A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  When at last it was the turn of the lowest folk, in which Kai was numbered, they were to declare an oath in unison. Kai had moved his lips but hadn’t spoken. They’d have to slit his throat before he swore allegiance to that bloodthirsty bitch and her hound.

  Afterwards the gates were opened and they had been free to go. Kai had slipped out innocuously among the throng with little doubt of what had just happened: Erlan had fallen into the queen’s hands, and that meant no good.

  But sure as he was of that, he had no clue what to do now. His mind was a fog of dark words and darker foreboding. So he drifted along with the crowd, feeling rudderless.

  What the Hel was he supposed to do?

  He tried to think, but every time he began to settle on some sort of plan his thoughts sifted like dust through fingers and he heard that terrible scream again, saw those terrified eyes, begging him, accusing him.

  He had done nothing. So what if cold reason told him that had he tried to save her they would now both be dead?

  I just watched her die.

  His footsteps wandered as his mind wandered. And as the sun fell and the sky began to purple, he found his steps had brought him, by hazard, close by the Coopers’ Hall on the south-eastern edge of Uppsala. A swell of voices roused him from his gloomy reverie. A group of men were going into the little hall, overseen apparently by a handful of Sigurd’s karls.

  Of course. The Coopers’ Hall was where those who refused Sigurd’s oath were to be supped before they quit the halls. An idea occurred to him. What if Bodvar could help? If anyone could be trusted for his good judgement it was surely him. He’d know what to do about Erlan... If anything could be done.

  Kai couldn’t see the earl among the stragglers entering the hall. Perhaps he was already inside. But Kai could hardly go striding in there past those karls, bold as Baldur, and demand a little chat with the earl. Instinct told him the less attention he drew to himself the better. Instead, he slunk away, and keeping to the shadows he circled to the back of the hall where everything was sinking into twilight. There, he found a gap between the planking in the east wall and peered inside.

  He could see men taking their seats along the tables that had been pulled into place. Cups and pitchers were being handed out, apparently to quell a thirst before supper was served. He tried to pick out Bodvar’s rusty braids among the others, but couldn’t see him. There were more men off to the right, hard to see with the planking and the dim light. Closer to him, a few feet from his peephole, a few men were settling at a table and passing round a pitcher. One man, hunched over his cup with his back to Kai, seemed familiar. When he glanced to one side, Kai recognized him immediately.

  Jovard.

  That’s right, he remembered. Jo refused, too.

  Perhaps he might help. After the scrap at Ulvar’s Crossing, they were practically comrades, after all. Kai put his mouth to the slit. ‘Psssst!’

  Jovard went on drinking and talking.

  ‘Pssssssst!’ Louder this time. ‘Jo!’

  At the sound of his own name, Jovard turned, looking puzzled.

  Kai called it again in a forced whisper.

  Jovard squinted at the wall, then rose from his seat. None of the others paid him any mind. He came to the wall. Kai called again.

  ‘Who the Hel’s that then?’

  ‘It’s Kai.’

  ‘Kai Askarsson?’ Jovard said. He put his eye to the crack. Kai stood back to show himself. ‘What are you doing skulking back there? They’ve taken Erlan.’

  ‘I know! I’m looking for Bodvar. Is he in there?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Hey, Jo,’ someone crowed. ‘Who’s out there?’

  ‘Give me a second,’ he called back.

  ‘Some frisky filly, is it? Hey, Jo? Hey!’

  ‘I said give me a fucking second,’ Jovard snarled. The other man shrugged and resumed his conversation.

  ‘I must speak with him!’ said Kai.

  Jovard nodded. He stepped back and craned his neck. ‘Not a whisker of him in here. What do you think he can do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something...’

  Jovard gave a low whistle. ‘Reckon he’ll have his own problems soon enough.’

  ‘Maybe... Hey – why did you refuse?’

  ‘Just seemed the better bet. Going with Bodvar.’

  ‘So will you ride with him to Vestmanland?’

  ‘If he’ll take me. If not, I’ve some kin down in Gotland.’ He shrugged. ‘Either way, I’m done here.’

