A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  He tore away his eyes. Some of the others had begun hunting along the roadside and in the undergrowth.

  ‘There’s another over here,’ Aleif called, prodding the butt of his spear in the bracken beyond the road. ‘It’s that kid Rolf with the rotten teeth. Poor fucker.’

  Rolf. He was one of the karls assigned to the same scouting party as Ormarr... It seemed they had found what they were looking for.

  ‘Spread out,’ Erlan called. ‘See if there are any others.’

  They found eight in all. Three fallen together at the foot of a thick old oak tree. A last stand, perhaps. Not that it had earned them a fate any different from the others. The bodies had been stripped of their war gear and anything else of value. Arm-rings, belts – even the ornaments in braids and beards which had simply been cut off. Some of the bodies were not even whole. They found an arm severed above the elbow, three hands – one still holding a seax – a leg hewn off at the knee.

  All were in an advanced state of decay. Most were beginning to bloat.

  ‘They must have lain here five days,’ Vargalf said in his soft voice. ‘No more.’

  ‘Any longer and they’d be putrefying,’ agreed Sigurd.

  Five days or something close made sense. Anyway, they had already been identified as several of Ormarr’s comrades. ‘There’s still two missing.’

  ‘Perhaps they took them prisoner,’ Sigurd suggested.

  But there was a sudden shout from deeper in the forest. ‘Over here!’ Jovard appeared out of the gloom. ‘There’s something you should see, Erlan.’

  They followed Jovard under the dripping branches another twenty yards into the trees where the canopy suddenly opened out into a small clearing. There, the last of the daylight was clinging on.

  Jovard pointed across the glade. ‘There.’ Erlan’s eyes had to adjust to the diminishing light. After a few moments he made out two shapes suspended from a tree.

  The last two men.

  They were roped to the same branch of a large ash tree, stiff as idols, faces white and bloodless. But Erlan didn’t look at their faces. His gaze fell to the gaping holes where their abdomens should have been, and the ropes of intestine hanging tumbled to the ground in a grisly cascade.

  The others had all now followed them into the clearing.

  ‘By the hanged!’ cursed Jari, eyes wide with horror.

  ‘Poor choice of words,’ said Erlan. ‘Cut them down.’

  Whoever had done this had meant to leave this message, had meant to make these men suffer. ‘Do it quickly.’

  Jovard’s axe sank into the bark. The ropes snapped and the dead men crumpled to the ground in a heap of limbs and viscera. The other karls crowded in to see who had suffered such a grim fate. But if they did recognize them, no one said their names. Perhaps they had been struck dumb, like Erlan. Because on each forehead, stark against their deathly pallor and carved deep into their flesh, was a rune.

  An arrow shape. Tyr’s rune. The rune of victory.

  The rune of war.

  In the end, they burned them, despite Erlan’s misgivings about fire.

  He had tried to insist they at least drag the bodies over the hillcrest behind them, out of sight of the rest of the valley. But Vargalf had shown the futility of that, dragging one of them a few feet, which then burst like rotten fruit, to groans of disgust. The clearing was the furthest his men were prepared to drag the dead.

  The fire blazed high. Erlan watched with a lump like flint in his gullet while the flames coiled round each body. Jovard said words for each man before they flung him on the pyre. By his reckoning they had died in a fight and that meant they had a chance of being one of the einherjar – Odin’s chosen heroes – with a seat at a bench in the Hall of the Slain. So he sang songs into the night, asking the All-Father to open his gates.

  Erlan doubted it would do any good. But Jovard was a decent man and so he sang.

  Afterwards, Erlan ordered them back up the hill to make camp north of the rise, a good distance from the pyre of the dead. His men bedded down without fire, grumbling that the fetid reek of death still lingered in their nostrils.

  Tomorrow they would hunt whoever had done this.

  Tomorrow...

  Far away a wolf cried, its sad voice riding the wind across the sky. Erlan closed his eyes. Then again, he thought, maybe there was no one out here any more. Nothing but the wild forest and its shadows.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Erlan awoke. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but even then there was little to see. A slender moon was hidden behind a blanket of cloud.

