by Angus Donald
‘We had to swear that oath to the king,’ said Tor, ‘or we would have been slain. I swore the oath at the point of a sword and therefore I feel no shame in breaking it now. He was an enemy. We owed him no fidelity.’
‘The oath I made to the king was, as you say, extracted at the point of a sword. But does that really make it less binding? All oaths are made with the knowledge that not making them has consequences. Swear and I shall reward you, says the jarl; do not swear and you shall be shown no favour.’
Once again there was an awkward silence.
‘I do not mean this as an attack on your personal honour, Tor,’ said Bjarki, ‘only on mine. There is some merit to your point-of-a-sword argument. But my own oath-breaking troubles me. I have thought about this long and hard and I have come to realise that I feel the most shame because I broke the vow I made on joining the Fyr Skola by sharing its secrets with its mortal enemies – as you’d put it. So, this is what I have decided to do. In order to expiate my shame, I will journey to the Groves of Eresburg, and beg the Mikelgothi for forgiveness in the shade of the One Tree where the oath was made. I shall undertake whatever punishment she sees fit to give me.’
‘So you will come west with us then?’ said Tor.
‘I will go with you to the Groves, if that is where your road takes you,’ he said. ‘But when I have received forgiveness, I’ll come back here and seek out this long-haired dream-seller and his duke and make one final oath, which I shall never break as long as I breathe. This is what I have decided.’
‘If you went to the Groves, you could call out Ivar Knuttson – expose him as a cheat and a coward – you saw him flee at Thursby, yes?’ said Tor.
‘This is so,’ said Bjarki gravely. ‘And I will gladly fight him again in the Fyr Pit.’ He fingered the dent in his face where the man had bitten him.
‘To see that,’ Tor said, ‘I would happily risk a visit the Groves.’
‘You know that the Mikelgothi may well order you, for your penance, to go north immediately and fight for Duke Theodoric?’ said Valtyr.
‘She might. But when the last battle is over. I shall return to Brenna – if I survive the slaughter – and seek to make a new life out east.’
‘So be it,’ said Valtyr. ‘It is agreed. And may the Bear guard you.’
* * *
They bought horses the next morning, using the last of the Frankish coin, and fresh provisions and new boots for both Tor and Bjarki as theirs were worn to shreds after their long march. They debated whether to sell Garm to an animal dealer they saw at the Spring Market, and both agreed that it was the sensible thing to do – but when it came to it, they could not.
‘The cub would be raised as a freak, a tame wildling,’ said Bjarki.
‘Someone would offer people the chance to kill a live bear,’ said Tor. ‘Or they would set the dogs against him in the pit when he was bigger.’
So Tor fashioned a padded leather sling in which they could carry the animal as they rode along. Valtyr told them they were mad.
It was gone noon the next day before they rode from the gate of Brenna, crossed the bridge and took the road heading southwest. Bjarki turned back in the saddle when they had gone not more than a few hundred paces down the road – it was a rough, muddy track that would have been despised in Francia – and took a last look at the place he hoped to return to.
The Spring Market was already winding down, and there were wagons and carts streaming out of the main gate, which was flung wide open as those who had sold all their goods or bought everything they were looking for began to make their way home. Most of the traffic was heading north towards the distant coast, and Bjarki wondered whether he would ever be able to catch up with the long-haired man – Goran – when he came back to Brenna to take up his master’s offer. What had he said? A man who wished free land must do homage to Duke Leszko in Poznan, wherever that was.
Poznan – he would remember the name.
* * *
They rode hard, pushing themselves and their horses, and were lucky in that the weather was dry and warm. Bjarki was a poor rider but he was determined not to slow the others down. Tor, who had learnt to ride well as a young girl in Svearland as part of her military training, told Bjarki he looked like a sack of wet barley in the saddle, and made a series of jokes about the suffering horse, named Spot, which had to carry his enormous bulk.
‘Be quiet, Tor,’ said Valtyr eventually. ‘You are wearing my old ears out. And besides, these frontier lands are far from safe. There are said to be swarms of bandits – both Slav and Saxon – in these parts. Keep your mouth shut, your eyes on the skyline and your mind on any potential dangers.’
