Wolfsangel (36 page)
Authors: M. D. Lachlan
Bragi was at his ear. ‘Get ready to take your place with your ancestors in Odin’s halls,’ he said.
‘I’ll ask no one there to make space at the bench for me yet,’ said Vali. There were people all around him now, some with burning torches. They were nobles, he could see. Some had spears but there were swords too - one of them drawn. ‘If there was ever a time to play the prince, this is it,’ said Vali.
He drew himself up to his full height and strode towards the men in front of him.
‘My word, I thought you were pirates. What are you men doing skulking about in the dark?’
‘We are kinsman to Hemming, king of Denmark, mighty ruler whose ships are numberless,’ said a voice.
‘At last you come. So slow a welcome does King Hemming bring that I betook myself to mount my wave steed once more. Truly, it seems that I shall eat sooner at my father’s table ten days hence, following the mackerel’s backs to Hordaland, than wait on Danish hospitality.’ Vali tried to speak like a prince, to be received like one.
A voice spoke back. ‘We are sorry for our tardiness. The king does not reside here, and it took time for word of your arrival to reach us. We are as apologetic as Geirroth when to Odin he did refuse the gift of mead.’
‘Didn’t Geirroth fall on his sword?’ said Bragi under his breath.
‘Your words are sweet as Idun’s apples,’ said Vali. ‘We greet you, Hemming’s men, brave spear Danes and sons of honour.’
Vali was now face to face with the man who had first blocked his path. The warrior was richly dressed, a gold brooch glinting like another candle in the dark and at his waist a fine sword, its scabbard picked out in gemstones. He was tall and thin, and by his bearing a formidable warrior.
‘I am Skardi, son of Hrolf,’ said the man, ‘trusted adviser to Hemming the Great, foe of the Franks and protector of the Danes, he who takes tribute from eight kingdoms and whose glory shall last until the gods destroy us.’
‘I am Vali, son of Authun the Pitiless, scourge of the north, most feared lord in this Middle Earth. I am ward to Forkbeard, king of the Rygir, whose name resounds everywhere beneath the skull of the sky god.’
Vali glanced to his left. Bragi had the wolfman by the arm and was speaking into his ear. Feileg’s eyes were wild as they had been at the slave market and he looked ready to attack. Vali remembered what he had thought of berserks the first time he had seen them operate and wondered how he had found himself with this man, next to whom the followers of the cult of Odin seemed models of restraint.
‘Forgive my retainer,’ said Vali. ‘He seeks only to protect me in a strange land.’
Skardi pursed his lips. ‘Tell him he will find my men harder work than any slaver. They have fed the eagles until they are too fat to fly.’
Reports of the slaver’s death had clearly reached Hemming’s court. There was nothing to do but stick with his original plan. How long would he have before word from Rogaland arrived? A month at the most, maybe a lot less. If Hemming detained him too long then his future looked very uncertain.
‘Our bearing and our deeds shall cause those birds to starve,’ said Vali. ‘We come as friends, with kind words and respect for your far-famed king.’
‘Then welcome, friends. Allow us to bring you to the halls of our high lord.’
The two men embraced and this seemed to calm Feileg.
‘We have a boat at the river’s mouth. If you would do us the honour of accompanying us . . .’ said Skardi.
Vali knew this was hard hospitality, the sort that will not be refused. They set off through the dark streets. Vali became aware that he was accompanied by at least forty men. He was a prisoner, no mistaking it.
‘You arrived by fishing boat, prince. It’s a strange choice for a king’s son. Has Forkbeard no drakkar to transport you?’
‘My lord,’ said Vali, ‘we were shipwrecked on the Wide Islands. A storm came from nowhere, a creation no doubt of the sorcerous Haarik. Our gifts for your lord were lost, but so important was our mission that we continued as we could.’
Vali knew it was a risk to appear vulnerable. A real man would spit at a storm and land his ship safe, or at least that was what the skalds said. Despite this, Vali had heard of enough heroes who had gone to the bottom, though few in coastal waters.
