Chapter Ten: Orka

CHAPTER TEN

ORKA

Orka climbed the winding path that led to the Oath Rock. A westerly wind hissed across the island in the fjord and whipped the waters around it, sending white-tipped waves on to the beach before the village of Fellur. Orka paused, and looking back saw a host of boats rowing across to the Oath Rock island, mostly fishing boats and light snekkes, though Orka saw a drakkar pull away from the village’s pier. Thirty oars made for a small drakkar, though its hull and strakes were sleek and wolfish, the prow tall and proud. Seeing it stirred Orka’s blood.

Jarl Sigrún and her drengrs.

“Come on, Mama,” Breca said, pulling at her sleeve. He was excited at his first Althing, and Thorkel was striding ahead of them, disappearing around a curve of moss-covered rock. Orka grunted and walked on, following a path that twisted up through bracken and wind-blasted trees until it levelled out and spilled into a clearing. The remnants of a huge, rune-carved stone stood there. It had stood taller, once, but now it was smashed to little more than a stump, the faint angles of runes barely visible in the jagged shards of its base.

Breca gasped as he saw the rock, then frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Thorkel said as he leaned against the trunk of a twisted hawthorn tree. He wore his grey nålbinding cap and a wolfskin cloak over his woollen tunic, a seax and hand-axe hanging at his belt.

“It’s smaller than I thought,” Breca said.

“Well, it was bigger once. Maybe as tall as a mead hall,” Thorkel said. “It has been smashed with hammers.”

“That is a shame,” Breca said.

Thorkel raised an eyebrow.

“Why destroy something that someone cared enough to build?” Breca said.

“Ha, that is some deep-thinking, there,” Thorkel smiled. “Hmm, some take pleasure in destruction. But this is different. This was an oath stone, where humankind swore their blood oaths to the gods, pledged their allegiances, worshipped them. And worshipping the dead gods is forbidden, now, punishable by death.”

An image flashed through Orka’s mind, of a woman hanging in an iron cage, ravens picking at her eyes and tongue.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Breca said. “What harm can it do?”

“What harm?” Thorkel laughed. “The dead gods caused a lot of harm, most would say. They broke the world. That is why they are hated, why when the few survivors of the Guðfalla emerged from the ruin of Snaka’s fall they hated and hunted the offspring of the gods, those whose blood was tainted with the gods’ bloodlines.”

Breca chewed his lip as he thought about that.

“Then why do they hold the Althing here?”

“Another good, deep-thinking question,” Thorkel shrugged. “Perhaps because the past runs deep in our blood and bones,” he muttered. “A rope we cannot see, binding us to it, whether we like it or not.”

Orka could see by the frown on his face that Breca didn’t much like that answer. She stood by her husband, letting the hawthorn tree and Thorkel’s bulk shelter her from the worst of the wind’s bite. She nodded a thanks to Virk, the fisherman who had invited them on to his boat, along with his two sons Mord and Lif, and rowed them over to the Oath Rock.

The clearing was filling with people, come from many leagues around for this Althing. Tents filled the meadows around Fellur, as the Althing could go on for a number of days and all who lived within the boundaries of Jarl Sigrún’s land were supposed to attend, or at least a representative from every family. Orka saw fisherfolk and farmers, tanners and blacksmiths, shipwrights and leatherworkers, all manner of people who dwelled within the boundaries of Jarl Sigrún’s domain, and that had been growing each year, along with the fair-fame of her name.

Orka caught Virk’s eye and she beckoned him over.

“Our thanks,” she said, “for rowing us over.” She offered him a nugget of hacked bronze.

“Keep it,” Virk said, “and think kindly of me when you next bring your pelts to the village.”

Orka nodded. “That we can do, as long as we have a seat on your boat back to shore when this is done.”

“That would depend on how kind you will be with your pelts,” he smiled.

“Tell me,” she said, leaning closer and whispering, “is there any word of Asgrim’s boy, Harek?”

Virk’s smile withered and he shook his head.

“Guðvarr sent some scouts to the river, where your husband followed the tracks. But no more than that. No boats sent down the rivers, no hounds.” He shook his head. “He did not care. Asgrim and Idrun were freedmen, had as much right to justice as any, but…”

Orka knew. She remembered Guðvarr’s words.

They were asking for trouble, Guðvarr had said. Orka felt her lip curl in anger at the memory of it. Asking for trouble, as if living a life apart from the village makes us less.

“And other children?” she asked Virk. “You said Harek is not the first child to be taken.”

