Chapter Thirteen: Varg

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

VARG

Varg walked into the mead hall. He was exhausted, sweat stinging his eyes, his filthy tunic clinging to him, every limb aching as if they were filled with lead. Røkia had kept him working in the courtyard long after everyone else had finished their sparring and filtered away. The only thing that had stopped her maniacally training him through nightfall and on until dawn was a shouted order from some disembodied voice that Varg suspected was Glornir. He seemed to be the only person that Røkia would take an order from.

It was dark now, and torches were lit in the mead hall, flames flickering, shadows dancing and smoke hanging thick in the rafters. Thralls were preparing the mead benches for supper.

Varg saw his cloak was still folded as a pillow behind a column, so he picked it up.

“Sit there,” Røkia said from behind him, where she walked with Svik, the two of them whispering some muted conversation. Varg swayed, put a hand on the bench to steady himself and looked where Røkia was pointing. There was a space on the end of one long bench, the furthest point from the high table. Varg sat without thinking. Røkia and Svik strode past him and Røkia paused, turning to look down at him.

“You have fought before,” she said to him.

“Yes,” Varg admitted, “but only with my fists.”

“Huh,” Røkia grunted.

“And with your teeth,” Svik added, his smile twitching his red beard. “As is evidenced by the teeth marks in Einar Half-Troll’s leg, and his limp.”

Varg shrugged.

Svik laughed.

Røkia walked away.

“You did well,” Svik said before he followed her.

“I fear I may die,” Varg muttered, finding it hard to even control the movements of his jaw.

“We are all born to die,” Svik called back over his shoulder.

The hall began to fill, men and women entering, all setting their shields and spears around the halls’ outskirts and taking their places on the mead benches as thralls were filling the long tables with food and drink: bowls of creamy skyr yoghurt and curds, pots of honey. Boards were full of dried and smoked sliced mutton, trenchers of rabbit and beef, slabs of whale meat and barrels of horsemeat floating in whey. Fresh-baked bread, still hot from the ovens. Dried cod, pungent and salty. Herring fermented in brine, blood pudding, cauldrons of stew glistening with fat and bobbing with carrots, parsnips and onion, and horns of warm mead spiced with juniper to wash it all down. Varg had never seen so much food and drink in all his life, the scents almost overwhelming. His stomach growled like a bear waking in his cave.

Jarl Logur sat at the high seat, barrel-chested with a belly that strained his fine-embroidered tunic. His grey hair was long and braided, gold-wire running through it. Gold hung from his neck and arms and, to Varg’s eyes, he looked like a man who laughed a lot. He was certainly laughing now, leaning to whisper into a woman’s ear, seated on his right. She was tall and elegant with an open, honest face. Her hair was plaited and piled on her head, more grey than blonde, and she wore a wool dress of deep blue, an embroidered hangerock apron over it. A tablet-weave belt jangling with keys was tied about her waist. She laughed as she pushed Logur’s shoulder away. Glornir, the bald chief of the Bloodsworn, sat on Logur’s other side. And beside him sat Vol, the tattooed Seiðr-witch, a thrall-collar tight about her tattooed neck.

Røkia and Svik strode along the mead benches, Svik swaggering as if he owned the hall, taking a seat at the long table on the opposite end from Varg, as close to Logur and Glornir on their high table as a warrior could sit. Varg saw Einar Half-Troll there, too, and the strange-looking man he had seen sparring with Glornir with the shaved head and long braid of hair.

A young man sat down with a thump next to Varg, looking to be half Varg’s age. He had a shock of black unruly hair on his head, straggly twists on his chin, and sharp blue eyes. He wore a tunic blackened with singe-spots, his hands and wrists thick.

“So, you’re the murderer,” he said.

“Murderer!” Varg scowled. “I am no murderer.”

“I heard you were being hunted for murder,” the young man said.

“It was not murder,” Varg said with a growl. “It was a fair fight, if you call four against one fair.”

“Makes no difference to me,” the young man shrugged. “You’re one of us, now.” He grinned. “Name’s Torvik,” he said, offering Varg his arm.

Varg looked at it a moment, then took it.

“Varg,” he said.

“I know your name,” Torvik said. “You’re Varg No-Sense, the madman who bit Half-Troll.”

“I don’t know why everyone keeps talking about that,” Varg muttered.

Torvik laughed, as if Varg had made a fine jest.

“Eat,” Torvik said, tearing a chunk of bread from a loaf in front of him and dipping it into a bowl of stew. “You must be ravenous as a winter-starved wolf, after being whacked and worked by Røkia all day.”