Skardi was thoughtful. ‘And the purpose of your mission? ’
‘Why peace, my lord, peace. Now Forkbeard and my father sit with eighty drakkars ready to send a sword storm to Haarik. Once the fire of battle lights, it may not be easy to put out, nor to confine it to one land. I need your king’s word that he will not interfere as we take our rightful revenge and raise a spear din in Haarik’s halls.’
Vali had lost face over the shipwreck; now he tried to regain it with talk of war.
Skardi gave a curt nod, giving away nothing.
‘Our drakkar,’ he said, ‘is waiting.’
29 The Drum
Drown, drown, just drown. Stop fighting, just drown. Adisla willed her self to sink but couldn’t do it. She was too good a swimmer and her body insisted on trying to survive, even in that cold swell.
There was shouting from the ship; the sail peeled back and men were pointing at her and yelling through the rain. The man in the four-cornered hat was there and had a drum in his hand. He began to beat it and to sing.
Adisla wanted to swim away from the boat but her instinct for preservation was too strong and she simply trod water, pumping her legs while willing her body to go under. Her skirts had filled with water and were heavy now, constrictive and tiring.
‘Freya, take me. Freya take me.’
She lost sight of the ship, then she lost sight of everything and knew she was sinking. Still she tried to breathe but choked. Then she was thrashing wildly, desperate to get up to the surface, desperate for air, her body moving to the demands of instinct not thought. But Adisla couldn’t find the air. It was as if a giant hand was holding her down, irresistible, pushing her into darkness while her arms flailed for the light. Her lungs were bursting and she couldn’t help but try to breathe in again.
And then it was calm and it was light and her mind wandered. She thought she was with Vali again, by the fjord on a hot sunny day, and they were laughing. The light weakened and dimmed and she realised she wasn’t outside at all but in a cave whose floor was submerged in water. There was something in there, a presence that seemed to bubble from the darkness, a formless animosity all around her. But when she looked, it was only Vali and he was saying, ‘Wait for me. I will find you. I am looking.’
But it wasn’t Vali, it was the wolfman. She reached out to touch him, but then there was pain and there was light and screaming, and underneath it all a strange chant and the beat of a drum that she knew came from the odd man who had sat next to her on the ship. She didn’t understand his words at all, nor did she like their sound - to her ears it was like a dog singing, rough and guttural, but inside her something stirred and she moved her arms, kicked off her skirts and struck out for the ship. The water seemed immense and strong, but the beat from the ship seemed to sustain her, and her movements became calm and purposeful even as she wept because she couldn’t drown. A rope was in her hands and then arms were reaching down for her. She was hauled back onto the ship wearing only her pinafore and leggings.
There was a face above her - the man in the blue coat and four-pointed hat. He had a drum in his hands marked with strange symbols. The red on the band of his hat seemed terribly vivid to her. The man leaned towards her, pushed back her head and held his ear to her mouth. When he heard her breathe, he took the cloak Adisla had discarded when she had gone overboard and put it around her. Then he hugged her to him to make her warm, holding her and whispering to her in his strange language. The Danes shot her lascivious glances but the man’s eyes kept them at bay. They were pale blue, the colour of cold sky, and the contrast with his dark hair was striking. Not a man in the crew doubted he was a sorcerer.
Adisla was coughing and shaking and frozen. There was an uncommon depth to the cold she felt. Whatever she had sensed in that cave had been real to her and meant her no good. But she had seen only Vali and Feileg, who she knew were her protectors.
The sorcerer crawled away down the ship and came back with a waterskin. She put it to her lips and drank.
The magician’s face was only just visible in the dim light beneath the sail. He grinned at her and she started. His teeth were filed to points, like an animal’s. He leaned towards her and said in halting Norse, ‘Do not hurry to that place, lady. You will go there again quickly enough.’
