by C. R. May
Hemming closed his eyes and exhaled as he turned his face to the sky. The rain was still falling, fat droplets percolating lazily through the canopy from the rapidly lightening clouds above. ‘So we just run north and hope for the best,’ he said, before lowering his face once more with a grin. ‘Sounds like a good plan; let’s get going.’
Eadward scanned the group and found the smiles echoed there as the effects of a night’s rest, warm food and the emergence of a definite plan breathed new life into weary minds and bodies. As the men hefted their shields and prepared to depart the thegn made a parting remark. ‘I have lost my two closest friends,’ he said forcefully, ‘and Hrothmund’s father has been murdered.’
‘And my brother,’ the Dane interjected. They all turned to him as he revealed the death of Hrethric to them for the first time. ‘We were invited to a hunt, but it was a just a ruse to remove us and our huscarls from the king’s hall. I watched as my brother was spitted like the boar we thought were to be the day’s prey. My huscarls stood and died to a man to enable me to escape and continue the fight against the usurper.’
The Englishmen lowered their eyes momentarily as they acknowledged the scale of the young Dane’s loss, before Eadward carried on. ‘So, as we can all see, Eofer arrived at the great doors of Valhall in good company.’ He threw them a watery smile. ‘I daresay that they had a more comfortable night than we.’
As they snorted and began to move away Hrothmund spoke again, the tone of his voice betraying his confusion. ‘Why would king’s bane travel to valhall?’
Thrush Hemming rounded on the youth, his hand moving instinctively to the grip of his sword. ‘Perhaps you would like to go and check that he is in the Allfather’s hall?’ he snarled. ‘I can send you along right now!’
Hrothmund’s eyes moved from one face to another as if attempting to discover if the Englishmen were joking with him, however unlikely that may seem. The faces were stern and he realised with a start that he must be the only one among them to have realised the truth. He quickly began to explain as the first roll of thunder sounded in the distance and the rain began to pummel the group with full force. ‘I saw Eofer carried away,’ he explained incredulously.
Hemming screwed up his face as he spat a reply: ‘so?’
The young Dane looked again at the Engles as if he had said enough, but their expressions made it plain that he had not. Hrothmund carried on. ‘What would you do if you killed a warlord?’
They all exchanged a look as the first inkling that he may be right entered their thoughts. Octa formed those thoughts into words. ‘Strip the body of its war gear and weaponry.’
Hrothmund raised a brow: ‘and then?’
Octa shrugged. ‘And then, nothing; leave the body where if fell to feed the wolf and raven.’
Hrothmund nodded in agreement. ‘So do we, all civilised folk do so as a tribute to Woden, they are his creatures after all. So,’ he said, as they finally began to understand the importance of his words, ‘why did my countrymen carry Eofer away, still wearing his battle gear?’
8
He clenched his teeth tighter as he fought down the overwhelming desire to retch. Moving his hands up to his face, Eofer carefully wiped away the pool of water which was threatening to spill from his swollen eye. His left eye had all but closed from the suppuration there, the swelling tapering slightly before building once more into an egg-shaped mound.
‘Hurts, does it?’ The warrior raised his foot, pushing the Engle to one side with the sole of his boot. ‘You should have stayed at home then.’
His companions, unseen in the glare, laughed at the callous joke. The man crouched beside him and roughly patted Eofer’s cheek with the flat of his hand. ‘No, maybe not,’ he said with a gleam in his eye, ‘I wouldn’t be wearing this lovely mail shirt then, would I?’
The pockmarked face was only inches from his own, and Eofer fought against the desire to pull his own away. The rank smell of onions and stale ale washed over him as the man spoke, and it was only the thegn’s sense of self worth which prevented him from emptying the contents of his own belly there and then.
