A Mighty Dawn E-Book

Theodore Brun

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Book I of the Wanderer Chronicles A gripping and brilliantly realized debut epic adventure set in eighth-century Denmark. This is the beginning of an ambitious new series in the vein of George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones. Sworn to honour. Broken by betrayal. Hakan, son of Haldan, chosen son of the Lord of the Northern Jutes, swears loyalty to his father in fire, in iron, and in blood. But there are always shadows that roam. When a terrible tragedy befalls Hakan's household he is forced to leave his world behind. He must seek to pledge his sword to a new king. Nameless and alone, he embarks on a journey to escape the bonds of his past and fulfil his destiny as a great warrior. Whispers of sinister forces in the north pull Hakan onwards to a kingdom plagued by mysterious and gruesome deaths. But does he have the strength to do battle with such dark foes? Or is death the only sane thing to seek in this world of blood and broken oaths?

Leseprobe

For Cousin Henry

Contents

Prologue

Part One: Chosen Son

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Two: The Stranger

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Part Three: Shining Wanderer

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

The laugh rose in his throat, joyous and wild.

Around him, dusk dew sprayed in silver showers, his legs pumping through the bracken.

He glanced back.

Far behind languished the fastest of his companions. He’d left them all dead-footed. Now they were no more than pinprick shadows darting through the trees.

He surged on, thighs burning. He felt alive. Beside him ran his beloved hound. The dog had only one eye – half the sight of other dogs maybe, but twice the heart.

So far the sport had been thin: a pair of foxes and a red deer were all they had to show for a long day. But this was going to make it a day to remember.

Ahead of him, the beast fled through the undergrowth. A magnificent hart, crowned with towering antlers of a dozen proud points.

King of the forest.

And a prize worthy of the son of a king, thought the young man, breathless. The gods knew a feast was long overdue at his father’s table. If he could only get a line on it. One chance was all he needed.

Suddenly, there it was.

He pulled up. His dog stopped beside him.

The wind had dropped, the air now still as death. The deer stood, not fifty paces away, blowing panicked breath into the dirt. The prince sniffed with satisfaction. He’d guessed he would get his chance. With those antlers, it was never going to run far.

The dog’s one eye stared faithfully up at him, patient as ever. The prince shot him a wink for luck.

Noiselessly, he nocked an arrow, inching right for a clearer shot. The dog shadowed him, stealthy as a ghost. Up ahead, the stag had found a few old blueberries and was picking at them. The light was fading. This would be his last shot of the day. His last, and his best.

He stilled the beat of his heart, drew back the bowstring, sucking in a breath, locking it away.

Just. . . one. . . more. . .

Suddenly the deer’s head snapped up. For a heartbeat, its eyes pierced the gloom. The prince’s arrow tip wavered. And just for a second his blood ran cold.

The deer had the eyes of a man.

Surely he was mistaken. But before he could look again, the beast sprang towards him.

He backed away. Only a step, but enough to break his concentration. He could shoot a moving target, but deer should run away from their pursuers, not towards them.

The dog growled as his master’s mind flirted with his sword hilt. But there was no time. The deer was heading straight for him, muscles rippling under its hide.

He raised the arrow tip again, took aim, felt the power in the bow. One shot.

Suddenly, the deer swerved across his line of sight. He glimpsed its flank, swung the arrowhead giving the animal a lead.

And loosed.

The arrow flew like a comet. But at the last instant, the deer chinked left. The point raked its haunch, but didn’t bite, and the arrow skittered away into the dusk. The animal bellowed in protest and charged. His bow felt sickeningly empty. He backed away, panic rising like bile, then his foot snared and he was falling.

A dull thud of bone on wood. His head exploded in pain and he slumped against the trunk, only to see the stag drop its thicket of antlers. He had hardly time to whimper before they slammed into his body. He screamed, pain surging through his torso like a burning tide. He tasted blood. The dog was barking.

Do something, he begged in his mind. But for once his faithful friend failed him. He lay stupefied. Bleeding.

Dying.

The stag backed away slowly, as if measuring a second blow. But for the moment, it held off. Instead, its head peered closer, snorting hot breath into his face.

He groaned. His body was aflame. And then he saw those eyes again. The same terror gripped him, and as he watched through a fog of pain, the animal seemed to change. The bulging haunches shrank, the legs grew thick and long. The fur shrivelled, became taut and smooth. The muzzle melted away. Only those eyes stayed the same.

Noiselessly, the creature reared up. The dog let out a whine and scampered off into the gloom. The prince’s heart was pounding. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Yet he had to. There was no mistake.

The hart had become a man.

The figure stood over him, naked body streaked with dirt, blood streaming from his shoulder. In his hand, he clutched the fragment of an antler, tips wet with blood.

The prince’s bowels turned to water. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. This was the stuff of old songs.

The stuff of nightmares.

A shiver passed over the figure, and then, slowly, he leaned closer. The prince stiffened with the horror of recognition. ‘You!’

A glimmer of a smile passed over the cold, white lips.

Then a hand closed around his throat. He coughed, felt blood spatter his lips. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was the son of a king, heir to the realm. But the shape-shifter only snarled and stabbed the antler into his stomach, sinking it deep.

He felt the bone twist. Caught the foul smell of his own innards. Tried to push the man away, but his arms wouldn’t respond.

He heard voices, undergrowth cracking. He tried to cry out, but all that came was a crumpled moan.

‘Hush.’ The voice was cold as winter. A hand covered his mouth. His heart was kicking like a mule at his ribs. The noises grew fainter. His eyes fell shut.

And then, he heard nothing at all.

PART ONE

CHOSEN SON

CHAPTER ONE

Four months earlier, in the faraway land of the Jutes, the farmstead of Vendlagard was a whirl of excitement. These were the last busy days before the Feast of Oaths.

Geese flapped, chickens squawked as hairy-chinned thralls chased them round the yard. The womenfolk, up to their armpits in bubbling tubs, scrubbed their finery: bright dresses of tight-woven wool, silken ribbons for their hair or costly shawls to adorn themselves for the revelry. Sunlight danced off blades burnished like mirrors by warriors’ servants. Every man was to look his best.

The boys and girls were sent to gather flowers and ivy from the woods, and heather growing wild on the heath to the west. The little ones shrieked around the yard in delight, strewing foliage in their wake.

Before long, the hall of Vendlagard was a burst of colour, its dark pillars decked in red and blue and white and yellow flowers, the carved faces in the gable still grousing away, in spite of the colours playing about their ears.

