TWENTY-TWO

Thud.

Leif groaned, stirred, turned. Rustle. Thud.

And he opened his eyes. He was alone in the grove. It was twilight, still, silent. And a squirrel was dropping acorns on his head.

Seeing him come to, the squirrel came down from the tree – practically poured itself down the trunk – and scurried over to stand by his head. Close to, its needle claws and long, curved teeth were unnerving. But not half so much as its eyes: they were cold, hard stone.

‘Tell us what you’ve found,’ hissed the squirrel.

‘… and Thyre’s setting up a scorn-pole now,’ he finished, ‘to set the shaming spirits on the priest.’ He had told the stones everything.

‘No good,’ came the reply. ‘The spirits have all fled. All are hiding, all are scared. Garm, the hound of Hel, fallen? Truly, this outlander priest wields the power of a god. His book, his staff, his rituals: so potent. All this, and then he has the angel too.’

‘And yet,’ said Leif, ‘you want me to stop him?’

‘Yesss,’ they said, and the hiss was long and harsh. ‘He must not seize our magic. Or all the North shall fall.’

‘As long as Gorm is king, he has no chance,’ said Leif. ‘But … but if Gorm were to die with Knut abroad …’

‘Then Haralt takes the throne.’

‘And Haralt would convert: we’d be undone. Then Folkmar would be free to do his will.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps?’ said Leif. ‘Of course he’d take the Cross!’

‘When we three wrought our spell, in the long-before,’ said the stones, ‘we wielded the power of the land. To rule, we knew we needed tree and earth, rock and river.’

Leif thought about this. ‘You mean, that Haralt also needs the land?’

‘Yesss. He cannot rule alone, without the will of this land behind him.’

‘We’re talking of the jarls, aren’t we?’ said Leif.

‘So young,’ they said, ‘so quick! Yesss, that is the key. He will only take the step, if he knows the kingdom will go with him.’

Leif got to his feet, paced about the grove, the little stone-eyed squirrel bounding after him. ‘I cannot fight the beast,’ he thought, aloud. ‘But if the moment were to come for words …’

‘We are balanced on the point of the knife,’ came the hiss. The squirrel had leapt to a branch in front of him, on a level with his face. ‘The tipping point will come. Then will be the time to use word-magic, to turn the jarls’ backs upon the priest. He would be cast out!’

‘Truly, I could best him in a flyting,’ Leif said. ‘I will challenge him to a war of words.’

Without warning, the squirrel sprang right at his face, so that he reeled backwards; it landed on his shoulder, tiny talons digging into his flesh, drawing blood. The stone-eyed head leant in to his ear, teeth and words both rasping at the lobe. ‘The skald who won such a contest, could prove a worthy champion indeed.’

Leif steadied himself, fighting down the urge to fling the rodent from him. His stomach was still weak from the beheading of the mare. ‘You mean …’

‘A hero fit to stand up to our scream.’

And it screeched into his ear. Thud.

This time, it was Leif who fell. By the time he picked himself back up, dusting ferns and pine needles from his body, the squirrel was nowhere to be seen.

As the stones predicted, no spirits moved against Folkmar. Thyre was furious that her plan had failed, and railed at the priest, calling him a Nithing to his face. This was a deadly insult, enough to start a blood-feud between Danes, but Folkmar only turned a fat smile upon her, saying, ‘My apologies; I am not comprehending your language.’

‘Perhaps that’s half the problem; how can words work on a man who doesn’t understand?’ Leif said to Astrid. ‘It’s no surprise that runes don’t work on Folkmar, if he has no idea what they mean.’

‘Sucks for you,’ said Astrid, ‘since words are the one thing you’re any good at …’ She had not forgotten how he had fainted in the grove.

He gave her what he hoped was a disdainful look. She gave him what she knew was a well-aimed kick, and then he grabbed for her leg and they were rolling around on the benches …

And a hacking, spluttering cough came from the king’s bedchamber, and they sat up, saddened.

‘It’s an age since I tended Father,’ said Astrid. They had almost forgotten the king, swept up in events that moved too fast for a failing old man. ‘I know – I’ll get my harp …’