A Mighty Dawn

by Theodore Brun

  The wind carried them west around the Skaw and then north, leaving far behind the lands of many enemies. Raumarika, Horthaland, Hedamark, Ringarika.

  Then the wind turned. Grey rollers bore down from the north. Haldan ordered every man to an oar, and stroke by wind-whipped stroke the rusty dot on the horizon grew bigger.

  Two days and nights the two longboats went on like that. An arse-skinning, stomach-sucking nightmare of lurching seas and freezing spray. Wind-lashed, caked in salt, hair stiff as straw, Hakan endured. His back a river of pain, his palms rubbed bloody, stopping only to eat morsels of dried cod, which he spewed straight up in a sour stream of spittle.

  He had never known such misery. But the men around him rowed, so he rowed with them, while the lookout called that the fugitive ship was still there.

  He overheard Eskel tell his father that the only land further north was Halogaland. Beyond that was only ice. The world of unending winter. The world where the giants dwelt.

  To the east, the land rose in glowering towers of rock, stabbing at the sky like colossal spears. Now and then, deep fjords cut gashes through the mountains. It was a land beyond anything he had imagined. Beautiful, strange and frightening.

  As dusk fell on the fourth day, the raiders were a bare half league ahead. His father cried, ‘Lift yourselves till daybreak, and tomorrow you will have blood!’

  The men cheered, then fell back to their work. The night passed softly, disturbed only by the rush of bubbles under them, the grunts at the oars, and the breathing of the ocean.

  Dawn revealed that the raiders were headed inland. The Jutes went hard, oars hammering at the water to catch their quarry before they could reach land to pick their ground. They were soon close enough to hear the raiders’ shouts. Around them the land rose up in towering shadows.

  ‘They’re heading for that island,’ Eskel yelled, stabbing his finger ahead.

  Hakan glanced over his shoulder, sweat stinging his eyes. He glimpsed the shape of a treeless fell, blistering out of the dark waters, dead ahead.

  An island was a good place for a fight, his father once said. A place of land and sea. A place between worlds. A place of the living and the dead.

  The raiders beached, so the Jute longboats swung north, landing on the island’s other side. Men stank of sweat and sea and stale vomit. Five days at the oar had shredded Hakan’s hands. Now, at least, they were back on solid ground.

  A crimson dawn bled back the darkness into the Western Ocean.

  ‘We’ll meet them on the fell,’ shouted his father, pointing to the saddle of land above them, while his men poured from the ship.

  Hakan landed with a crunch. The grit felt good underfoot. He hated the sea. Always had. Five days of salt-flayed Hel were over. A new Hel awaited him.

  His stomach retched one last time, from fear and nausea both. He wiped his mouth. The weight of his axe felt reassuring. The letters carved into its blade would be tested today – rune magic to bind arms or blunt edges. Overhead the wind sighed, and for the thousandth time, he fingered the amulet around his neck.

  I send you out, my love. Into the wild winds of the All-Father’s will. He traced the shape of the hammer, remembering her warm sweet breath.

  ‘Here you are, lad.’ Garik jammed the skin of mead into his chest. ‘Drink deep.’ The spear-master grinned at him, greasy hair blowing across his laughing eyes. ‘Now we’ll see whether what I taught you was worth a thrall’s fart.’

  Hakan put the skin to his lips and drank, gulping once, twice, before the heat hit him. The brew burned hot as Loki’s fire. He coughed hard, then passed it on, expecting men to laugh.

  But no one did. Instead their eyes grew bright, intent only on their lord.

  Hakan watched him too, feeling the blood swell in his veins. Ears humming, heart quickening, his aching back and buttocks forgotten. The brew worked fast.

  His father drew his sword, pointing at the crimson clouds above them. His eyes shone blue under the shadow of his helm. His beard, wet from the salt-spray, glistened red in the morning light.

  ‘A red sky over us, brothers! A day of death! The valkyries are done choosing. They ride this way, screaming for Odin’s marked men. If you’re among them, luck is with you.’ A few of the older men laughed. ‘As for the rest of you – it’s been told from the shadow-lands: the Victory-Father favours us. Ride to the Slain-Hall, if you must! Or stay, and have victory over these blood-drinkers.’

