Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  ‘Odin, Odin . . .’ The chanting began, rising to fever pitch before settling to a lilting hum; outstretched arms swayed like meadow grasses in the breeze. People were surely evoking the very presence of their god.

  ‘The wheel of the seasons has turned and winter will soon be upon us,’ Ragnar’s baritone rang out. ‘We bring our gifts of thanks and ask that you safeguard your people from the hardships of the frozen months. Let them live to serve you.’

  A strong, unheralded gust swept the grove, whistling through the oak’s branches. Torches listed wildly and the droning stopped. ‘God of gods, lord of earth and sky, giver and taker of life,’ Ragnar intoned, his hands reaching up to two black shapes, now perched on the thick branch above his head. ‘We are unworthy to look upon your holy companions and avert our eyes in their presence.’

  Eadwulf stayed on his knees, not understanding what was happening. He knew little about Odin’s ravens other than what Thora had told him. Hugin and Munin – Thought and Memory – were the god’s eyes and ears; awesome, black birds sent out each dawn to fly over Midgard, gathering information to report to Odin by the evening. He’d always dismissed such a story as pagan nonsense.

  Ragnar rose and faced the kneeling crowd. ‘To your feet, my people, and witness our offerings to the All-Father, who has given his sign of acceptance.’

  The wasted body of Cendred was dragged from the wagon, his wrists bound behind him. Panic and anger surged through Eadwulf and he drew breath to cry out.

  ‘Do not make a sound,’ Toke hissed. ‘Great insult to Odin if you do.’ His eyes flicked up to the tree’s thick branches. ‘Could be you or me up there next.’

  Cendred slumped, seeming resigned to his gruesome end after weeks of imprisonment. His filthy clothes hung limp on his half-starved body; his hair greasy and matted from his bowed head, concealing whatever expression was on his face. At his sides two of Ragnar’s men stood grim-faced, and a few paces behind, Ulrik held a huge, heavy-headed axe. Close by, Bjorn carried a large coil of thick rope.

  ‘Odin!’ Ragnar shouted. ‘May the lifeblood of our people’s enemies please and strengthen you.’

  Cendred was yanked to his feet and the heavy, flat handle of the axe-head crashed down on his skull. Eadwulf recoiled from the sickening crunch of shattering bones as Cendred’s head caved in like a crushed eggshell under the force of Ulrik’s strength. Had Ulrik used the sharp blade, far more than Cendred’s head would have been split in two.

  The lifeless body sprawled on the rotting leaves, his blood soaking into the earth. Bjorn severed the bonds holding Cendred’s arms and rolled him over, rebinding his wrists above his head with one end of rope. The two warriors dragged the corpse beneath a thick branch close to the ravens and Bjorn hurled the loose end of the rope over it. Cendred’s body was hauled up high, where Eadwulf guessed it would stay, dangling by the wrists to feed the crows.

  A second man was dragged from the cart, whom Eadwulf recognised as a thrall of one of Ragnar’s karls. He threw his body from side to side, frantically straining at his bindings, strangled, animal sounds gurgling from his throat. Eadwulf could think of no crime that could warrant such a death. But the Danes needed scant excuse to give a life to their gods and Ulrik’s axe promptly despatched another offering to Odin.’

  The third victim’s frenzied attempts to beg for mercy gained him a blow to his head before the fall of the axe put an end to his miseries.

  Finally the pig was hauled forward, squealing in terror at the smell of blood. Ragnar slashed the creature’s throat and the carcass was hoisted up by its hind legs to hang next to the three men, its blood streaming to the forest floor. Eadwulf prayed to any god who would listen for this to be over soon.

  Bright eyed and motionless, the ravens surveyed all.

  Ragnar clutched the sacrificial knife above his head. ‘Odin!’ he yelled. ‘Remember our gifts when winter comes. Let the season be kind, our huntsmen find success, and our people survive!’

  The ravens lifted their wings to take flight and the strange, gusting wind raged a second time. The flapping of silken feathers hummed through the grove, then the black shapes soared into the distance to continue their daily tasks for the All-Father.

  Filing down the winding path, people sang joyful songs of praise to Odin, while Eadwulf strove to erase the images of dangling corpses from his mind. His anger was slowly burning down, leaving the smouldering ashes of helplessness in its place.

