by Angus Donald
There was angry muttering all around the Thing House.
Valtyr ignored the hubbub and continued. ‘They put the hersir, an old man by the name of Brand Thurlsson, and most of the adult male inhabitants to the sword; they have enslaved all the rest, seized their goods and beasts and burnt several villages to the ground. It is an outright act of war. They are now building a church and fortress, next to the charred ruins of Thursby.’
There were shouts of rage. ‘War, by the gods! A declaration of war!’
‘Those are my tidings,’ said Valtyr. ‘Here is my invitation. Theodoric is out of patience with these Frankish incursions. He has swallowed enough insults in recent months from Karolus, King of Francia, and he cannot allow this fresh outrage to pass. He seeks to make a fine example of these intruders.
‘Theodoric plans to descend on the region of Thursby with a mighty army in one month’s time, to destroy this new church before they have even finished building its surrounding walls, to burn the settlement to the ground and to slaughter all the Franks he can lay his hands on. He invites the Fyr Skola to join him in making war on these servants of the interloper Karolus. So… will the Thing Council accept Duke Theodoric’s cordial invitation?’
In an instant, almost every man and woman in the Thing House was on their feet cheering, hooting, whistling, calling out their affirmation.
They were going to war.
Chapter Ten
A shock for a sleepy sentry
Hymir was dubious. ‘You sure you’re fit, lad?’ he said. He had said it several times. ‘Strip and give me twelve star jumps, right now. Go on!’
Bjarki slowly took off his tunic and trews, removed his few remaining bandages, and obediently jumped up and down to show the Warcraft teacher his wounds were almost healed. He offered to fight any of the Lodge Barda, with sharpened weapons, if necessary, to prove the matter beyond doubt.
Three weeks had passed since Valtyr’s surprise intervention in the Thing House and, in truth, Bjarki was fit enough – almost entirely back to his considerable full strength. Valtyr had disappeared with Tor before dawn the next day – in keeping with the Mikelgothi’s terms of immediate exile – and Bjarki, exhausted by the emotion of the Thing and his own part in it, not to mention the very severe pain of his wounds, had returned to the Bear Lodge and slept long and deeply and so missed their dawn departure.
He felt a little irritated that neither Valtyr nor Tor had come to bid him farewell – particularly since he had spoken out on her behalf at the Thing. But they had not visited him, and he must swallow his resentment.
Tor must have a great deal on her mind – shame, anxiety for the future – and although she had been spared death, she would be destroyed by the sentence of exile. So he forgave her and, over the next few days and weeks, he focused his mind on preparing his half-healed body for his first campaign.
He had Gunnar salve his wounds every morning and night with the goose-fat and herb concoction and did light stretching exercises immediately afterwards to make sure his new-growing skin was coming back supple.
After a week, he began running again, every morning with the rest of the Lodge, to the astonishment of his fellows. Those morning runs cost him a good deal of pain – the chafing of even his loosest clothes on raw skin was almost as bad as the original burns. But he stuck with it grimly, running right through the agony, determined that he should be included in the Fyr Skola force sent out to join Theodoric at the muster at the Troll Lake Stones, which would take place on the day of the full moon at the end of the week of the Harvest Feast Day.
It had been decided that three Rekkar should be sent to serve the Saxon warlord – one from each Lodge – a significant proportion of the Fyr Skola’s strength; and that each Lodge champion should be accompanied by three trained Barda, and also three strong camp servants, who would carry the food, equipment and spare weapons. There had been fierce competition in the Groves over who would be chosen as part of the twenty-one folk who made up the force, the assumption being that they would earn lasting glory for themselves and bring great honour and wealth to the Fyr Skola.
Bjarki desperately wanted to be picked to join this elite company.
Brokk had been chosen as the Rekkr to represent the Bear Lodge, and two experienced Barda, a young man called Ugo and an older woman named Thorn had already been selected when Bjarki petitioned Hymir, the master-at-arms, to allow him to be the third Bear Barda chosen.