This day had been a while coming. In nineteen years of service, Tolla had seen many a young man stand before his lord and swear his oaths, kin looking on. No more than boys, every one. Some of them still lived; many had fallen. That was the way of things. The All-Father made his choosing, and nothing anyone could do about it.

But tonight was special. Tonight it was Hakan’s turn to bind himself, blood and iron, to his lord father. She felt a glow of pride. After all, didn’t she love him like he was her own? Perhaps better even than that.

And now all the Vendling kinsfolk would come, and many others from the Jutish families, to see him sealed a man. Word had gone out to every corner of Jutland. Lord Haldan’s hall would be full to the rafters with merriment. No seat left empty.

And it’s past noon already.

The thought suddenly made her feel sick. There was precious little time before the first guests arrived and still much to do.

Now where was Inga? Hakan’s younger cousin was flighty as a swallow. Always getting under your feet when you wanted her out the way, and never to be found when there was any work needed doing.

‘Einna!’ she yelled at the scrawny maid toting a pail of milk across the yard in a hurry. ‘You seen that dratted girl Inga?’

‘Like to get my hands on her myself,’ returned the girl, her cheeks flushed. ‘She promised she’d split half my chores and I haven’t seen a hair of her all morning.’

Lord Haldan’s spear-master loped by. ‘You haven’t seen Inga have you, Garik?’

‘Check the stables. I’d lay my hand she’s off on Sorvind. And Hakan with her.’

Most days, that was a fair bet, but Tolla had just come from the stables and Inga’s beloved stallion was tethered.

‘Thinks she’s too grand for hard work, that one,’ said Einna, setting down her milk and pushing her feathery hair out of her face.

‘Just needs taming by the right fella,’ grinned Garik, licking at a crooked tooth. ‘High blood or low – it’s the same for all you wenches.’

‘You just keep a-walking, you leery brute,’ snapped Tolla, shooing him away. ‘And mind you don’t talk like that about Lord Haldan’s kin. Especially not today.’

Garik gave her a wink. ‘They all gotta learn it sometime, sister,’ he laughed, and stalked off.

Maybe, Tolla thought. But not Inga. Not yet.

Now where the blazes was that girl?

‘They’re going to find out,’ giggled Inga, still making half-hearted efforts to fend off his wandering hands.

‘Never!’ Hakan laughed. ‘They wouldn’t know a nail if it poked ’em in the eye.’ He pushed her back against the tree. The sweet, sticky smell of pine mingled with the sea air. This time she gave in, looking up at him. He shook his head, marvelling at those doe eyes. In them he saw a girl and a goddess both. Everything he ever wanted.

‘You need a leash,’ she smiled, biting her lip. ‘And that Tolla – she’s got her beady eye on everything. We must be careful.’

‘Bah! Hel take the careful! Come here.’ He slipped his hand round her and drew her close, catching a whiff of the sea in her hair. Her lips met his and parted. She tasted salty. Her tongue flickered against his teeth – a trick they had discovered together that summer.

They had discovered many.

‘The best kisses are after a swim,’ she murmured.

‘Aye – and more than just kisses,’ growled Hakan, tugging hungrily at her girdle.

‘Not here! Not now. Someone might come.’ She glanced anxiously over his shoulder towards the farmstead.

‘You didn’t seem to care the other night.’

‘That was different.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Besides, they’re expecting me in the yard. Tolla’s probably already marked me for a birching as it is.’

‘Just a while longer,’ he murmured into her dark curls.

‘I can’t,’ she insisted, pushing him away. ‘There’s too much to do.’

‘Horse shit.’

‘Well, you can hardly complain, cousin. It’s all for you, isn’t it?’ She broke free and began strutting up and down. ‘Tonight, you must become a man, Hakan,’ she boomed, aping his father’s voice.

‘I’m a man already.’ The joke irritated him. Hadn’t she made him that?

Was it only two months since the morning they had set out for the Skaw, the northernmost tip of Jutland? It seemed like a lifetime ago. They had been two different people then, riding north to the point. To the place where seas collide. That day, they had been cousins – the closest of childhood companions. Hers was the first face he could remember, the last he would ever forget. But that day, under the shadow of the swaying grass, he had tasted her for the first time. Had been able to show her the love he had always felt for her.

When they rode back to Vendlagard, to the ancient hall of their fathers, as they had done so many times before, they both knew. The world would never be the same again.

‘Don’t be angry.’ She brushed her fingertips against his cheek. ‘Come on.’ Taking his hand, she led him back to their things.

‘Are you nervous?’ she asked, as he pulled his tunic over his wet hair.

‘Nervous?’

‘About tonight,’ she replied, fussing at the brooches that held her work dress in place.

‘Maybe. A little.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone’ll be looking at me. But it’s all pointless, don’t you think?’

‘Why?’

‘Hardly takes a ceremony to make me loyal to my own father. Or serve him. It’s not as if I have a choice.’

‘Maybe. But an oath makes all the difference. Your life becomes bound to his in a deeper way. In life. And in death.’

‘Gods – you sound like Garik!’

‘Well?’ she laughed. ‘Isn’t it true?’ Her face clouded. ‘Now you’ll have to fight.’

‘I would fight anyway,’ he said, bristling at the reminder that he had never stood in the shieldwall.

‘Yes, but you would be sworn to it.’ He saw a glimmer of sadness in her hazel eyes.

‘Inga,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘You know I’d never leave you alone.’

She forced a brave smile. ‘That’s for the Spear-God to decide.’

‘Listen, my fate is joined as tight to yours as any oath can tie me to my father.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘Haven’t I a thousand times?’

She made a teasing pout. ‘Just once more then.’

‘I promise.’

Inga smiled, and the breath caught in Hakan’s throat. Her beauty was fresh as the first morning of the world. Suddenly she pulled him close and kissed him.

‘Come on – I’ll race you back to the yard!’

‘Bitch,’ he grinned. ‘You know you’ll win.’

‘Every time,’ she winked, and took off down the slope, laughing.

He set out after her, pain shooting up his leg with every stride.

When they stumbled breathless back into the yard, the air was rich with aromas wafting from the cookhouse – hogs turning on spits, cauldrons filled with bubbling fish soups, garlic sauces and freshly baked bread. And of course the malty smell of ale.

When they spotted Tolla, she was talking with a woman neither recognized. From a distance, it didn’t seem the friendliest conversation.

‘I’ve told you once,’ snapped the nurse, her usually warm features looking decidedly cold. ‘We don’t want your kind here.’

‘But on such an occasion,’ insisted the stranger. ‘And such a noble family. The Lord of Vendlagard would be delighted to have a telling. Tonight of all nights.’

