The squat man chuckled. ‘Suppose this pair were bound to end up ’ere, heh?’ he said in a whisper they could have heard in Danmark.
‘Shut up and dig.’ The other flung down the pick.
The squat man gave a disgruntled shrug, then grabbed the pick and set about it. He soon loosened the soil. Then he dropped to his knees, scooped out a double handful of dirt and flung it into the darkness with a splatter.
At the sound, a pigeon fluttered in the trees above Kai’s head. The tall man’s head snapped round and, for a second, the torch lit the hooded face.
Kai crushed his body to the ground and held his breath.
Because Vargalf stood glaring into the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Far to the south, sun-rays splintered off the surface of the lake, winking at Lilla like elven glass. A lazy afternoon breeze rustled through the shore-rushes and up the slope, rippling the folds of her dress.
She sat on a bench looking northward. Homeward. She’d been counting the days: eight since the Summer Throng. Fewer since they had expected Rorik’s return.
With each passing day, her nights had become more restless. For the first time in a long while, she had seen her mother in her dreams. Last night was the third time she had come, her face gaunt, the lines of her mouth severe, not like Lilla remembered her. She was trying to tell her something. Each time, she reached out and lay hands on Lilla’s shoulders, drawing her close, about to whisper in her ear, about to tell her why she had come. But each time, Lilla had awoken.
‘You all right, my lady?’ Gerutha’s voice broke her thoughts. She looked at the unfinished embroidery in her hand, the needle poking through the weave.
‘Just thinking of something from long ago,’ she lied.
Gerutha twitched a sympathetic smile. ‘Need help with that, my lady?’
‘No.’ She tugged the needle and continued her stitching. ‘And please, Gerutha, how many times have I said? Call me Lilla when we’re alone.’
‘Lilla, then. Doesn’t quite seem right, is all.’
Gerutha’s gaze lingered on her a little too long and it annoyed her. The older woman seemed to see right through her, just like her mother had done. Seemed to hear what she couldn’t say. ‘You miss your home.’
Lilla smiled. ‘How can I when there’s so much to do?’
‘It’s still soon,’ Gerutha sighed, ignoring her deflection. ‘Memories are bound to linger. They’re no bad thing. Anyhow, I’ve a feeling you’ll do well here.’ She squeezed Lilla’s knee. ‘Folk are already saying their lord’s made a good match.’
‘H’m! They don’t even know me.’
‘And when did that ever stop folk passing judgement! Matter of fact, they say it’s thanks to you the harvest’ll be coming in. The talk was all of war. Now it’s all crops and yields and how you’re Thor’s answer to their prayers.’
Lilla thought of the fields of flattened barley. Was that Thor’s answer too? ‘They have some foolish notions.’
‘Sometimes... though I ain’t so sure they’re wrong on this one.’
Lilla sighed and stopped her work. ‘The truth is I don’t know what will happen. It seems that everything is hanging by a thread.’
‘Aye. But then don’t life always?’
Lilla gazed out over the lake. Her mind began to float away again, like a house-marten seeking the safety of a familiar nook: it wanted to return to him. Suddenly she shook herself. ‘I owe you thanks, Gerutha. So much has changed. But with you I feel... I don’t know... like there’s something to hope for.’
‘Things change, you find a balance, they change again,’ Gerutha shrugged, ‘and we flap around like a flock of hens till everything settles again.’
‘Is that all it is? Change.’ She looked north again. ‘Still, I miss my father. And—’ Not him. She couldn’t speak of him. ‘And the children, too.’
‘Your father’s little ones?’
‘Mmm. They looked so sad when I said farewell.’
‘They’ve got their mother, haven’t they?’
Lilla snorted. ‘A mother.’
‘That bad, eh?’
Lilla shook away the thought. ‘No matter. My father will see they’re cared for. Anyway, I don’t mean to be gloomy. It’s so beautiful here.’ She turned to Gerutha and forced her face to brighten. ‘Tell me more about you. I want to know!’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t you have a family? Or a man, at least?’