Starkad’s voice carried across from the steering platform of the ship, and Eofer’s tormentor backed off with a sneer and a final hard slap to his cheek. As Eofer winced with pain, a pair of boots appeared at his side and the big warrior lowered himself to the deck. Dangling his legs over the lip of the platform, the newcomer sat and placed Gleaming upon his lap as his feet thrummed happily against the upright. ‘This is a nice blade,’ he said as he slid the weapon from its scabbard. ‘It looks old; an heirloom?’
Eofer blinked away a tear as the hammers beating inside his skull redoubled in intensity following the pummelling it had just received from onion breath. Moving his one good eye upwards, he motioned towards the rope which bound him and managed to croak out a request. ‘Untie my hands.’
Starkad hesitated for a moment before jerking his head at a crewman nearby. The man hurried over to do his lord’s bidding and soon Eofer was carefully rubbing the feeling back into his wrists. ‘Thank you,’ he said evenly, his words heavily laced with the contempt he felt for the man, despite the seriousness of his situation.
Starkad chuckled happily as he held Gleaming up to the light, twisting the blade this way and that as he admired the ancient sword-smith’s mastery of his craft. ‘Oh, I know that you don’t like me,’ he said, before chuckling again. ‘Not many people do!’ The men nearby laughed dutifully at their lord’s quip as Starkad went on. ‘It will take us the rest of the day to make Hroar’s Kilde, and being a friendly sort I just thought that you might be wondering why I am here, fighting alongside Danes.’
Eofer shrugged, despite the pain. ‘Why should I be surprised?’ He answered with a snarl. ‘You are a man without honour.’
Starkad snorted. Slipping a silver ring from his arm he tossed it across to one of his henchmen who gave it a huff and a shine as he swaggered away to show his friends. ‘He is too sharp that one,’ the big viking said distantly as he watched the man slip the ring onto his own arm. Eofer could see the old malevolence wash across the warrior’s features, the same look he had caught the previous autumn at King Eomær’s hunting lodge, back in Engeln. He remembered thinking at the time the man was as trustworthy as a sackful of adders; it seemed that little had changed over the course of the winter months. Despite the pain in his head it was obvious that his captor had settled in to talk, and Eofer decided to use the opportunity to discover what he could about the situation in Daneland. The English army should be ashore by now and moving inland, burning and pillaging as they went as the first riders, their mounts lathered in sweat, arrived at Hleidre to tell the new king the dreadful news. He smirked despite the pain. The Danes which he had led into the wilds of Scania were moving further and further away from the fighting as they chased down the boy who had seemed to be so important only the day before. It had been a good day’s work, even if his own future looked grim. ‘So, the great Starkad Sorvirkson has outgrown the Heathobeards it seems,’ he said as the big man slid Gleaming back into the scabbard.
Starkad snorted with derision. ‘The Heathobeards were always a temporary stop on my journey, Eofer,’ he replied. ‘If you remember, I offered my help to your king but he plainly was not interested.’ He shot the Englishman a look of pity. ‘You talk of honour, but kings have none. They are the same as everyone else on Middle-earth, only interested in enriching themselves at the expense of others. They send men like us to batter down shield walls on their behalf and supply them with riches. Then they return a few trinkets to us as a reward for watching our friends get hacked to pieces before our eyes and expect our gratitude!’ He hawked and spat over the side of the ship as if to reinforce his opinion. ‘So no,’ he continued, ‘I am no longer a Heathobeard, and yes you can now call me a Dane if you wish, but the only oath which I have sworn that I will never break is the one which I made to myself the day that I tricked my best friend into becoming a sacrifice.’
The volva came down the ship towards them and Eofer’s mouth curled into a smile as he watched Starkad’s crew of toughened cutthroats quieten, parting before the waif-like woman like barley in a breeze. Hair the colour of pitch framed a face unlike Eofer had ever lain eyes upon, the narrow eyes and high cheekbones of those far to the North shining moonlike above tight fitting sark and trews. The holy woman skipped lightly across to Eofer’s place at the stern, and the thegn could sense the amusement in her eyes at the reaction of the crew to her passing as she squatted before him. She raised a finger and pushed his head gently to one side as she examined his wound. ‘Not bad,’ she said in her strangely accented voice, flashing him a surprisingly warm smile. ‘Of course,’ she added with a glance at Starkad. ‘It would have been even easier if you had not been hit so hard in the first place!’
