Winter's Fire: (The Rise of Sigurd 2) Page 16

  Sigurd smiled. ‘I have come to ask a favour of your king. A favour for which I will pay very well.’

  A stout, big-bearded warrior who must have been this man’s son growled in the warrior’s ear and the broad man nodded, never taking his eyes from Sigurd. ‘You want a favour from a king you had never heard of until a moment ago?’ he said.

  ‘I do,’ Sigurd said.

  The man swept his gaze across the crew standing on the wharf before him and he seemed impressed by what he saw. He could hardly be anything else, Sigurd thought, for whilst they might be only half a crew they looked like war gods come down from Asgard.

  ‘Well then,’ the man said, ‘you and your friends had better come up to my king’s hall so that we may all learn what you want from Thorir Gapthrosnir. I will have my men watch your ship, not that there is anyone around to steal her.’ With that the short but impossibly wide man turned and marched back up the hill and Sigurd and his crew followed, the Danish warriors closing around them with shields and spears and reeking of woodsmoke and honey.

  Skíringssalr, the shining hall. The very moment Sigurd walked into the place there was no more wondering how it had got the name. For it was brighter inside the hall than outside in the grey day. It was a golden, blazing, flame-burnished hall the likes of which neither Sigurd nor his companions had ever seen.

  ‘Welcome to Skíringssalr,’ the square-shouldered Dane said, removing his helmet as he led Sigurd and the others past the great hearth whose flames flapped like war banners in the wind. They had left their weapons outside with the stewards, which none of them had liked doing, though they knew they must observe the custom or stand outside in the cold.

  ‘Even a Dane would not murder his own guests,’ Olaf had growled to Svein under his breath. And yet they remembered only too well that a rich farmer called Guthorm had tried to do just that, and would have too, had Floki, who was his thrall at the time, not slaughtered Guthorm and his kin before they could carry out their murder.

  ‘I will have mead brought so that we may drink to the jarl-killer,’ the man said, gesturing at the raised wooden benches lining the walls where Sigurd and his crew should sit. And then the man stepped up on to the low platform and sat in one of the big chairs beside two women: one of them a wizened old crone who could only have been his mother by how short she was, and the other an ageing beauty with the proud eyes and bearing of a queen. Her greying fair hair was intricately braided and pinned in a coil atop her head. The oval brooches pinned on the shoulder straps of her apron-skirt were the size of her fists and made of gold, and between them were several strings of glass and amber beads which glowed in the candlelight.

  ‘The crafty sod,’ Olaf mumbled, and Sigurd knew they had been tricked and that the short, broad-shouldered man was no hirðman but King Thorir himself. His hair was thinning and cropped short so that the only braid he wore was the one hanging from his chin, which would make an impressive beard if loose. But he was a man who had good, strong years still in him.

  ‘Sigurd Haraldarson, Queen Halla,’ the king said, gesturing at the younger of the two women on his left.

  ‘It is an honour, lady,’ Sigurd said.

  The queen nodded. ‘I am intrigued to know what brings you up the Viksfjord at this time of year, young Sigurd Haraldarson,’ she said.

  Now Sigurd nodded but said no more about it, knowing you did not go straight into the matter but must wait until mead was flowing and the fire’s warmth had got into the warp and weft of their tunics and breeks. Instead, he introduced Olaf and Asgot, Solmund and Svein and all his crew, which was easily enough done as there were not many of them, and he finished with Runa, at whom Queen Halla smiled with a mixture of kindness and pity. For the scar on Runa’s face was raw and livid, and she wore it with the clumsiness of a boy into his first beard fluff.

  The king had nodded to each of them in turn and even complimented Svein on his size, though he had looked a little ill at ease when Sigurd introduced Asgot, which was not unusual for men were always wary when they knew they had a godi under their roof.

  There were no hounds in the hall that Sigurd could see, but there were at least a dozen cats. The creatures were curling themselves round folks’ legs and benches, sharpening their claws on roof posts, or sleeping under tables, which had struck Sigurd as odd until Asgot muttered that the whole place reeked of Freyja seiðr.

