God of Vengeance

by Giles Kristian

  Sigurd knew that was true. He had learnt that in the pine forest when the battle-sweat had flowed and he had laid men low with spear and sword. He had known then that he had a talent for chaos himself. Which was just as well.

  ‘When Olaf returns we will leave,’ he said. ‘You too, Solveig. Jarl Randver will come back to lay claim to Skudeneshavn in the name of King Gorm but we will not be here.’

  ‘Where will we go?’ the old skipper asked, pale as death, his chest wound only just drawn together like lips over a grimace, and yet he was as good as pledging himself to go wherever Sigurd’s wind would blow them.

  Which made Sigurd wish he had a better answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  There was no wind to speak of and the flames soared, tall as oaks, fierce and flapping and spewing bronze sparks that seemed alive, as though they had been set loose to search the world taking with them the news of what had befallen the folk of Skudeneshavn. The smoke billowed into the sky like a black sail from some god’s longship and the old worm-riddled beams cracked and spat furiously. And Eik-hjálmr burnt.

  Three days had passed since the raid, two of them dry, and Olaf, Svein and the others had returned to the bane of it all with no good news of their own to round the sharp edges.

  ‘Our reception at Jarl Leiknir’s hall was cold as a frost giant’s tit,’ Olaf said, ‘but Leiknir made it ice clear that he wants nothing to do with this, him being sat between us and Jarl Randver. That should have been no surprise, I suppose, but then he said that with Randver being so silver-rich these days, if the people of Tysvær were going to come in on any side it would be his.’ Olaf grimaced. ‘I thought about putting my spear in his belly there and then to save us the trouble later.’

  ‘And Twigbelly?’ Sigurd asked, meaning Jarl Arnstein Arngrimsson at Bokn.

  Svein rumbled a curse and Olaf shook his head. ‘I’ve met rocks with more sense than that fool. He gave us meat full of gristle and ale that tasted like piss and told me that your father was a fool if he could not see that Biflindi and Randver were up to their necks in scheming.’

  ‘They will not help us then,’ Sigurd said.

  Olaf scratched his bearded cheek. ‘Not even were your father still alive. Now?’ He shook his head again. ‘They are happy on their island and will only rouse themselves from their beds if King Gorm needs spears for some raid. Goat-fuckers to a man. As for the bóndi and lendermen we visited, they said that their oath to Jarl Harald is worth nothing now that Jarl Harald has broken his oath to the king by raiding villages under Gorm’s protection.’

  Sigurd fumed at this, for they were the same lies King Gorm had levelled at his father in the pine wood.

  Olaf raised a palm. ‘They know it’s got no truth in it but the fact that they all dribbled the same shit tells me that they’ve all been fed the same tripe.’

  ‘The king’s men have been busy then,’ Sigurd said.

  Olaf nodded. ‘I should have saved my breath.’ He glanced at Svein who was talking with Hendil, Loker and Gerth, those three being the others whom Olaf had taken with him. ‘Five more spears would have been useful here. Things might have turned out differently.’

  From what Solveig had said Sigurd doubted it and said so. He told Olaf and the others of the ambush in the pine wood and of his father’s last stand, and Hendil said it was as honourable a death as any warrior could hope for.

  ‘Given the damned treachery that wove it,’ Loker said through gritted teeth.

  Sigurd related what he had learnt from Solveig about Jarl Randver’s raid and he even told Olaf what he had read in the warp and weft of his mother’s own last stand, and Olaf had listened to this with tears streaming into his beard and not an ounce of shame for it.

  ‘The gods are crueller than fang and claw and starvation put together,’ Olaf said. ‘Not that I need to tell you that, lad.’

  He’d looked away then at a cormorant heading south towards Boknafjorden and Sigurd had been glad of it.

  Now, everyone had gathered beneath the waxing moon to watch their jarl’s hall become a pyre and their faces were sweat-sheened and tear-soaked as they raised hands before them to shield against the ferocious heat.

  ‘Why did they burn Asgot’s house?’ Svein asked. He had bristled at Sigurd’s telling of it and cursed himself for not having been there to fight the raiders. Solveig had called him an overgrown fool, telling Svein that had Olaf not taken him to visit the outlying jarls he would have been as dead as the others, but the words were like spit on flames to Svein.

