A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Was forty when I was born.’

  Erlan raised an eyebrow. ‘An old man for a wife so young.’

  ‘She wasn’t his wife.’

  ‘Yet he kept you.’

  ‘My mother said once he saw me, he was smitten.’ She snorted. ‘I was lucky. He left most of his children out for the wolves.’

  ‘So did he treat you... well?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said in a faraway voice, staring into the fire. ‘I was his favourite.’ Her eyes jerked up at him. ‘His favourite gift. Saved only for his most honoured guests. After all, a wise man increases his influence with what he possesses.’ She shook her head, as if to shake away the dark thoughts picking at her mind. ‘Still, he taught me a lot. About our people and the forest and the ways of beasts. Aye, and men. He taught me how different folks hold different kinds of knowledge. And different kinds of power.’

  ‘Power which you now possess, I suppose?’ said Erlan wryly.

  She pushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes. ‘Wisdom comes to those who seek it. Power too, I think.’

  ‘And your mother? What did she teach you?’

  ‘Only two things.’ She picked up a stick from the ground and prodded at the fire. ‘She was beautiful, but simple. My father kept her that way. But she figured out one true thing: if you desire something strongly enough, nothing in the Nine Worlds can stop it coming to you.’

  Erlan scoffed. ‘Any halfwit child knows that’s nonsense.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes!’ he insisted. ‘If you mean I can wake up one morning and decide I want fifty marks of silver, and somehow it’ll drop out of the sky into my lap. That’s absurd.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. What I mean is, whatever you desire most deeply, whatever you truly believe is your due and your destiny – it will surely come upon you. If it’s wealth, it will come. Or love. Or revenge.’ The shadows danced over her face. ‘Or destruction.’

  ‘So did it work for your mother?’

  ‘This law never fails. It is inescapable as death.’ She tired of stirring the fire and threw the stick into the flames. ‘Most people are ignorant. They don’t see that what befalls them is exactly what they have been drawing to themselves.’

  ‘A cruel law, then.’

  ‘Is it? You know the Norns are much kinder than we think. They weave only the fate that we call upon ourselves.’

  ‘If what you say is true, then we have no one but ourselves to blame. For our misery. For our pain.’

  ‘Exactly. And my mother saw this and changed the fate she was calling to herself. In time she got what she wanted.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘A splinter of bone in my father’s throat,’ she said softly. ‘He choked to death. Face down in a bowl of gruel.’

  ‘She murdered him, then.’

  ‘No!’ she laughed. ‘That’s the beauty of it! She did nothing – nothing but change her thoughts. That was enough to change her destiny.’

  ‘You weren’t sorry?’

  ‘He wasn’t the kind of man to be mourned.’

  ‘So your mother wanted him dead?’

  ‘She wanted her freedom. And she soon had it. So we came south.’

  Erlan nodded thoughtfully, finishing his last morsel of flatbread soaked with the grease at the bottom of his bowl. At length he spoke again. ‘You said your mother taught you two things. What was the second?’

  Her lip curled. ‘She taught me how to nurture my hate.’

  ‘Your hate? What do you hate?’

  Suddenly she clapped her hands. ‘Enough talk with an empty cup. Another drink and this skin is done.’

  ‘There’s another with the horses,’ said Bara, rising. ‘I’ll go—’

  ‘No, no – you sit, my dear. Go on, sit!’ So Bara sank back down and it was Saldas who gathered their drinking horns and shook them out over the fire.

  Erlan watched her glide into the shadows where the animals were resting, wondering what to make of her candour. He didn’t trust her – that went without saying – but he still couldn’t help feeling intrigued by this woman who possessed so many faces. He knew not which was her true face. Perhaps one he would never see. One that no one would ever see.

  She reappeared, carrying three horns and a fresh skin. ‘Alas, we have only this nettle-wine left. Will it suffice?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  She passed the black horn to Erlan, the grey to Bara and kept the white for herself, then filled all three.

  ‘Well then. I drink to you both.’

