Jomsborg, the pirate emporium
The army arrived on their tall ships. The sails were striped, blue, red, or green, woven from wool and magical songs, held taut by ropes of hvalros hide. Some had at the prow figures of lions, bulls, dolphins, gods in gilt copper; others were coiled and spiralled like serpents.
The dragon led them on, spreading its wings and turning. It was carved and painted from stem to stern, beautifully overlaid with gold, its gunwales gleaming with shields of polished steel, overlapping oak planks secured with silver rivets, tapering to an arching tail.
Yngvar stood on the lofting and punched the air with exhilaration. He was, in that moment at least, glad to be home. With the north-westerly wind rippling through the sail, the dragon almost flew. The spotters on the great lighthouse would have seen them on the horizon a dozen miles away, but his crew could sail her straight onto the shore and have boots on the ground within forty minutes of the hue and cry. Ten minutes, for those watching, unguarded, from the beach. If you were going to run from a Viking raid, you had better show swift heels. If only the northern tribes had learned that lesson, he wouldn’t have to go splashing after them through the marsh flats every summer.
On days like these, it often seemed like the whole town had come to greet them, women and children running the long, crested ridges that overlooked the shoreline. The afternoon was bright, the sea breeze stiff but bracing, and Yngvar grew wistful. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d been a boy, cheering from those bluffs, watching the fleet surge along the bay, mast after mast. The memory stirred something within him, a sullen, resentful pride perhaps. He was hoarse from shouting against the wind and the spray, so he raised both his arms by way of salutation. The rest of his floating menagerie took the signal as permission to start barking, braying, whooping, and hollering. The Jomsvikings weren’t known for their restraint.
The dragon approached the narrow channel at the head of the estuary, beyond the barrier spit. Yngvar was grateful Ægir’s dread daughters were calm today, rolling and breaking gently on the sand.
The sea jötunn had made this land into a briny labyrinth, a morass of ponds, marshes and fields, and then the jarls of Jomsburg had conspired to make it even more impregnable. A wooden stockade stretched along the coast for miles, and the passage inland was dominated by a stone tower, bristling with catapults. Ingeniously, they’d built an arch that spanned the river mouth, with an iron gate to close the channel at will. The gate was barred, of course, as was always the case when the fleet had sailed. Hundreds of ships passed to and fro, north, east, and west into the Eystrasalt—but none without the consent of the Norse.
Yngvar motioned to his steersman to signal their arrival and the dragon duly slowed. The Keeper of the Coast would question them, sound his consent with the winding horn, and then the gates would open. Yngvar had never questioned the theatrics—his people had a ritual urge, undiminished in all the long years of conquest, exaggerated, even, by each easy victory. His crew were no different. They were mostly high born, sons of chieftains or councillors, and often the third or fourth generation to serve—they were steeped in talismans and totems. Yngvar watched as the coxswain, Soti Vagnson, kissed the amber thorrshammar around his neck, before tucking it safely back under his bright russet beard, comforted by the thought that his god was watching over them. Yngvar instinctively checked his own fetish, the Serkir timepiece he kept in the same place. The single hand pointed directly at the middle of the afternoon.
After a few moments, a figure duly emerged on the tower above, a silhouette against the sun. He shouted to the men holding water below, his voice booming across the sound. “Who commands your ship, and where did you lie up last night?”
Yngvar grinned wide in recognition. “The Jarl of Jomsborg has returned,” he called. “We were with the Seimgalir this summer, sailing up the Dýna river to remind them to pay the tribute they owed my brother. Last night, we laid up at Refrnes and sailed home today with this fair wind.”
The man on the tower called back, “And did Viesthard the Seimgalir fuck you?”
“Not yet.”
“But he is planning to?”
“No, he is waiting for a nobler man than myself before he lowers his trousers. I told him the fylkir himself is on his way,” Yngvar shouted back.
The man on the tower guffawed with delight, the golden band around his forehead catching the light. “Well said, brother. You have done me a great service with the taxes. I return your city to you.”
Yngvar’s crews cheered in unison, now also recognising the glint of gold and flash of scarlet as belonging to Thormund, the lord of Miðgarðr’s earth and kingdoms. Yngvar was genuinely delighted—and thoroughly surprised—to see his older cousin.
“Thormund! Why are you here? Are you afraid I’ll keep your weregild for myself?”
Unseen hands began to winch the gate, which rose swiftly, dripping water and great clumps of bladderwrack onto the deck.
“Of course not, Yngvar. It is good to see you!”
“And you, my lord. This is an unexpected pleasure. I’ll come ashore.” Yngvar snapped his fingers, summoning his men to help him, but the dragon’s oars were already drawing through the water, sweeping them forward through the gate. Within moments, the fylkir was out of sight, and Yngvar had to wait until his voice met them on the other side.
“No need, tonight we feast! Come to my camp then. We have lots to discuss.”
Yngvar could only rasp in agreement, his voice oddly deep and broken. He reached for a water skin and drank what little was left, thumping his sternum as it cleared his throat, then sat down heavily, wracked with a coughing fit.
The steersman reached out a burly arm, passing him a wooden cup. Yngvar gulped down the water it contained, then croaked his thanks. Gard-Ketill was an Íslendingr, twice the age of the Jarl of Jomsburg and four times as obstinate. He’d fought so many campaigns in Garðariki, he’d gone native—he shaved his blond head and beard but wore a bushy moustache and a sidelock in the Rus style, with a single large gold earring.
“Overexcited, are we? Drink. Anyone would think that trolls had been moving your tongue,” he said. “I’m all for fucking whatever we fancy, but don’t make me your mare.”
“That’s the same foul mouth that kissed your wife,” shot back Yngvar. “She seemed to like it. Besides, my cousin likes to banter.”
Ketill ignored him and rubbed the back of his neck in thought. “And that was the All-Glorious King of the Storm-Hall? I thought he’d be taller.”
