“To his foes,” Sven’s mother had said, “he was as more monster than man, a blood-beast of nightmares, a troll, a dread creature. Many a man who might otherwise have won his way to Valhalla by dying bravely threw down his sword instead and tried to flee, and was sent as a coward to Hel.”
This became Sven’s own practice as soon as he was of age to wage war. The sacrifice, the basin, the dunking of his head, the splatter when he threw back his long hair in wet, ropy strands. He sought not only to intimidate his enemies but honor his ancestor, and found it glorious on both counts.
Oddly, however, as well and clearly as he remembered the rest, he could not recall just when it was he’d decided to do Harald’s legacy one better. When it was that he’d decided even a horse wouldn’t be sufficient offering… but a man would.
A man, or a woman. Bought slaves if need be. Captives were preferable, hostages even more so. High-born hostages were best of all.
Those, Sven did remember with both clarity and satisfaction. He smiled over his mead to think of it. He’d bring them before the battle-line, in full view of the other side. Sometimes he would not just dunk his head but upend the basin over it, pouring the thick blood down his face. He’d let it course into his mouth, even drink it, relishing the taste, that life-broth, that blood-stew. He’d guzzle it, gargle it, spit a triumphant laughing spray, and grin across at his foes with red, dripping teeth.
An enemy chieftain had once turned over a much-loved friend—his ‘sword-companion’ by rumor—as a pledge of truce. The friend had even volunteered for it, so confident were they that the truce would be upheld. When the chieftain’s allies then broke it and attacked nonetheless, he sent messengers pleading, offering rich ransom.
Which, of course, Sven refused. The chieftain wailed and beat his breast like a woman when he saw the knife cut, the deed done—and the hot blood brought Sven much luck and favor in the ensuing battle.
He sadly had no such prize for tomorrow, when the horns sounded to call them to their places upon the field where reputation would be won. Only a slave, this time, a squat and sullen peasant purchased from a trader who claimed to have acquired him from a land across the sea. The slave was defiant, already often-beaten, and spoke no sensible tongue. It made him of little use.
For Sven, however, the slave’s stubborn strength would make fine sacrifice, pleasing to the gods.
More bursts of raucous laughter erupted into the smoke-filled air. Though he did not overhear his name spoken this time as the butt of some joke, Sven again glowered.
Yes, Fjal was right, they were young and insolent pups, barely weaned from the teats of their mothers. They knew nothing. And yet the very fact of Fjal being right, Gunhild’s fat fool of a husband, only stung Sven’s pride all the further. He drained off his drinking-horn, the mead potent and sweet, and was glad when the king bade them all a good night.
“Rest well, my friends, my war-brothers,” the king said. “When next we gather here, in celebration of our sure victory, my gifts of gratitude will seem but small tokens compared to the honor your brave deeds will earn.”
A hearty cheer greeted this. The king was well-known as generous, a ring-giver, a bestower of riches and silver and gold. To speak with such obvious humility and self-deprecation showed his humor, and raised his approval in the eyes of all here assembled.
The hall began to empty as men left the benches. Sven watched for any smirks glancing his way, but there was too much a jostle of backs, shoulders, cloaks and heads to notice anything to take overt offense at.
He, Gunnar and Fjal walked out together, making their way to the encampment outside of the log palisade. They passed through a village of houses, huts and hovels, then reached the place where their jarl’s banner flew.
Fjal, who was wealthy, traveled with fine tents and servants and ox-carts of furnishings and goods. If Sven and Gunnar benefited in comfort from their brother-in-law’s hospitality, Fjal in turn benefited in other ways from their kinship bonds. Bonds that, to be sure, Sven sometimes found burdensome, strained and constricting… and rarely more so than when he returned that night.
The slave he’d purchased, the sullen and stubborn man who spoke no sensible tongue, had been tied with burdensome bonds of his own, fettered at wrist and ankle, tethered to a post by a short leash of leather. Tied, he still was, but he’d managed to strangle himself, the leather leash wrapped and twisted so tight around the post that it dug furrows in the choke-swollen flesh of his neck.
