As the sun brushed the edge of the sea, Pettir strode forward bearing a burning brand. Next came Kjallak and Grimhildr, each lighting brands of their own from his, followed by Halldor, Äke, Sigrid, and several others. They spaced themselves about the pyre, and as the sun touched the horizon, a horn sounded. They each cast their torches onto the pile of wood and corpses. The oil-soaked tinder caught quickly, and within moments the fire was a roaring tribute to the fallen, a light nearly as bright as the setting sun.
“Father of All, hear me!” Pettir proclaimed. “We send you this night our kin, fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons. Honor and keep them forever within your halls until finally they fight at your side in the Twilight of Days.”
He accepted a cup of mead from a thrall and poured its measure on the ground before continuing.
“Ancestors of my people, hear my words and rejoice! Tonight our beloved kinsmen will join your ranks. Honor them and keep them well, for they have defended your children and brought glory to your people!” As he finished, women came forward, casting sheaves of early grain into the roaring fire—a tribute to Ostara, on whose day the battle had been fought.
“Honored Dead, hear my words and carry them with you into the Halls of the Father! Hold your heads high before the gods and your ancestors; you have fallen in defense of your land and loved ones, and there is no greater honor than this! We will hold you in our hearts and memories until that day when we once again stand at your sides, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield, in the Twilight of Days.”
There was no further sacrifice after this. Too many had given their blood to the land, and that was sacrifice enough.
Pettir, followed by those that had lit the pyre, strode through the crowd, heading for the berm that surrounded the village and the road beyond. He would walk, head held high, all the way back to the hold. Though they would grieve for those that they had lost, they would carry on—this was the debt they owed to their dead.
There would be another feast at the hold, one simpler than the one of the previous night, but it would be attended in greater earnest as they celebrated their victory and honored the fallen. Sigrid knew those who had remained behind at the hold—including those who had fled there from the village—would have been busy throughout the day, making preparations. They would not slaughter another ox, but there would be roast pig. Leftovers from Ostara’s blöt would be gathered and reheated or extended as needed.
Sigrid found her appetite returning as she walked back to the hold. Her stomach made eager noises at the promise of more food.
“You are a healthy, passionate young woman, and a warrior to your core,” Grimhildr said as she came alongside Sigrid.
“Pardon, Aunt?” Sigrid said. She had been lost in her own thoughts.
Grimhildr smiled, a hungry grin that spoke knowingly of what thoughts were racing through Sigrid’s head. “Tonight,” the older woman said, “in the wake of battle, you may find that you want a man as you have never wanted one before. It is the body’s way to celebrate survival with an act of creation. It is natural and wholesome, but you must resist it if you can.” She clicked her tongue and her smile returned. “And forgive yourself if you can’t.”
“I…cannot imagine being taken in by such thoughts today, Aunt,” Sigrid said.
Grimhildr laughed and shook her head. “Choose your battles wisely, skjölmdo,” she said. “Not all of them are fought with langsaex and shield.”
Sigrid caught sight of Halldor, his head and shoulders above the other men around him, and she found herself blushing.
She managed to avoid both her aunt and the man whom Grimhildr had undoubtedly been referring to during the feast at the hold. She ate sparingly and drank less, finding her body suffused with exhaustion. Nearly every muscle ached, and she could not comprehend how many of the men were drinking and eating in greater quantity than they had the night before. It was as if they were trying to eat not only for themselves but for those who had fallen as well.
At length, as she was beginning to nod off, Pettir stood and offered one final toast to the defenders. He waved his hand toward his thralls, and the day’s bounty was brought forward. The men cheered as the Jarl began to distribute the plunder. First each of the surviving fighters was gifted with a small sack filled with rings and bracelets of silver and gold and a few gems or coins. Next came the time for special recognition for the heroes of the day, starting with the Shield-Brethren.
