A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  Gods – what the Hel was a man supposed to say? Die well? See you on the other side?

  If there is one...

  In a heartbeat they were out from under the bridge and leaping up the bank. The scene that met them was black chaos. The rear-guard of Huldir’s band was already on the bridge, pressing forward. Across the river, horsemen were pouring out of the trees, howling like Loki’s son. At the far end of the bridge moonbeams splintered off a forest of whaling steel. Horses’ screams mingled with the cries of men.

  Erlan felt a rush of exhilaration. This was what he knew – this place of death. The place where he came alive.

  He screamed and plunged into the storm of steel and flesh, half-aware of the others beside him, their cries filling his ears. The hindmost riders spun on their saddle-cloths, desperately trying to wheel their mounts. But there was little room and anyway they were too late. Erlan hacked down the first of them, who fell with a shriek to the side. The horse stumbled. There was a splash as the man hit the water.

  That was one way of getting a body out of this fight. A good way, in fact. ‘Into the river with them!’ he yelled.

  But the advantage of surprise was gone. Ahead, others had turned, some already dismounted. He pressed forward, working his arm mechanically as Garik had taught him: slash, cut, lunge; slash, cut, lunge. But in the cramped space, he struck more horse than human flesh.

  Jovard was beside him, and beyond him the smaller figure of Kai. He had meant to keep him close – there was no sense the lad dying for Huldir’s folly – but a man’s choices narrowed in the battle-fog.

  A riderless horse bolted past, slamming him aside. He staggered back, twisting his crippled ankle. Pain lanced up his leg. His opponent lurched forward, spear-point darting wickedly close to his head, but Erlan shifted sideways, taking the blow on his shield. The man over-balanced and hit the planks with a thump. In half a breath, Wrathling’s point was through him. The man screamed as Erlan ripped his sword free and kicked him, squirming, over the edge.

  Erlan grimaced. This was what he was. A killer. Not a lover, not a husband, not a prince. A thrill, dark and bitter, surged through him. There was blood-work to be done.

  The confusion on the bridge had intensified, though Bodvar’s plan, it seemed, was working. Although more numerous, Huldir’s band of men was being squeezed from both sides. Erlan looked around, trying to orientate himself, and glimpsed a small man clutching a spear.

  Kai!

  The lad’s face was bright with laughter as he hefted his shield with all the strength in his scrawny frame under the belly of a horse. The animal missed its footing and over it went, mount and rider together, into the dark waters. Without a second’s pause, Kai scuttled on.

  Ahead, there was hard fighting. Erlan moved forward. But then, a huge shout carried through the cries and clash of iron.

  ‘Huldir is dead! Your liege-lord is dead!’ Bodvar’s voice, over the din. ‘Lay down your arms! Give quarter!’

  For some moments, the remnant of Huldir’s shieldband wavered, looking at each other, unsure what to do.

  ‘Lower your blades, fellas,’ Jovard growled. ‘No sense dying for nothing.’

  Erlan saw the fight draining out of the men nearest him. And now he really looked at them, he realized many were hardly more than farm-thralls with a spear shoved in their hand.

  But suddenly another yell, ringing with defiance, arced over the skirmish. ‘Never! NEVER!’ And with it came a horse, vaulting through the remnant of Huldir’s men.

  The scales tipped. The fighting erupted again.

  The rider came on, knocking aside friend and foe alike, fixed on reaching the western bank. Erlan stood his ground, weighing how to take him. But then, to his horror, Kai appeared in front of him. Before he could yell at him to get out of the way, Kai had dropped a knee and lunged. Whether by luck or by skill, his spear sank deep into the horse’s chest. The beast reared up, its rider snatching wildly for its mane, his helm flew off and a shock of silver hair flashed in the moonlight.

  Erlan knew him at once.

  Gellir the White. The last of Huldir’s sons.

  The horse keeled over with a clatter but somehow Gellir was on his feet. Kai seemed frozen, weaponless, as Gellir’s axe cut down. Kai met it with his shield – first one blow, then another – staggering backwards under the savage attack.

  Meanwhile, Erlan was dragging himself through the battle-debris towards them. The axe rose again as Erlan launched himself at Gellir with a yell that was half-terror, half-rage. They crashed together. There was a giddy instant in the empty air, then the river swallowed them up.

