Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  ‘This hand,’ his knuckles tighten on mine, ‘this hand snuffed out the Black Raven?’ Cold confusion enters his voice, certainty gives way to doubt. His grip slackens. ‘But,’ he asks, ‘could a boy’s hand have done it?’ I give no response, my eyes fixed on the blood running from his arm.

  ‘Kregin!’ says Helga, ‘We know how your sea-battle ended. We heard from Vrekla.’

  A nudge from Helga and I withdraw my grip from the old man's hand. ‘I am no warrior, sir, not like you. Drak dealt a blow to my father — struck him down. What was I to do?’

  My words seem to have pleased the old man. Freed from all doubts, he beams a wet, toothless smile through his grey beard. ‘Is that the axe that took off his devil’s head?’

  I pull the axe from my belt; offer it heft-wise towards Skar, but without letting go. Freyda lifts her husband’s hand, so that he can grip the heft.

  ‘Raff’s son,’ says the old man solemnly, ‘for this deed, you will sit at the high table. You will sit beside your father, with Jarl, and with me too, Thor help me, if the unseen ones carry me into the everlasting hall.’

  His wife looks at him proudly, and rubs her bony fingers on his punctured sword-arm. ‘Our battles,’ she says, ‘count them for me, husband. For my sake, again, make a tally of the wounds.’

  Obediently the old man begins. Like a child who has just learned to count, he stops and starts, as if unsure of his adding-up. A long pause while we wait for him to make it to the end of his tally. The task finally done, he looks up, exhausted by the effort, and appeals to his wife in a voice crackling with age.

  ‘Look at my blood, lass, still battle-fresh. By all the war-shields you buckled for me, how can the spirits turn me away?’

  *

  As soon as Helga and I have escaped the blood-light of the old folks’ hall, I have to ask, ‘Why does Freyda not see to your grandpa’s injuries?’

  ‘He won’t allow it,’ Helga’s replies. ‘He doesn’t want the bleeding to stop. When the welts begin to heal over, he takes a knife to his arm to make the blood flow again.’

  ‘He wounds himself?’

  ‘It is blood worship. At his age, there is no chance of his being wounded in battle, so he has to harm himself. How else is an old warrior to show what he is made of? Grandpa is heart-scared to die bloodless on a straw bed.’

  ‘It is hellish in there, as if time has stopped — stopped in smoke and darkness. Skar calls her lass. Freyda snuggles to him like a young wife, they live in a dream of their past. And your Grandma doesn’t recognise you. She mistakes you for Ynvild.’

  Helga laughs a little sadly. ‘I did tell you she’s going a bit soft.’

  ‘It is not as if you and Ynvild ever looked like sisters. You two were never alike. You are fair-skinned and tall. Your sister’s hair was black as a raven.’

  I stop and touch Helga’s brow. She lets me smooth the hair from her cheek and ears. Her blushes make me bold.

  ‘I dreamed of this, dreamed of touching you.’ My words were better left unsaid. She tugs to be off as she would have done as a girl.

  ‘Come from here,’ she says with a cheerful sigh. ‘Let’s go and check on that horse of yours.’ We have crossed the stepping stones and are on the well-worn path from the beck, before Helga speaks again.

  ‘Ynvild’s hair was black, shiny black, but it went grey, overnight, while we were at sea, and turned white as snow here, in the months before she died, like an old woman’s. The pains wouldn’t go away. There were mornings she could barely move; knee-joints swelling, ankles black, like Ma’s are now.’

  ‘I am sorry, I was sad, truly sad, when Sepp told me that you had lost your sister. I know how much you loved her.’

  ‘I like to think of her being at peace. I want to believe my sister has found rest. Where will she have gone, Kregin? Where have the spirits taken her?’

  ‘They say that for the dead the “beyond” will be much the same as in life — only no end to it. From what I remember, Ynvild was always in a panic. It is hard to imagine your sister being at rest.’

  Helga goes quiet.

  ‘Forgive me, Helga, I didn’t mean to be hurtful. I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘What if I told you that I’m not sad about Ynvild — that I’m not sad she is gone?’

  ‘You are not sad, but why?’