  Pretty girls moved through the hall, filling horns and cups as the king’s hearthmen took to their benches and tables and made themselves comfortable amongst the women already in their cups, which gave Sigurd a moment to fill his eyes with this shining place. As well as the chain-hung and tall free-standing iron oil lamps you would find in any hall, there were candles everywhere. Hundreds of candles, and they were of beeswax, which accounted for the honey Sigurd had smelt on the Danes who had come down to the shore. They burnt cleanly and with little smoke because their wicks did not yet need trimming, which meant they had been lit recently, perhaps when Reinen had been spotted coming into the bay. If this king’s aim was to impress his guests then he had succeeded, for beeswax candles were rare and expensive, scarcely seen amongst the western isles. And yet they were not so rare as the fabrics which hung from Skíringssalr’s raftered ceiling, scores of them, from one end of the hall to the other, floating as lightly as summer clouds on the draughts. Only these fabrics were not white like clouds but gold.

  ‘Looks like a golden sea, upon which Óðin far-wanderer might sail his ship Skíthblathnir, which receives fair winds whenever the sail is set,’ Hagal said, which was a better description than Sigurd could have come up with.

  ‘And that’s why you’re a skald. Or used to be, anyway,’ Solmund told Crow-Song, looking up with awe at the shimmering drapes, which all but hid the dark roof timbers and hung there like the hem of some goddess’s wedding kyrtill, as Runa said, which Hagal agreed was an even better word picture than his.

  ‘Silks,’ King Thorir said, looking up at the wafting gold fabrics as though he were still in awe of them himself. The only part of the roof not festooned with this glimmering gold was that part directly above the central hearth by the smoke hole. ‘No good for keeping the cold out, but the sight alone is enough to warm a man who appreciates beauty. From across the Baltic sea. You would think it too fragile to make the journey and yet there it is, shimmering like the golden tears of Valfreyja herself.’

  That mention of Freyja as the Lady of the Slain was a good start, Sigurd thought, hoping that it hinted at King Thorir’s dedication to the goddess, which would in turn suggest he might be familiar with the Freyja Maidens whom Valgerd had talked of. Had Thorir and his men not stared at Valgerd? Perhaps there was more to their interest in the shieldmaiden than her fierce beauty.

  ‘The candles I get from Karl the king of the Franks,’ King Thorir said. ‘He sends his priests with chests full of them, thinking that he can buy me for his nailed god. For his White Christ.’

  ‘These priests say all my husband need do is let them bathe him,’ Queen Halla said. ‘He would say some words, whatever these priests told him to say, I suppose, and that would gain him entry into their god’s kingdom.’ She stretched out her arms, both palms uppermost. ‘They send us candles and ask that the king at least thinks about their offer.’

  ‘I tell him I am thinking about it,’ King Thorir said, drinking from a great horn.

  ‘And are you?’ Sigurd asked, wanting to know more about this Frankish king and the god he worshipped.

  King Thorir shrugged those massive shoulders of his. ‘As far as I can see, the Franks’ god is nothing compared with our own. A god favoured by weaklings and cowards.’ He tipped his horn towards Sigurd. ‘And yet King Karl is neither. He is more powerful than all your Norse kings put together. So you can see it is an issue I must think on. As I have been doing for many years now.’ He grinned, clearly satisfied with the arrangement he had struck with these Frankish priests. ‘Besides, this is a place of trade. Ships come here from all over, so I a
m a friend to all. It has done me no harm,’ he said, sweeping an arm out which caused one of his candles to gutter.

  ‘So you like our hall?’ Queen Halla asked Sigurd, her brooches gleaming like plunder from Fáfnir’s hoard.

  ‘I have never seen its like, lady,’ Sigurd said.

  She laughed at that. ‘You don’t look old enough to have seen much of anything, Sigurd Haraldarson.’

  ‘I have seen what the gods have chosen to show me, lady,’ Sigurd said, at which Asgot nodded for it was a good answer, saying little and yet much. And it was enough to narrow the king’s eyes.

  ‘Why did you kill this Jarl Randver? And why will you kill King Gorm?’ King Thorir asked, again pointing his drinking horn at Sigurd.

