‘All right... I promise.’
She smiled but he was looking over her shoulder. Kai had returned with one of the large scout-horses from her father’s stable. ‘The gods go with you,’ she said, and stretched up to brush her lips against his cheek. She felt him start, but before he could answer, she was already hurrying away up the hill, the imprint of his stubble prickling her skin.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was nearly noon by the time they rode away. The crowd of onlookers parted like a bow-wave as they took the road east.
Most of the horses were strong and fit although Erlan had his doubts how Einar Fat-Belly’s mount would fare. Gloinn was another, with limbs so long that, sat on his horse, he looked like a spider riding a woodlouse. The rest of them were a decent enough crew. Jovard he trusted, having fought with him before. Jari Iron-Tongue was a beefy lad, useful in the training circle, but never seemed to give his mouth a rest.
He was less sure of some of the others. Aleif Red-Cheeks was a churlish bastard at the best of times, and argumentative too, with a face full of sores. He had taken an instant dislike to Kai when they arrived in Uppsala and he wasn’t too keen on Erlan, either. The feeling was mutual. His friend Torlak the Hunstman was another Erlan might have done without, but the choosing had been Earl Bodvar’s. He had assured Erlan that Torlak was one of the best trackers in Sveäland and a useful man to have on your elbow if things got savage. Erlan trusted Bodvar’s judgement. Then again, he didn’t have much choice.
There were others – Eirik Hammer and a couple more. Ten in all, and they had a fair distance to go. It would take them the better part of two days’ hard riding, heading first south-east towards the ferry crossing at the neck of the Great Bay. On the south side, they would cut south-west across the Earl of Sodermanland’s estates until they came to the northern edge of the Kolmark forest. There, the road turned south, driving straight as an arrow through the forest until it reappeared in Eastern Gotarland, the northernmost territory under King Harald Wartooth’s rule.
But all this lay far ahead.
The men were in high spirits. It was a pleasant enough day and what wind there was had swung round to their backs. Erlan relaxed his reins, letting his horse find a rhythm it could sustain for most of the day.
Ten men. Either this was a waste of ten men’s time, or else... Would ten be enough?
He shelved his doubts. He was glad to be going. This mystery had landed in his lap – literally – and he could at least admit to himself that he was curious to know the truth of it.
The road skirted the southern edge of the Kingswood. The lead riders had just reached the place where the road split from the trees when two horsemen suddenly appeared and stopped beside the track.
Erlan called a halt.
‘Good day, Erlan Aurvandil!’
‘Lord Sigurd,’ returned Erlan, warily.
On the second horse sat the prince’s oathman. ‘Vargalf,’ nodded Erlan. The servant’s gaunt features flickered, apparently all Erlan would get for a greeting. The pair were in full war-rig, leather greaves on their forearms, shields on their back and twin-ringed swords at their hips. Erlan noticed a ring-mail shirt rolled up behind Sigurd’s saddle. An expensive item, and heavy too. Not something to carry about without good reason. ‘Come to wish us good fortune, my lord? I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sense of humour, cripple.’
There were a couple of laughs behind him, but Erlan didn’t care. He had heard that taunt all his life. ‘Is there something you want to say then, my lord? Or are you going to stand there blushing like a maiden on her first night?’
The smirk fell from Sigurd’s face. ‘We ride with you. No questions.’
Erlan glanced at Vargalf’s deep-set eyes, flat and grey as slate. ‘Suppose there’s no point reminding you that your father forbade it.’
‘Younglings obey their fathers. Men make their own choices.’
‘Let’s be clear then. You want to lead this patrol?’
Sigurd smiled – a strangely unpleasant sight. ‘Don’t fret, cripple. I haven’t come to steal your little moment. I’m merely curious. If the Danes intend war, I mean to see how things lie for myself.’
‘As an observer?’
‘You could say that. Let’s see what happens, eh, cripple?’
‘One thing I know will happen, my lord.’ Erlan touched the hilt of his sword. ‘Call me cripple again in front of these men and you’ll find this blade so far up your princely arse you’ll choke on it.’
‘It isn’t wise to threaten your future lord and king,’ snarled Sigurd.
‘No threat,’ smiled Erlan. ‘Are we agreed?’