  ‘From the morning our ships landed; that was the day father and grandpa named the two dales — claimed this fell and woods as ours — I knew that our Ynvild wouldn’t settle. My sister loathed the place, the greyness of it. It unsettled her just being here. The simplest of things — mists from the sea — terrified her. She fell into dark silences; wouldn’t speak for days.’ I wait for Helga to go on. ‘Ma couldn’t snap her out of it, I tried too, but Ynvild had become a stranger to us.’ Helga links arms with me as she would have done when we were children. ‘We had turf on grandpa’s roof in time for our first winter in Twaindale, we slept on benches before his great fire, but Ynvild couldn’t bear to be in the hall. She hated confinement. She took to sitting out all weathers, roaming the willow-woods at night. That “sitting out” and that “roaming” was the death of her.’

  ‘Couldn’t your father or grandpa Skar lay down the law, keep her safe inside?’

  ‘Da was at his wits’ end. He used to lock her in the bunk, bar the gable-doors at night. Ynvild would cry sore, whining like a cat, till he had to let her out of the house. He had to let her go or we would have had no peace.’ Helga’s fingernails press into my arm. ‘This spot is where we found her,’ she says sorrowfully, ‘this is where she died.’

  ‘What? On a midden?’

  ‘There on that stone by the whale-pit, she used to sit for ages and stare into the night. From there she saw the bull-whale wriggle out from the pit, and escape into the darkness. She saw his snout, his fin and fluke passing in the mist, saw him return to the sea.’

  I look at the ring of stones that encircle the whale-pit, at the scattered rib-bones licked clean by Idgar’s hounds. There is a stench of whale-meat in the warm air.

  ‘Fumes, that’s all, that’s what got into her. Meat fermenting — that stink would put anyone out. She was in a trance.’

  ‘It was no trance. She saw the whale’s spirit swim away.’

  ‘She was poisoned. Whale ferment is a poison — worse than a midden.’

  ‘No, Kregin, I tell you. She did see the whale!’

  Chapter 22

  The woodland beck runs fast in the dell, bubbles and chatters at our feet. Helga and I have settled under the trees on a mossy bank, having climbed through the birch woods. We have come almost as far as the meadows where her father’s milkings are done. The branches are in full leaf above our heads, an overhang of downy birches.

  The day has turned warm; our boots are off, our feet in the water. A haze of blubber-smoke from Skar’s steading drifts among the birches, dulling the few scattered rays of light that make it through the boughs. Idgar’s hounds are near, somewhere above us on the fell on the far side of the woods.

  Helga tightly squeezes my hand, her knuckles clenched like a little girl, as she did on that rainy morning, when we sat in the rain under the old birch, its bark blackened and burnt — on the day our ships would sail for the ice lands.

  She nudges me again, presses for an answer. ‘You didn’t breathe a word to him, did you? To your father, I mean.’

  ‘Is that what Vrekla told you?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but she said that no one on the Vigtyr had any idea — till you were out at sea — that you were being followed. So from that, I knew.’

  ‘Have you told Vrekla that you warned me about Drak?’

  ‘No, of course not. That was between us.’

  ‘It was better I said nothing. None of what Ynvild told you was true. I am not saying that she made it up. Ingrid lied to her. Your daft sister picked up the threads and spun them into a web.’

  ‘But she did prove to be right. The Raven did come after you — that did happen!�
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  ‘Your sister made out that Jarl had thrown in his lot with Drak; that he and your grandpa had connived in the whole thing. Nothing was farther from the truth.’

  Helga pauses before answering. ‘Ynvild had a gift, a gift of seeing. She saw things the rest of us couldn’t.’

  ‘No, Helga, don’t make excuses for her!’

  ‘Don’t yell at me, Kregin!’

  ‘I wasn’t yelling.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘For years I have turned it over and over till my head spins. Don’t you see? If I had told Da, it would have changed nothing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because even if the story was true — which it wasn’t — he would never have believed me.’

  *

  ‘Will Geir have to marry Thora?’

  ‘Not if he can help it,’ replies Helga and we burst into laughter — even as children we would laugh instantly at the same things.

  ‘I had guessed, when your brother told me about her, that he wasn’t keen.’

