FIVE

‘Astrid! Time to be up!’ It was Bekkhild, of course. Who else could sound so annoying, so early in the morning? ‘We’ve got so much sewing to do!’

A few moments later, Astrid slunk out of the hall. She hoped that, amid the general morning bustle, no one would notice Bekkhild’s whines until she was well away. Her foot still throbbed from where she’d kicked the girl’s shins, but it was a small price to pay for such an immense feeling of satisfaction.

She emerged into brilliant sunlight: the second day of spring was more awash in promise than the first.

Fat chance of me sitting around sewing, she thought. If Leif’s going to watch the wolf hunt, then so am I, and I’d like to see anyone try and stop me.

She paused, thinking of how she was in fact always stopped on these occasions. If Leif saw her hoisted over Knut’s shoulder like a sack of straw, and tossed back in the hall, she’d never live it down. No; this called for subtler tactics.

‘Ah, Astrid, there you are.’ It was Haralt. She groaned. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working on the new tapestry for the great hall?’ he said. ‘You know – to replace the one Knut threw up over at midwinter and they couldn’t get the stains out.’

‘Er …’ She was caught, fair and square.

‘Me? Throw up? I don’t remember that.’ It was Knut, strolling from the stables, leading a harnessed stallion.

Haralt turned to him. ‘I’m not surprised, since you passed out a moment later!’

‘Me? Pass out? I don’t remember that.’

This was Astrid’s chance. As her brothers began to argue, she slipped into the now deserted stable block. Good: no one had noticed. Hestur was alert, champing, aware that something was up. Tearing strips from a discarded rag, she bound them tight around his hoofs to muffle their sound. There. He was snow-white, her cloak was dark as a tree trunk – with luck, they’d blend in with the forest.

A mewling came from the darkness of the stall. It was Valvigs, her gyrfalcon, tethered to his perch. Astrid’s heart went out to the beautiful white bird – her best friend, after Hestur – and she slipped the leather jesses from the perch to her wrist. He’d never forgive her if she left him behind: Valvigs hated being shut up for the winter every bit as much as she did.

‘Just keep quiet, all right? If you go blowing our cover, then no mice for you for a month!’

Then she waited for her brothers to end their quarrel, the words carrying clear to where she hid.

‘Well,’ said Haralt, ‘and where are your beaters? Your nets?’

Knut spat loudly. ‘Real men don’t need nets. Besides, I’m not sure Thorbjorn and the rest would know what to do with them; I’d spend half my time untangling my own men. No: spears and sharp senses are all we need, isn’t that right, lads?’

A chorus of gruff cheers told Astrid the hunt was assembled.

‘But surely,’ Haralt persisted, ‘some kind of system …’

‘You speak more like a Christ-man than a true Dane, brother! But you’ll learn in time. Which is just what I’ve not got: any more time. Thorbjorn, is everyone ready?’

‘Aye, sire!’ She knew the speaker: he was Knut’s right-hand man. Big. Brave. A little dim.

‘And, Leif, have you got that horse facing the right way yet?’

‘I’m working on it, lord,’ came the reply.

‘Then we ride!’

The troop thundered out of the yard, sweeping south towards the forests where she’d met the wolves the day before. Astrid peered round the stable door, waiting for Haralt to storm off – it would never do to be caught a second time, especially with her brother smarting from Knut’s careless words.

When all was clear, she swung herself lightly into Hestur’s saddle, settled Valvigs on her wrist, and sped after the vanishing hunt.

Astrid dismounted as quietly as she could, looping Hestur’s bridle round a young birch and then flattening herself against its trunk. A few trees away were the group: a dozen burly warriors … and Leif.

‘We’ll leave the horses here, and hunt on foot,’ Knut was saying. ‘Oh, Leif, I see you’re a step ahead of me!’

She sniggered: not for the first time, the boy had fallen from his horse. Not that he was the only one having trouble keeping his seat; all the beasts were snorting, tossing their heads, half trying to buck their riders from the saddle. What was it they could smell on the chill spring wind?

Knut led off his hunting party, leaving a man behind to guard the horses. Astrid felt a pang at abandoning Hestur. ‘But let’s face it, you weren’t that much use yesterday, were you?’ she whispered. ‘I’ll make you a hot mash later, for your patience.’ And she crept off after them, the falcon on her arm, padding lightly between the thickening trees.

She felt at home here. The northern sky, cut into shards by still-bare trunks, was hard and bright as sapphire, the rolling ground a soft blanket of white. You could imagine the forest going on forever, with never a wall to close you in.

But it didn’t last. The more she crept uphill towards the gorge, the darker it became. A dank grey mist was rising from the ground.

Soon she had trouble keeping the others in sight. Soon, it was like walking through cold porridge. This was never a natural mist.

Astrid was quite alone. The crack of a branch underfoot went right through her. Which way was she to go?

If she let her eyes drift, she could see shapes. Figures. Grey forms lurking in the corners of her eyes that would dart away when she turned. Not quite people, not quite animals. Beings made of mist, of magic, of her imagination.

That didn’t make them any less frightening.

Silence; total silence. Even the sound of her own breathing was swallowed in greyness.

A dozen wolves could be watching her through the fog, and the first she’d know of it would be fangs ripping out her throat.

And then Valvigs erupted off her wrist: a shocking noise and flurry of wings, tumbling her to the ground. By the time she’d picked herself up, heart hammering, the falcon was nowhere to be seen.

Astrid took a few steps in what she thought was the way she’d come. Then she stopped.