Yngvar looked up at his steersman, incredulous. “He was standing on the tower! How could you possibly tell how tall he was?”
“I suppose every man is a king so long as he has someone to look down on,” Ketill mused, blithely ignoring his lord. Yngvar knew better than to take the bait. The Íslandingar were a stubborn, proud people, preferring exile on a desolate outcrop to any covenant with kings—he suspected Ketill only fought in the fylkir’s armies because it gave him an opportunity to insult men above his station. That same defiance made him an excellent steersman though, a wave-rider, impervious to the vagaries of the northern seas.
Not one to give up, the steersman continued prodding. “They say that kings are made in the image of the gods. If that is what he looks like, I feel sorry for Óðinn.”
The dragon’s skipper Valdimarr, an actual Garðar, was the only one to laugh, although it was with his usual menaces. He was a man with the mentality of a permanent sentry—gruff, guarded and suspicious, with a sneer of cold command—and had clearly been eavesdropping.
“What I want to know is, why is the king here?” he said, hissing the last word insistently.
“How am I supposed to know? Ask him yourself, you heard him—tonight, we’re dining with the fylkir,” Yngvar said, using the Overking’s formal, Norse, title. Some men called it the norrænt mál, others in his crew the dönsk tunga, but all of them broadly understood the Northern speech.
Yngvar hauled himself up and drummed his hands gleefully along the saxboard. “Hear that, Ketill! That is the sound of my ancestors knocking at last. We must wear our best clothes for the feast.” He instinctively checked his Serkir timepiece again, anxious about having enough time to make proper preparations.
“Woah, hurry slowly. We’ve not yet seen our beds. And put that thing away,” the steersman complained, still preferring daymarks and dead reckoning to new-fangled klokkaverk.
“I’ve told you before, a good soldier has only three things to think about: the empire, the gods, and nothing else besides. So, shut up and stop ruining my good mood.”
It was probably too late for that. The jarl stiffened, trying to hide his growing temper by passing the cup back to the steersman, who swilled then spat over the side of the ship. Íslandingar took their oaths seriously, although which gods Ketill kept these days was hard to tell—the Northern Empire, the Himinríki, had more cults than Yngvar could count. Each of the Vindr tribes who sought protection from the White Christ had brought their own gods, each seeking sanctuary behind the Great Shield Wall. Ásgarð must have been full to bursting.
It used to be that mariners would give thanks to Njörðr, the Old Man of the Winds, but even the augurs had changed. Just a day’s journey up the coast was a holy isle, where the chief priest made his oracles while watching a white stallion prance and casting dice in his great purple-roofed temple. The island also boasted a great oaken statue of Svantevit, a god that owned a face for every season, two heads looking forward and two looking back. The northern face of this vast totem was white, the western, red, the southern, black, and the eastern, green: it had become so famous a signpost that it adorned almost every nautical chart made in the past decade. Even the fylkir would sometimes pay his respects.
Yngvar wondered how long it had been since he last saw his cousin. Eight winters, maybe, when he’d been gifted his rings and a horse of his own. What louts they’d been, riding right up to the high seat. “Ranglefants!” the old Kanceler had cried, clearly dreading the day Thormund was taken as king. “Rogues! Rascals!” He could still hear the old bear berating them now, hurling pots and stools—anything that came to hand. His cousin, his foster-brother, loved to hunt, a new gold-plumed falcon jessed and tethered to the glove. Yngvar’s coronation gift, a haukr fit for a king. He’d been proud of that. Perhaps now he’d repay the favour.
He looked expectantly down the ship at each of his chosen men. He’d rewarded them all well, and they said luck followed the generous. Soti Vagnson was hollering at the oarsmen to keep time, the Dane’s choleric fury worth a dozen rowers. Ordulf, the ship’s hand, was wrestling with the halyard, lowering the sail—a warrior as tightly wound as the ropes he worked with. The middleman and the lookout, the tallest warriors on the ship, were the brothers, Haraldr and Haakon Thorkellson. Strong and unbending, they seemed to him more masts than men. There were fifty or sixty men on each of the Jomsviking ships, but where the lions, bulls and serpents merely snorted and snarled, the dragon’s crew raged. On a good day, there were no better men in the empire. On a bad day, no worse. “I wonder which today is?” Yngvar asked the autumn air, half-hoping a portent from some benign spirit.
The dragon swept down the western channel, past small herds of visundur, browsing contentedly on lyme grass and buckthorn. Clouds of plovers rose from their shingle nests, wheeling out into the bay, crying plaintively to the skies. Yngvar felt a pang of envy, the restless race of his traveller’s heart. He often wondered if he had felt so imprisoned before he was awarded the clock-pendant, its incessant demands more of a curse than a privilege of rank.
“Glad to be home?” Ketill asked, perhaps sensing some disquiet.
“Delighted. The only crown I wear is called Content, a crown that kings and jarls seldom enjoy,” Yngvar deadpanned in reply.
“Well, at least you are poetic in your misery,” Ketill said, turning back to focus on his steering board.
The river here was studded with islands and mudflats and dotted with fisherman’s huts and small boats. It was wide enough that you would have to take half a dozen of the longest ships in the fleet, laid stern to prow, to bridge it. Set between the coastal cliffs, the great sea gate and the wide strait, Jomsborg held an ancient ford a few miles upstream. The town proper stretched along the riverbank, looping like a necklace between Silver Hill to the north and Hangman’s Hill to the south, perhaps three miles when all was told.
The western side was protected by a wooden palisade, made from split tree trunks, a rampart and a retaining wall. By the main gate, poultry and sheep wandered freely, keeping to the shade afforded by the low-built cottages, whose roof rafters reached all the way to the ground. Most of the houses were, at most, decades old, simple wattle and daub structures with a turf roof, smoke-ovens keeping them nice and warm during the cool Vindr nights.