  He didn’t know what had become of Kai. All he knew were flailing limbs and curses. Fingers tore at his face. His sword was gone. His mouth filled with water. He scrabbled for Gellir’s throat but the man was slippery as a salmon.

  As they struggled, the current took them, buffeting them against the wooden piers, sluicing them downstream, turning them over and over in a gouging, butting, biting frenzy. They swept onwards. And then, from somewhere on the western bank, a voice was screaming his name. His ring-mail was heavy, pulling him under, grinding his feet along the riverbed, making every snatched breath harder to come by.

  There was a sudden whip of air and Gellir screamed like a wounded hog. An arrow appeared from nowhere, buried deep in his shoulder. Desperate to end this, Erlan snatched at it, ground it in hard, feeling the iron tip grate bone. They both went under, deeper and deeper, dredging the riverbed. And suddenly, out of the murk lunged Gellir’s face, white and terrible as the World Serpent. The next moment Erlan’s skull shattered into a thousand pieces and he saw darkness...

  Only darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Cold water fills his lungs, the light falls away, his cry is smothered by a salty abyss. Strong hands reach for him, catching his little fist, pulling him back to life.

  ‘Hakan!’ His father’s voice, far away. ‘Hakan!’

  But Hakan is dead. And he is another man, with another name...

  ‘Erlan!’ someone shouted. A slap in the face. A flare of pain.

  He opened his eyes.

  A man’s features swam into focus – heavy jowls, drooping moustache. Before he could connect the face with a name he was throwing up half the Fyris all over himself.

  ‘That’s it, lad! Better out than in!’ That was the fat man’s voice. ‘You must have the luck of Loki that Jo was there to fish you out.’

  Erlan groaned.

  ‘Up you get.’ Whether he liked it or not, Einar hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Where’s Gellir?’ he moaned.

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘But he was shot.’

  ‘So he was. Might be he’s at the bottom of the Fyris somewhere downstream. But we didn’t get him.’

  ‘He brained you with a rock or something,’ said another voice. Erlan lolled his head and saw Jovard nearby. ‘You went under. I figured it was more use saving you than killing him.’

  ‘I’m obliged to you then.’ River-water was still dribbling down his chin.

  ‘Don’t know how you found the lucky bugger, though,’ chuckled Einar. ‘It’s pitch black in there.’

  ‘Was that you on the far bank?’

  ‘He pulled you out on our side of the river,’ said Einas.

  Erlan grunted, still trying to get his bearings. ‘Where’s Bodvar?’

  They found the earl amid the carnage of fallen men and horses strewn everywhere on the approach to the bridge. The remnant of Huldir’s band had either fled across the river or given up their arms and were being sorted into a column to be taken back to Uppsala, there to await some sort of justice. Bodvar was standing over Muldir’s body.

  ‘Poor, mad son of a bitch.’

  Erlan gazed down at the broken hulk of a man, his beard tilted at an outlandish angle, an ugly gash from armpit to nipple. ‘If you were him, would you have done any different?’

  ‘If I was him... No. I guess not.’

&nbs
p; Erlan felt a thump on his arm. ‘You dropped this.’ Kai was standing there, grinning from ear to ear, holding out a twin-ringed hilt he knew well.

  Erlan seized Wrathling with a laugh. ‘You should be dead, I swear.’

  ‘Not with my luck, master. Ain’t you realized that by now?’

  Einar gave Kai a hearty slap on the back. ‘Now then, my lads – I’ve got me a thirst to rival Thor. And back home there’s meat, mead and maids enough to content a man till the Ragnarök! I, for one, ain’t going to miss it.’

  You will fall and rise again.

  The vala had spoken those words over him, a lifetime ago. Erlan wondered how long their truth would hold.

  He took another pull on a mead-skin he’d cajoled off a hall-maid. It seemed hardly an hour since Jo had dragged him from the river, yet here he was as if he’d never left, albeit in borrowed clothes. Most of the others were happily installed in the Brewer’s Hall. Those that weren’t wounded. Or dead.

