BRYNHILD KEPT HER word. The next morning she arrived at the gates of Geneva, accompanied by a contingent of her Valkyrjur warriors.
Hagan felt as though his eyes had been rubbed with handfuls of sand. His thighs and calf muscles ached from his exertions of the previous night. He had had very little sleep. Wodnas’ warriors had taken a long time to give up their hunt. At last however, Wodnas had called the prospective Raven Warriors back to the track, no doubt to deliver the bad news that they had not passed the test, and the company had moved off down the track.
After waiting a prudent amount of time Hagan had clambered down from his perch. When the company had at last moved off, Hagan had clambered down from the tree. Any hope of tracking Gunhild and the others to the treasure was long gone and there was little left to do but to get back to Geneva. This meant another gruelling run. He could not take the chance of getting back after Gunderic, Gunhild and Sigurd as they would most likely lock the trapdoors behind them, leaving him stuck outside the city walls. The sun was up as he had crawled into bed and it seemed to Hagan like he had only closed his eyes when the trumpets began blaring in the square outside his room, announcing the arrival of Brynhild and her entourage.
He had to admit he was impressed by the Valkyrjur. Unlike the expensive war gear of the Burgundars, their armour was repurposed, repaired or improvised. Still, it was well-maintained and fit for purpose. It was meant for use rather than show. The company of riders all wore leather jerkins and mail shirts, visored iron helmets, leather riding britches, and greaves to protect their lower legs from blows from the ground. Each trooper bore a long spear – a lancea – and had a great round shield slung across her back. The shields were all painted with the rune of Tiwass, the one Hagan had seen the cross on the church in Geneva twisted into, except Brynhild’s riders bore it upside down, which Hagan knew some saw as a symbol of death. They had decorated their helmets with the black feathered wings of birds – ravens and crows by the look of it, one nailed to either side. The women’s eyes were surrounded by black paint so the visors of their helmets looked like the hollow eye sockets of a skull. Each rider wore the pelt of an animal – a bear or a wolf – around their shoulders as a cloak. Their long hair was worn in braids down their backs. Some of them had bones woven through their tresses.
‘I don’t know about you,’ Hagan said to Zerco who stood beside him as they watched the riders file through the gates of the city, ‘but I’ve never seen such fearsome women.’
‘I find them exciting,’ Zerco said, licking his lips. ‘They’re magnificent. So proud and haughty. And with a hint of danger. Though to look at them you’d think they were coming to a funeral rather than a wedding.’
‘I’d steer clear of them if I were you, Zerco,’ Hagan said. ‘I doubt they will stand much for your lecherous ways. The way your hands wander you’re likely to get them chopped off.’
The procession made its way to the centre of Geneva where Gunderic’s hall stood. The king, his sister and Sigurd, as well as all the members of Gunderic’s council stood waiting. Everyone was dressed in their finest clothes: long robes, tunics and dresses embroidered with gold and silver threads. Even Wodnas was wearing a new tunic and a blue cloak that reached to his knees. Despite this he was still barefoot.
A company of Wodnas’ Raven Warriors and another of Burgundars, all decked out in polished armour and spotless cloaks, were lined up across the square. Beyond them, ordinary folk had come out to see the spectacle unfolding in the middle of their city.
In a makeshift pen nearby, a great brown bull snorted and kicked at the wooden boards that confined it. Just in front of the pen was the wide, flat stone Hagan had noted on his first arrival in the city. A long-handled axe rested against the side of the stone and a large, copper bowl sat on top of it.
‘Hail, Brynhild,’ Gunderic said. ‘You are most welcome to our city.’
‘I’m so glad to see you again,’ Gunhild said, smiling at her old friend.
Brynhild looked at both of them and made a little bow of her head. She unlaced her helmet and took it off.
‘I have come as I agreed to,’ she said.
Wodnas stepped forward and raised the spear he used as a staff.
‘Hail, Brynhild,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Ruler of the ice realm. I too am glad you have come. You do the right thing. Uniting these two realms will make one almighty one.’
‘Thank you, All Father,’ Brynhild said with a wistful smile. ‘If you approve of this then I am happy to go through with it. I submit my will to your wisdom. When you and your folk stayed with us in our realm, before you came here, you taught us the value of the old ways and the traditions we had lost.’
‘Then you will be comfortable with our marriage ritual,’ Gunderic said. ‘It will be presided over by Wodnas and the Lady Freya and blessed by the Sword of Tiwass. Normally I would preside at a noble marriage but I cannot do that at my own wedding.’
‘I know the Lady Freya well too,’ Brynhild said, smiling warmly now as she nodded to the woman with the cat on her shoulder standing beside Wodnas.
Hagan noticed the blonde-haired woman who had stood beside Brynhild at the edge of the farther precipice rode beside her.