  His men cheered, mouths ragged, full of terror.

  ‘Do you feel it, brothers?’ Haldan grinned, gazing up at the wind. ‘Gondul’s gale stirs. Let the ravens feast on their bodies. Fight and never falter, till every one of them eats the black earth!’

  The fell loomed behind him. Death awaits at its summit. Hakan gaped up at the saddle of land bulging high above them. But not for me.

  Valhalla’s delights awaited the chosen. Feasting, fighting and fucking until the Ragnarok came, the final battle when all would burn. All men knew this.

  But he wanted none of it. He had something better in this world.

  To Hel with the All-Father’s favour.

  Let the others perish if they wanted. He must live to come back to her. He must live because she told him to.

  He must live.

  Inga found it quiet with them gone.

  Deathly quiet.

  The thatched byres and water troughs had a strange emptiness now. Even the hall seemed sinister, still as a barrow-grave, doorway gaping, inviting the dead into its embrace.

  How can anyone stand this awful waiting?

  She was glad of the sound of Einna’s loom. Inga glanced over. The clack-clack of the shafts, Einna’s thin hair flicking in the wind. Somehow, the sight calmed her.

  The long face whickered, nudging her.

  ‘You’re so impatient.’ She went on rubbing down the horse’s neck.

  It had been a few days. They might be gone many more. What if days became weeks, or, worse, months? How long before she must accept they weren’t coming back – ever?

  No. I won’t think that. I mustn’t.

  Her gaze drifted to the place where she had bid Hakan farewell, a smile rising in her heart as she remembered the warm shadows, the rough planks, his hands sliding her dress over her thighs.

  ‘Keep on like that the poor horse’ll have no neck left at all.’ Inga spun around, spilling curls over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Tolla – it’s you.’ Inga felt silly, realizing she’d been rubbing the same spot for ages. She nuzzled the stallion’s cheek. ‘My mind was a thousand leagues away.’

  ‘I know you’re worried,’ Tolla smiled, setting down her bucket. ‘It’s always this way. It has to be. They still come back.’

  ‘My father didn’t.’

  ‘Aye,’ Tolla admitted, ‘your father fell. But you won’t change a thing worrying about them. They’ll come home. I feel it in my old bones.’

  Tolla wasn’t that old. She hadn’t seen more than thirty-eight summers, but if she felt it in her bones. . . well, they were right more than most.

  ‘What if they don’t?’

  Tolla squeezed Inga’s arm. ‘We’ll go on.’

  As if it were that simple. How could Tolla understand? She doesn’t know. No one knows. Inga tried to shake her doubts, forcing a smile instead.

  But Tolla’s gaze had drifted beyond her, out of the yard. ‘What we got here then?’

  Inga turned to look. Beyond the gate, a rider was coming down the track. A tall man on a tall horse. He entered the yard, chickens fleeing from his hooves.

  Inga knew him only too well.

  Konur.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  Tolla didn’t answer. She was eyeing him suspiciously.

  He looked fine enough, clad all in black, his cloak pinned with a silver brooch, his brown hair streaked blond from the long summer. The loom stopped its clacking. Inga wasn’t surprised. Einna’s stomach would be turning cartwheels at this one’s pretty face.

&
nbsp; Though without the bruise across his nose he would have been prettier.

  ‘A fine day, ladies!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Inga tried to sound especially cold. That was the right thing to do.

  ‘Hardly a welcome for blood kin,’ he smiled, unruffled. ‘You can’t have forgotten me so soon.’

  ‘I remember you. As much as I care to.’ It sounded proud enough, and there was no power in the world would get her to admit he’d been in her thoughts more than he ought since the feast. ‘Back to start a feud with my cousin?’

  ‘That was a drunken misunderstanding.’ A vicious hate-filled fight, tearing at each other’s faces, is what he means. ‘I’m sure Hakan wouldn’t begrudge me a lost tooth,’ he added, chuckling.

  ‘Hakan has many other teeth. I’m sorry you only have one nose.’

  ‘Fairly said!’ he laughed, prodding at the swollen bridge of his nose. When she didn’t laugh, he tried contrition. ‘If I caused offence, let me make amends.’

  ‘You did. And I don’t know that you can.’