Virk shrugged. “The Haraldursons from Howbyr, they had two daughters and a son taken, their cots empty in the morning, just gone. And a family in Kergarth, I forget their names. Found dead, like Asgrim and Idrun, and their sons missing.” He looked at her. “That does not sound like a coincidence to me.”

Orka nodded. Howbyr was ten or twelve leagues north, and Kergarth was six leagues east along the coast.

“There are other rumours, of more children taken, but I do not know for sure.”

“It must be niðing, lawless men,” Orka said, “stealing children and selling them on as thralls.” An image came to her mind of Breca being snatched in the night, dragged away. An iron collar snapped around his throat. Wings of fear fluttered in her chest, followed by a shiver of anger. She rested a hand on Breca’s shoulder.

“I agree,” Virk said. “Maybe we should try hunting them, see if we can do better than Guðvarr. That shouldn’t be hard: he is a pup playing at being a jarl.”

“Catching thieves and killers is different from catching fish,” Orka said.

“I have not always been a fisherman,” Virk said with a shrug, dropping a hand to rest on the axe head that hung at his belt. “And I do not think you and your husband have always been trappers.”

“We live in Vigrið, the Battle-Plain,” Orka said with a shrug. “Only fools do not learn how to protect themselves.”

Virk held his hands up at Orka’s flat stare. “Your past is your business. But I’d rather have you or Thorkel at my shoulder in a scrap than that snivelling weasel.” He nodded towards Guðvarr. “And these niðings…” His face twisted. “Murderers and child-stealers, they do not deserve to breathe our air.”

Orka nodded. She had known there was more to Virk than fishing, had seen men like him before, their emotions always bubbling below the surface like serpents beneathe the fjord’s still waters, violence only a short explosion away. She knew well enough that the braggarts like Guðvarr were not the real warriors. It was the ones who never threatened violence…

The murmur of many conversations faded and Orka looked up to see warriors enter the clearing: a dozen drengrs, Guðvarr among them, swaggering in his brynja and sword at his hip, the permanent drop of moisture still hanging from the end of his nose. The women who had accompanied him to Orka’s steading were there, Orka remembering Arild, the one with a face like a butcher’s cleaver. They were all gleaming in mail, polished leather and arm rings of silver or bronze, spreading in a half-circle before the shattered remnants of the oath stone, allowing Jarl Sigrún to step out into the clearing, another dozen drengrs behind her.

She was tall, though not as tall or wide as Orka, but there was a strength and grace in her walk that spoke of a warrior. She wore a coat of riveted mail and had a silver torc around her neck, more rings of silver upon her arms. She had not become a jarl by kind words and good deeds; she was a warrior who had carved a piece of land for herself and fought all who challenged her. Men and women had stood with her, drawn by her strength and promises of land and status, and so her power had grown. It was a story Orka had seen a hundred times over. Where once this land had been free, it was now being swallowed piece by piece by petty jarls, men and women who hungered for wealth and power. Some were more successful than others, their battle-fame spreading, their wealth growing, warriors flocking to them. Jarl Sigrún was not the most powerful, but she was still a force to be watched. The fact that she had ruled here for eight years and was still breathing said much.

A pace behind her like a faithful hound another warrior strode: a woman, her face lean and scarred, the sides of her head shaved and pale, swirling with tattoos, a thick strip of grey-black braided hair running across the top of her head. She wore plain breeches and a tunic of wool, and had two seaxes hanging at her belt, one across the front, one suspended behind her back.

And she wore a thrall’s collar.

But it was to her eyes that Orka was drawn. Flat and merciless, they scanned the crowd, as if weighing up their prey.

Jarl Sigrún had many thralls, to clean and cook and work her farms, but Orka had never seen her with a warrior-thrall before. And this one had a look that Orka had seen before.

A hopelessness that leaked from her.

The sight of her set Orka’s skin crawling, as if spider-legs scuttled down her spine.

“Welcome, all,” Jarl Sigrún said as she came to stand before the shattered oath stone, her drengrs arrayed about her like a curling hand, the warrior-thrall prowling behind her. Sigrún’s voice was strong and confident, rising above the hiss of the wind and reaching across the crowd of hundreds. “I am not one for the flapping of lips and tongue, so I will say this straight and simple. I have sworn my oath to Queen Helka.” She pulled up the woollen sleeve of her tunic and showed a fresh-scabbed cut on her forearm. “And sealed it with my blood.”

A ripple of murmurs sounded around the clearing.

“You have come to tell us the good news of higher taxes, then,” Virk called out beside Orka. Other voices shouted their agreement, and their anger.

