Council, page 9
‘I am still relatively new in these parts,’ Helga said. ‘I have spent most of my time here finding out just how much I don’t know.’
‘Everywhere is like that, I guess. Every place has stories that will kill you if you aren’t aware of them.’
‘Precisely.’ Was that a threat? Or a warning? ‘That is why meeting people from other places and talking is important.’
Drifa glanced out across the King’s Hall, where large, well-feasted, drink-filled men were either bumping into each other, howling out the words to half-remembered songs or laughing raucously. ‘Is that your . . . ?’
In the middle of the floor, Freysteinn was leading a complicated combination of dance and song that looked to be two parts mead, one part mortal danger and all parts joy. Helga smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘Well done. Tamed yourself quite the horse there.’
Yes. Yes indeed. Well done. ‘He’s the one I want to walk with. He makes me . . .’ Her eyes met Drifa’s and no other words were necessary.
*
Breki looked out at the sea of humans and felt thoroughly sick. Big Rolf had offered him a cup of mead, but he’d only accepted once it was clear that it was heavily watered. Alcohol didn’t help with balance, and while he could probably get away with that at home, this felt . . . different.
‘Scared?’ Big Rolf had silently appeared at his elbow again, but the question had none of the usual gentle mocking attached to it.
‘No,’ Breki said, on reflex.
‘Then you’re an idiot,’ Big Rolf said affectionately. ‘A lumbering baby idiot.’
‘Whereas you are only the size of a baby.’
Big Rolf smirked. ‘Everywhere but my trousers.’
Breki relaxed, the familiar banter somehow a comfort. ‘What can I expect?’
‘You’re going up against the best wrestlers in the three other corners of the land of the Svear. What do you think you’ll get?’
‘They’ll be strong,’ Breki mused.
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. Very strong?’
Big Rolf looked at him. ‘. . . yes. But you are no weakling yourself.’
Breki thought about how he’d felt his own strength growing, the way he’d started finding things were suddenly easier to lift, and something within him uncoiled a little. ‘That is true,’ he said.
‘And you have speed, and you know where to put your feet,’ Big Rolf said, which also made Breki feel better, until he added, ‘But one thing you don’t have is experience, and that is harder to get.’
‘So where do I get experience?’
Big Rolf pointed to the raucous crowd in the middle of the longhouse. ‘By taking on the best.’
‘Are you Northmen?’ The voice belonged to a squat man with a reddish beard.
‘Our balls are as frozen as they get,’ Big Rolf replied. ‘This bear-child is Breki and I am Big Rolf. He keeps saying that I am not his father.’
Some emotion flitted across the man’s face, but it was hard to tell what it was. He was slurring his words a little, but there was determination in his voice. ‘Have you travelled around south of Uppsala?’
Breki watched as Big Rolf’s manner changed. ‘We have not,’ he said. ‘Not recently, at any rate. Why?’
‘My name is Alvar Dal and I am looking for my son,’ the man said. ‘He left our home in the Dales to find his fortune, but he always promised he’d come back. I heard he’d been seen in Hedeby, but then he disappeared without a trace – but I know he is out there somewhere.’
‘Tell me more about him.’
Breki almost didn’t see it happen, but somehow Big Rolf had quickly moved them so that they were facing away from most of the shouting, almost cocooned in a little pocket of quiet. He’d also somehow conjured a bit of dried meat, which he was offering to the red-bearded stranger.
‘He’s not a fighter, not as such. Smart boy, though,’ the man was saying, and Breki could hear the hope and pride in his voice as he accepted the gift. ‘He’s got this big birthmark on his left cheek, and red hair like mine. He enjoys his food too, like his Da.’ At this the man patted his significant belly and smiled, but despite that, something in his face struck Breki as sad and broken.
‘If I see him, Alvar Dal, I will tell him that he should return home.’ Big Rolf’s voice was calm, strong and reassuring.
The man clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him before ducking back into the crowd.
‘What was that about?’