Pettir gave to Kjallak a beautifully ornamented torque of silver and gold. A saex knife of similar quality went to Halldor, and each of their men received a heavy armband of gold. Grimhildr was given more rings than she had fingers, as well as numerous chains of gold; Äke received a fine maille shirt.
“Sigrid,” Pettir called out. She blinked heavily, staring dumbly at her father. She didn’t understand why he was calling her name. Grimhildr shouted her name as well, and it was taken up by the others. She struggled to her feet, and pushed forward by the weight of the shouting around her, she walked to the high table.
“Sigrid, blood of my blood,” Pettir said when the cheering died out. “This day you have shown yourself a hero to equal any in the Sagas! Without you even the Shield-Brethren would not have saved us. When the shield wall fell we thought all lost, but you fought with such skill and ferocity you took the heart of the Danes and broke their will to fight. This victory belongs to you more than any other.”
She had expected to feel pride at his words, but her heart was in her mouth, and all she felt was an intense desire to run back to her table and hide beneath it. Pettir took her hands in his, holding her in place. He caught her attention, and as she looked into his eyes, she saw the truth of his words. “If I lived a thousand years and had a thousand children I could not be more proud than I am at this moment,” he said.
“Father,” she demurred, trying to pull away. Her embarrassment was even more acute. He let go of her, but only to place something in her hands. She gasped at the sight of the scabbarded langsaex.
Obviously one of the Danes had traveled far, for it was a langsaex in the style of the Rus far to the east. The hilt was like a narrow sword hilt in worked gold covered in knot work, and the scabbard fully framed in that metal with matching decoration. The horn handle had been incised with interlocking swirls in a style of decoration that she had not seen before.
“By the runes on its blade, this is Leg Biter,” her father said. “May it never fail you or our people in time of need.”
The men cheered, the voices thundering in her ears. She could not hear the words she mumbled to her father, but he nodded knowingly and grasped her head tightly to kiss her once on the forehead. Her face burning, her eyes stinging with tears, she stumbled back to her seat.
The others crowded to congratulate her, and she nodded distantly when someone asked to see the blade. It was handed around, and everyone agreed it was a fine prize. The horn handle was well shaped, and the decoration carved into it made for a secure grip. The blade was long and well balanced. It was a superb weapon, one meant for an impressive warrior.
At this point, their praise turned to her, and such attention made her ill at ease. She wanted nothing so much as to simply be left alone; at length she made her excuses and fled the feast, her new langsaex clutched to her breast.
SEVEN
Sigrid woke with a groan. She felt like there wasn’t any part of her without its own particular ache. She rolled out of her cupboard and almost kept going right to the ground. Straightening painfully, she fumbled into her trews and slipped her shoes on before staggering to the commode. She had washed yesterday after the battle, but doing so again, even in the ice-cold water from the rain barrel, made her feel better. She spent some time stretching and limbering up, and by the time she was dressed and entered the great hall, she felt almost human.
The hall, however, looked like a battlefield in truth, minus the gore and severed body parts. There were people scattered haphazardly, sleeping or passed out, on nearly eve
ry horizontal surface. The Shield-Brethren were already awake, though even they looked a bit frayed around the edges. Halldor acknowledged her entrance with a halfhearted wave of the spoon he was using to eat his breakfast porridge. Thralls moved about the room clearing things away and occasionally rearranging the sleepers to make them more comfortable—or simply to clear their paths so they could accomplish their work.
A thrall brought her a bowl of porridge with dried fruit and honey. Feeling a need to be away from people, she took the bowl into the kitchen yard and plunked down on a bench to eat. She was a sensible girl and not naive in the least. She knew that she was reacting to the battle, the killing and deaths of her comrades. In time she would find a new sense of herself and adjust, but for now, just for this moment, she wished to be alone.
Her privacy lasted little more than the time it took to eat her porridge. Äke walked into the yard with his own bowl and winced as he lowered himself next to her on the bench.
