Chapter Eleven: Varg

CHAPTER ELEVEN

VARG

Varg opened his eyes, looking up at blurred shapes and shadows. He blinked, his vision slowly focusing, images coalescing into timbered beams and a vaulted roof. Pigeons were cooing in the rafters, and a raven, black and hunched, seemed to be staring at him. Sunlight filtered through smoke holes and shuttered windows.

Varg tried to roll, something poking and scratching into his back, but the effort seemed too much for him, so he flopped back. There was a smell of stale mead, of cold fat and grease and woodsmoke. Of sweat and urine. A murmur of voices passed close by, and further away he heard the thud of wood hitting wood, a few shouted curses. He became aware of a dull pain in his side, sharper in his ribs when he tried to move.

“Aha, so Varg No-Sense is awake,” a voice said. Footsteps and a face appeared over him. A handsome face, a red beard cut neatly and gleaming with oil.

“Svik,” Varg said, the sound croaking through the dry pit of his throat, stumbling over his lips. He tried to roll on to his side again, but it seemed like a task too difficult for his body to complete.

“Here, give me your hand, you flopping fish,” Svik said, all smiles. He gripped Varg’s wrist and pulled him up so that he was sitting propped with his back against a timbered wall. He was in a large hall, a makeshift bed of rushes bunched close to the wall and behind a thick wooden pillar, a swirling pattern of elaborate knotwork carved into it. Two long tables and benches ran the length of the hall, hearth fires between them, the tables ending at the foot of a large dais. Upon the dais another long table stood, at a right angle to the other two, so that whatever lord or lady sat there they could look out at their people. The ground was covered in dried rushes, which were the culprit of the scratching in his back, and there were wet patches here and there, of spilled ale or urine from a night’s feasting, he imagined. He saw that his cloak had been folded beneath him, used as a pillow, and he reached out and touched it, felt something solid wrapped within it. His thrall-collar, and his cleaver.

He felt weak as a newborn lamb, his limbs like lead, his head too heavy for his neck. His throat was dry, a foul taste in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.

“What have you done to me?” Varg said and looked accusingly at Svik, who was staring at him, clothed in a fine tunic of green herringboned wool, silver rings coiled thick on his arms, and another of twisted silver wrapped around his neck, two serpent heads at each end.

“Saved your miserable life,” Svik said, still smiling. “You had a fever, from the spear wound in your side that your friend Leif Kolskeggson gave you.”

Leif!

Varg looked down and lifted his tunic, bloodstained and torn where Leif had cut him with his spear. He saw a long red wound, neatly stitched with cords of boiled gut or tendon. The wound had been cauterised, the flesh around it red and raw. Memories fluttered in Varg’s head like moth’s wings, a bald man offering him a strip of leather to bite on.

“Ah, you remember now, then,” Svik said. It wasn’t a question.

“Aye,” Varg grunted, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. Leif’s attack came back with too-vivid clarity, a host of memories tumbling over themselves, like water over rapids in a river. He hissed. A hand snapped down to his belt and he found his pouch.

“Nothing of yours has been touched. We are not thieves,” Svik said. Then his mouth twisted. “Well, not unless you have something worth stealing, which you don’t.”

Varg undid the clasp on the pouch and reached inside, blowing out a sigh.

“You see?” Svik said. “Would you like some cheese?” He opened a pouch at his belt, took out a slab of hard cheese and cut off a thin slice.

Varg’s belly growled as he took the cheese and swallowed it almost whole. He frowned and lifted his right hand in front of his eyes. Made a fist. It wasn’t hurting. Well, it ached, but there was no stabbing pain like he had felt before. He checked his body over, fingertips searching. He remembered waking by the fjord feeling like he had been beaten by a troll, his ribs cracked, face swollen, one eye almost shut. Now there was a faint echo of that pain, but it was dull and distant.

“How long?” he asked Svik.

“Six days,” Svik said. “I thought you might die, but I kept the rats from gnawing on your toes, just in case. Here, drink this.” He offered Varg a drinking horn.

Varg sniffed it.

“Not very trusting, are you?” Svik said, his pleasant smile never leaving his face, as if he were amused at some joke that Varg did not understand. “It’s just watered ale.”

Varg sipped; it was cold, like liquid joy in his mouth. He tried to stop himself gulping it all down in one long draught.

“Why did you help me?” he asked. “I lost against Einar.”

“Everyone lost against Einar,” Svik said. “That was never a question. It was how you lost, though.” Svik whistled and shook his head. “Einar is still limping. You bit Half-Troll. I have never seen such a thing, though it may take Einar a while to forgive you. Here.” Svik took the empty horn from Varg and replaced it with a wooden bowl and spoon, porridge steaming, a dollop of honey in it.

“Slowly,” Svik said, as Varg burned his mouth.

“This is… delicious,” Varg breathed. The porridge was creamy and hot, the honey sweet. Varg closed his eyes, the pleasure of food and ale consuming him. He forgot about Svik and Einar, about Kolskegg and the Bloodsworn, and just ate.

The sound of chuckling brought him back to himself and he opened his eyes.

Svik was laughing.

“You are a man who enjoys the simple things in life.”

