A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  ‘Yes,’ Ringast nodded. ‘You can tell him Odin has granted him his chance to die.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Einar Fat-Belly had been in a foul mood for a long time. Never fouler than tonight.

  After a long day in the saddle, what he wanted was a decent night’s sleep. What he got was the watch falling after the midnight mark.

  No one was bloody coming, not if they had any sense. Besides, he doubted anyone south of the Kolmark knew they were even there. The king had sealed the Sodermanland border days before to stop any news heading south. Although they’d find out for themselves soon enough.

  The shadows were dense enough to touch at first. Everywhere the spruce branches blotted out what little light there was from the stars. Still, he was always surprised what a man could see once his eyes grew accustomed to it. Back through the trees he could see the pinprick fires further north where his Sveär clansmen were camped, asleep on the pine needles that carpeted the ground and filled the air with their scent.

  Lucky buggers.

  Somewhere either side of him would be the next man on the picket line, probably leaning against some tree, bored as he was, dreaming of whatever pair of tits he’d left at home.

  The rest of Sigurd’s army fanned west from his position. Outlanders, a lot of them, although the Sveär levies were near full strength. His own crew, the Bredlungers, had mustered to a man, led by their headman Kekli-Karl and his cousin, Arwakki, Earl of Gestrikland. He would have thought this late in the summer most would be loath to leave their barley fields uncut, but men often seemed willing to drop whatever needed doing if there was a whiff of silver or slaves in it for them.

  He was easy either way. He didn’t fancy this new king above half. Not even that much. But he was sworn to Arwakki, who was sworn to Sigurd now. So it goes.

  Einar hawked a gobbet of phlegm into the gloom, then resumed his watch south. The shadows were still as ever. The wind barely tickled the treetops.

  Gods, he needed a piss.

  That meant unhitching everything again. He was in full rig, with a leather corselet halfway down his thighs and several buckles fastened under his copious belly, securing the various blades about his person. He propped his spear against a spruce, put down his shield and groped about until he eventually got to the drawstring of his baggy hoes.

  There was a flutter in the branches. For a moment, his fingers stopped. Somewhere above him, a bird cawed.

  ‘Bloody crows,’ he muttered, rummaging in his breeches till he found what he was after. He gave a contented sigh and flopped himself out—

  And at once froze every muscle.

  There were shadows creeping in the dark. He stayed absolutely still. They were a little distance through the trees. Even with the scant light, he saw the glister of a wicked-sharp blade, then more shadows stealthing at a crouch towards the Sveär line.

  He scanned the darkness directly ahead of him. Still nothing there. It was a few seconds before he heard the distinctive fizz, fizz of arrows being loosed, and then the first muffled clash of iron and warning shouts.

  ‘Guess someone’s found us out after all,’ he mused to himself.

  Still, just now nature’s call was more pressing. He turned back to his tree and felt a rush of relief as he unburdened his bladder. There were more shouts off to the west and beyond them the sounds of other skirmishes breaking out further down the line.

  ‘Here we bloody go then,’ he muttered irritably.

  And after a long and satisfying piss, he re-fastened his buckles, picked up his spear and shield, and bellowed the alarm at the top of his lungs.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Erlan closed his eyes. A light wind licked his beard. Spots of rain spat upon his cheek.

  ‘A grim day for grim work,’ said Thrand.

  Erlan opened his eyes.

  The hulking prince looked more than ever like a murderous bear, his woolly hair jammed under his ring-eyed helm, rugged fists resting on the handle of his long-axe. ‘There’ll be heavy work on the right today.’

  ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ said Ringast. ‘Take the Rus berserkers with your two hirds. Keep your right flank tight against those reedbeds. Close to the lake as the pimples on your arse – understand?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ returned Thrand with a yellow-toothed grin at Erlan. ‘Good killing to you, Aurvandil. And mind you’ve a brew waiting if you reach the Slain-Hall before me.’

  Erlan nodded.

  Thrand bumped down the rocky outcrop onto the plain, buckles jangling.

  ‘A steel arm, brother,’ called Ringast after him. ‘For Rorik.’

  ‘Sure! We’ll settle a few scores for the lad before the day is done.’