Big Rolf was thoughtful. ‘That was a man searching for something I fear he will not find.’
As the great mass of men swallowed Alvar Dal, Breki wondered yet again at the sheer number of people in the world, until Big Rolf broke into his ruminations.
‘Now you need to get your head back to where it needs to be, got it? We are about to begin.’
*
They must be able to smell the impending violence. Helga watched with interest as a space cleared in front of the dais in the middle of the floor. Nobody was ordering anyone around or giving any commands, but soon enough cups had been refilled and the benches which had been pulled up around the space were crowded with eager men. The hush spreading around the hall was not quite silence, but sounded like a hundred conversations being taken down to just above a whisper. Suddenly the delegations from the west, south and north were clearly visible, each standing slightly apart from the crowd.
Helga smiled wryly to herself as she examined the potential combatants. They might as well have arranged themselves on a map. Alfgeir had told her about the wrestling, warning her she should be ready to help if there were any – and he’d chewed on the word – accidents.
Of course she’d agreed, completely ignoring the possibility that real harm might be done to someone in the cause of entertainment . . . but now she wasn’t so sure. Usually the worst you’d get after a drunken scuffle was a sprain. Weapons were very rarely drawn, and if they were, the situation would change very quickly, but there was usually someone around with clout enough to stop things before anything turned really nasty. There was a definite benefit to making sure that it was in no one’s interest to go brandishing weapons about the place.
I really hope that holds here, she thought, not entirely convinced, for there was definitely something in the air and it wasn’t good.
‘Well met, friends!’ King Eirik shouted over the crowd, which was met with a lusty roar. ‘We are gathered here to trade, to talk’ – he paused for a moment to make sure everyone was hanging on his words – ‘and to answer a very important question!’
This time the roar was even louder; they knew what was coming.
‘North, west, south – or indeed, east! – who is the best . . . at wrestling?’
The noise threatened to shake the King’s Hall apart.
They really do like shouting. Helga fought to keep the grimace from her face and her hands from covering her ears.
‘And so first up, we go to the Dales! Dalesmen, who is your champion?’
‘Lars Larkwood!’ Despite the crush, Jorunn had of course found herself a space on one of the benches; now she stood on it, head and shoulders above her men, and shouted, ‘A sweet and humble soul from the valleys, Lars is; he has never hurt a fly. We can only hope that he is treated gently!’
The laughter that followed her words was rough, knowing and mean.
Lars stepped forward and pulled off his shirt. As he tied his trousers with the thick cord required for the grapple, he flexed.
Helga frowned. The man looks like a carthorse. She thought for a moment about Freysteinn, and how he hadn’t budged an inch when faced with the big Dalesman, and a thrill went through her.
‘Well met, Lars! Although I am given to understand that you have already met our champion.’ King Eirik was calm, almost friendly, and his insult landed softly, but it landed true. Surrounded by smirking faces, Lars stiffened.
When Helga looked at the dais, she saw that Alfgeir’s seat was empty.
Moments later, the king’s right-hand man stepped into the ring, finishing up the knot on his own wrestler’s cord. Without his tunic he really did look like some sort of beast from the old tales: a huge, hairy half-bear with long, powerful arms ending in paws that could probably crush a man’s skull.
She could feel the bowstring of anticipation pulling taut in the hall.
In the centre, Lars looked at Alfgeir and scowled.
‘Well met, Alfgeir Bjorne!’ Jorunn cried, looking over the heads of the enrapt audience towards King Eirik, and she raised her arm.
Up on the dais he did the same.
They shouted as one, both their arms fell – and the noise of the crowd rose to meet them. The two men immediately started circling, their arms wide, meaty hands spread. Helga tried to pick out Freysteinn from the crowd, but it was just a mass of frantic red faces, arms flailing, mouths moving in sounds that were drowned in the general hubbub. Then there came a great roar and when she turned back to the wrestlers, the big man from the Dales was clutching his left upper arm, his face contorted in a grimace. His eyes were trained on Alfgeir, even as his muscles were visibly pulsing with fury.