  He wondered what had woken him. Then he heard it again. The snap of burning wood. He cursed, looking round. Close by were the sleeping silhouettes of Sigurd and the other karls. But no sign of a fire. Stiffly, Erlan got to his feet and scanned the trees. Suddenly he saw it: a tiny beacon of light, a stone’s throw away.

  What fool had lit that now? He tried to think who would be on watch: Einar or Aleif maybe? He snatched up his sword and stalked off towards the flame-flicker.

  There were two of them, cross-legged by the fire, conversing in low tones. One had a spear across his knees, the other a hand-axe. Both looked up when a twig snapped, announcing his approach.

  ‘I said no fires,’ Erlan hissed, recognizing Aleif and opposite him the large, dished face of Torlak the Huntsman.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Aleif answered. ‘Too bloody cold.’

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s turd how cold you are. I said—’

  ‘Ain’t no one out there,’ Aleif drawled. ‘Them poor bastards been dead for days.’

  ‘Whether there is or there isn’t, you’ll do what I damn well tell you.’

  ‘Will I? You know, I remember the day you turned up, boy. You and that scabby runt of yours. And now you think you’re better than the rest of us, just because you’ve managed to wiggle your snout up Sviggar’s arse.’

  Torlak chuckled.

  Anger flushed hot at Erlan’s temples but he held it in. ‘Get back over there and keep watch like you’re supposed to,’ he said in a steel-edged whisper. ‘You’re no fucking use to anyone over here.’

  The two men exchanged a dark look but grudgingly got to their feet and picked their way back towards their sleeping comrades. Erlan, meanwhile, kicked damp pine needles onto the flames until there was nothing left but smouldering embers. He let them cool, then spread the last of them in a smear of charcoal and ash.

  ‘Halfwits,’ he muttered, and something whipped past his face.

  There was a sound like a cough. A long, thin shape had suddenly appeared, shuddering in the spruce beside him. For a second he gawped at it stupidly, seeing shaft and fletching. Then raw instinct kicked in. He ducked and rolled left, already bellowing an alarm loud enough to rouse the dead as a second arrow hissed over his head. He threw off Wrathling’s leather sheath and swore because he was nowhere near his shield.

  Other voices echoed his shout – some in the camp; others, ominously, in the surrounding darkness. He heard someone running through the brush and to his left the scrape of Sveär blades, more confused shouting, the clatter of shields. He had to reach the others. If they were under attack, their best chance was to stand together. Then he remembered the prince.

  Damn him! Why had Sigurd come along? Sviggar would hardly thank him for getting his son and heir slaughtered like some hind. Then again, come dawn there might be no one alive to tell the tale.

  He lurched forward off his hobbled ankle through the shadows. They needed to form a skjaldborg fast. In the confusion of night, the shieldwall would at least give them something solid to defend. Every karl was trained to form a shieldwall, with three men or fifty. To form, fight and, above all, stand. Though without his shield, he’d be about as much use in the shieldwall as a bull with a broken cock.

  He changed direction, arcing through the trees towards where he’d been sleeping, best he knew. But other figures were stealing closer, hunched shadows carrying spears or axes.
He glanced ahead where his comrades were lining out, their limewood shields banging together.

  ‘I’m here,’ he yelled, giving up on his shield. ‘It’s Erlan!’ A couple of faces turned towards him, beaming like moons in the dark. There was a flash of movement in the tail of his eye. By pure reflex his arm snapped up, the blow jarring his shoulder to the bone as an axe-shaft grated against Wrathling’s twin-ringed hilt.

  There was a snarl, a curse, the stink of sweat. Then the forest came alive with fierce shrieks. He saw pale eyes in a blackened face and shoved the axe aside as his hand found the seax at his belt. His attacker flailed backwards, tripping, and a moment later Erlan’s knife was buried to the haft in his neck. He twisted the bone handle and ripped it clear. The man slumped to the ground.

  One finished. But how many were out there?

  He sheathed his blooded seax and snatched the dead man’s shield. He had to get behind that bloody shieldwall. He ran at it, screaming all the names that came to mind, hoping they wouldn’t greet him with a spear in the guts.

  ‘Erlan?’ someone yelled.

  ‘It’s me! It’s me! Let me in!’ He skidded the last yards on his arse, sliding through the gap that opened for a second, then slammed shut behind him.

