A Mighty Dawn

by Theodore Brun

Erlan soon found the house. In front of it, a small shrewish-looking woman sat on a log, scraping busily at a fox-skin. Erlan greeted her and asked if she had any room for a traveller.

  She glanced up and snorted, but didn’t break her work. ‘What hole did you crawl out of then?’

  ‘The south,’ he replied vaguely. ‘I’ve been sick.’

  She grunted and bobbed her head. ‘Well, my husband’s out on the lake just now.’

  ‘Think he’d give me a place by your fire?’

  ‘No doubt he’ll give you a night.’ She stopped what she was doing and eyed him properly. The cold had marked ruddy stripes down her thin cheeks. ‘Maybe two if that’s what you need. Depends what you’re about.’

  ‘I need rest. Then I’m heading north. Looking for service.’ He touched his hilt.

  ‘Haven’t no need for service like that,’ she said, twitching her head. ‘Nope – can’t help with that.’ She went back to her scraping. ‘We’re quiet folk – trappers, skinners, fisherfolk. Th’a’s all you’ll find here.’

  ‘You heard of a kingdom to the north? The land of the Sveärs?’

  ‘Have I heard of Sveäland?’ She glared at him, incredulous. ‘Take me for a halfwit, do you?’ She jabbed her knife up the lake. ‘Your road’s that way.’

  ‘So you’ve been there?’ he said, suddenly all eager. ‘What do you know of it?’

  The woman gave a loud laugh. ‘Me – in the land of the Sveärs! You must be joking! Ain’t got much in the way of brains in that skinny head of yours. What would I want with going to Sveäland? Half of them are murderers, the other half thieves. No, no. You won’t catch me up that way.’

  Erlan wasn’t sure what to make of this. ‘Well, is it far?’

  ‘Far? My lovely, the other side of the village is far. Sveäland might as well be the other side of the moon, for all I care of it.’

  ‘You must have some idea.’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ve had travellers through here talk of it. And that’s the way they come. That’s all I know.’

  But then, seeing the disappointment in his face, she relented. ‘Oh, cheer up, handsome! If you’re so interested, my husband might tell you more, though you can’t always get much sense out of that block head of his.’ She chuckled, flashing a couple of lonely teeth. ‘Best catch him before he gets to his ale-cup.’

  Erlan didn’t answer; he was looking out over the lake. The blanket of snow shone brilliantly in the morning light. He could see a few figures dotted about, huddled over holes in the ice. He guessed they must be fishing.

  The woman cocked a look at him. ‘Well, you’re welcome!’

  ‘Oh – thank you,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Should say so. Now you can put your animal round the back of them halls. Then you can get a feed inside. There’s bread. And broth in the pot. The girl will sort you out.’

  To call them halls was generous. They looked more like over-sized cowsheds with ill-fitted planks just about holding up each roof. But Erlan thanked her and led Idun away.

  ‘Give her some hay, too. Looks like she needs it!’

  He found the stall easily enough and tied Idun between a pair of stocky little ponies, found her some hay, and stood by till she’d eaten her fill.

  After enduring the long, cold nights in the forest, entering the house, with its hearth blazing away, was sweet beyond telling. He let the warm air wash around him, swaddling him like a babe.

  Inside, he found a thrall-girl scurrying about her chores who soon obliged him with the bread and broth promised him. He devoured it all in moments, each mouthful another wave of relief. Afterwards, she let him drink his fill from a bowl of warm goat’s milk and then, at last, he lay flat out on a bench by the fire, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  It was well into the afternoon when he awoke. This time, no dreams had come to disturb his sleep. He got up, feeling not exactly refreshed, but at least human again, and taking an apple from the barrel, he went to check on Idun.

  She stood looking indolent as ever, and returned his pats with her usual languid expression.

  ‘Don’t say I never spoil you,’ he said, slipping the apple into her mouth. She crunched away, swishing her tail, the closest to grateful he’d ever seen her. The gods knew, she had little enough to thank him for.

  He was about to wander back to the lakeshore when something caught his eye. A great fire was burning beyond the next dwelling.

  It seemed strange to light a fire so big in the middle of the day. But he was drawn to its warmth like a thirsty man to water. Circling the house, he came closer, enjoying the heat prickling his face. For a long while, he gazed vacantly into the glowing embers.