His face had gone the color of an overripe fruit. His clouded eyes bulged. He’d befouled himself in his death throes. The body was still warm, not yet fly-touched. An uneaten chunk of brown bread and an undrunk wooden cup of barley beer sat nearby.
Sven stood for a long moment with fists clenched at his sides, teeth grinding like millstones, feeling as if a vein pulsed and throbbed, boiling, in his brain. Then he turned and stalked from his tent.
Gunnar saw him and must have read the storm-weather on his brow at a glimpse; he came running. “Sven?”
“Where is that fat clot of goat shit and that piss-dribble boy of his?” demanded Sven in a voice of Thor’s thunder.
“Ah, now, think what you will of Fjal,” Gunnar said, lightly, as if hoping to deflect Sven’s anger, “but that piss-dribble boy of his is still our nephew, our dear Gunhild’s son—”
Fjal, meanwhile, had of course heard Sven’s bellow—all whose tents were within a spear’s-throw must have—and stepped out of his own, looking puffed and indignant. He opened his mouth to bluster a protest or question, but before a word passed his lips, Sven shook off Gunnar’s placating hand to jab a finger at Fjal’s soft, flabby chest.
“That boy! That piss-dribble boy of yours! Where is he?”
“Frodi? He… he’s here, he’s—” Fjal glanced over his shoulder, to where his son sat on a wooden stool draped with sheepskins.
“You left him to look after the camp, to mind the animals and our belongings!”
“Yes, that’s why I brought him, he’s thirteen, he’s old enough to take on the responsibility, to learn the merchanting trade—”
“Quit your goat’s-bleating! My slave is dead!”
“What? But… Frodi, you did feed him, didn’t you?”
“I did!” cried the boy, who was round-cheeked and pug-nosed, not fat yet but already plump as a suckling pig.
Just the sight of him, the sight of them both, the being of them… a torrent of thoughts and images rushed in his mind like white-water… that his sister would allow this, this spoiled indulgence… what manner of man would Frodi become with an example such as this for a father?
If his own wife, Sven knew, had not divorced him and gone home to her family’s farmstead because she objected to his efforts to toughen up their frail and sickly son—
He cast that aside as fiercely as he cast off yet again Gunnar’s intervening hand. Fine and well for Gunnar, whose wife and girls were amiable and pretty, whose little boy was bold and healthy and strong—
He cast that aside too. All he, Sven Sveingunsson, Sven Bloodhair, had was his war-glory, his battle-name, his reputation! And how would he go forth tomorrow with no slave to sacrifice? With no blood for the basin, into which to dunk his head, drench his hair and beard?
“They say he was a great and fearsome war-lord, in his time,” uttered a mocking echo no one else heard.
How would he prove to them that his time had not passed?
Frodi whined on that he had so fed the slave, had taken him a piece of bread and cup of beer, and made sure he was well-tied and well-tethered. “I even had Islunn offer him a bath!” he said, referring to one of Fjal’s servant-women. “She speaks his tongue, and explained to him that he was to be sacrificed—”
“And then he strangled himself to death!”
“But…” Frodi’s chin trembled. “But the gods… the honor…”
“Leave him be,” said Fjal. “How could he have known?” He patted for his belt-purse. “I’ll pay fo
r the slave, of course, and we’ll buy you another—”
“By morning? When the horn-calls sound?”
Gunnar sighed, grimacing, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sven… Fjal… both of you, please, for Gunhild’s sake…”
But not even invoking their sister’s name could quell Sven’s fury at Fjal’s condescending tone. He would not be spoken to as if he were a child who’d lost a favorite toy, not by this fat clot of goat shit who could make Gunhild laugh.
“And if there’s no slaves to be had? Will you give me one of your servants? Islunn, perhaps, since this was her doing?”
“Islunn has been a faithful family retainer since I was Frodi’s age! You could do without your gory ritual just once, couldn’t you? Or use an animal; you’ve done that before!”
“You’d have me use an animal rather than a woman?”
Frodi unwisely chose that moment to mutter something about how Sven had been planning to use a man instead…
“Shall I use a boy, then?” He turned toward his nephew and Gunnar interposed himself between them as Fjal sputtered.