  ‘He hopes that Asgrim will get too greedy on the marriage contract, and that father will break it off. That’s his plan of escape.’

  ‘I can’t believe how much loot changes hands for these betrothals.’

  ‘My bride-price is no different. They have not finished haggling.’

  ‘You mean nothing is settled?’

  Helga shakes her head to say no. ‘Every time Da comes from Asgrim, another notch is added to the marriage — always talk of land. Asgrim seems obsessed about who will inherit after we are gone; how much land and livestock will be shared among our future sons — as if our sons are guaranteed.’

  A pause. ‘Will you go through with it?’

  ‘How can I say no?’

  ‘You refused twice.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Geir!’

  Helga bites her lip. ‘Delayed, not refused. With the way Ma is, I had no choice but to put things off. No one expects me to leave Twaindale — or to think of marriage — while she is alive and needs me.’

  ‘Mord isn’t right for you. The man is an arsehole, Helga.’

  She laughs at my irritation. ‘Sometimes the thought of him makes me cringe.’

  ‘Then turn him down.’

  ‘If we pulled out, Da would lose face, not to mention the cost of a refusal. We would have to pay for breach of promise.’

  I want to tell her now — tell her what is burning inside me — but I can’t find the words. And I can’t decide if she wants me to speak or remain silent — her eyes are cast down.

  ‘What if,’ I begin at last, ‘what if an offer came from another quarter? Let’s say a man came forward — and let’s say you were in favour of him — wouldn’t your da — wouldn’t any father — have to consider it?’

  Idgar’s hounds are not far above us in the woods. Already they are running down the beck. We hear the yelping, hear them splashing in the water. The kiss comes, not from me, but from Helga. The milky fragrance of her butter-apron — her womanly softness on my chest — the soft pressure of her lips on mine — bring more hope, more joy in one hurried moment than I am able to bear.

  Chapter 23

  Reckoned by the waning moon — by its pale, sharp sickle in last night’s sky — we have less than a week to go before slaughter-month. Winter-fall has brought longer nights and darkening days, but as yet no sleet or snowfall on higher ground. On the fells south of Long-fiord, the weather stays dry and cold, giving firm passage for our drove. Two more days with the sheep and we will make it into Twaindale, to Idgar’s hall.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ says Cuin, whom Father has put in charge of the drove. ‘Nine days on the move from Osvellir and not one sheep lost. No losses to fox or fell. Your future father in law will sing your praises, Kregin. That girl of yours will soon be in the bag.’

  ‘Please uncle, please,’ protests Sigi with a tinge of envy. ‘No more of this bride talk. Don’t get his hopes up. His feet are far enough off the ground.’

  Last winter’s blight of sheep robbed Idgar of half his flock. We are bringing him twenty wethers as wool-bearers, plus a young ram and four mating ewes to help re-build a healthy stock. It is proof of our goodwill in the wooing of Helga — a free gift on the hoof to show that we mean business. There is more to it than that. If Helga’s father favours me as his son in law, he is sure to be hit with a claim for breach of promise from Asgrim and Mord. Father has calculated that the value of our sheep — our pre-nuptial gift to Idgar — will more than cover the asked-for compensation.

  On his last visit north Father secured the concession we were after. Idgar has agreed to consider our marriage proposal on equal footing with the final bid from Asgrim. Father, for his part, has promised to have his offer on the table in time for next Vali’s day. There will be hard talk on the subject of goods and chattels, but household trifles and hearth-stock won’t sway Idgar’s decision. That will depend on how much land has been pledged to Helga as her share of the married property.

  Grey Skar has let it be known that he would welcome me into the family’s blood-line. To be fair to the old man, who rambles on a bit, he did say he intended ‘no offence to young Mord’, but — putting envy aside, Sigi is right — this outspoken support from Helga’s grandpa has raised my hopes to fever-pitch. Cuin says that I mustn’t be carried away — just cling to the one thing I can be certain of — that Helga wants me in preference to Mord.