  ‘Where were you?’ Sigurd demanded.

  ‘Ask that cocksucker Aleif,’ Erlan replied fiercely, catching his breath.

  ‘A fine time to be off dropping your guts,’ smirked Gloinn. Erlan scowled up at the lanky karl. There was a sigh above him and then an arrow-shaft sprouted from his eye-socket, showering blood into Erlan’s open mouth.

  ‘Behind your shields, now!’ screamed Einar Fat-Belly as Erlan scrabbled to his feet and locked his shield into line, spitting the iron taste of Gloinn’s blood into the dirt.

  The big lad Jari was muttering prayers under his breath.

  ‘Look forward. Here they come, lads!’ Jovard cried.

  Erlan shook himself. He was supposed to be leading this band of misfit raven-feeders and already one of them was on his way to Odin’s hall.

  ‘Close up,’ he shouted as another arrow whipped between him and the fat man. He saw shadows running in a ragged line, screaming like Hel’s hearthmen. He counted five, then a sixth, saw shields and axes and spears, the steel pale in the gloom. In the middle of their line, a man, likely their leader, was shouting to hit the wall hard. ‘For the Wartooth! For the Mighty Boar!’ he roared.

  ‘Hear his accent?’ Einar muttered grimly. ‘They’re Gotars.’

  ‘Gotar timber falls to an axe like any other,’ Aleif growled.

  ‘Aye – well, see it does,’ Erlan snapped, then filled his lungs and screamed, ‘For Sviggar Björnabani! Send his foes to Hel!’

  The first of them hit. Immediately there was a frenzy of shoving and stabbing and snarling, axes crashing from above, met in a grind of iron and wood. Erlan saw no faces, only shapes, streaks of steel, grunts and curses and panting breath, war-braids flailing like whips. He stabbed and cut, grinding his heels into the soil, bracing his shield arm against the weight of the attacking wall. The Gotar leader was half a man to his left. Metal glinted behind his shield. He was wearing ring-mail. Erlan stretched for him, gulping back the fear his hand might be chopped like firewood, but instead felt Wrathling’s edge scrape the man’s helm. The Gotar’s eyes darted left, his mouth gaping. A fatal hesitation: a Sveär spear jabbed up, ripping through the side of his jaw in a splay of blood and bone.

  The man sank like a sack of stones.

  ‘Their leader’s dead! Now drive them back!’ Erlan screamed, wanting the Gotars to know as much as his own men. It worked. Doubt shivered along their wall. For a second Erlan hoped they would fall back into the night as fast as they had appeared. But one at least had some fight in him. A hulk of a man, his shoulders shaggy with a sheepskin cloak, stinking of ale and leather. He roared, slamming against Einar’s shield. The fat man slipped a step, growling like a bear. Erlan felt his face flecked with sour spittle.

  ‘Push, you fat bastard!’

  ‘Since you ask so nicely.’ Einar shoved his considerable body-mass into his shield, somehow sealing the gap. The sheepskin warrior was leaning over the top, darting his spear-point like an adder’s tongue. Erlan dropped and hooked Wrathling’s point, aiming to sickle his legs. His edge bit sinew and the Gotar staggered backwards. An axe fell after him – whose, Erlan could only guess. All he saw was more blood, felt the red rain spatter his face as the man crashed at his feet.

  ‘They’re falling back! They’re beaten!’

  It was true. As suddenly as it had started, the skirmish was over. Erlan wasn’t so surprised: with a leader fallen, most men soon lost their stomach for a fight. He kneeled in the dirt, panting, watching the retreating enemy melt back into the shadows. There were bodies strewn in front of him. Someone was groaning loudly on his side of the wall.

  ‘After them!’ That was Sigurd’s voice.

  ‘Wait!’ screamed Erlan, climbing to his feet. ‘We should hold the wall.’

  ‘Bollocks to the wall – we need one of them alive! Follow me, men!’

  ‘No one moves,’ countered Erlan. The other men stayed put, but Sigurd had already broken formation and gone haring into the darkness. Two steps behind him went his oathman, Vargalf.