Sigurd’s eyes flicked from Erlan to the other men. ‘Agreed... Erlan Aurvandil.’
‘Erlan’ll do.’ He leaned forward and spat into the grass. ‘And you?’ This to Vargalf.
‘He rides with me,’ Sigurd answered.
‘Can’t he speak for himself?’
‘Just what would you have me say, Aurvandil?’ Vargalf said in a soft voice, calm as a windless sea.
‘Are we agreed?’
‘If a word makes you feel better – aye. Agreed.’
‘H’m.’ He turned back to Sigurd. ‘And when your father finds out, you’ll own it?’
‘You needn’t fear, Aurvandil. My father will remain as fond of his little pet as before.’
Erlan couldn’t be bothered to rise a second time. Besides, it wasn’t his place to keep the peace between the king and his son. And two more swords might be no bad thing.
‘Away then!’ he cried, and put his heels to his horse’s flank.
The journey took them south and east towards the narrow channel of salt water called the Throat – so-called because it was the way out of the Great Bay into the open waters of the East Sea. Trade-ships had to pass through this strait before they entered the Great Bay’s calmer waters, which stretched away west, carrying any vessel deep into the heart of Sveäland. The shores of the Great Bay were littered with little trading villages and market harbours. A few like Sigtuna or Helgö were bigger. Control of the Throat had made Uppland the most powerful region of Sveäland, and the richest. Long ago the lords of Uppland had risen higher than those of the surrounding provinces on a tide of merchant gold. Earls had sworn oaths to the Uppland lords. And so it had gone until Uppsala had become a seat for kings. A seat worthy of the gods, even. And eventually folk forgot that it had ever been any different.
With the wind in the north, the ferry crossing was uneventful. They loaded the horses onto two flat-bottomed karvar that ran with the wind across the Throat to the southern shore under the mournful shrieks of the gulls and shearwaters turning in the sky. By the time they remounted, dusk was settling. Erlan pushed them on another league or so, but as the wind brought on its back a blanket of cloud, the night fell darkly. They made camp in a wood set high on a rise to the east of the road.
The fire was lit, food prepared and eaten, ale poured and drunk. Erlan ate in silence, enjoying the fire’s warmth, listening as the talk moved around the men. Gradually it grew quieter as each drained the dregs of his cup and curled up under his cloak.
Sigurd and Vargalf had placed themselves at a little distance. Erlan had half an ear on their conversation while they ate Einar Fat-Belly’s stew, but not much passed between them. He was curious about their arrangement. Vargalf was a riddle to him. The only thing he knew of him was that he had sworn no oath to the king, only to his son Sigurd. And he seemed remarkably attached to the prince, though he rarely looked at ease, his eyes always moving. In contrast, his lips seldom moved. Erlan supposed the prince took some enjoyment from his company since the two men were rarely seen apart. He might have suspected the two were more than mere companions, but that he’d heard the other karls joke how Sigurd liked to throw his silver at the mud-whores who came to peddle their wares on feast days.
Erlan took the first watch. He bid the last couple of men still awake put their heads
down. And soon the only sounds over the wind were the sighs of the sleeping riders, now and then the crackle of the fire or a whicker from the horses.
Feeling his own eyelids grow heavy, he rose and picked his way to the edge of the wood. The crack in his ankle-bone was always sore after a day on horseback. He figured it should have been otherwise, but so these things went. He leaned against a beech tree and took the weight off his left leg, gazing south, trying to imagine what lay out there in the night, waiting for them.
Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a massive army. Perhaps the mistlands of death itself. But all he could see was darkness. His mind drifted back to the morning – to Lilla’s words. Her warning. He wondered what it was about. Maybe she believed he really was in danger. Then again, she believed a lot of strange things, and saw yet stranger things where others saw nothing. He found himself remembering the brush of her lips against his cheek, the concern in her eyes—
‘Not falling asleep, are you?’