  When he looked up, he started. A pair of eyes was staring at him through the flames.

  At first, all he saw were the eyes. But through the shimmer, he put the eyes in a face, the face on a head, the head on a body, hanging by the arms between two posts.

  It was a boy.

  He was stripped to the waist, his torso filthy as his face. Indeed everything about him was wretched. Everything except for his eyes, which brimmed with intensity. Erlan circled the fire to get a better look at him.

  The boy lifted his head, trying to take the weight off the ropes that bound him. His wrists were lashed just high enough that he could ease the strain only on the very tips of his toes. Whoever put him there wanted him to suffer. And from the state of him, Erlan guessed that he had.

  His hair was greasy blond, hanging in flicks over eyes blue as meltwater. His mouth was broad – too broad for his face – with thick lips tinged purple with cold. He was too young to be bearded, but he was certainly no child. He wore nothing but a pair of threadbare breeches belted with a bit of hemp. His bare feet were blotched red from the slush.

  ‘Fancy trading places, friend?’ The boy’s voice was hardly a shiver.

  ‘Can’t say it looks tempting.’

  ‘I was so hot, so I took off my—’ Suddenly his toes slipped, and the bonds yanked cruelly at his arm sockets. He winced, hanging limp a few moments, before finding his toes again. His ribs were heaving just to breathe. ‘Numb feet,’ he croaked, by way of explanation. Then he twitched his head. ‘Down there.’

  Erlan looked about him. There was a filthy-looking tunic discarded next to a pair of ill-cut shoes. ‘These?’ He made to pick up the clothes.

  The boy stretched even higher on his toes. ‘No! There,’ he gasped. ‘The wood, the wood!’

  Erlan looked again, and saw what he wanted. Nearby there was a pile of chopped wood, ready for the fire. One flatter piece had fallen apart from the rest.

  ‘Can’t speak. . . long. . . like this,’ the boy managed.

  Erlan finally understood and fetched the block, kicking it under the boy’s feet. Once he got himself on it, his bonds went slack, and he sucked in an enormous breath.

  ‘Obliged to you, friend. Much obliged.’ He gave his shoulders a roll and winced.

  ‘How long you been here?’

  ‘They strung me up this morning.’ The boy was looking a good deal happier now. ‘Take me down at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Overnight? You’ll freeze.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t so far,’ he winked. ‘It’s not my first time. They know how to make it hot enough I don’t freeze, but they hang me far enough away that I spend the night wishing I would.’

  ‘Then they let you go?’

  ‘Not exactly. I get a beating. Old toad-face, Alvis, does it. Swear the old bastard enjoys it. There’s no bigger fool in this stupid village, even if he is the headman. I tell you, I’ve seen quicker wits out the back end of a pig.’

  Erlan snorted. ‘Why did they put you here?’

  ‘I stole a chicken, if you must know,’ he said, without a trace of shame. ‘Tasty little flapper she was too.’

  ‘So you often spend the day like this?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Can’t be much of a thief.’

  The boy looked sore. ‘Hey, I’m good eno
ugh. These days, I get blamed anytime, anyhow, whether I did it or not. Besides, folks round here gotta have something to smile at,’ he added, bitterly. ‘People ain’t never happier than when someone else is taking a good beating. ’Course, if I took anything bigger, they’d stick my head in a noose and say they were well rid of me.’

  ‘Why d’you keep at it then?’

  ‘A lad’s gotta eat. Look at me – I’m skin and bones.’ He wasn’t wrong. His body was streaked with mud and bruised around his ribs, every one of which Erlan could count where he stood. ‘My father’s a niggardly old fart. Does him good to see me go hungry, he says.’

  ‘Is he poor?’

  ‘No poorer than anyone else round here. He just doesn’t like me.’ He shrugged, as if nothing could be more natural. ‘Oh, he’s not my real father. . .’

  ‘Where’s he then?’

  ‘Died five winters back. Some sickness. . . He was all right I suppose, but my mother soon bedded up with this useless sot. More fool her. He’s a lazy bully and has her chasing around dawn to dusk. No, I get no help from her. She baked him a couple of younglings and a finer pair of brats you never saw. Fat little brutes too, just like their father.’

  ‘Didn’t your father have any kin?’