‘The greatest danger is to poor old Spot,’ said Tor, ‘who must be at the point of expiring, having to bear that unwieldy sack of lard all day long.’
‘Go and scout the road ahead, Tor,’ said Valtyr testily. ‘Go on.’
After that they took up their former practice of travelling mostly in silence, and making all their conversations in the evening around the fire.
There were other familiar aspects of travelling with Valtyr. Tor used her bow to hunt for game, and they ate well most nights. They crossed the River Elbe, swimming beside their horses, and entered Saxony, into the homelands of the Eastphalian tribe. The farms and small villages they passed began to have a homely comforting air; the houses and barns were all the right shape and size, the hedges and fences fashioned in the normal way. The alien-ness of the Wendlands, and before that of Francia – which they had only been aware of in the deepest parts of their minds – fell away. Familiarity re-asserted itself. And always on their left flank as they rode, sometimes close enough to touch and sometimes several leagues away, was a green ocean of a wilder, older countryside: the First Forest.
Bjarki was interested to note, on a day when the road took them hard up against the mossy barrier of ancient, tangled trees, that the local people here followed the old practice of their western compatriots and nailed up living sacrifices to the spirits of the forest: here a skinny spring lamb, pathetically pinioned to the bark of an ancient oak and slowly rotting to pieces; there the severed head of a surprised-looking bull balanced atop a thick beech bough.
Every day, when the sun began to sink in the west, they sought out a place to make their camp. Bjarki would fetch water and wood, Valtyr would usually cook the stew and keep an eye on Garm as the little beast rambled about sniffing and exploring, and Tor took herself a little way away and worked on something involving the mysterious bulky bundle they had carried all the way from the cave. It was a secret, she said. It was meant to be a surprise – and she refused to say any more about her activities. All Bjarki learnt was that it was strenuous work, whatever she did out there, for she came back flushed and sweaty to the fire when it was too dark to see.
It was usually full night by the time they ate, gathered round a decent blaze, and afterwards when Valtyr was in the mood, he would tell a story.
On the fifth night of their journey, Tor said: ‘Tell us about a battle, Valtyr! Since we are heading off to the war, tell us something heroic.’
The one-eyed man, who was teasing Garm with a piece of rabbit gristle, looked across the fire and said: ‘In that case, Tor, I shall tell you of the battle of Blundfjell, in which your own father, Hildar Torfinnsson, took part.’
He passed the cub over to Tor, who set the animal on her lap, wrapped in her cloak. Valtyr took a large swig of water from the leather skin, and began.
‘The events I am to relate took place more than twenty years ago, before either of you were born, in the hard lands known as the Little Kingdoms, north across the sea from the Dane-Mark. In those days, the kings of Varmland and Vestfold were the greatest of rivals; they were cousins, you see, and their fathers had been brothers who hated each other from birth. Vestfold was rich, though, from fishing and good husbandry but Varmland was poor, mostly covered as it was with thick forests and lakes. No man can say why the war began, both sides oft
en raided over the border into their neighbours’ lands, coming through the high passes to lift the cattle and sheep and take them home. There were always casualties, always some blood feud between the farmsteaders who lost family to the violence.
‘But one year, Ole, King of Varmland, married one of his daughters to Harald Fox-Beard, the powerful king of Svearland and, to seal their new alliance, he invited the great lord of the Svears to come one spring with his warriors and join him in a raid on his neighbours in the Vestfold. Harald agreed and summoned his jarls and his hersirs and their warriors and he personally led them through the thick forests of Varmland to Ole’s hall.
‘Harald’s army was five-hundred shields – a formidable force in those days – Ole supplied only a hundred men, and he stayed snug in his hall that spring, not from cowardice, but because he had suffered a broken leg. But after a long, dull winter by the hearth, his young men were eager to fight alongside the Svears, even without their king, all of them in a lather to take plunder and thralls. And the untested warriors of Svearland were equally keen to make names for themselves and prove their valour to the women folk back at home. It always astonished me,’ said Valtyr, ‘how often I hear stories of a bold young man doing something impossibly reckless to impress a pretty girl he fancies…’
‘Was my father trying to impress a girl?’ asked Tor.