  Erlan watched Thrand wade through the sea of men below them on the right, shouting orders. A crowd of warriors clad in bearskins hefted their gear and stalked after him into the murky dawn.

  Berserkers.

  These ones from the rivers of Garðaríki and the Rus tribes beyond. Shield-biters who cared little for armour or mailshirts, who loved the madness of slaughter like a babe loves its mama’s teat. He’d seen them before, that red morning on that blood-soaked fell, where he’d stood in his father’s shieldwall.

  That day he’d fought to live. Today he fought to kill. One man in all these thousands, who must die by his hand and his alone.

  Sigurd.

  He looked north from the outcrop of rock, which swelled from the earth like an ancient tumour. The road that had carried them northward from Dannerborg rolled on, dipping into the plain below them, then rising again, up the shallow slope to a low ridge of pines on the far side of the plain.

  That way lay the Braviken fjord where Starkad’s fleet was anchored bobbing on the grey waters. Beyond it, the Kolmark forest. That way, Sigurd’s army had come, which even now Erlan could see stirring in the gloomy wood.

  The previous night had been a dark one. Those same woods had flared with bloody skirmish as the two vanguards first met. That opening exchange of blood and steel had been short-lived. It served neither side to be scattered in the darkness. Instead, after the two armies had touched, Ringast had withdrawn his forces to their position along the southern ridge overlooking the Bravik plain.

  A quarter league west another wood bordered the plain, this one of ash and beech, not quite turned to autumn rust. Ringast’s left wing stretched to its edge under a forest of spear-points. The prince had placed his berserkers on his wings. Better to direct their madness at anyone trying to outflank him than have them scything down his own best men in the centre where there was sure to be confusion enough.

  Those berserkers were Hedmarkers, led by the cousins, Grim and Geir. Inside them were the Skanskar hirds – thralls levied from the farms of Skania – five men deep under the banner of the twin thanes, Alfar and Alfarin.

  Closer in were Ubbi’s Frieslanders – tall and slim, with long limbs and long reach, battle-hardened from their never-ending wars with the Franks. Next to them, immediately below Erlan, were the men under Ringast’s direct command: two thousand men with four thousand killing blades, mustered from all over Eastern Gotarland. Earls, thanes, piss-pot clan chiefs, farmsteaders and the freemen they could levy. All stood under Ringast’s raven banner.

  A thousand yards to the east, where Thrand had gone, were the waters of the Snow Lake, grey in the dull morning. Its western edge was choked with reeds, eventually giving way to firmer ground where Thrand would take his stand. Any flanking attack would flounder in the marsh-mud like flies in honey to be picked off by the Wendish archers positioned behind Thrand’s Gotars and Rus. With him stood named men, champions – Haki Cut-Cheek, Dag of Lifland, and Toki the Fair whose face was so ugly it’d seal a whore’s cunny. So Thrand had said.

  Inside them, Ringast had placed the Wendish. Shorter than the northern men, but strong and stubborn as mules. They carried long-swords and smaller buckler-shields, and fought under the banner of Duk, Visma’s husband. She, however, had begged to carry Ringa
st’s standard and he had granted her the honour.

  The dark before the dawn had dissolved to a dirty grey. There was no bright morning sun, no gleaming mail, no glinting helms. Just a sea of heads, black and brown, rust-red, white-blonde. Many wore simple iron helms and boiled leather. The richer ones, mailshirts, dark as slate. Above them, felt banners twisted in the wind.

  A storm of blood and iron waiting to break.

  ‘Still no word from my father,’ said Ringast, eyes moving from the far treeline into the wind blowing from the north-east.

  No one answered.

  ‘The wind has been against him for two days now.’

  ‘He must come today,’ said Visma.

  ‘Today, aye. But it’s a long road from sunrise to sunfall.’

  ‘We don’t need your father,’ Ubbi growled from inside his helm. The old warrior looked the very soul of war, faceless behind the mail that hung from his helm to his chin. He was bristling with steel and over his shoulders hung a blood-red cloak, pinned to his mail by gilded bear-head brooches. ‘Just look, my friend! Was ever such a host assembled in all the north?’

  ‘Never that I’ve known. But let’s see what comes out of those trees.’

