by Angus Donald
‘Marco, where are you?’ The call was a shocking breach of the silence.
The rider looked back over his shoulder. ‘I’m up here, Sextus.’
‘Any sign of them?’
‘Nothing. They’re long gone by now for sure. We should be too.’
‘Yes, well, that’s for the captain to say. Get on back down here.’
The rider turned his horse, and walked it back the way he had come. Tor realised that she had been holding in her breath for a very long while.
* * *
They saw nobody on the second day, trudging on endlessly through the trackless wilderness, Bjarki occasionally using the lichen on the trees to keep them heading northwards. Neither of them knew how long they would have to travel before they came to a settlement of any description, nor what they would find when they got there.
Bjarki spent much of the day in a pain-filled trance, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other, his head down, his wounds leaking. When they made camp that night he fell down in the snow and immediately went to sleep. Tor had to cover his body with a blanket or he’d have frozen to death. She had to slap him briskly awake next morning.
On the third day they came to a narrow track, not really a road, a path no wider than two men abreast, and saw the fresh hoofmarks of horsemen in the muddy snow, a large group, heading south. It was unnerving to think the enemy had been in the north, ahead of them.
They bickered briefly about whether to take the track: easier going but more risk of encountering Red Cloaks. Tor won. They eschewed the track and continued on through the forest. Bjarki was too weak to argue, anyway.
They now had about three days’ food, by Tor’s calculation, most of it hard bread and cheese, and dried sticks of venison, which she had looted from the Black Cloaks’ saddlebags before putting the horses to flight after the battle at the cave. Tor figured they could hunt game, if they ever saw any, and kept her ash-wood bow and arrow she had constructed to hand.
On the fourth evening they came across a small hunters’ hut with a big hole in the ancient shingle roof, and they risked a fire inside and a hot meal.
Tor had managed to shoot a snow hare and they roasted the animal inside the hut, and slept relatively warm for once. The bear cub was quiet, and subdued, though; he seemed to be pining for the cave, the only home he had ever known, or for his dead mother. He curled in a ball and whined softly for much of the evening, refusing to eat the scraps of roasted hare or even nibble the dwindling stock of cheese that Tor offered to him.
She tried cuddling the creature in her arms and singing to him as if he were a baby, while Bjarki snored like a drunk. But the little bear buried his head further in, curled himself tighter and cried softly until he fell asleep.
On the fifth day, the forest began to thaw. The sun came out strongly and the trees were filled with the sounds of dripping, and the merry gurgling of streams and brooks. The animals began to reappear, and birds called from the newly bare branches, and Tor shot a fallow deer in the belly in the early afternoon and, while Bjarki and the cub rested beside a fallen oak tree, she tracked its trail of scarlet droplets till she came upon the corpse of the animal. She cut a haunch from the young buck and hefting it onto her shoulder, she ported it back to their camp in triumph. That night they all feasted. Even the cub perked up and discovered an interest in the fresh meat.
Tor changed Bjarki’s bandages and was astounded to discover that despite the rigours of five days of hard marching through the wilderness, his wounds were almost closed now and there was no infection that she could see or scent. He was a very long way from healed and whole but he was on the mend. She felt cheerier in herself, as well. Even the cub seemed happy. They’d seen no sign of the pursuing Red Cloaks for two whole days.
With their stomachs full of hot roasted venison, snuggled down in their furs and blankets, and a small blaze warming their toes, they felt cosy, comfortable, content and even relaxed for the first time in a very long while.
‘So, oaf, tell me what it’s like,’ said Tor.
‘What is what like?’
‘You know.’
Bjarki leant forward and shoved a log further into the fire, causing sparks to fly upwards in a cascade of orange and gold. The bear cub, Garm, dreaming beside Tor, gave a soft snore, rolled over on his back and farted.
‘Tell me, oaf – I don’t believe I’m ever going to find out for myself.’
Bjarki still seemed unwilling to speak. Eventually, he looked at her and said: ‘It’s wonderful – and horrible – both at the same time.’
