The Unbroken Line of the Moon

by Hildebrandt, Johanne

  Soon they were walking together toward the royal hall while the rest of the Jómsvíkings called out their best wishes.

  “Good luck, boy!”

  “Stand tall!”

  A dull rumble in the distance made them all look up at the gray clouds.

  “Thor is here,” Åke said. “This is going to turn out well.”

  The calm in Sweyn’s chest spread. He couldn’t have a better omen.

  The royal hall was deserted except for King Harald, who sat leaning forward on his throne, speaking in confidence to an ornately dressed, beardless man and Thyre and her husband Styrbjörn, who sat on the king’s right side. As Sweyn and his three fellow warriors stopped before the throne and bowed their heads, his half sister’s smile was both friendly and encouraging.

  The king talked to the beardless man for a long time before finally waving him away and leaning back in the throne.

  The daylight was not merciful to his fat face, and it was hard to believe that Harald had once been the strongest and most feared of the Danish warriors. The eyes that looked at Sweyn with abhorrence would have better suited a pig.

  “You summoned me, Father?” Sweyn said, waiting for whatever was going to come.

  Anger clouded Harald’s face darkly.

  “I ought to dismember you for the mess you made and send you to purgatory to burn there for eternity!” he said, his cheeks wobbling. “Thank Thyre for the fact that you’re still alive.”

  That very moment the hall was filled with the rumble of Thor’s chariot rolling across the sky. The beardless servant jumped at the noise and his face went white. Even Harald cast a glance up at the ceiling, and Sweyn could sense the stench of his fear of the gods he had so infamously abandoned. As for himself, Sweyn filled with unwavering strength. Thor stood by his side so he did not need to fear Harald, either in this world or the next, and if he were to be sent to Valhalla, the Great One would meet him there.

  King Harald angrily waved to the beardless fellow, who hurried over and spoke to the Jómsvíkings: “Harald Jelling, king of God’s mercy, has decided in his inexhaustible mercy to give you two ships with crews.”

  It was one ship less than Sweyn had asked for, but Palna had warned him he should expect that. Sweyn bowed his head, unable to conceal his pleasure at this tremendous triumph. Victory! The toothless bear had finally backed down.

  Another rumble of thunder, a bigger one, filled the cavernous royal hall, and the wind picked up, tugging at the doors. The servant looked around nervously and then said, “This grandiose gift, so mercifully given by the leader of kings, comes with two conditions you must swear to. The first is that you must fight at Styrbjörn the Strong’s side when he retakes his legitimate place on the throne of Svealand.”

  Sweyn sized Styrbjörn up with his eyes. Styrbjörn looked like a decent man, and Thyre had stood up for Sweyn’s birthright as her brother. It seemed like a fair requirement, and one that he could agree to.

  “You have my sword,” he said and received a pleased nod from Styrbjörn.

  Above them, Thor struck with Mjölnir. The sharp bang of the hammer echoed through the large hall as the wind yanked and tugged on the doors.

  “What is the second?” Sweyn asked.

  The beardless servant cleared his throat anxiously and said, “You must swear that King Harald, the leader of the Jellings, will never have to set eyes on you again.”

  Sweyn grinned broadly. Age and an excess of mead had made the old king’s head just as rotten as his teeth.

  “I make that promise gladly,” Sweyn said. The next time they met, Sweyn would thrust the sword into his fat belly and laugh at the old man’s death twitches.

  “Then it’s decided. Leave the hall,” the beardless man pronounced, turning his back to them. But Sweyn did not move. He was not going to be dismissed so easily.

  “When do I get my ships?” he asked.

  The beardless man gave the king a questioning look, and King Harald held up five fingers, indicating five days. Sweyn nodded.

  “And when do we take up arms against Svealand?” Sweyn asked.

  Styrbjörn straightened up to his full height, which was not insignificant, and declared: “Be ready at the spring sacrifice. I will send a messenger to Jómsborg then.”