‘Not him. Not then,’ said Valtyr. ‘He was a lost man then; a ragged, homeless vagabond. He had come to Harald’s court the winter before, in the middle of a terrible snowstorm, and begged to be allowed to serve the king, in any capacity at all. And Harald Fox-Beard took pity on him—’
‘Wait,’ said Tor. She looked perplexed. ‘Surely he was then a great hero, a famous Rekkr, why would Harald take pity on him? And where had he come from to be lost in a storm? You’re not making any sense, Valtyr.’
‘He had come from the Fyr Skola. He had been expelled from the Groves. He killed four servants and two Barda. I am sorry, Tor, but your father went Galálar shortly after his Voyaging. He came back from a month in the forest, where he met his Wolf, but the meeting was too much for his heart. He just exploded one day and began slaying every person in his path. The Ropers quickly netted him, of course, and the fit passed. But…’
Tor’s expression had not changed. ‘They kicked him out; just like they did me. Sent him packing. Made him a vagabond.’
‘They did. Perhaps it would have been kinder to kill him. But you would not be here today, if they had done that, Tor.’
Tor said nothing. She stroked the bear cub and stared into the fire.
‘This story isn’t very heroic, so far,’ said Bjarki. ‘Does it get better?’
‘Would you rather I did not speak of this, Tor?’
‘No, it’s all right. I suspected that my father was not… perfect. Continue with your tale, Valtyr. Let’s get to the heroic part, if there is one.’
‘There is.’
Valtyr took another long swig of water. ‘So Hildar Torfinnsson, exiled and hungry, presented himself at the court of Harald Fox-Beard in the deep midwinter, and was taken into service. And all the cold season he was meek and mild, never hurt a fly. Some of the other young men in the retinue thought he was a weakling, thought he was no warrior, a nithing. Hildar kept his head down, he accepted the insults of his comrades, and bided his time.’
Bjarki got up and added another log to the fire. The faces in the firelight and the sparks rising upwards, the soothing hum of Valtyr’s voice, all made the old man’s word-world come to life. Bjarki could imagine the taunts of Harald’s jarls, and Hildar, knowing what he did of his true self, knowing what things he was capable of, keeping his eyes down. Saying nothing. Taking no offence. Serving his new Svear lord in humble silence.
‘At first, King Harald’s grand raid into the Vestfold lands was a great success. The combined Svearlander and Varmlander army surprised a rich lowland town and sacked it, carrying away great booty, and leaving it in flames. They descended on dozens of remote farmsteads and took many cattle. A small force of Vestfold hersirs and some of the braver local farm boys, a few scores only, confronted the invading army, but they were easily swept aside. All the while, the king of Vestfold – Anders Black-Tooth was his name – was quietly raising an army, calling his jarls to his banner. Summoning his hersirs from across his land, all the men who owed fealty.’
The bear cub was restless, and whining softly, scrabbling at Tor’s chest. She handed him silently over to Bjarki, who fumbled in his pouch for a few morsels of hard cheese he always carried there: the cub’s favourite snack.
‘Harald called a halt to the pillaging after a few weeks. The harassment from the small, swift-moving army of local farmers and hersirs was becoming a nuisance; a few of his men died every day. They had gathered a vast herd of cattle and many wagonloads of plunder. It was time to go home.
‘“Black-Tooth is too cowardly to confront us,” Harald told his men. So they would come again next year, and the year after that. But now it was time to go home and enjoy all that they had gained by war. So they formed a long column, hauling their booty by slow-lumbering ox-carts, and set off north back to the mountain pass that would take them east into Varmland.
‘But King Anders was no coward, nor was he stupid, nor yet had he been idle. He had slowly and surely raised a formidable force from all across his own lands, a muster almost twice the size of Harald’s invading army, and he set them to watch the pass through which he knew Harald and his warriors must eventually cross, beneath a mountain called the Blundfjell.
