She doesn’t understand. ‘What must I do?’ she asks.
He says nothing. Only raises his horn to his lips, and blows and blows. . .
Lilla’s eyes started open. The darkness was heavier than before, the dawn a long way off. Her body was cold, but her heart was burning.
She sat up. Men surrounded her. Warriors, their faces just visible, hard as idols. She looked again. Recognition began to seep into her mind. That one is Finn. That one, Kai. That one, the stranger.
The night was filled with screaming. But not from these men. They waited silently. All around her, the screams drew closer. She saw her father. Saw his bloodied sword, and there at his belt, his horn.
Suddenly her will was focused, sharp and straight as an arrow.
She got to her knees. Someone shouted. Her father turned. His face changed. He came towards her, reached for her, but she pushed his hand away, intent only on the horn.
Then she had it, wrenched it from his belt.
‘What are you doing?’ she heard him ask. But she didn’t answer. She put the metal to her lips and blew a note that split the night.
At the first blast, they all turned. But she blew again and again and again, so hard her lungs must burst. Till at last she could blow no more.
For just a moment, the Vandrung’s screaming ceased. And in the silence, muffled by the forest and the snow, came a reply.
A sister horn – long and low and steady. And then another.
The men around her stood still as statues, ears cocked. Suddenly, Erlan snatched the horn from her, put it to his lips and fetched a blast loud enough to summon summer.
Then the darkness was a gale of horn-song, sounding ever closer, and with it rose shouts and the thunder of hooves. Fire danced in the forest beyond the circle of rocks. On and on Erlan blew, and it seemed he would never stop. The screams of the Vandrung faltered.
‘Odin’s Hunt!’ cried Finn, laughing.
And all at once through the gaps poured riders bearing fire and steel. The Vandrung quailed and began to fall back. But there was no escape. For the riders came on, lusting for blood and slaughter.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Dawn rose thin as gruel.
It revealed a grim sight.
Erlan limped behind the king, moving among the bodies cluttering the hilltop. A pair of fires blazed – one for the Sveär dead, one for the Vandrung – filling the air with their sickly sweet stench. One by one each body was dragged to its pyre.
But the bear carcass lay where it fell. It was strange almost beyond telling. A hulk of twisted limbs and thick hide, but its skull was changed.
The king and his attendants stood over it. Erlan had seen many sights to turn his stomach, but none so weird as the malformed human head sprouting from the haunches of a bear. Or some creature that used to be a bear.
‘The wolves were shape-shifters too.’ Finn wiped his mouth. ‘Seems Prince Staffen is avenged.’
‘He is,’ said Sviggar. ‘He must be.’ He turned away to a Vandrung body. Flipped the head with his boot. ‘See how men become what they worship.’
Erlan saw. Certainly there was a cruelty in those lifeless features that no other face he’d ever seen had worn. But was it worship or the demon’s seed? He scowled. What did it matter, so long as it burned with the others?
All of this must burn.
In their hour of need, it had not been Odin’s Hunt that came to their aid, but the bloodied remnant of Bodvar’s two hirds, returned from the pits of Niflagard. Their fury knew no sating: they hadn’t stopped till the last Vandrung was slain.
Now morning had come, and when the last body was on the fire, the king took counsel.
‘Good fortune brought you back to us, Bodvar.’
‘Fortune for some, my lord. By no means all.’ The earl’s cheek was a maw of torn flesh. Many of his men returned with wounds far worse. Many hadn’t returned at all.
‘Is Heidrek dead?’
‘Not when I left him, though he took hard cuts. He follows behind with the worst of the wounded.’
The king had regained some of his strength. His cough rattled away in his chest, but the worst of the fever seemed passed. ‘Tell us what befell you.’
Bodvar took a long breath. ‘You and your people are avenged, sire.’ And they settled down to listen to Bodvar’s account. He began with how they had come to the icefall and almost been confounded.
‘Where’s that lad of yours?’ Bodvar asked Erlan.
Erlan nodded at the summit. ‘Up there, mending the princess’s head.’
Bodvar grunted. ‘Well, he sealed that place tighter than a virgin’s cunny.’ It took them a day and a night to feed a fire fierce enough, until at last it broke through the ice in a rush of sparks and smoke.