“Some say that the mercy of the gods is to allow us to forget what battle is like, but I think it’s that we forget what it is like after which is the true mercy.” He paused only long enough to shovel some porridge into his mouth. “How is your head and heart this morning, Sigrid?”
“Sore,” she mumbled, wishing he would shut up and go away. She could feel him looking at her.
“We should practice,” he said after a moment of examining her.
“Practice?” She raised her head and stared at him. “Why? Have you not had enough fighting?”
He shrugged. “I said nothing about fighting,” he replied. “Practice,” he repeated. “It is the best thing for you—head and heart. It will keep you from stiffening up, from being bound by the memory of the battle.” He tapped his spoon against the rim of his bowl. “There are so few of us left,” he said. “The Holmgard are not Sworn Men. Just because we have fought and won does not mean we can sit on our asses and grow fat. We have much to teach—”
“Shut up,” Sigrid said. She shoveled the last bite of her breakfast into her mouth and then slammed the bowl down on the bench between them.
Äke smiled at her. “Get your gear,” he said. “I’ll be in the yard.”
Her armor-cote had been so blood soaked that the thralls had despaired of ever getting it clean, but after enough soaking and scrubbing it at least no longer smelled of sweat and gore. It did cling damply to her, hindering her movements and, more tellingly, irritating her.
Äke had already started drilling the Holmgard when she returned to the yard. Many had not participated in the battle and so were fresh enough, but they had participated in the toasts last night and more than one looked to be in foul temper and out of sorts.
Sigrid felt awkward and uncomfortable, and the weapons felt foreign in her hands, but she fell in with the others and managed to keep up with the drills. When Äke broke them into pairs for sparring, she found herself facing him. He started slowly, but she just could not seem to get into the rhythm of it. He kept slamming his shield into the knuckles of her sword hand, and he knocked her down more than once. After he hit her on the side of the head with the flat of his lang ax, he signaled a stop.
She ripped off her spangenhelm and threw it down, glaring at him. “I’m done,” she snapped.
He said nothing, staring blandly at her through the slits of his helm. She dropped her shield as well, growing more frustrated as he said nothing. “What did you expect?” she snapped, more angry at herself than him by that point.
He shrugged. For a moment, he appeared to be about to say something, and then he shrugged again and turned away.
She threw her langsaex down as well, completely frustrated by him and the whole drill.
With a bellow of rage Äke spun, his ax flashing toward her head.
“It’s my own damn fault,” Äke gritted through clenched teeth. “I shouldn’t have surprised her like that…”
“Shut up and bite this,” Grimhildr told him as she shoved a leather strap between his teeth. She grabbed him around his torso, holding him steady, while nodding to Halldor, who was gripping Äke’s right arm in both hands.
“I’m going to count to three,” Grimhildr said. “Are you—”
“Three,” Halldor said, pulling and twisting the Sworn Man’s arm.
Äke bellowed as his shoulder slipped back into place with an audible crunch. The Sworn Man spit out the strap and glared at Halldor. “She was supposed to count,” he snarled.
“Is your arm better?” Halldor asked.
Äke blinked and gingerly moved his arm. His face twisted with pain, but his range of motion was good.
Grimhildr patted Äke on the shoulder—causing Äke to wince—as she stood up. “Thank him,” she said to Äke. She seemed almost pleased that Halldor had—literally—taken matters into his own hands.
“Thank you,” Äke ground out as he let his arm flop in his lap.
Halldor produced a small clay bottle from a pouch on his belt. Peeling away the wax seal with his thumbnail, he poured some of the contents in a small, shallow soapstone bowl. “This is Uis Gë,” he said as he handed the bowl to Äke. “The druids swear that an open wound washed with it will not become infected.”
Äke looked at him suspiciously as he held the bowl gingerly. “I don’t have an open wound.”
“It has other uses,” Grimhildr said dryly. “Don’t sit there and sip it like a virginal maid. Drink it down all at once.”