  Now there was nothing more to discuss. Sweyn bowed his head, and the Jómsvíkings turned around and left the hall together. Thor greeted him with a thunderclap as they walked back to their camp, and his brothers thumped him on the back and congratulated him on his strength.

  Victory!

  Sweyn took a deep breath of the rain-laden air, raised his clenched fists to Thor, and closed his eyes as the wind tugged at his clothes.

  “I thank you,” he said as relief coursed through his body. “I will repay you for this forever.”

  He received a rumble of thunder as a response.

  This morning he had awakened as a simple warrior, a mere pup with no family, dependent on the goodwill of others. He had had no possessions other than his weapons, the clothes he wore, and the golden brooch given to him by Palna.

  Now he was Sweyn of Jelling, a ship captain and Jómsvíking with a noble lineage, a man to be remembered and feared. The throne of the Jellings would soon be within his reach.

  “Help me achieve this, Thor,” he implored, and as a lightning strike cleft the sky, he was filled with respect.

  The gods were truly with him.

  The courtyard was nearly deserted as Sigrid headed toward the Jómsvíkings’ camp with Alfhild, Jorun, and Orm in tow. A servant girl with her arms full of firewood gave them a nervous look before darting off. The guards standing on either end of the courtyard stared at them wide-eyed.

  Thor’s chariot rolled over the clouds in the distance, and a cheer could be heard from not far away.

  “Has the summer festival started?” Sigrid asked Orm, who shook his head.

  “Everyone’s at the thingstead to see the condemned be killed,” Orm said.

  “Oh, can we stop and watch?” Jorun pleaded. “It’s not far from the camp.”

  Sigrid looked up at the heavy gray cloud cover. The sun hadn’t reached its peak yet.

  “For a moment,” she said.

  “Thing killings are my absolute favorite,” Jorun said, her face beaming in delight. “Now it’ll be a real summer festival.”

  The whole region must have been gathered at the thingstead. The area was packed. Old and young, high and low class, everyone stood side by side around the hill where one of the Christian priests was praying over a man while the executioner stood next to him, waiting with his ax.

  A poor woman put her arms around her daughter’s shoulders, sadness and revulsion in her face. A man stood next to them, a carpenter, judging from his clothes. Like many of the others, his eyes were filled with a thirst for blood.

  Sigrid reluctantly followed Orm, who led them all the way to the foot of the hill. Being surrounded by so many strangers was unpleasant, but the people they encountered quietly moved out of their way. People looked at them, stunned. They whispered and pointed at their simple shifts and the wreaths of flowers they wore over their loose hair.

  “It’s the three sisters,” people said and gasped, looking at Sigrid, Jorun, and Alfhild. “They’re back. It’s a sign.”

  Sigrid furrowed her brow in surprise at the looks, which were filled with expectant joy.

  Up on the hill the condemned man, an older man with graying hair and a pockmarked face, noticed them as he put his hand on his heart before kneeling and placing his head on the already-bloody chopping block. The executioner, a skinny man with a grim expression, raised his ax. The air grew tense with anticipation as everyone stared at the hill.

  The next moment the blade fell on the back of the condemned man’s neck, and his head rolled off into the grass as a murmur ran through the crowd. People nodded to each other in relief.

  May he find peace in Niflheim.

  Sigrid walked up to the foot of the hill, where c
hieftains, priests, and noblemen had gathered around King Harald, who was sitting in a chair. They all stared at her uneasily, as if she were a frost giant from Jotunheim, and whispered among themselves.

  The king’s merciless eyes caused Sigrid to shudder. Thyre knelt at his side and kissed her father’s hand and then whispered something to him. The little venomous snake slithered around the dragon, manipulating him and whispering evil into his ear.

  Ulf, who was standing with the jarls behind the king, left his spot and came over to Sigrid.

  “You are causing quite a stir with your attire,” he said.

  “I’m wearing the clothes you’re supposed to wear on this, the holiest of days,” Sigrid said.

  Ulf gave her an amused look.

  “They say you’re dressed like the three sisters who used to do the sacrifices in Lejre at the summer festival back in the old days, and that you are defying the new religion and mocking the priests. You’ve managed to draw attention to yourself once again, sister.”