“Let’s go, Sven,” Gunnar said, having now forsaken any note of amiability. His gaze held Sven’s, so that Sven could almost feel the push of his brother’s will, urging him, reminding him of oaths and obligations.
Sven slowly released a shuddering breath that whistled through his teeth. “I’ll have a walk,” he said, each word cut curt. “The night air will do me good.”
He went without awaiting a reply, went without giving Gunnar the chance to offer to accompany him. As he left Fjal’s tent, he heard their hurried conversation behind him, making hasty arrangements to dispose of the dead slave before he returned.
As he walked, drawing more deep and steadying breaths, Sven did his best to ignore the looks cast his way—their loud argument had not gone unnoticed. Around him was the general bustle of the camp’s settling activity. Men took to their tents, or to their bed-rolls and sleeping-furs. Some, the poorest among them, wrapped themselves in cloaks or blankets against the chill. Those who’d brought, found or hired women made vigorous use of them.
Tattered clouds scudded across the sky, wind-blown ships on a black sea. A haze smeared the half-moon. Day would dawn, Sven knew, grey and damp, but not so rainy as to forestall the call to battle.
Watch-fires burned. Guards kept wakeful sentry over the horses. There were no slaves to be found for sale, not at this hour, not even when Sven inquired of the most disreputable trader.
Fjal would have him forego his ritual altogether? Or use an animal instead? Sven noted sourly that his brother-in-law had not offered up one of his own oxen to the blade and the basin. Fjal had no understanding of these matters.
And that boy of his, that pug-nosed piglet…
The dark notion lingered in Sven’s mind, dark but strangely gleaming with tempting appeal. Was it so unthinkable, at that? Had not the mighty king Aun the Old gained long life with the sacrifice of each of his own sons?
He walked on, brooding, heavy with these thoughts. He had to do something. He could not go unprepared to war, and prove right those who’d given him such insult. They needed reminding that Sven Bloodhair was, had been and would be a great war-lord.
His path had taken him some distance from the main encampment by then, near to the clustered hovels and huts of the village. Some men had sought lodgings there, and whores’ company. Others stumbled about or sprawled snoring in the brewer’s yard, drunk from fishing for courage in bowls of barley beer.
Sven saw one such of these being led toward a wretched-looking shed by an even more wretched-looking woman. The man, swaying on his feet like a wave-tossed ship, had the look of a thick-bodied laborer, a peasant, a bondsman more suited to farming than fighting. He reeked of beer and of piss.
The woman was stick-thin and flat-chested, straggle-haired, far from pretty. She wore a shabby cloak, its hem flapping around dirty bare feet and knobby ankles. Skin paler than the bone-moon stretched tight over the half-starved angles of her face. A crone, a young one perhaps but a crone nonetheless.
And a whore, but one more by recent opportunity than profession, Sven suspected. Only with so many strangers in town, men far from home, desperate, drunk, and frightened of facing death in battle, might a creature such as this hope to earn a paltry sum for her dubious favors.
What a life that must be, a miserable life of drudgery and humiliation, of begging for every scrap. Ugly, unloved, unmarried, without family… no one to miss her, no one to care about her disappearance or lament her loss… slavery would be preferable… and being sacrificed to the gods would be a greater privilege and honor than the likes of her could ever dream to attain.
He crept near the shed and lurked in the shadows pooled around it. The torches mounted atop the log palisade did not shed much firelight this far. He listened to a drunken chuckle and slurred mumble from within, then a grunt, and then wet slurping sounds.
The whore emerged first, wiping her mouth as she ducked through the doorway. Her other hand held a belt-purse and the dull glint of metal. He watched her open the purse to dump in some cheap trinkets of copper and bronze.
A whore and a thief, then.
But…
His nostrils flared as another smell reached him, the smell not of sex but of fresh-spilled blood, and a lot of it. He realized he heard no other movement from the shed, not the rustling of the man adjusting his clothes, not even his breathing.
A whore and a thief, and a murderess as well?