  ‘I’d wager he was working some spell on the whoresons and they didn’t much care for it,’ Olaf suggested. Sigurd could picture the godi foaming his beard with curses, damning Jarl Randver’s men to the depths of Helheim. He imagined Randver’s men’s bluster as they set light to the godi’s house, and the terrible shrieks of the birds and bats, polecats, rats and other small creatures Asgot had kept in boxes or tied to pegs stuck in the ground. For all their swagger in front of each other, the jarl’s thegns would have felt fear squirming in their guts because it was no small thing to make an enemy of a godi.

  ‘Randver didn’t know what to do with him,’ Solveig said. ‘It was like they had caught hold of a wolf by the tail.’

  ‘Aye, well I’d rather have hold of a wolf than Asgot,’ Olaf said.

  Jarl Randver’s men had not killed the godi – that would be foolish by anyone’s standards – but Sigurd wondered what they would do with him now, for neither would anyone in their right mind buy a godi for a slave.

  Blackened timbers held dragon’s eyes of glowing coals. Others collapsed sending waves of sparks rolling towards the onlookers to mottle tunics and breeks with little black scorch marks. The flames stretched up into the sky, the fire seeming to create its own wind that sounded like the whisper of a sad saga, and Sigurd watched the smoke ascend knowing that the gods would see it.

  By now the heat inside Eik-hjálmr would have raised fat blisters on his mother’s white skin. Her golden hair streaked with silver would have flared bright as a hero’s helmet fresh from the forge and disappeared. Everyone gathered there knew that soon the smell of burning flesh would fill their nostrils but no one would raise an arm to their face or cringe at the stink. For they were all joined in this bitter thing from this day until the day of their own deaths, and they would imbibe every last drop of it out of respect for their dead.

  And when it was done and only the main roof-supporting columns of oak stood flame-licked yet still strong, those who would go with Sigurd gathered what belongings they would need, said goodbye to kin if they had any, and prepared to leave.

  Olaf told those staying in Skudeneshavn to give their new jarl no trouble and, more than this, to make Randver welcome as much as they could.

  ‘Do what you can to make life easier for yourselves,’ he said. ‘Jarl Harald and the others are gone and you will never see their faces again in this life.’ There were no tears in his eyes now. ‘Swear an oath to Randver if he asks it of you, for there is nothing else to be done. And tell him that the hall burnt because of the fire his men put in the thatch,’ he warned, ‘for he’ll be angry to see it gone.’ He left his elder son Harek to look after his wife and little Eric and kissed each in turn, vowing to come back when he could. He did not draw the thing out for that was not his way. But more than this, Sigurd knew Olaf was conscious that Sigurd had no one to say his goodbyes to, had no kin but for Runa who was a prisoner at Hinderå, and Olaf wanted to spare him the sting of seeing others sheathed in loving arms.

  There were seven of them who left Skudeneshavn next morning, turning their backs on the smoke that still rose lazily from the pyre that had been Jarl Harald’s hall. Eik-hjálmr. Oak helmet. There had been humour in the naming of it but there was no mirth in its end and now its ashes were mixed with those of the dead. At the last there had been no protection to be found under Eik-hjálmr’s great roof. Perhaps the gods found humour in this.

  Well then, do not take your
eyes from me, Allfather, Sigurd thought as he climbed into the boat and turned his face to the sea, his eyes following a gull as it screeched down at them asking if they were going fishing. ‘Not fishing, bird,’ Sigurd muttered into his beard, placing Troll-Tickler on the bench beside him. ‘Hunting.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE BOAT WAS called Otter. It was built of oak in the same way as Jarl Harald’s ships, but at just under thirty-two feet long and six feet wide it could have been Reinen or Sea-Eagle’s offspring. It comprised six lengths of planking, the first two strakes curving sharply upwards, almost to the top of the stem and stern. It had five pairs of oars, oarlocks, floorboards, thwarts and rudder, and it was a handsome, well-built, reliable boat. But it was too small.

  It wasn’t so much the crew that was the problem – Otter could take seven men easily enough – but all the war gear: the shields, spears, axes and swords which they had brought because they were no better than outlaws now, men on the run from a jarl and a king. But whilst a man has a spear in one hand and a sword in the other he is free, Hendil said. He is alive.