  So Sigurd told him the story, leaving out none of the gore, even telling of his days spent hanging on that tree in the fetid swamp, and the deaths of those brave greybeards from Osøyro who earned their places in Valhöll at the last, due to their pride and the fact that they had been too old to run from the fight. All in all it was a good story – everyone in that shining hall must have thought so – and one that even a skald would enjoy the telling of what with all the mention of murder and revenge and the gods. And when Sigurd had finished, King Thorir raised his mead horn in recognition of a tale well told, as the thralls began to bring bowls of steaming meat stew to his guests.

  ‘Óðin-favoured, hey?’ the king said, his mouth moving as though chewing on a thought.

  ‘So men say,’ Sigurd replied, sitting back against the wall. The telling of all that had befallen him had been tiring. And yet it had felt good laying it all out like a massive pelt for all to appreciate.

  ‘That is quite something, for I am Freyja-favoured.’ King Thorir swung his gaze on to Valgerd then, but the shieldmaiden’s face gave nothing away.

  ‘Then we both have powerful allies, lord,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Perhaps. Though it sounds as if you are in need of more allies, Sigurd,’ King Thorir said, ‘and if that is the reason why you have come here, you will be disappointed. For as I have told you, I am finding more profit in trade and taxes than in war.’

  ‘As much as I would welcome your help against King Gorm, I do not think that even with all your Spear-Danes we would be enough,’ Sigurd said. ‘No, I am not ready to feed the oath-breaker to the worms just yet. I have come here to Skíringssalr on another matter. I have heard of an island which is home to a band of warrior women, Freyja Maidens, who train for the sword-song that will ring out across the worlds of men and gods come Ragnarök.’

  King Thorir glanced at his wife then looked back to Sigurd. ‘So you had not heard of King Thorir Gapthrosnir but you know about the Maidens? Even though few men have ever laid eyes on this island you speak of?’ He looked at Valgerd again.

  ‘I told Sigurd of the Freyja Maidens, lord,’ Valgerd said.

  ‘You were one of them?’ he asked, his frown suggesting that if that were so, he did not recognize her.

  ‘My mother’s mother was,’ Valgerd said. ‘Until she left the island. The High Mother had taken a lover for herself. A young warrior who had made his reputation fighting for King Audun.’

  ‘A piss bucket king,’ King Thorir growled, for his father had more than likely fought against Audun who had been king to the north of Skíringssalr until he had fallen off his boat and drowned. That was a story which had flown far.

  ‘But this young man fell in love with my grandmother and she with him. The High Mother wanted him killed and her banished but the Prophetess forbade it. Instead she let them leave the island and even blessed their marriage.’

  ‘I remember some talk of it,’ the king said, waving a hand through the smoke. ‘What do you want with the Maidens, Haraldarson?’ There was a steel edge in his voice which was hardly surprising if, as Valgerd had said, the king of Skíringssalr was sworn to protect the island and its women warriors.

  ‘I want Runa to live on the island with these Freyja Maidens,’ Sigurd said, ‘where she will be safe.’ He gestured at the warriors around him. ‘We will follow the coast east but not until I know that Runa is out of danger. Where we are going there is bound to be fighting.’

  ‘You will raid?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Not my lands.’

  ‘Not your lands,’ Sigurd agreed. Though that promise was easier given than kept.

  ‘I see that someone has already tried to ruin your great beauty, girl,’ King Thorir said to Runa, ‘but we are thankful that they failed. I trust that your brother avenged you?’

  ‘He did, my lord,’ Runa said, turning her livid scar away from their hosts.

  For a moment Sigurd felt again the savage, hot hatred in his belly that had filled him as he killed the archer whose arrow had torn open Runa’s face.

  ‘And you would not consider an arrangement with me?’ the king said. ‘We could look after young Runa here, in this hall. She would be safe with us.’

  ‘And what would stop you coming to a subsequent agreement with my enemies, who are even now searching for me?’ Sigurd asked.

  ‘I could give you my oath,’ King Thorir said.

  Sigurd grinned. ‘In my experience, kings are no less likely to break their oaths than the thralls who empty their piss pots.’

  Thorir bristled at that, though there was a half smile on Queen Halla’s lips, Sigurd noticed.

  ‘Careful, lad,’ Olaf hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  The king looked at Valgerd. ‘You know where to find the Freyja Maidens?’ he asked.