Jarl Sigrún turned her eyes on Virk and held his gaze a long moment. Virk returned it. Orka could smell the anger seeping from him.

“No, I have come to tell you that the world is changing, and we must change with it,” Sigrún said. “I became jarl of Fellur eight years ago and swore on my blood and life to protect the village, and those who lived within it. That is what I have done, and I have spread that protection, making life safer for you all on the plains and hills as far as your eyes can see.”

“On a cloudy day, perhaps,” one of Virk’s sons whispered to the other.

“But I cannot protect you from what is to come,” Sigrún said.

“Life is good here as it is,” Virk answered, his sons adding their voices. “We do not need change, or Helka.”

“Aye, life has been good, here at Fellur, but life runs in seasons, and seasons do not last for ever. Jarls are rising throughout all Vigrið, powerful jarls that I can no longer protect you from. Jarl Störr in the north-west has spread his borders ever south and east, and he has his eyes on this land. This fjord. Jarl Orlyg sitting in Svelgarth to the east has raided our lands. And Queen Helka, she too is… ambitious.”

Ambitious jarls, I have seen the price of that. And Helka calls herself a queen. She would lift her head above the pack and rule them. It is as Thorkel feared. Worse.

Orka shared a look with Thorkel, whose brows were knotted in a thundercloud.

“She wants our land, and the fruits of our labour,” Virk cried. “She would make of us tenants who pay tribute for land we’ve hunted and tamed and farmed with our own hands, no help from her.”

The warrior-thrall stopped pacing and turned her flat eyes upon Virk. She stood unnaturally still.

One of Virk’s sons touched his arm, but he shook it off.

Many shouts from the crowd agreed with Virk.

A man stepped forwards, a fine red felt hat upon his head, trimmed with fur, a pale beard hanging with gold rings across the breast of his red-wool tunic. Orka and Thorkel had traded with him before: Fálki Torilsson, once a farmer, now made wealthy by deposits of tin found beneath his pastureland.

“Virk speaks what many of us are thinking, Jarl Sigrún,” Fálki said with a respectful bow. “And I am also thinking that we will be taxed for the honour of Helka’s protection?” he added.

Jarl Sigrún shrugged. “Most likely, Fálki,” she said. “It is the way of the world. Look at Iskidan in the south, a vast realm ruled over by one city, Gravka, and by one lord, the emperor Kirill. That is the way that Vigrið is going. It will happen soon. In our lifetime. The season is changing, autumn to winter, maybe, but there will be a spring beyond that, for those that survive the cold.”

“Aye, Helka would make herself an emperor, like Kirill of Gravka,” Virk spat. “But don’t forget that his throne is built upon a mountain of corpses, that there are more thralls than freedmen in Iskidan, and that they sacrifice children.”

Jarl Sigrún laughed. “I thought you above a child’s saga-tale, Virk.”

“It is true, I have sailed the whale road and seen it,” Virk said.

“And you have drained many a mead horn, too, and perhaps dreamed of these things,” Sigrún said, her drengrs laughing, Guðvarr loudest of all. “If these things were truth, I would do all in my power to not let that happen here.” Jarl Sigrún frowned. “But I will not lie to you, Helka will want our coin, and our oaths. And I will tell you a harder truth; if I said no to her, she would still come and take this land for herself. We have not the strength to stop her. She would come, kill me and our strongest and put one of her own in the mead hall as jarl.” She shook her head.

Orka nodded and thought well of Sigrún for admitting this hard truth. But her mind was running ahead, seeing in vivid colours the path Helka would take, the fields of blood and corpses she would tread in her quest to rule all Vigrið.

“But there will be benefits too,” Jarl Sigrún said.

“Benefits!” Virk snorted, though others such as Fálki listened attentively.

“Aye, such as being on the winning side. It is only a matter of time before Störr and Helka face one another, and the winner will take all Vigrið. That could go well for us.”

“And what if Helka loses?” another voice called out.

“She will not lose,” Sigrún said. “I have seen her drakkars, and her warband. The bones of the dead god Orna rear over her fortress at Darl. I have seen the wings.” She looked slowly across the crowd. “She will not lose.” Her gaze fixed on Virk. “And taxes are a part of life, they are the road to safety and long-life. Queen Helka will protect us from the greater battles of Vigrið, and I will continue to protect you all, as best I can.”

A thought was growing in Orka’s mind, memories of battle and blood circling in her head like sea serpents smelling blood in the water.

“She will ask for a hird-offering from here,” Orka said, for a moment not realising that she had uttered the words out loud.

Thorkel grunted and shifted against his tree, those close to Orka turning and staring at her.