  There was a sudden noise behind him. Jovard turned away. ‘Hang on – something’s happening.’ Kai watched his eyes narrow. ‘They’re closing the doors.’

  Beyond him, Kai could see the men nearer the doors. They were on their feet. There was a second noise: a crash of wood and iron. ‘They’ve barred it!’ someone yelled. The first to reach the door began beating on it, shouting at the guards on the other side.

  ‘What are they playing at now?’

  ‘I’ll go take a look,’ said Kai.

  But just then a man standing on a bench near the door cried out and pointed at the roof.

  ‘What is it, Jo?’ hissed Kai. ‘Jo?’

  ‘Smoke,’ murmured Jovard, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

  Then the hall erupted in a roar of alarm.

  ‘Fire!’ someone screamed.

  And immediately men were leaping on tables, knocking over benches, others gaping upwards as more tell-tale wisps coiled through the roof. Already the crackle of burning thatch was audible over the growing clamour, louder and louder, the fire’s hunger growing with the eating.

  ‘Is there another way out?’

  Jovard shook his head as if in a daze.

  The men near the door had seized benches and were battering the wooden frames as hard as they could. The crash and splinter of wood only added to the din, but the doors held fast.

  All at once Kai caught the sound of voices coming round the corner of the hall. Quick as a startled hare, he sprang away from the wall and shot across the grass, reaching the cover of the trees just as men appeared. They were carrying torches. Kai ducked into the bracken, fearful that they had seen him, but he soon realized they weren’t interested in the trees. They were four – three carrying a torch in each hand, a fourth toting a pail and a large brush. While the first three lined along the wall, this fourth began daubing it with black arcs of pitch or whatever it was in his pail. As he passed each man, they put their torch to the wall. The fire took at once, streaking up the timber. And then, at a signal from one of them, they tossed one torch at the foot of the wall, the other they lobbed onto the roof.

  ‘Can you hear them?’ the karl with the bucket sniggered.

  Some of the shouting inside had become screams now.

  ‘Shitting ’emselves,’ laughed another.

  ‘They deserve it. Walking in here like babes to their mama’s tit. Halfwits.’

  ‘And traitors,’ said the first.

  They moved on, soon disappearing around the far corner. Cautiously, Kai rose from his hiding place. The flames seemed to have deepened the darkness, licking higher and wider up the wall all the time.

  Poor bloody bastards. He ran to the crack – which was still clear of the flames – and ignoring the swelling heat around him, he peered inside.

  It was another world in there now – a swirling maelstrom of fear and panic. Burning thatch was falling from above, showers of sparks exploding off the rafters, seeding more deadly flames below. Upturned tables, men raving, hurling themselves against the door, some on their knees praying, others trying to tear at the walls, for all the good it would do them.

  Jovard was still standing nearby, frozen, still apparently unable to grasp that this was really happening. Kai put his mouth to the crack and shouted his name. That seemed to jerk Jovard out of his daze and he suddenly flung himself at the wall.

  ‘Help me! Kai! Help – me!’

  Kai was shaking. What the Hel could he do? Bu
t Jovard had already dug his fingers into the crack and was yanking at the timber, ripping the flesh off his knuckles. ‘A lever! We need a lever!’

  Kai pulled out his knife and started hacking at the wood from his side, trying to wedge it between the two planks – but what use was six inches of steel against solid oak? Each plank was a foot and a half wide and sunk at least four feet into the ground. ‘Harder,’ cried Jovard. ‘Pull harder!’ Behind him there was a crash and billow of smoke and sparks, hard followed by howls of torment.

  Kai tried not to look. It was as if the fire-world of Muspelheim had ripped up out of the earth and was rolling in great gouts of flame towards him. He gave up on the knife, instead shoving in his fingers, shaking and tugging at the wood with all his might. The heat was growing all the time. He could see Jovard’s bared teeth on the other side, his face a savage vision of horror and desperation, bloodied fingers scraping the wood.

  But it was no good.

  The heat was pulsing off the walls now. A roar of flames beside him filled his ears. Instinctively he covered his face. Then, astonishingly, the board seemed to give. Hardly a fraction of an inch, but Jovard’s hope flared with the tiny movement.