“On the bright side, no fires. Looks like the Norðanfrith has held while we were away,” Soti said, striking a note somewhere between dejection and sarcasm. The Peace of the North. It was galling to men bred for war, but the dull reality was that peace was best for trade.
Measured alongside the splendour of Kristindómr, Jomsburg was little more than a pile of logs and moss. Even compared to the rest of the freshly painted empire, it was a parvenu, an upstart. It had none of the ancient sanctity of Uppsala or the rich history of Jórvík. But the town was no less vital—it commanded all trade up and down the Odra, a lynchpin, halfway between the walled cities of the Rus and the warden ports of the West. Silver from the mines of Kornbretaland, coins from the mint at Heiðabý, even the white gold from saltworks at Lunenburg, everything flowed through here. Quiet Bay, then, was always anything but—the harbour was full of bobbing, creaking ships, dozens of them, from the great imperial busse and skeide, designed for war, to the ocean-going knarr and the small rowing boats ferrying goods ashore. Many travels, many fortunes, Yngvar thought, fervently praying that his wasn’t here. It was even busier on the shoreline, amongst the booths where the merchant ships drew up. He watched one Sviar crew unload a cargo of osmund iron, carefully rolling the great metal balls ashore for hammering, until they crunched onto the gravel at the foot of the wharves. Dressmakers haggled over bolts of vaðmál with Imperial factors. Fisherman cursed the shrill terns and grunting cormorants that flapped overhead, looking to steal their dinner, undeterred by the powerful white gyrfalcons lined up by the dozen on poles nearby. On the far side of the inlet, grain was unloaded under the watchful eye of the garrison, while weighmasters and tax collectors argued over duties paid, storage space, and dockage fees.
Yngvar yawned to mask his frustration. It used to be that, each summer, Viking raids would fill the imperial coffers with Serkir dirhams, Grikk miliaresia, and Frakkar deniers. Trade didn’t interest him in the slightest; he left all the administration to the Kontor. The real value of his fleet wasn’t protecting merchants, it was managing extortion. Even allies weren’t exempt—the jarl’s men exacted an annual tribute from the Vindr tribes, imposed “for the preservation of peace,” reckoning it was preferable to Kristin tithes. As to the Norsemen—the Sons of Ragnar weren’t meant to take arms against each other, but if they did, they found a Riksjarl, loyal to the emperor, a spear’s throw from their throne, a clear reminder that Óðinn a ydyr alla—Óðinn owns you all. Yngvar has always been a relentless hunter—Thormund had chosen well.
It was all the more vexing that the homecoming prince was forced to sail to the southernmost end to beach his vessel. Ordulf starting yelling orders, and soon the sail was furled, the sail and yard were stored on uprights, and the mast unstopped. The men leapt overboard and waded ashore, carrying weapons and armour, leaving a small watch to stand guard and another to drag newly captured thralls up to the market.
Yngvar fumed; there was nothing worse than sodden boots. He coughed again, his eyes smarting as he fumbled for his clock-pendant. The hand hadn’t moved, so he tapped it, once, twice, then a third time with a feeling verging on despair, before stowing it disconsolately back under his shirt. Time clearly wasn’t on his side.
There was a welcome party waiting for the jarl’s men on the shore—local people, grateful for his safe return. Chief among them was the town’s hofgoði, Hjálmvígi, both temple guardian and lawspeaker. Yngvar was almost glad to see the flinty Saxon, his long stony-face looming above the crowd. The jarl had thought to summon him but knew that would have been a waste of breath: seiðrmenn always knew exactly when and where to arrive. Yngvar feigned enthusiasm for the rest, clasping a few well-meaning arms, but kept his thanks terse to show he was a busy man. He needn’t have bothered with the pretence. Hjálmvígi rapped his walking-staff on the ground and the townsfolk quickly dispersed.
“Jarl Yngvar, I saw you were unwell? I have prepared some remedies. Libbsticka, ground in wine, and mirra incense.” The old priest dithered in a leather sack, then shouted at the two Finnar who followed him like lap dogs. At last, he produced a vial and forced it into the jarl’s hands. “Hold it under the roots of your tongue and the cough will subside.”
He rapped the staff again and mumbled into his beard to drive away the spirit of sickness, which carried with it the added benefit of hurrying the last stragglers back up the path.
Yngvar swigged the flask of wine and tucked the mirra into a belt pouch for later, eyeing the lawspeaker’s staff warily. It was carved with runes and rhomboids, so the wood resembled a snake more than a stick. A common enough tool of seiðr, but Yngvar preferred steel to sorcery.
“If you saw I was getting sick…” Yngvar started.
“…did I not divine the arrival of the fylkir? Who is to say I did not? His hirð have been here for weeks. What would you have me do? Send ravens?” The priest tutted.
The jarl paused, not wanting to antagonise the priest, but if anyone was going to send spirits to run far into the night, it was this sorcerer and his henchmen. Yngvar considered himself a devout man, and regularly led the rites of sacrifice on Hangman’s Hill, but the fulltrúi of Óðinn unnerved him. They were all neatly dressed and well-groomed, at least up to a point. One of the Finnar wore a coat into which a raven-corpse had been sewn, and both wore belts dripping with knives, brass rings, bird claws, and sealed leather bags whose contents were best left unknown. It occurred to him that he couldn’t be certain if that was their real form. Old Hjálmvígi had escaped so many skirmishes, the townsfolk quietly conjectured on whether he could take the shape of a horse.
The Jomsvikings at his back were unperturbed, of course. His crew ate Kvænir necromancers for day-meal, washing down their victories with the blood-wine of Kristin bishops. After the long voyage, they were in no mood for a lengthy dockside debate.