“I have not eaten properly in…” he paused. “A long time.”

“I can tell. You look like a half-starved wolf caught in a wire-trap.”

Varg ate some more porridge, forcing his eyes to stay open.

“My thanks,” he mumbled through a full mouth.

Svik dipped his head.

There was a scrape of feet on rushes and Varg looked past Svik. A tall warrior was striding towards them with a black shield in her fist: the blonde woman who had offered Varg a shield before his bout with Einar. She was not wearing a brynja coat of mail now, just a plain woollen tunic belted with a strip of tablet-woven wool, but something about her, the way she walked, the way her eyes fixed on him like a predatory hawk: she looked… dangerous.

She came to stand over Varg, staring down at him, ignoring Svik.

“Get up,” she said.

Varg blinked.

“Nice to see you, too, Røkia,” Svik said.

“Shut up, you strutting peacock,” Røkia said, her eyes still fixed on Varg.

“What’s a peacock?” Varg asked through a mouthful of porridge.

“A vain, arrogant, self-loving oaf,” Røkia said.

“She’s showing off,” Svik said. “Peacocks are birds: large, impressive, beautiful birds. They can only be found in southern Iskidan, beyond the great city of Gravka.”

“Get up,” Røkia said again, ignoring Svik as if he did not exist. “And take this.” She waved the black shield at him.

“I told you, I don’t fight with a shield.”

“You called him No-Shield, and No-Sense, remember?” Svik said.

“Exactly,” Røkia said. “Fighting without a shield makes no sense. You cannot be part of the Bloodsworn and not know your way around a shield. Glornir’s orders, not mine. I don’t care if you get chopped into a thousand pieces in your first shield wall, but Glornir is my chief, so, get up. Take it.”

First shield wall!

Varg gulped and looked at Svik. He felt like his body had been wrung through a mangle, and the porridge was heavy in his stomach. The thought of fighting in a shield wall was not a pleasant one.

“She has a point,” Svik said with a grin. “You wanted to be one of the Bloodsworn.” He shrugged, still smiling. “And if Glornir has said do it, then best be getting on with it.”

“Glornir?” Varg said.

“The one who saved your life,” Svik said.

“Our chief. Glornir Shield-Breaker,” Røkia said.

“He has a lot of names,” Svik said with a shrug. “My favourite is Glornir Gold-Giver.”

Røkia curled her lip in distaste at Svik.

Varg remembered him, the bald warrior stepping into the woodland glade as Leif was about to chop his hand off. He owed this man. But he also remembered why he had come here, why he had fought Einar Half-Troll.

Vol, the Seiðr-witch.

Carefully Varg put the empty porridge bowl down on the ground and stood. The room moved a little and he swayed. Røkia shoved the shield at him and he gripped the rim, bound in rawhide. Røkia turned on her heel and strode across the hall, Varg seeing she had a shield of her own slung across her back.

Varg looked at Svik.

“I suggest you follow her,” Svik said. “Unless you want a tongue-lashing to go with the beating I suspect she is about to give you.”

Varg sucked in a deep breath, turned the shield and gripped its wooden handle, his left fist slipping into the curve of the iron boss, and followed Røkia. Now that thirst and hunger were not screaming at him, questions were starting to gather in his head, circling like a murder of crows.

He stepped out through open-flung doors into bright spring sunshine, two wooden pillars framing wide steps that led down into the courtyard where he had fought Einar Half-Troll. Judging by the sun it was a little past midday. The courtyard was full of warriors sparring, the Bloodsworn’s black shields spattered with red, and a few of Jarl Logur’s blue shields with red sails bright upon them. He saw Einar Half-Troll instantly, the big man standing head and shoulders over the tallest men and women there. He was sparring against two of Logur’s warriors at the same time, Einar gripping a shield as big as a table in one meaty fist, an axe in the other.

Varg searched for Vol, the tattooed Seiðr-witch, but he could not see her. Elsewhere in the courtyard he saw the silver-haired woman sparring with a man, her two hounds lying stretched in the sun, watching her. Close by he saw the bald man with the grey beard who had saved him in the woods beyond Liga.

Glornir.

He was sparring against a warrior who stood out from the rest of the Bloodsworn. A slim warrior of average height, but his head was shaved, apart from a long, thick coil of braided hair, black and gleaming as polished jet. His skin was dark where all the others in the courtyard were fair, and he wore a grey Kaftan of wool, buckled down the centre, with baggy breeches, wrapped tight with winnigas from ankle to knee. The man was holding a black, red-spattered shield and a curved, single-edged sword. There was something about him that looked familiar.

“Stop staring like a virgin in a brothel and get down here,” Røkia yelled up at Varg. Warriors’ heads turned towards him, smiles and laughter. Varg coloured and hurried down the steps, feeling the stitches in his side pulling.

Røkia was stood at the bottom of the steps beside a stack of spears in a barrel.

“I need to speak to your Seiðr-witch,” Varg said, feeling the death of his sister like a heavy weight upon his heart. He had a task to complete, the responsibility of it a consuming fire.

“Have you used a spear before, No-Sense?” Røkia asked him, ignoring what he’d said.