  Only Bodvar and he had returned to the Great Hall, where the fog of merriment was now so thick you could cut it. The air was a swelter of smells – roasted ox, spilled ale, stale sweat, women’s scent, wood-smoke, vomit.

  Bodvar had returned to his place as discreetly as possible, ready to inform Sviggar of the events of Ulvar’s Mill at a timely moment. Erlan, meanwhile, was getting drunk.

  His blood was still hot with the battle-fire. He kept clenching his fist to stop his hand from shaking, still heard the rush of the river in his ears. Everything seemed unreal – both there and now here, leaning against this pillar observing the feast. The ale wasn’t helping, but he didn’t care. His temple throbbed like a curse.

  Gellir wasn’t dead, he was sure. And something told him the White was far more dangerous than his father. But it wasn’t just that. His eye kept straying to the king’s table. Even through the shifting air, she was beautiful – a point of stillness amid all that commotion, but so far from him now. Unattainable. For ever. And meanwhile, he was down here in the mire.

  Where he belonged.

  He took another swig, spilling beer down his chin, knowing no amount of drink could quench the anger burning in his belly.

  There was a flurry in the top corner of the hall and down the steps of the platform ran a troop of dancing girls, clad in flimsy white shifts, slit below their waist a dozen different ways. A space cleared between the hearth-pit and the high table and they ran, bare-footed and almost bare-legged, to their places.

  There was a hush and then a drum struck up a beat. The girls started moving to its rhythm as a lyre and pipe took up the melody. The performance was for the high folk, of course, but everyone stopped to watch them. Where he stood the hearth-fire obscured his view, so that, to him, the girls seemed to be dancing inside the flames, pale arms rippling like streams of water, long braids whirling like whips, eyes sparkling like jewels with each spin.

  It was a few moments before he recognized one of them was Rissa. His eyes followed her, watched her move, watched the rhythm of the drum pulse through her body, her legs oiled and glinting in the flame-flicker. She had a tattoo coiled up her arm that reflected the light like jet-stone. Like all the others, her face was a mask. Except that once – perhaps he only imagined it – she looked at him through the flames – right at him and no other – and for a second her hard mouth softened.

  He took another drink, the heat blurring his vision, feeling his anger slide into something else. Or maybe it was all the same. Blood and flesh. Suddenly he wanted her. Wanted her cool, shimmering body to slake the heat that boiled in his head.

  ‘Quite a sight, eh?’

  Erlan jerked his head round. Sigurd was next to him.

  ‘Hmm. So long as they keep our guests happy.’

  ‘Happier than they deserve.’ Sigurd angled a scornful look at the king’s table. ‘Look at them.’ Thrand was beating his fist enthusiastically in time with the music. ‘All smiles. Not a whisper of the army they’ve been raising to see us all dead.’

  ‘You don’t trust them?’

  ‘No, I don’t fucking trust them. Do you?’

  ‘For once we’re agreed then.’ Erlan could hear the slur in his own voice. He clung a little tighter to the pillar.

  ‘You see that old man up there, Aurvandil? That’s complacency, sitting there. It’s a wonder he can sit down after the sport our Danish cousins have had with him.’ He sniggered.

  ‘I suppose he thinks enmity is not always expedient.’

  ‘Bah! A man’s a fool who has the wolf’s head in a noose and doesn’t pull it tight.’

  Was Sigurd testing him, picking at his loyalty? ‘Your father has his reasons.’

  ‘Reasons? It’s all folly. Are we to believe the same men who were raising a host against us a month ago are now our bosom-friends? We speak a few words, share a few cups, and all is forgotten?’

  ‘You don’t think this changes things?’

  ‘The only thing that has changed is that tonight Ringast’s balls are a little lighter. Do you see how carefully my sister sits up there?’ Sigurd sniggered again. Erlan’s gall was rising. He looked away, his eyes returning to the dancing girls, to Rissa’s body, and took another swig of ale. This time he wanted her to see him. Wanted her to know he saw her. ‘And the oaths taken? Surely they bind them?’

  ‘Huh! There’s actually something rather touching about how seriously you take an oath, Aurvandil. Ah! Vargalf, there you are. You can tell us what you think.’

