CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A TALE FOR BATTLE’S EVE
“It was the season of the ax. The season of the sword. The hour of the tempest. The hour of the wolf. It was Ragnarók, the last battle, and it shattered the earth.”
Sky paused, taking a deep breath, leaning forward, framing his face in flame light. In his own life, he had never been a storyteller. But Bjørn was.
He had already told of the three-year winter, the famine in the land, all bonds of kinship shattered as mothers snatched crusts from daughters’ mouths, as father slew son, and son, father. But Bjørn knew the part of the tale his listeners truly wanted to hear—of the fall of the gods, before their most terrible foes. And now Sky gave it to them.
“Dawn came, and the gods’ golden rooster crowed in Asgard. Yet now, for the first time, a rival challenged him, from the depths of the world—a cockerel, soot-black, calling from the gates of Hel itself. And in that instant, the earth was split in two. Yggdrasil, the tree of life, was gnawed through at the roots by the dragon Niddhog. And as the Life Tree toppled, the Norns, who had spun the threads of wyrd from the beginning of time, ceased their spinning. In that moment, every barrier that separated the nine worlds crumbled.”
Sky had a hand on a stick. Now he thrust it deep into the fire. “Surt,” he cried as sparks flew high and men jumped back from them, “ruler of the realm of flame, led his fire demons screaming down upon the world. From frozen Jotunheim, the Frost Giants blasted forth hail and storm, unleashing trolls and ice monsters to ravage the land. Deep down, far beneath the crust of the world, Hel’s gates split asunder, and all the evil that they had held back from the world now burst in.” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “While in the North a dreadful longship set sail. It was made entirely from the fingernails of the dead, and Loki, the Trickster God, was at its helm. He steered straight for Asgard, vengeance pumping the black heart he clutched between his teeth…his own!”
“Holy Father protect us!”
It was the abbot who cried out. The churchman had mocked the tale, when it was first begun, as nothing but pagan nonsense, a story to frighten children alone. But Sky could see he was as caught as any, as frightened. And the look of terror on his face made some others laugh.
“Peace, Leofric.” The king reached over and pushed the cleric’s jaw up. “And put your own heart back in its rightful place.”
More laughter. Sky smiled, rode it out. He was quite pleased with his new addition of the black heart to an old tale. And he had learned—Bjørn knew—laughter was rarely a bad thing. It relaxed the listeners—for the true horrors to come! He waited a moment—not all Harold’s court, gathered round his fire, spoke Norwegian, and someone was translating Bjørn’s tale as he went. When the murmuring stopped, he spoke again.
“As the earth was broken, so were all the fetters that had ever bound monster. And of these monsters, the worst, the most terrible, were the wolf Fenrir and his brother, the dragon Jormungand. Both had waited a thousand years to take revenge upon those who had chained them. Now, with slavering jaws spread wide, they bounded toward their enemies.”
Sky had dropped his voice, and people leaned closer in to him. It was time for the heroes.
“But from Asgard’s gates, Odin, the All-Father, burst, leading the Aesir gods and the vast host of the greatest warriors who had ever lived; who, since their deaths in battle, had feasted by night and fought by day in Valhalla, awaiting the trumpet that would summon them at this hour of need. Each was armed with spear or sword or blood-ax according to his will. Each had a helm of impenetrable iron, each a coat of mail forged in the fires of Darkalfheim. And on each warrior’s back was a shield edged in iron, blazoned with their marks—Dragon! Stag! Bear!”
Sky named the insignia of the leaders—Harold’s Dragon of Wessex, his two brothers’ beasts. Noted the recognition in men’s eyes before he went on. “Odin, riding his eight-footed stallion, charged straight at Fenrir the Wolf, whose jaws were so vast they stretched from the vault of heaven to the flattest plain and still had not opened to their full. The All-Father bent back, hurled his spear, Gungnir—the spear that never misses its mark—but it just vanished down the throat of the terrible beast and did not slow him. In the next moment, with one snap of his jaws, Fenrir swallowed horse and god and all!”
“All-Father!” came a shocked whisper. And the scowl the abbot gave made Sky smile. These English had been followers of the White Christ for ten generations. More. But not everyone had forgotten the old gods, it seemed.
He raised his voice again. “Odin’s son, Thor, could not help him. All alone he strove against the flame-belching dragon, crashing blow upon blow on its scaly head. No creature had survived even one strike of his mighty hammer, Mjolnir, before. On and on he smote, a giant smith at a fiery anvil. In the end the monster perished. Yet as it exhaled, its dying breath carried all the pestilent gases that had brewed in its hundred stomachs. Nine steps Thor stumbled back—and on the ninth, the terrible poison choked him, and he fell.”
“Thunder God!” came from several voices, and Sky was not sure that the abbot was not one of them.
His voice deepened. “On the Plain of Vigrid—a hundred miles broad and long and every inch filled with warrior or monster—the armies stood toe to toe, shield to shield, and fought. The corpse mound grew, rising to flesh mountains, and still the fight went on. But then, at the last, two Frost Giants dressed in the skins of wolves reached up and plucked from the sky both the blood-red sun and the sword-slashed moon. The darkness was infinite.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The world was no more. Ragnarók had come.”
“But what then?” It was definitely the priest who gasped his appeal, but no one laughed at the irony now. They were too intent on Bjørn’s face.
