The Slayer Rune (The Viking Series Book 1)

by John Snow

  When the woman woke up, she said that the picture was gone, her vision stolen. She could not see who had killed Hild.

  "Who stole the vision?" his father asked.

  "Grim did," the old woman said.

  Sigurd's father was furious. He took the gifts back and went home.

  Grim was given his house back. His father tried to flatter Grim. They were walking down the path towards Grim's house, and Sigurd followed behind. He heard his father beg, and then coerce, but Grim said nothing. Outside the house Grim stopped and took two ravens down; they hung under the eaves. The birds were dry, but the crow was gone.

  "What do I know about the killing?" Grim said. He went into the room and hung the ravens up above his sleeping bench.

  Sigurd's father was none the wiser.

  In the hall, Sigrunn Silkyhair tried to comfort Yljali after the murder of Hild. It seemed to help; Yljali started answering questions. But Sigurd's mother drove Yljali hard; she had to work from early morning to late night. It seemed as if his mother had turned her hatred against Yljali now, after Hild's death.

  His mother had wanted Yljali to live with the thralls, in their barn, but his father said no.

  "Yljali shall not have heavy labour," his father had said and gave her a place in the hall.

  When Yljali moved in, she began looking at Sigurd. Her gaze was a plea for help.

  It was strange to have Yljali in the hall. All day Sigurd could see her and smell her, and his body was strongly affected. Yljali slept on a bench at the other end of the room, closer to the door. In the evening Sigurd lay listening, trying to hear her when she made up her bench for sleep. Yljali spread the fur so gently over the bench and lay down so quietly under the blanket; she moved almost without a sound, but Sigurd could still make her out.

  Yljali slept on the women's side of the hall, alone, as his father had commanded. Most girls slept two and two, or three and three. Only Sigurd's parents had their own bedchamber, deep inside the hall.

  The men also slept two and two, for the most part, but Sigurd had his own bench. He was the chieftain's son and had a warm sheepskin under him and a soft blanket to wrap over himself.

  Sigurd lay wide-awake thinking of Yljali. He had to empty himself before he could sleep, and even then, he kept listening. He was sure he could hear she was there.

  During daytime, Sigurd's mother kept a strict eye on Yljali. When Sigurd's father was hunting, Yljali got to work in the hall. Here, she carded wool and spun, and she made fishing lines.

  In the hall Hakon Mute was chasing her. He sat down where she was and looked at her. Saying nothing.

  His mother looked the other way when this happened; she let Hakon torment Yljali. When the chieftain, Sigurd's father, came back from the hunt, she chased Yljali out of the hall. She was sent to the barns or stables or wherever there was work to do, out of sight of the chieftain.

  Yljali never quit work until late at night, when, finally, his mother let her sleep. Then, Sigurd lay listening.

  Outside the weather continued to be fair. The warriors caught fish and hunted, but the household was getting low on the salt they needed for drying and smoking meat.

  One day the chieftain said he wanted to go to Tromey for salt and provisions. Harald took Tore the Captain and some strong rowers. They went down to a naust and rolled a large skiff into the water. It wasn't far to Tromey, but the lane passed through rough seas.

  A cluster of people stood near the hall, under the tree; they saw the chieftain and the men row out of the fjord. When the boat disappeared round the outer cape, Sigurd's mother started talking. Sigurd marvelled at how happy she was. His mother completely forgot Yljali, who was standing there; she was not put to work.

  Hakon Mute looked around, rather surprised. He peered up the yard-tree at the big wound the storm had made when the branch broke.

  "That tree is a sad sight," he said and pointed. It was the nicest thing he had said since he had begun talking.

  Odd the Squinter stood nearby, smacking his lips. "Well, well," he said. He was very pleased; he was going to lead the hunt now, as long as Harald and Tore were gone.

  "Now Skarphedin will have to run!" he said.

  Sigurd was also happy. He watched Yljali skip lightly across the yard, over to Sigrunn, his sister. Sigrunn stood in the doorway of the cooking house, and Sigurd could hear the girls laughing.

  There was joy at the farm.