Erlan jerked round. It was a moment before he recognized the outline of the prince, his curly hair and square shoulders silhouetted against the fire. Erlan turned back to the darkness. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Not much to look at on a night like this,’ Sigurd muttered. ‘My mother used to try to scare us with all kinds of nonsense when we were children. About fetches and evil spirits and trolls and killer-wolves. They all lay out there... In the shadows. I suppose she was trying to make us behave – or stay in bed.’ He snorted. ‘She’d scare my sister witless. Give her nightmares. I’d hear her snivelling under her covers, trying to count herself to sleep so she wouldn’t have to think about the things my mother had put in her head. But me – I’d lie awake imagining what it would be like to run with the wolves, or to come back as a draugr or a ghost and creep up on my brother and scare him to death.’ He chuckled. ‘Have you ever sat in the darkness, Wanderer... and just waited?’
Erlan shrugged. He’d had a belly-full of darkness in the caverns of Niflagard.
‘Your senses become sharp. You hear things. Smell things you’d never notice in the day—’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘Who?’
‘Vargalf.’
Sigurd chuckled, apparently not minding this change in direction.
‘Is he a Sveär?’
‘No. In fact, I don’t know where he was born. He’s not a man to talk of such things.’
‘How did you come by him? Was he a slave?’
‘No.’ Sigurd smiled. ‘When I first saw him he was a dead man. At least so he seemed to me. He came to Uppsala one spring, about five years ago now. He was a stranger, like you. A few karls didn’t like the look of him, picked a fight, blades were drawn. Five of them surrounded him. I was there myself. Gods, I tell you he was a dead man! But when they set to it you never saw anything like it. Five of them. One of him. And before you could sink a horn of ale, all five lay dead as Baldur.’
Erlan grunted. ‘And you just let a stranger like him slay your father’s karls?’
‘Well, I had more sense not to step in than the five of them. Besides, he turned himself over to my father’s justice. The dead men’s kin demanded wergeld from him or else his head, but the way my father saw it, the other men bore the blame for the fight. They’d provoked Vargalf, he said. So he forced their kin to accept wergeld from him and let Vargalf go free.’
‘Mighty generous, your father.’
‘Aye. He always was a stickler for fairness. It’ll be his undoing one day.’
‘And you?’
‘I figured I could use a man who could fight like that. I asked Vargalf. He agreed. So he swore an oath to me.’
‘He doesn’t speak much.’
‘Maybe. But he has sharper wits than any man at my father’s seat. Oh, he’s a cold son of a bitch, but that’s what you want from any tool worth its metal. An edge that’s cold and hard and sharp. Vargalf will be very useful in the time to come.’
‘If there’s a war, you mean.’
‘That, for a start. And afterwards, when my father is... well, when his time has passed.’ Sigurd’s close-set eyes suddenly glowed with passion. ‘Fate has now shown that I was always destined to be a king. My brother got himself killed, one way or another. More fool him. And what fame did he ever make for himself for all his boasting?’ Sigurd scoffed. ‘But me... I’ll make my mark all right.’
‘How do you mean to do that?’ Erlan was sceptical. He’d always reckoned Sigurd’s mouth stretched further than his stride.
‘The Wide-Realm,’ whispered the prince.
‘The Wide-Realm? You mean old Ívar’s kingdom?’
‘Aye. All the lands that my grandsire ruled. Twice the land and wealth of my father’s kingdom. Twice the power. My grandfather held all of Sveäland, Gotarland, Danmark and the Estland marches. He even held estates in Northumberland across the English sea. One day I will win it all back.’
‘I can’t see your father rousing himself for that.’
‘H’m... I fear our noble king is fading. Gods, even if the Wartooth came and lit a fire under his chair, it wouldn’t get him off his bony arse. No. His time is passing. Soon it will be gone for ever.’
‘I saw him fight like one of Odin’s heroes against the Vandrung.’
‘A skirmish,’ said Sigurd, dismissively. ‘And look where it left him. He’s been little better than a corpse ever since.’ That was true enough. The long exposure of those cold winter nights had weighed heavy on the old king’s health. ‘No – you mark this well, Wanderer. He’s your lord, I know, but no lord lives for ever. So think on what I said. We’ve traded words before, you and I. But I know your value. I’m prepared to overlook past disagreements if you pledge yourself to me, when my time comes. The Wide-Realm promises much to a man like you.’
Erlan nodded, but made no reply.
‘Come on, man – what do you say?’
Erlan smiled. ‘I say my watch is over. Sleep well, my lord.’