‘So shall we get on with it?’ Brynhild said.
‘If you wish to prepare and don your wedding clothes we have hot water for you and your company,’ Gunderic said.
Brynhild smirked. The women around her laughed.
‘We have no desire to deck ourselves out to please the gazes of men,’ Brynhild said.
‘There is no shame in having some pride in your appearance,’ Gunhild said. ‘We have dresses and robes as well if you wish to borrow them.’
‘We are in our finery already,’ Brynhild said. ‘Our war gear is our proudest attire. I shall prepare my hair though.’
Brynhild dismounted, as did all her Valkyrjur. The blonde-haired woman took off her helmet and Hagan saw the black paint around her eyes was smeared and streaked down her cheeks as if she had been crying.
‘Greta will be my wedding maid,’ Brynhild said.
‘I thought I could be your wedding maid,’ Gunhild said. ‘We are old friends.’
Brynhild just shook her head. Greta, the blonde woman, approached Brynhild and began to arrange her hair. She split her one braid into three then wound them around the top of Brynhild’s head so they made an arrangement like a crown. When she was done, Greta smiled and kissed Brynhild on the cheek. Hagan spotted Gunhild casting a concerned look at her brother. Gunderic seemed unconcerned or oblivious.
Brynhild turned to address her troop of horse warriors.
‘I do this because I swore an oath that I would marry the man who met the challenge of courage I set,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘If I broke my word I would be nothing in your eyes and lose your respect. Why would you follow me if you cannot trust in my pledges?’
She paused.
‘And I also do it because with the help of the Burgundar War Horde I can keep my people safe,’ she then said. She lifted her head and spoke even louder. It was clear that this message was directed at the wider crowd in the square. ‘The Alemanni and the Huns threaten us and mine is too small a realm to stand against them alone. Together we shall be stronger.’
She turned around once more.
‘Let us get started,’ she said.
‘Very well,’ Gunderic said. He signalled to some of his warriors who lifted up some ropes that lay on the paving slabs of the square. The bull in the pen stopped kicking and began to bellow with rage. Heaving like a tug of war team the warriors pulled on the rope. As they stepped backwards the bull’s head, to which the rope was attached, was drawn out of the pen and over the large flat stone. Its protests became high-pitched and strangled as the noose tightened around the creature’s neck.
Gunderic lifted the long-handled axe and Hagan realised just what the brown stains on the rock he had seen on his first arrival in Geneva actually were. The bull let out one more cry as Gunderic raised the axe above his head in both hands.
‘I give you to Tiwass!’ the king shouted.
Then he brought the axe down on the back of the bull’s neck.
It was a mighty blow. The polished blade severed the bull’s spine and almost decapitated it completely. Its bellowing stopped dead. The creature dropped to the ground as if all the bones in its legs had turned to water. Bright crimson blood welled up from the wound and gushed all over the stone below.
Wodnas stepped forward, manoeuvring the copper bowl to catch as much of the blood as possible as Gunderic, panting from the sudden exertion, set the axe down beside the stone again.
Wodnas lifted the copper bowl by its handle. It was now brimming with hot blood, its coppery smell mingling with that of the bowl itself.
‘Come, Gunderic,’ Brynhild said, a wistful smile on her lips. ‘We shall be married.’
She held out her hand. Frowning, Gunderic took it, then he strode off, determined to be seen as the one leading the way across the square to the Hov, the building that had formerly been the church of Geneva but was now a pagan temple. Gunhild and Sigurd followed them, then Wodnas, Lokke, the lords of the Burgundar clans and Hagan and all the rest of the Royal Council. A contingent of the senior leaders of the Burgundar War Horde and Brynhild’s Valkyrjur fell in behind. They all jammed into the building. Any remaining space was taken up by Burgundar nobles and other important folk.
The crowd of ordinary people pushed forward but Gunderic’s warriors formed lines around the edges of the square to keep them from swarming around the Hov.
As they were entering a sacred space, all weapons had to be left outside. The warriors and nobles all set spears, swords and shields against the walls. Hagan noticed that Sigurd carried the sword Tyrfing as usual and wondered if perhaps as it was the sword of a god it was acceptable to bring it into the temple.
For a moment when he entered the former church Hagan thought he was stepping back into his childhood. His memories of the former, pre-Christian customs of his folk were dim, more like dreams than recollections. Now however, the smell of smouldering herbs that hung in the air and gloomy interior of the building, lit only by the flickering flames of torches, brought much of it rushing back.
The building, an old Roman basilica, retained its overall tall, narrow shape, but the interior no longer resembled a Christian church. At the far end, on the raised platform where the priest and choir once would have stood, there were now four very tall wooden statues carved from the trunks of trees. They were images of the Gods: Tiwass, Nerthus, Ingwass and Thunerass. The Sky, the Earth, the Folk and the Storm. They had snarling lips, gnashing teeth and almond-shaped eyes that glared down on the congregation in fierce domination. The walls were draped with long tapestries covered with embroidered scenes from myth and legend.
