The Viking’s Sacrifice (15 page)

They made it back to Sigdir’s longhouse and Wilda sank down to a bench, her mind racing. Einar’s jarl—brother even—had tried to murder him, had murdered another of his men. Yet if what she could gather was true, a jarl had much power over his men, as a thane would at home. More so, the warriors swore oaths it was said, oaths of fealty to their lords, witnessed by their heathen gods. Oaths not meant to be broken, unless they wanted to go to their version of hell. It couldn’t be just that, though, or Einar might have left, surely? Might still leave.

Sigdir watched her carefully as Rowena fussed. Wilda found she had little fear of him now. Whatever devilry had been in him before seemed leached away to leave the real, true man in its place. She wondered again about what Bebba had said, about Bausi changing the wyrd of the men who followed him, changing the wyrd of the village. Something had happened out there in the pig barn to change Sigdir.

When Wilda could stand it no more, when she was about to burst wondering what had happened to Einar, Sigdir spoke.

“A negotiation, he says,” Rowena said. “Not your whole price, but not an outright death. An
einvigi,
that’s like a fight for honour. Only he says that Bausi will fight instead of him. Because of a price Toki should have paid before or somesuch. But that ain’t our Sigdir’s main concern. You knew him, Bausi I mean, that was plain. I think—I think Sigdir’s wanting to know a lot.”

Wilda thought back to Einar’s urgent fingers on her lips, asking for silence, the desperation in him. That he’d been silent on it all these years it seemed. It also seemed best to make sure of that first. She’d not said it in words, not agreed, but she wouldn’t betray him. Not Einar. Yet she had to find a way to get him—get them both—out of this.

“I met him, yes. He killed my mother on a raid in my home town. I remember him.” No mention yet of the other death, of what he’d done to Einar. Not until she was sure. “A question for a question. Why did Einar not speak till I came? Why does everyone treat him like he’s simple?” Bebba had touched on it, but it still made little sense to Wilda.

Sigdir shoved back on his bench and turned his head away, clearly unhappy with the question. Finally he nodded, as though making a momentous decision. “The greatest failure for one of the Norse is cowardice. It’s a shame not to be borne. To be a coward is to turn your face from Odin, from Thor and Tyr and all the gods. Toki was,
is
, a coward. He ran when he should have protected his brother—my brother too—from the Saxon spear that killed him. He’s not Einar, he’s Toki. Einar died when Arni did and that day Toki was born. The fear and shame turned his mind. He never spoke, except to beg the spae-wife not to see him when he first came back, injured almost to death. Begged like a coward, so we knew it was true. I wish now that he’d died along with Arni, that I didn’t have to see him, be reminded of it. Toki’s not my brother. Einar was, but he’s dead. Or I thought he was…I thought he was, till today.”

Sigdir dropped his head into his hands, ground the palms into his eyes as if to try and grind knowledge into them. “He says he’s cursed because he didn’t die, that me and our sister are cursed too. He’s raving, I know that. I know he’s not been right, not been Einar, since he came back, a sorrow to me more than he’ll know. But he seems so
sure.
Surer still that I should keep you away from Bausi, and I don’t know why. Why should he want that?”

His blue eyes were still now, watching her. Wilda wanted to trust him, to trust
someone
. Yet Einar’s fingers on her lips, the look on his face…and this man had been among the worst to torment him. Had struck her for little more than talking to Einar, had driven Myldrith past mere despair.

No, she couldn’t trust him, except maybe on one thing. It was clear that Sigdir had reservations about what Bausi intended for Einar, that he loved his brother. She had to work on that, and trust to God, and hope.

“Because he knows what sort of man this Bausi is, a man likely to drag you all down to your version of purgatory,” she said. “And he doesn’t trust him. I know nothing else.”
Forgive the lie, forgive all the lies, and all my sins.
“Please, can’t you stop this—this duel? Can’t you do anything?”

Sigdir’s eyes never wavered, and Wilda fought the urge to blurt it out, to say that it was Bausi who killed that other brother, she knew, she’d seen. Einar had asked her silence, and she would give him that if nothing else, but Sigdir’s next words crushed her.

