Council, page 15
You got off lightly, Northman-child. You need to understand that fight means pain and there is no glory. Please understand this. There are so many like Ludin of Skane out there. The eyes of the dead boy were there again, staring blankly at her.
Breki grimaced. ‘I . . . well, I guess I’m happy he’s on our side.’
‘That’s true. Be glad of what you have.’
‘Are you the healer?’ The voice startled them both and they turned to see Lars, the Dalefolk bruiser. He’d had stopped a good ten yards away, but he was still a formidable presence. Helga saw Breki tense up immediately, clench his fists and remember – quite painfully – that he was healing broken bones. He’d try to protect me with one hand. One of Tyr’s chosen, this one. She could feel the weight of the rune-knife by her hip, but she didn’t feel like she was in danger. Not yet, at any rate.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘Why do you ask, friend?’
He looked a bit taken aback by this. ‘I need burdock – chopped in spring, if you have it. For my joints,’ he added, almost sheepishly. ‘I’d like to have a feel of the leaves – I pick some myself, back home.’
She studied the big man in front of her. You look like someone who’s been kicked by the world since your first day born. No wonder your joints hurt. The idea of his stubby, fat fingers plucking dainty herbs struck her as funny, which was an odd thought to have, standing in a field full of warriors. She patted Grundle and asked Breki, ‘Are you happy to look after her?’
He grunted curtly and as he resumed his grooming, Grundle neighed and turned her tail towards Helga with determined petulance.
Oh, stop it. I am not abandoning you. And besides, you’ll get better service from one of his hands than two of mine.
Walking towards Lars, knowing exactly what she had with her, she made a show of thinking. ‘Um . . . burdock . . . I don’t have any on me, but what I do have’ – she patted the bags at her hips, left, then right – ‘is mayweed, and thyme, for taste. Any good?’
‘Hm.’ He fell in beside her, but half a step behind. ‘It’s not what I wanted. It stinks like horse-crotch.’
A strange comparison, big man . . . But she resisted the impulse to make a rude joke. You don’t loose an arrow after every fowl. ‘I’ve dried and aired it and soaked it in honey.’
‘Huh.’ Somehow, although she wasn’t sure how, that one grunt suggested that he was impressed. ‘Sometimes it turns your skin itchy,’ he added.
She thought about that for a moment, then told him, ‘You’re from the Dales, aren’t you. It does depend on what you eat, I think. I travelled through there a while back and I rarely saw anyone eating fish. If you eat fish, the mayweed won’t hurt your skin.’
‘Fish?’ The question was born somewhere deep in his belly and hardly made it up and out of him. ‘Do you think so?’
‘We eat a lot of fish here. I use it all the time and hardly ever see any trouble.’
‘Huh.’ A pause, and then he admitted, ‘That would make life easier, because burdock is not easy to find this time of year.’
‘You’d be reliant on stores,’ Helga remarked.
‘Or have to carry some of my own – which I generally do, but I used it all up.’
‘And there we are,’ she added cheerily. ‘Mayweed and thyme?’
The big man grinned. ‘You can talk, I’ll give you that.’
It didn’t take Helga long to make up the package for him, then they continued towards the mustered warriors. They had walked a few steps in silence when Helga noticed a fresh cut on the bruiser’s cheek. ‘Want some salve for that, while we’re haggling?’
The big man sounded oddly embarrassed. ‘Nah, I’ll leave it to sting for a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘It’ll remind me to watch my step.’ When he caught Helga looking at him, he added, ‘Got into a bit of an argument with Ludin’s woman.’
‘Who – Drifa?’
He grunted. ‘Probably. Tall, blonde, sharp as a blade in the night. I asked her if she had any herbs but something went wrong somewhere and before I knew it she’d proper smashed my face. I wasn’t going to do anything, but Gunnar of Skar was there and I think he felt he had to make some noise.’
Helga offered a non-committal ‘Mm.’ She’d let Lars get the words out.