One by one, they clambered into the cavern. Then down they went into the putrid hole, men emptying their bellies, adding to the stench that grew stronger every step. When, by Bodvar’s reckoning, they were still some way from the pits Erlan had described, they found a body. The torches revealed horrible wounds in its flesh, one leg ripped almost clean away. ‘Seemed he’d crawled there from the deeper caverns, then died alone.’
‘Was it like these?’ asked the king.
Bodvar shook his head. ‘Smaller than these. More like a man. We examined the body. The skin was pale as snow. Filthy – covered in sores and boils. But he had a man’s features.’
‘A Nefelung,’ said Erlan.
‘You know what they call themselves, stranger. I just say what we saw. Believe it or not, the sight heartened us. If they had the bodies of men, they could die like men.’
They had journeyed deeper, found more and more corpses – of men and women. All were disfigured by terrible wounds, fallen in pools of blood. And nearing the great chasm of pits, they heard noises, distant at first, which as they approached grew into shouts and shrieks, and the clash of iron. ‘I sent two men ahead. They soon returned saying that, though the light was dim, the sounds were clear enough: a battle was raging.’
Bodvar ordered his men to pour into the great chasm and they came upon terrible slaughter. ‘Hundreds of the smaller Nefelung set against the larger creatures like these,’ he said.
‘The Vandrung.’
‘If you say so.’
Erlan wondered what had happened after his escape with Lilla and could only imagine the Nefelung thralls had finally turned on their tormentors.
‘The pits were a swelter of bodies, tearing each other apart,’ went on Bodvar. ‘Some of the Nefelung had weapons, most had only their hands. But they had the numbers. Even so, they were taking it hard from these others. We didn’t wait to see which would be left standing.’ Bodvar had unleashed his men. Many Sveärs fell, but eventually their strength began to tell. They cleared each pit until neither Nefelung nor Vandrung were left alive. And afterwards, they went deeper still to be certain the last of them was slain.
‘Did you find more?’ asked the king.
‘None alive. But the Norns have smiled on you, my lord. We found a chamber filled with gold.’
‘Gold?’ said Finn.
‘Like the sound of that, do you lad?’ Bodvar gave a dry chuckle. ‘Aye – a hoard of gold such as you could never dream.’
‘You don’t know my dreams, Lord Bodvar,’ laughed Finn. ‘They’re a place of endless wonder.’
‘Doubtless. But the gold is real enough. Every man took as much as he could carry. It’s all pledged to you, sire, since we fought in your name.’ He nodded back over his shoulder. ‘It follows on horseback with Heidrek and his men. Though I carried this as a token for you.’
He produced a thick golden torque necklace from his cloak and handed it to Sviggar, who turned it over in his hand. The great graven orbs of gold at each end shone in the dull morning light.
‘It is weighty,’ he exclaimed, the torque’s yellow glow lighting up his beard. ‘And. . . wondrous.’
‘The best of the hoard, sire,’ said Bodvar. ‘The rest comes with Heid
rek.’
‘What else did you find besides?’
‘Much, but all of it foul. Erlan and Princess Aslif were right. It were better left in that place. And now none of this enemy lives to trouble your land again.’
‘Did you find a huge body?’ asked Erlan. ‘Of a man like a giant?’
‘We saw many strange things. But not that.’
‘Nor a head? A head like a boulder.’ Erlan couldn’t conceal the urgency in his voice. They must have seen it. It must have been there.
‘Not a trace.’
Erlan fell into a brooding silence. Was he mad? He looked up to where Kai was tending to the princess. No, she saw him too. They had shared those fell visions. Those nightmares. They had been real – real as the black strips of hide swelling the pouch at his belt. That was all the proof he needed.
‘How many men did you leave behind?’ asked the king.
‘When we regained the surface, we had seventy-four missing.’
‘Seventy-four,’ echoed Sviggar. ‘From two hirds?’ He shook his old head. ‘That’s a heavy toll.’
‘Shouldn’t we be glad for them, sire?’ said Finn. ‘They sit with the heroes already.’
‘Doubtless you’d change places with any one of them,’ said Bodvar.