‘Don’t you presume to know Lord Haldan’s mind. He don’t want bothering with the likes of you!’

The stranger had quick, darting eyes. She couldn’t have seen more than thirty summers, though her skin was hard and tanned. ‘I’ll take my leave from him and none less,’ returned the woman. ‘So you’d better go and fetch him.’

She was leaning on a staff, for all the world looking like she owned the place. Tolla had a job on her hands.

Inga tapped Tolla on the shoulder. ‘Did you miss me?’

The nurse rounded on her. ‘You little pest! I’ll say I missed you. Where have you been?’

‘A girl needs to bathe,’ offered Inga.

‘Does she just? And while you’re splashing about, the rest of us do your work, is that it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Inga was doing her best to look contrite. Not one of her more obvious qualities.

The fraught lines in Tolla’s face showed a woman in an unforgiving mood. Sensing his cousin was in for a tongue-lashing, Hakan decided to intervene.

‘Who’s this then?’ He jerked his head at the stranger.

‘A spakona!’ Tolla spat the word like a curse. Hakan didn’t see why Tolla was all riled up about a teller of fortunes. They were common enough in those parts.

‘My name is Heitha,’ said the woman, unruffled by Tolla’s hostility. ‘I am a vala.’

‘Vala? Spakona?’ exclaimed Tolla. ‘They’re all one. Leeches are leeches, I say.’

‘Oh, Tolla,’ said Inga. ‘Don’t be such a grouse. Why – this is perfect! You couldn’t have come on a better day.’

‘So I heard, little sister,’ nodded the vala. ‘Them folks at Hildagard told me of a feasting here tonight.’

‘Hildagard? My – that’s a long way!’

‘Not for these old legs,’ Heitha smiled. ‘They’ve carried me many leagues over the years, and they’ll carry me a lot further yet.’

‘Did you give the Hildagard folks a telling?’

‘Indeed, I did. Happens a fine one. A newling in the spring, and a good harvest before the leaves fall. Some other trifles. What I saw pleased them well enough.’

‘And I’ll warrant there’s gold in your pocket to prove it,’ said Tolla.

‘Happens there is, sister. I’m bound to say I found the lord of Hildagard an open-handed host.’

‘You’ll not find my uncle any the less,’ promised Inga. ‘Hush, you silly girl!’ snapped Tolla. ‘We need no foretellings here.’

‘What harm can it do?’ asked Hakan, amused.

‘These folk trade in curses,’ said Tolla. ‘They rob a man’s purse and put his feet on the road to Hel.’

‘Tolla!’ protested Inga. ‘She’s our guest.’

‘Not yet, she ain’t.’

‘Seems you have a dim view of a vala’s talents,’ smiled Heitha.

‘Talents? Is that what you call it? You meddle with darkness.

I’ve seen it. Your touch is death.’

‘Come, sister. These are lies.’ And for the first time, a little heat crept into Heitha’s cheeks. ‘A vala sees what will be, that’s all. I meddle with nothing. The Norns have woven all our fates. I only tell where the thread must run.’

Hakan’s mother had said the same. She would often sing of the three Norns – three sisters dwelling in the shadows among the roots of the Tree of Worlds, spinning and weaving the destiny of men. Each thread unbreakable as iron. Unchangeable as granite.

Tolla gave an indignant grunt. ‘That’s how it should be. But there’s none love gold more than a vala. None who’ll curse so black to get it.’

Heitha was peering at Tolla. Seeming curious at first, but then harder and harder, like she was looking right inside her. And then, unexpectedly, she gave a brittle laugh. ‘Now I begin to understand! I see what’s sown in your face.’ Tolla shifted uncomfortably. The vala cackled. ‘How much of the past is in the masks we wear!’

‘Never mind about my past.’ For a heartbeat, Tolla looked as though a shadow had crossed her soul.

‘It’s not for me to mind. But perhaps for others . . .’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Oh Tolla!’ broke in Inga. ‘Enough of this. You’re so serious! Let her stay. It could be exciting.’ She clapped. ‘Perhaps Heitha has brought us a great blessing.’ She looked around for Hakan. ‘Cousin – it’s your day. What say you? Wouldn’t a telling be fun?’

Hakan wasn’t sure. It might be amusing to know the course his life must take. But to have that knowledge . . . to be bound by it. Did he want that?

Before he could answer, a familiar voice called his name. They all turned to see his father crossing the yard.

Haldan Haldorsen – Lord of Vendlagard, headman of the Vendling blood and ruler over the Northern Jutes. He was taller than his son with shoulders broad as a bear, but the rest of him lean and hard as a knife. Folk often said Hakan was his father come again. Certainly they shared the same tousled black hair, same sharp nose, same square stance. But Hakan’s face was still young, while his father’s beard grew thick as tar, and twenty years of steel and slaughter leave their mark upon a face.

‘You should be getting ready, so you still have time to visit your mother before things get under way.’

‘All the way up there?’ Hakan’s mother was nothing now but bones, drying to dust in a barrow-grave on the hill where his father had laid her eight years before.

‘Just get it done. It’s what she would have wanted.’

‘If you say so.’ His father seemed to care a lot more what his mother wanted now that she was dead.

‘Who’s this?’ Haldan nodded at Heitha.

Inga started tugging excitedly at his hand. ‘Uncle, you have to help us. This is Heitha. She’s a vala, offering us a telling tonight. Please say she can.’

Haldan looked Heitha up and down.

‘All she wants is your gold, my lord,’ said Tolla. ‘Did you ever meet a vala wasn’t grasping as a dwarf when it came to gold?’

‘A woman has to live, my lord.’ Heitha smiled at Haldan.

The Vendling lord considered her. ‘A good vala speaks truthfully what she sees. An evil one what she thinks will please whoever’s paying her. Which are you?’

Heitha opened her palms. ‘I cannot speak for myself.’

‘Aren’t you curious, Uncle?’ asked Inga, excitedly.

‘I’ve known many folk regret learning too much about what will be,’ Haldan answered.

Hakan shrugged. ‘Surely it’s useful to know what good or evil is coming our way.’

His father’s mouth tilted in an ironic smile. ‘So you want to become all-wise, do you, my son?’

‘The vala’s word binds, my lord,’ pleaded Tolla. ‘It brings no good.’

Hakan saw the vala was staring at him intensely, and then at Inga, apparently heedless of the outcome of the talk. There was something discomfiting about those far-seeing eyes.

‘Then she can bless as well as foretell!’ cried Inga. ‘It’s simple. Give her gold to speak the truth of what she sees, and gold to speak a blessing over each of us.’

