A Mighty Dawn

by Theodore Brun

  But the king turned away.

  ‘I choose Arve, son of Asgeir. You leave today.’

  The king stalked out, his councillors scuttling after him. Erlan watched them go, as the assembly broke up.

  Why should I care? he thought, trying to dislodge the splinter of disappointment in his throat.

  Did he envy a muscle-bound buffoon like Arve the chance of glory? Or the chance of his lord’s favour? Or even of the slaking of a thirst for vengeance? No, it was none of these.

  It was something else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Fucking Torkel,’ snarled Bodvar, as they left the Great Hall. ‘The man has about as much nerve as a constipated sheep.’ The earl tramped off, muttering about some business that wanted attending, leaving Erlan alone.

  Before long, the yard had emptied, the crowd of karls melting away to their duties, leaving the cold wind to lick at the frost on the ground.

  Erlan stamped his bad foot. It felt the cold worse than the other. He ought to report to the spear-master. Even in this weather, the younglings would get schooled. Ahead of him lay many drab hours teaching the sons of lords how not to get themselves killed in the first moments of combat. Arrogant toadlings the lot of them, and tiresome beyond measure.

  He’d turned with a sigh when a yelp carried around the corner, and out from under the hall buttresses ran a small boy.

  The boy’s face glowed with happy terror. He wasn’t more than four winters old, with short dark curls and a high forehead. His little fists pumped away, but despite great effort, he was hardly swift.

  Though he’ll soon be swifter than I am. A bitter thought.

  It was Svein. The Spare Heir, as Kai had named him. The boy ran straight past, oblivious to him, only looking back with another wild laugh at his pursuer. But he was in no danger of being caught.

  A still smaller figure rounded the corner: his little sister coming on, tiny leather-bound feet slapping the ground, her face determined. Behind her bounced the same silky hair that graced the head of her mother, the queen. Waddling for all her worth, she suddenly noticed the big warrior in her way.

  The glance cost her.

  She caught her toe in a rut and went skidding over, little hands grinding the dirt. She started bawling.

  Erlan limped over and scooped her onto her feet. ‘You’re in a hurry, eh? Here, show me your hands.’ She whimpered miserably, as he began rubbing some heat back into her fingers.

  There was a good deal more wailing before the pain seemed to ebb and she took a good look at him. And suddenly he found himself staring into a pair of enormous brown eyes. The sight of them hit him like an invisible blow. Those eyes, so earnest, so full of curiosity, echoed another’s, twisting the splinter in his heart.

  The girl stopped crying suddenly. Maybe she read some change in his face, for she slid her arms around his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he picked her up and held her, murmuring, ‘It’s all right, my love. It’ll be all right.’

  The boy had come back across the yard and was looking up at the pair of them, curious.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said a woman’s voice behind him. He started round to see the king’s older daughter picking her way across the yard. She wore a pale dress, and over it a fur cloak, black as pitch and gleaming even in the dull light.

  ‘My Lady Lilla.’

  ‘What happened? Put her down.’

  ‘She fell.’ He tried to put the girl down, but she clung on to him, burying her face in his cloak.

  Lilla was eyeing him, taking his measure. ‘She seems quite taken with you.’

  ‘No doubt she’ll soon learn better.’

  ‘You’re the one my brother calls the cripple, aren’t you?’

  ‘My name is Erlan,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘The stubborn one.’

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  She snorted, tilting her chin. ‘As it happens, I do.’ Years of looking down on men like him was clearly a difficult habit to shift. ‘So – how do you like it at my father’s court?’

  ‘I like it very well.’

  She gave a sharp laugh. ‘You’re a poor liar, Erlan. Still, once you settle into your place here, you may like it better.’

  ‘There’s no shortage of people to remind me of it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should be grateful,’ she snapped, catching the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Many lords would have turned someone like you away. You’re fortunate my father has a kind heart.’

  ‘Someone like me?’

  ‘Well, you know. Someone with. . .’ She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his ankle.