  ‘It’s coming. The bastard’s coming! Wait! There – the trees behind you!’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Fetch a branch – as a lever, damn you! Hurry – for Frigg’s sake, hurry!’

  Kai looked behind him. Where was he going to find a branch that could rip open a wall? With hope dying in his heart, he ran into the woods and scrabbled about for something – anything – that might serve. It was dark now, and unless someone had helpfully left a ten-foot iron bar back there, he knew it was pointless.

  His foot kicked something in the bracken. He picked it up. A branch fallen from the spruce tree above him. But it was curved and pliable, still almost fresh. Useless. He swore. But it was all he had.

  He ran back to the wall, brandishing the thing like a spear. The roof was a furnace now, roaring and snapping like some angry fire-worm. He reached the crack, shoved the end of the branch in far as it would go and heaved. ‘Jo!’ he yelled and the bleeding fingers appeared again. He pushed and wrestled, imagined he saw the board give, pleaded with it to break, somehow. But it was no use. He stopped and knelt at the crack. Jovard was already stepping back, his face a wound of despair. All around him was a squall of smoke and screams.

  Kai saw his lips move but could hear no words above the furnace. A curse perhaps, or a silent prayer. Then there was a cracking noise above. Jo looked up, blinked twice, his face pale as the dawn. And then he was gone, swallowed up in a flume of fire and ash.

  Sparks and searing heat blasted the wall, throwing Kai on his back. He lay there winded, ears ringing, watching orange embers dance up into the night sky.

  It was a few seconds before he dragged himself to his feet, deaf to anything but the roaring flames. He tried to reach the crack one last time, but the heat was too much now, holding him back like an invisible wall. His skin was burning. The wool of his tunic was searing hot.

  That was it.

  He wilted backwards, retreating deeper into the shadow of the trees, until the screams of the dying and the roar of the flames had merged into one long wail of anguish rising up into the night, each sound indistinguishable from the other.

  Not far away, Erlan was pulled down and shoved forward. His shin cracked against something hard. He staggered over.

  ‘Get up, arseling.’ A spear-butt jabbed in his back and he straightened up in pain. That was when the stink hit him – stale piss, fouled straw, putrid meat.

  The hood was removed. For a second, he couldn’t see. Then slowly shapes coalesced. One of the guards held a taper, the only light in the dingy chamber. The air was damp and rotten as the inside of a beggar’s mouth. The floor was hard packed and strewn with a few piles of old straw. The walls were simple, round piles driven into the earth and in the middle of the chamber there was a rectangular area, stone-lined, that must have once served as a fire-pit. Low down on one wall was a tiny entrance-door. The threshold he’d just tripped over, he realized. He looked up. Above him the roof was heavy thatch, solid apart from a small square smoke-hole at its pinnacle. He guessed the little structure must have been some kind of smokehouse once, where meat and fish were cured and smoked and stored. Except those were usually clean and dry. This was filthy, cold and dank.

  ‘Your new home,’ said Vargalf.

  Erlan said nothing.

  ‘Take his arms.’ The guards seized his elbows. Vargalf cut the ropes securing his wrists. ‘Strip him.’

  Moments later, he was naked and the guards had tossed his things against the wall where they landed in a heap of rotting straw.

  ‘Hands.’ His fists were yanked forward. Vargalf snapped shackles over his wrists. They were so tight the blackened metal bit into his flesh. ‘Hold him.’ Vargalf reached up and took one end of a chain that was hanging from the main beam overhead. He fed the battered links through the rings welded to Erlan’s shackles, then flung them back over the beam, catching the end of the chain and dragging it over to the wall where he began hauling it tight. The tension grew, Erlan’s hands rising higher and higher, until his arms stretched their sockets, lifting him onto his toes. Vargalf grunted with the effort of hooking the chain on a bracket bolted to the wall. Then he stepped back and considered his handiwork. Dissatisfied, he told a guard to help him and Erlan was hoisted a couple of links higher, till he could barely feel his weight on his toes.

  ‘Better,’ smiled Vargalf. ‘Comfortable?’