He turned towards her and stuck his hand down the side of his tunic. After a little bit of rooting around, he brought out a piece of silver that appeared to have been hacked off something. ‘Here. I have a feeling you’ll get more use out of this than I will.’ She stared at the metal for long enough that she didn’t notice his massive hand closing surprisingly gently around her wrist and pressing the piece into her palm. It was worth at least ten times what she’d given him.
‘Thank you for listening to me,’ he muttered. Then, after a moment’s thought, ‘I’m Lars.’
‘Helga,’ she offered in reply, thinking, Thank you, Lars. He’d clearly decided that she liked him and cared for him, which was just what she’d wanted. The silver . . . she would find a use for that too, no doubt.
‘Well met.’ Out of habit, she read his face. And . . . here it comes.
‘. . . wait. You’re the one who came to the wagon.’
What would this one want to hear, and how? She settled on a combination of curiosity, dim wits and innocence. ‘What do you mean?’
Like a dog with a bone, he worried at it. ‘You came and argued with her – you told her all our goods were overpriced!’
He’s smiling. That’s interesting. ‘Oh, that. Well, yes, that was me.’ Talk less, Hildigunnur’s voice whispered in the back of her head. Let him fill in the gaps.
‘She didn’t like that,’ Lars went on, his tone confiding. ‘She doesn’t like people speaking up.’
‘Doesn’t she?’
‘No, she strikes that right down. Her and that tree-coloured bastard shadow of hers. That one doesn’t even blink.’
‘She must have been annoyed when the man fell, though?’
‘Poor old Alvar. He was on our pots and he drove the wagon. Kept talking about his boy who’d gone to seek his fortune at the king’s court – all he wanted was to find the kid and bring him home. I don’t know if she even knew his name. She was angry for about one eye-blink, then she was feeling her way around how to use it. She’d do anything to get an advantage, that one.’
Their walk had been as slow as Helga could make it, but they were nearing the camp of the Dalefolk. I’ve just got a couple of questions left. ‘What kind of advantage?’ She wanted to make it sound like idle curiosity, nothing more.
‘Trade deals, I think,’ Lars muttered, sounding a lot less certain. ‘She might get a part of what she negotiates – what goes east from us and what goes west from the king. We were hired to protect her, make sure no one tried anything stupid. And you are right.’
‘About what?’
‘The wagon: it’s just full of shit we picked up on the way, not worth half what she’s trading it for. She’s a talker, that one. A lot like you, in fact.’
More and less than you’ll ever know.
Still keeping most of her attention on Lars, she scanned the area out of the corner of her eye, searching for Jorunn, but she was nowhere to be seen.
*
‘So we are agreed.’ King Eirik’s words rang with finality and the grim faces around the table nodded. ‘My men will ride up ahead. Ludin will take the left flank. Ingileif, your lot gets the right side. Jorunn—’
‘I guard the rear. But take Nazreen with you up front. He will follow your lead and he is easily the equal of any six men I’ve ever met.’
Ludin snorted at this, but Alfgeir leaned in and whispered something in King Eirik’s ear.
‘Very well,’ the king said, ‘he’ll ride beside Alfgeir. And now it’s time to go and meet our kin and see what they want.’
There was a clatter of metal as Ludin and Ingileif got up and left, Jorunn following after a beat. Without a word, Alfgeir passed Eirik a big bull-horn and the two men walked towards the doors of the King’s Hall.
‘I wonder what gifts my cousin is bringing us,’ Eirik said as he stepped over the threshold.
Alfgeir snorted. ‘If he’s anything like he was when he was younger, he’ll have packed nothing but trouble.’
King Eirik frowned and looked out over Uppsala. The temple cast its long shadow over the houses. Out on the trading field, he could see the massed men. ‘How many do we have?’
‘All told, about two hundred and twenty, with another hundred riding with Fenrir on their heels to get here in time.’