  He snorted, growing impatient. ‘I would have liked to let your uncle be the judge of that. But we had word that he’s been taken away on urgent business. Is it true?’

  Inga and Tolla exchanged uneasy glances. ‘It is. My lord uncle has gone,’ said Inga. ‘Along with all his fighting men.’

  ‘Hakan as well?’

  ‘Of course, Hakan,’ retorted Inga. Did he take Hakan for some kind of stay-at-home coward?

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘How in the Nine Worlds should we know?’ said Tolla.

  Konur shrugged, as if it were merely of passing interest.

  Inga threaded her arm through Tolla’s, giving it a comforting pat. ‘There was a raid.’

  ‘I heard that much. Not much else.’

  Inga told him as much as anyone knew – of the killers dressed in wolf-skins, of the slaughtered folk of Vindhaven, of the women taken.

  Konur listened, smoothing his beard to a point. ‘So your uncle went after them, hey?’

  ‘They sailed north four days ago in two ships. Eighty men in all.’

  ‘All a bit hasty.’

  ‘Hardly. My uncle cares about his womenfolk. He’s determined to get them back.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem so careful to me.’ Konur raised a cynical eye-brow. ‘After all, here you are, the lady of the hall. All alone.’

  ‘She’s not alone,’ said Tolla. ‘We have men to protect us.’ She nodded at an old thrall labouring his way across the yard under a sheaf of hay. The man had a short axe hitched at his belt. ‘Old Rapp. And others besides.’

  ‘Terrifying.’

  Inga didn’t care for his tone. ‘What is it you want here, Konur?’

  ‘I came to bring word from my father to your uncle.’ He flashed his pretty grey eyes at her. ‘And to see you.’

  ‘Me!’ she exclaimed. No one had ever come to Vendlagard to see her. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Nothing. . . in particular. I just wanted to see you again. Your cousin interrupted us last time. With his fist in my face.’

  ‘You deserved it.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s a little. . . over-protective?’

  ‘You were both drunk, and he had every right to be – it was a feast in his honour. You were the one in the wrong.’

  ‘Is it my fault if I can’t resist a face as beautiful as yours?’ His mouth tilted into something between a smile and a leer.

  ‘You’re very free with your words where they’re not needed. Anyway, my uncle isn’t here. If you’ve nothing in particular to say to me, I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘We’ll tell him you called when he comes back,’ added Tolla.

  ‘If he comes back.’

  ‘When,’ insisted Inga. ‘Sorry, but you can’t stay.’ She saw he was losing patience, but she didn’t care. She enjoyed annoying him.

  ‘You can’t be serious! We’re blood kin. Understand what that means? I’ve ridden twenty bloody leagues from Karlsted. And now you’re going to turn me away?’ The cords in his neck stuck out when he got angry. And his ears went red. But she quite liked how fiery his eyes became.

  She shrugged. ‘Well?’

  ‘And without so much as a bowl of gruel?’ He shook his head. ‘I wonder what my father will make of this? Another insult to his son and heir? He’ll take that ill. To say nothing of hosting custom.’

  She watched his beard bristle. He really was irritatingly handsome.

  ‘You can’t turn away blood kin and a traveller on the road,’ he continued.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What – and bring the Wanderer’s curse down on this place?’

  Behind them, Einna dropped something. The girl was like to have a fit any time curses were mentioned. And there had been too much talk of them in the last few days. Inga and Tolla looked at one another, uncertain.

  Konur saw his chance. ‘One night,’ he said, softer. ‘Let my horse rest. Bread, meat, ale. A little talk. I’ll be gone in the morning.’

  Inga could sense every sinew in Tolla ready to pounce on Konur. But he was right. In her uncle’s absence, she had charge of Vendlagard. The laws of hospitality couldn’t be ignored. She couldn’t turn away a wanderer on the road asking for shelter. Much less her own kin. And her uncle wouldn’t thank her for stirring up bad blood with the Karlungs.

  ‘One night.’

  ‘Haha!’ he laughed. ‘A thousand thanks, cousin! You never know – it may be more pleasant than you think.’

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  The spear soared over the raiders like a comet cutting the scarlet sky.

  The Norskmen gaped upwards. Some wore wolf-skins, some leather byrnies or mail, others went half-naked. The spear skewered the turf behind their battle-line.