“The last ship on the left has your raf,” Haakon said, using the Norse word rather than the Serkir amber that was in vogue. There had been all kinds of linguistic alchemy since the conquest of Lizibon, but whatever they called them, magicians the world over valued the golden stones, either to burn as incense or for their medicinal properties. To hear the witch-wives tell it, the gemstones were the tears of Freya, who wandered the world weeping for her lost husband. The fylkir duly held the monopoly, as was the case with anything that stemmed from the divine, and his Jomsvikings enforced it, punishing thieves with hanging. The raf was cast inelegantly onto beaches all over the Eystrasalt, which meant it was Loki’s own job to stop every Tómi, Rik, and Haraldr from simply picking it up.
“Bane of our bloody existence,” Haraldr muttered, whetting his short sword.
“Blessings to the Lady,” the old sorcerer intoned, nodding his thanks, but the trite phrase only served to inflame the passions of the butescarls.
“Well, the next time you seiðmaðr have a love-in, tell her it’s high time she got over herself. She should go back to shagging her way round Svartalfheimr and stop making work for the rest of us,” Haraldr said, thrusting his groin towards the priest with every other word.
“Fucking dvergar… disgusting,” Soti added, hawking phlegm by way of punctuation. Yngvar tried hard not to laugh, so the lawspeaker could leave with some dignity.
“Was there something else?” the jarl asked, walking ahead, conscious of the squelching sound he made as he moved. First the cough, now chilblains. He groaned inwardly, debating whether to send a boy ahead to get him fresh boots. He quickly gave some orders, and Soti raced off ahead. The rest of his chosen men formed up in a square, protecting the jarl from threats as yet unseen.
Hjálmvígi waited patiently, then simply stated, “The question isn’t what I want; it is what you want.”
“I haven’t time for riddles, old man,” Yngvar snapped, losing what little patience he had left. He decided the only thing more irritating than damp legs and stopped clocks was a fusty priest.
“Your plan, to ask your cousin for a crown.”
Yngvar stopped mid-step and winced. Rather than turn back to face Hjálmvígi, he corrected his stride and carried on walking. He had barely admitted that thought to himself, let alone anyone else. Yet here it was, his ambition laid bare, plucked from his thoughts like falcon finding prey. Was it any wonder seiðr was feared and despised?
“The first I have heard of it,” he bluffed.
“Now you are only fooling yourself. There is no trickery involved; your impatience is plain to see. Who put the idea into your head? These mordvargr?” The priest pointed at the surly crew, still spilling from the ships. “The counsel of fools is more misguided the more of them there are.”
Yngvar sloshed some wine around the back of his throat, weighing his options as he walked. The lawspeaker was accomplished—to hear the skalds tell it, he’d once officiated over the Thing at Marklo. He could be a powerful ally in the days to come. He paused long enough for Hjálmvígi to catch up, still flanked by his two Finnar fetches.
“Well, if there were such a plan—and I’m not saying that there is—wouldn’t I be within my rights? Wiser men than you have likened my accomplishments to those of my kinsman Styrbjorn. My grandmother was daughter of Eirik the Victorious.”
“Yes, yes. I know all that. You grew up as a brother to Thormund. And that’s why the fylkir named you Jarl of Jomsburg. What greater prize…”
Yngvar opened his mouth to say more, but seeing the depth of Hjálmvígi’s scowl, thought better of it. The priest clearly wasn’t impressed, looking for all the world like an angry hvalros, all beady eyes and twitching whiskers.
“No one is doubting your loyalty or your noble birth. But kinship of the gods is patrilineal. It passes down through male heirs.”
Yngvar swore loudly, knowing full well that it was a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.
Nightfall was still a few hours away, but Yngvar’s black mood drove him, striding back toward the harbour, clattering along the weathered planks that paved the shore path. The street was too crowded; he crossed down an alleyway to take the Army Road instead. It was only then that Yngvar noticed that the landward wall—ten feet thick, made from a mountain of stones—was lined with lookouts. Far more men than he would have posted. It was obvious why. The fylkir liked to say that fragrance of spices was financed by a debt of dust and blood. The price of peace was becoming extortionate. What was worse, it occurred to him in that moment that his Semgalir sailing wasn’t a hunt at all. It was a collection, and he was not a jarl but a taxman. Incensed, his anger boiled over again. He tore off his wet boots, one by one, and hurled them into the grass. He’d had entirely enough of the ridiculous noise they made. He’d rather catch splinters from the boards than suffer yet more indignity. Let the world conspire against him, he railed. He’d stand up and be counted. Only the wounded coward lies low.
“See this, Hjálmvígi?” The jarl jabbed his finger at the men stationed on the wall. “The jarl of Jomsburg is no more than a glorified guard dog, another of my cousin’s blessed moosehounds, taught to fetch, carry, and beg. Although, considerably less loved, I might add. He gave me this… trinket, because he doesn’t trust anyone else to watch over his silver.” He spat contemptuously.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Hjálmvígi responded mildly. “Rebuilding the great fortress of Rurik on the Salt Road, marshalling the Southern March against the Kristin, keeping the peace between the King of the Danar and the King of the Vindr. These are vital tasks.”
“A goatherd then, tending the flock.”
“You’d rather be a freebooter?” The hofgoði was calm, despite the jarl’s tantrum.
“When I was a boy, I heard nothing but glorious tales of the sons of Ragnar. They were despoilers. They were conquerors. And Jomsburg—it was a name to conjure with. The great pirate emporium, the envy of the North. When did we lose sight of what made us great?”
“You misunderstand the lessons of the past. Ragnar made it clear to his sons, the fylkir is first a servant to his people. A king is a tool, a thing of straw; but if he serves to frighten our enemies and secure our lands, it is well enough: a scarecrow is a thing of straw, but it protects the corn. You think the Jarl of Jomsburg so mundane? Are you bored? I assure you a crown is no cure for a headache.”
Some of the Jomsvikings had heard the argument as they kept the flanks, and each of them shot barbs as they passed their jarl, creasing with laughter.
“A new crown? Fried sparrows just fly into your mouth, don’t they? I’d like to borrow some of that luck!” Valdimarr said, deadpan.