30 Politics
The sun shone brightly on Vali during his time at Hemming’s court but he knew things were going badly for him when the king didn’t receive him immediately. It was a week before he was summoned to the main hall, a week in which he stayed in the longhouse he had been allocated in case he should bump into the monarch outside his halls. He knew that the meeting had to be on Hemming’s terms - at the time and place of his choosing. So when the summons came it was welcome - a relief from boredom and the frustration of inaction, at least.
Vali went alone. It felt good to get out into the clean air after a week in the smoky house and he took the opportunity to look around.
Hemming’s settlement was impressive, containing five big longhouses. There were ramparts - one with a gate - on every side of the settlement apart from that adjoining the winding sea inlet - or river as it now was. A smaller version of the sea wall being constructed at Haithabyr extended from the rampart into the water in a semicircle with a chain across the entrance from the river. Vali didn’t know whether to marvel at the skill of its construction or despair at how difficult it would make escape. There were only a couple of lookouts on the sea wall but, thought Vali, how many does it take to raise an alarm? No ship could come or go unless the chain was lowered, and if Vali and his companions tried to escape overland, Hemming would simply alert the surrounding farms.
A jarl in a bright yellow tunic conducted him to the hall, a huge structure with bulging sides like a ship’s. You could have fitted two of Forkbeard’s halls inside it.
A door was opened and he went in. At the far end he could just see through the haze of the fire a tall thin man sitting on a large stone seat. As Vali was led forward he saw the king more clearly. He was richly dressed in bright blue silks, his eyes elaborately decorated with kohl and his lips smeared with the juice of berries.
Kneeling at his side was the drab figure of a Christian priest, his head shaved into a tonsure. He was scribbling on a tablet and Vali would normally have been intrigued to look at what he was doing. On Hemming’s other side was a pretty woman in a long silk gown of pale yellow. She came forward to Vali with a drinking horn. It was a beautiful thing, polished and inlaid with silver.
The woman spoke in an exotically accented Norse. ‘I am Inga, queen of the Danes, and I bid you welcome to our court. Drink, guest. Accept the mead of friendship from Hemming, king of the Danes, mightiest ruler of this Middle Earth.’
‘My gratitude to the noble queen. I accept this drink in recognition of our friendship, now and in the future,’ said Vali.
He took a sip.
‘Formalities over?’ said Hemming, who had been preoccupied with a parchment. He handed it back to the kneeling priest and looked up at Vali. ‘Good. You are welcome, Vali of the Horda, over and above the high words with which we honour you.’
The king spoke perfect Norse without a trace of an accent.
‘Your majesty is good to see me so soon after my arrival,’ said Vali.
‘All other business ceased when we knew you were here,’ said Hemming with a short smile. The king then sat in silence for a moment, staring at Vali.
Vali wondered if he was expected to say something, but he couldn’t think what that might be so he just kept quiet.
‘Why are you here? The truth.’
‘To ask your permission for the Rygir to attack Haarik, or for you to order him to compensate us for our loss.’ Vali did not like to lie but there was a saying, ‘A lie to an enemy is no lie at all.’ Hemming was a potential enemy so deceit was allowable, honourable even. An oath, however, well, that would be a different matter.
‘That is not why you are here,’ said Hemming. His manner was calm: there was no threat at all in his voice. Only the sudden restlessness of the priest gave Vali any indication that anything was wrong. The man glanced at the king and went pale. Vali remembered that, at least in word, these priests were opposed to killing, though confusingly they did eat human flesh. If someone lied in front of Forkbeard he could expect to be given to Odin before he had the chance to tell his next one. Was Hemming similar, if with quieter manners?
There was another long silence. This time Vali did feel the need to break it first.
‘I am here on a fool’s errand,’ he said.
The king raised his eyebrows, indicating that Vali should go on. Vali tried to think fast. He needed to describe his mission in a way that Hemming would find acceptable.
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