  Loker grumbled that Svein took up two men’s space in the thwarts and Gerth cursed when he cut his shin on a spear blade, but for the most part no one complained about the discomfort. Only Olaf owned a brynja, which was now rolled and tied up in greased leather on the bench beside him, but each of the seven was weighed down with the cold truth that Otter and her little crew were all that was left of the power that Jarl Harald had wielded. Skudeneshavn had fought in the king’s battles. It had sent men raiding every spring, north as far as Giske and south across the sea to the land of the Danemen, bringing back silver and metalwork, jewels, weapons, furs, bone and tall stories.

  And slaves.

  These slaves were taken in chains to the island of Rennisøy to the south-west of Bokn because in some distant time the strongest jarls of Haugalandet, Rogaland and Ryfylke had agreed that the island was accessible to all but not in the shadow of any chieftain’s hall. Not even King Gorm had broken this tradition and so the sea around Rennisøy was to the trade in slaves as grease is to sledge runners, and for the first three days after every full moon men from a hundred different fjords would bring their prisoners to the block, drawing merchants like flies to flesh.

  Which was why Sigurd was going to Rennisøy.

  ‘They did not lay their hands on Runa so far as I saw,’ Solveig had said, which probably meant that either Sigurd’s sister had told them who she was, or else Jarl Randver had guessed it from looking at her, which would not have taken a völva’s knack of divination.

  ‘If the jarl knows Runa is Harald’s daughter he is more likely to keep her for himself than sell her to some fat, balding farmer from Svartevatn,’ Svein had said through a mouthful of horse-meat. Randver’s men had killed the beast for the simple mischief of it and the first of the women to return to the village had set about butchering it while it was still warm.

  Olaf nodded in agreement with this though his frown showed that he suspected Sigurd had another view of it.

  ‘That would surely be true,’ Sigurd said, ‘had Jarl Randver thought that Harald and all his sons were dead, as he must have when he took her.’ He’d stayed silent for a long moment then while the others took up the slack of it in their minds.

  It was old Solveig whose eyes had lit first. ‘But by now Biflindi will have sent word to him that young Sigurd here wriggled through the holes in his net,’ the old skipper said. ‘What with him and the king being in this as thick as a pail of pig shit.’ One silver eyebrow lifted. ‘And Randver knows Jarl Harald’s reputation well enough to assume that any son of his would not hide under some rock while his sister sleeps under his enemy’s roof.’

  Sigurd nodded because Solveig had given words to his own thoughts.

  ‘He’s going to take Runa to Rennisøy,’ Solveig went on, ‘and he’s going to dangle the girl like a silver chain and hope that Sigurd is fool enough to show himself.’

  ‘Lucky for him then,’ Svein said without even looking at Sigurd.

  ‘You’re going to Rennisøy?’ Solveig asked, eyes flicking from Olaf to Sigurd.

  ‘We are going to Rennisøy,’ Sigurd said.

  Now, they had rowed Otter across the mouth of the Karmsund Strait and were passing the skerries off the southern tip of Bokn. That was the easy part, for Njörd god of wind and tides had given them a sleeping sea for which they were thankful. But then they would have to cross Boknafjorden which would not be so easy, for even when there was only a mere breath of wind the open water there was more often than not flecked with spume. In Reinen and Sea-Eagle and even in Little-Elk the crossing would be a simple enough affair, but Otter was none of those. As it was, fully laden with men and gear she showed only a foot of freeboard above the brine and so they would have to be careful to avoid taking in water if the waves grew higher.

  ‘I am not worried at all,’ Hendil announced as Solveig pushed the tiller to turn Otter so that the dawn sun moved out of their eyes and onto their left cheeks. ‘If old One-Eye wanted to drown us like a crew of ill-wyrded nithings why would he have helped Sigurd walk unscathed from that blood-fray?’

  ‘I didn’t walk, Hendil, I ran,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Even so,’ Hendil said undeterred. ‘It can be no coincidence that an old goat like Solveig also survived when the others did not. The Allfather knew that we would need a skipper.’

  ‘You hardly need a skipper for this,’ Solveig said.

  ‘Then you may row if you like and I will take the tiller,’ Loker put in, at which Solveig called him a turd. The old man was still pale and wincing from his chest wound but Sigurd’s stitches had held and there was no sign of the wound rot.