  ‘No, King Thorir,’ she said. ‘My mother told me of their island but I have never been there.’

  ‘Ah, so you want me to show you the place, Sigurd,’ the king said.

  ‘I will pay you,’ Sigurd said.

  But the king shook his head. ‘No. I will not show you where it is. Not even if I wanted to, which I do not. For it is forbidden.’ He raised a hand before Sigurd could speak again. ‘However, perhaps I will arrange for your sister’s safe conduct to the island. For a fair price. I have business with the Maidens from time to time. I send them gifts. Mail coats. Helmets. Swords.’ He glanced up at the golden silks that were set shimmering in the draughts by the light of all those candles whose burning sweetened the usual fug of a hall. ‘I help the Maidens where I can and in return they will see that I am taken to Freyja’s hall, Sessrymnir, when the day of my death comes, and no matter the manner of it. My wife, too, will enjoy the Goddess’s hospitality.’

  ‘You would not rather be received in Valhöll, King Thorir?’ Olaf said.

  Thorir’s face darkened like a fjord where two currents meet. ‘I have sons. Fine sons. But we had a daughter once. Our beautiful Hallveig died when she was just a girl. She waits for us now in Sessrymnir. We will see her again.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Freyja willing.’

  Olaf nodded. ‘A hard loss, King Thorir,’ he said, ‘I am sorry to hear of it.’ The king nodded back before downing a belly-full of mead.

  ‘My lord, if Olaf and I may speak a moment about your offer?’ Sigurd asked, at which the king dipped his head and held out a big hand, inviting them to talk amongst themselves.

  ‘There would be nothing to stop him taking payment from us and then sending word to King Gorm or Hrani Randversson, offering them Runa for a price,’ Olaf said. ‘We would be gone up the coast and none the wiser.’

  Sigurd shook his head. ‘I will not leave without knowing that Runa is safe with these Freyja Maidens.’ As much as he was determined that his sister should not face the dangers of any coming fights, he was also reluctant to trust a Danish king he had not heard of until this very day. ‘So what do we do, Uncle?’ he asked.

  Olaf scratched amongst his beard, his eyes skimming across the faces of those gathered on the benches in King Thorir’s hall.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Sigurd asked him.

  ‘These fine sons of his,’ Olaf said. He nodded at a group of drinking men. ‘He is one without a doubt,’ he said.


  ‘What of it?’ Sigurd asked.

  ‘Perhaps the king is willing to let us . . . look after . . . one of them. For a little while.’

  Sigurd felt the smile twitch in his lips like a fish on a line. He turned back to their host. ‘King Thorir, are you certain the Freyja Maidens will take Runa and keep her safe?’

  ‘As I say, we have an understanding,’ the king said.

  ‘And if we agree on the price for your most trusted hearthmen to deliver my sister to these maidens with all haste, what will you give me, seeing as we do not yet know each other well and I will have given you payment and my own sister who is more precious to me than anything in this life?’

  The king’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want a hostage?’

  Sigurd shook his head. ‘A guarantee.’

  ‘My sons are too old for fostering,’ the king said.

  ‘I find it is the young man who thinks he knows everything that is in most need of learning that he knows nothing much at all,’ Olaf said.

  Sigurd wondered if that had been aimed at him, but Olaf gave nothing away. The king was deep in thought by the looks and even raised a hand to hush the queen, who was trying to give her opinion on the proposition.

  ‘Thidrek,’ King Thorir called and a big-shouldered man stood from his bench, dragging a hand across his mouth.

  ‘Father,’ the man replied. He was not tall but he was stout as a boar in his prime.

  ‘Could be useful,’ Olaf muttered.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ King Thorir asked the young man.

  ‘Thorberg,’ Thidrek called over his shoulder to the man who had stood beside King Thorir on the wharf and who Sigurd and Olaf had known must be the king’s son. This Thorberg half stood at his bench, spumy-bearded and frowning.

  ‘No, damn it!’ his father said. ‘Thorbiorn! Where’s Thorbiorn?’

  Thidrek shrugged those impressive shoulders, spilling mead over the lip of his horn. His brother Thorberg sat down again.