The vala smiled. ‘There is much love in this one. She’ll bring a man a good deal of luck one day.’ She turned to Hakan and for an unsettling moment, those darting eyes seemed to know his every secret. ‘Aye – and a good deal of trouble.’

‘You can stay,’ said Haldan.

‘But, my lord—’ began Tolla.

‘I said, she stays.’ Inga clapped her hands in triumph. Tolla bristled, but held her tongue. ‘You’ll get your gold.’ Haldan nodded to Heitha. ‘Only be sure you speak the truth. Now get along, all of you. Our first guests will arrive within the hour.’

Hakan was about to leave when his father beckoned him closer. ‘Are you ready?’ He took hold of Hakan’s shoulders, digging his thumbs in deep. Hakan nodded. ‘You know the oaths you will make?’

‘I do, Father.’ Hakan had known every word of the ritual for five summers past. Longer. Every boy knew them. Every boy dreamed of the day he would get to utter them – in fire, in iron, in blood.

‘The time is on you now, Hakan.’ A smile ghosted over his father’s lips. ‘My Chosen Son.’

CHAPTER TWO

The beat of the drum was insistent. Summoning him.

The sun had fallen some time ago. But overhead the night was streaked with summer light. Hakan stood in the shadows a short distance from the Vendling hall, its doors flung wide and welcoming. Light spilled into the yard, bathing the faces of the arriving guests with the glow of the firepits within.

He’d watched them come a while now. Kinsfolk, near and far; his father’s oathmen with their wives and younglings; house-karls with bonny maids.

The men strutted like stags, though most were ruffians and drunkards. But tonight they had their finest daggers on display, tunics brightly trimmed, mail glinting under newly dyed cloaks. Their womenfolk glided on their arms, long hair brushed till it gleamed, bound in braids of every style, threaded with ribbons and flowers. The air danced with their gossip and laughter.

Hakan watched, trying not to think about the hollow in his belly, or that soon the eyes of everyone who’d passed would be on him.

He heard footsteps running towards the thinning stream of people. It was his friend Leif, late as usual, tugging at the buckle on his belt.

Hakan whistled. Leif pulled up, peering into the shadows. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he cried. ‘The man of the hour.’ He poked a finger into his jug-ear and grinned. ‘So I’m not late?’

‘Not yet. Any tips?’

‘Stand up tall. Don’t scream.’ He shrugged. ‘And if you drink too much, try not to piss yourself. Never looks good in front of the girls.’

‘Sage words.’

He snorted. ‘I learn by experience – same as the next fool.’

‘Well, that’s me.’

‘Exactly.’ Leif winked, scratching at the star-shaped scar above his eye. Leif had been a wild boy. Their battles went back as far as he could remember. But he’d also been the closest thing Hakan had had to a brother.

‘Better get in there.’ Leif slapped his shoulder. ‘Good luck.’

The scar had been a gift from Hakan. Revenge for calling him a cripple after the accident. He’d only been five winters old, but he’d got him a sweet shot with a stone all the same. In the end, it hadn’t been worth it – his mother gave him the beating of his life. ‘You’re to be a man,’ she’d said, ‘not a monster.’

She’d said that a lot.

Still, Leif never called him a cripple again. Not to his face, anyway.

You’re to be a man . . .

He still wondered what she meant by that. Now he would never know. The dead kept their secrets close.

The last of the guests crossed the threshold; the drum beat on.

Hakan stepped from the shadows.

Inga was in an ecstasy of anticipation. She couldn’t remember a feast so grand. The women were beautiful, ornaments glinting, robes cinched with gilded girdles, their lovely figures whispering through the cloth.

The men looked handsome. Well, as handsome as they could. Even Hadding, her aunt Tuuri’s lecherous old husband, didn’t look quite so like a toad as usual.

Inga wondered whether the other women were admiring her crimson dress in turn. Tolla had helped her re-cut the cloth from one of her mother’s dresses. It had been left along with the small chest of things that were the only link between her and her parents. When Tolla had applied the final touches to the hem, and Inga tried it on, the nurse had gasped. She’d even shed a tear, saying Inga was her mother’s blood and fresh as the spring. Inga couldn’t help but notice the glances of many of the men. She dropped her eyes demurely, as she knew she should. But inside, her heart sang. The last big feast at Vendlagard had been two summers before. She’d been thirteen then, and few men had given her a second look. Now, almost everywhere she turned, she felt their eyes, young and old, on her, which then flitted away like ghosts if she looked up.

She decided she liked it. Tolla would probably say she oughtn’t to, but then Tolla was always worrying. The old goose reckoned it safer to sit among a pack of hungry wolves than on a bench of men.

Tolla doesn’t know everything, Inga giggled to herself. Indeed, there was a lot that Tolla didn’t know.

The drum was banging away. If it kept on like that, it would drive them all mad. But suddenly, a hush fell and all the guests turned towards the door.

All but one.

One face across the hall remained in her direction. She had to look. The face belonged to a man. Quite a young man, but she saw at once he was very handsome. He was looking straight at her, bold as Baldur. In truth, looking her all over, up and down, like he was pricing up some thrall at a market. And now, seeing she’d caught him, he still didn’t look away. Far from it. His stare turned into a smile. Warm but goading.

She frowned a little. She hated to be laughed at. It was one thing for a man to admire her beauty, another to make her feel uncomfortable. She saw him snigger, and looked away sharply, annoyed when she felt her cheeks colouring. In the tail of her eye, she saw this only made him laugh the more.

Well, she wouldn’t let that insolent fool spoil the moment. Because Hakan had entered the hall, and he looked splendid.

Six feet tall and straight as a spear. The firelight bounced off his leather tunic, waxed to a shine. Round his shoulders hung her gift to him – a cloak trimmed with the skin of the wolf he’d slain. Even his limp didn’t seem so pronounced as he walked past their kinsfolk. It would be causing him pain, she knew, but he didn’t let it show.

She clamped her lips shut, afraid she’d end up grinning like a halfwit, and she didn’t want to look foolish. Hakan was close now. She wanted him to look at her. To see how beautiful she had made herself tonight, for him. But his eyes were fixed on his father at the end of the hall. She felt annoyed he could be so cold. But just as he was passing, she saw the corner of his mouth curl and tighten, and knew he was suppressing a smile.

Of course he noticed her! He loved her!

Hakan reached the platform where her uncle sat and stopped before the Lord of Vendlagard.

