Chapter Forty-Two
EINER WAVED A fly off his cheek. His father lay at the top of the funeral pyre and the winter flies buzzed around him. The southerners had stripped everything from him. Ulfberht swords were famous even in the south, so that was understandable, but they had taken everything, even the simple weapon belt Vigmer had worn since his first raid. It had not been worth anything, but it had meant a lot to his father, and it had been stolen from his warm corpse.
The eighty-nine brave warriors who had passed on with the chief lay in a circle around him. Enough had passed on to form a crew for a large longship, and had they passed on at a different time and place, they would have been sent on their way on a burning ship, but the battle with Magadoborg was close and Einer had insisted that they could not afford the sacrifice, although his father deserved to sail to Valhalla. Instead he would have to walk into the afterlife with his warriors.
At least, there had been time to heave the corpses free from Hammaborg as they made their escape, and that was something for which to be grateful. After seeing Einer go berserk, the southerners had kept a distance that had allowed for a safe retreat with both food provisions and their fallen.
The stubborn fly settled on his cheek. Einer brushed it off again, but as soon as he lowered his hand, the fly came back.
‘The chief will understand,’ Osvif reassured Einer and tapped him on the back so the fly flew off. ‘He would have done the same.’
Osvif was probably right.
‘At least the southerners won’t attack,’ Einer said. ‘They went straight for my father. They hope his death will scatter us.’
They had gone for the ships too. They had not been able to sail far up the river in their escape. The Northern Wrath had been close to sinking when Einer had given the order to dock along the river.
The time had come for Einer to assume the role of Ash-hill’s protector and to show that the warriors and other ship commanders could trust him to keep his father’s word and lead them into battle in Magadoborg against the Christians. Assuming they were willing to follow him, after his recent berserker outbreak. In one day, people who used to joke with Einer had begun to fear him, and Einer knew exactly who had fuelled the gossip.
‘Do you know where Finn is?’ he asked his friend.
‘Out on the Mermaid Scream, I think,’ Osvif answered. ‘Why?’
‘I have something for him.’ Einer turned away from his father’s funeral pyre.
He headed for the river and the long row of ships, splashed through mud and blood puddles from where they had dragged the corpses. It reminded him of the last time he had seen Ash-hill.
The wind was cold by the ships. The sound of the ropes slapping against wood and the howl of the wind was welcoming. It almost felt as if everything was as it always had been, except Einer knew that nothing would ever be the same.
The Northern Wrath was filled with chatter. A dozen ship builders were on board. The ship repairs were in full work. Had Sigismund and his warriors not hurried to the ships during the battle, the damage would have been much worse, and most of the ships would never have sailed again.
Out of all the longships, the Northern Wrath had taken the most damage; hearing the older men talk, everyone seemed to think the southerners had targeted Einer’s ship because it was the largest and most impressive of the lot. They must have thought it belonged to the chief.
Einer proceeded down the row of ships to the Mermaid Scream. Many warriors worked on his father’s old ship. Finn was standing amidships, laughing and joking with the men. He noticed Einer, diverted his gaze, pretending to be busy tying ropes.
Einer sighed and jumped onto the Mermaid Scream. With a smile, he walked past his father’s warriors to the midship, and to Finn.
‘Hei, Finn,’ he said, receiving no answer. ‘The Mermaid Scream is part of my inheritance.’ Einer peered down the length of the ship. It would take time to accept that his father would no longer command it. ‘You deserve this ship, so I gift it to you, Finn. You’ll be a ship owner and commander from today on.’
Finn scowled up at him with those cold eyes, but said nothing.
‘My father trusted you greatly. Will you hold the sacred mead?’ Einer asked, offering Finn the highest honour he was in a position to give. ‘My father would have liked a good friend to have the honour when we send him on his way.’
‘Your father didn’t consider me a friend,’ Finn snarled, as if Einer’s proposal had been a taunt.
‘He would not have chosen you as his steersman if he didn’t,’ Einer said, but Finn’s glare did not soften. ‘The ship is yours,’ Einer said. ‘I’ll inform the other commanders. See you at the funeral.’
With a decisive nod, he left Finn and the warriors on the Mermaid Scream and strolled back towards Hammaborg’s stone walls and the pyre they had built outside the city gates.
Ragnar Erikson’s funeral had been more impressive. Although Einer had given all the silver and gold rings he had, the funerary gifts were few and the send-off left much to be desired in the next life. The only riches Einer had kept was the gold bracteate that his mother had given him, with clear instructions to never part with. He was convinced the bracteate was what had saved him from the mortal wound Finn had inflicted. He had no other explanation for his quick recovery, and whenever he was hurt, the bracteate warmed his chest, as if to give him strength.
There was still time before midday when the funeral ceremony would begin, but some warriors had already gathered around the simple pyre. When Einer joined them, Old Hormod walked to the pyre. His long grey and white hair had been combed away from his face with grease to hold it in place. He walked to Einer’s father, and pulled off his own silver arm-ring.