  Orm wrinkled his nose at Ulf’s words and said, “Svealand’s queen will dress as she sees fit.”

  Sigrid watched an old woman dart a hand out to touch her gray homespun dress. The woman bowed to Sigrid before sneaking a glance at the king and the noblemen. King Harald and the priests had imposed the death penalty for any Danes caught worshipping the old gods, but Sigrid was entitled to honor the old gods if she wished.

  “We’ll stay,” Sigrid said haughtily, holding her head high. Let them think what they will.

  Ulf sighed heavily.

  “All right, but I’m not planning to stand next to you this time,” he said, leaving her.

  Orm disdainfully watched him leave, and Sigrid was ashamed of her brother for having so little backbone just then, retreating and letting the cross worshippers have their way.

  “This would never happen in Svealand,” Orm said and then took his position behind her again.

  Olav from Gardarik moved into the spot Ulf had just vacated, smiling and once again unconcernedly showing Sigrid his friendship.

  “You’re late. There are only two left,” Olav said, pointing to the bodies at the foot of the hill.

  “Did they die well?” Sigrid asked.

  “Straight-backed and silent,” Olav responded.

  “Then the old ways are still strong in Lejre,” Sigrid said earnestly.

  “The next one won’t be as dignified,” Olav said and nodded to a young woman being led up the hill. She was skinny, and her shift was dirty and so worn that it hung in tatters around her. Her hair was matted, and her face was pale with fear as she clung to a religious man who walked beside her.

  The spectators fell quiet as a fat man with a heavy chain hanging around his neck stepped forward and called out the judgment: “Sif Stensdotter is to die for stabbing her husband, Eskil, to death in his sleep. After that she drowned her two children, Rota, age four, and Torvald, age two.”

  People yelled their hatred.

  “Behead the murderess. Kill her!”

  “The ax seems too kind a punishment for her,” Sigrid said. “Back home she would have been slowly hanged or stoned.”

  Olav shrugged and said, “They weren’t entirely sure she was guilty.”

  The woman clung to the priest so hard he had to pry her off.

  “Eskil killed them,” she said, sobbing. “I stabbed him because he killed the children.”

  Her shrill cries echoed over the hill as she struggled in vain to get free from the men. Finally they forced her down onto her knees in front of the executioner.

  “Please don’t kill me,” she screamed to the silent audience, tears running down her face. “He’s the one who did it! He took my children from me!” Her whole body trembled as she raised her clasped hands to the sky. “Save me, dear God. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

  One of the men took hold of her hair and forced her head to the chopping block. After that he let go, took a step back, and nodded to the executioner.

  The woman’s screams abruptly fell silent as the blade dropped on her neck and her body collapsed to the ground with her head next to it. Blood ran over the ground, and the sacrificial offering was received by a wind that swept over the hill, followed by flashes of lightning that cut through the heavy gray clouds.

  Thor, master of Mjölnir, I greet you.

  Thor received his offering, and the light of his hammer striking shook the earth. Sigrid heard a few shouts and cheers from the onlookers.

  “She is calling to her cross-god, but Thor is receiving her personally as a sacrificial offering,” Sigrid said.

  The executioner picked up the woman’s head by the hair and showed it to the crowd. Just then Thor’s chariot rumbled over them in the clouds. Sigrid smiled at Vanadís’s lover.

  Several of the spectators raised their hands to the sky and welcomed the Master of Thruthvang to the summer sacrifice. The air trembled from the giant slayer’s strength.

  The priests crowded behind the king’s chair, waving their hands in front of their chests and looking scared to death, as if Thor himself were going to burn them to ash.

  Thyre held her father’s hand and looked around anxiously.

  Sigrid caught her eye and smiled unkindly. Feel the power of the old ways, she thought as people’s yells thundered around her. Fear the punishment of the gods for turning your back on them. You’ll never be queen of Svealand, and you’ll never spread your cross worshipping in the most powerful kingdom of the old ways.