She sighed. This was the boring part, her uncle Haldan having first pull on the pitcher, as it were. He stood, droning on and on about honour and duty and bonds of blood, or raven’s wine, as he called it. Inga never understood why men liked to talk of things with other silly names. The sea was the whale-road. Battle was the spear-din. A warrior was a feeder of ravens – an image she found especially loathsome.

Wasn’t there enough poetry in the world speaking plainly?

After Haldan, it was Logmar’s turn. White as a corpse from head to toe, with a nose knobbly as an old stick, Logmar was godi to the Vendling clan. Had been for as long as anyone could remember, since he was old as the giants, so of course the prayers and blessings fell to him. Inga rolled her eyes. The Jutes had many gods, true. But it seemed Logmar wanted to squeeze a favour out of every one of them. Odin, the All-Father, god of war and kings – of course. Frey and Freya, the twin gods of prosperity and good luck and fertility – fine, although she didn’t see that fertility had much to do with swearing oaths of fealty to a warrior lord. Thor – for weather luck and strength; Njord – for luck at sea; Loki – for cunning; Tyr – for skill in weapons; Weyland – for blades forged strong. The old godi’s prayers croaked on and on. When he started asking Heimdall for a blessing that Hakan’s horn may ever sound long and true, Inga wanted to stab herself with frustration.

At long last Logmar was done and summoned Hakan closer. Inga nearly whooped with relief.

‘In the name of Odin the All-Father, are you ready to make your oath – by iron, by fire and by blood?’ asked the godi.

Hakan nodded. ‘I’m ready.’

Logmar drew a dagger, seized Hakan’s wrist, and tugged him closer to a brazier. Deep in its heart, embers shimmered red and orange.

Logmar lifted the dagger for all to see.

‘Iron is the mettle of your strength. Do you swear by iron that you pledge your strength wholeheartedly to the service of your lord, Haldan, son of Haldor, chieftain of the Northern Jutes?’

‘I swear it,’ said Hakan.

Logmar plunged the long blade into the glowing embers. ‘Fire is your life spirit,’ his ragged voice rang. ‘Do you swear by fire that your life is now subject to the will of your lord, Haldan, son of Haldor, bane of Gotars, champion of the Vendling?’

‘I swear it.’ Inga snorted. As if Hakan needed to make such an oath to his own father. She found herself detesting the godi and everything he was saying. Perhaps because she knew what was coming.

Logmar withdrew the dagger, its blade glowing red from the heat. He turned his cold eyes on Hakan. ‘Blood is the suffering and death through which all must pass – either to rise to Odin’s table or to go down to the halls of Hel. Do you swear by blood that you are willing to suffer unto death in service to your lord, his land, his people and his good name?’

‘I swear it.’

‘Then let iron, fire and blood be joined in one solemn oath, witnessed before gods and men.’

The godi grabbed Hakan’s wrist, raised the dagger high, and then sliced its searing edge across his palm.

Inga winced at the sound of iron cutting flesh.

Everyone was watching Hakan. To cry out would have brought shame on every Vendling. But his face was stone. Inga saw nothing but a tensing of his jaw. He squeezed his fist and blood dripped onto the dusty floorboards.

The ceremony wasn’t quite complete. Hakan had sworn all to his father as his oath-lord. Now Lord Haldan had an oath to swear.

An oath of love and trust. An oath to provide grain and gold. An oath of protection. Inga felt sorrow well inside as her uncle spoke. He must have made the same oath to her own father, all those moons ago. She gazed longingly at the seat beside her uncle. Her father should have been sitting in that empty place. In his stead Wrathling – the ring-sword that had belonged to him – set there to honour his memory.

A pitiful trade: a father for a sword. What did it matter that Haldan honoured his brother so faithfully? What had his oath of protection been worth after all?

Oaths were but words. And words were weak as the breath that spoke them.

But everyone was clapping, and her bleak thoughts were swallowed up in applause.

‘Drink to our newest warrior! To Hakan! To my son!’

Hakan was free to smile now, and no sooner was he than he sought out her face. She laughed when he found her, his bright eyes dispelling any disquiet in her heart. She must pull herself together. This was a great occasion and she was proud of her cousin. Of course she was.

She would show him just how proud she was.

Later . . .

But now, they must feast.

It was a while later when Hakan decided he wasn’t going to piss himself. At least, not yet. But his head was swimming. Tomorrow he would have Thor’s own hammer beating in his head. But what could he do? Every cousin, every kinsman, every karl – they all wanted to drink a toast with him. Man to man. Brother to brother. And down it all went. Horns of mead, pitchers of ale – cup after cup, drowning him in drink.

By now, the feasting was well under way. Faces swam in a fog of hot breath and steaming food and laughter. Thrall-wenches stalked up and down, serving yet more food or replenishing pitchers. Smoked-fish stews, honey-glazed shrimps, great slabs of hog flesh, roasted to a crisp. Barley pies filled with cheese and leeks, baked beets and boiled lamb; sweet blackberry patties and fruit puddings, flavoured curds and nut cakes. Hakan had never seen so much food.

The guests grew ever louder, bawling across the table, the talk moving from crops and herds to conquests over seas or under covers. Even his father, who usually could raise a lead shield easier than he could a smile, became quite merry.

‘Hadding!’ he cried. ‘A drink to old Ottar!’

Aunt Tuuri’s ogre of a husband bashed his cup against Haldan’s upraised horn. ‘To Ottar and his pig!’

‘What about his pig?’ slurred Hakan, struggling to keep the big man in focus.

‘What?’ roared his father. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard this one!’

Hakan shook his head and immediately regretted it when the oak pillars holding up the roof seemed to wobble alarmingly.

‘You remember Ottar!’ cried his father. ‘Fierce as a bear, dumb as an ox. Always returned from a fight in a Hel of a lather. He’d bundle up his wife and hammer at her till the rafters shook. “Thunder-weather,” they called it when he came home.’ Haldan’s face creased with mirth. ‘Well, he saw to his wife a sight better than he saw to his house. The place was rotten through. One day he comes home and the two of them get to work, and in the thick of it, there’s a cracking and a creaking, and before he knew his arse from her tit, the two of them were crashing through his bower and landed slap on his favourite pig!’

‘Killed the thing stone dead!’ cried Hadding, and the kinsmen bellowed with laughter.

‘Best meat I ever tasted,’ roared Haldan, sinking another horn of honey-wine.

‘Aye – and the poor fool didn’t live another year,’ said Hadding. ‘Left his woman all alone.’