King Eirik let out a soft hiss. ‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘So we’ll have to move fast.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Vasby – because if he gets to the woods before us, we’re all dead. Right. Let’s do it.’
King Eirik drew a deep breath and blew his horn.
*
By the time King Eirik’s riders got to Vasby, they were cloaked in shadow. The trees rising up to meet them like a black wall were already blocking out the bluish-grey of the fading sky. A half-step behind the front, Alfgeir broke from a small group and rode up to where the king was leading the way.
‘The riders are all back. They’ve seen Styrbjorn – he’s definitely going to be coming through here.’
‘That’s fortunate,’ King Eirik remarked dryly. ‘If he does choose any of the other routes, there will be no home to go home to.’
‘So how did you know he’d go this way?’
‘Because it’s straight and quick: it is the strong man’s path.’ King Eirik paused, then added, ‘Also, there’s no thinking involved.’
Around them, the king’s warriors were slowing their horses down to a careful walk as the forest swallowed them. ‘Have the men been informed?’
‘They have.’
‘Good,’ the king said. He dismounted, weapons jangling. ‘Give the command.’
But that wasn’t necessary; the men behind them were already on the ground. A handful dropped back to secure the horses while the rest silently followed the king on foot into the fading light. Through the trees the shadows were drifting, disappearing, then reappearing, deeper and darker.
‘Not bad,’ King Eirik muttered. ‘Do you think he’ll buy it?’
Alfgeir Bjorne didn’t answer.
The army of the Svear kept inching towards the clearing. Where the trees thinned out up ahead they could see glimpses of sky.
No one spoke, just step . . . step . . . step.
As agreed, they slowed down and spread out before they entered a clearing the size of a small lake. The trees rose tall on both sides, looking like jagged black cliffs. Across from the clearing a gap in the treeline suggested a similar exit. A trodden path crossed the open ground.
King Eirik looked around in the gloom and found the faces of Ludin and his swordsman on the left. On the right was Alfgeir, towering over Jorunn’s dark-skinned man and the North Wind.
They all stepped forward together into the clearing.
‘And how many men do you think he’ll think we have?’ Ludin said dryly.
‘Enough,’ Eirik said.
The old warlord didn’t answer.
‘If the riders are right, he shouldn’t be far away,’ Alfgeir said. ‘Won’t be long n—’
The dark-skinned man pointed across the clearing, a lazy movement, like he’d seen something mildly interesting in passing.
One man stepped out into the clearing on the other side.
‘Hel’s teeth,’ Big Rolf hissed.
Behind the first figure, more stepped forward. There were at least twenty of them. Beside them came another twenty. And another.
‘Styrbjorn does not appear to feel the need to hide,’ Ingileif remarked.
‘Here we go,’ Eirik muttered. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, ‘Cousin! We come to talk.’
The only response from the other side was more and yet more men, stepping calmly into the clearing alongside their fellows.
‘We’re going to have to go for it,’ Alfgeir said.
‘I know.’
The king moved forward, his chosen men following him: two steps, three steps . . . five . . . Nobody said anything when the figure at the head of the opposing army started walking towards Eirik, but there was more than one silent sigh of relief. The figure was flanked by two men.
At Alfgeir’s side the dark-skinned man nudged him, gestured. There was a shared look.
‘No.’ Alfgeir shook his head, raising one arm then forcing it down with a meaty hand. ‘No fight. Just’ – he mimed – ‘talk.’ The shorter man gave him a bemused look, then shrugged and continued walking.
Midway through the clearing the king stopped, and his men stopped beside him. All hands stayed off hilts and clearly visible as they waited for Styrbjorn the Strong.
The king’s cousin took his time, at last coming to a halt a polite axe-and-a-half away from the king. It was easy to see where the nickname came from. The mercenary captain was easily half again as broad as Eirik, with powerful shoulders and a heavy frame. Dark hair and a thick black beard gave him a sinister look. The men beside him had the same build, born of rowing ships and bashing heads.