Hymir told him openly that he was in two minds: Bjarki, after his weeks of intensive training with Tor, was shaping up to be one of his best fighters, and his courage had been proven beyond doubt by the heroics of the Fyr Ceremony; but he was still injured, and the ceremony had displayed a previously unrecognised reckless streak in the lad, which Hymir found troubling. A wild disregard for personal safety was expected, of course, even demanded of a Rekkr, but the Barda had to hold together in the shield wall, and a cool head, unshakeable loyalty to comrades and iron self-discipline were the crucial qualities required for these soldiers of the Groves.
In the end, however, Hymir reluctantly agreed to let him play his part.
‘You may go, Bjarki, but I want no reports of your rashness. Obey your orders, stay with the other Barda and keep the wall intact in the face of the foe. Let the Fire Born do all the bloody work. May the Bear guard you.’
* * *
The three chosen Bear Lodge servants – two older women and a young man – were folk who had been passed over not only as potential Rekkar, but also as Barda, some years previously. However, one, a youth from Frisia called Per, said he hoped to make a name for himself in the fighting, to redeem himself in the Lodge’s eyes and perhaps be accepted as a raven-feeder.
He confided in Bjarki that he was fed up with sweeping the Lodge, chopping firewood and hauling water all day, and asked that he put in a good word for him with the Lodge Father, and with Hymir, if his service on this campaign was satisfactory. Bjarki assured Per that he would help if he could.
They travelled southwest along the river valley for a whole day, an easy march, and then set out up into the tangled depths of the First Forest, the path climbing in altitude and, more often than not, narrowing and forcing them to travel in single file. The country became less thickly wooded the higher they climbed and they crossed many small rivers, some little more than streams, and passed several large mirror-like lakes. After three days of hard marching, the twenty-one-strong Fyr Skola company arrived at the Troll Lake Stones, exactly on the agreed day of the full moon.
Duke Theodoric’s force was waiting for them.
The paramount leader of all the Saxon tribes had dispatched more than a hundred of his best warriors to gather at the ancient standing stones – nine tall granite menhirs arranged in a broken circle beside a long, black, sinister-looking lake. A dozen hersirs attended the muster from right across Saxony, each commanding a handful of solid men-at-arms. Yet Bjarki was disappointed that the Duke of Saxony himself had not come, in all his pomp and glory, but instead had entrusted this force to a man called Jarl Harald, an elderly warrior, tough as leather, one of the king’s most trusted followers.
Bjarki had, in truth, been expecting a larger muster. This gathering of a hundred fighting men was, to his eyes, hardly a ‘mighty army’, as Valtyr had put it in the Thing House, it was more like a powerful raiding party.
‘Fewer is better,’ said Ingvar, the Wolf Lodge Rekkr, a squat, shaggy brute whose terrible facial scars gave him a permanent lopsided snarl, and who was in command of the whole Eresburg contingent. Thorn, the Bear Lodge woman, who had charge of the nine Barda, agreed.
‘We’ll travel more quickly and give less notice of our presence to the enemy,’ she said.
‘More glory for each of us, too,’ added Ingvar, with a happy chuckle.
It was late summer, almost autumn, with the mornings already crisp, the nights chilly and the days each growing a little shorter than the last – the final weeks of the campaigning season. After a speech o
f welcome for all the contingents – delivered by Jarl Harald, who appeared to be heroically drunk and was balanced perilously atop one of the smaller menhirs – the Eresburg folk made their camp a little way from the rest of the army between the eastern side of the black lake and the fringe of the First Forest. They were to march at dawn, Jarl Harald said, and should get as much sleep as they could.
In the small Eresburg encampment, the Rekkar of the three Lodges huddled closest to the campfire after the evening meal – Brokk, silent as usual, sharpened his long bearded axe, but Ingvar and the Boar Lodge Rekkr shared a skin of mead and a jest, laughing together in the firelight.
That was a stone in Bjarki’s boot: the Rekkr chosen by the Boar Lodge. The champion they had picked was Ivar Knuttson, the man who, he finally had to admit to himself, had grossly cheated in the Fyr Ceremony.
Bjarki had tried to find things to respect about Ivar but he found it impossible. It was not because the young man had so easily bested him in the Fyr Pit – and bitten a chunk out of his face. It was because Ivar seemed to have no respect for the institutions of the Groves of Eresburg.