Before the Gods, a great round fire pit was sunk into the stone flags of the floor. In it blazed a fire that, Hagan recalled, was never supposed to go out. It symbolised the spirit of the Burgundar folk and it was the duty of all to keep it alight.
The alter still stood but all crosses and Roman writing had been chiselled off or painted over. There were runes carved into it now and painted. Its flat top had been sheeted over with iron. Instead of a chalice there was a great silver arm ring set on it, and a short tree branch which Hagan knew was from an ash tree, the tree from which all men were supposed to have been born.
Now he thought of it, the last time Hagan had been in a Hov was for a wedding too, when his aunt had been married. King Gundahar himself had presided over that ceremony. Hagan could not help noticing that the Hov had the same sort of atmosphere now as then: hushed but bubbling with an undercurrent of animated chatter, reverent of the sacred surroundings but excited about the occasion.
Freya, the one they called ‘The Lady’, entered through the main doors. She was dressed in a long blue hooded robe that sparkled as she walked. Hagan knew this was due to little shells and pieces of glass that were sewn into the material and caught the firelight as she moved. She had a long metal staff that looked like a distaff in one hand. Her cat trotted behind her. Behind her came eight of her hellrūnes in pairs, side by side, all dressed the same as her. They marched to the top of the Hov and fanned out into a semi-circle before the statues of the Gods, facing the congregation.
Wodnas followed the women, carrying the bowl of steaming blood before him. He set it on the altar and the women behind him began to chant in a loud, raucous manner that took Hagan by surprise with its volume. Their words echoed around the vaulted ceiling high above. Hagan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he recognised the Galdr and the Ward-Lock from the days of his childhood, sacred prayers that called down the favours of the good spirits and held off those of the bad. Two of the women beat goatskin drums, enhancing the rhythm of the chanting.
Gunderic and Brynhild stood before the altar. Sigurd stood to the right of Gunderic and Greta stood on the left of Brynhild. Gunhild was behind all of them. Wodnas nodded to Sigurd, who unstrapped his sword and laid it on the iron top of the altar.
The women’s chanting rose to a crescendo then ceased. In the silence that followed Wodnas began pronouncing the ancient words of the marriage ritual. Gunderic handed Brynhild a ring. After that Wodnas picked up the silver arm ring and passed it to them. Brynhild held one side while Gunderic held the other, and they swore oaths that they would be faithful to, care for and look out for each other until one of them was dead.
Wodnas then set the ash branch into the bowl of blood. He picked up the sword Tyrfing, still sheathed, turned around and held it aloft in his arms.
‘Great Tiwass, fertile Ingwass and thundering Thunerass,’ he cried to the watching statues. ‘Accept the blood and spirit of the bull we have sacrificed to you and bless this union, not just of two people, but of two realms. Let them weather the coming storm and prosper as free peoples in the future.’
He turned around again and laid the sheathed sword first on the shoulder of Gunderic, then on the shoulder of Brynhild. Hagan remembered the sword was drawn at his aunt’s wedding, but then also remembered the curse of Tyrfing that Sigurd had scornfully told him of. Wodnas and the others took this legend very seriously, it seemed.
The one-eyed man then set the sword back on the altar. He picked up the ash branch and flicked it at the bride and groom, sending a shower of bull’s blood over them to speckle their faces and clothes.
‘Blessings on you,’ Wodnas said. ‘Brynhild, you are now the wife of Gunderic. Gunderic, you have entered the house-bond: it is now your duty to serve the needs of your wife.’
Cheers erupted from those watching, though mostly from the Burgundars and not Brynhild’s Valkyrjur. However Hagan did spot the ghost of a wistful smile cross Brynhild’s lips.
The newly married couple turned. Hand in hand they walked back down the aisle of the Hov, the crowd of onlookers parting to let them through. Wodnas walked behind them, the bowl of blood in one hand, the ash branch in the other. As they walked to the door he flicked showers of blood on the onlookers, conferring the good luck of the blessed blood on all it fell upon.
Hagan and the others followed them. The cheers of the onlookers echoed around the building.
‘It seems our folk are pleased with this union,’ Gunderic said to Brynhild. He was grinning broadly. ‘If you think this is loud, wait until you hear the people outside.’
He pushed open the doors. To everyone’s surprise they were not met with a wall of cheering from outside. In fact there was just silence, a silence which washed into the former church and caused the cheers of those inside to die in their throats.
There was a horseman sitting mounted in the middle of the city square, beside the blood-splattered sacrificial stone. He wore the uniform of a Roman Army messenger.