‘I had a good one.’ She gave a rueful laugh. ‘Oh, he was a brute... But he was always gentle with me.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Gone where I can’t follow. The Heroes’ Hall, I guess.’
‘What happened?’
Gerutha shrugged again. ‘He was headman of our village. A wise man, in his way. But he had a wild streak in him – a roving streak. A few summers back he got himself a share in a boat and went raiding east... That was it. He didn’t come back.’
‘That must have been hard.’
‘At first. But I’d seen other women suffer that and go on. Didn’t see why I should do any different. Life’s hard enough without spending it grieving. And it wouldn’t have been fair on my son.’
‘Oh, you have a son!’ Lilla was relieved to turn the conversation in a more cheerful direction.
But the lines around Gerutha’s mouth tightened. ‘No. Not no more... You know bad things happen often in this world. But just once in a while, something truly evil happens, too. That night, when those brothers came... No mind with any whit of goodness could have imagined it...’ Her words faded into a dark memory. Lilla watched the wind pluck at the loose wisps of her hair and wondered what she saw. ‘Anyhow,’ Gerutha forced a smile, ‘they can’t hurt my boy no more. I’ll find him again one day – in Hela’s halls.’
Lilla reached out and squeezed Gerutha’s hand. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to remind you.’
‘It ain’t you reminds me. I see that night every time I see my own reflection.’
‘What do you mean?’
She touched the white streak in her hair. ‘Afterwards, next time I looked in a mirror, I had this. It was the fear, I suppose.’ She gave a snort. ‘I told you memories ain’t no bad thing. Well, there’s one memory I’d happily forget.’ Her voice dropped to a murmur. ‘That devil’s eyes – red as fire. His whispering voice. I tell you, whenever fear stalks my dreams, it wears his face.’
‘Who was he?’
‘It’s no matter,’ Gerutha said hastily. ‘Let’s talk no more of it.’ But, despite herself, Gerutha’s eyes glazed and drifted north. ‘Everyone was killed that night. Everyone except me. That’s why I came here.’
Lilla didn’t know what to say. What could be said to lighten such a terrible burden? So instead she put an arm around Gerutha. At first, her maid resisted. But Lilla persisted and finally Gerutha’s stiff body softened.
‘I hope we can be friends.’
‘I should like that.’ Gerutha smiled. ‘Lilla.’
‘Am I disturbing you?’ They both turned. Ringast was hovering behind them, one hand propped against a birch-tree.
‘We were just talking.’ Lilla stood to greet him.
He nodded, but didn’t speak. He looked hesitant, which wasn’t like him.
‘What is it? Is there word from Rorik?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ He suddenly scowled, evidently uncomfortable. ‘We have other news.’
‘What? Speak.’
‘Your father. We heard that... that he may be dead.’
‘Dead?’ Lilla’s ears filled with the sudden pounding in her heart. No, someone whispered. Not so soon! The ground seemed to lurch and she felt herself falling, her mind spinning like a sycamore seed. But strong hands caught her waist. Her head slumped against his chest.
‘Aslíf?’ She blinked up at him. ‘Aslíf!’ His face was a blur. ‘It’s not a certainty yet. Just a rumour.’
‘A rumour?’
‘Aye. Come
with a merchant who crossed the Kolmark.’
‘From Uppsala?’
‘Not himself. But—’
‘Then there’s hope?’ Her heart couldn’t bear this new sorrow so soon. Old men die, even old kings, but somehow she had believed she would be spared this for a while longer.
‘If you mean is there a chance he’s still alive, then yes, I suppose there is... a chance. Maybe he’s only sick, or maybe it was some other lord, or—’
‘Or what?’
‘Or maybe it’s true, Aslíf!’ He seemed irritated, angry even. Lilla suddenly realized she had no idea if Ringast cared whether her father was dead or not. Maybe he welcomed this news. Or maybe he just didn’t like bringing it. ‘When my brother returns, we’ll know the truth.’
‘And if he never returns?’ she blurted, voicing the silent fear that all of them had shared these last few days.
