Valkyrie's Song

by M. D. Lachlan

  ‘There will be Normans,’ said Styliane. ‘Some, at least.’

  ‘How so, ma’am? There’s a mighty field of dead here, fit to please old Odin himself,’ said Agni. ‘Can there be so many left?’

  ‘There can. They buried them,’ said Styliane. ‘King Sveinn would just have put them all in one pit, or burned the lot of them. There will be Normans here.’

  Tola stumbled on through the sightless fog. Another army in the land. More killers. The Varangians, with Styliane leading, moved at a breakneck pace, seemingly uninhibited by their virtual blindness. The lady worried Tola. She could not read her properly, or guess her intentions. Those magical symbols, that had burned so bright from afar, were not visible now. She still heard them moaning as if in an underbreath, chiming and sighing as the group strode towards the town. At least, she thought, it was towards the town.

  For the first time she wondered what she was doing there. In the company of the bandits she had been simply fleeing, feeling any servitude or slavery must be better than falling to rape and murder. Now she was walking blind to a destiny as the servant of a woman she felt sure meant her no good. She went with her for the same reason she had gone with the bandits – there was simply nowhere else to go. It was a choice between people she suspected wished her ill and running into a land full of Normans who she was certain did.

  How long was it since she had eaten? A very long time. She was dizzy and she was cold to the marrow.

  She glanced at Ithamar. His shield of fear had dropped but now she could sense a deep and complex disquiet. Something like dawn greyed the clouds but she could see no further than the person walking in front of her. She could smell the fires, though, the noxious smoke of flesh and thatch tingeing the mist.

  The Normans were nearby. Her mind had contracted with the cold of standing still, and the only thing that mattered was the numbness in her feet and hands, the shivering and the feeling she would die. The warmth of movement let her mind drift and she could see the invaders as if she were one of them, sitting by their fires, calming their horses, waiting for the fog to lift to commence the slaughter again.

  The northerners would allow no rest – they said that to stop was to freeze. The smoke grew thicker, with that dry, bitter, funeral-pyre smell. Finally, a huge structure loomed above them. Tola drew in breath. She had never been so close to anything built so big in her life. The walls of York stretched out into invisibility in the mist.

  Styliane led her men quickly up to the walls and huddled against them for fear of being seen. Tola could see the walls were a hotchpotch of stones, faced with crumbling earth. Some attempt had been made to shore them up with wooden logs. Her consciousness went running along their length, quick as a hare.

  Agni leaned on his sword. ‘Will there be guards on the gates?’

  ‘There are two, near here,’ said Tola.

  She could feel them, almost be them. They were angry they’d been set such a ludicrous task as standing look-out in such a fog. Resentment tasted soft and tarry in her mouth. One was a well-born man and he hated doing sentry work – he would prefer to be out on his horse, raiding.

  ‘Only two?’ said Styliane.

  ‘Yes, on the gate.’ She sent her mind into the town. So much distress in there, so much agony – all the anguish of the villages but boiled down, concentrated in one small place. Not everyone felt unhappy. There were warriors in there, some exultant, some weary. One man felt tired and had clearly seen enough slaughter to last him a lifetime. Another was excited, looking forward to the fog lifting and the terror starting anew. ‘Many more within,’ said Tola.

  ‘Which way is the gate?’ said Styliane.

  Tola pointed along the wall.

  ‘Are the guards vigilant?’

  Tola stood tapping her tongue on the roof of her mouth like someone trying to put a name to an odd flavour.

  ‘They are cold and one wants to play dice,’ said Tola. ‘The other doesn’t because he fears being cheated.’

  ‘You can tell their thoughts?’ said Rannvér the Viking.

  ‘No. More their feelings.’

  ‘So what am I feeling?’

  It was easy to tell. Cynicism poured from him like the taste of bad wine.

  ‘Can’t you tell me? You are a more reliable person to ask than me, who only sees glimpses.’

  He snorted.

  ‘You doubt me?’ said Tola.