This contempt for the Fyr Skola was revealed by the fact that he had used trickery to gain Fire Born status. His rank dishonesty made something that had been to Bjarki good and holy now seem tawdry. Indeed, he made everything about their community, their way of life and their beliefs, seem grubby and, in Bjarki’s bleakest moments, even fraudulent. If Ivar Knuttson had successfully cheated to become Fire Born, how many others had done so?
Then there was also Ivar’s demeanour: he made his Barda carry his battle weapons, his bearded axe, long sword and heavy round shield, which neither of the other Rekkar did. He had his servants set up a cosy tent for him to sleep in every night, in a comfortable cot slung from the tent poles, while everyone else – even Ingvar their captain – slept on the cold, stony ground, wrapped in cloaks or blankets with no more than a clothing bag for a pillow.
Ivar also behaved with an obvious sycophancy towards the Rekkr captain, laughing exaggeratedly at Ingvar’s feeblest jest, flattering him by admiring his impressive collection of scars, and echoing his orders, shouting them, in fact, and berating anyone who did not instantly leap to obey.
It seemed to Bjarki that Ivar did not understand the true ethos of the Groves; or, if he did, that he distained it. He was behaving like a well-born hersir, or even like a king’s jarl. There was a hierarchy in Eresburg, yes, but also proper respect between the different ranks. Servants such as Per had once been candidates for the honour of becoming Rekkar. Although Per had failed the test, he was still one of them: a man of the Groves – now serving their community in a different capacity. Ivar Knuttson treated Per like a dirty thrall; like a mere nithing, unworthy of even the slightest degree of respect.
When Ingvar had told Bjarki after supper that it was his turn to take the first watch that night, Bjarki had merely nodded his assent and begun to walk away. Then Ivar, quite unnecessarily, had bawled after him: ‘And don’t fall asleep, you dozy fool, or I’ll cut that fat head of yours clean off!’
It was a small thing, a silly, childish threat, and Bjarki knew he must ignore it, but it irked him. He wished that Gunnar were with him; they could have joked about the stupidity of the Boar Rekkr and made each other laugh like donkeys. But Gunnar had not even been considered to join the company.
Gunnar was still a novice. He had not been enrolled in the ranks of the Barda by Angantyr – a decision that was entirely the Lodge Father’s to make. Gunnar was the oldest of the novices by a year and more but in the grizzled old Rekkr’s opinion he was not yet ready to fight. Perhaps Bjarki’s friend never would receive that honour. Perhaps he was destined to become a Lodge servant. Yet Bjarki admired him, despite his lack of ambition, and sorely missed him. Gunnar would have made him feel better. He would also probably have made him admit out loud that he loathed Ivar Knuttson.
‘Want me to stick a knife in his kidneys when he’s asleep?’ whispered Per as Bjarki stumped off furiously to begin his sentry watch. ‘I’d be happy to do it for you, Bjarki. Honestly, it would give me the greatest satisfaction.’
That wasn’t the answer. Ivar was still a comrade, even if Bjarki hated him. But neither could Bjarki be bothered to reprimand the servant for his joke.
* * *
It was chilly, sitting out there on the fringe of the camp a few yards from the edge of the First Forest, staring into the wall of black trees. Bjarki pulled his excellent cloak tighter around his body. He did, in fact, feel dangerously sleepy after a day’s march and a large plate of mutton stew for supper, but he was certainly not going to fall asleep. Even though he knew Ivar would not actually cut his head off. He couldn’t allow himself to fail his comrades.
He adjusted the position of the hilt of the sword in its sheath, which was digging into his waist. That was one of the best things about being a Barda – they had been handsomely kitted out before they even left the shade of the Irminsul. They had each been issued leather-lined woollen cloaks, good lime-wood shields with iron bosses, and each Barda had received a steel helmet, a boiled-leather cuirass, a pair of leather greaves reinforced with iron, a sword, a hand-axe and an ash-wood spear – a long single-bladed, broken-back seax, too, for those like Bjarki who did not possess one already.