Starkad chuckled at his side, and the Englishman was surprised again to see that the warlord seemed to share none of the apprehension of his shipmates at the presence of the woman. ‘This is Kaija,’ he said, as the volva scooped a little of the paste from what had plainly once been the crown of a man’s skull, before smoothing the mixture onto the swelling on his own head. As Kaija mumbled an incantation beneath her breath, Starkad explained her presence. ‘She was sent by my Foster-father.’ He chuckled as he recalled the night. ‘We were sat at the benches, plotting the end of King Hrothgar, when the doors opened and in she strode. As the men sat, open mouthed, she came across and said that the Allfather approved of our scheming and that he would ensure that the attempt would meet with success.’
The woman had finished lathering the gunk onto Eofer’s head, and she rested her back against the curve of the hull, drawing up her knees as Starkad held up Gleaming once more and admired the workmanship. He shot the Engle a sidelong look. ‘It is an eorle’s sword Eofer, and I am no hero,’ he said with a mischievous smile. ‘Heroes keep their word, they have honour.’ He offered the weapon to the astonished Englishman who hesitated for a moment, fearing a trick, before taking it gratefully. ‘I will get your mail back from that fool too, and anything else that you want returned from the booty. All I ask in return is that you listen to what I have to say, and consider my proposal.’
A stab of pain came but Eofer pushed it down as his curiosity came to fore. In truth the foul smelling paste which the friendly volva had been applying seemed to work almost instantaneously and he was glad of it. He cast a quick look down at the young woman but she appeared to be dozing in the early spring sun, blissfully uncaring as to the nature of Starkad’s forthcoming offer.
‘I said to you earlier that kings are uncaring, unworthy of the pledges which we make to them, but that is not wholly true,’ he began. ‘I was taken as a small child in a raid along with Vikar, the son of King Harald of Hordaland. After I grew to manhood we returned together to his father’s old lands, killed the usurper Herthjof, and regained his birthright. I was his greatest friend and hearth man, none of the other kings in Noregr could hope to defeat us. One day we became stranded by an ill wind at sea and had to take shelter between two islands. The wind roared and howled, whipping the waves into mountainous rollers and, fearful that we should be dashed ashore, we cast the sacrificial chips to see if the gods would spare us.’ Starkad looked downcast as he told his tale, and Eofer could see that there was more to the great viking than his renowned reputation for ferocity and cunning suggested. ‘The chips answered that Woden would help us if a man from the ship was hung and dedicated in his name, and we drew lots to discover who the man should be. We did it half a dozen times, Eofer,’ he said sadly. ‘Each time King Vikar lost. The men were aghast, adamant to a man that they would not outlive their lord, their ring giver, so we decided among us that we should seek shelter on one of the islands and cast the rune sticks the following morning. That evening the Night Mares hauled a dream into my mind. In it my old Foster-father, Horsehair Grani, came to me and together we rowed across to a neighbouring island in a small boat. In a clearing there were twelve chairs arranged in a circle, eleven of them were taken by gods, but the seat at the head of the circle was empty until Grani left my side and took his place among them. At once the gods hailed him as the Allfather.’
Eofer sat, horrified by the tale which was unfolding before him. Woden was all powerful, but shifty with it. The scheming of the god seemed to be playing an increasing part in his life and he recalled the words of his father as they had ridden the Wolds the previous autumn:
The gods are powerful, but fickle all the same, Woden most of all. Show them respect but place your trust in your sword arm, Eofer. They delight in chaos.
Starkad shrugged. ‘I had to choose between loyalty to a god or a man. I chose the god and King Vikar died; who would you have chosen, Eofer?’