Hakan felt a bony elbow in his ribs. ‘And she was the best meat I ever tasted,’ hissed Garik, through broken teeth. Hakan’s instructor was lucky, in battle and out of it. He’d taught Hakan everything he knew about combat, ever since Hakan could hold a stick. But he’d never bothered with a wife. Instead he had a reputation for consoling lonely widows whose husbands had gone to the dust. After the summer raiding most years, that kept him busy enough.

‘Reckon we have to see you blooded this summer.’ Garik gave Hakan a thunderous slap on his back. ‘One way or t’other.’ He reached out and grabbed a passing thrall-wench, and hauled her into his lap. ‘You’ve got a soft eye for our young hero, haven’t you?’

The girl was one of the fleshy pieces that his father had bought the previous spring, sold on from the faraway lands of Gaudarika, beyond the great rivers across the East Sea. She had darker hair than the women of the north, a broad squat nose, and full lips.

‘More than I do for you!’ she giggled, slopping ale in his breeches.

‘Yah!’ Garik shoved her away. ‘Silly bitch!’

‘Serves you right. Why can’t you be a good boy like him?’

The girl leaned over and refilled Hakan’s cup till it was frothing over. As she did, she bent close and whispered, ‘Wouldn’t I like to show you how to be bad though, eh?’ Hakan felt her tongue curl up the edge of his ear. He jerked away. Suddenly, all he could see were dark eyes, plump lips and a heaving bosom. Truth was the whole hall seemed to be heaving like a ship in a storm. He shoved her away, mumbling, ‘Some other time.’

Weak, he thought disgustedly, hauling himself to his feet and prising his legs from the bench. He was going to be sick. And very soon.

He needed air. Needed to get out. But then he saw something that hit him like an arrow in the eye.

Inga.

She was standing on the far side near the doorway that opened into the blue and balmy night. Through the cloud of ale in his head, she appeared like a crimson dream, her long auburn hair pulled over one shoulder into a single loose braid, twined through with scarlet ribbons. He would have hailed her, but just then she threw back her head and laughed, and in a heartbeat, his dream became a nightmare when he saw whom she was with.

He was older now, of course. A man, no longer a boy. But Hakan recognized the smug half-smile, the conceited tilt of his head. Konur, son of Karsten, heir to the Karlung lands and the bane of Hakan’s childhood memories. He remembered Konur’s taunts, the crushing humiliation of the other children’s laughter, his powerlessness against his older kinsman. He had tried to fight him then, but it had availed him nothing but a black eye and another stern talk from his mother.

This time it would be different.

As he stumbled towards them, Konur leaned in and whispered something to Inga. She smiled and Hakan saw Konur’s hand touch her elbow and steer her towards the door. Next moment they were gone, out into the night, and some other drunken clod was blocking his way, trying to get him to drink another toast.

‘Fenrir take you, fool!’ The guest looked wounded but Hakan didn’t care. ‘Out the way,’ he snarled, staggering off towards the bright midsummer night.

Inga had been having a wonderful evening. The sights and sounds of a feast always filled her heart with warmth. How pleasing to see her hard work paid back in the happy faces and raucous laughter of her kin!

Well, at least some of it had been her doing. Not as much as Tolla expected, but Tolla always expected too much. Especially from her. After all, wasn’t she the ward of the Lord of Vendlagard? Why should she have to do the same as a common thrall-girl?

Anyway, the main thing was it was all a grand success. Hakan had been honoured and their guests were riotous. Songs had been sung; the men were in their cups; the women were full of stories; and everyone had been most gracious to her.

Particularly the men. Whichever way she turned, there was another one wishing to speak with her. How different from the last feast when she’d been treated as little more than a nuisance! Now thanes and earls and great warriors were competing to make her laugh. As if she were someone to impress.

Yes – it had been a splendid night.

And one man especially had wanted to amuse her. The one laughing at her earlier. At first, when he’d come up to speak to her, she’d tried to brush him off, but he was quite determined and, it turned out, quite charming. He had sworn they had met before. When she had assured him he must be mistaken, he had insisted.

‘Twelve years ago. At this very hall.’

‘I can only have been three.’

‘Indeed, you were very small. You kept begging to climb all over me.’

‘And did you let me?’

‘I hardly had a choice,’ he laughed. ‘Perhaps the time has come for you to return the favour.’

It took a moment for her to understand him, and when she did she felt her cheeks colour. ‘This hall is full of men sworn to protect the honour of my uncle – and his household. That includes me.’

‘Ha! Have no fear, Lady Inga. It’s not your honour I’m interested in.’

He had levelled a gaze at her that she found discomforting. She had suddenly remembered Hakan, and glanced over to the high table where he was sitting. To her surprise, Hakan appeared to be engulfed under the flouncing curves of Kella, one of her uncle’s thralls. The girl was a slattern, everyone knew, but Hakan didn’t seem to be minding her attention at all.

Inga turned away, annoyed.

‘There was a water butt, I remember,’ her admirer had continued. ‘In the end, you were being such a little pest, I threw you right into it.’

‘So that was you!’ Inga threw her head back and laughed. She remembered the shock of the cold water, and screaming for someone to lift her out. ‘You must be Konur.’

He nodded. ‘I hope you’ve forgiven me by now.’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you’re worth forgiving, I suppose.’ The two looked at each other. He had light grey eyes, pretty as a girl’s, and high sharp cheekbones. She couldn’t deny he was pleasing to look at.

‘This talk of water has made me thirsty,’ she suddenly blurted to break the moment. But when he offered to accompany her to the water butt, she let him. She didn’t know why.

Outside the sky was a rich purple. Streaks of summer light broke up the darkness, though it was long past midnight. Inga loved the world in the summer. The way it throbbed with a kind of lust for living – from the great sun in the sky down to the tiniest little beetle under the earth. Like there was no time to sleep. Like there was too much life to be lived.

The water butt was there, just as it had been twelve years before. She led Konur across the yard and took up the ladle hanging on a bit of twine. She offered him a drink, but he shook his head.

‘Are you mad? A man can’t quench his thirst with water! What would folk say?’

‘Stupid,’ she smiled, putting the ladle to her lips. The water was soothing after the heat of the revelry.

She tossed the ladle back in the water. When she turned back, Konur had stepped nearer and without any warning, his hand slid round her hips.

‘What are you doing?’ she gasped.

‘What do you think?’ he murmured, his voice thick, pulling her close. ‘I’ve seen how you look at me. I want you too.’

‘Want you?’ she stammered, trying to slip from his grasp. ‘No – you’re so mistaken.’

‘Feel here.’ He grabbed her hand and forced it down. Her fingers brushed something hard. ‘There’s no mistaking that. I’m aching for you.’