She remembered Thorkel’s words.

We will go to the Althing, keep our heads down and our lips stitched shut…

“Is that not so, Jarl Sigrún?” Orka asked her.

“She may,” Jarl Sigrún said grudgingly.

“She will,” Orka said. “She will take all with a strong arm that own a spear or axe to fight her war for her, the people of Fellur swelling her warband’s ranks.” Orka looked around at the crowd, seeing that realisation dawning in their eyes. The thought of putting down their tools and sharpening their spears and axes, of seeing their sons and daughters carried off on the wave of war.

“That is a long way from now, and much can happen,” Sigrún said. “But it would be better than sitting in our fields and fisher boats when Jarl Störr’s warband sweeps over the horizon or rows into the fjord. He will not offer us protection. He will offer us iron and blood and the thrall’s collar. This is the only path I can see to protect us all.”

“Protect us?” Virk said. “When you cannot even protect us against murderers and child-stealers?”

Jarl Sigrún’s eyes flittered to Guðvarr.

“My nephew has told me of this, of Asgrim and Idrun.”

“And Harek,” Breca said, his voice high and shrill.

Orka felt a swell of pride for her son, having the stones to speak up for his friend in a gathering like this.

“Aye,” Virk said, stepping out of the crowd. “A child stolen and two murdered, all living within your borders, under your protection.” He looked at the gathering. “What protection is that?” he spat.

“You should step back, and close those flapping lips,” Guðvarr said.

“And you should learn how to conduct a search, and fulfil your duties in your jarl’s absence,” Virk grunted. A few laughs rippled through the crowd, along with nodding heads and a murmur of agreement.

Guðvarr’s lips twisted and his neck flushed red. He took a step towards Virk.

“My nephew has told me of this crime,” Jarl Sigrún said, her voice loud and harsh, stopping Guðvarr. “He did all that could be done.”

“That is a lie,” Virk snapped.

Jarl Sigrún stared at him.

“You should not speak to your jarl so,” the warrior-thrall at Sigrún’s shoulder said, something in her voice silencing the whole clearing.

“You will ask my aunt’s forgiveness for your insult,” Guðvarr said.

Virk looked from Guðvarr to Jarl Sigrún, eyes flickering to the warrior-thrall at her shoulder.

“Forgive me, I meant no insult to you, Jarl Sigrún,” Virk said, “I do not think you a liar.” He paused, looking from her to Guðvarr. “The blame of it lies at your nephew’s feet.”

“I did all I could to find them,” Guðvarr snapped, his voice rising.

“You squeak like a wire-trapped ferret,” Virk said, “and as you cannot even find your nose to wipe it, how are you capable of finding stolen children, murderers and thieves?”

There were snorts of laughter at that.

Guðvarr’s eyes bulged, his mouth moving, strangled sounds escaping his throat. He cuffed the end of his dripping nose.

“Holmganga,” he snarled. “I challenge you, here, now.” His hand moved to his sword.

“Guðvarr, stop this now,” Jarl Sigrún snapped.

“It is too late,” Guðvarr spat. “The challenge is out, before my jarl, before the people of Fellur, and before the oath stone. There is no going back.”

Jarl Sigrún shook her head.

She knows as well as any that Guðvarr cannot take his challenge back, Orka thought. And Virk cannot decline, not if he would walk away from here with any honour.

Virk took a step deeper into the clearing, eyes locked with Guðvarr’s.

“I accept your challenge,” he said.

Jarl Sigrún sucked in an angry breath.

“Very well,” she snapped. “Each of you, choose a second, and make your preparations. We will break until you are both ready and the hazel rods have been laid.”

Virk turned and walked back to his sons.

“What are you doing?” one of them said. “He’s a drengr!”

“He’s a pup grown mighty in his own head because his kin is a jarl,” Virk said, calm now. He looked at Orka.

Thorkel must have known what was coming, because he opened his mouth and started to raise his hand, but the words were already leaving Virk’s mouth.

“Will you be my second?” Virk asked Orka.

Orka looked into Virk’s eyes.

“One of your sons, Mord or Lif, should do that. You have kin at your back.”

“No. If I lose and they are my seconds they will try to fight Guðvarr.” He leaned close to her. “And they have some weapons craft, but they are no match for a drengr,” he whispered. “All I ask of you is, if I lose, to remind them of the rule of holmganga, and to put my axe in my fist, so that I would not walk the soul road weaponless.”

Orka sucked in a breath and looked at Thorkel. He was frowning and shook his head, but he knew already what her answer would be.

Orka nodded. “Aye, then,” she said. “I will do it.”