  The others drank with her. Erlan sank a good portion. Bara took only a sip.

  ‘It’s bitter,’ he said.

  ‘The first taste of nettle-wine is always bitter. Try again! You’ll see it’s not so bad.’ She reached out and with a long finger tipped his cup right back.

  ‘It could do with some spices,’ he grunted.

  Saldas threw back her head and laughed. ‘Bara will be sure to tell the brewers, won’t you?’

  The redhead nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Weren’t you going to finish your story?’

  She sighed. ‘Well, what more is there to tell? We came south. My mother drew the eye of an old earl who took her as his mistress.’

  ‘A concubine?’

  ‘If you like.’ She shrugged. ‘Soon afterwards his nephew begged to have me in his household. So I went, and the following year the fool married me, though I brought him no advantage. But it hardly mattered. He was dead within three years.’

  ‘Another desire fulfilled?’

  ‘Hah! Not in this case. No, he died as he lived. Foolishly. A drunken brawl. He never was much good with either sword,’ she chuckled. ‘But by then, I’d been to Sviggar’s halls. When his first wife died, he summoned me. The rest you know.’

  More questions circled in Erlan’s mind, but the words he wanted to say seemed elusive, drifting out of reach when he tried to voice them. His eyelids drooped, then snapped open with a start.

  ‘I’m boring you,’ Saldas laughed.

  ‘Not at all... I’m suddenly weary, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I never fancied myself a skald, but if I’m putting you to sleep...’

  ‘It was a long day.’

  ‘I’m tired too,’ Bara agreed.

  ‘Then your beds await. But first... it’s bad luck not to finish the cup.’ She smiled and raised her horn. ‘From the first ice to the last fire.’

  ‘From the ice to the fire then,’ echoed Erlan and emptied the bitter wine down his throat.

  ‘And you, my dear?’

  ‘From the ice to the fire,’ Bara murmured and tipped back the horn. The queen drank too, upending hers when she was done.

  ‘So then! A peaceful night to you both.’ Saldas rose and went to her shelter. Bara did likewise. Last of all, Erlan hauled himself up. And with a final look up at the smoke spiralling into the night, he ducked into his shelter and sank, heavy-limbed, onto his blanket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The fire burned on and soon the flames shrank lower. Around them darkness pressed, squeezing back their guttering heat, seeping round the three shelters like a black tide. Darkness oozing through the trees, smothering the decaying leaves and dirt, darkness gaping like the bottomless maw of death, swallowing every pinprick of light down into its cold belly. And then, after a long moment of stillness, the darkness vomited up those evil things from another realm.

  Saldas smiled, feeling the shadows press against her body, the clench in the sinews of her mouth, the tightness over her skin. She touched her lips and felt the ripple of murmured invocations over her fingertips, summoning to her those ancient powers she already sensed around her.

  The air grew cold. She shivered. They were here, those spirits from beyond. Her dísir. Or fylgyur, some called them. Fetches. Shape-shifter spirits. Tonight they would do her bidding.

  She undid the leather gourd at her girdle, pulling th
e stopper. Her nostrils flared. Its smell was acrid. But she put it to her lips, tipped and swallowed. At once the liquid seeped through her body like a winter frost, chilling her. Her lips moved with fresh urgency.

  I will have my desire. Of course. Didn’t she always in the end?

  Soon this man who had dared resist her, soon he would have his greatest desire, too.

  A snicker escaped her beautiful lips.

  Yes. He will have his desire. That is what she would now become. Those were the words she uttered. And soon she would assume the shape of whomever Erlan desired most in all the world.

  She couldn’t keep the smile from her face, knowing that soon she would possess him. Her spell became louder, but she was not concerned. They had both drunk down their brews like babes at a nursemaid’s nipple. A sleeping draught for Bara. And for Erlan... well, by now his mind would be a-swirl with longing, desire enveloping all his thoughts like a hot wind.

  The potion surged within her. She felt its force as invisible hands went to their work. There was pain – there was always pain – and she gasped against it. But she had felt it before and now it only heightened her excitement.