  He gave her a thin smile. ‘We all have our weaknesses, my lady. Some are more visible than others.’

  The princess looked uncomfortable, seeming unsure how to respond. ‘Anyway, you can put her down now.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He set the little girl down on the ground. She ran to Lilla, grabbed two fistfuls of fur and looked shyly back up at him. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Katla. And this little scoundrel is Svein,’ she said, ruffling the boy’s curls. ‘They’re the queen’s, but they like being with me, so . . . ’ She shrugged. ‘I let them tag along.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere special. Into the woods. They have sharp little eyes. They help me find things.’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘You know – winter berries, roots, herbs. . . other plants.’ She shook her honey-coloured mane of hair and pulled it over one shoulder. ‘You’d be surprised at what you can find. You can survive a long while out in the woods, even in winter. If you know what to look for. . .’

  What the Hel did this girl know about survival? ‘And you do, I suppose,’ he said, unable to conceal the disdain in his voice.

  ‘Huh!’ she snorted. ‘Better than you, clearly. If you’d known half what I do, you wouldn’t have arrived at these halls looking so like. . .’

  ‘Like what?’ he asked, feeling his temper rising.

  ‘Well, quite so like a skeleton!’

  ‘Fortunately, you’ll never have to put your superior knowledge to the test.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You’re the daughter of a king. . . I don’t suppose you’ve ever wanted for anything.’

  ‘How would someone like you possibly know what I want?’

  He could see the anger flare in her eyes. They were deep blue, as deep and dark as the ocean. He’d always mistrusted the ocean. Too many mysteries lurked in its depths. ‘I should go, my lady.’

  ‘No doubt you should,’ she replied, her composure regained. ‘As should we.’

  He was turning away when she stayed his arm. ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘For her.’ She laid her hand on Katla’s head, her skin pale and delicate as a flower against the midnight black of the girl’s hair.

  ‘No trouble,’ he said, looking down once more into Katla’s big, wounding eyes. ‘Farewell, little one. Till we meet again.’

  Before she had a chance to reply, Lilla had turned and swept her away.

  The following days, folk talked of nothing but Torkel and his men. Some said they were bound to return soon, empty handed; others that, with Handarak’s forest-lore and Arve’s wits, they were sure to send word within the week.

  Meanwhile, the house-karls sharpened their blades and strutted like stallions, bragging how many of this furtive foe they would slaughter.

  Erlan grew tired of it all. His thoughts drifted back to the men he’d stood with. Before. Men like Garik and Gunnar and Dag. Sure, they’d liked a tale and admired a man’s courage, but the conceit of these Sveär karls was something else. Maybe it was inevitable. Most of his folk had been farmers in their way, but few of these had any land to call their own. Their food depended on the king’s favour, and his favour on their renown. For what was a warrior without a name? Just another mouth to feed. And the great Uppland storehouses were not i
nexhaustible. . .

  Yet beyond the boasting and the chatter, a silent doubt was discernible in everyone’s eye: that Torkel, Torgrim, Handarak and Arve would never be seen again.

  ‘The old goat,’ as Kai liked to call the king, ‘has been losing sleep, is what I’ve heard.’ Kai heard a good deal. ‘Pacing his bedchamber like a wolf – grinding his teeth to dust with all his worrying. And the queen just laughs at him.’

  ‘How the Hel would you know that?’

  Kai tapped the side of his nose. ‘There’s folk up there couldn’t keep their mouth shut if their tongue was gonna run out of their head.’

  ‘Well, just you be sure your mouth stays shut to anyone but me.’

  On the sixth day, a heavy snowfall came in the night and for the whole of the next day. A blanket of fresh powder six inches deep covered the land. Everyone knew: if the trackers hadn’t pinned their quarry by now, the snow would make their hunt all but impossible. Word of one kind or another was expected.

  Another week passed and still nothing. And the talk began to turn from discussing nothing but their fortunes to avoiding mention of them altogether.

  Two days later, a young lad rode in with a message. Said he was the last in a chain of five messengers carrying tidings from Torkel. The message was a week old, but told that they were still on the trail and heading to the northwest, into the high country towards the Dale of the Elves. Nothing more.

