Chapter Sixteen: Varg

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

VARG

Varg woke to pain. His body ached, a throbbing in his muscles that he had never experienced before, and he had worked a farm since before he could remember, and fought in the pugil-rings. He rolled and sat up, groaned.

I hate Røkia.

Various scabs pulled where she had nicked him intentionally with her spear, and his muscles ached as if fire were flowing through his veins, his left arm and shoulder from wielding a shield for a whole day, his back, torso, legs from trying to avoid Røkia stabbing him. And his right hand was blistered from the spear shaft she had eventually allowed him to hold.

But the pain in his body was as nothing to the pain in his head. A constant, rhythmic thumping, that reached fingers down his neck and into his churning belly.

He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.

I hate mead more than I hate Røkia.

“No lamb for the lazy wolf,” a voice said.

“Huh?” Varg grunted, opening one eye.

“You’re a late riser, then,” Svik said, looming over him.

“Late?” Varg frowned, opening both eyes. The light seeping into the hall was bright, felt like it was burning into his skull. On the farm he had always risen before dawn, so in truth Svik was right, but these were exceptional circumstances. First, he had been beaten close to death by a man called Half-Troll, which didn’t happen every day, and then he had been kicked and beaten by a group of freedmen intent on chopping his hand off and dragging him fifty leagues across rocky ground. For six days he had sweated and writhed in a fever, and when he awoke he had been mocked, trained, stabbed, pushed and stabbed again by a lunatic woman with murder and contempt in her eyes. And finally, he had woken with what felt like a miniature Jökul the smith living inside his head, pounding and beating on an anvil inside his skull.

He looked up at Svik.

“What’s wrong?” Svik asked him.

“When I woke, I thought I was dead,” Varg mumbled. “And when I sat up, I wished that I was. I am never drinking mead again.”

“Ha,” Svik laughed, deep and genuine. “If I had an arm ring for every time I’ve heard that – or said it myself, for that matter – I would be rich as a jarl.”

Thralls had set fires in the hearths and hung black-iron pots over the flames, other warriors already risen from their beds of rushes around the hall’s edge, the smell of porridge and honey hanging thick in the chamber. Varg’s belly growled.

“You’re lucky Røkia is talking with Glornir, otherwise she would likely be prodding you with her spear for more training.”

“Stabbing me with it, you mean.”

“Aye, true enough,” Svik smiled.

He is always smiling, and mostly at my misfortune.

Varg tried to stand, swayed, and Svik offered his hand.

Varg frowned at it and instinctively pulled away.

“Accepting help is not a weakness,” Svik said as he grabbed Varg’s arm and heaved him upright.

Varg shrugged. “Where I come from, help would not be given, even if I asked for it.”

“You are not there any more,” Svik said, for a moment his smile gone, his eyes serious.

That will take some getting used to. Varg had never asked for help, or even thought about asking, knowing that none would be given. He had lived friendless and lonely for so long that it was just the natural state of life for him, his sister Frøya his only friend.

He looked over at Røkia, who was still standing with Glornir. Vol the Seiðr-witch had joined them, and Jarl Logur, along with his wife and a handful of his oathmen. Varg strode towards them, breathing slowly in an attempt to control the churning in his belly.

As he reached the dais he became aware of a new pressure building in his head, as if a weight were pushing down upon him. He looked up, but saw only a thick-beamed rafter, a raven sitting upon it, its black eye twinkling. Then he saw something was embedded into the rafter, something pale and long, like a sliver of bone. One end of it glinted like silver.

“I will not place you in this position.” Glornir’s voice grated like surf on a shingle beach. “You have been generous beyond thanks, already, putting up with my stinking crew drinking your mead, eating your meat and humping thralls in your rushes.”

“You are welcome always, Glornir. The Bloodsworn will always have a place at my hearth fire, whether it be for a day or for a winter.”

“We are grateful,” Glornir said, “and we will surely return. But today, we will sail with the tide. My crew are restless, anyway. They are not made for idleness.”

Logur grunted and embraced Glornir. “I shall see that you leave with full barrels and bellies,” he said. “I shall arrange it all.” And he walked away, his guards following.

His wife lingered a moment. “He means that he will ask me to arrange it all,” she said with a smile.

Glornir dipped his head to her.

“My thanks, Sälla,” he said, and then she was walking away, too.

Glornir looked up and saw Varg and frowned.