  * * *

  The winter months passed uneventfully in Aros as people coped with the cold, dreary days and long, dark nights. With Sigehelm’s help, Eadwulf finally ceased to have nightmares over Cendred’s death, though the memory would stay with him for a very long time. Sigehelm dismissed the timely appearance of Odin’s ravens as pure coincidence. Ravens were not uncommon, he said, and the birds probably nested in the grove, since they disliked the dense forests. But Eadwulf was not totally convinced by his reassurances.

  The daily routines of the season continued in much the same way as Eadwulf recalled of his life in Mercia: people busy with the necessary chores and retiring early to their beds. Yet food was plentiful: last year’s harvest had been a bountiful one. People thanked the gods for their good fortune, many offering gifts at ceremonies in their own homes. At the Yule, when the old year was dead, a boar, a sheep and a horse were sacrificed and the gods entreated that the year to come should be a good one.

  By the start of the last week of February it was still bitterly cold, the land white as far as the eye could see. It had snowed hard in the night and the wind snatched greedily at drifts that had amassed against the buildings, causing flurries of feathery flakes to spiral frantically around, making visibility unclear. Carrying a large basket of vegetables into the hall, Eadwulf battled with the heavy door, the biting northerly determined to fling it from his grasp. He triumphed in time to witness one of Haldan’s usual tirades at Sigehelm. His throat constricted as he recalled the many times he’d griped like Halfdan – though he’d respected his tutor too much to be openly rude to him. But to Halfdan, Sigehelm was simply his father’s property – and the boy treated him as such.

  Sigehelm caught Eadwulf’s eye and smiled, as though he’d read his thoughts. Ivar glanced up and witnessed the shared glance. The look in the boy’s dark eyes filled Eadwulf with unfathomable foreboding.

  * * *

  Aalborg, Northern Danish Lands: February 852

  Morwenna sat on the edge of her bed in the small chamber to the side of Rorik’s hall, cradling the drowsy babe close to her heart and thanking God that the soft curls were not the fiery red of Beorhtwulf’s, nor were his sleepy eyes green. The infant’s gaze was as clear as the summer sky. Blue – like Morwenna’s own. There had been no reason why Rorik should deny the child was his. By Morwenna’s own calculations from the true date of his conception, his birth had been two weeks late. And it had been easy to feign a heavy fall once labour was already underway, making it appear that the fall caused the birth pains to start and the child to be born two weeks early.

  The babe’s round cheeks glowed pink in the lamplight as he drifted into a contented slumber, unaware of anything other than the security of a mother’s love and warm milk to sate his appetite on demand. He would grow for many years believing himself to be the son of Jarl Rorik and his Mercian concubine.

  Her heart filled with love for her new son, but the deep aching for the son who was lost to her would not abate. He was somewhere in this pagan land: some farmstead deep in the barren heath or perhaps on one of the many coastal settlements. Please God that someone would bring news of a red-headed Mercian boy one day.

  Certain the child was asleep she laid him in his cradle, hoping he’d sleep for some hours. It was late afternoon and soon she must help with the evening meal. Darkness was closing in and the icy cold would soon send people hurrying indoors. Another snowfall had been threatening all afternoon; as yet
there had been only a few flurries, but she anticipated a thick covering by morning.

  In truth, Morwenna’s working life as Rorik’s woman had caused her little discomfort, particularly during the weeks prior to the birthing, when her rotund form had made heavy manual work difficult. To their credit, the Danish women had respected her condition. Even Rorik’s two wives accepted the new concubine into their midst: concubines were as much a part of Danish life as was polygamy, or summer raiding. In the early months, she’d worked with the women around the village, glad to be busy to keep her from utter despair. She’d been well fed and given cool tunics to wear during the summer, and warm, woollen ones as winter neared. But the long summer nights had been a different matter. Rorik would come to her, his breath stinking of ale, and callously use her exhausted body. Yet by the time her belly had swelled, he took pleasure in the belief that he had sown his seed within her and became almost tender. Morwenna could barely conceal her repugnance.

