The Slayer Rune (The Viking Series Book 1)

by John Snow

  "Ask Big Bork," said Bork Berserk, but his father shook his head; that would not do. Big Bork was immensely strong, a black bear, but he couldn't control his strength. He always broke the rules of swordplay.

  Sigurd's father pressed on, pleading and threatening, and finally Berserk was wheedled. Imperceptibly, a small pouch changed hands.

  The ground was made ready for the fight. The new men tried their swords, and Bork Berserk, who was stronger than Odd, tried to look confident; he had a large round shield to protect himself. The king's warrior laughed; he was not small at all, he was used to swordplay, and he also had a shield. Skarphedin tried to get the betting started, but gambling was slow.

  It was this match, and then the captains-of-arms fight – the one between Gisli and Helgi Blackbeard.

  Sigurd hastened on; he had to find Gisli before it was too late.

  He started to search further away, among the houses. Behind the old hall, instead of finding Gisli, he ran into Helgi Blackbeard. Helgi was standing at the end wall along with a couple of other fellows; he was practising his sword. He and the men were joking and laughing; they were clearly confident and sure of victory.

  Sigurd was going to turn around, but further up, at the burial mounds, he caught sight of Gisli. He was practising too, holding the sword in the air. Blind with hatred, Sigurd tried to sneak past the warriors by the wall. They had put on a dirty grin.

  "Are you excited?" one of the warriors asked Helgi.

  Helgi's nostrils dilated as he jabbed his sword into a tuft of grass.

  "By the gods I am," said Helgi Blackbeard. He stood there fat and nasty. With his whole body he wriggled the sword back and forth, widening a slit in the tuft.

  "This is what I'll do!" he said, laughing coarsely.

  The men stared at the blade in the slit.

  "So, you think she is a virgin?" one of the guys said.

  "Of course she is," said Helgi.

  With a sudden thrust he cut through the tussock, splashing mud about.

  "I scent blood!"

  The laughter of the men rang in his ears, and Sigurd fled towards Gisli. He ran and ran, but the laughter followed him all the way. He stumbled, rose, and rushed along. That laughter!

  "Hey, slow down," Gisli said when he saw Sigurd racing towards him.

  "You have to beat him!" Sigurd cried as he reached Gisli, panting wildly.

  "Helgi?"

  "You have to kill him!"

  "Easy now, slow down," Gisli said once more, still practising his sword.

  "Oh no," Gisli said calmly. The captain-of-arms lowered his arm.

  "That is not the way of things. The fight between captains is only a test of strength, covered by many rules. And so it must be. The rules are meant to protect the fighters, and the swords, of course, they must not be destroyed. You can lose a captains-of-arms contest, even ten fights, and still be unbeatable in war.

  "Can you see Bork Berserk down there," Gisli asked, "and the king's warrior?"

  Down at the farm the match had begun. In the ring Bork and the warrior were circling around, testing each other out.

  "Do you see the king's warrior, how he's trying to trick Bork to one side, out to the edge? He makes Bork follow his shield to the right. Look!"

  In the same moment the swords clashed together down in the yard. The king's warrior dealt a blow with his sword flat against the sword of Bork Berserk.

  "Bork was tricked," Gisli said. "He followed his shield instead of using it.

  "Just now they may seem evenly matched," he continued, "but Bork will lose that fight. The king's warrior will wear him out, and Bork cannot get angry. You are not allowed to vent your anger in contest.

  "But in war," said Gisli, "Bork goes berserk. Wild with rage he rushes straight at his enemy; he does not allow himself to be fooled. Bork chops the arms of his opponents, or the feet. Or both.

  "No," Gisli said, "these rules do not apply in war."

  But this is war, Sigurd thought.

  11

  Gisli moved again at the burial grounds, making ready for his fight against Helgi. Sigurd had regained his breath, and he watched Gisli practise. Gisli beat and stabbed his sword in the air, not hard, but seeking. He was tall and slim and handsome. He hasn't felt the marks, Sigurd thought, watching Gisli's grip on the hilt.

  Gisli's sword was beautiful. The guard was gilded, and when moved, the blade flashed in blue. Sigurd – remembering – traced the scar in his face with a finger.