“Aye,” he nodded. “A boar hunt.” In truth, he’d been given a rust-bladed spear riveted into a warped shaft of ash. He had been one of many beaters, flushing boar out of dense woodland on to the bright-bladed, straight-shafted spears of Kolskegg and his freedmen. Varg had only seen the boar’s arse as it ran away from him.

“Good, have this pig-sticker, then,” Røkia said as she threw him a spear.

Varg caught it clumsily in his right hand, then tried to grip it two-handed, but his shield rim clunked into the spear shaft. He’d forgotten he held a shield in his other fist.

“No, that is not a two-handed spear. You are not good enough for that,” Røkia said as she marched to him.

“Shield work, first,” she said, shaking her head, leaning her spear against the wall of the mead hall and gesturing for Varg to do the same.

“I have questions. I need to speak to your Seiðr-witch,” Varg said.

“Your questions can wait. Glornir told me to start your training, so that is what will happen. And Vol isn’t here.”

“Where is she?” Varg asked.

“So,” Røkia said, ignoring him again. “Two types of fighting. One on one, or in the shield wall. We’ll start with one on one. Hold your shield ready.”

Varg looked at her, saw the set of her jaw and knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere by arguing.

And I owe these people a debt. They saved me from Leif, saved my hand.

He raised the shield so that it covered him from chest to thighs, his arm held tight to his body.

“No,” Røkia said as she straight-kicked his shield, sending him stumbling back into the mead hall steps, where he fell back on to his arse. A spike of pain jolted through his wound. He heard a chuckle behind him and looked to see Svik leaning against one of the mead hall pillars, arms folded and a smile on his face. He gestured for Varg to get back up.

“Like this,” Røkia said, hauling him upright before he had a chance to stand. “First, set your feet.” She looked down at him, mouth twisted as if about to berate him, then paused and nodded. “Huh,” she said, raising one brow. His feet were set shoulder-width apart, left foot leading, a bend in his knees.

“So, you know never to stand square-on.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because if you get hit like that you fall,” Varg said.

Varg had never used a shield before, but he’d fought a hundred bouts with his fists, and he knew balance was everything.

“Huh,” Røkia said with a curt nod. “Now raise your shield.”

He hefted it, pulled it tight to his body.

A twitch of Røkia’s lips. “I will tell you once only how to do something. Like this.” She gripped Varg’s shield rim and pulled the shield away from his body, opening up a gap between his arm and torso. “This way, if something stabs your shield and punches through the wood – spear, sword, arrow, axe – then it will not also hit your body, and so, you will not die straight away.” She looked him in the eye. “Most warriors think this is a good thing, no? To live a little longer.”

He nodded.

“A shield is not only for protection,” Røkia continued. “It is a weapon, too. A shield rim to the mouth can relieve you of many teeth, and the boss can fracture your skull.” She grinned, a fierce glee in her eyes that Varg found unsettling. “But first, we will think of defence. So, protect your body by having some space between it and the shield. But your arm must brace it, tight to the shield from wrist to elbow, or the weakest of blows will rock your shield and open you up for something sharp and painful. Understand?”

Varg nodded. He had always been quick to learn, whatever task he had been given on Kolskegg’s farm. It was as if he saw a picture in his mind of what Røkia was describing.

Røkia stepped away, grabbed her spear, twirled it into an overhand grip and stabbed at him.

Varg took the blow on his shield, then another, and another, all at different points, high, low, on the boss, at the rim, all testing his grip and balance, each one sending a jolt through his hand and arm, rippling up into his shoulder. The force of Røkia’s blows increased, wood splintering. Eventually Røkia nodded and lowered her spear blade.

“Huh,” she grunted, which Varg thought must be Røkia’s way of saying good.

Varg reached for his spear, leaning against the wall.

“What are you doing?” Røkia snapped.

“Spear work now?”

“Ha,” Røkia scowled. “You are a shield master already, then?”

“No,” Varg said, “but what else is there to learn? It’s just a shield.”

A cold smile spread across Røkia’s face. “Leave the spear where it is. Most fights do not take place with one combatant standing still, no?”

“No,” Varg agreed.

“So, perhaps you should learn how to move with a shield, and how to defend against a foe who moves around you.” She stepped close to him, eyes level with his. “Raise your shield,” she said. Varg set his feet, hefted the shield as she’d taught him. And then Røkia was moving, feinting left and darting right, her spear jabbing: a pain in Varg’s shoulder; a gasp of surprise and shock as he realised she’d just cut him. Not deep, but enough for blood to bloom on his tunic. Then she was behind him and he was jumping away before he got a spear in the back, turning, raising his shield. She was smiling as she stepped in, her spearhead lunging low.

“Never lose sight of me by hiding behind your shield,” she hissed as she moved. “That way lies a quick death.”

Varg thrust with his shield to deflect Røkia’s stabbing spear, but somehow she shifted her weight and swayed back, fluid and smooth as mist. The spear spun in her hand, reversing her grip, and then the blade was at his throat.

Varg froze, breathing heavily, and felt a bead of blood trickle down his neck.

“Ready to learn?” she asked him as she pulled her blade away.

“Yes,” Varg said.