  ‘I suppose. But far as any of them reckon, my mother and her fella take care of me. That’s an end to it.’

  Erlan nodded, but said nothing.

  The boy licked his lips. ‘Now I got a few questions of my own.’

  ‘Well?’ Erlan shrugged.

  ‘What the Hel’s an outlander doing here? It’s a long bloody way from the sea.’

  ‘How do you know I’m an outlander?’

  ‘By the hanged! Ain’t it clear as water? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a slave.’

  ‘A slave?’

  ‘Aye, a bloody thrall – they’re the only dark-hairs we have round here.’

  ‘I’m no slave. I promise you.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Though he looked doubtful. ‘Still, thrall or no, look at the state of you!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You look like a fucking corpse!’

  ‘I’ve been sick,’ offered Erlan. Truth was his bones still felt hollow as reeds.

  ‘Sick? More like bloody dead!’ And the boy threw back his head and laughed till his body shook.

  ‘Not yet,’ observed Erlan, drily.

  ‘That, I cannot deny,’ the boy replied, recovering himself. ‘So what brings you through here?’

  ‘I’m headed for a kingdom in the north, beyond the land of the Gotars.’

  ‘Sveäland.’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Some. A king called Sviggar rules there.’

  ‘Sviggar? You’re the first I’ve met who knows that.’ He narrowed his eyes, curious. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Sviggar’s a great king, they say. Lives in a hall bigger than bloody Valhalla, waited on by a thousand servants, surrounded by fabulous wealth. Every night they drink from silver cups, and the king leads a host so strong he fears nothing but the fangs of Fenrir.’ He winked. ‘Least, so they say.’

  ‘What’s the place called?’

  ‘Some call it Vendel. That’s what I heard. Or Sviggar’s Seat.

  Maybe other names. . .’

  Vendel? The name of his ancestor, Vendal the Grey, stirred in Erlan’s mind. Old Vendal lived twelve fathers back. But then Erlan remembered his oath: he had foresworn his blood. Foresworn his line of fathers. The thought brought a pang of regret. Meanwhile, the boy was warming to his talk.

  ‘They say Sviggar’s halls are filled with maids so comely you wouldn’t even dream of ’em, and there’s nowhere in the wide world with feasting so grand nor songs so noble. A whole troop of skald-singers sings of Sviggar’s deeds, and round his hall smiths work night and day hammering out wondrous things of gold and silver and steel.’ The boy’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘You seem to know a good deal about this place.’

  ‘You think you’re the first traveller through here?’ the boy crowed. ‘Come off it!’

  ‘Well it’s not exactly thick with ’em, is it?’

  ‘Huh! Perhaps not many, I grant you, but we have our share. A couple of merchants – so-called. . . though they were more like beggars if you ask me. Bonier-arsed than you even! Then there was a man who’d fled Sviggar’s kingdom for killing his cousin – he wasn’t right, that one. Then the skaldman – a teller of sagas and such. . . now he was a fine fellow.’

  ‘You seem quite struck by him.’

  ‘I did like him. Even the bird-brained folk round here listened once he got to singing. . . Anyway, I suppose you could call me curious.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  The boy chuckled. ‘That skaldman, why he was a one! He got sick, and we let him stay a while. There was one woman – a widow, and no great beauty I must say. . . fell out of her mind in love with him.’ He laughed gleefully. ‘He was a rogue! She nursed him, let him stay in her house, did whatever he wanted. And I mean, what-ever. . . Why, he treated her like a slave! “Go here – do that!” And didn’t she jump to it?’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘He never had it so good. Anyway, once he was on the mend, I’d sit by him for hours and he’d tell me about the places he’d been and things he’d seen. Aye – and the women he’d bedded. Ho-hoa!’ The boy’s face was aglow. ‘Taught me some of his songs, too.’

  ‘You can sing?’

  ‘’Course I can!’ said the boy, indignant. ‘Though no one round here wants to listen. Dumb as cattle this lot, I tell you. Still, it’ll be different when I’m older. . .’ For the first time, Erlan caught a trace of dejection in the boy’s dirty features.

  ‘I’ll listen.’

  The boy’s eyes snapped up in surprise. ‘What, now?’