‘He will return.’ But even as he spoke, his granite eyes, always so certain, betrayed his doubt.
‘So meanwhile we just wait?’
‘No. Meanwhile we prepare.’
‘Prepare? For what?’
‘For the worst.’
Kai watched the squat man dig.
If anyone but Vargalf were standing over him, Kai would have crawled closer, but he knew better than to test those ears. Instead he stayed low, motionless, just another shadow in a sea of darkness.
The breeze had stilled, the only sound the slice and crunch of the pick, punctuated by the splatter of soil being flung out of the hole. At last, the pick-man stepped back, content his work was done.
Vargalf peered in, muttered something. The other threw down his pick and lay hold of one of the bundles beside the hole. He gave it a pull and a shove and it fell in with a thud. The man seized the smaller bundle and hauled it in after the first.
Kai had no doubt now. Those bundles were bodies. Two bodies. And he could only think of two of Sigurd’s enemies who hadn’t been turned to ashes in the Coopers’ Hall.
The squat man set about filling in the hole. He was soon done. Vargalf grunted with satisfaction but didn’t linger. He set off back for the halls at once, the other hurrying after him with his handcart bumping away behind.
Silence returned to the wood.
Kai remained still, only his eyes moving, following the torch until it was a pinprick, and finally extinguished. Only then did he rise and creep through the moon-shadows towards the fresh mound of earth.
He circled round it, scuffed his toe against it, sniffing the air, feeling a kind of dread creep through his limbs. A wreath of cloud drifted in front of the moon, cloaking the wood in deep darkness for a second before moving on.
Kai’s axe dropped and suddenly he was on his knees, scrabbling at the dirt. The loose soil shifted easily. He dug and dug, curiosity burning through his hands as he willed the ground to give up its secret. Then his fingers hit something solid. He cleared more earth, traced contours, felt coarse material – homespun or hemp – and beneath it, some thing, lumpish and hard.
His hand recoiled. It was cold as ice.
He took a deep breath and forced himself on, clawing at the earth until two shapes jutted clear. Then he took his knife, sliced the sacking between them and reached inside.
He snatched his hand back at once, knowing exactly what he had touched.
A foot.
Except that it was a small foot.
A child’s foot.
Relief and confusion rinsed through him. This wasn’t Erlan. It was just some kid. But who? And why the Hel was Vargalf out here burying children in the dead of night?
It made no sense...
But suddenly it came to him, clear as a comet in the sky.
The witch-wolf feasts on the ring-slinger’s kin,
The black earth barrow that he flung ’em in.
He scrambled to the other end of the grave and sank in his fists, tearing at the dirt until he had uncovered two more lumpish shapes, these ones round. He pulled out his knife as a bank of cloud rolled across the moon, bathing everything in shadow. Feeling his way, he lifted the sacking and sliced it open; first one body, then the other. His heart was beating hard. He tore away the first shroud. Above him, the cloud bank drifted on its way, pouring silver light through the branches.
He froze, seeing the smooth, arched forehead of a young boy. The infant eyes were wide with terror, dark curls plastered against his head. And yet, he was the image of his aged father.
Svein Sviggarsson. The Spare Heir.
‘Poor little tyke,’ he murmured, eyes already moving to the other body. The sacking still covered the other smaller face, but he knew whose it was.
Sproutlings slaughtered, seeds crushed,
The Bastard’s bairns all gone to the dust.
He pulled away the sacking anyway and gazed down on the small, round face. Katla’s eyelids shone white in the moonlight, luminous and peaceful, as if she had just been lullabied into her dreams.
Kai’s hands went to work again, scraping and clawing, unearthing more of Svein’s slender frame. He touched the stone-hard chest, touched something else that was rough. His fingers slowed, tracing the thing higher and higher until, suddenly, they stopped.
Jerked away.
The noose around the boy’s neck was savagely tight.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Outside a cartwheel jolted. Then another.
Erlan’s eyes stayed closed, his body curled tighter against the wall, but his ear followed the sounds out through the cracks into the late summer air.
‘Bodvar.’