  Now the gift was sealed. Odin would have his reaping.

  And the killing could begin.

  Screams rent the sky. The wind howled back, blasting the bleak summit. Hakan yelled, mad with terror.

  The Norskmen’s shields banged together in a wall.

  Haldan screamed a command. Javelins lanced the air. Round shields, white and black, clattered. Shrieks climbed the wind as iron found flesh, the first blood spilled.

  Strike hard and watch for their mistakes, Garik had said. Seemed like the first time the randy bastard hadn’t tried to make a joke.

  Strike hard.

  ‘Bowmen, ready!’ bellowed Haldan through the din of screams and battle-cries. Arrows hissed, Norsk spears slit the sky, thudding into wood and mud and flesh. A bowman beside Hakan nocked an arrow, then flopped on his backside, five feet of ash in his belly. He clawed at it, shuddered, then fell back, dying.

  A spear whispered past Hakan’s ear. He stared at the thing, quivering in the turf.

  ‘Go on, lad – let the bastards have their stick back.’ Garik’s wolf-grin snapped him into action. He yanked out the javelin and flung it back, watching it disappear behind the shieldwall. A Jute arrow struck a raider’s face, spewing dark blood. The Norsk lord screamed something and their shieldwall ran howling at the wall of Jutes. The morning light flashed red on their weapons.

  Valkyries’ flames. Now we’ll see how hot they burn.

  Hakan had time to suck a breath, then the wall hit. There was a ripping sound of oak on iron. Hakan glimpsed a hate-filled face, a gaping mouth, an arc of steel. He raised his shield; a sword smashed against its rim. He ducked low, sweeping his axe. The Norskman screamed, the axe biting into his knee, blood spilling in the dirt. Hakan stood over him.

  For a second, he glared down at his enemy. Young eyes full of fear, a grimy beard flecked with spittle. Then Hakan drove down his axe, cleaving the man from shoulder to breastbone. He tore it clear. The man fell, flapping like a herring, a weird hiss in his throat. And then he was still.

  I’ve killed a man. Fire burned in his brain. Killer. ‘Killer!’ he screamed, half-mad.

  All around, it seemed Hel had ripped open the earth
, spewing out death into the world of men. He saw twisted bodies, a severed arm, dead faces, white as chalk, spattered with mud and gore. Others, still alive, jaws gurning. Slaughter-mad, he thought. Only madness makes sense here.

  Arrows and spears peppered the mud, gear strewn like jetsam on the black earth. The battle-din roared – grunts and screams, the thud of flesh, strange bestial cries. The stink of blood and piss and open guts rank in his nostrils.

  And through Odin’s storm, he spied a bronze helm, glinting red in the dawn: his father, cloak flying about him, going blade to blade with the northern lord.

  Not you, Hakan prayed. Not today.

  Closer to him was Leif, his boyhood friend, his scrub of a beard smeared muddy. A towering man launched at him with the biggest axe Hakan had ever seen. Leif cut, the big man stepped aside, rolled his shoulders, whipping round the double-headed axe. Leif didn’t even see it. The metal tore through his arm. Leif screamed, falling to his knees, arm gone. The axe swung again. This time his body crumpled – an eye-blink and his oldest friend was dead. The giant bellowed triumph.

  Fury flashed through Hakan’s mind; fury, fear, half-formed curses and whining prayers. There was only one way out of this briar of men and steel and blood and death: that was to cut his way free.

  The only way back to her.

  Men were dying all around, both shieldwalls splintered into savagery. But the Norskmen were few and growing fewer. And then his father’s voice rang across the fell. ‘Their king is dead! Now, brothers, finish it!’

  The Norsk king was dead. The rest must die with him.

  Someone screamed Hakan’s name. He turned, seeing Gunnar, a sword in one hand and a long-knife in the other. Nearby the huge axe-man spewed a stream of curses. Hakan leaped forward, trying to land a cut, ankle burning with the old pain. Instead he took a colossal blow to his shield. Wood and iron shattered, splinters pricking his arm.

  He fell face down, but kept rolling, dreading the bite of the massive blade in his back any moment. He flopped over to see the bloodstained blade looming high above him. There was a sudden flash of metal and Gunnar slammed into the axe-man, sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.