“At least King Sparrow-Mouth might chirp less,” quipped Ketill.
Silver Hill was to the north of the town, overlooking the entrance to the market. A causeway had been raised with stone, sand, and gravel to intersect with the Army Road, itself far from complete. In some places it comprised closely laid logs and well-worked timbers; in others it consisted only of brushwood and branches spread out to create a stable surface in the marsh. The settlement here was different: timber frames, with walls of vertical planks, plugged with grass-wrack. But it was the pace of construction that really stood out. The hilltop was unrecognisable from just two months ago. Blacksmiths, bakers, weavers, and tanners had sprung up seemingly overnight, to be within spitting distance of the imperial retinue.
“How long is he planning on staying?” wondered Haraldr Thorkellson. He was the first to take in all the changes, on account of his height.
“Silver Hill will be Silver Mountain at this rate,” laughed his brother Haakon. There was a spring in the step of most of the men, despite the long day’s sailing—with the exception of Valdimarr, who was clearly annoyed at having to dash the length and breadth of town.
“I keep asking—why is the King here?” the skipper said.
“Something to hide?” Ordulf winked. “He’s not looking for anyone in particular. If he was, those men would have been at the docks.” He pointed at a group of men, drilling with heavy swords and weighty shields on the riverbank.
Some of the fylkir’s men had clearly taken lodgings here. Many men who came to the Overking’s court were considered of little consequence, simple farmers or fishermen; Thormund gave high honours to such men in return for their service. They served as spies and scouts, a sort of secret police, and were known as “gests,” because they made little visits throughout the king’s domain, and not always with friendly intent. The Jomsvikings were professional soldiers, lithesmen and butescarls, paid a full eight marks a year for their oars and swords, not part-time amateurs and thugs. They made no secret of their disdain as they passed and might have come to more than jeers and insults if the hofgoði hadn’t have been there.
They’d not gone far when a stone arced overhead, clattering on the gravel banks by the river. A second group of gests had arrived and were clearly trying to provoke a reaction now they had numbers on their side.
“If it isn’t the Sækonungrs,” their leader mocked. “I see you flounder on dry land.” He was a spry, wiry man, with a flat nose and grin of daggers. His ring of companions was as mirthless as they were deplorable.
“Take a walk,” growled Yngvar, “or be the worse for it.”
“Why do you look as though you are at death’s door?” the man said. “Exhausted from cavorting with that rassagr of a priest? Did you get a little prick from Wōden’s mighty spear?”
Hjálmvígi didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. Instead, one of his Finnar servants barked on his behalf. “You will bow before the king’s cousin, the Jarl of Jomsborg, the Lord of the Southern March.”
The man said that the trolls would take him before he would bend the knee. The sky had darkened considerably—Yngvar knew witches’ weather when he saw it. Not that he was worried by some braggart bumpkins; he just abhorred the inconvenience of dealing with them. He exchanged glances with his men, and they fanned out slowly, imperceptibly almost. He saw Haakon slowly unsling his shield. The rest of the men, too, inched toward their weapons.
Only Ketill remained unarmed, drifting toward the centre of the group, his hands held above his top-knot. All eyes turned to the Íslendingar. Yngvar didn’t envy them the lesson they were about to be taught. “Where are you from, boy?” the steersman asked the leader of the gestir.
“I am an Englismaðr. Here on behalf of the son of the Storm King.”
“Ah, that explains the squalling. Then I have a story for you Englar. See how you like it. A Dane, a Sviar, and a Vestman, much like yourself, made a wager on who could remain inside a goat pen the longest. First out was the Dane, who came out quickly yelling ‘Damn! The goat stinks!’ After him the Sviar went in. He lasted an hour before he came out yelling, ‘Damn! The goat stinks!’ Finally, the Englismaðr went in. A tough man, like you. After two hours the goat came rushing out yelling ‘Damn! That Vestman skítkarl stinks!’”
The gest curled his lip in derision. “Is that what passes for a joke amongst you ladies?”
“What do you think about dying?” Ketill whispered, coming ever closer.
“I am well content to die: I shall suffer the same fate as my father.” The gest tapped his spear, clearly confident of his skills with it, and the reach it granted him.
“I am glad to hear it.” Ketill smiled, keeping his hands where everyone could see them. Suddenly he ducked, and the Englismaðr fell backwards, grasping at a sucking wound in his chest. Valdimarr’s spear reverberated in the wall, ten yards behind him, its tip and shaft glistening with gore.
“Throw him in the river and do the goats a favour,” Ketill ordered, although most of the farmers and fishermen had already scattered, disappearing into the horse paddocks beyond the peat roofs. The Jomsvikings roared their approval, clattering their shields and stamping their feet. The skirmish was over before it had begun.
Yngvar patted Ketill on the shoulder, acknowledging his showmanship. Then, keen to march his men on and away from the temptation of further trouble, he called them to order. The lawspeaker seemed reluctant to move, though, his two assistants circling the dead man like carrion crows.
“Hjálmvígi? You neglected to mention Eirik of Jórvík is here. Who else? You must have spoken to the fylkir these past few weeks,” Yngvar asked.
“I blessed his court and no more. I find I have little talent for interrogating princes,” he said reproachfully. “I’ll say my farewells before I become more burdensome. Watch your back, Jarl Yngvar; the Kristin Lords have long arms, and I can smell their stench. Remember, it is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.” With that, the hofgoði turned back and walked down the hill, his two companions dragging the dead man behind them.
The hirðmenn of the royal household proper had made camp on the other side of the river, a discreet distance from the town, near the appropriately named Imperial Boulder, a huge glacial rock, half submerged in the riverbed. Legend had it that the Kings of the Vindr used to stand on it and welcome mariners home, in the long years before the Northmen arrived and offered frith.