The heap of shadows in the corner stirred.
‘There’s more... Outlanders.’
Bodvar lifted his head. There were more noises now. Clinking bridles, the jangle of weaponry, the thud of hooves, and over them the murmur of voices, all wafting into the gloomy smokehouse.
‘You hear their tongue?’
‘I hear it.’ Bodvar listened some more, then added, ‘Finns.’
The carts and the hooves kept coming. ‘Plenty of them.’
Bodvar grunted. ‘If one Finn sniffs blood, the whole pack of them come running like hungry wolves.’
‘Finns!’ Erlan muttered. ‘Piss on it! How damn long must it take for word to reach Finnland and for this crowd to come back? Have we been here that long?’
‘Long enough.’
Long enough since they had been chained up. Long enough since each day had started bleeding into the next in a smear of boredom and pain. Long enough since he’d lost his reckoning of time. Another thing they stripped me of.
He shifted his weight, feeling now familiar flares of pain about his body. His skin was a patchwork of sores and cuts and bruises, his wrists swollen, reeking of pus, his hair a thatch of black straw, his beard thick as felt.
‘The Finns came,’ he muttered. ‘Who else now?’
‘Estlanders. And Gotlanders before them.’
‘And the Norsk.’
‘Aye, and the Western Gotars... and Kurslanders.’
‘He must have hundreds. That’s not counting the Sveär hirds.’
‘Hundreds? The little shit’s got thousands by now,’ Bodvar growled. ‘If the Wartooth can match this host, then the Slain-God will be licking his lips.’
Erlan glared at the bloodstained chains hanging empty where Rorik had been. ‘Poor bastard,’ he added, with a nod in that direction. ‘I wonder what happened to him.’
‘Nothing good.’
Vargalf had come for him a few days ago. By then, the young Dane was a wreck of a man – beaten, burned, lacerated, abused. ‘Softening him up for his moment to shine,’ Vargalf had joked. And his moment had come. With Earl Arwakki and his companions still refusing to levy their lands, Rorik had become a necessity. He would be the thorn that would shift these stubborn nobles off their backsides.
Rorik had gone to his fate. But what was to be theirs? Erlan looked at his wasted hands. His body was slowly devouring itself from hunger, despite the worm-riddled scraps throw
n at them to eat.
Bodvar was worse. Erlan could smell the rot coming off him. The reek of shit and shame.
But if Erlan’s body was broken, his will had grown harder, like a blade tempered in the flames of his hatred. Love had taken everything from him. Hatred at least offered the promise of watching his enemies suffer as he had suffered. Hatred was real. Love was nothing but a fading dream.
And yet his greatest fear was that his mind would crack long before any chance of vengeance appeared. Most of the time, he hardly knew waking from dreaming. The damp, close walls dissolved into a black abyss, vast and empty as the Ginnungagap out of which all things had come. Voices spoke to him out of the darkness in sibilant whispers. The words of the vala came often, echoing through his mind till they drove him nearly mad.
You will bear much pain, but you will never break.
Never break. Never!
Many times Inga was there, murmuring soft words: that he hadn’t protected her, that he had broken his promise, and now he was paying the price. With eyes closed, he sensed her standing there before him. Many times, he had lifted his head, peeled back his eyelids to see her, but there was only shadow.
Often he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, the gruff voice whispering in his ear: that here was the price of folly, that he could have been his own lord in his own land. Instead, his pride had chosen this path.
Sometimes Garik came, laughing that he was a sullen fool, that he thought too much, that life was but a joke, a riot of feasting, fighting and fucking. Wasn’t that what awaited him in the Hall of the Slain after all?
And sometimes there was another voice, one he didn’t know. A stranger’s voice that told him all these other voices were lies. A voice that belonged to some other shadow moving in the dark, that wouldn’t come close. Couldn’t – not yet. And somehow he believed it.
But what did any of it matter a weasel’s cock? Which voice true, and which false? The chamber was real. Whenever his eyes opened, there it was in all its grimness. Then he would feel his aching body again, grit his teeth and resolve to hold on...
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