‘The slow-moving column of ox-drawn wagons was being attacked constantly by the rag-tag army of Vestfolders, angry men who had lost everything to the invaders, and who crept in by night and took their revenge, slaughtering the warriors of Svearland in their blankets, before fleeing into the darkness, disappearing into the countryside they knew well. The spring rains began then, and the wet did not cease for many days, which turned the roads into quagmires and made the ox-carts move more slowly. The wagons became stuck in the mire daily and needed to be lifted out by brute force.
‘The Vestfolder attacks came by day now, as well as by night. The Svearlander casualties mounted, hour by hour. Harald Fox-Beard rode up and down the column, urging his men and women to move along faster. When the carts full of loot became stuck in the glutinous mud, he told his warriors to abandon their treasures and ride on. But few obeyed him. They had bled for that plunder. They would carry it home, or die in the attempt. The mountain of Blundfjell loomed over them as they struggled onwards. “We’ll soon be safe in Varmland,” Harald told his exhausted, mud-slathered troops. “One last effort, and we’ll be in the lands of our friend and ally!” Then the beleaguered column came to the saddle of land beneath the high mountain where, to their surprise and horror, they saw the mighty army of Anders Black-Tooth waiting for them, blocking the only road home.’
Valtyr yawned. ‘Are you sure you want me to continue, my children?’ he said. ‘It is late. You look sleepy, Tor, shall I stop now and tuck you in?’
He was grinning slyly at them both.
‘You stop now, old man, and I’ll cut your other eye out the moment you fall sleep,’ said Tor.
‘As you wish, my little firebrand,’ he said. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes, the Svearlander column was surrounded beneath Blundfjell: behind them was the rag-tag militia of dispossessed and angry Vestfolders; on either side loomed impassable mountains; and before them a fresh army of mail-clad jarls and doughty hersirs – a thousand shields blocking their path.
‘The invaders abandoned their plunder-wagons now; they were forced to. They released all the thralls they had taken and drove them away. And the Svearlander army drew together in one compact mass. But there were fewer than four hundred left alive after the bloodletting of the past weeks.
‘King Harald addressed his demoralised troops. “We cannot go back down into Vestfold,” he said. “We would be hunted down, chased around the enemy’s lands until we were all dead. A
nd we cannot fly over these accursed mountains. There is only one thing to be done,” he said. “We must go forward together and smash the impudent enemy who dares stand before us.”
‘His jarls pointed out that the enemy had more than a thousand fresh men in their shield wall, while they had only a few hundred wounded and exhausted ones. “Look at them, Fox-Beard, look! Three men deep in a wall that stretches across the whole pass. We cannot hope to beat them.”
‘That was when Hildar Torfinnsson stepped forward out of the throng of noble jarls and proud hersirs. “Great Lord,” he said, “if we cut off the head of the snake, the body will surely die. I will kill their king for you personally. I can break their shield wall alone and cut down Black-Tooth. If you will follow after me, when I make my charge, we can split the enemy line asunder. When they are leaderless, then we can make our escape down the other side of the mountain and into the safety of our ally’s lands.”
‘The king’s hearth-men laughed and taunted Hildar, calling him mad and boastful, and a liar if he made these foolish claims. But the king listened to his voice. “Who else has a plan to save us?” he said. Not one warrior answered. “Very well, Hildar Torfinnsson, if you can break their wall and kill King Anders, I shall follow you into the fray, and we shall have victory.”
‘In the chill of the mountain air, Hildar stripped himself of his clothing, he took only his long axe, a seax and a shield, and wearing no armour but fur vambraces on his forearms and greaves over his boots, he began to hum.
‘He hummed, and he hummed some more, and his gandr came to him. Nearly naked, and all alone, he charged into the shield wall of the king of Vestfold’s jarls. It was just one man against a thousand foes, so the stories tell us. Yet this was not quite true. The Fire Born charged the very centre of the enemy line, where Anders Black-Tooth had set his personal banner.