Nearby, the newly thatched Tinghöll had been repaired with oak, rather than the local beech and pine, which surely meant shipping in the necessary materials. More expense, Yngvar groaned. Soti was waiting, now with servants and a change of clothes for each of the butescarls. They bathed in the river, washing away the grime and salt, although only Ordulf looked immediately presentable—the Saxon keep a short beard and a small moustache, even going so far as to shave his cheeks. The others took time to braid their beards, then dressed on the banks. As instructed, they wore their best clothes—black fur trousers and sable hats, bright linen shirts and elaborate kaftans in the Rus style, with high embroidered collars and delicately stitched cuffs. There were no cloaks or mantles, so there could be no hidden perils or concealed weapons. Those were the simple rules of court.
Growing up together, Thormund had often expressed his embarrassment concerning the behaviour of his northerners, describing his future subjects as quarrelsome, querulous, and vindictive. His own father had been constantly plagued by his hirð’s indiscipline, violence, and drinking—when just nine years old, Thormund was returning by ship to the royal seat in Uppsala, his hirðmenn still intoxicated from having “drunk hard” that evening. Their carelessness led to the ship losing its direction in harsh weather—its rudder damaged, it took an extra week to find their way to safe harbour. As fylkir, he actively strove to “educate” his men by promoting cultivated behaviour and introducing rules of etiquette—or so Yngvar had heard. He imagined it was a futile effort. Adopting good conduct at court would be incomprehensible to the Jomsvikings.
Yngvar led his men up to the Tinghöll. He strode through the doors and bowed low. “Heilir ok Sælir, my lords!”
“Here you are at last!” Thormund cried. “What kept you?”
The meal was well underway, and the room was full. Yngvar’s mind went unerringly to unkind thoughts about Eirik’s men, but he brightened when the whole royal household rose from their tables to greet him and gave a cheer. Festivities were being led by a midget, no taller than a toddler, an oddity the jarl dimly remembered being rescued from captivity in Frísland. Thormund had ordered the fellow to be dressed in a coat of mail, and then placed a helmet on his head, so that the tiny man trundled and tripped around the hall, moosehounds barking wildly at his every step. The noise was obviously very off-putting for the court skald, who had composed a drapa for the occasion but was having a hard time being heard in all the ruckus.
“Quite the welcome,” Ketill muttered, behind him.
“The jarl returning home to unexpected house guests. It’s his mead they are drinking; the least they can do it is toast him with it,” said Soti.
Across the room, the fylkir took one last swig from a great bronze beaker, banded opulently with gold and silver, then set it aside and sprang from the high seat. He forged through the hall, deliberately adding to the chaos by tossing scraps to his dogs.
“Let me look at you!” he exclaimed as they clasped arms, then warmly embraced.
“No, let me look at you!” Yngvar replied, looking up and down at his cousin’s elegant suit of silk brocade, almost as fiery as the regal side-whiskers he wore. “You used to hunt peacock, now you are dressed as one!”
“As impudent as ever. Tell me, do you still wet the bed for fear of huldufólk and lyktgubbar, or have you grown a spine?”
“Now my eye-teeth and molars have come in, I find myself much braver,” Yngvar said, laughing. He’d not quite been a babe in arms when they first met, but Thormund was considerably older.
“It’s been too long. Four years?”
“Twice that, at least. Your youngest was still a bantling.”
“Long overdue then!” Thormund harrumphed. “I’m glad I waited for you. Ýmir’s eistna! And to think, the young lords have been complaining they can’t remember the last time they saw their wives. Ha! They’ll learn soon enough. I’ll sail north again within the week.”
“So where have you been?” Yngvar was genuinely puzzled that he hadn’t heard—or been informed—of any troop movements.
“I escorted our sister to old Jarizleifr Valdamarsson. He is the chosen king now. The union is long overdue. It might bring peace to the Garðaríki.”
“Ingegerd won’t bring anyone peace,” Yngvar scoffed.
The fylkir laughed. “Least of all Jarizleifr. He’s seen sixty winters if he’s seen a day. But a promise is a promise, and the empire will be stronger for the marriage. You’re wondering why I didn’t send for you?”
Yngvar waved the concern away. It was a long journey to the Golden Gates of Kœnugarðr, and he had his duties here. He took in the room. Whenever kings met, the best men in the realm assembled, goði, jarls, and eldermen seemingly drawn from the breadth of the empire. The great Sigvat sat next to the high seat, cutting thin slices of meat. He was both skald and stallari—poet and marshall—people joked that he couldn’t decide whether the pen was mightier than the sword, so chose to excel at both. He nodded at Yngvar and raised his cup when their eyes met.
He sat between two other men that Yngvar knew well. On one side sat Knutr, King of the Danar and the Nordmenn. Knutr was exceptionally tall and strong and might have been handsome but for his thin, high-set, and rather hooked nose. He was a mean bastard—to hear his men tell it, he’d once been playing chess with his brother-in-law at a banquet in Roskilde, when an argument ensued over an errant piece. The brother-in-law wasn’t seen again.
On the other side was Kazimir, King of the Vindr and Laesir, sitting with wrinkled nose and pouting lips, his brows knitted, fiercely arguing with Kanceler Thurgaut. Most likely there were yet more Kristin rebellions in the south of his lands, and he needed soldiers. The Vindr always needed more soldiers.
All around them, the hirðmenn spoke in hushed low tones. It was an assembly of legends.
Beorn Estrithson, the Imperial Merkismaðr or standard bearer, was rumoured to have been sired by a polar bear. He was given his raven banner by Óðinn himself. He was drinking with the King of the Northern Isles, Sigurðr, who once caught an attacking dragon by the tail and hacked it in two behind the wings. He wore its impervious bronze scales even at night and made a game of men trying and failing to set him alight.