“My brother is dying for you,” Rowena translated. “Everything dies, except fair fame. Make his death worth it, give him something to stand in front of Odin with and plead his case for Valholl. Let him have his fair fame, and stand to watch it. Be a Norsewoman, and hold your courage. You have promised me a marriage and a promise is a vow to the gods. Do not shame me in front of Bausi.”

At dawn the next day, when the faint sun began to rise behind the high mountain and Odin’s Helm, Bausi returned to Einar and pulled him to his feet. “A treat for you, young Toki. A wedding, a sacred place for our
einvigi
after. A willing audience for your death. At least you might hope to show some courage here. Am I not a merciful brother, to allow you to die with a blade in your hand and have a chance at Valholl?”

Bausi laughed at the look on Einar’s face and threw the end of the rope to one of his men, an older warrior with a cut-about face and hands like gnarled roots. “Bring him at the back, I don’t want him scaring my bride.”

They left the longhouse with much ceremony, warriors and karls singing an old song about Baldur the Golden. Bausi led, his face bright yet unreadable, the silver rings in his beard flashing. They came onto the path by the falls and began down the steps cut into the ice until they came level with Sigdir’s longhouse.

Sigdir came out, no less resplendent than Bausi, freshly bathed with the same silver rings in his beard and his hair newly braided. There was a new look in his eyes, too, one watchful of Bausi that Einar had never seen there before. His gaze slid over Einar with no ripple.

They reached the sacred space under Odin’s Helm, with its scarred and streaked stone, its comforting arms of birch. Many stood there already, though they quieted from their chatter as Bausi strode through them, Sigdir at his right hand. A proud pair of warriors, unimpeached in courage, with no known shame of honour to tarnish them.

Einar watched the crowd and wondered what spell Bausi had woven about them, that they never questioned him. That they never
saw
. All knew what he was like, the casual brutality, yet it was never questioned. Not even by those who had been oathed to their father, or known him, who was as different to Bausi as midwinter is to midsummer.

Geira stood back from all of them and her eyes found Einar’s. She flicked a glance at Sigdir and back approvingly. The wyrd of the village, of the fjord, and she thought it rested with Einar. He dropped his head so he didn’t have to look at her. He had nothing to change it with, no bright sword, no rings of gold or oaths of fealty. He had
einvigi,
and that was all. His last chance to do one thing to show before Odin, that he knew how to die well. Before that, he had Wilda and Bausi, and only the faint hope she would keep her silence. Then she would go with Sigdir, across the North Sea, far from harm. Tomorrow maybe. It didn’t matter when, as long as she kept her peace till then, where she would be safe.

The crowd parted to let Bausi and Sigdir through to the sacred stone, where the
godi
stood ready. Rings sat atop the stone, four gold sparks in the faint sunlight. Bausi jerked his head at the
godi
to get started. Time to prepare the sacrifice, ready for when the brides entered. Something special for this day, for both Winter Nights and the weddings of the jarl and his brother.

The crowd parted and a young lad brought forward the sacrifice. Something special it was. Horse-Einar, snorting and nervous at the people and noise. Bausi caught Einar’s eye and a smile twitched his beard.

Einar got up from his knees and made to move forward.
Not Horse-Einar, not him
. His only respite from loneliness, a patient kind soul, who bore Einar with equanimity. Einar’s only friend, who never judged or taunted, but nudged for treats and whickered a greeting. Not Horse-Einar, sheen-mane, young and strong and handsome, as he’d once been.

Horse-Einar whickered and pulled back on the halter. The lad tried to urge him forward, but the horse wouldn’t move, leaned back against it and planted his hooves. The
godi
moved toward him, hand out, soothing Horse-Einar until his ears twitched forward and his legs became less stiff. A handful of grain relaxed him further. The sacrificial knife glittered in the
godi
’s other hand.

When the knife slid in a smooth arc for Horse-Einar’s neck, Einar moved, pulling against his ties, finding his wider voice. “Not him, Bausi, that’s my horse, mine, not yours to do with as you will. Leave him, leave him!” His voice broke on that last word, and the scar-faced warrior behind Einar jerked on the rope to bring him back to his knees.

The knife continued in its arc, undisturbed by Einar’s powerless outburst. Horse-Einar’s blood slaked the earth, and the crowd bellowed approval as the
godi
finished the job, took Horse-Einar’s heart and laid it on the stone. It would wait there, with the
godi,
to see which bird came for it first and so divine from that the wyrd of today’s weddings. The carcass of Einar’s only friend they carried away for thralls to butcher for the coming feast. Einar stayed on his knees, unable to get up. Unable to see anything but the blood, the poor, still heart atop the stone.