  One more weigh-stone will soon drop on the scales to tilt the balance. It could tip either way — to my side or Mord’s. Vrekla has given birth to a daughter. My niece will be called Ynvild in memory of Helga’s sister. Asgrim, in his function as Thor’s priest, has refused to wet the baby’s head or perform the naming ceremony — a blatant warning for Idgar to break off talks with us, otherwise the birth-name of the child, and the memory of his dead daughter Ynvild, will not be blessed.

  Idgar, like any father, wants his new-born to be recognised by a priest-man and given a fair omen to start out in life. Fear of a quarrel with Asgrim, the snub over little Ynvild, must make it harder for Idgar to move in our favour.

  Cuin says the fuss over Vrekla’s baby might work in our favour. The withholding of a child’s blessing is an insult to Idgar. No steadman worth his salt likes to be bullied. The threats fired off by Asgrim — angry arrows aiming to scupper our chances — might yet back-fire on him.

  *

  Cuin has chosen well for our night shelter, leeward on the fell, dry underfoot, with high reeds, grasses and rocks to keep the wind off our backs. The day has darkened early. We have pitched our tent covers to face north, and built a fire to last through the night. The sheep are below us in the hollow, noiseless so far, undisturbed and settled. There are foxes about in the outer darkness. Ulph says not to worry. The brightness of a roaring fire will warn them off.

  ‘No moon,’ says Cuin, stick in hand, poking into the fire. ‘Stars are out, and bitter cold. I’d say it is a night for sky-riders. What do you think, Ulph?’

  At the prospect of sky-riders, Uncle, who is a god-fearing man, does the sign of a hammer across his hoary chest out of reverence to Thor. Ulph the shepherd swallows his blood-cake from the victuals packed by Haldis, smacks his lips before answering.

  ‘Master be right,’ says he, ‘them foxes is quiet, a sure sign, eh? — them foxes will lie low — them be feared of a “wild hunt” in the sky.’

  Snorri Harelip grunts agreement and spits in the fire. He ponders his next move on the game-board with Sigi. Sigi is quiet. He likes a game or two before turning in, and usually, when matched with Snorri, my brother is able to win at hneff. Old Snorri has bad eyesight, and his eyes are worse in dark. He struggles to tell one piece from another.

  ‘How can you be sure that the sky riders will come?’ Lar asks while picking his teeth with a fishbone. ‘Sometimes the lights come when you least expect.’

  ‘Sure of what?’ Sigi asks absentmindedly, his eyes and thoughts fixed on the game. Ulph shrugs his shoulde
rs and wipes a glistening drip off his nose.

  ‘Tell me, Lar,’ I ask while I share out dried fish from the bag. ‘Now that Finn has sailed overseas with the easterlings, don’t you wish you had gone with him?’

  Lar stares at me askance as if stone-dwarfs had sprung underfoot and stolen my power of reason. ‘What makes you think that I would have gone, even if he had asked?’

  ‘I thought Finn might have given you the choice to stay or go?’

  ‘No chance of that. He was glad to be rid of us — me and Svena both — and to be honest we were glad to see the back of him.’

  ‘Your sister hates the sight of him, I know, but I thought you and Finn worked well, like man and son together.’

  ‘You mean with the horses?’

  ‘Yeah, with the horses the two of you had it off pat — you knew each other’s habits.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but we were never true kin, Kregin, not like you and Leif.’ It takes me aback.

  I answer defensively. ‘No other fosterling could wish for more.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ whispers Lar, ‘but you and he are so alike, as if he was your real father. I’d say you take after him more than Sigi does.’

  ‘Don’t speak that way, Lar. It’s not fair on Sigi.’

  ‘You see what I’m getting at?’

  ‘I try to please him and do as he asks. Isn’t that what a son ought to do?’

  ‘He thinks the world of you. Anyone can see.’

  ‘Don’t imagine it runs smooth between us. It doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s how it looks.’

  ‘Leif is not meek and mild. He won’t put up with any nonsense, especially if he thinks we are not pulling our weight — that applies to Sigi or me.’

  ‘We’ve been with you since Finn went east, and not once have I heard the guothie raise his voice to you. With us, Finn used to rant and rave all the time.’

  ‘Leif is not a man for shouting. He shows his displeasure in other ways — with looks and silences. That frown of his can bring you down a peg or two.’