  17

  After a couple of days, his father returned. The salt was soon under roof, and now the beer was ready.

  "The feast for Njord will be held in the usual manner, with food, bjor, and sacrifices," Harald said.

  The women had brewed lots of bjor, the strongest beer; the girls had mixed the brew with hemp and other mind-bending herbs. The chieftain was planning a big feast. The hall was painted, and the walls decorated with deep-coloured hangings; tables were set up and covered with bowls and drinking horns.

  Evening came, and the feast was more than merry. The warriors had not tasted beer for a long time; they poured the bjor down. They drank for Njord and Frey and Freya, and for all the gods and deities. People sang and laughed. There was something wild and weird, Sigurd thought, about it all. It was the bjor. He took it slow on the beer himself but was carried away nonetheless.

  People were in a very good mood, laughing and singing. The only ones arguing were Odd the Squinter and Tore, the captain. Odd was angry; he was sitting on his bench, scowling.

  Harald, the chieftain, sat on the high seat and laughed of the quarrellers, especially Odd the Squinter.

  "Keep on feasting!" Sigurd's father shouted, and soon people in the hall turned quiet; they started to whisper and wait. People drank less of the bjor. They knew what was coming.

  Finally, silence filled the room.

  In a sad voice, Sigurd's mother began to sing, followed by the rest of the women.

  It was a song about Freya, daughter of Njord, the goddess of love. The lay caused people to sway, moving to and fro. They sang it slowly; they lamented Freya's love of Od.

  The song turned extra sad when Od ran away. "Where is Od?" the women mourned in the song. In the glowing light of the pit fires, his mother changed into a volva, offering herbs to the flames. Making a flash of light, the burning leaves filled the room with a heavy and sweet-smelling smoke.

  The lay was arousing, and soon the men took part, enchanted. All sang about Freya's longing, and the song was for Njord, the god who brought the grain – and the bjor.

  It was a late night; it took a long time for the feasters to calm down in the hall, but eventually people went to bed.

  Sigurd went to bed too, but he kept listening to the sounds in the hall. All around couples were panting and moaning, far more than usual. A fair number of women kept wandering across the floor to see to men, and none gave up that easy; many were at it several times. They were worshipping Njord. Sigurd also celebrated Njord in his own way, but he did not fall asleep. With his head spinning, he kept listening.

  Gradually people began to sleep in the hall. Some snored. Otherwise it was dark and quiet.

  Sigurd lay perfectly still, and awake. He listened with his whole body, and suddenly he could hear her. Yljali. Silently she rose from the bench; she stole through the room. Was she coming to him?

  Sigurd was hard even before she slid down by his side. Yljali put a finger on his lips; she said with her hands that they had to be quiet. She wriggled under the blanket and eased herself down beside him, pressing against his erection.

  They lay absolutely still, close together, and Sigurd tried to relax, to breathe less tensely. He could feel and smell her body: her hair and her breath and her breasts. He felt her stomach against his rod. He felt her thighs and the pillow between her legs; she was warm and soft.

  The pressure built up, but Sigurd fought it; Yljali would feel him jerk. She would feel the spurts against her stomach. So he fought it.

  They were lying still and listening, and in the hall, the
y heard a sound. Low sounds came from the bedchamber where his mother and father slept. Someone opened the door and crept down the room. Sigurd and Yljali tried to lie as still they could.

  The sneaking sound halted at Yljali's place on the bench. They could hear his father curse when he discovered that Yljali wasn't there. His father searched again, and one more time, and again he cursed.

  His father crept quietly back across the floor. Sigurd and Yljali held their breath under the blanket. Could his father hear them?

  His father stopped in the dark, listening.

  Sigurd could feel Yljali under the blanket, all of Yljali's body.

  He dared not breathe.

  They were relieved when they heard his father lie down on the bench in the bedchamber. They let out their breath. Were they saved?

  After a while, they could hear his father snore; it was over, for now.

  Sigurd felt Yljali's breath against his neck and realized he had been hard all along. His heart ran wild once more; he did so desperately want to take her, but Yljali lay perfectly still under the blanket.