‘To be sure,’ laughed Finn. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Bodvar raised a sardonic eyebrow, but the king answered. ‘We will see them honoured, as they should be.’ Sviggar gave a bark of laughter and slapped Bodvar’s back. ‘You’ve done well, my good earl. Uncommon well!’ Abruptly, his cough rattled in his chest. Finn reached for him.
‘I’m fine, my boy.’ He turned and spat to one side. ‘Much better.’ Flecks of crimson coloured the crisp white snow. ‘We wait here for Heidrek. Send riders to him.’
‘Already done,’ said Bodvar.
‘Excellent!’ the king roared. ‘Once he arrives, we ride for home. I’ve been away from my bed too damned long. Aye – and what’s waiting for me in it, too!’
They didn’t have long to wait. That afternoon, Heidrek and the stragglers caught up. The following morning, the whole company set out for the Uppland halls. Within another two days, they left behind the silent lands of lakes and forests for the hedgerows and fields of the western earls.
Two nights out from home, they even had the comfort of a roof overhead, bringing the king into even better health. And when they rode out on the last day, he was in fine spirits.
A winter sun blazed in the sky. The air was cold and a hoarfrost bejewelled every twig and stem.
Erlan rode a little distance behind the king, Kai alongside him. The boy had seemed distracted these last days. Erlan had often watched his ice-blue eyes gazing into the distance, vacant and dull, his lips moving but saying nothing. When he asked him what he was thinking, Kai would smile slyly and say, ‘Oh, nothing.’
As Sviggar’s Seat came into view, their pace quickened. The old king pushed on till he was riding at the head of his battered host, noble as any Sveär king had ever seemed. Horns heralded their approach and before long crowds of hall-folk appeared on the road to welcome their returning king.
But as they drew near the Sacred Grove, the king suddenly reined in, slowed to a walk and, abruptly, stopped.
The whole company stopped with him and Erlan saw at once what had brought him to a halt.
There, hanging in the still air from each of the nine boughs of the sacred oak, were the bodies of nine young women, garbed in white shifts, stiff from the frost. Their feet were naked, toes curled into fists. The hoarfrost had settled on their faces, forming glistening white crystals along their eyebrows and eyelashes and on the soft down of their cheeks. Their eyelids were all closed, as if shading nothing more than pale visions in a peaceful dream. Every one of them was beautiful.
‘Who ordered this?’ Sviggar’s voice cut sharp as steel. ‘WHO – ORDERED – THIS?’ he cried. But no one answered.
Suddenly there was a wail of despair. Finn leaped from his horse and ran into the grove.
Erlan watched him until figures appearing at the entrance to the hall distracted him. He recognized Prince Sigurd and with him his oathman, Vargalf. Two other men followed behind.
Sigurd raised his arm in welcome. ‘Greetings, Father. And my sister too. What happy—’
‘What is this?’ bellowed Sviggar, pointing at the nine bodies.
Sigurd looked uncomprehending. ‘It is a blood worship. You know this, Father.’
‘I know what it is. Why is it? Who ordered it?’
‘I did,’ Sigurd began haltingly. ‘You left me in command.’
‘I left you to guard my halls, not to slaughter my people!’
‘You were gone so long. You sent no word,’ protested Sigurd. ‘We knew nothing of whether you were in danger. Whether you would ever return or were already dead.’ There was not a trace of contrition in his voice. ‘We did what we could to give you victory.’
‘Fool!’ exclaimed Sviggar. ‘We rode to stop more blood being spilled, and here you add nine to those already dead.’
‘I consulted with the queen.’
‘The queen?’ raged Sviggar. ‘I left you in charge of these halls. Not her!’
‘And yet the runes said it must be so,’ said a silken voice behind them. Erlan turned with the rest of Sviggar’s retinue to see Queen Saldas standing on the edge of the company.
She wore a brilliant fur of the whitest winter fox. Her hair hung loose, gleaming like jetstone, a simple band of silver around her head, her green eyes levelled straight and steady at her husband.
‘Saldas.’ The name seemed to stick in his throat.
‘Welcome home, my lord husband.’ She bowed, bathing easily in the gaze of every man present. ‘This blood worship was in service to you.’