Not Horse-Einar.

The crowds parted again, this time to let through the brides. Bausi’s blonde beauty came first, a vision in blue. A gold fillet across her brow matched her hair as it swung in the firelight from the torches that brightened the grey of the short day. Then, hair dark as the other was fair, came Wilda. No less beautiful to Einar, she paced behind, her eyes wide at the blood, at the heart atop the stone. Then she saw Einar on his knees and her step faltered.

Here it was. She would see, she would know. She would say, and all these years of Einar’s silence would be brought to nothing. The people of the fjord wouldn’t believe her, not a sometime thrall, a Christian. Even if they did, Bausi held them in some kind of spell-thrall anyway. The wyrd of the fjord, the spae-wife had said, changed beyond changing.

Unless Einar could get that curse from around Bausi’s neck and burn it.

Wilda took a hesitant step toward Einar but he dipped his head. He couldn’t look at her, let her see him like this, on his knees like the coward they all said he was and she didn’t see. Sigdir’s thrall said something behind her in low tones and she moved on, but when Einar raised his head, she was still looking his way. He could read nothing in that look, except maybe that the chains that had bound her so long were now to be welded shut. The wild girl on the beach would be gone forever. But she would be alive, if she said nothing. Einar raised his fingers to his lips a last time.
Silence.

Her mouth twisted at that, as though she held in a sob. Her gaze slid away, disappointment glowing in it, disappointment in him. Nothing new in that look, except it was from her. She now knew him for what they all said he was. If that was what her silence cost him, what her life cost him, it was worth the price.

Wilda turned forward again, away from the sight of Einar tied like a pig on his knees. She tried to hang back, to keep her face from Bausi as he stood at the far end of the clearing, but Rowena nudged her on. She looked up to see Sigdir, his face dark with some thought as he looked to his left, to Bear Man. Bausi. Instinct made her flinch, look to Einar, as she had once before.

Renn, renn!
His mouth formed the words, all he could give her.
Run, run!

Sigdir’s hand landed on her arm and jerked her glance back to him and Bausi with a look dark as night. They spoke together, Bausi demanding, Sigdir unsure. She heard her name and Bausi blinked in surprise before he looked over at Einar, and back to her again. Bausi’s hand was harder than Sigdir’s, gripping her wrist tight enough she feared it might snap as he dragged her face close to his.

His glance flicked over her, took in the planes of her face, paused at the scar under her eye. His eyes slid sideways to Einar and back to her again, dark now with thought, with realisation. She’d hoped he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t see or remember her from that young stick of a girl, but he did. He knew who she was, from her own recognition of him, from her name and Einar’s silent plea. She’d seen him murder one of his men, his own brother, a murder no one seemed to know about. A murder he’d as like kill to cover up.

Bausi’s mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. No mirth in it, no warmth. More like a grim, cold threat. “Renn, Wilda.”

There were more words, ones she didn’t know, but that was enough. This was what Einar had tried to stop, this was why
silence
and
run.
Bausi thrust her away from him and drew his sword. His grin stretched further as the point came level with her face.

All Einar’s fears had come true. The wyrd the Norns had woven, for him and Wilda, aye and even Bausi, were shrivelled to this one knot. He got to his faltering feet. He was Thor’s man, in his heart, and he wouldn’t face it on his knees. A true Norseman knelt for nothing, even his gods.

Bausi drew his sword and lifted it to point at Wilda. Einar yanked at the rope that held him, took the scar-faced man by surprise and had him on his back in the mud. Einar was on him in a moment. “Cut it. Cut the rope!” And then to Wilda, “Run, run!”

He didn’t get the chance to see whether she did because the scar-faced warrior wasn’t so easy to best, especially when Einar’s hands were still tied. A punch to his belly winded him and then the warrior slid his scramasax out of its sheath, and not to cut the rope. The heavy blade whistled past his cheek as Einar dodged, and the warrior had him off balance, his lame leg betraying him and dumping him on his face in the dead winter grass. The warrior’s weight on his back slammed all the breath from his lungs, and the cool feel of smooth steel on his cheek stopped any further struggle.