  Breathing fast, Sigurd took in all of Yljali, especially her breasts and the softness between her legs. She was cuddled against him. He felt the heavy smell of her body, but he dared not move. There were too many ears in the room.

  Somehow, with her hands, Yljali made him breathe more slowly, and, although still beating, his heart stopped running totally wild. He was less afraid of suddenly coming, but, calming down, he grew harder still and more sensitive; his rock-hard tool burned against her belly. He could feel her nipples harden and down below a tiny slit opened in her pad and a small stiffness projected, like a fingertip or a third nipple. Sigurd knew by the pounding in his rod it was going to split, to burst from within, but it didn't. Instead it was filled with an excruciating pain.

  Then, new sounds came from the hall.

  Another sneak was moving in the dark.

  Also this other was walking toward Yljali's sleeping bench.

  They could hear the stealthy person fumble and search, lifting blankets and feeling around the bed. Who was it?

  They heard the other slink away, not finding Yljali.

  But who was it?

  18

  "Do you want to hear the seeress' prophecy?" Grim asked.

  "Yes," Sigurd said, but he wasn't really sure.

  "Well," Grim said, "the crone had seen it all; what had happened, and what was to be. Odin gave a necklace of gold to have the crone's knowledge, and this is what she told him."

  Grim had the house for himself now. Sigurd sat on the bench and listened; he felt something was missing.

  "In the beginning of time, in the age of origin, there was nothing, just a black hole; it was Ginnugagap," said Grim.

  "With a violent crash, Odin's brothers lifted the lands up, and the world was made from the primal ocean, in a single bang.

  "They created the sun and the moon and the stars. The grass and the onions and everything else.

  "The sun did not know its purpose, and the grass did not know when to grow. Everything was just a soup.

  "Then the gods held Thing, a council; they looked into the soup. Something had to be done.

  "The gods gave name to everything, to the sun and the moon, and to all the stars. When the sun found its orbit, time was created; the onions knew when to grow. Yggdrasil grew large."

  Up at the farm, in the hall, Sigurd had heard skalds sing about the world's beginning and the world's end. Their poems were hard to understand, but he understood Grim.

  "There was peace among gods; they sat in the yard playing chess. They had gold in abundance. People were happy.

  "Then came a maiden from Jotunheimen, the mountain of giants. It was Gullveig; her scent fills the gods with lust.

  "Gullveig has a twinkle in her eye; she is full of lust, and she wants it often, but she will never have any offspring.

  "The gods dive into Gullveig's well; they cannot get enough. They can never reach the gem inside.

  "The scent of Gullveig seduces all. There is conflict among the gods; they start to fight and kill. Yggdrasil trembles."

  Grim spoke in a rhythmic way. He chanted like a skald, and Sigurd was enchanted; strange pictures started to form in his mind.

  "This is the first fight. Vanir stomp into Aesir's farm; there's a fierce battle in the yard.

  "The gods hold Thing, they understand what is wrong, so they kill Gullveig with spears.

  "Three times she is killed, with many stabs, and three times burned. But the damage is done; she is still alive.

  "The peace is broken; neighbour kills neighbour, and father betrays his son in the struggle. Son kills father, and brother kills brother; Yggdrasil cracks. The world is heading towards Ragnarok."

  Sigurd kept staring at Grim. Was that the end of the prophecy? Didn't the crone say more?

  Grim turned his eye away. Was he tired? Grim opened a book and ran his finger along the rune row, but he did not read.

  "Did the crone say more?" Sigurd asked.

  "No," said Grim.

  Sigurd had seen more, much more. When Grim told about Gullveig, who was killed with spears, Sigurd had seen the killing of Hild, in a vision.

  The killer had crept into the house of Hild. She was lying naked on the bench, behind the curtain. She slept. She smiled as she slept; his father had just left.

  Hild's skin was dark all over; her lips and breasts were sore. She lay with her arms outstretched and her legs splayed out, his father's fluids seeping from her opening.

  With force the killer had stabbed her, repeatedly, before he arranged her body anew. Then, twice, he sliced her breasts. And, very deliberately, he gave her the final cut.