  Hardly. The shackles were burrowing into his flesh and his shoulders were snarling in protest at the dead weight of his body. He tried to relieve the pain on his toes, but could only hold himself a few seconds before he had to drop again.

  ‘It’s a good thing that fool Sviggar can’t see you now. I don’t suppose he’d like to see his favourite pet stripped like a common thief.’ Vargalf stepped forward and peered at Erlan’s body, examining the queen’s fading scratches on his chest. He circled round him and Erlan felt a sharp fingertip trace other welts on his back. ‘Then again, he might have thought you deserved it after he saw these. A man can be quite particular about whom he allows to fuck his wife.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Erlan’s lungs were struggling against the weight of his body. ‘She—’

  ‘I just hope it was worth it. But knowing what we intend for you, I very much doubt it was.’ He looked up, almost sympathetic. ‘Do you know, for all the pleasure you may have given her, Saldas really hates you?’

  ‘She’s a lying bitch.’

  ‘No doubt. Anyhow, she was most insistent that you receive a memorable welcome to your new... situation. So, would you like a taste of what you can expect here?’

  Erlan glared down at him.

  ‘Undecided? Then I shall choose for you.’ He went to one of the murky corners of the smokehouse. ‘I know how you prefer people to speak the truth, so I won’t hide anything from you.’ In the corner of his eye, Erlan saw him take something long and thin, and flex it between his hands. Then he returned where Erlan could see him.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  It seemed like a kind of whip – three thin switches, each nearly four feet long, but firm and straight. About a foot from one end, they were tied together by a woven-leather handle. The other ends were loose. Vargalf flicked his hand and they swished menacingly through the air.

  ‘Birch wood. Very strong. You’ll soon see why.’

  Without any warning, he took two quick strides, his foot slapping the floor as his arm followed through. A sharp crack snapped the air as the whip lashed against Erlan’s chest. He tried to scream, but his chest seized, choking it off in his throat. Vargalf circled round. Erlan scrabbled desperately on his toes, sucking air to ease the pain lancing through his body.

  ‘See? Good as new. Strong as ever. I find they last a lot longer than the men we use them on.’ He approached and examined the thr
ee bright welts across Erlan’s chest. Already they were filling with blood. He traced a finger down one and held it up, red. ‘I’m afraid, my hobbling friend, that however the queen gave you those other marks, these ones will be considerably less pleasant.’

  Erlan closed his eyes, snorting at the foul air like an angry bullock.

  Vargalf paced round him. ‘You do fascinate me, though, cripple, I admit. You and your dogged insistence on the truth.’

  The foot slammed and the whip cut the air like a blade. Erlan’s back erupted with fire, the heat racing to his fingertips. This time his scream filled the chamber like a breaking wave. As it sank back into a moan, his back muscles began to spasm.

  ‘The truth doesn’t matter. Who controls what folk call the truth – that’s what matters. And right now, Saldas holds that power.’

  The switches cut again, this time slicing his hips and buttocks. His body kicked forward, spinning crazily on its chain. He clamped his mouth shut until the worst of the pain had passed.

  ‘The truth—’ Erlan gasped.

  ‘Yes?’ Vargalf leaned in.

  ‘The truth crushes those who twist it... in the end.’

  ‘Oh, in the end?’ Vargalf laughed. ‘You shouldn’t concern yourself with whatever may come – in the end, as you put it. The only truth you need know – in the end – is that you will not live to see it. No. You’d do better to focus on what is here. What is now.’

  By the time Vargalf had finished demonstrating Erlan’s present reality, he was gasping out short, savage breaths, while droplets of Erlan’s blood fell like red tears from his birch-whip into the filthy straw. He reached up and seized Erlan’s throat. Erlan groaned.

  ‘I’d say we’ve made a good start, h’m? But we’ve plenty more time to discover how much you can endure... Starting tomorrow.’ He tapped Erlan’s hollow cheek. ‘A happy thought for you to sleep on. If you can.’

  He threw the blood-flecked whip into the corner. ‘Oh – as to happy thoughts, you might spare one for your young friend.’

  ‘Kai?’