She recoiled, disgusted, but he only pulled her tighter against him, his mouth searching for hers. She flicked her head side to side, desperate to get away, but he didn’t seem to care.

‘Stop – please, let me go.’ She pushed him away harder, but it was no good. ‘Let me go!’

All of a sudden, Konur spun away and before she knew what was happening, a fist slammed into his face. There was a sickening crunch and Konur reeled back against the water butt.

The barrel rocked, then crashed forward again, slewing water over Konur and his attacker.

Konur was moaning, trying to shield his bloodied nose. Inga staggered away, glad to be free of him. The attacker threw himself on Konur, and the two set to writhing in the dirt.

‘Bastard! Bastard!’

‘Hakan!’ she cried, recognizing her cousin’s voice. But he wasn’t listening to her or anyone else. They rolled over and over, trying to get a hold, and even in the half-gloom she could see the anger on Hakan’s face.

She’d never seen him like that. Never seen that blind rage burning in his eyes. It scared her.

Konur had recovered his wits enough to fight back, and they went at it in a blizzard of fists, fingers, knuckles and knees, butting each other like boars. Konur got his arm around Hakan’s throat, twisting his head. Then Hakan seized his groin and yanked, hard. Konur shrieked and fell back, flinging out a lucky fist that cracked Hakan in the jaw. Hakan spat a shower of blood and rolled away groaning on the ground.

‘You’re a dead man,’ yelled Konur, leaping on top of Hakan, pounding at his face.

‘Stop it!’ screamed Inga. ‘Both of you! Stop!’ But it was no use. Nothing would make Konur stop until Hakan slammed a palm into his face. Konur squealed, blood streaming from his nose, while Hakan’s lips frothed scarlet spittle.

She had to do something. This was no drunken brawl. One of them would do murder before much longer. She ran back into the hall. ‘They’re killing each other! Uncle Haldan! You must come at once!’

She waited long enough to see her uncle turn to see what was the commotion and get up from his seat. Then back she went.

The two of them were a tangle of limbs and mud and blood and curses, neither able to gain the advantage over the other. She heard voices behind her; at last people were coming. The first just gaped. Others circled around the fight, laughing and jeering drunkenly. And then, thank the gods, her uncle was there.

He didn’t even break stride. Just went in, took hold of Hakan’s collar and yanked him off. Inga marvelled at how absurdly easy her uncle made it look.

‘What the Hel are you two about?’ Haldan slung his son down in a heap away from Konur, who was propped on an elbow, wiping his blood-smeared face on his sleeve.

‘Why don’t you ask your son? He’s a fucking animal.’

Hakan was gulping down great lungfuls of air, his face still black with hatred.

‘Well?’ demanded Haldan.

‘He was attacking Inga!’ shouted Hakan.

‘I wasn’t attacking anyone!’ protested Konur. ‘Your idiot son was trying to murder me.’

‘Watch your tongue, boy,’ warned Haldan. ‘It’s unwise for a guest to insult his host.’

‘Aye – and a host his guest,’ returned Konur, picking himself out of the mud. ‘Is this the kind of hospitality a man should expect under your roof?’

Inga was at Hakan’s side. He was spitting splinters of tooth into the mud. ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ she said.

‘What kind of misunderstanding?’ her uncle demanded, eyes as fierce at her as at the others.

Inga wasn’t sure how to answer. Konur had thrown himself at her. But had he attacked her? ‘He . . . he was . . . forcing himself on me.’

Konur scoffed at this. ‘Bah! I hardly laid a finger on her. Next thing I know, your cripple broke my fucking nose.’ He screwed up his eyes and tilted back his head.

‘He was hurting her. She was screaming. Father, believe me.’ There was no hiding Hakan’s slurred speech. ‘He’s nothing but contempt for us all.’

‘Go to Hel, cripple! Your son’s a madman, Haldan. You should keep him tied up.’

‘I suggest you tie that tongue of yours before your quarrel is with me and not my son.’

‘I had no quarrel with your son.’

‘He would have dishonoured Inga, Father.’ Hakan was picking himself up. Inga reached to help him, but he knocked her hand away. ‘She’s your ward. You’re sworn to protect her.’

‘I don’t need reminding what I must do. Inga, tell me what happened.’

Inga always felt thrown when her uncle demanded she speak up; now worse than ever. Her mouth flopped open, but she had no notion what to say. Maybe this was her fault. She tried to think. What had happened? It seemed only moments ago she was a confident woman, yet now she was a naughty girl again. But before she could answer, another man appeared from the crowd.

‘I see your son has your father’s hot blood,’ the man said in a strangely whispery voice. She recognized him as a distant kinsman, of the Karlung clan, though with all the guests that night, she couldn’t recall his name. But she remembered that one dead eye. As a child, it always terrified her. It unnerved her still.

‘Just a squabble between boys, Karsten.’

Karsten – that was it. Which made him Konur’s father and earl of the Karlung lands.

‘Let me guess. Injured Vendling pride?’ Karsten gave an easy chuckle. ‘Your father was the same. There’s many a man around the East Sea dead, thanks to his thin skin.’

‘His honour was precious to him.’

‘A good deal more than the lives of other men’s sons. Or his oaths. Or his loyalty.’

‘It was he who was betrayed.’

Karsten snorted. ‘That’s not how the Wartooth sees it.’

Inga was trying to keep up. The Wartooth, she knew, was Harald Wartooth, the old king of the Danish Mark, once overlord of their lands. But she knew the story of her grandfather, Haldor the Black, breaking faith with the Danish king. ‘I can’t help the stories that old boar tells himself,’ her uncle replied. ‘Men weave the truth as it suits them.’

‘Perhaps. But you can ill afford to let your son lose the few friends left you. Whatever his grievance.’

‘The insult was with your son.’

‘The insult is there,’ hissed Karsten, pointing at Konur. ‘In his bloody nose. A guest; a kinsman come in peace. An insult and provocation, I say.’

‘A scrap between boys. Nothing more.’ Haldan’s tone left no room for argument. That was obvious to everyone. Except, apparently, Karsten.

‘Boys who are heirs to both our lands. We share blood, you and I, even if it is five fathers back. But if our lines must feud, so be it. You’ll find the loss of the Karlungs’ friendship goes ill for you. And I have powerful friends—’

‘There will be no feuding. Whatever was traded between these two has been repaid. A bloody nose for a bloody mouth. There’s an end to it.’

‘So long as you tighten your son’s leash.’ Karsten’s dead eye glinted, pale as the moon.