Varg didn’t need telling twice. He started with a thick slab of bread and butter, curds of cheese and salted cod. Each mouthful tasted like gold. The mead was warm and sweet, the sound of talk and laughter filling the room. Soon the pains of his body were dimming.

“Are you Bloodsworn, or one of Jarl Logur’s drengrs?” Varg asked Torvik through a mouthful of flaking fish.

“I am Bloodsworn,” Torvik said, sitting up straighter. “Well, I will be. I am a scout for the Bloodsworn under Edel.”

“Edel?” Varg asked.

“She is the scoutmaster,” Torvik said, pointing to the silver-haired woman who sat close to the high table, her hounds tearing at joints of mutton she was feeding them.

Varg nodded.

“And I am also apprenticed to Jökul Hammer-Hand,” Torvik said, pointing elsewhere in the mead hall, along the table to a broad, thick-waisted man who sat close to Svik and Røkia.

“A blacksmith?” Varg asked, looking from the man to Torvik and the scattered burns on his tunic and arms.

“Not just a blacksmith, though he is the best smith in all Vigrið,” Torvik said.

“The fastest, at least,” Varg said, “to keep the Bloodsworn’s kit maintained.”

“Aye, he is fast, as well, but look.” Torvik held out his arm and pulled the sleeve of his tunic up, revealing a twisted arm ring of silver, threaded with bronze, two hounds’ heads at the terminals. Varg sucked in a breath, it was beautifully crafted, and probably worth more coin than Varg had earned in the pugil-ring.

“What do you mean, you will be Bloodsworn?”

“I have not yet taken the oath, but I will. Glornir says all who would be Bloodsworn must prove themselves first, with some act of courage or loyalty.”

Varg nodded.

“So, we two are on the same journey,” Torvik said, smiling at Varg. “We will be like brothers,” he pronounced.

“I have no brothers,” Varg said. “Only a sister.”

“We will be like brothers,” Torvik said through a mouthful of stew. “You have a sister?” he asked.

“She is dead,” Varg said and filled his mouth with food, ending the conversation.

The mead flowed as the meal progressed, the voices of Bloodsworn and drengrs rising as sagas were told and great deeds were bragged about. A noise drew Varg’s eyes, Einar arm-wrestling three of Logur’s drengrs at the same time. Half-Troll laughed as he slammed their arms into a trencher of vegetables, and other warriors roared their approval.

Thralls flitted among the tables, clearing empty trenchers, refilling jugs and horns and bowls, Varg looking at them with an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. It was not so long ago that he had been one of them. Varg knew that where he was sitting now was the least honoured position in the hall, furthest away from the jarl, but just to be sitting at the table was almost incomprehensible to him, an honour he had never expected or thought possible. Saved by the Bloodsworn, training with them in the weapons court, eating and drinking at a jarl’s table because he was one of them. It was more intoxicating than the mead in his drinking horn and belly. He felt laughter bubbling in his throat at the absurdity of it all, but he also felt a seed of pride swell his chest.

Frøya would be amazed to see this, and proud.

Another feeling swelled in his chest, something that was almost as incomprehensible to him as his freedom. He felt a glimmer of joy.

And with that came a flush of guilt, to be enjoying himself when Frøya lay cold in the ground.

There was something else. Something that Torvik had said squirmed through his thought-cage like a maggot in rotting meat.

All must prove themselves first.

He sucked in a deep breath, frowning.

A banging: Jarl Logur was thumping on a table.

“A fine feast,” he said, as silence settled, “and skál to you all.” He raised his drinking horn to them and drank deeply.

“SKÁL,” voices cried, echoing from the rafters, as all reached for mead horns, Varg raising his own horn and drinking.

“But what is a feast without a saga-tale to stir our blood, eh?” Logur said, to more shouting and table-thumping. Logur grinned, mead dripping from his beard, and gestured to a figure standing in the shadows of a pillar. A man stepped out, holding a seven-stringed lyre crooked in one arm. Dark-haired and handsome, he wore a green tunic of wool, knotwork embroidered around the neck and hem, and silver arm rings glowing red in the torchlight.

A deep silence settled as he stepped up on to the dais.

“Galinn, the Skáld of Liga,” Jarl Logur said, “finest skáld in all the world.”

“My thanks, Jarl Logur, most generous of lords beneath the sun and moon,” Galinn said.

“Who am I to argue with famed Galinn?” Logur said with a smile, warriors chuckling. “And it is true, with half a loaf and a tilted bowl I have made me many a friend,” he added as he sat back down.

Galinn stood and looked out over the tables, then put his fingers to his lyre. Its music was sweet and melancholy, bringing to Varg’s mind the sound of water flowing, of wings beating, and then Galinn began to speak.