  Erlan looked back sharply. The prince’s oathman had appeared at his shoulder, sly and silent as a wolf. ‘Think, my lord?’

  ‘How did you put it before? There’s a time for making oaths and—’

  ‘A time for breaking them.’

  ‘Aye!’ Sigurd cried. ‘A time for breaking them.’

  ‘Why make an oath at all if you break it the moment the knot wears a little sore?’

  Vargalf’s nose wrinkled with disdain. ‘Sometimes words serve a purpose, just like steel serves a purpose. But after all, what really binds you to an oath?’

  Erlan found the question discomfiting. Oaths had cost him much. ‘A broken oath bears ill fruit. It echoes through the Nine Worlds.’ So his nurse had told him, anyway. He suddenly felt naive.

  Vargalf’s lips curled in a half-smile. ‘A man of will cuts his own path and walks it. Oaths need not bind him.’

  Something in his words tugged at Erlan’s memory. He felt he had heard them before, or something like them, but then the dancers’ performance came to the end with a flourish and the crowd broke into gales of applause. The sudden swell of noise made him feel dizzy. He pushed away from the pillar and took leave of the prince, intending to find some clean air outside, moving through the jostling, ale-happy sea of faces, determined to avoid any other talk.

  But then a hand threaded through his fingers. He glanced down and saw a slender forearm swathed in a swirling tattoo. He looked up into Rissa’s elfin face. Her throat was glistening with sweat.

  ‘Did you like what you saw?’ She had leaned in so close her mouth nearly touched his ear. Her fingers were restless in his, toying with his hand, but he left it there.

  ‘Mmm.’ He felt stupid. Couldn’t think what else to say.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asked teasingly, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile.

  ‘A little. Haven’t you?’

  ‘I don’t drink. I take my pleasure in other ways.’

  ‘Like dancing?’

  ‘Like dancing,’ she echoed. ‘And other things.’

  They stood looking at each other, their faces a few inches apart. Her fingers were still laced round his. She suddenly tightened her grip. ‘Come with me.’

  She led him through the crowd and he followed, shutting down his mind to anything but that moment: the feel of her fingertips in his palm, the wake of mint in the air that swirled past her. Yet something made him glance back.

  Lilla was looking straight at him. Staring at him – through all that tumult, her ey
es full of sadness. And for a heartbeat, he wanted her to see, wanted her to hurt, to feel what he had felt, even though, deep in his heart, he knew it was he who hadn’t fought hard enough for her.

  Outside the air was cooler. Rissa led him through the shadows under the massive buttresses along the side of the hall. His head was throbbing, probably as much from Gellir’s blow as the drink. But he didn’t need to think. Didn’t want to. There were no illusions here. Nothing to hide. He didn’t know this woman. She didn’t know him. Knowledge like that only led to pain, anyhow. This way she could have him, if that was what she wanted. And he... he could forget the world for a while.

  She stopped in a shaded corner between a supporting pillar and the wall and turned to him. It was too dark to see her smile, but he heard it in her voice. ‘I told you our conversation wasn’t over.’

  ‘Is that all you want to do? Talk?’

  She gave a slow chuckle and then he tasted her breath on his lips, felt her tongue slip into his mouth. She moaned and the sound seemed to release something in him. Like a rope being cut, setting adrift all the burdens he had been carrying in his head.

  She pulled back, slipped her shoulder out of her flimsy robe, exposing a small round breast, taking his hand and pressing it to her. The nipple tightened under his palm, proud as a rosebud. Then she undid his belt, let it fall, and began unlacing his breeches. Her hand slipped inside, fingers cool around his heat.

  ‘Here,’ she said breathlessly, falling back into the dark nook, taking him with her. He saw the glimmer of a long pale leg through the slitted skirt, pushed against her, heard her breathing quicken.

  She coiled around him, guiding him into her wet warmth hungrily, nails digging into his buttocks, her head kicked back against the wall.

  There was a kind of frenzy to the rest of it, two wolves devouring each other. And for a time, he did forget; until she was shaking and then he was shaking too, and everything was emptying out of him – his anger, his confusion, his sorrow, the battle-fear, the killing rage, all of it – until he was no one and nothing. Nothing but the fire ripping through him.