Half a hundred summers ago, Hormod’s grandfather had gifted it to Hormod’s father, and a dozen winters ago his father had given it to Hormod before passing on himself. That ring was the most precious object Hormod owned. With a proud smile, he lifted it above his head so Odin’s two ravens might see. Then he slid the silver arm-ring that had been in his family for as long as anyone could remember onto the chief’s wrist. A present for the chief to pass onto Hormod’s son in the after-life.
After Hormod, a long row of warriors approached the pyre one by one. In their hands, they each held a drinking cup and together they lifted their gifts above their heads to display them to the gods and show how well loved these fallen warriors were. They placed a cup by each one of the ninety fallen warriors. After them, came Osvif and lifted a jug with the wine from the barrel they had raided in Hammaborg. He served the expensive wine to the chief, and then walked around to fill all the cups.
Despite the limited wealth of Ash-hill’s warriors, the pyre filled up with hundreds and hundreds of gifts, as each person in attendance left a present with one of the ninety warriors. Although the pyre had been empty that morning, by midday it overflowed with wealth. The armour and weapons Einer had scraped together were the least of the gifts.
Nine-hundred warriors gave nine-hundred gifts. Their generosity would ensure that the ninety fallen would become wealthy men in Valhalla and their investment would show itself in the afterlife. Einer knew his father would not forget a single person who had raided with them on the way to Magadoborg, and when the warriors began to arrive in Valhalla, they would be warmly welcomed.
Finally, Hilda arrived and with her came the thirty warriors from Sigismund’s ship. They came into the funeral circle two by two and each pair struggled to carry a large rock between them.
Hilda and another shieldmaiden lumped towards Einer with the largest rock between them. The warriors took their stance in formation around the pyre, making the outline of a large ship, and placed down their large stones.
In generations to come, thanks to these stones, people would know that great warriors had fallen and been honoured here, and Einer wondered how he had not thought of it himself. Many of Ragnar’s stories had used to end with the funerals of great warriors, and in many of the stories stones were placed around the pyre in a ship formation to symbolise a warrior’s worth, like the graves up in Alebu. Perhaps Hilda had been the one to think of it; after all, no matter how little she liked her father, she was the daughter of a skald.
Hilda smiled to Einer and walked to stand behind him, where only the closest family were allowed to stand. She leant in and whispered into his ear. ‘Do you want me to hold the sacred mead?’
Her question made Einer smile, truly smile, because anyone else in Hilda’s position would have made a comment about his father and relayed their sympathies, but Hilda and he knew each other so well that no such words were necessary, and he hoped they never would be.
‘Nej, I asked Finn,’ he responded. ‘I’m glad you’re here. At least for the eighty-nine others.’
‘Einer.’ Only she could say his name like that, as his mother would have, and with a voice that carried more than a dozen summers worth of memories. ‘Your father was a great man.’ She blooded her eyes, and watched him with her piercing ember stare. ‘I was angry with him,’ she admitted, ‘as were you, but I never stopped respecting him.’ She was the last person he would have expected to speak like that about his father.
He thanked her with a smile.
The blood bowl and the mead bowl were brought forth and people parted to make place for the animals, which would be sacrificed.
Uneasy, Einer scoured through the thick rows of warriors for Finn, but could not find him. The task of carrying the mead and blood bowl came with great honour and Einer would have thought Finn would have rushed to be at the funeral in time, but he had not arrived yet.
The crowd waited; ready to stomp and sing and show their support to those who had passed on. A tall man from Odin’s-gorge entered the circle of warriors. In his hands, he held hammer and chisel, and by the large stone Hilda had brought, he knelt. With fluid movements that were the work of dozens of winters, he brought forth the chisel, placed it at the very centre of the flat side of Hilda’s rock, and then he hammered.
Clang, clang, clang. The sound of the rune carver’s hammering resonated around the otherwise quiet funeral grounds. With the ninth clang, the warriors around the pyre stomped to the rhythm of the man’s hammering. A hum emerged among the warriors in a dark tone, and in the crowd to the east of the pyre, Thora’s shieldmaidens began to sing, and others picked up their chant, while the tall carver hammered the lightning-bolt shape of the rune of honour and success deep into the stone.
More warriors joined the chant and they sang to the hopeful tune of the story of creation. Nine hundred warriors stomped and sang and hummed along, and accompanying them was the clang of the rune carver’s hammer hitting his chisel.
At the opposite side of the pyre from where Einer stood, some shieldmaidens stepped aside to allow Finn to pass through and stand at the innermost part of the circle.
‘Finn,’ Einer mouthed, not to interrupt the beautiful chant, and with a smile he waved Finn towards the place of honour in the ceremony.
Finn took a step forward and glared at the singing people so a few of them stopped and the song trailed off. Coldly he settled his scowl on Einer.
‘Why should I hold that heavy bowl just because you want me to?’ Finn hissed.
The few warriors who still stomped and sang stopped, and even the tall rune carver raised his chisel to look at Finn.
‘You might have been the son of a chief, Einer,’ Finn spat, loud enough for all the nine-hundred warriors to hear. ‘But now you’re only a freeman, like the rest of us. You aren’t my leader. And neither is your father.’