  Rannvér put his eyes to the floor. ‘If the lady believes in you, it’s not for me to call you a liar.’

  ‘What to do?’ said Agni. ‘Do we go in as if these were slaves?’

  ‘Is your Norman up to it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Agni looked up at the walls. They were intact.

  ‘The Danes must have been let in,’ said Ithamar. His voice was hardly more than a murmur. ‘The city’s full of Norsemen or their descendants. It couldn’t have been too difficult to get the gates opened.’

  ‘Either that or they just sailed up the river,’ said Rannvér. ‘Sounds a lot simpler to me, particularly as you’ve got your ships there for a quick retreat if things get a bit warm.’

  ‘The Normans will have killed everyone inside. They won’t be expecting trouble from within,’ said Agni.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Rannvér.

  ‘What would you do if someone betrayed you to your enemies?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Let me take them and be quick by the gate when I do. There are only two, you say?’

  ‘Yes, two,’ said Tola.

  The sweat was freezing on her again now.

  Agni tested the crumbling earth of the wall. It came away in his hand. He moved down to the wooden logs that had been used to shore the wall up. He managed to wedge his boot between a log and the wall proper. This was enough to lever him up to a level where the original stone was exposed, uneven and broken. It was easier to climb and up he went. In no time he was on the top of the wall and he lay flat, only his boots visible above them. The boots disappeared and Tola guessed he was climbing down.

  ‘Too easy,’ said Dýri.

  ‘Not so easy with men pouring fire and stones down on you,’ said Rannvér.

  ‘Can you imagine climbing Constantinople’s walls like that? Whenever anyone’s tried to lay siege the legions have just had dinner and watched them until they get bored and go away.’

  ‘No. But that is the Roman Empire. This is Rome gone rotten.’

  Styliane held up her hand to silence the men.

  ‘We’ll die here, lady,’ said Ithamar.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Dýri. ‘It’ll warm me up.’

  ‘I thought you said this was only middling cold,’ said Rannvér.

  ‘It’s a dishonest, creeping cold,’ said Dýri. ‘You can fight the cold in Hordaland. Here it creeps up behind you and mugs you.’

  ‘Like we’re doing?’ said Rannvér.

  Styliane clicked her fingers and glared and they both were quiet.

  They sidled down the wall towards the gate, Dýri in the lead, Rannvér behind. The smell of burning here was strong. Footsteps behind. Tola turned. One of the bandits had fled into the fog. Styliane again held up her hand. No one moved.

  Too close to the gate to talk now. Laughter. The rattle of dice. Were they that close? Someone spoke a couple of rough words in what sounded to Tola like the Norman tongue. Dýri strode forward. There was a sound like a sack dropping from a cart and Rannvér motioned for them all to come on. Dýri and Agni pulled the bodies of the Normans to one side, away from the gate, and Ithamar and the two remaining bandits fell upon them, stripping them of whatever they could.

  Styliane gestured to the fog behind them, to where the deserter had run.

  ‘He’ll be dead soon one way or another,’ said Dýri. ‘Chasing him�
��s a waste of time and effort. Come on.’

  They went through the gate. It was nowhere near as big as Tola had thought – just big enough for a man to walk through. She guessed the main gate must be somewhere else. The door that secured it had been torn away at its hinges.

  They stepped through into Hell.

  Every building she could see had been burned down. Tola could sense people in the town, warm and happy, so other buildings must be standing but everything around her was blackened and smoking, the remaining beams of the houses sticking up like the ribs of a slain dragon.

  ‘Surt,’ said Agni. ‘Fire giants. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were with them.’

  ‘Just men with brands like any other,’ said Dýri. ‘Move.’

  The smouldering town was much warmer than the country had been, though the fog was – if anything – thicker, mingling with the smoke.

  ‘Where?’ said Agni.

  ‘Ahead,’ said Styliane.