  Where did the visions come from? Grim was telling the crone's prophecy, about the killing of Gullveig, but Sigurd had seen the murder of Hild.

  Had he seen into the loom of fate, a part of the Web of Norns?

  Gripped with horror, Sigurd had seen more. He saw the murderer sneaking around at night in the hall towards Yljali's place by the door.

  With a knife in hand. The same knife.

  19

  The farm was busy; people had much to do before winter set in.

  Tore the Captain proved to be a real leader. With shaggy eyebrows he led the work in the harbour; they were repairing nausts hammered by the storm. Tore steered the timber into the exact right spot, while boys and men were lifting. They were about to lay a new roof on the largest boathouse.

  All around, well above the tideline, rowing boats and ships were laid up. On the beach a boiling pot of tar sent a sharp smell around the area. Warriors covered ships with protective wool tents, and Sigurd worked with the fighters; he struck down poles for the ropes. But he was often up at the farm. He kept a safeguarding eye on Yljali, making sure he always knew where she was.

  Then came the mackerel!

  The mackerel came late this year, but they came.

  A lively bustle erupted around the fjord. Rowboats were on their way out to Espvik, where the schools of mackerel thronged; the rowers raced each other. Only at Vik confusion was complete. A boat was put to sea and the fishing lines were ready. Two men sat waiting on board; they kept the boat up to a mooring pole. But where was Sigurd?

  He refused. Sigurd would not lead the fishing.

  "You won't take charge of the fishing?" his father asked, raging. Sigurd's father couldn't – or wouldn't – understand it.

  "You love fishing mackerel!" his father said. Sigurd had led the fishing for several years. With a strong grip, his father forced Sigurd the last stretch down to the shore.

  "Why can't you lead the fishing?" his father asked.

  Sigurd had no acceptable answer. "Why not ask Odd the Squinter," he said, "or Hakon Mute?"

  "Hakon Mute!" his father cried. Boiling with rage, he pointed at the boat. There, the men sat waiting.

  It was no use; his father was too powerful. Sigurd strode aboard.

  The fishing boats lay at anch
or, side-by-side, waiting for fish. The mackerel swam in shoals; they showed up at Espvik, halfway in the fjord. There the mackerel thronged, turned around, and swam back out. Sometimes the water was boiling.

  All the boats had lines in the water. Every gard around the fjord had one boat and two lines; Vik had three lines. The Vik boat lay in the middle.

  Smaller boats lay outside the fleet. On board sat shore dwellers with one fishing line only. It had to be so. With too many lines, there would be a mess when the schools came in, the lines would get crossed and entangled, and they all would catch fewer fish.

  When the fish shoaled, people worked hard and fast. It was up with the line, off with the fish, and out with the line; soon loads of mackerel lay wriggling in the boats.

  The mackerel swam in – and out. Most of the time, the fishermen were waiting.

  Between schools, people sat talking over the top strakes, telling jokes and laughing. Only Sigurd did not laugh; he kept looking in the fjord towards Vik.

  Ashore, Yljali was alone.

  In the fleet people spoke about everything. They were friendlier out at sea; somehow, they were on equal terms. The fishermen gossiped about the ship's crew the chieftain had taken in. They also talked about Kalv Kolson in England. Would he come home soon, they wondered? No one wanted Kalv Kolson back at Bringsverd.

  People talked about Thorstein Baldhead, the present ruler. He was still Harald Greycloak's man, they agreed. At Bringsverd they lacked everything after the storm; Baldhead's prayers had not saved him. He was hunting, like everyone else, and he was fishing. The Bringsverd people caught a lot of salmon north in the Nidelv river, but they needed grain. Thorstein Baldhead would soon come to Vik to barter, for sure.

  "He hasn't already been there?"

  "Bite!" said a voice from one of the small skiffs. "Bite! Bite!" sounded between the boats; a school was coming in. People got busy. "Five!" said one. "Four!" "Five!" they said and threw their lines out again. Sigurd didn't have to answer any questions; he had to haul fish. But he was thinking of Yljali. And of his father, and of the murderer. Onshore, they were roaming about freely.