The Vackna rang loud,

Waking-horn bold and blaring,

In the hills ringing as red sun was rising,

Filling all Vigrið,

This Battle-Plain,

This land of ash,

This land of ruin.

Gods stirred from slumber deep,

Fell Snaka, the slitherer shed his skin, that slayer of souls.

Wolf-waking, hard-howling Ulfrir, the breaker of chains ran roaring,

Racing to the Guðfalla,

The gods-fall.

Orna, eagle-winged came shrieking,

wings beating,

talons rending,

beak biting, flesh tearing.

Deep-cunning dragon,

Lik-Rifa,

Corpse-tearer from Dark-of-Moon Hills, tail lashing as she swept low.

Berser raging, jaws frothing, claws ripping.

Gods in their war glory, Brave Svin, mischievous Tosk, deceitful Rotta,

Gods and kin, their warriors willing,

Blood-tainted offspring, waging their war,

all came to the Battle-Plain.

Death was dealt,

Red ran the rivers,

Land laden with slaughter’s reek.

There they fought,

There they fell,

Berser pierced, Orna torn, Ulfrir slain.

Cunning Lik-Rifa laid low, chained in chamber deep,

Beneath boughs of Oskutreð, the great Ash Tree.

And Snaka fell, serpent ruin, venom burning, land-tearing, mountain breaking,

cracked the slopes of Mount Eldrafell.

Frost and fire,

Flame and snow,

Vaesen clambered from the pit,

And the world ended…

And was born anew…

A silence settled, all staring at the skáld, though, if they were like Varg, all were lost on the Battle-Plain, seeing the war-hosts rage and Snaka’s fall as if they were standing there in its midst.

There was a booming on the mead hall doors: for a moment Varg thinking he was still deep in the tale, hearing the echo of drums beating, warriors screaming. Then the mead hall’s doors creaked open and a gust of cold wind swept in, setting torches flaring and crackling, its icy fingers dragging Varg from the skáld’s saga-song.

Figures stood in the open doorway: two of Jarl Logur’s warriors, clothed in mail with spears in their fists, and between them four others. One man was dressed in a fine wool kaftan and fur-trimmed cap, his breeches baggy and striped, wrapped tight with winnigas from ankle to knee. The other three, two women and a man, were clothed in coats of lamellar plate, glistening like fish-scales in the torchlight. They all wore iron helms with horsehair plumes and curtains of riveted mail to protect their necks, and carried a quiver and bowcase hanging from their belts, as well as curved swords and small bladed, long hafted axes. The man’s helm was edged with gold, and gold wire wrapped the leather hilt of his sword. They all had long, single braids coiling from beneath their helms, like the man Varg had seen sparring with Glornir.

A hawk sat upon the man’s forearm, its wings glossy and with a sharp hooked beak.

Varg remembered seeing others that resembled these people, disembarking from a ship on the docks when he had first entered Liga. A ship from far-off Iskidan, a dockworker had told him.

The noise of feasting faded, all eyes on the newcomers.

The two drengr guards escorted the visitors, until they came to a halt before the dais where the high table sat, Jarl Logur looking down upon them. The skáld Galinn had disappeared.

“Sergei Yanasson of Ulaz calls upon the hospitality of Jarl Logur,” one of the drengr guards proclaimed, and the man with the fur-trimmed hat stepped forwards and gave an elaborate bow.

“Greetings, Jarl Logur,” Sergei said. “It is an honour to stand in your mead hall. Your wealth, battle-fame and hospitality are known across the whale road, in faraway Iskidan and all the realms of the Great Khagan, Kirill the Magnificent.”

“Welcome, Sergei,” Logur said with a wave of the hand. “And dispense with the horseshite, you old fox; we have known each other too long.” Logur stood and stepped down from the dais, wrapping Sergei in his arms and squeezing him tight. When they parted Logur held Sergei at arm’s length, smiling and looking into his face.

“Why are you speaking as if we are only meeting for the first time, my friend?”

Sergei dropped his head. “You do me much honour, a humble merchant from the southlands,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I bring great and important guests from my homeland, and I wanted to make a grand entrance.”

“Ha, now that is better,” Logur said, smiling, his eyes moving to the man and women behind Sergei. “And who are these great and important people that you have brought to my hall?”

“This is Prince Jaromir, son of the Great Khagan,” Sergei said, stepping aside, “escorted by two of his druzhina, as is his right.”

“That is not such a great honour,” Torvik whispered to Varg. “It is said that the Great Khagan has two hundred concubines and a thousand children, and wherever the Khagan goes he is attended by two hundred druzhina.”