  Tola walked on. The misery seeping from the houses was almost overwhelming, a chill beneath the heat. She saw things at her feet she did not wish to see. Bodies – many of them. The fog allowed such a limited view that it was all she could do to avoid stepping on them. So many connections had been broken here. Mothers, daughters, sons and husbands. All so much ash and smoke; the taste bitter in her mouth. At what looked like a crossroads the fog thinned to reveal more burned houses, bodies recognisable only by a black arm or leg. They reminded her of the women she had seen on the hill. The houses themselves were like plants that had withered, the remaining timbers reaching up like reeds that had rotted where they stood.

  ‘If we become separated, dear, head for the well. Can you feel it here?’

  ‘I can feel something,’ said Tola. ‘There’s a great body of water.’

  ‘That’ll be the river,’ said Rannvér.

  ‘More than the river,’ said Tola. ‘All the water of the world is moving. It’s bubbling up. It’s like it wants to be free.’

  ‘That is the well,’ said Styliane. ‘Find it if we get separated.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For your destiny.’

  Norman soldiers sang somewhere close.

  ‘Shouldn’t my destiny find me?’ said Tola. She kept her voice low. ‘Isn’t that what makes it a destiny?’

  Styliane laughed under her breath ‘You only look and sound like a country girl,’ she said. ‘Do your fellows remark that you can talk so?’

  ‘My fellows are dead and remark nothing.’

  Styliane stopped for a moment, judging the way.

  ‘Do you wonder why you see the world as you do? Why you can talk with me, a high lady, as easily as you can a thrall on your farm?’

  ‘I wonder how I’m going to stay alive, or if it’s worth trying,’ said Tola.

  ‘It’s always worth trying,’ said Ithamar.

  ‘It’s right for a woman to try to stay alive,’ said Dýri. ‘She needs to raise and nurture the next generation. A man should value his life more lightly. He will give it up to avenge an insult. He will give it up for gold. He will give it up for the joy of battle alone.’

  Tola felt fear coming from Dýri as sharp as that she felt from Ithamar but nothing in the big Viking’s face betrayed his feelings. He was trying to talk himself into courage. Ithamar, by contrast, skulked through the streets like a beaten dog. Styliane was scared too but her fear was not directed towards the men who sang invisibly somewhere away through the filthy air.

  ‘Save the philosophy and concentrate on the task in hand,’ said Agni.

  ‘This way,’ said Styliane.

  They strode on – no point in creeping. To any nosy pisser or wandering drunk they looked simply like three Norman warriors escorting a great lady and her slaves. They’d draw more attention to themselves by trying to hide than by walking boldly.

  The fog was definitely getting thinner – it was as if the smouldering buildings had burned it away. Ahead was a wooden bridge over a wide river and behind that Tola could see a castle taking shape up on a hill – wooden walls that had survived the fire, a wooden keep behind it. Downstream, the river had been dammed and its course altered. The Normans had made a moat. Had they sat behind that while the town burned?

  The bridge was built in the solid Norse style – a functional structure of heavy logs with no rail or barrier to stop an errant cart or a panicked horse ending up in the water, two men’s height below.

  They stepped onto the bridge, Styliane falling in behind her guards. They were a quarter of the way across before they saw the Normans coming the other way. Ten of them, on foot. They were armed and armoured – the town had only just been subdued and it was clear they were taking no chances.

  The Vikings didn’t break stride but walked on purposefully. Tola felt the excitement coming from the warriors, the shaking, wet-mouthed fear of the bandits. Styliane alone was unconcerned. She glanced behind her, not ahead.

  Halfway across and the Normans a quarter of the way on the other side. They would meet right above the water. As one the troop of warriors stepped aside as Styliane approached, the leading man – a big, raw-headed individual with a scarlet surcoat – bowing to her.

  Styliane inclined her head and walked past. The Vikings met the Normans’ stares boldly but the bandits – as was appropriate for thralls – avoided their gaze. They had gone ten steps back when a voice called after them. Tola didn’t understand it. Styliane stopped her men and said something in reply. The Norman was pointing at one of the bandits. Tola felt her guts lurch as she realised – he was wearing the fine gloves of the man who had been killed on the gate. The Normans were telling the lady one of her slaves was a thief.