‘Keep talking.’
‘You feel so powerful, so fast and clever, like a god, somehow, or a hero, as if you could do anything, anything at all. Soar like an eagle or jump over a lake, knock down a mountain with your bare fists… And when you kill a man, when you rip away his life, it feels as good as… actually, it feels as good as fucking. It’s like sex, when you plunge into a girl for the first time.’
Tor, who had no experience in this field of combat, said: ‘Ah, I see.’ Then, when it seemed that Bjarki would say no more: ‘So why horrible?’
‘It is horrible because a part of you – the human part of you, the real part of you – is standing outside the body of the Rekkr, watching as it slays and stabs, laughs and destroys his enemies. It is horrible because you can feel the jolt up your arm as your blade strikes home; and you smell the fresh hot blood and spilled bowels… but it isn’t you who is doing the fighting. The Rekkr is killing them, not you. You feel you are being dragged along behind the gandr as it tears a delightful bloody path through the enemy’s flesh. And when you come back, when your gandr leaves you at last, you feel ashamed, you feel dirty and sore all over, and not just from the wounds you’ve taken while it was in control. You feel – how can I say it? – used.’
They sat in silence for a little while.
‘Did I ever tell you my father was a famous Rekkr?’ said Tor at last.
‘I think you may have mentioned it.’
‘I don’t remember his face much; he died when I was young. But when I was growing up I remember his presence: a powerful presence in the house, looming, filling the whole space, and more than a little frightening. I think my mother truly feared him. Hated him. And there is something else. I told you, I think, that he died gloriously in battle. Sometimes my mother told me that story. He had been a big hero in the wars against the Kingdom of the Vestfold. She said that was how they met: the King of Svearland, whom he loyally served, rewarded his valour with lands and a village and a bride – one of the king’s wards – my mother, Gytha. He was appointed hersir and the people in the village he owned all respected him – and feared his wrath.’
Tor pulled the blankets tighter around her. ‘You still awake, oaf?’
‘Yes – your father was a very great man, it seems.’
‘No, that’s not the point. I think my mother lied about his death. She used to have bruises, on her face and her arms, all the time; she had cuts and abrasions. She looked like you do now. Sometimes she could not get out of bed for the pain and claimed she was sick. Or she would say that she tripped and fell but… I know she cringed away from him. She encouraged me to learn how to fight, to protect myself. And she told me that my father went off to war and died fighting the king’s enemies, falling bravely in battle…
‘But I don’t think that is true. I heard other stories growing up; stories whispered in the village. I heard that my father had killed himself. There was a local high place, a great big rock overlooking the sea near our village, it was called Thor’s Rock. I heard that my father went there in despair one dark night, and threw himself off that rock and into the wild sea below.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bjarki, sitting up and looking at Tor.
‘I think… I suspect that he went mad, that all his valour in battle and his status later did nothing to stop him going Galálar. His gandr took over his mind. Like Brokk, of the Bear Lodge, you told me about him, remember? I
think my father used to beat my mother, frequent brutal beatings, till she was near to death, and he was ashamed that he could not control himself, that he could not control his gandr. So, in the end, I believe he took his own life.’
Chapter Twenty-four
The Spring Market
Ten days later, an hour after dawn, dirty, hungry and footsore, Bjarki, Tor and Garm found themselves walking out of the forest and beside a wide, placid blue lake. They approached a weed-covered field, where a ploughman and his ox team were carving out the first furrows of the year.
The snows had shrunk and finally disappeared as they walked, and the trees had become thinner before dissolving completely as their feet found a definite track leading them back into the lands of men. There had been no more evidence of the Red Cloaks since that brief encounter, and both Tor and Bjarki were convinced that they were beyond the reach of their foes.
Three weeks after the battle at the cave, and after hundreds of miles of hard travel on foot, Bjarki – astonishingly – seemed almost fully recovered from the wounds he had taken. But he was very thin, and tired beyond belief.