  Naturally, this kindled the hopes of the court, that a summoning would follow, and they could ride to battle. Sviggar became quite renewed in spirit.

  But after another day or two, the doubts returned, and fresh gloom spread like a pall over the Uppland halls.

  Only they didn’t have long to wait. For another message was on its way.

  The guard stamped his feet in the snow.

  The last night-watch was the coldest and darkest, by his reckoning, but he must be closing on the end. He yawned. Grey dawn-streaks had begun slipping through the mist that sagged on the fields and woods beyond the Great Hall.

  He could see the outline of the road, the sharp triangles of the low folk’s dwellings; walls dark, roofs white as fallen clouds. The wind had dropped. The air was so still he could hear the flap of a pigeon’s wing from the woods beyond the King Barrows. Their bulging outlines were emerging like some new world, birthed out of a void of darkness and ice.

  He shivered and imagined his wife bundled up in the bed-skins. The fire would be burning low. If only Skurrik would relieve him soon, he might get home before she awoke. Soon warm up then, wouldn’t he just?

  He decided to make another turn around the mounds. By then, Skurrik must’ve come. As for his duty, he’d long made up his mind that the only use of walking his circuit was to keep warm and awake. In three years, he’d never had to hold up anyone more menacing than a herdsman taking a piss.

  His footsteps crunching in the hard-packed snow and the soft swish of his breeches were the only sounds. He walked along the road past the Sacred Grove, the ancient oaks emerging out of the gloom like the legs of giants. He passed the Tiding Mound, from where great announcements and decrees were proclaimed. It was half the size of the three royal burial mounds, but any man shouting from up there was sure to get a hearing. He remembered the first time he’d come there as a boy, late one summer, and heard old Karak, a renowned warrior on the high council, recount to a herd of grubby-faced younglings and their work-worn fathers and mothers the feats of King Sviggar in his bloody battles across the East Sea. Karak’s words had caught his imagination like a cub in a bear-trap that day.

  And now here he was, in service to that same king. So much for glory. He was just bloody cold. It was so long since his last fight, he could hardly remember what it was like to kill a man or piss himself with fear in the shieldwall. Trudging around in the snow was hardly the stuff of the old songs.

  He sniffed and spat into the snow, following the road in its loop away to the west. Then he cut north, off the road, heading for the edge of the Kingswood that nudged against the foot of the westernmost barrow. The outlines of the trees and the mounds were sharpening now as more light spilled into the sky. Following his earlier footsteps, he came to the far edge of the western mound.

  All of a sudden, he stopped.

  There in the snow, cutting across his path, barely visible in the half-light, were footprints leading straight up the side of the mound.

  His gaze followed the prints to the top. Was there something up there? He peered into the lingering shadows. Aye, certainly, there was. Some shape with no connection to this or any of the mounds.

  He looked harder. The silhouette was tall and very thin, becoming at its top bulbous and misshapen. His first thought was to get closer, but he hesitated – to walk on the King Barrows was an offence as grave as any against the king. What was the penalty? Was it death? Whatever, most folk were more worried about the curse they’d invite for disturbing a dead king’s grave. No one he knew would be fool enough to do that.

  But someone had been up there, and there was something up there now. He faltered, unsure what to do. But at last, he reasoned he was here to protect the king and his halls, and that included these bloody barrows.

  He put his foot to the climb.

  His breathing shortened with each upward step, but well before he reached the top he stopped dead. For now he could see.

  It was a post, rough-cut from some blackened tree, but straight and tall. His gaze ran to its top, and there it stayed, seized with terror at the grisly thing that hung there. He saw a braid, glistening darkly in the rising light. Saw ragged chunks of flesh, torn and dripping. . .

  A human head.

  Beneath it, the post was slick with blood, not yet frozen. Suddenly, he caught the reek of flesh. His stomach lurched, settled, lurched again. And he doubled over, retching into the snow.