  Last year, in the yard, Sigurd had hit Gisli's blade while playing; it was his own fault, he stumbled. But Gisli had explained things to Harald, the chieftain. He took the blame; he should not have bared the edge in the yard, he said. Gisli said that when he was killed, Sigurd should have the sword.

  "Why is that?" Sigurd's father had asked; he had wanted the sword for himself.

  "The sword left its mark on Sigurd," Gisli said.

  When he fell and hit the sword, Sigurd got a cut across his cheek; it went into his mouth and tongue. He had bled; the blade was cutting sharp. He had got help from Sigrunn to dress the wound, but the gash left a lasting scar.

  When the women removed the bandage and Gisli saw the scar, he had taken out a headband. The band was of green silk entwined with silver threads.

  "I got it from Queen Gunnhild, the wife of King Eirik Bloodaxe," Gisli had said. "The word follows the band, that whoever owns it will have good luck in love – eventually."

  Sigurd received the treasure, holding it out for all to see, but when he saw the look in his sister's eyes, he immediately passed the braid on to Sigrunn Silkyhair.

  "What word follows the sword?" Sigurd had asked.

  "The sword comes with one word only," Gisli had answered.

  "The word is death."

  "The key is to soften your muscles," Gisli said to Sigurd. He lowered his arm and finished his practice. "With smooth muscles your body becomes supple and fast. You can dodge attacks and insert quick counter-strokes. You have to be smart; wisdom is crucial in swordplay."

  "Fortunately so," Gisli said, pointing with his blade towards Helgi Blackbeard by the wall. Down there, the men were still laughing, looking at Helgi's dirty sword.

  Just then, they heard calls from the yard. Would they not come along? The fighting grounds were ready!

  Gisli and Sigurd went down past the old hall and into the yard.

  This was the big fight; people were shoving to get closer to the ring.

  Because of the crowding, several of the king's warriors had to push people back from the ropes around the fighting pitch. The poles were knocked down once more, and the ropes tightened.

  Space was made for Yljali. Helgi Blackbeard said that Yljali should see that he, Helgi, could use his sword. Before the match he wiped the mire off his blade.

  Yljali stood in her new dress, close to the ropes. She tried to look proud, but she was not happy. Yljali's dark hair fell over her shoulders for the last time. When she married, her hair would be tied in a bun at the back of her head.

  Gisli and Helgi Blackbeard were ready in their corners of the ring; both were getting advice on what to do. People were shouting and wagering. Skarphedin accepted silver pieces, which he weighed on a balance; he gave small wooden chips with markings back to the betters. He would pay three pieces of silver for two if Gisli did not win.

  King Godred's son waved his long limbs. He would pay double if Helgi Blackbeard lost. When he heard this, Skarphedin, with his piercing sight, went over to the king-son and put all his money on Gisli.

  The king and the chieftain, Sigurd's father, led Gisli and Helgi into the middle of the ring. The rules were said, and the fighters swore an oath to Odin to wage a fair fight.

  "Only Sigurd cheats," the king's son cried when the oaths were sworn. Everyone heard what the king-son said. Evidently yesterday's loss still hurt, even though Sigurd had yelled during the match. Sigurd was furious when he heard the words of Harald; he flew at the king's son. They landed on the ground
, wrestling.

  The fight led to much ado; it took a long time before the warriors could clear the ring once more. Some folk were laughing; others wanted a rematch between Sigurd and the heir. "Since the last match ended by cheat." More people started to call for a new fight.

  Sigurd recovered; he saw the sad eyes of Yljali near the ropes. He didn't want a rematch. What does that long-legged, snotty bragger have to do with it all, Sigurd thought. He refused.

  "If Helgi Blackbeard fights for the king's son," Sigurd said, "then Gisli can fight for me!"

  The king's son went for it. Neither he was keen on another battle.

  "Helgi Blackbeard fights for me," said King Godred's son.

  And so, the battle started.

  They started a little carefully, Helgi and Gisli. They weren't supposed to hurt each other, and strict rules limited what they were allowed to do.