‘Well met, Cousin.’
There was no response.
After a moment, Eirik said, ‘We do not wish to raise blades against our family, but you come with war-men at your back. What do you want?’
Cold looks were exchanged, but still there was no response.
‘The Svear are mighty when they stand together, Cousin. I have Ludin and the North Wind at my side. Join us, and together we can sweep Bluetooth across his flat sands and into the sea, where he belongs.’
Slowly, Styrbjorn’s arm rose, palm flat, fingers spread out.
Then it fell, hard.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then flames rose in the woods, outlining Styrbjorn’s army in silhouette. A mass of mercenaries stepped forward simultaneously into the clearing. Spears drew black lines on fire held high.
Styrbjorn the Strong smiled.
‘No.’
Chapter 7
Fight
Nightfall brought flames to Uppsala. Some people lit fires outside their cabins; others raised torch-poles. No one wanted to sleep until news came of the king’s journey. A large bonfire, visible from a vast distance, was lit atop the hill.
Come home, Helga thought. Come home, you idiot. She’d waited for a while after the warriors left and managed to tease a little more conversation out of young Breki, but there was only so much he could tell her about the north. Poor boy. This was probably a bit more adventure than he had bargained for.
After that, she’d walked among the people and listened to their concerns, told them stories, some she could remember and others she made up, asked about relatives and other news, doing it all to keep their minds off what might happen . . . and what might not. More information about Styrbjorn’s whereabouts filtered in, along with a steady stream of farming families from the south – the young and the strong had saddled up and gone straight back out to join with the fighters while the women, children and the elderly sought shelter in the town. The King’s Hall was already full of refugees, which was keeping King Eirik’s household busy. She’d even seen Hertha and Ida, in passing. They both looked tired and scared, but they’d greeted her with smiles.
The latest information was that the mercenary army was marching straight and true towards Uppsala; it wasn’t going even an inch out of its way to sack and burn . . . yet. Needless to say, this information wasn’t making people feel any better.
Now Helga kept to the shadows.
If you want to see in the dark, stay away from the fire.
‘Yes, Mother,’ Helga muttered. The temptation to go and stand by the bright, warm flames out of spite was strong, but she had to admit that Hildigunnur was right. She always was. The light from the fires would comfort her all the while it was blinding her, and the heat would lull her to sleep. The flames were meant as a beacon, so someone had to stand watch in the darkness to make sure it guided the right men home.
‘Rider!’
The call went out moments before she spotted him herself, far out on the plain: a tiny speck of darkness separated from the tree line and headed towards Uppsala at great speed.
Helga’s heart leaped and her stomach lurched, her body knowing before her mind did.
It was him.
She forced herself to stay still for a moment, to get a proper look at the little black dot on the moon-washed flatland and estimate where he’d arrive.
There. Got him.
She walked away from her viewing spot in the shadow of the temple and made her way calmly down the hill – until her foot slipped and an image slammed into her head: the peaceful corpse of a fallen man, staring blankly up at her, and suddenly she felt him on her like a weight, his stilled face crushing her chest, and she started running away from the dead people in her head and towards Freysteinn, towards safety.
Tears welled up behind her eyes and she clenched her jaw shut. ‘Enough, you stupid—’ she started hissing at herself in anger and disgust. She didn’t finish the sentence but instead stopped in the dark and pressed her balled fists into her eyes. Fear rippled through her – the night, the fight, the unknown – and clashed with relief as certainty swelled in her. He was alive.
She remembered the searing heat of him, the scary strength of his embrace, and yet still she kept sobbing. At last, forcing herself to breathe, she muttered, ‘Eir guide my hand.’ As her thumping heart slowed down, she repeated it, again and again, until the tears had sunk back down into her throat and at last dissipated. She could feel the weight of the runestones around her neck – it was soothing, like bare feet on soil. As she found calm she could hear the whispered wheeze of Groa, the old witch: Call for Eir and she will take care of you.