“Eavesdropping is not an admirable quality,” he said.

“I was not,” Varg said. “I… wanted to talk to you.”

Glornir gave him a flat look.

“Talk, then.”

Varg saw them all staring at him. Glornir, Røkia, Vol. Svik behind him. Edel the scoutmaster with her two hounds. Members of the Bloodsworn.

How did I come to be here? Life is sweeping me on a great wave.

“My thanks, first,” Varg said. “You saved me, from Leif Kolskeggson, for which I am grateful.”

Glornir dipped his head, an acknowledgement, but he said nothing.

“Huh,” Røkia grunted.

“You said first,” Vol said, her voice soft, a surprise coming from her hard-lined face, accentuated by blue tattoos knotting her neck and lower jaw. Below the tattoos a thrall-collar sat on her neck, though she acted like no thrall Varg had ever known. There was a confidence about her, and a dignity in her gaze. “Which means, you have something else to say?”

“I do,” Varg nodded. He closed his eyes, remembered Frøya’s face. “I have a request. A task that can only be performed by a Galdurman, or a Seiðr-witch.” He opened his eyes and looked only at Vol, now.

“What task?” Vol asked him.

“An akáll.”

Vol clicked her tongue. “That is no simple task,” she said. “To relive the last moments of a life…”

“I know, but it is… everything, to me.”

“You need—” Vol began.

“No,” Glornir grated, interrupting.

Varg looked from Vol to Glornir.

“I was told that Vol worked her craft for the Bloodsworn. That is what Svik told me. That the only way for her to undertake this task for me was if I became one of the Bloodsworn.” Varg looked accusingly at Svik, who shrugged.

“This is a truth,” Svik said, his infuriating smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

“And I am Bloodsworn,” Varg continued, looking to Glornir now. “You said the words yourself, to Leif Kolskeggson. Or should Liar be added to the many names of Glornir Gold-Giver?”

Hisses, indrawn breath, from Røkia and others in the hall. Dark looks.

“You are not Bloodsworn, yet,” Glornir said.

Varg scowled. “Then why did I fight Einar Half-Troll, get myself beaten to a pulp? Get stabbed and abused by her?” He jabbed a finger at Røkia. She smiled back at him, a cold smile that set his blood thrumming, anger rising.

“And why did I save your life, when Leif stood over you with a cleaver and named you murderer?” Glornir said quietly.

“I am no murderer,” Varg said slowly, controlling the anger he felt bubbling in his veins.

“So you say,” Glornir replied, “and I shall know what you are soon enough. But answer my question. Why did I save your life?”

Varg blinked, emotions swirling, confusion and anger mixing within him.

“I don’t know,” Varg breathed. “Svik said it was because I bit Einar…” He trailed off, realising how ridiculous that sounded.

“I saved you because you have potential,” Glornir said. “You have a foot in the mead hall, but you are not yet one of us. To be Bloodsworn is an honour, and one that is not undertaken lightly. We do not allow just any warrior with fast fists to become one of us. You have to have the right… qualities. Skill in battle. You lack weapons craft, yes, but Røkia tells me you are fast and have balance, and a warrior’s spirit. We saw that when you fought Einar. Courage and strength are necessary to be one of us, obviously, but you must have more than that. You must have the right qualities here.” He stepped forwards and prodded Varg on the forehead. “And here.” A finger poking his chest, over his heart. “Loyalty, devotion unto death. Do you possess those qualities?” Glornir shrugged. “Time will be the judge. Until then, think of yourself as an apprentice. We will teach you, feed you, protect you. In return you will learn, you will obey, you will fight. And then…” Glornir smiled, which changed his face. “We will see.” He sniffed, wrinkled his nose and looked Varg up and down, at his blood-crusted, sweat-stained tunic, the grime and dirt on his skin.

“Here,” Glornir said, reaching inside a belt-pouch and handing him a small bag. It chinked with coin. “Buy yourself some kit. If not we’ll most likely be putting you in a barrow after your first scrap, not listening to your oath. And we sail with the tide, so be quick at it.”

Varg looked at the bag.

“Don’t be a fool,” Svik said. “Take it.”

Varg did. “My thanks,” he muttered, and then Glornir was walking away. Vol looked at him a long moment, then followed Glornir.

“Glad we’ve got that cleared up,” Svik said, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let’s go and spend that coin.”