  “Could I give you a piece of advice?” Olav said quietly. Sigrid reluctantly turned toward him.

  “Calmly leave this place as if none of this happened.” His voice was both concerned and caring.

  “Why?”

  “You may be the spark that ignites discontent, which will not work to your advantage. I wish you well, so I ask you to follow my advice.”

  The priests and several of the jarls were glaring at her as if she were a monster. Around her the crowd surged like an unpredictable ocean that might erupt into a storm at any moment.

  “He’s right,” Orm said behind her.

  “Let’s go,” Jorun said, pushing herself against Orm’s breeches. “I’m scared.”

  Sigrid calmly took off her wreath of flowers, and then left the Thing space with her head held high.

  They bow down to your power, Vanadís. You and the Æsir still rule the Danes.

  “Your victory is only half,” Palna said with a seriousness that immediately extinguished Sweyn’s joy. His foster father had listened carefully to what had happened in the king’s hall. Palna sank down into a squat, his eyes on the ground.

  “But I got everything I asked for,” Sweyn said.

  “The king won quite a bit when he got you to swear you would assist Styrbjörn in his fight for Svealand. He is going to ask me to swear the same, and I cannot refuse him. That is how he keeps us away from his shores. He wisely fears us.”

  Sweyn squatted down beside Palna. He had hoped for his foster father’s recognition, but there was none to be found from the leader of the Jómsvíkings.

  “What’s wrong with fighting for Styrbjörn the Strong?” he said. “We’ve fought for Christians before. A Jómsvíking does not discriminate when it comes to silver. Those are your own words.”

  Palna looked up at the darkening clouds for a prolonged moment and then finally asked, “What were you born to do?”

  “To take Harald’s throne and kingdom, the way you planned.”

  “Who is the strongest who could help you do that?”

  Sweyn sucked the air in between his teeth. Only now did he understand. Erik, the king who highly valued the old ways, could have been a powerful ally.

  “I should have seen it,” Sweyn said, ashamed.

  “Three of the ring fortresses remain loyal to Harald. Their warriors aren’t worth as much as the Jómsvíkings in battle, but there are four times as many of them. With Erik’s axes and swords the victory would have been ours. Harald k
new what he was doing when he made you swear to fight on Styrbjörn’s side. The old boar has defended his throne for more years than most live, and he is extremely skilled at sowing discord.”

  “Skilled or not, when I get my ships I’m going to take what I want,” Sweyn said. “Those who don’t bow their heads in deference will end up kneeling to me once their warriors have fallen, their villages have burned, and their families have become fodder for eagles.”

  “The ships he’s giving you will be old and poorly built and with incompetent crews,” Palna said, scratching at the fleabites on his neck. “Still, no one will be able to say he behaved other than honorably.”

  He laughed softly.

  “You really shouldn’t have given him your answer so quickly. You should have discussed it with me.”

  Sweyn shook his head. Palna had taught him to tread cautiously, and even so he’d walked right into Harald’s trap.

  “Still, I have a name and ships. That wouldn’t have been worth much to you, but for me that’s a huge victory. I’ll take what I want, just you wait.”

  “Nothing pleases me more than your anger.” Palna looked toward the tents where Sigrid came walking with her retinue. “Still, I wonder if your desire for a different booty didn’t make you so eager to say yes to fighting against the Svea.”

  Damn it, she was beautiful, dressed in a simple shift with her hair down so it billowed over her shoulders. Sweyn could hardly breathe.

  “I cannot deny that I’ve never seen her match and would gladly have killed Erik and married her myself.”

  Palna took hold of Sweyn’s shoulders and swiveled him roughly back to face him.

  “Her father is like a brother to me. His honor is my own. You’re not to go near her. Hear me and obey.”

  Sweyn’s indignation grew into anger. He’d always done what Palna wanted without talking back, always done his best to obey his foster father, but on this he could not remain silent.

  “If Toste is like a brother to you, then how is it honorable of you to allow Sigrid to naively marry a man we’re planning to attack in the spring?”