  Her eyes burned for an instant, the knuckles in her hands contorted, sending a shriek of pain up her arms. Her scalp flared white hot. Then, suddenly, the pain ceased.

  She opened her eyes. At first she felt nothing. But she knew the fetches had finished their work. She ran her hands over her body. It was firmer, smaller, but almost bursting with the vigour of youth. She touched her cheeks and sensed the freshness of many years before.

  For a second she felt a pang of jealousy at Lilla. That this was how it felt to have her body. But she quickly laughed it away. Instead, she almost wished Lilla were here now to witness her victory.

  But what of Lilla, anyway? It was her moment now.

  She seized her hand-mirror and slipped outside. There she stopped to listen.

  Not a sound.

  Nothing but the ebb of Bara’s breathing, and beyond the fire Erlan’s deeper sighs. She moved closer to the dying embers of the fire and raised the mirror, excited at what she would see.

  But when she looked, she was amazed.

  For in its surface she saw nothing of Lilla’s honey curls. No dark blue eyes. No feckless smile. Instead, an even younger face stared back at her.

  Her hand dropped the mirror into her lap. This wasn’t what she had expected at all. Yet soon her curiosity overcame her surprise. She looked again, turning her face from side to side, seeing what Erlan saw in his mind.

  Was she beautiful?

  Undoubtedly, in a girlish sort of way. Her own hair had softened from raven-black to a deep brown, falling in thick curls about her face and shoulders. She smiled at herself and the large, warm eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief. At the same time, inside she felt mischief brimming, a kind of exuberance, an eagerness to fling her arms wide and embrace the whole world and all it could give her. Of course, she remembered that feeling from her own youth, though it had long ago changed into something else, something more practical. Even so, it was strange to feel its intensity once more, and she couldn’t help but wonder whose face this was.

  Perhaps it was better Lilla wasn’t here after all, she thought with delicious mirth. Her stepdaughter would be sad indeed to learn that another girl had a tighter hold on her lover’s heart than she.

  Saldas laid the mirror down. Everything was ready. She glanced at Bara’s tent, satisfied that inside all was still.

  I’ll overlook your lethargy tomorrow, my dear. Just this once, she smiled. After the dose she had given her, Bara would sleep well beyond the dawn.

  Soundlessly, she stole around the fire, pausing only for a moment at the entrance to Erlan’s tent. Her hand was shaking with excitement. Her throat was dry. But this proud fool would soon slake her thirst.

  And drawing breath, she went inside.

  Erlan knew he was dreaming.

  A terrible dream that pierced his heart, a dream from which he never wished to wake.

  As soon as his eyes had closed, his mind had slipped into a whirlpool of images, each shifting in and out of focus, each sharp and quick as a spear-thrust. He saw smothering darkness, sea-spray, heard creaking timber and the lash of the wind. Then a snowbound forest, mad, mocking laughter dancing in the treetops; his hands slick with blood, a fearful screaming of horses. Then the smell of wet pine needles and Lilla’s face, her mouth biting at his chest, biting to hurt him, while her father appeared over them crying, ‘Oath-breaker!’ And then many other faces from the past, drifting in and out of shadow, murmuring, moaning, louder and louder till their voices became a single roar of noise.

  And last of all, through the crowd of faces, she came.

  And suddenly there’s only one voice. One face.

  Hers.

  And they are alone.

  She is soothing him with soft words. She smiles just like she used to and lies beside him. He tries to speak but his words melt into meaningless sounds. She puts a finger to his lips. And then they are naked and their bodies gripped tight against one another, clinging on as though they must never let go. Her skin feels familiar, smells familiar. Every mark and curve of her body he remembers. Only now she is more urgent. Now passion blazes in her eyes, so fierce it feels more like anger. She claws at his skin, urging him on, riding him in a blind fury, begging for him to please her in ways she never has before, exultant, shimmering, glorious in her ecstasy.