  Too bloody long since I’ve seen a battle.

  Cautiously, he climbed to the summit. He could make out some features on the head, contorted by the cold. The eyes were rolled back and a tongue-tip poked from a corner of the mouth, coal-black. The mouth gaped, lips stiff as bark. But then a flicker of recognition – the round face, the high cheekbones, the wide flat brow.

  Handarak the huntsman.

  The guard looked away, trying to goad his mind into some kind of sense. He must go and tell someone. But who, and what was to be done first?

  He looked east, towards the onrushing dawn, over the other barrows and the Tiding Mound, which moments before had been swathed in shadow.

  In the thin light, he saw three more posts.

  Three more heads.

  He started running for the halls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Erlan and Kai arrived to see the wretched gargoyles, staring out like sentinels of doom, a crowd had already gathered.

  Erlan could hardly have remembered their faces before. Now he would never forget them.

  The low folk gaped, silence cloaking them like a mist. But after a while, there was a dry comment from one that he must fetch his son to show him what becomes of heroes.

  ‘What’s the old fella gonna do now?’ asked one old woman.

  ‘Same he’s been doing – not a bean. Just hide hisself in that ruddy big hall, and rut away with his mare.’ That brought a few laughs.

  ‘He put away his sword long ago,’ said another.

  ‘One of ’em, anyway!’ More laughter.

  ‘A sword’s no bloody good. What can he do against ghosts?’ said a grimy smith.

  ‘It’s evil – straight and simple. Has to fight evil with evil, don’t he?’

  ‘That ain’t easy with the power leached out of them mounds.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Kai.

  ‘It’s a bad business, what’s done ’ere. The King Barrows are sacred. But not no more. Their power’s gone.’

  ‘Aye – and the luck of the Sveär folk with it,’ said another.

  ‘Shouldn’t wonder if bad fortune comes now. Children�
��ll take fever. Crops’ll fail. Mark me – it’ll happen.’ This cheery soul sounded like he wanted it to, just to prove him right.

  ‘There’s witchery here – fell spirits,’ grumbled the old woman. ‘The place reeks of it.’

  Suddenly, Erlan heard his name called. He turned and saw Einar trotting up, cheeks ruddy in the pinching air.

  ‘Fancy seeing something interesting?’

  ‘More interesting than this?’

  ‘I’m rounding up the king’s councillors – those that are here. Sviggar’s called an immediate council. Oh, he’s in a rare fury!’ Einar wiped away beads of sweat. ‘Help me find them, and you can come see what happens.’

  Erlan considered his offer.

  ‘I’ll bloody go if you don’t,’ blurted Kai.

  Erlan snorted. ‘Fine. I’ll do it.’

  Barely an hour after daybreak, Erlan took his post in the council chamber. The thralls had piled the braziers high for the hastily clad earls and thanes. Old Vithar was there, leaning on the gnarled staff that seemed stuck to him tight as his own head.

  To one side, Sigurd paced. He was clean-shaven. Erlan hadn’t before noticed that his jaw was slightly twisted. Perhaps some old break, giving his mouth a sloping appearance. He was chewing at his thin lips restlessly.

  Erlan glanced at Einar, standing as close to erect as his belly would allow on the other side of the chamber. For once in his life, he looked serious.

  Erlan looked around, studying the anxious faces, catching frantic whispers. And suddenly he felt a huge chasm open up between him and these Sveärs. It mattered nothing if they were high folk or low. He hadn’t known Torkel and his men. Didn’t care about the King Barrows. Oh, it was a grim sight. But inside, there was no anger, no indignation. At most, perhaps a mild scorn – that here were the greatest men in the land, reduced to whispering cravens.

  He heard approaching footsteps; Sviggar entered, flanked by Finn Lodarsson. The king swept past his councillors, face like thunder.

  ‘Are there tracks?’ he demanded, flinging himself into his high seat among the furs. When no one answered, he bellowed, ‘Odin’s Eye! Am I surrounded by halfwits? Go and see! Before every soul in Uppsala tramples them to mud.’