  ‘Click-clack. Click-clack.’ Visma threw back her head and laughed. ‘Can you not hear it? The rattle of the Norns’ looms, weaving the cloth of all our fates, ready to dye it red with blood?’

  ‘My fate’s in the hands of Odin, not those blind bitches,’ Ubbi answered.

  ‘The Valhöll benches are being cleared, the hall floor swept,’ muttered the youngster Kari, his youthful voice half-singing under his breath.

  Visma recognized the song. ‘Odin’s maids make ready to welcome home his heroes.’

  ‘Not for you, woman,’ Ubbi cried. ‘There’s men to please before they look to you!’

  ‘If I kill like a man, why shouldn’t I take his maids like one, too?’

  They both laughed at this.

  Erlan listened, fingers drumming impatiently against Wrathling’s hilt, still nested in its sheath. He cared little for this talk. Odin’s favour, Tyr’s skill, Thor’s strength. He’d heard a bellyful of it these last days as each prepared for the coming slaughter. It was supposed to fill him with fire. Instead it left him cold. He didn’t know these gods. Only the silent god meant something to him. Those others were tricksters and liars. But the silent god did not lie. Could not. And he prayed now to that silent god to grant him his revenge.

  ‘The time is near.’

  They all turned at the softer voice. Lilla stood there, and even in the morning murk, she was something bright in a world of grey. She wore a pale yellow dress under a grey travel cloak, the hood shadowing her face, and under it, just visible, the dressing around her neck.

  There was something fey in her eyes as she looked from face to face. Erlan felt a pang in his chest, like the jarring of an old wound, and turned away.

  She gazed up at the drab clouds, letting the rain sprinkle her face. ‘The Valkyries have ridden hard. Sweat falls from their horses’ flanks.’

  ‘Sweat or no, the rain is no good for our archers,’ said Ringast.

  ‘Nor for the shieldwall’s strength,’ said Ubbi.

  ‘It’s the same for them.’ Erlan stared ahead. He wanted this to begin. There had been enough talk.

  As if in answer to his thought, there was movement along the ridge.

  ‘There,’ Kari pointed excitedly.

  And in that moment their breath stopped as men seeped onto the plain like a dark tide from the shadow of the trees. Three deep, four, then five – hundreds of warriors – they kept coming. A mass of men and above them a thicket of spears, stretching from the western edge of the plain along the ridge and beyond the lake to the east.

  Erlan glanced at Ringast’s silent host below. Even a blind man could see they were outnumbered, and badly.

  ‘There are more in the trees,’ Ringast said. Beside him, a laugh boomed from Ubbi’s helm. ‘Something amuses you?’

  ‘What else can you do but laugh, my friend, when you see a death as beautiful as that?’ Ubbi swept his spear along the battle-line.

  He’s right, thought Erlan. It was an awesome sight. If the Wartooth doesn’t come soon—

  He broke off the thought. It changed nothing. He was alive because of Kai, here for only one reason: to discharge his oath to his brother. Aye, the mad little bastard would have liked to see this. This plain was about to become a sinkhole of death, a butcher’s field. Songs would be sung later.

  Now men would learn what luck they had. Now men would pray to their gods – pray to live, if they had a good enough reason for living. But if he was to kill well this day and keep his oath, it were better to think himself already dead. The silent god had given him back his life once before. Perhaps he would again.

  Banners swayed over Sigurd’s Sveär hordes like drunken giants – great towers of cloth, black and red, blue and gold, green and yellow. Skulls of oxen, of rams or wolves or bears, pinned atop them, staring across the plain, each a pitiless face of death. One rose higher than the rest over the heart of the huge host, on its face a great black beast, lined in scarlet thread on a bright blue background. The eagle with a wolf’s head: Sigurd’s standard, crowned with a wolf skull, its crossbeam draped with silver pelts. Beneath it, Sigurd would be standing. That was where Erlan must go, into that ocean of men.

  The Sveär king’s army had unfurled itself at least ten men deep with its back to the trees. But now a moment of stillness settled over the plain.

  A figure stepped out of Sigurd’s line, strode a few paces forward, slung down his shield and drew his sword. The man wore a cloak of white lamb’s wool, distinguishing him from the battle-line like a snowdrop on a dung-heap.

  ‘Someone fancies himself,’ said Ubbi.