He had even been issued with thick-soled fighting boots, since the cheap leather shoes he had acquired in Flens were already falling apart. The Fyr Skola company was better equipped even than some of Theodoric’s poorer hersirs – and much better than most of the ordinary Saxon soldiers. Bjarki hoped that, when the time came, he would prove worthy of his weaponry.
He could definitely feel his eyelids drooping and, rather than risk slumber, he got to his feet and began to pace around the perimeter of the camp, trying to avoid looking at the high-piled campfire in order to preserve his night vision. Just one more hour, he told himself, just another hour, and he could wake Ugo for his turn as sentry and climb into his own warm blankets.
He wondered what battle would be like when they came to the church. He had few doubts about their victory – they had three of the legendary Rekkar with them. They would be surprising a sleeping enemy, numerically inferior, and sheltering behind half-built walls. He wondered if he would have to kill anyone in the coming fight – and what that would feel like. He had no memory at all of the killings he had done in the dunes. He found, when he thought about it, when he thought properly about the snuffing out of another human life, that he was not as eager for gore and glory as he had been in the Bear Lodge. But he must not show cowardice before the others.
‘Psst!’
Bjarki stopped dead in his tracks. He was standing a few paces from the wall of the First Forest, with the camp at his bank. Had he imagined that?
‘Psst! Bjarki.’
A jolt of terror flashed from his scalp to his soles: the First Forest was calling to him. Valtyr had said it was alive. Or some spirit or animal demon living in the darkness of its interior was calling to him. He found he had the drawn sword in his right hand, shield in the other, legs braced for impact. He opened his mouth to scream out the alarm. Whatever fiend was out there, he would fight it. He felt suddenly icy cold; the rushing was loud in his ears…
‘Bjarki! I’m over here, you half-blind oaf. Wake up! It’s me.’
* * *
‘You must be the world’s worst sentry,’ said Tor. ‘I’ve known logs of wood that were more aware of their surroundings. Those menhirs are more alert.’
‘I’m well, thank you, Tor,’ said Bjarki. ‘Burns all healed up. No, no, truly, there’s no need to thank me for speaking for you at the Thing House. Or to say goodbye. No need at all. Your gratitude is not necessary at all.’
Tor gave him a long, hard look.
‘Bitterness doesn’t suit you,’ she said. ‘Or were you attempting to be funny? Anyway, I did come to thank you before I left and I was told – in none-too-friendly terms by your pal Gunnar – that you were exhausted and sleeping
like a baby. Did he not tell you that I came to say farewell?’
‘No. Oh. All right, never mind. So… what are you doing here?’
‘I’m starving, if you want to know. Got any food?’
‘Plenty, thanks for asking. We had a magnificent supper in the camp – hot mutton stew and buttered turnips, followed by apples and fresh cheese!’
They were sitting just inside the tree wall of the First Forest, looking out over the sleeping Eresburg contingent. Bjarki reckoned he could still keep a good watch for enemies and talk to Tor at the same time. He reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out a few hard, dusty strips of dried beef, the remains of a snack, which he handed over to Tor. She mumbled something that almost resembled thanks with her full, fast-chewing mouth.
‘What are you doing here?’ Bjarki said after a few moments.
Tor wiped her lips. ‘I’m Voyaging.’
‘What?’
‘You know, I’m wandering the First Forest with no food, all alone, tying to contact the Wolf spirit. I’m trying to discover my gandr.’
‘Don’t you ever give up?’
‘There’s been a set-back, for sure, being kicked out of the Fyr Skola was unlucky, but there are always obstacles to overcome. I shall be a Rekkr like my father. That’s what I set out to do. That’s what I’m going to do.’
Bjarki was slightly awed by her determination.
‘What happened to Valtyr? Where is he now?’
‘He’s gone east, I think. We had a disagreement. He said I should go back to Svearland, become a warrior, join a jarl’s retinue. I decided not to.’
‘So you plan to live in the forest until you meet the Wolf, is that it?’
‘That’s the plan. You know there have been Rekkar in the Middle-Realm since the dawn of time, don’t you? Long before the Fyr Skola was created. Some folk have always been able to summon their gandr, or call up the Beast inside their hearts. There are natural Fire Born, you know. I don’t need the Mikelgothi or the Fyr Skola or even Valtyr to reveal my destiny.’