Äke glared at her next, and his nose wrinkled as he sniffed the liquid in the bowl. With a final glance at Halldor, he raised the bowl to his lips and drank the contents in one gulp. A moment later he was gasping as he tried to catch his breath, tears streaming from his eyes. “Blood of our Fathers,” he gasped, “it burns all the way down. Is this to help with the pain?”
“After a fashion. A couple of those and you’ll still hurt,” Halldor said as he poured another measure into the bowl. “You just won’t care.”
Äke took a deep breath to steel himself and drank it. “It’s a little better the second time,” he wheezed.
Halldor took the bowl and refilled it again, extending it to Grimhildr. “Once the seal is broken, it doesn’t last if it isn’t used,” he said in reply to her questioning look.
She took the bowl and drank her measure quickly. Her grin was wide and fierce, her teeth clenched together as the Uis Gë burned its way into her belly. “Ah,” she sighed. “It has been a long time since I’ve partaken of the Waters.” Halldor poured a little more into the bowl, and as Grimhildr raised it to her lips, he brought the bottle up to his mouth and upended it, taking the last measure for himself.
It did indeed burn all the way down. He choked lightly, feeling as if he had just inhaled burning ash, and he pressed a knuckle against the edge of his right eye as tears started to form.
“So, Äke,” Grimhildr said once they had all recovered, “why don’t you tell us what possessed you to think that it was a good idea to surprise a warrior who had just felled a dozen men in battle as casually as she might step on so many bugs?”
Äke moved his tongue around his mouth, as if he were trying to clear any remaining drop of the Uis Gë. “You know how some of the young ones get after their first battle. She was showing all the signs. I just wanted to get some sort of reaction from her. Some sense that she wasn’t trying to bury all that she knew.”
“You’re an idiot,” Grimhildr said. “How can she forget what she doesn’t really know she knows?” She looked at Halldor. “Truth is: she was an easy student. It was never difficult to teach her how to fight. She came to it all as if she was just remembering how to hold a langsaex. How to move. How to fight. I’ve been a warrior my life long, and never have I seen the likes of what I saw yesterday.”
“I have,” Halldor said.
“Aye,” Grimhildr replied. “I thought you might.”
Äke looked between them, a blank expression on his face, not understanding what they were talking about. There was a glimmer of something in his ey
es. Halldor wasn’t entirely certain, but it made him uneasy.
“Are you going to tell her father, or shall I?” Grimhildr asked. She gestured at Äke. “She can’t keep breaking the Jarl’s men every time she is surprised or out of sorts.”
EIGHT
Sigrid sat in a corner of the yard, hard at work removing a nick in the blade of her hewing spear with a stone. Nicks in blade edges needed to be carefully removed lest they turn into cracks, and she focused on the work, trying to shut out everything around her. Even when Malusha came and sat by her, spreading out some embroidery on her lap, Sigrid made no effort to interact with her cousin.
More than ever, she wanted to be left alone.
She didn’t blame Äke. He was too full of bluster; being First among the Sworn Men and surviving the battle with the Danes only aggravated his sense of self-worth. He had thought he was doing her a favor, and perhaps he had done so, but the way he had gone about it had been so completely…wrong.
She could feel it—down in her belly, tingling in her fingertips—that unknowing knowing that had come over her as soon as he had spun back toward her, his lang ax raised. She couldn’t drum up the memory of what she had done—all that was in her head was the image of the aftermath—but she would do it again. Without thinking.
“Here comes your giant,” Malusha said quietly.
Sigrid focused on the edge of her spear, working the stone intently against the metal. Pretending not to hear her cousin. Pretending to be unaware of Halldor’s approach. Malusha made a tiny noise in her throat and aped Sigrid’s intensity with her own needlework.
Halldor nodded briefly at Malusha as he reached the pair. “I hope I am not intruding on some private talk,” he said. He was carrying a pair of blunted training swords.
Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden Page 11
