grasping, hooking through the crossed laces that held the fur about his leg.

  “Leave the dead to rest.” Her voice rasped. “And look to the living.”

  Her head jerked up, her eyes staring beyond him.

  “In the forest! Find her!”

  14

  Sweyn

  October 31st, 960AD

  The hall was full—people lounging on the long benches, joking, and laughing. An arm wrestling contest had begun at the central tables. Slabs of beef were already searing on the roasting griddles, the calf having been promptly butchered. The rich scent of stew carried over the fire’s smoke.

  Sweyn sidled up to where the wench was supervising the opening of a new barrel of mead. He tugged on her sleeve. “The jarl has asked for you. He’s waiting.” She seemed not to hear him above the merriment around them, so he jerked his head, mouthing the word clearly. “Outside.”

  Elswyth frowned. “Isn’t he coming? They’re all waiting for him.”

  Sweyn glanced about. As far as he could see, no one was waiting for anything—except more mead.

  “You’re to come with me.” Sweyn placed his hand under her elbow, guiding her from the barrel.

  Warily, she let him lead her onward.

  Across the room, Sigrid caught his eye and glowered. She’d become sourer by the day, displaced, and disgruntled. Before Sweyn had gotten Elswyth to the door, Sigrid had intercepted them.

  “She has things to do here. We all have. Where’s she going?” Sigrid barked her question, grasping Elswyth by the other arm.

  “Jarl’s orders.” Sweyn shrugged. “She’s to join him on the headland. Some part of the ritual he wants her to take part in—favoured as she is.” He gave a sickly smile, knowing the request would rile Sigrid.

  “More of the same! And when we need all the help!” Sigrid spat her retort. “Go on then.” Her lips rose in a sneer, squeezing the girl’s elbow sufficiently to make her wince. “Perhaps it’s your blood he wants, my dear—a more powerful blót for the dark ones.”

  “Nothing like that, I’m sure.” Sweyn cursed Sigrid for her cruel tongue. He’d seen the jarl striding into the trees rather than following him down, but he didn’t know how long it would be until Eldberg joined them. If his plan were to work, Sweyn needed Elswyth to come quickly.

  “I’m hardly dressed…” She indicated her gown—a flimsy thing of bright blue silk, worn over a simple shift of white. It was better suited to the summer months gone, but it grew hot in the hall when so many came together. The men would have their chests bare before the night was out.

  “We’ll not be long.” Sweyn tugged her again. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Sigrid gave a final scowl as he bustled Elswyth outside.

  There was definitely colder weather blowing in, spits of rain falling persistently. The guard of two passed on their perimeter walk, shoulders hunched against the wind, and Sweyn called them over. “You’re to go in and get yourselves a cup of mead. The jarl bids you well. Come out as soon as you’ve drunk it, mind!”

  They didn’t need to be told twice.

  Sweyn breathed easier. He just needed to get her to the treeline, and they’d be out of sight.

  “My cloak!” Elswyth tried to pull back.
“I’ll fetch it.”

  Sweyn cursed again. “Nay. ’Tis not cold enough for that—and the thing is scorched. ’Twould shame you to wear it for what the jarl has in mind.”

  She seemed to consider. Thoryn had returned the cape in the days after Thirka’s accident, and Sigrid had turned up her nose, the inside now blackened from the flames. Eldberg had promised Sigrid a new cape of fur once the hunting season began, and the same for Elswyth—to Sigrid’s disgust.

  Sweyn could see the girl thinking. She’d been wearing it the night Sweyn had abducted her. She seemed suddenly to grow aware of how tightly he held her arm, how persistently he was dragging her farther from the door.

  “Stop! I don’t want to go. This isn’t right. I don’t believe you!”

  In a single motion, Sweyn struck her forehead with his own. She crumpled immediately and, with a last look about him, he hefted her onto his shoulder. Even with her rounded belly, she was an easy weight to lift.

  He skirted the edge of the longhouse and made for the forest’s edge.

  * * *

  Sweyn carried her as deeply into the trees as he dared. Too close and they’d be spotted; too far, and he’d waste precious time.

  By Fenrir’s teeth, he hated that berserker scum. He should’ve died in the fire, and everything would have worked out differently. Sweyn had kept things running while that ungrateful bastard had lain at death’s door. Who else but him would have become jarl in Eldberg’s stead? Even that miserable bitch Sigrid would have given her blessing.

  Now, if he wanted to keep his head on his neck, he’d have to leave. Eldberg had recovered from injuries that would’ve killed an ordinary man, and he remained the strongest among them. No one could stand against him in single combat and expect to win.