‘It’s not natural,’ muttered Tor, who had twisted an ankle on a root in the woods three days before and was still limping. ‘It’s downright freakish.’
In the distance, a mile or two away, they could see the long mossy wooden walls of a decent-sized town built on the banks of a slow brown river. ‘Any idea where we are?’ Bjarki asked.
‘I’m not sure but I think we are somewhere east of the River Elbe,’ said Tor. ‘In the land of the Vindr, or the Wends, as they call themselves. Valtyr used to speak about them from time to time. Stubborn fighters.’
The map they had been given in Aachen, long abandoned, had been vague about anything beyond the walls of Regensburg, merely marking the territory they had walked through as indistinguishable forest with little tree symbols. Tor thought they must have travelled a good three hundred miles on foot, roughly north, and were now completely out of Francia in the Slavic pagan lands to the east. That meant, presumably, that they were safe from the king’s wrath. However, the Wends, despite sharing a deep hatred of the Franks, were not the natural allies of the many peoples of the North.
According to Valtyr, there had been much thrall-taking and pillaging by pirate bands from the lands of the Svears and the Gottar, and from the Dane-Mark, too, over the years. These rovers descended suddenly on the northern shores of Wendland, coming across the Eastern Lake in their swift, narrow dragon-ships to murder and rape and steal and burn the farms of the locals.
Indeed, several full-pitched battles had been fought between boatloads of warriors from Svearland and the stolid shield-men of the Wendish tribes.
So Bjarki and Tor kept their weapons handy, guarded their tongues, and had Garm well hidden inside Bjarki’s cloak as they joined the mass of people waiting patiently to cross the wooden bridge over the river and enter the gates of the town. The language spoken around them was different to their own tongue, yet so close to the Saxon border there were a few people here who spoke their northern language, although with a thick Slav accent.
It was a special day, apparently, for on this sunny morning hundreds of people from all the surrounding villages had come to this town – which was called Brenna, they quickly learned – for their famous Spring Market.
Bjarki exchanged a few pleasantries with an older man and discovered that this was a celebrated annual event and folk came from hundreds of miles to buy and sell goods – Brenna was renowned for its fine pottery – and greet their friends and neighbours after the snow-bound seclusion of winter.
The man, who was named Hufnar, came from the northwest of Wendland, not very far from the Dane-Work, in fact. He was a salt trader, making his own product in the pools of the shallow bay where he lived with his family and moving it by mule for sale all over the eastern lands.
‘So where do you come from, young fellow?’ he asked Bjarki.
Bjarki hesitated for a moment then, his imagination completely deserting him, he told the man the truth: ‘From Bago, in the Dane-Mark.’
‘You’re a long way from home, son. What brings you to Brenna?’
‘We are sell-swords looking for a generous lord,’ Tor interrupted. ‘Do you know if the big chief hereabouts might have need of two bold warriors?’
‘Lord Ostoja has half a hundred fighters already but I guess he might take on a couple more. But they are a rough bunch. You sure that’s what you want, missy?’ He looked doubtfully at Tor’s wiry frame.
‘Where would we find this Ostoja person?’ she said.
‘Lord Ostoja will be in the Old Tower, if he’s here today. Can’t miss it. East side of town. Tall square building. Lots of soldiers lounging outside.’
Hufnar had decided that Tor and Bjarki were not his kind of people after all and began edging away from them. The skinny young woman was clearly mad – or was mocking him in some way. As the gates of the town opened, he guided his loaded mule forward and positioned the beast between his plump body and these two filthy, emaciated, yet heavily armed lunatics.
* * *
The town of Brenna was home to nearly a thousand souls, a significant settlement by any yardstick, yet to Tor and Bjarki, after the glories of Aachen and even Regensburg, it seemed slow and comically provincial.
It was laid out in an oval shape, fenced by sharp logs, with the main gate at the western end by the river. There was one long, wide street, which ran west to east towards the wooden stronghold, or the Old Tower, as Hufnar called it, at the town’s east end. It was, Bjarki thought, not much more than the large courtyard of a big fortress, which was probably the town’s origin.