“Then?” Sky looked around at the faces of the Englishmen, the king and his brothers, his nobles and guards. Each bore the same rapture, the same question. “Then, Ragnarók was gone, taking with it the rule of the Aesir gods. The dark held the world…for an age and a day. Until there came the smallest glimmer of light within the infinite black. And the sun rose again.” A sigh came, which he topped. “Seeds sprouted, trees bore leaves, eagles flew over the world and spied on rivers once more filled with fish. And from the twisted roots of fallen Yggdrasil, two creatures who had sheltered there from the terrible storm emerged. Lif and Lifthrasir—‘Life’ and ‘Will to Live.’ Golden-haired, strong of limb, he was shaped like a hunter, she like the fairest of milkmaids. And their children would fill the world.”
If Sky had been telling such a story in his own time, he’d have said, “The end.” But Bjørn knew better. He simply bowed and stepped back.
The priest, recovered now, could contain himself no more. “You see, my king and nobles. It becomes the story of creation as told by our holy book. Adam and Eve and the Garden. The pagans just stole our story.”
Harold took his time to speak. Sky knew he was the leader of a Christian land and fought under the White Christ’s cross, that he prayed each night and day. But Sky could also see that the king’s eyes shone with his story, and he was proud. “Undoubtedly, Leofric. God’s word is the only true one.” He nodded at the amens that followed. “Still, what a battle that was! I’d almost trade a day in paradise for a blade in my hand on Vigrid field.”
“My lord king—”
A raised hand stilled the abbot’s further protest. “But we have our own battle to fight tomorrow, and only a few hours left to pay our debts to God and sleep both. So God’s night to you all.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the men in the circle dispersed to find what rough bed they could make. But as Sky turned to go, Harold called him. “Your fee, skald,” he said, and pulled a large silver bracelet from his arm.
Sky raised his hands. “Tomorrow, my king, is when payment falls due.”
Harold smiled. “That will be for your arrows. This is for your words.”
Sky bent forward, grasped the silver ring. But Harold didn’t release it. For a moment the night diminished to just the two of them, joined across the circle, and the king’s voice came in a whisper. “You’ve seen something, haven’t you, rune reader? About tomorrow.”
Startled, Sky took a step back. But he found he couldn’t let go of the bracelet. Silver still bound them as Harold bent his head closer to hear. He had to speak. “Lord King, I…I have seen nothing…clearly, I…”
It was true. Sky knew the history—Harold fell, some said to an arrow in the eye, at the end of a long and bloody day. But he also knew Sigurd was there to change that history. If he succeeded, this man, whom Sky had grown to like and admire in the two-week march from the North, would live and rule. This man, who believed in the power of the runes and the walking of Fetches, would be king and shape his land in his own image. But if Sky could stop his grandfather, as he must strive to do…this man would die.
“Will you read the runes for me a last time, Bjørn Thorkellsson?”
Sky-Bjørn had cast the stones he’d carved on the journey down a few times for the king. He’d predicted a successful hunt for provisions, another son to be born to Harold’s mistress. Now there was only one thing the king wanted to know. And Sky-Bjørn could not tell him. “Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered, “but I cannot.”
It seemed an age that Harold held him there—with silver, with the power in his eyes. “Well,” he said softly, finally. “We shall know what you have not seen clearly soon enough, Norseman. Till then, we must put our trust in God.” He smiled slightly. “And accept whatever wyrd has written for us both this day.”
He let go of the bracelet. Sky stumbled back, bowed. The king turned and, without another look, disappeared into the darkness beyond the firelight.
Sky turned the other way…and ran into Kristin. Bjørn’s brother had sat in the shadows behind him, listening. Now she spoke. “Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“Tell that story.” She fell into step beside him. They had found a small yew tree whose branches gave some shelter and had left their meager goods beneath them.
“The king asked me for a tale.”
“You could have refused.”
“Maybe. But Bjørn couldn’t.”
Kristin stopped, held his arm. “You are not the same. I feel like Ingvar, sure, but—”
“I am the same.” They were beyond the range of any fires and the waxing moon was hidden behind clouds. He could barely see Ingvar’s tall shape. “I don’t know how it is for you. But I’ve…melded with Bjørn in some way now. I haven’t displaced him entirely. I’m never sure which of us is speaking, acting. I’ve become him—and he’s become me.” He closed his eyes. “And I’m not sure what we’ll do now. What terrible things we’ll do.”
“Terrible?”
He reached for her, turned her so they both could gaze at other, distant fires. “There,” he said. “There, in the Norman camp, Sigurd waits. We don’t know exactly how…but he’s planning on changing the course of history tomorrow. And part of me—Bjørn in me—wants him to. And Sky in me too. I want Harold to win! And yet I can’t let him! Alter history on a scale like that and what will happen to the world we know?”
“It will be changed. Utterly. Totally.” She bit Ingvar’s lip. “But have you wondered if it might change it for the better?”
“Every moment of every day.” Sky shivered. “But we can’t take on the gods’ role. It’s not up to us to bring about Ragnarók, just because Sigurd thinks we should. But he’s grown so powerful. He seems to always have powers we haven’t even dreamed of yet. I’m…I’m not sure we can stop him. All I know is that we have to try—and that the price is going to be the highest we’ve ever paid.” He closed his eyes. “We don’t need the runestones to tell us that.”
“‘We,’” she echoed. “Is that you and me or you and Bjørn?”
“Both. You and Ingvar too. All four of us. Confusing, isn’t it?” He squeezed the shoulder he still held. “Will you help me do the right thing?”
“Which is?”
Sky sighed. “I wish to God I knew. To gods!”
After a moment’s silence, she spoke. “I’m with you, Cousin Sky. Brother Bjørn. We said it before in the mountains. ‘All the way.’ Whatever the cost.” He could see her hand rise up, gesturing to the enemy’s firelight. “And Sigurd’s not the only one who’s grown powerful. Remember that. Tomorrow…he’s going to have to watch out for us!”