  ‘Still, I am not worried,’ Hendil said, ‘and let that be an end to it.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that if we see one of Jarl Randver’s dragons ploughing the fjord,’ Olaf said, at which some of them touched amulets or sword hilts because all men know that cold iron can turn away baleful spirits and ill luck.

  In the event they saw no ships and Otter carried them safely so that they came sweating and red-faced to the island’s uninhabited south-western shore and pulled the boat up into the tree line a mere stone’s throw from the breakers. They had not wanted to risk mooring in the harbour on the north side of the island for fear that Jarl Randver’s men would be watching.

  ‘No shields,’ Olaf said to Svein who had taken his from Otter’s thwarts and was strapping it onto his back. ‘No spears. No helmets.’

  ‘Your brynja?’ Loker said.

  ‘It stays here,’ Olaf said, which must have been hard for a warrior like Loker to grasp, who would have set his own mother adrift for the chance of owning a brynja. ‘Bring your favourite blade. Everything else stays here with Solveig and the boat.’ The old skipper looked relieved then for he was still weak and had no great enthusiasm for whatever Sigurd and Olaf had in mind. ‘We don’t need the arsehole who cut Solveig open recognizing him.’

  Solveig grinned. ‘If you see the pig’s penis tell him I have two of his fingers if he wants them back. The third I gave to my dog.’

  ‘Keep your heads down and stay out of trouble,’ Olaf said. ‘If anybody asks, we are Lysefjorden men.’

  ‘Unless the person asking is a Lysefjorden man,’ Hendil said helpfully, ‘then you are a Stavanger man.’

  ‘And how will we know if the man asking is from Lysefjorden?’ Svein asked.

  ‘Because he will be the one trying to pay for slaves with mackerel and grunting that silver is silver,’ Loker said, which got a few chuckles as they tucked hand axes into belts or strapped on swords.

  ‘Stay buried in the crowds,’ Olaf said, a brow hoisted as he glanced at Svein, who would have difficulty burying himself in an avalanche, ‘and no matter who we see at the block, no one is to do anything about it.’ He nailed each man with his stare then because he knew it would be no easy thing seeing Skudeneshavn folk chained and being bartered over. Harder still to stand ther
e scratching their arses instead of putting their blades into the men who had put those chains on.

  It was lucky that other than Sigurd only Gerth had kin taken by Jarl Randver’s men and Sigurd looked at him now with eyes he had honed to an edge. ‘If your cousin is there we will get her back if we can, Gerth,’ he said, tying his hair at the nape of his neck, ‘but we will do it cleverly.’ Gerth nodded, but Sigurd had seen enough of the man to know that a nod was not exactly assurance of acceptance or even understanding. There were sheep cleverer than Gerth. Still, he was thought of as a good man to have with you in a fight and Sigurd would need fighters.

  ‘Perhaps you should stay here with Solveig, Uncle,’ Sigurd suggested, for Olaf did not look like a farmer or a merchant or a craftsman. He was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested and to look at him anyone would know that there was a man who earned his meat and mead with the sword. Even a blind man would know that Olaf was a warrior, just as a nose full of smoke would tell the man he was near a fire.

  ‘You’re drunk, lad, if you think I’m going to let you tangle with Jarl Randver’s fart-catchers while I sit here arguing about the wetness of water with this old sea goat.’ He thumbed at Solveig who muttered an insult in return. ‘Your father will be waiting for me in the Allfather’s hall and he’ll take my head if I let anything happen to you.’

  Sigurd did not argue as Olaf made some measure of compromise by fumbling at the stiffened braids in his beard and pulling from them the three silver rings and two small Thór’s hammers. For all the difference it would make. But Sigurd was prepared to take the risk of Olaf drawing men’s attention, or even being recognized, because having Olaf with you was the next best thing to having one of the Æsir at your shoulder.

  He looked down at himself to make sure he had not left anything that might mark him as the son of a jarl and was satisfied with what he saw. He wore an old threadbare tunic and dirty breeks and even made sure his Óðin amulet was tucked away out of sight, for Óðin was a jarl’s god. A young man who had yet to make his name was more likely to invoke Thór, Frey, Týr or Váli.