‘And you the same,’ Haldan returned. ‘There’s more than one way to cause trouble.’ He nodded at Inga and she suddenly felt foolish. Like some stupid sheep to be bartered over.

Gradually the hard lines of Karsten’s face softened into a languid laugh. ‘Truly said. Very well.’

‘Come – shake hands and make your peace.’ Haldan beckoned the two sons together. Hakan began to protest. ‘You will do as I command!’ Haldan bellowed.

Inga watched them, half-expecting them to be at each other’s throats any moment. But they accepted each other’s hand, and shook. Yet all the while, Hakan’s gaze seethed hot with anger; and in Konur’s pale eyes was hatred cold as ice. There’s no peace here. Not a scrap.

They separated.

Seeing the climax had passed, the crowd was dispersing, distracted by something else. A loud thumping was resounding from inside: fists banging on oak tables; a murmur, growing ever louder.

‘A telling! A telling!’

Her uncle had already gone in with Karsten, an arm round him as they shared a joke. Her uncle knew when to fight, and when to talk.

She turned back. Hakan was staring at her. She could see the drink in his eyes, but he said nothing. Just stood there, staring. Then, slowly, he turned and spat blood into the dirt.

‘Hakan, I—’

He cut her off with a shake of his head and stalked after his father.

‘A telling – a telling!’ The chant grew louder still.

Inga frowned, tears prickling her eyes. Konur was on his feet, his face a lascivious grin. Perhaps he expected one in return, even after what he had done. She turned her back on him. She was mad at him. Mad at everyone. Mad at herself most of all. But she wasn’t going to cry, she told herself, bunching her fists, swallowing down her tears. Suddenly, she wanted to yell a curse on all men. Confusing, infuriating, pitiful, frightening and wonderful all at once.

‘A telling! A telling!’ The very pillars of Vendlagard seemed to shake with the cry.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she followed the others inside.

Hakan was confused, angry and thoroughly drunk. He’d never been able to take much in the way of strong drink. Tonight only proved the point. Still, Konur had had it coming for ten years, and whatever he had tried with Inga only made it worse.

His head hurt from too much ale, too many punches. But it didn’t bother him half so much as the pain in his heart. Why was Inga out there with that greasy son of a whore to begin with?

He resumed his seat opposite his father when the chant of a hundred voices reached its climax.

‘A telling!’ they yelled. ‘A telling!’

At last, the vala had made them wait long enough. She rose; a cheer erupted around the hall. She smiled, waving down the revellers, her bronze staff glinting in the firelight.

‘A telling you shall have,’ she cried, bowing her sharp-lined face to his father. ‘If it pleases our Vendling lord. And the lord has gold,’ she added.

A knowing jeer slewed around the drunken faces.

His father slipped a ring from his finger and tossed it to her. She plucked it expertly from the air. ‘There’s gold to make a start. Speak nothing falsely just to please us, sister.’

‘Never,’ she said, scraping low; the ring vanished into the fathomless folds of her cloak. ‘Those who speak lies to gain gold mock the True One. Scabby hags – and fools! They curse their own heads. Fear no deceit from me, noble host. As the Lord of the Hanged shows me, I will tell.’

She backed closer to the firepit. So close Hakan thought her cloak must catch fire, but the heat seemed to bother her none. Her silhouette darkened before the dancing flames, her face shrouded in shadow.

‘The road to the World Tree is reached by galdra song. Will any sisters stand and sing to the Slain-God?’ She looked about, a crooked grin creeping over her mouth. ‘Perhaps you, sister?’ Her gaze fell on Tolla.

The nurse blanched. Tight-lipped, she shook her head.

‘Sing,’ his father said. Tolla’s eyes darted to him, but still she didn’t move. ‘Must I tell you twice?’

Slowly, Tolla rose. ‘My thanks, sweet sister,’ cried the vala. ‘I need three more.’

Another thrall stood. Then a distant kinswoman, come from the shores of the Western Ocean. Last of all, Inga rose, dark and lovely in her crimson robe. Hakan’s heart quickened.

‘Sing out, sisters,’ the vala cried. ‘Sing to Odin, the Ancient One. Sing so he gives me sight, far into things yet hidden.’

Tolla was first to sing, the others soon weaving their voices with her sweet and wandering melody:

The Brown-Eyed God hangs on a tree

Screaming he sees of Was and Will Be

The song meandered on, the four voices rising with the tendrils of smoke to the rafters.

When fire burns the Masked One calls

The slain about him all will fall.

The vala began to sway, face tilted, eyes closed, staff weaving back and forth, fingers rattling the bones at her belt. The song reached its end and the women stood, silent. But the vala went on dancing, as if to some other music, unheard by the hushed revellers. Eyelids flickering, she began to utter a guttural moan. She stretched on her toes, arms swaying higher and higher. Suddenly her eyes snapped open, half-maddened with heat, searching, scanning, far above Lord Haldan’s seat.

‘The High One speaks,’ she wailed. ‘The High One sees. This land is favoured – fortune and wealth, for this generation and many.’ A cheer rose around the hall, some beating the table with approval. But they were soon hushed. ‘Sons and daughters of Jutland will carry their blood far, over wave and vale. The Jutes will live long in the songs of men.’

Hakan scanned the grinning faces, flushed with mead, as his own must have been. By the gods, he could speak as well as this damned vala. Fortune and wealth? It was easy enough to promise that and get his father’s gold for it.

‘From your sisters’ wombs, fame and gold shall come,’ she continued. Another cheer. But then she paused, a frown wrinkling her brow. ‘And yet . . .’ Her stare grew wide. The hall-folk leaned in, hushed in a moment. ‘This land knows fire and death,’ she murmured. ‘Ere long, blood will run in its furrows. Tears will run like rivers.’

The listening faces darkened. This was less pleasing.

‘And you! Lord of the Vendling blood! Neither man nor beast will cut you down.’ The band around her head glittered silver, her eyes grown suddenly fierce. ‘Yet you will take a wound. A wound so horrible! Pierced through your heart with a blade that cannot be stopped. Your days will be long and bitter. The All-Father will never grant you rest.’

All eyes sped to their lord, waiting for the eruption of anger many knew only too well. But his father only sat, listening, face hard as flint.

Suddenly, the vala gave a shriek that split the air. ‘Quail, you men – tremble, you women! The Slain-God thunders here! The final destruction shakes these walls from the ends of time. The kindling that will burn the World Tree to ashes is lain here – bonds of kin are cut; beauty and love are slaughtered like swine. You must drink the cup of sorrow to its dregs.’ Her body was shaking; at last her legs faltered and she fell to her knees.