Sven sprang from the shadows and seized the woman before she could react to the sudden surprise. He hit her in the belly, driving the breath from her lungs so as to stop a scream. Then he forced her back into the shed again.
The blood-smell was thicker. His boots squelched. An errant crack in the planks let a line of torchlight through, enough to show him the man’s head lolling from a mortal wound to the throat. A puddle had spread around him, soaking into the shed’s hard-packed dirt floor.
The woman thrashed in his grasp. Scrawny though she was, she was ferociously strong. He pinned her arms at her sides so she could not get at whatever weapon she’d used. She still did not try to scream, but writhed and struggled and twisted.
Then she bit him, the she-dog, bit him where his neck met his shoulder, just above the braid-trimmed collar of his tunic. A mouthful of teeth tore into his flesh. The pain was enormous, the shock such that Sven recoiled and dropped her.
Or would have, but she hung on, hung on by her teeth, teeth sharp as knives, jaws clamped, digging in, chewing and gouging. Freed, her arms whipped around him and so did her legs, her limbs thin bands of iron. Blood ran down his chest and back, such a familiar sensation, but this blood was his own!
A murderess and a madwoman!
Battened onto him like a leech!
Sven snagged a fistful of her straggly hair and yanked. There was a ripping, a loathsome ripping of skin and sinew, a grotesque stretch-and-give, as he tugged her away with shreds of meat—shreds of him!—trailing from a mouthful of snarling, crooked teeth coursing with blood and drool.
Afire with agony, reeling with revulsion, he struck her as hard as he could. Her head snapped sideways. The iron bands of her limbs released him. Her body shuddered and went slack.
He swore at himself, furious that he’d killed her with the force of the blow and all this had been for nothing.
But then she stirred, uttering a low groan. Her fingers groped feebly for his arm, the fist of which still held her aloft by the hair. He struck her again, a more careful blow, then wrapped her limp form in her shabby cloak.
His neck burned. He felt dizzy, light-headed. But he refused to succumb to weakness; he was Sven Sveingunsson, Sven Bloodhair… so he fashioned a pad to cover the gouged hole in his neck and tied a strip of cloth to hold it in place.
Slinging the cloak-wrapped bundle over his other shoulder, Sven staggered from the shed. He stepped over the man’s corpse and the scatter of coins and trinkets spill
ed from his belt-purse and began making his way back.
Somehow, though his head spun and swam, though his stomach churned and a clammy sweat sheened his brow, he did so without being seen. It had grown late, which helped; the encampment for the most part slept.
Gunnar, however, did not. Gunnar had waited up for his brother at their tents. He came out with a small stone whale-oil lamp cupped flickering in his palm. His look of relief changed to one of concern the moment his gaze found Sven’s face.
“By the gods, Sven, what happened? You’re grey as death!”
“Later,” Sven said. “Help me with her. I need a moment to rest.”
“Who is she?” asked Gunnar, eyeing the bare legs and dirty feet poking out from the cloak-bundle.
“No one. A whore. No one who’ll be missed. I’m doing her a kindness.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“She bit me.”
“She what?”
“Teeth like a lynx. She bit me. I caught her just after she’d murdered a man, robbed him as well.” He undid the strip of cloth holding the pad to his neck. The blood flow had slowed to a trickle when he lifted it away. “Tie her at the post. Tie her well, hand and foot. She’s stronger than she looks.”
“How badly are you hurt? Should I send for someone?”
“No. I’ll be fine. Fine and ready for battle.”
“For battle? Sven, son of my father, you’re in no fit sta—”
His expression alone must have been stony, for it silenced Gunnar mid-word. “Bring me water,” he said, “and my spare tunic. I want to wash. Then I’ll sleep a bit, then be much better. You’ll see.”
Gunnar obliged. “It must not be as bad as it seemed,” he said, upon inspecting the side of Sven’s neck. “The way you bled, I expected your head half torn off.”
“Felt like it,” Sven said with a snort. “I’m lucky she didn’t go for my throat with whatever she used to kill that other poor fool.”
“I saw no weapons on her.”
“She must have dropped it as well, when she dropped his purse.”
The Raven's Table: Viking Stories Page 15