  Eventually the fight turned harder and wilder. Helgi Blackbeard was the stronger. He drove Gisli backwards, but Gisli was better with the sword. He was faster, and he dodged. The match was even.

  A loud clang rang in the ears every time Helgi hit Gisli's sword, but he often missed. Gisli was fast and slipped away. He gave Helgi's sword a slash. The battle surged back and forth.

  People yelled and shouted. Some supported Helgi. Many cheered for Gisli. Sigurd was totally engulfed in the game. He hoped for Gisli to win; he was bent on having Blackbeard beaten. But watching Helgi's strength and Gisli suppleness, he got a sneaky feeling that Helgi was gaining an advantage, that Gisli's feinting skills were fettered by the rules of the game. Helgi hit hard and relentlessly; Gisli reeled under the attacks.

  Then, in a low voice, Sigurd muttered a word for himself. "Tuul, Tuul," he said.

  Gisli got more power, a sudden strength. With a smart faint and a quick stroke, he drove Helgi backwards. His sword flashed like lightning in the air.

  An outcry rose from the crowd. Gisli had run his sword right through Helgi. The sword went into the chest and out through the back, and Helgi fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

  The crowd stared at the fallen body, and all went silent. Dead silent.

  A warrior pulled the sword out of Helgi, and blood poured out of the wound. Everyone heard a rattle from Helgi's chest.

  Sigurd glanced at Yljali; he could see that she was glad. She was visibly relieved, and Sigurd was also happy, struggling to restrain his joy. When the gurgling from Helgi's chest turned weaker, Yljali suddenly looked at Sigurd. Her sad eyes concealed a smile. The gaze met Sigurd's like a blast of light. Joy flushed through his body; he could fly! Helgi Blackbeard was dead!

  Happiness ran through Sigurd. He wanted to laugh when he saw that his father was not laughing. He was raging.

  Had he seen the look between Sigurd and Yljali? With dark eyes, his father gazed at Yljali; he studied her look.

  Yljali answered by staring at Helgi Blackbeard.

  Everyone was looking at the dead body.

  The first to speak was the king.

  "This is murder," he said. "I demand penance for Helgi's life. I demand Gisli dead!"

  Before anyone could say anything, Sigurd's father swung his sword through the air and struck the head clean off Gisli, blood spurting out of the neck. Gisli's head landed in front of the king, and the king hoisted the head by the hair. The eyes of Gisli were still alive. He tried to say something, but he couldn't. The life in his eyes was dying, and the king threw the head away.

  At that very moment a murmur arose at the fringe of the throng, and people saw a woman coming. The woman wore a dark shroud and a large hood, but no one could see her face, nor her hands or feet. She carried a black sword.

  It is death, Sigurd thought, and the crowd made way for the death-gygre. No one heard the footsteps of the black-clad figure, but she went straight towards Helgi Blackbeard, who was lying on the ground in a pool of blood.

  When the woman got closer, Sigurd saw that her hood was made of snakeskin, but he saw nothing inside. The death-gygre walked with slow steps in the direction of Helgi's dead body – and past. By Gisli, by his headless neck, the woman stopped and drove her sword into Gisli's chest. She gathered something into a sack.

  At the same time, there was a sound in the sky, a rushing wind, and they all saw Skarphedin pointing. People looked up, and out of the air came a beautiful valkyrie on horseback. She had flying blond hair, and her horse was strong; it was white.

  With a firm grasp the valkyrie lifted Helgi onto the horse and sailed into the air with a smile and a laugh. Only the body of Helgi was left on the ground. Lifeless.

  "Behold! Helgi Blackbeard rides to Valhall," someone claimed, "to glorious fights and battles."

  It was Grim who spoke; he was standing in his grey robe. He pointed at the corpse of Gisli; at his beheaded body and the parted skull.

  "The breath of Gisli is gone," Grim said, "taken by the gygre to Hel, to the shadows, to eternal cold and silence."

  The crowd looked around, but the pale woman was gone.

  Grim said no more. He was staring at Sigurd with his one eye, and Sigurd knew what he meant. He could hear the words Grim was thinking. Wrongly wrought.