  ‘Sure – why not?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The boy nodded eagerly. ‘Let me see.’ His eyes scanned the clouds, memory working. At length he hacked, spat, and began.

  Skadi’s man, the sea-spray god

  blows and moans by bubbling foam;

  surf-birds fly where once his bride

  by strand on ice-shoes roamed.

  Thiazi’s girl, gone to the hills

  their high peaks her heart long called;

  heavy-heart, she sits, her huntsman eyes

  drop tears like spring dew-fall.

  Sick with loss, the sea-god shrouds

  war-farers in winter squall;

  for snow-heart Skadi loves him not

  so dear as her mountain hall.

  The boy’s voice was strong and clear. Erlan’s mind flew back to the gulls that swooped above the sands of his boyhood. He remembered the cries they uttered, how Inga would make him laugh with her perfect imitations. . . Abruptly, he curbed his wandering memory, lest it took him too far. But the boy stopped just as sharply. ‘That’s part of one. Here’s another. The skaldman was always singing it.’

  Bring your voice to the songster’s fire,

  His ear is open, the folk are fed,

  Give power, proud word-father,

  To flush the cheeks of maiden love,

  Or rouse oak-shields to fells run red.

  Sight of things that never were,

  From poet-prince, the runesmith god,

  Which folk may see in the wood-blaze warmth,

  Snow-battles, sky-faring, dwarfish hoards,

  A living dream – Bragi’s gift to low blood.

  The boy finished. Erlan said nothing, letting the last words linger.

  ‘That’s your lot,’ chuckled the boy. ‘Any more and you’ll have to pay me.’

  Erlan smiled. ‘Your kin are fools indeed.’

  Are you a fool, my love?

  The words sounded so clear in his head he almost spun around to see who had spoken.

  ‘Oh, no doubt about that.’ The boy cocked his head. ‘Anyway, what’s your name, stranger?’

  ‘Erlan. And yours?’

  ‘Kai Askarsson. Though
my stepfather wants me to say Torolfsson now. Bah! The fat fart can suck a goat. So where you from, Erlan?’

  A shadow crossed Erlan’s face. There he was once more, at the door he’d sworn never again to open. He could almost feel her presence there, on the other side. Waiting. Breathing. Hurting. . .

  He gave a sniff and stretched back his shoulders. ‘Well, I’m sorry for your treatment, Kai. Once you’re through, I wish you well. Thanks for what you’ve told me. Farewell.’

  ‘Wait – don’t go! Why won’t you answer me?’

  Erlan gave Kai a lingering look. ‘Better take this away.’ And before the wretched boy could answer, Erlan had kicked the block aside.

  Kai gasped, his weight suddenly wrenching his shoulders. ‘Wait!’ he cried.

  But Erlan had already turned away.

  ‘Please!’ cried Kai, struggling desperately on his toes. ‘Take me with you.’

  Erlan spun round, incredulous. ‘Take you,’ he snorted. ‘You must be crazy.’ He kept walking.

  ‘How you going to fare in Sviggar’s. . . land, eh?’ called Kai after him, struggling to speak. ‘All alone?’

  But Erlan only shook his head and walked on. He knew more about loneliness than this boy ever could.

  ‘You know. . . what they say!’ Kai sounded desperate now. ‘A fool. . . shuns. . . a friend on. . . the road.’

  He could hardly get the last words out, but Erlan had stopped dead. Turned back. ‘What did you say?’

  Kai was gasping, wresting at the ropes. ‘A fool. . . shuns a friend!’ was all he managed to groan.

  Are you a fool, my love?

  Were the Norns laughing at him again? Was this pitiful wretch, this scrawny thief, to be his friend? He looked at him hanging there.

  This cannot be.

  And yet, as he stared at the boy’s wasted body, at his filthy rags, something made his heart burn within him.

  He walked back over to him. Kai was peering through his greasy flicks of hair, eyes pleading, his ribcage straining with each breath. Erlan kicked the block back under him. Kai hopped on it and Erlan saw the relief flood his body.

  ‘You want to come with me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Hel, yes!’ Kai spat sourly. ‘I’m done with this place. And these folk. My mother won’t miss me and Torolf’d be glad to see the back of me. Anyway, the old whoreson can hang for all I care.’ An expectant look shone on his grimy features. ‘Take me with you. I’ll be no trouble, I swear.’