The fylkir sat, waving away some of his retainers from a nearby table to make room. Yngvar introduced his own men, one by one, and the fylkir thanked them. Table-men stirred up the fire, put out washing basins and fine linen cloth, then poured even finer drink into large glass goblets. Thormund asked his cousin to sit and gestured to the rest of his companions too. Haakon and Haraldr, suddenly pained, asked his leave to join their father, the jarl of Aust Englar, who sat quietly near the back of the hall. Despite his famed height, no-one had noticed Thorkell the Tall until now, but it was immediately obvious why: his glory days long since passed into shrunken dotage, he sat, spiritless and obtuse, a brittle reed barely able to eat.
“A sad end,” Yngvar said after the brothers departed, unable to take his eyes off the venerable Viking.
“He was a Jomsviking once,” Thormund reminisced. “One of the first, he and his brother. My father sent him to England and gave him the stewardship there when I was a boy. My own son sends him back to me, bitter and broken. I hope his lads are better than mine?”
“They’ll make Thorkell proud,” Yngvar said. It seemed the Jórvík King wasn’t here, after all, just his messengers. That was something—Eirik was a tempest of a man, and Yngvar hadn’t relished the thought of explaining the fracas across the river. Both cousins watched the slow and steady family reunion that unfurled in silence. Yngvar found it unsettling. He wasn’t used to contemplating his own mortality. He prompted with a new subject. “So, the East is settled then? I can send Ketill and Valdimarr home at last?”
The fylkir missed his meaning. “Perhaps. It was easier for our foes to ditch their banners than lose their lives—I’m told they escaped to Tyrkland over the winter. Now they mean to lead another army against Jarizleifr, with Tyrkir, Blökumen, and a good many other odious people.”
Yngvar’s heart skipped a beat, realizing what that might mean for his sister and for his tax collections. The fylkir saw his alarm and quickly assuaged him. “I’m not so short-sighted as to put Inge in harm’s way. Aldeigjuborg and the lakelands were her bride price, so I took her there, no further. I’ve set our cousin Ragnvald Ulfsson to hold the south, just in case.”
“My home is cursed, ever since Hrøríkr bequeathed it to Helgi the Seer,” said Valdimarr, listening in again. The comment ignited other opinions.
“It’s the nature of the land, endless plains will drive a man mad,” said Ordulf. “The Rus have been murdering each other for as long as anyone can remember.”
Ketill agreed. “Always have, always will, since they butchered Asleik Bjornson. Ragnar’s own blood, no less! If you can disagree with kings, are gods so far above?”
The fylkir grimaced. “I am as old as the Behmer Vald and have never seen such a brewing. Why will it stop now, you might ask? You see that boy.” Thormund pointed a stubby finger at a young candleman, loafing unceremoniously by the fire. “That coal-biter is Vissivald, Jarizleifr’s youngest son. There’s no fight if our enemy can’t rally around a pretender of the blood.”
Yngvar appreciated the cunning—his cousin had learnt more from the counting house and the whorehouse than he ever did on the field of battle. He deftly took away people’s reasons to fight rather than obliging them. While the men were distracted by the hostage, Thormund leaned into his cousin and beckoned him to do the same.
“I’ll confess, I didn’t expect you to choose an Íslandingar to command a ship,” the king whispered. “I gave those people a lot, including a good bell for Thingvellir. Sent four knorrs loaded with flour, one to each quarter, during the famine. And how do they repay me?”
“His family in Snaeland are no worse than ours. Honourable men. It is not so long ago that they lived as Nordmenn. You’re making a chicken out of a feather,” Yngvar said dismissively. “Which reminds me, I owe you compensation. One of your son’s household met with an impaling accident.”
“Eirik’s hirð is a ragtag bunch of fools. Forget it happened.” Thormund shrugged with indifference, then muttered darkly, “I’m glad to see you, cousin. In the days ahead, I’ll need loyal men at my side.”
There was a long silence that persisted until Yngvar shifted the subject again. “The Queen is with you, and your sons?” He immediately wished he hadn’t. The fylkir went pale and trembled slightly, an unnerving sight in so great a statesman. His eyes wandered off and found a home in the fire.
“I have bad news. I’m told Eymund took ill in the winter and passed.”
Yngvar reached for his glass goblet, forcing his hand to keep from shaking. Farðírass! Helvítismaðr! He began to swear, but his voice ripped loose again, like a sail in storm. His father had been fighting with Jarizleifr, off and on over the years, as the rulers of the Rus marched against each other. All at once, that distant conflict was made horrifyingly real.
“I’m sorry for it. His body?” he whispered.
“He was burnt near the White Tower of Tengri-Thórr. A sickness took him, and his commanders gave him to the god of the open sky.” The fylkir stretched out an arm and patted his cousin. Eymund had been close to him too, perhaps closer than his own father could have been, given the burdens of state. It reminded them both of how distant they’d grown over the years. They sat silently reminiscing for a while, half-listening to the terrible rhymes of the skald, an unlikely eulogy for an unfitting death.
“To your father.” The men raised their glasses again and drank. Yngvar managed to maintain his composure, but his throat felt like rust and spikes. Each time he swallowed, he gulped down grief.
“Let’s not dwell on the dead. To the living. To our sister, for Thórr’s sake. Til árs ok friðar,” the jarl blurted. He dimly heard Thormund offer to manage the estate, but Yngvar had reached his limit. The quarrels of the court grew louder and louder, the din driving him to distraction.
“The river,” he said, by way of explanation as he stood and walked from the hall, almost tripping over the spinning midget. He looked straight ahead, conscious that he was still the Jarl of Jomsborg.
The fylkir followed, at a discreet distance, waving away his guards. “He’s my foster-brother, not an assassin,” he growled.
Yngvar had waded knee-deep in the river before Thormund reached the bank, the sounds of merriment far behind them. Despite his cousin’s shouts of concern, he pressed on, sucking through the mud, a second pair of boots ruined. It was dusk now, the river a satin ribbon, reflecting the flames dancing in the lighthouse.