  Though Rorik had sated his carnal lust elsewhere since the weeks prior to the birthing, today he’d declared his eagerness to resume his nocturnal activities with his Mercian concubine. The babe was now three weeks old and he would wait no longer.

  An even greater dread now swamped Morwenna. Before long her womb could be swelled with a true child of Jarl Rorik.

  Fourteen

  April sunshine lifted Eadwulf’s spirits and he worked contentedly enough in the fields at the foot of the hillside. Spring ploughing had been done soon after the thaws of early March, and now the corn was being sown. It had been a long day and by the time he reached his bed he could barely keep his eyes open. The hall was warm from the remains of the hearthfire and he soon fell into a deep slumber.

  ‘Rouse yourself, Mercian.’ The venomous whisper was so close to Eadwulf’s ear that warm breath brushed his cheek. ‘Far side of the byre. Now!’

  Eadwulf’s mouth went dry. He blinked into the darkness, but could make out no more than a shadowy form. Yet every fibre of his being told him it was Halfdan. Then the door creaked and he knew the boy had gone. For a moment he lay still, listening to the snores of the thralls and retainers along the benches, and wondered how long he’d slept. No light had squeezed through the doorway as Halfdan had left, not even the gloomy half-light of pre-dawn. Sunrise must still be some time off. He threw back his blanket, shivering, and shoved his feet into his shoes. Every instinct urged him to shout, alert the household to his predicament, tell them that Halfdan was going to . . . to do what? The only certainty was that Halfdan intended him harm. And waking everyone was more likely to gain him a thrashing than offers of help. He grabbed his coat and crept from the hall.

  Tiny pin-pricks of light dotted the ink-black sky and moonbeams bathed the silhouette of the large byre ahead. Smaller buildings were strangely outlined, barns and food stores mostly, and the forge beyond Thora’s vegetable plots. Frosty air chafed his face and pungent odours assaulted his nostrils as he neared the imposing byre. Cattle lowed softly in their stalls.

  A rumbling growl stopped him in his tracks. So, Ivar was here with his snarling dog. His heart hammered as though it would burst through his chest, his immediate impulse to flee back to the hall. Too late . . .

  ‘You took your time,’ Halfdan snarled, emerging from behind the byre. ‘Get over here before we unleash the hound.’

  Eadwulf stepped towards him, determined not to give him the satisfaction of sensing his fear. ‘What do you want with me this time, Halfdan?’

  A vicious punch to the stomach made Eadwulf double over and Halfdan knocked him to the ground. ‘Master to you, thrall! I told you before, a thrall never looks his master in the eye and isn’t worthy of speaking his name!’ Eadwulf struggled to catch his breath as the boy lowered himself to balance on one knee in front of him. ‘Say it! Go on, or l’ll–’

  ‘What will you do – kill me? How would you explain that to your father?’

  The Danish boy shrieked and booted him hard in his side. ‘Say it, I said!’

  Eadwulf gasped as hot pain shot through him. Halfdan grabbed his tunic and yanked him to his feet, shaking him as a hound would shake a captured hare. Overcome with dizziness, Eadwulf retched.

  ‘You should see what you look like, Mercian – like the vomiting dog you are! Not so haughty now, are you? You’ll be even less so when we’ve done with you.’

  ‘What . . . what do you mean? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Perhaps you thought it acceptable to behave as though you were not our inferior!’ Halfdan said, not answering the question. ‘Our father’s the greatest jarl in these lands, and you think you can look upon us as your equals! But you’re no more than a piece of shit, dragged to our land on the shoes of our warriors.’

  The wolf-dog’s menacing growl struck terror into Eadwulf as Halfdan hauled him behind the byre, where a halo of candlelight illumined a group of figures. Wrapped in a thick cloak, Ivar lounged on a hefty log, his hunched back against the byre, his two aides at his sides. Eadwulf stood mesmerised by those deep, dark eyes, their reflected light forming fiery arrows that seemed to bore through to his very core.

  Eventually, Ivar gestured to the ground, mere inches from the wolf-dog’s slobbering muzzle. ‘Sit down, Mercian. It’s high time your brazen impudence was punished. That seems fair, don’t you think?’

  ‘If I knew how I’ve displayed impudence, I’d be able to answer,’ Eadwulf replied, still standing.