  Erlan swore. This was exactly what he had feared when the prince and his pet wolf had tagged along. They were almost out of sight. He could feel the men beside him, taut as a bowstring ready to be released, the battle-fire still boiling in their skulls. But if they scattered now, who knew how many would survive the darkness?

  ‘What do we do?’ Jovard hissed.

  ‘Stay here. Keep your eyes open – and keep this damn wall up!’

  Then he launched after Sigurd.

  The shadows were thick. Using his ears as much as his eyes, he chased the prince. And Sigurd was no lame-foot. Erlan cursed his ankle. He needed speed now more than ever.

  They were running for the road. There, the gloom didn’t hang quite so heavy. There was a flurry of noise ahead, then other sounds – buckles and bridles, maybe – then Sigurd’s yell. But the only answer was drumming hoofbeats, which quickly faded into the forest.

  He saw the fugitive figures halt by the roadside, and a few seconds later he had caught them up. They turned, points raised.

  ‘Oh. It’s you,’ Sigurd grunted dismissively, lowering his sword. ‘I’ll say one thing for that limp of yours, Wanderer – you could never be mistook for anyone else... As you can see, our friends have already taken their leave.’

  Erlan stabbed Wrathling into the ground, catching his breath. ‘Just what the Hel are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ rejoined Sigurd. ‘This whole scouting mission is a waste of time unless we take one of them alive.’

  ‘Not at the cost of the king’s heir, you selfish prick.’

  ‘Balls to that! I can look after myself.’

  Erlan stepped in, seizing Sigurd’s collar. ‘Listen, my lord. If you jeopardize your life or the lives of my men again, I’ll gut you like a—’

  Suddenly he felt steel, cold and sharp, against his jugular. ‘Let him go.’ The voice in his ear was calm as death. ‘Now.’

  Sigurd grinned past Erlan’s fist. ‘I’d do as he says, cripple. Vargalf isn’t known for his patience.’

  Erlan felt Vargalf’s knife press closer. Any harder and it would draw blood. He didn’t doubt Vargalf would slit his throat soon as look at him. Come to that, it would be easy for them to explain away his death. With a scowl he shoved Sigurd away but the knife didn’t move.

  ‘You know your problem, cripple,’ sniggered Sigurd. ‘You’re more interested in doing things right than doing them effectively.’

  Just now Erlan was more interested in the steel edge still at his throat than anything else. But then Vargalf’s arm stiffened. ‘Don’t think there’s any need for that, is there?’ said a new voice. ‘Ain’t we all friends here?’

  ‘Put that down,’ Sigurd ordered, l
ooking past Erlan.

  ‘Oh, I will. Soon as your man does the same.’ Erlan recognized Jovard’s laconic voice this time. A second later the steel edge vanished and relief flushed through him. He turned to see Jovard, grinning wolfishly with his axe-blade pressed high under Vargalf’s jaw. Slowly, he eased the pressure, then let his arm fall and pushed Vargalf clear.

  ‘Thought you all might like to know,’ he said. ‘We’ve taken one of them. Alive.’

  ‘The bugger won’t talk,’ Aleif said when they returned to the camp.

  The place was scattered with the detritus of battle: bodies and war gear strewn among their knapsacks and cloaks. In the middle of the other karls, a man was kneeling in front of Aleif. He had a thatch of blond hair and he was shivering and cradling one arm that ended at his wrist. Someone had wrapped a belt around the stump to stem the blood.

  ‘Let’s get a fire lit,’ said Erlan.

  ‘Thought you said no fires,’ Torlak sniggered.

  Erlan glowered at him. ‘So I did. But thanks to you and your idiot friend there, it’s a bit late for that.’

  Jovard began scraping together some wood. ‘What do you want to do with him?’

  ‘Let’s gut the bastard.’ Aleif gave the prisoner a shove.

  ‘No one is gutting anyone.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing less than the fucker deserves. Nothing less than he and his mates gave Ormarr’s crew back there.’

  ‘We need him alive. We’re taking him to Uppsala. The sooner we’re gone the better.’

  ‘We don’t need him alive,’ said Sigurd, leaning casually against a tree. ‘We just need what’s in his head.’

  ‘Let’s open it then, eh?’ Torlak smirked, grabbing the blond shag of hair that covered the prisoner’s face.