The old king’s glare was hard as flint. ‘Did I not order before we departed that there was to be nothing of—’
‘Did you not meet with success?’ the queen interrupted, her gaze unwavering.
The king snorted. Hesitated. And with that pause, Erlan knew something had been won and something lost. ‘This time the Norns wove victory for us. Yes.’
‘The Norns?’ Her voice bore more than a trace of scorn. ‘It was thanks to the High God, whose favour we won for you. Your victory is the proof.’ Her mouth curled in a most beguiling smile. ‘So tell me, my lord – what is your complaint?’
The king glared at her, rage sparking in his face. Then he looked back to the grove. ‘I grow weary of death,’ he murmured. ‘Of these gods who cannot be sated.’ He turned to Sigurd. ‘Cut them down at once.’
‘As you wish.’
Sviggar lifted his voice for all to hear. ‘Tonight, good comrades, you must rest. See your wounds are tended. And on the morrow we shall have a feast to remember. My daughter is returned to me and our land is rid of the shadow. We must feast!’
So saying, he rode on, his retinue following behind.
But Erlan couldn’t take his eyes from the deathly circle of women. He remembered another group of womenfolk. Bound. Murdered. And for what? Only one answer made any sense. Because this world is broken. He felt sick to his bones.
‘Erlan.’ He turned, recognizing the soft burr of Lilla’s voice. But she let her horse walk by, unchecked, only nodding at the sacred oak and its grim ornaments. ‘We saved each other from the darkness below.’ A sad smile flickered over her lips. ‘Who will save us from the darkness within?’ She rode on, not waiting for his answer.
‘It is a pity.’ Erlan looked down and saw Kai peering through his greasy hair at the white women, hanging like ghosts. ‘Aye – a real pity.’
‘You know any of them?’
‘All of ’em,’ replied Kai. ‘The place will be a deal less pretty without ’em.’ He shook his head.
‘Well, you’ll just have to miss them. . . Or forget about them.’
‘Aye, I can forget,’ said Kai. ‘But he won’t.’
Beside the sacred oak, Finn was standing beneath one of the wo
men, hands raised, holding tight to her frosted toes. He was still. Calm. Not raging. No anger on his face beyond a small crease in his brow. Just gazing up at her, as though enchanted – for his wife was certainly beautiful. Erlan watched the clouds of Finn’s breath. And just before he kicked on his horse, he saw a splinter of sunlight sparkle on the archer’s cheek and fall to the ground.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Erlan decided he could never be a king.
Not if a king had to make speeches as long as this one.
Sviggar must be getting tired up there, prating on, he thought. Certainly if Erlan’s own body was any marker. He felt stiff as a post and raw as a skinned ox.
Maybe this is how it has to be: the greater the feast, the longer the speech.
And it was an undeniably great feast.
From the rafters hung war-banners with horned beasts and horned men dancing in threads of gold and scarlet. Along the walls were bright-rimmed buckler-shields scattering firelight to every corner of the feast-hall. Smoke billowed through the roof-cuts to the cold stars around burnished cauldrons, swinging like moons above blazing hearths.
When Sviggar had got to his feet, he’d interrupted a Hel of a din. These Sveär folk needed no lessons in carousing. In no time, the faces of men and women had flushed with honey-wine and ale. Horns and beakers were filled and drained, filled and drained. The place was agleam with smiles, awash with the smells of waxed leather; costly perfumes from the south mingled with roasting hogs and hens, honeyed beets and steaming breads, boiling cheeses and barley cakes, smoked fish and sweet-curds.
The noise was overwhelming. Five hundred folk all speaking over one another – loutish shouts, mocking shrieks, belly laughter, bawdy slurs, high-pitched giggles. Dogs barking, tableware rattling, fists crashing, and hall-maids fighting bravely on through the tumult like ships in a storm, to keep the fire of their feasting fuelled.
Somehow, Sviggar had silenced all this. Every ear was given to the king – though Erlan reckoned by now he’d stretched their patience to a thread. He looked splendid enough, with his peculiar stamp of rugged nobility, aged but still commanding respect, the golden torque gleaming round his neck.
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