CHAPTER SIX
The rain began to fall before dawn.
It continued most of the day in a ceaseless drizzle, soaking mounts and men, dampening the talk to the odd joke about chafed backsides or curses about the weather. Still, they made good progress since there was little point in resting when there was no hope of getting a fire lit or cloaks dry.
Around the middle of the afternoon, the road slipped under the northern edge of the Kolmark, its ancient spruces engulfing them in gloom.
Erlan felt his men’s unease rise a notch, noticed a few hands move from reins to hilts, a few fingers touch amulets around their necks, or twist the silver rings plaited into braids and beards. He touched his own amulet – a little replica of Mjöllnir, Thor’s hammer, crudely fashioned in silver. It had been a gift from Inga, his first love. A peace offering to heal a lover’s spat. But there had been no healing the wound she had inflicted on herself.
‘Hey, Jo – how far to the border from here?’ he called to distract himself from darker thoughts.
‘Another league and a half,’ Jovard answered, flicking back his sodden hood to reveal his white-blond braids, dyed darker by the rain. Under the forest canopy, the drizzle had thinned almost to nothing.
‘There’s still light enough to make it before night falls.’
‘It’ll be dark as a giant’s arse-crack when it does,’ Einar Fat-Belly observed.
‘You know how to make a fire, don’t you, fat man?’ Jovard replied.
‘Sure he does,’ Aleif Red-Cheeks chuckled. ‘Just strike firesteel near one of his farts and the whole damn forest’ll go up!’
A few others laughed.
‘There’ll be no fire tonight,’ said Erlan.
‘What? Why the Hel not?’ squawked Jari Iron-Tongue, the youngest of the crew.
‘A fire’ll bring anyone out there on top of us quicker than flies to a shit-heap.’
There was some grumbling at that but Erlan was adamant. If they were going to encounter the Wartooth’s men, or anyone else for that
matter, it would be on his terms. Not that he relished the prospect of a damp night, but it was better than waking up with six inches of steel in his throat.
The Kolmark spread south – a dense forest of mostly pine and spruce trees with a few gnarled old ash and oaks among them, carpeting a series of folds in the land that eventually rose to a long ridge. On the other side of that lay Eastern Gotarland, the first of the lands under the Wartooth’s rule. As they crested the first rise, Erlan let some of the others pass him while he scanned the woodland below. The wind had swung to the south. Perhaps they could hope for better weather the next day.
‘Gaagh! Thor’s balls, fat man!’ growled Gloinn, ridden on ahead. ‘What the Hel have you been eating?’
But Einar didn’t answer. Instead he covered his mouth. Then the stench hit Erlan like a stone wall. He pinched his nose but the foulness was overpowering, invading his nostrils like blunt fingers.
‘By the hanged, what is that?’ said Jari Iron-Tongue.
‘Could be a dead wolverine,’ Jovard answered through his fist.
Erlan gagged. But he knew that was no wolverine. He drew his sword. Others did the same.
Riding on, the air became even more rank. The rain had stopped. The light was fading. As the horses followed the track downhill, the soil, sticky from the rain, sucked at their hooves.
‘Down there – do you see?’ Jari Iron-Tongue was pointing excitedly ahead. Before Erlan could make out anything, the brawny lad had jumped down and pulled out his hand-axe. The others began to dismount. Erlan did the same, too hastily, jarring his ankle. He cursed and limped after the others.
Everything was blurring with the thickening dusk. Some of the men advanced in a line ahead of him. Jari had run on, but he suddenly stopped and swore, burying his nose in the crook of his arm.
Beyond him, Erlan saw two shapes on the ground.
‘Bastards,’ someone muttered.
Even in the gloom, it was a sight to turn the stomach. Two bodies, their eyes unnaturally swollen, faces and necks darkened to a greenish hue, black tongues protruding. If possible, the smell was even worse. Innards had spilled from one corpse through a slash to the belly. They glistened wetly from the rain, but some beast – a wolf or wildcat maybe – had been gnawing at them. The second body had a half-severed arm, flung grotesquely over its head. A dark stain fanned outwards from the wound. There were flies crawling all over the bodies. The air was thick with them.
A Sacred Storm Page 4