  Halfdan dealt another brutal kick, this time to Eadwulf’s thigh, and swung his fist to down him before Ivar.

  ‘You must know by now, Mercian, that my brother has a temper almost as quick as our father’s – or our mother’s, come to that,’ Ivar snorted. ‘Whereas I think before I act, and come up with solutions.’ He propped his chin on steepled fingers, the wolf-dog’s yellow eyes fixed on his face. ‘And after much deliberation, I’ve made the decision to set you free.’

  ‘That’s impossible! Father would never allow it! Why should we–?’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Halfdan! How typical of you to bluster before hearing a plan out. In a couple of hours it will be dawn,’ Ivar mused, glancing up at the cloudless black sky. ‘It will be a fine day I think, magnificently suited to the plan I’ve in mind.’ He wagged a finger at Eadwulf. ‘You will run; any direction you like. If you stay free, then so be it: you’ll no longer be a thrall. If you succeed in remaining free until noon, which entails outwitting Viggi, you have my word that we’ll never bother you again. Your word will also be required,’ he shot at his scowling brother. ‘Now, if you will!’

  ‘I give it,’ Halfdan grudgingly returned.

  ‘But if you’re caught, thrall, there’ll be little of you left after Viggi’s finished with you. He already senses you’re no friend of mine, for which he’ll happily make you pay dear.’

  Halfdan grinned, nodding approval of the plan. ‘We’ll tell Father we saw the thrall sneaking from the hall and disappearing behind the huts,’ he enthused. ‘We spent a long time searching, of course, before taking Viggi out to follow his scent. But alas, by the time we found him, he’d paid dearly for his insubordination.’

  ‘A runaway thrall cannot expect mercy,’ Ivar stated, continuing Halfdan’s conjectures. ‘Our father would probably have sent the dogs out himself, had we not already dispatched the best hunter of the lot. . .

  ‘You will learn to show respect for your betters, thrall,’ he suddenly snapped, tired of this dalliance. ‘If you refuse to run, Reinn and Skorri here will drag you from the village and hold you until I release Viggi to follow your trail. Believe me, he’ll reach you well before Ragnar is alerted to your disappearance.’

  Eadwulf looked from Ivar’s cold eyes to the feral, yellow ones of Viggi, finding no shred of mercy in either. The wolf-dog already strained at its leash to rip him apart.

  ‘What shall we say to Mother when she asks where–?’

  ‘Leave t
hat to me Halfdan: I’ll think of something apt. Now,’ Ivar continued, ‘you have our word, Mercian, that we’ll wait until sunrise before following after you, so you need to put some ground between us or our hunt will be so much easier. Of course, I’ll not be joining in the event; my brother and two companions will do the honours. But be very aware that Viggi’s hunting skills are second to none!’

  Eadwulf’s stomach clamped tight. How could he agree to such a vindictive scheme? Yet how could he not?

  Having no alternative, he ran.

  * * *

  Without a backward glance, Eadwulf sped between the food stores and huts towards the river, Ivar’s words ringing in his ears:

  Hunting skills second to none, second to none. Hunting skills second to none . . .

  He gave no thought to his direction, other than it being the nearest route out of the village, and he ran at almost breakneck speed, following the river upstream. He knew this stretch of land well and the moon was bright enough to cast some light. Panting wildly, his one panicked aim was to put distance between himself and the wolf-dog.

  Hunting skills second to none, second to none . . .

  As the moon and stars faded against the lightening sky, the realisation that dawn was approaching struck him like a stab in the chest, and he was forced to slow his pace. He must think, take stock of his location and decide what to do next.

  Now, several miles upstream, the river had narrowed, though it surged full and turbulent, carrying extra volumes of spring snowmelt. Distant hills were silhouetted in the moonlight, and Eadwulf suddenly realised that the forested slopes would afford him cover.

  But first, he must cross the river. If he waded some distance along the water, the dog would lose his scent and there was a possibility that Halfdan wouldn’t be able to fathom his route from then on. Once on the opposite bank he’d veer away from the river and take a direct route to the higher ground. Several miles of low-lying heath lay between himself and his goal, and he’d not be able to move quickly over such rough terrain. But the sky was paling fast and he had to reach the forest.