Lars launched himself again at the king’s man, swooping in this time, his hands dropped to Alfgeir’s waist – and were stopped in mid-air as Alfgeir’s palms met his chest with force. Moments later, Alfgeir’s hands were clenching Lars’ belt and he was pushing, pushing, as Lars flailed for his own purchase on his rival’s cord. He battered away at Alfgeir’s arms, their legs straining, and for just a moment they were perfectly balanced, the one against the other – until Lars started to move backwards, then his feet left the ground and, slowly at first – slow enough for his brain to catch up with what was happening and for his face to register fury, then horror – then faster, Alfgeir’s hip swivelled, his arms heaved, and with a twist, Lars went flying.
The man from the Dales landed with a great crash, to the roar of the home crowd. Helga’s eyes went to Jorunn, expecting to see anger, disappointment, disgust – but instead, there was closely guarded triumph. It was so frustrating: there was a game being played, and she didn’t know the rules. The calm smugness on the other woman’s face did nothing to improve Helga’s mood and it took her a moment to realise that she had been distracted, for in that eye-blink, cheers of celebration had turned to roars of outrage. Her eyes were drawn to the ring once more, where Lars was back on his feet, red-faced and coughing. He managed no words, but an accusatory finger was pointed straight at Alfgeir Bjorne. He coughed again, violently, and Helga winced. That’s going to hurt in the morning.
‘You fight without honour!’ Lars rasped at last.
Oohs and indrawn breaths swept the room, but Alfgeir looked entirely untouched. ‘Please say that again. I couldn’t hear you . . . over the noise of me putting you on your back like a fishwife.’
Loud laughter from some of the more sober among the audience amplified the insult. Helga could only see his broad back, but the snigger in his voice carried loudly enough.
Lars didn’t take the offered exit route but repeated, ‘You have no honour!’
This time the crowd fell silent, and it was not a good silence. It didn’t take a Lawspeaker to know that Lars was breaking the rules. They’d fought; he’d lost.
Alfgeir leaned forward. ‘What was that last word?’
‘Honour!’ Lars was all fury now, red-faced, muscles taut – and apparently completely oblivious to the growing outrage and chorus of jeering and booing from the crowd.
‘I thought so,’ Alfgeir said. ‘In my county we teach our ill-mannered children not to use words they don’t understand.’
The big Dalesman screamed and charged. Helga saw the muscles tense in Alfgeir’s broad back and braced herself for a crunching sound, the smell of blood and screams of pain. Despairingly, she thought, Why do they always have to do this?
But it was all over in a moment. She heard a big roar from Alfgeir, followed by the thud of someone dropping a carcase from a great height. There was half a heartbeat of silence – and the longhouse filled with a roar even louder than before.
‘Helga!’ The shout snapped her out of her daze. Freysteinn appeared in her field of vision, gesturing for her to come quickly. She fought her way through the drunken masses to Lars, who was lying flat on his back once again, but this time he was holding his throat, looking anguished. His face was turning from red to purple, but he wasn’t shouting at anyone . . . in fact, he wasn’t making any sort of breathing sounds.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
She stilled the part of her mind that always thought too much, let irritation over the sheer stupidity of men be her flame and acted. The sharp little knife was in her hand in a blink while part of her was noting that the crowd had gone quiet, expectant, almost. Killing a man in the ring would probably do nothing to lessen Alfgeir’s fame.
They’re waiting for him to die. Well, not on my watch. Sorry to disappoint you.
‘Hold him down,’ she snapped at Freysteinn, who immediately and silently did as he was told. ‘Keep him still.’ She placed the knife at Lars’ throat.
‘Hey—!’ someone shouted from the crowd – a warning? But a hard-snapped command from a woman’s voice stopped whoever it was in their tracks.