Starkad climbed to his feet. ‘Join me in a life of raiding, Englishman,’ he said as he visibly pushed the melancholic thoughts away. ‘A man of your qualities is worth more than a hall and a few acres of land. How many men do you lead?’ The viking raised a brow and shot the Engle a look which told the eorle that he already knew that the answer, and that was very few. ‘We are both king killers, Eofer,’ he added, ‘but my name is known throughout the North, my reputation is secure. Don’t answer me now,’ he said as he began to move away, ‘think on it. This ship can deliver you into the hands of your enemies in Daneland or it can sail north; the choice is yours.’
Eofer raised his chin and peered out beyond the curve of the hull as he went. The heights of the island which he knew the Danes called Hven were off to bæcbord, sand coloured cliffs topped by a splash of green, brilliant against a sky of mackerel grey as the lands of the North began to reawaken from their winter slumber.
A voice broke into his thoughts and Eofer looked across to its source. ‘It’s called Hven,’ Kaija said with a trace of a smile as she regarded him with half closed eyes. ‘I know,’ he replied with a childlike pride which amused him. The volva had never appeared to be keen on conversing with any but Starkad, and his surprise only increased as she continued the conversation. ‘But do you know how it came to be called by that name, Engle?’ Eofer had to admit that he did not, and the woman continued with a smile of satisfaction. ‘There was once a giantess, Hvenhild, who decided that the land in Scania was too flat and boring. So, one day, she took herself over to the island which we now call Daneland and gathered up some of the hills. As she returned with them in her apron, the strings broke and a clod of earth fell into the Eyrarsund.’ She smiled again and gave a self-evident shrug: ‘the island of Hven.’
As the volva closed her eyes again, Eofer’s mind went back to his own future. Once the island was astern, he knew that it was but a short sail along the northern coast of Daneland to the entrance to the great inland sea there and he smiled again, despite his worries, as he recalled his only previous visit to the place; shooting the shoals in the little Fælcen as she ploughed onward toward her date with destiny.
Unshackled now the eorle pushed himself to his feet as the pain in his head subsided. The volva was still sitting before him, a smile of contentment painting her features as she basked in the success of her story and the warmth of the sun. He had not felt the fear which seemed to grip most men in the presence of the servants of the gods since he had slain King Ongentheow on the field of battle. Despite Starkad’s earlier words, he was sure that his place at the benches in Valhall was secure, and the day when he would greet old friends, past enemies and kinsmen alike held no fear for him. He spoke to her again as he dipped his head, slipping the baldric containing Gleaming back
into its rightful place. ‘So, you are from the far north?’ he began as she opened one eye and glanced his way. The volva smiled and settled back, closing the eye once again and exhaling softly as she luxuriated in the warmth of the sun. He persevered, despite the unpromising start to their conversation. ‘You are a Finn?’
Kaija answered in a murmur. ‘We call ourselves Sami, but you call me a Finn if that is your wish, Engle.’
‘And you were sent by the gods to support Hrothgar’s replacement, this Hrothulf?’
She shook her head, snorting with amusement. ‘No, I was returning north from Saxland and I had need of a ship.’
It was clear that the woman had exhausted her desire for conversation and he looked down the ship as it crested its way west. Starkad, despite the fact that he had set off to retrieve Eofer’s mail byrnie, had fallen into an animated conversation with a gang of his crewmen. Eofer gratefully seized the opportunity to retrieve the item and repay the man for his insult, extricating himself from the awkward conversation at the same time. His eyes scanned the deck, picking Starkad’s man out from the herd in an instant. Sat with his back to the stern, the Dane was bellowing with laughter as his hand whipped out to reenact his earlier slap, and Eofer grasped the hilt of his sword as he rose and began to walk for’ard. He stalked the deck as crewmen turned their heads in surprise, the anger building within him as the oaf made another wisecrack at his expense. Conversations were trailing away before him as he walked, an advancing wave of silence and expectation moving along the length of the dragon ship as he went, and Eofer saw the look of surprise turn instantly to delight as Starkad caught on and turned to watch.