Dozens of little side alleys branched off this wide main street, forming little blocks between them that were occupied by the various allied trades and professions: the potters and the brick-makers had pride of place in the centre of town; the butchers and tanners were near the main gates; the grain merchants, millers and bakers occupied another block to the south of the main street. The jewellery-makers and the gold and silversmiths occupied one such block on the north side about halfway down.
Pausing briefly to admire a street stall that was set out with a scatter of glittering trinkets – brooches, pins, gold rings and clasps – lying on a faded purple cloth, Tor found herself looking into the face of Valtyr Far-Traveller.
The two just stared at each other for about three heartbeats.
‘Tor – you live!’ said Valtyr. ‘I assumed… I never imagined—’
‘What in the name of Thor’s hairy hole are you doing here?’
‘My usual trade, of course,’ he said. He looked beyond her shoulder. ‘And Bjarki! Well met! You look different, son. Older. Wait! Wait…’
The one-eyed man peered at the hulking warrior. ‘By the One Tree, it came to you. I can see it in you. Your gandr came to you. I’m so pleased.’
Tor grimaced.
‘But you both look half-starved. I’m sure there used to be a good deal more of you, Bjarki. Wait, just wait till I pack this up and we’ll go and eat.’
Half an hour later, they were sitting at a rough wooden bench at an inn beside the Old Tower, where Valtyr had taken lodgings for the three-day market, all munching hot mutton pies and drinking strong new-brewed ale.
‘I saw you last in the autumn, Tor, in the depths of the First Forest, ten miles north of the Groves, and you were utterly determined to Voyage till you found your own Wolf spirit,’ said Valtyr. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been in the woods all this time. You can’t have been! And instead of a gandr, you found a bear cub!’ He gave the wide-eyed animal a chuck under its chin.
Tor gave Valtyr a brief account of their adventures since they had parted company. The old man listened patiently, only stopping her once.
‘You say that Lord Paulinus has been sent packing and Father Livinus has been made the king’s chaplain and chancellor? Is that right?’
Bjarki and Tor confirmed it.
‘This is
grave news for our people,’ he said. ‘Livinus is even more of a fanatic than Paulinus. And he’s much more cunning than the other fellow too. He will not rest till the whole North is subjugated to the Christians.’
Bjarki took up the story of the journey to Regensburg, and the cave and the great bear. How he found his gandr, at last, and slew Lord Grimoald.
‘That was bravely done, Bjarki,’ the one-eyed man said. ‘Grimoald was a powerful force, and no friend to us. I rejoice in his death at your hands.’
They ordered more ale and, since Bjarki was still hungry, cheese and fruit and fresh bread, too. It was wonderful to be able to eat too much.
‘What news of the Groves?’ asked Bjarki. ‘Have you been back?’
‘The news is bad, I am afraid,’ said Valtyr. ‘All across Saxony the Franks are encroaching. Duke Theodoric has lost another two regions, and a dozen more churches have been built. The duke himself has retreated almost to the borders of the Dane-Mark. He has called for all free warriors of the North to come to his banner to resist the steady advance of the Franks.’
‘We should answer his call,’ said Tor, looking at Bjarki. ‘I am sure we would soon earn ourselves positions of honour among Theodoric’s jarls.’
Bjarki helped himself to another slice of bread and broke off a piece of cheese. He was avoiding their eyes. He fed some cheese to Garm.
‘You heard Valtyr,’ said Tor. ‘Duke Theodoric calls for warriors.’
‘Do you not wish to fight for him?’ asked Valtyr.
Bjarki looked down at the table. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m not fighting anyone until I have rested. Until I’m ready. Even then, I don’t know…’
‘You have a gift, Rekkr,’ said Valtyr. ‘The gods have given you strength. Will you not use it in defence of our land, to fight for all we love?’