Surely, those were other footsteps, other twigs cracking, a little way off. Or maybe ‘footsteps’ was the wrong word …

She drew her knife, more for comfort than from a belief it would really help, and hurried on. There was something keeping pace with her, a steady pad pad pad, somewhere out there, in the mist.

No, not keeping pace – coming closer.

She ran, not caring where she went, tripping over roots and blundering into branches. The unseen thing was gaining – it was ahead of her – and with an impact that drove the breath from her body, she ran right into –

‘Leif?!’ She was furious. ‘I could have stabbed you! Why didn’t you call out?’

‘Astrid?’ The boy was doubled over, winded. ‘Astrid? Oh gods! I thought you were a wolf!’

‘So did I … I mean, I thought you were … oh, it doesn’t matter. Where are the others?’

‘I lost them,’ he said. Once again, he had accepted her presence without question. ‘Or they lost me. This mist – I swear it makes you see things. Big, brown things. Astrid, are there bears in this wood too?’

‘Oh.’

‘“Oh” what?’

‘Knut’s men – they’re berserkers.’

‘Berserkers?’

‘Wild, landless men – Knut’s personal bodyguard. They say that in the heat of battle, berserkers get so out of their minds with bloodlust that they throw off their human shape, and become real bears! That’s why they’re such feared warriors. I’ve never known whether to believe it – I’ve never got to see a battle …’

‘So you think that they were the things I saw?’

‘It would explain a lot. They live by themselves at a place called Hellir, not far east of Jelling. Too long at home and they get restless, and I’m not let near them.’ She wiped the beading mist from her brow. ‘Knut will have to take them raiding abroad this summer. He keeps saying he’ll go to Ireland, but he’s been putting it off these last few years.’

‘Why?’

‘He wants to be here in case … in case anything happens to Father.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Hush!’ She clapped a hand to his mouth. Leaning close to his ear, Astrid whispered: ‘Don’t. Look. Round.’

Instantly he turned, and they both saw.

While they had been talking, six grey wolves had slunk up out of the fog, and were sitting on an outcrop of rock, watching the pair.

‘I’ve got this spear,’ said Leif, looking doubtfully down at the shaft in his hands.

‘Not much good against six of them, is it?’ said Astrid, one eye on him, one on the wolves. Two of them dropped lazily down from the rock, trotting out to either side, red tongues lolling.

Leif raised his spear.

‘Leif,’ said Astrid, her stomach sinking still further. ‘You’re pointing it the wrong way round.’

‘What kind of wood is it?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The spear. What kind of wood?’

‘Um, ash, I think. But –’

‘Offspring of the World Tree,’ he muttered. ‘Kin of Ask and Embla. Giver of the sweet sap and wounding war-needle. Take this, my spark, and fly!’

The haft of the spear burst into flame, and Astrid’s eyes bulged. ‘How …?’

Leif leapt at the nearest wolf, waving the burning spear like a madman. She had to admire his courage. His technique, not so much.

‘You just … ugh … have to speak to things properly, that’s all,’ he said, as he swung the brand. ‘It’s nothing special. Take that! And that! I don’t know how the magic works … it’s never worked this well …’

He was right. One by one the great grey brutes dropped their heads, turned tail and fled the flame, yowling like puppies. Leif sank back and dropped the spear, which had burnt up almost to his hands. It hissed itself out in the snow.

‘I simply try and understand a thing – a branch, a stream – and ask it what I want,’ he explained, panting. ‘And if I’m lucky, then it grants my wish. It works a lot better here at Jelling. I’m sure that you could do it if you tried …’

‘I –’ said Astrid. Then she stopped.

A huge black wolf – surely, the one she’d seen by the river – was hauling itself over the crest of the rocks.

And this time, on its back, one hand grasping the living, hissing snakes that served as the wolf’s reins, there rode a witch.

She was grey, naked, hairy, and great tangles of hair coiled round her head. She wore an air of savagery so thick, so primal, that it might have been a cloak about her shoulders. In her wildness, and her fury, she was at once the ugliest and most beautiful thing Astrid had ever seen.

‘You,’ said Astrid. ‘You made the mist!’

How she had been brave enough to speak, she couldn’t imagine, but she needn’t have bothered. The witch ignored her, extending a taloned finger towards Leif.

‘Boy!’ she said, with a voice like an eagle’s. ‘Finally, I find you! I have message.’

‘For … for me?’ he said.

Astrid could only stare.

‘Yes, you! It is you who matters.’ The witch leered at him, nodding for emphasis. ‘It is you who will make the choices.’

‘Choices?’

‘Three choices. The first will be right. The others … will be wrong.’

‘And is that the message?’

‘No! Is just what I can see. Any can see this! Your fate hangs about you like crows on carcass!’

‘And why are you here?’ said Leif.

He was doing this very well, Astrid thought, especially as the witch seemed quite insane.

‘Same as you,’ said the creature. ‘Same as all. I seek power: old power of Yelling Stones. Something comes north, something new. Something very bad. I flee here. We all flee. Only magic of stones can save us.’

‘And is that the message?’

‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘Message is this!’ And she spat, full in his face, so the spittle splattered his eyes.

Instantly Leif fell to the ground, screaming.

‘Not again,’ muttered Astrid. He was flailing and frothing just as before, gripped by another fit.

‘As for you,’ said the witch, at last turning to Astrid.

‘Yes?’ said Astrid, eager to be part of events.

‘Is no message! You not matter.’

‘Oh,’ she said, not sure whether to feel relief or disappointment. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll just …’

‘Yes,’ cackled the witch, twitching her reins. ‘In that case … I eat you!’

‘Oh,’ said Astrid. Well, that settled it: definitely not relief. And the black wolf sprang.