  There was a gloomy feeling among people the rest of the day. Not many had noticed the death-gygre or the flying valkyrie, but as dusk came creeping past the burial mounds, more people insisted on having seen the death maidens. The frightened ones started to describe the old wraith; some claimed they had felt a foul stench from the gygre's hood.

  In the evening, inside the hall, the king's warriors had little desire for mead. They were mostly whispering around the tables, speaking of what had happened. They talked about Gisli, who had betrayed the oath, and of Helgi, who had been murdered. They also talked about the bet, but there was no argument. Skarphedin lost all his money.

  "Helgi won the match," the king decided.

  12

  "It's a time of swords, of vengeance," people said, and Sigurd felt ill at ease.

  One night the farm tree blew down; a storm took it. The wind ripped into the hall and roared like a dragon and no one slept that night.

  People huddled together in the hall-room. Terrified, they embraced each other. Many prayed to the gods for protection against evil powers, but the terror continued. The storm grew worse, the roar rose, and finally they heard a dreadful crack, and then another. People thought it was the end: Ragnarok.

  The loud cracks were the work of the storm; the wind had taken the biggest branch of the farm-tree and thrown it across the yard and smashed a house to pinch-wood. The rest of the ash tree was left standing, but stripped of twigs and leaves. Carpenters and shipwrights had tried to rebuild the demolished house, but it was no good. The weather was too bad.

  The misery started on the last day of the veitsel, on the day of the armourers' swordfight, when both fighters were killed. The same evening the rain began, and since then it had been foggy, cold, and windy, with hail and thunder. The storm that took the tree had also knocked down the barley.

  "The corn will never rise," Sigurd's father said, utterly depressed.

  "It will be a harsh winter," his father continued. "We do not have food for all."

  But who will have to leave? Sigurd asked himself. He stayed indoors, as did everyone else. Outside, it was almost winter, and yet it was still summer.

  In the hall, between the pillars, people scuffed about, heavy at heart. Everyone murmured, wondering what was wrong, discussing what brought down the gods' wrath.

  Some said Thor was upset; they said he didn't get enough offering at the sacrifice. Now he wouldn't fight the giants anymore. Giants knocked down the tree, they said. Others said it was Odin's wrath, after the broken oath in the swordfight.

  The women felt it was Frey, the god of love. He was jealous, they said; they also thought of the sacrifice. In the hov, Harald the Chieftain had blooded the member of the dwarf, implying he might be larger than Frey.

  "And clearly he might have been," the women said. They were full o
f remorse, and Sigurd knew what they were regretting; he had seen them all steal out of the hall.

  However, some days after the storm, housewives and women from all around the fjord defied the weather and came to Vik to visit the mistress. In the following days, groups of women gathered in the dark galleries of the hall, buzzing and whispering, and, incredibly, they seemed to agree.

  The poor dwarf was not to blame, they decided; he could not help his endowment, and, honestly, he hadn't done much work. In the tent they had all pawed his massive weapon, and, inevitably, the women had sought him out and lowered themselves upon him. Fully filled, they had ridden into a frenzy of unbearable pain – and pleasure.

  Such fulfilment could only be the gift of gods, they agreed; their rides were not the reason for the gods' wrath.

  No, the women blamed Harald the Chieftain. Even if the dwarf's property was god-given, Harald should not have blood-soaked the manikin's rod. One should praise the gift, but honour the giver, they said. It should have been Frey who got the greater sacrifice. As the women remembered, Frey was forgotten at the offering; he had not been properly worshipped.

  Now Frey had sent his revenge. The storm was just as fierce as Frey's anger.

  Despite the women's talk, most people kept to the story of Thor. Farmers and farmhands, shipwrights, smiths, apprentices, old men and old women, youngsters and children, even some of the maids. All thought the thunder-god had something to do with the gale.

  Sigurd had clung to this explanation. But that story also changed, taking an ominous turn. It wasn't so much that Thor didn't want to fight the evil forces. On the contrary: He did fight the evil forces, ferociously. Vik was the centre of the fight.

  In the dark nights of the cold summer, people started muttering about giants, male and female, and their mastery of disguise. Barely audible, the elders told frightening stories of evil creatures disguising themselves as men or women, bewildering Thor and bringing disaster. And, they said, there was more to come.