  ‘Let every man hear this,’ the white warrior cried.

  ‘And woman, needle-prick,’ hissed Visma.

  ‘I am Adils, son of Arag, son of Arnalf of Norrland,’ the man declared, brandishing his ring-sword. ‘From this day my name will be sung in every hall to the four winds. I swear by Arnalf’s blade, before the sun falls, I’ll lay Ringast’s head at King Sigurd’s feet.’

  This prompted a cheer from his own side, while an ironic jeer rolled up towards him from the south side of the plain.

  ‘Archers,’ Ringast called to his right. ‘Put that fool back into line.’

  Another terse order was given and a neat volley of arrows whipped into the sky, thudding all around the boaster an instant later, one piercing the shield behind him with a crack. He didn’t wait for another volley, but shrank back into line to the hoots of Ringast’s men.

  ‘Are you going to answer that?’ asked Ubbi.

  ‘He’ll get his answer if he gets through today.’ Ringast touched his hilt. ‘I’ll waste no words on that pack of dogs.’

  ‘What about your own men?’ said Lilla.

  ‘They’ll fight without any pretty words from me.’

  ‘They will. And they’ll die,’ she returned. ‘But if they’re willing to waste their lives for you, surely you have words enough to waste on them?’

  He held her gaze, then nodded. ‘You’re right.’ He stepped forward to the edge of the mound. ‘Hear me, you raven-feeders!’ His voice rose like a wolf-cry over his host. ‘We come from many lands, born of many fathers. But today our paths are woven together. Today we stand as one.’

  Erlan looked down on the sea of grim faces upturned to their captain and wondered whether his words kindled fire in their hearts.

  ‘Kingdoms will rise and kingdoms will fall until the Nine Worlds burn in the final flames. But this day on these Bravik plains will never be forgotten. Every one of us shall live long in the tales of men.’

  The sound of drumming began to the east, rolling in like a breaker down the Danish prince’s battle-line, men hammering spear-shafts and axe-heads against limewood shields.

  ‘Be the Spear-God’s wrath against this oath-breaking king! Be
the very blood and fire of the ancient earth! Arise, death! Arise, darkness! Arise now, Sigurd’s day of doom!’

  Their shields shook like thunder, ringing through Erlan’s head, swallowing the last of Ringast’s cries in a roar that broke from every mouth beneath his banners.

  The cheer was answered at once by a bellow of fury yet louder, that might have come from the very bowels of Ymir, the first giant of the earth. The shout washed across the plain, and with it a single, blue arrow loosed from the heart of Sigurd’s host.

  ‘Do you see it, lord?’ Kari cried. ‘Odin’s arrow!’

  ‘I see it.’ Ringast calmly watched the blue streak sail high overhead and land harmlessly behind.

  ‘The offering is made to the High God’s altar,’ boomed Ubbi, pointing his spear to the sky. ‘Let’s go find our places in his hall!’

  ‘There’s time enough for that, old man,’ Ringast answered. ‘How about we win ourselves a victory first?’

  ‘Their line is moving!’ Visma was pointing across the plain. The Sveär line was closing up, their shields locking into a shieldwall with a great clatter.

  Ringast turned to Lilla. ‘We must take our places. You must move back from here. Now!’

  ‘I too have my part to play, husband. The best place for me is here.’

  ‘Damn you, woman! At least promise me you’ll ride south if they break through. Ride to my father’s protection.’

  ‘How can I promise that? My fate is bound to you. To all of you.’ Her deep blue gaze scanned the war-hard faces, lingering just a moment longer on Erlan’s. ‘If all of you must fall, what is my life worth beyond this day? No! I stand with you.’ Her words recalled to Erlan the vala’s prophecy, spoken over him the day he became a man.

  A greater hand is on you. You will fall and rise again.

  His lips moved silently. Rise again…

  ‘My lord,’ cried Visma, ‘you must take your place.’

  ‘Hel take your stubbornness then, woman!’ Ringast snarled at Lilla in frustration. ‘Stay wherever you please!’

  Lilla suddenly laughed, face bright with a preternatural light. ‘Oh, sweet husband, save your fury for your enemy! They deserve it far more than me.’ Ringast seized her and kissed her passionately, as though it were certain to be for the last time.