“Prince Jaromir, welcome to my hall,” Jarl Logur said, with a dip of his head and a gesture of his hand.

Jaromir unbuckled his helm and one of his guards stepped forwards and lifted it free. His head was shaved, a blond braid curling over his shoulder. He regarded Logur with piercing blue eyes, his face angular and handsome with a short, neatly cropped beard. He dipped his head to Jarl Logur.

“Forgive my arrival, unannounced,” Jaromir said. “I would have sent messengers ahead, so that you could prepare a reception worthy of me, but I have travelled with speed, and I did not want word of my arrival to precede me.” He glanced around the hall, then back at Jarl Logur.

The silence in the hall deepened; only the crackle of torches could be heard, punctuated by the hawk snapping its wings out and screeching. It made Varg jump.

“Welcome to the Battle-Plain, where the war of gods was fought and felt hardest,” Jarl Logur said. “You are welcome to my hearth fire, to my food and drink, and a seat at my table.” His smile broadened, teeth flashing. “As a humble Jarl, that is the best I can do, even for a prince of Iskidan.”

“My thanks.” Jaromir dipped his head again, a short, sharp movement reminiscent of the hawk upon his arm. “But I have not ridden across Iskidan and sailed the whale road to sit at your table and eat your food. Much as it looks… delightful. I have come—”

“You cannot have him,” a voice said behind Jarl Logur.

All turned to look at Glornir.

He was still seated, leaning back in his chair.

“What?” Logur said.

“Sulich,” Glornir said, nodding his head towards the shaven-haired warrior who sat among the Bloodsworn. “Prince Jaromir cannot have him.”

Jaromir stared at Glornir, then turned his head much like the hawk on his arm to regard Sulich, sitting in between Einar Half-Troll and Svik. Sulich did not return his gaze; instead he slowly reached out and speared a slice of smoked mutton. He put it in his mouth and chewed with apparent relish.

“Who are you, to say no to Jaromir, a son of Kirill the Magnificent, a prince of Gravka and all Iskidan?” Jaromir said to Glornir.

“Who am I?” Glornir said. “No great lord or jarl, or prince, like you. But I am chief of the Bloodsworn, and with that comes responsibility to my crew. Gold-Giver, they call me. I am sworn to provide for them, and protect them.”

“And Shield-Breaker,” Røkia said.

“Soul-Stealer,” Svik added.

“Slicer, hacker, crusher,” Einar Half-Troll said, brows knotted in a thunderous glower.

Glornir shrugged. “I have many names,” he said. “But the heart of this is that they have sworn an oath to me, and I to them. To stand together. To fight together. To live or die together. Sulich has sworn that oath, sealed it with his blood. So, you see…” He stood slowly, cracked his neck one way, then the other. “You cannot take him.”

“He has committed crimes. Great crimes that he must answer for,” Jaromir said.

“I fear you are not understanding me,” Glornir said.

One of the women behind Jaromir stepped forwards, her fist wrapping around the hilt of her sabre. “I shall take his head for his insolence, Great Prince,” she hissed.

Chairs and tables scraped as over sixty warriors stood in the hall, all of the Bloodsworn rising. Beside Varg, Torvik stood, and before he realised what he was doing, Varg found himself on his feet too.

“Hold,” Sergei cried, spreading his arms and jumping between the druzhina warrior and Glornir. “This is not the way, my prince,” he pleaded, bobbing his head. “Their ways are not our ways; we must excuse their barbarian manners.”

Jaromir looked from Sergei to Glornir.

“Hold, Ilia,” Jaromir said. “We shall take our esteemed friend Sergei’s advice.” He looked to Jarl Logur.

“My apologies,” he said to the jarl. “I do not mean to bring bloodshed to your hall. But this is a serious matter and I will see it resolved.” He looked around the mead hall. “Liga is a trading port, and it has given you all that you have, but there are finer latrine-pits in Gravka than this hall. I could be good for this town; I could be good for you, bring in a river of wealth you have never imagined, if we were to come to an agreement.”

Logur looked at him.

“I wish no bad blood between us,” the jarl said, “but the lore of our land does not support your claim. You cannot march into a jarl’s hall and make these demands. Where is your proof? Your evidence? The witness of reliable, honoured freedmen? This is a matter for the Althing.” He shrugged. “And Glornir is my friend,” he answered.

“I have evidence, and witnesses,” Jaromir said. “Think on what I have said. I shall return on the morrow with all that you ask, and I shall ask you for justice. Again. I will not ask a third time.” He turned on his heel and strode from the hall, his hawk letting out another shriek.

The doors closed with a thud and silence settled over the room.

“What an arseling,” Svik said.