  The man in the scarlet surcoat came and grabbed another of the bandits, shaking him. He rattled with the money he was carrying. The Normans seized the other bandits, Ithamar too. They found Ceoluulf ’s gold and two warriors bent to examine his boots. All too fine for a slave.

  Tola went to press on but a warrior grabbed her, seizing her cloak and shouting. She felt his fury. Her cloak was good Norman workmanship, not suitable for thralls. He saw the blood dried onto it and his hand was on his sword in a breath.

  Everything moved so quickly. Agni came forward smiling and laughing, shaking his head as if the Norman had made a simple mistake. The man returned his smile, willing to listen to an explanation of why a thrall girl was wearing two good Norman cloaks, one of which bore a substantial blood stain, excellent riding boots and such a good stiff coat. No one dressed their slaves so fine but she, by her ruddy face and coarse hands, was certainly that. Agni put his hand on the man’s shoulder as if reassuring him. The man let go of Tola and Agni shoved him into the river, drawing his sword in the same instant. Time now creaked and groaned in the cold night. To Tola it seemed that everyone moved as if through water. Swords, all over the bridge. Agni charged, hacking at the Normans. They were taken by surprise and two hit the water quickly. A bandit rounded on his Norman but the man was too strong and quick. A squabble of limbs and the bandit went flailing to the water. Death was there, in his glory. Tola saw the women on the hill as if they were flesh, floating above the battle, gazing down, spears in hand, ready to strike. Panic was all around – hot waves of distress as might come from a strung pig at the first prick of the knife. The bog-black faces of the women looked down at her. Were their spears poised for her? She ran.

  Ithamar leaped towards Styliane, trying to grab at her purse but Dýri punched him hard in the face, a short, jolting attack, throwing the weight of his body behind the blow. His hand hardly moved but Ithamar went flat to the bridge. Tola sprinted for the bank, Rannvér coming past her to engage the Normans.

  The Normans bellowed at the top of their voices, calling for aid from their fellows, no doubt. Styliane screamed at Dýri, too fast for Tola to understand. Dýri grabbed at Tola but she slipped by him. He was a big ma
n but not fast and she plunged forward into the fog, ran up a hill. Here the houses were still intact and the road was narrow. She ducked down the side of a house as eight Norman warriors came plunging through the fog, swords drawn. Eight more were behind them.

  She heard Styliane cry out. She saw that, across the road, a cart was leaned against the side of a house. She took the risk and ran for it, hiding underneath. From here she could just see the bridge through the fog. Styliane had gone, as had Dýri, but Agni and Rannvér were still on the bridge, corpses piled around them. Normans were pouring in now from both banks. They’d won the first battle with surprise on their side, but they couldn’t win this. They were outnumbered twenty to one, surrounded on both sides.

  Agni held up his sword and shouted out at the Normans.

  ‘It is a man’s death I will die today, and a noble one. It’s a gift from the gods to die so. But I am not a selfish man, to keep such treasure to myself. Come, my friends, and share in it!’

  His words were lost on the Normans, who shouted back in their own language. Tola wanted to run but she had no idea where to. She looked for the strange women she had seen floating above the battle. Were they there? The line in her mind between what she saw and what she imagined had always been a faint one and she couldn’t tell whether it was the women or just their memory that seemed to congeal from the fog. The Normans were hesitant. She could only just make out the bank but she saw them arming with shields. A shout and they advanced from both sides. Agni and Rannvér were shadows in the mist, back to back. Such big men but so many enemies. The Normans closed, she saw shadows falling into the water, shadows falling from the sky; heard cries and screams. The mist covered the bridge and, when it moved away again, the two Vikings no longer stood.

  Tola had been unsure what Styliane and the Vikings wanted to do with her but they had at least provided a direction. Now she felt utterly alone. She pulled the cloaks tighter. She could not stay beneath the cart forever. The Normans would search for her. She lay still for a few moments, just to collect her thoughts.