Jorunn? She couldn’t think about that, not now. She pushed – just there, gently . . . gently now . . . until a fat drop of blood rose to meet her. She remembered when Groa had shown her how to do this, the bony hand grabbing hers that first time and forcing her to push through when she was being too weak, too tentative. She remembered the thud of her heart in her chest, how she’d screamed out loud that she couldn’t, that she was killing her, and her absolute shocked surprise at the wheezing, bubbling sound of breath the girl on the ground made, followed by the sudden rising of her chest. She let the thoughts drift through her mind as she finished the work, making the incision just so, right there between the two nubs on the throat, then easing her little finger in until she found the hollow space.
‘Straw,’ she snapped at Freysteinn.
‘. . . what?’
She looked up to see him standing there, all clueless and worried. ‘Get. Me. A. Straw. The roof is covered in it. You’ll find some in the corners. Needs to be hollow. And clean! Go – NOW.’
He darted away, slinking through the crowd like a dog after a rat, and returned surprisingly quickly with three long, coarse straws. Helga examined them. Ah well. If he dies, he dies. She picked the cleanest one, sliced off an end, blew through it and eased it into the bloodied incision. The big man’s chest fell – then it rose again, ever so slowly – and fell. She felt for the end of the tube and placed her finger very carefully over it. The faintest hint of air tickled her finger.
The crowds parted and Jorunn appeared, flanked by four of her men. ‘He’ll live.’ Not a question but rather a statement of fact.
‘Yes.’ Try as she might, she couldn’t suppress her annoyance. She has stolen control of the situation.
‘Odin will have to do without a great warrior for another night!’ The line was delivered perfectly, and got the response she had no doubt calculated. All the crowd’s attention was on Jorunn now and no one was sparing Helga even half a glance as Jorunn’s men bent down to pick up their injured friend.
‘Careful,’ Helga snapped at the nearest one, taking back control, at least for a moment. ‘You – hold the head. And hold it still. If that straw slips, he’s for the dogs tonight.’ She looked at the next and barked, ‘Stay with him, and watch him carefully.’
Under her critical gaze, Lars was gently lifted and carried carefully out of the ring, two men going ahead to clear a path.
‘The brave man of the Dales lives to fight another day – but the east has shown its might!’ King Eirik’s voice cut through the throng as the ring cleared.
Feeling invisible and suddenly exhausted, Helga got up and moved out of the way. No one needs me any more, so back in the pen I go.
A warm hand touched her elbow, her body knowing before she’d registered his presence. ‘You saved his life,’ Freysteinn said, the sweet smell of mead on his breath, and the tone of his voice told her a hundred other things, and there was hope and joy again.
How can you be such a sun in my day? She felt almost angry at him for being able to take away her darkness. That was a perfectly good black mood he’d ruined.
‘Come. Sit with me.’ She looked at him and couldn’t find words, for he was looking her in the eyes and everything around them had faded and he was stars and heat. ‘Because I’m proud of you and want to be seen with you,’ he added, and she let herself be led by him to a raised seat near the dais. They settled down just in time to see Gunnar of Skar stand up and step towards the ring.
*
Breki was watching Big Rolf, who looked like he was trying to see everyone in the hall at the same time.
‘Are you ready, boy?’ The old man punched him in the arm twice. ‘Ready to wrestle?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, although it was a lie, and they both knew it. Breki had had to work hard to keep looking when the two big men had crashed together, feeling suddenly very much like a pup among wolves. Who was he to think that he could be considered anyone’s equal here, in this place of chieftains? He was just a boy, nothing more.
The sting of the slap was sharp, jerking Breki’s head to one side. Big Rolf was staring at him now, straight at him and through him, and there was no way he could look away.
‘Listen,’ he growled, ‘I’ve seen my share and your share and twice anyone else’s share of fighting and it is never the size of the fighter that wins it. Do what you know how to do and do it with honour, and if anyone gives a frozen yak-shit whether you win or lose, I’ll make them eat it. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes,’ Breki said, and this time Big Rolf didn’t slap him.
Instead, the old man smiled. ‘Good. Now get up and enjoy yourself.’