  And when it’s over, he turns to her. He wants to weep, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her to stay. But she will not. She sees the amulet hanging round his neck and asks what it is. He tells her. ‘You made it for me. Don’t you remember?’ She smiles and says she must take it now. He gives it up. Her hand closes. She tells him she must go. Her fingers caress his eyes, closing them, so softly he hardly feels her touch.

  And then she is gone.

  He wonders if she’ll notice that her fingertips are wet with his tears.

  PART THREE

  TWILIGHT OF KINGS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  King Harald Wartooth turned onto his back with a groan. Gods, even that took most of his strength these days. His hip grated like a rusted hinge.

  Old bones...

  The council talk made him so damn tired these days. Him, whom men had called ‘Tireless’ in his youth. How the years had crept up on him.

  It was a long time since he’d felt the blood burn in his sword arm or heard the ring of steel. Now it was his bladder that burned and his ears that rang. His once-ruddy fist was a clutch of crumbling twigs, hardly able to stop his mead-cup shaking. He grimaced, feeling age gnawing at his marrow, wishing for the sleep that took longer to come each night.

  Age laughs last and laughs hardest.

  All other foes he could quell. But this one... this one came on relentless as the tide.

  They thought he didn’t notice how they eyed him as he shifted his brittle arse on his council seat. But he saw. Saw the scheming in their gaze. Heard the whisper of ambition in their minds.

  Wouldn’t he have been the same? Wouldn’t he have sought to snatch the realm from an old man of five and three score years, to place it in the keeping of stronger hands?

  He scraped a palm over the callused brow where a crown had sat for thirty years. He was tired. And his worries would keep for the morrow.

  Though how many morrows would there be for him?

  Aye, how many?

  He closed his eyes and soon, despite himself, he dreamed.

  The smells fill his senses first. Spitted ox and boiled venison, the sweet tang of mead. Laughter rings. Around him swirls the feast babble. He looks down. His hands are young again, knuckles smooth as oiled leather. He squeezes and feels the strength in them. Warrior hands. When he looks up, everything shines with a lustre not of the world he knows. Towering pillars of polished stone soar to a roof that gleams like gold over rafters of bronze. No human hands built this hall.

  The tables stretch
on and on, bowing under the weight of silverware and colossal mountains of vittles and drink. Along the benches sit men. Hundreds of men. Warriors. Heroes.

  Einherjar.

  He hears his name and turns. Surrounding him are friendly faces. Kinsmen. Men the Spear-God took long ago. Their faces shine.

  ‘Welcome, Harald!’ cries one. He recalls his name: Handrik – a cousin fallen in Estland, half a lifetime ago.

  ‘What kept you, kinsman?’ roars another – the brother to his murdered father. ‘We saved your place these long years.’

  So this is Valhöll.

  The mighty abode of Odin and his chosen ones. He feels the vigour of youth in his limbs, his heart pulses with gladness and relief as he gulps down the ale thrust into his hand. There’s a maid across from him, smiling at him. And such a maid! A face like a goddess, a laugh upon her lips.

  She offers her hand and he would take it, only a shadow falls across his place. Another’s hand weighs leaden on his shoulder, cold as a Yuletide wind.

  He turns and sees a single, staring eye. Beside it gapes a lidless pit so dark that his heart trembles – his, whose heart has never trembled yet. The eye gazes on him, unblinking. He tries to shrink away.

  ‘You have no place here.’ The One-Eyed’s voice seeps into his mind like a mist.

  ‘But... these are my kinsmen.’

  ‘You have no place here.’

  He opens his mouth to protest.

  ‘YOU – HAVE – NO – PLACE – HERE.’ The cry is so terrible he covers his ears. But before he can think the One-Eyed has seized him and hurled him to the floor. Scornful laughter breaks over him, wave after wave, scalding him with shame. Suddenly his youth is thawing away. He is a bag of bones again, struggling to stay afoot as Odin drags him from his hall.

  He wails, clamping his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he is on the edge of an abyss. Below him, mists swirl, thick and impenetrable. Above them he sees a bridge, arcing to the horizon, shimmering like it’s made of the very sky.