“Völundr’s Lamp, they call it, as if the great smith had set it alight himself. Sometimes I think they are the true beacons in the darkness: the stories we tell our people, guiding them home.” Thormund took off his boots and breeches and slipped into the water, intent on following.
Yngvar gazed at the brooding shape of the Imperial boulder ahead of them. “There is a story about that too. Local legend said that Loki, banished—and rightly so—from a dwelling nearby, came across a jötunn named Fornjótr near the river. He promises to find a suitable mate for the lovesick creature, if he, in turn, would use his might to destroy said dwelling. The mistrustful giant, of course, wants to see his future partner first, and so Loki obliges. From the depth of the waters emerges a beautiful spirit, a vision. Fornjótr reaches out his gnarled, monstrous hand, tantalisingly close to ending his years of loneliness. But in that exact moment, a rooster crows and dispels what was a trickster’s illusion. The furious jötunn hurls this massive boulder at Loki, who uses more magic to speed his flight, turning into a toad. But it was too late: the boulder crashed down on him and confines him beneath it to this day.”
Thormund had hitched up his trousers, and now rippled past his cousin, clambering up on the rock, hooting like a Groenland loon. “If only that were true, and there was no more mischief in the world!” he said, grinning.
Yngvar was dumbfounded. The King of the Storm Hall playing truant—years seemed to roll off him. The moosehounds suddenly splashed into view, running headlong into the river to catch up to their stray master. It completed the scene perfectly. Servants followed after them, thrashing and flailing, soaked from head to toe in seconds. Thormund was beside himself, roaring with great peals of laughter, and suddenly they were boys again, hunting and riding. The fylkir was obviously relishing the freedom because he called, uncharacteristically, for more mead.
“Hail to the Æsir! Hail to the Asyniur!” Thormund cheered, and then announced unceremoniously that he needed to piss. Once the dogs and servants had gone back to the safety of the shore, they sat on the great rock and watched as black Nótt rode across the land. The darkness was as intoxicating as the drink. Soon both men were slurring and stumbling their way through stories of their youth, one minute shamefully cowering from the huldufólk, the next famously charging down a wild boar. Each deep draught was more redolent than the last, and Yngvar soon found himself gulping down maudlin thoughts and memories, before they emerged, full formed, like in Loki’s vision.
“So, what will we drink to next?” he asked, suddenly fearful of the silent waters.
“A proper funeral feast for Eymund,” Thormund said, turning serious. Norsemen cemented pacts and swore allegiance to the gods and king over their cups, the drink formalizing their vows and strengthening their bond—an heir could not sit in his father’s seat or claim his full inheritance without them. “After this year’s Reginthing.”
Vows made on the king’s cup were sacred, even more so during the Great Council, where they were assiduously attended by their divine forebears. Kings vowed to expand their domains, and warriors vowed to increase their renown, whether by heroic deeds or claiming wives.
“In that case, to the king of kings and his kin,” chortled Yngvar, relishing the prospect of his sovereign being tongue-tied as much as the chance to honour the memory of his father. Not to mention, it would be his chance to request the title of king and all the dignity that entailed. Perhaps his father had amassed a great store of luck, and now the hamingja had passed to him. Either that or the mead had emboldened him. True is the saying that no man shapes his own fortune, he grinned.
“When we were boys, you promised me a crown,” he said, daring his guardian spirit to deny him now.
The king was taken aback. “We were boys! I cannot be held to the oath of a fourteen-year-old. Come now, Yngvar, you did me a great service with the Seimgalir—can’t you be happy with that?”
Yngvar bridled. “If you think for a moment that I have served you well these past ten years, then you’ll consider my request.”
“Sometimes I wish we were all Íslandingar, living in a country that’s out of kings. Anything else you ask, wealth or honours, I will give. But a crown is not mine to give. I am no wiser than my forbears, and kings must be taken by the people, not given by the fylkir.”
“Taken by the people!” the jarl scoffed, standing now, as obstreperous as the king was pained. “Five generations have passed since the Store Hær, the Great Army, seized England, and we still pander to Ragnar’s whelps.”
Thormund exhaled heavily, with regretful care. “Ah, but such sons. Ragnar’s greatest gift to the empire he forged. Bound together by blood and steel. The Boneless, Snake-in-the-eye, Ironside, and Whiteshirt—gods amongst men. Look at what Karl the Kristin left his Empire with in comparison: the Frakkar birthed the Bald, the Simple, the Stammerer, the Blind, and the Fat. Mules and mares all.”
“I don’t need you to recite the damn bloodline. You set Eirik to rule across the Western Isles. Speak to the other jarls, the lawspeakers, the gods themselves if you have to. Command them to attend you at the Reginthing.”
The fylkir was now much more subdued, his face hardening into a frozen mask. “Our most bitter enemies are our own kith and kin. Kings have no brothers, king have no sons,” he said, quietly at first, his voice rising to a crescendo. Then, all at once, a long, bitter cry erupted from him, perhaps from anger, perhaps from anguish, Yngvar couldn’t tell. He flung the dregs of his drink into the river. “You know, Yngvar, what I like about you? No mealy-mouthed diffidence, no walking like a cat around hot porridge. My guts are torn from me, my family is carried off—the young prince Gudmudr, dead, a babe in arms; Oysteinn asleep in the dust, and their most unhappy mother irremediably tormented by the memory of the dead.”
“I didn’t know…”
“You didn’t ask! Why have I come to this ignominy? Thormund, ruler of a dozen lands? The two sons who remain survive only to punish me. Botulfr is like a deildegast, haunting the palace, rattling chains of misery. His brother, Eirik, depletes his kingdom with iron and lays it waste with fire, ignoring my emissaries. In all things, Óðinn has turned cruel and attacked me with the harshness of his hand. My brothers in the East fight amongst themselves, adding sorrow to sorrow, and now you undertake to usurp our laws—for what? Good Thórr, hide me until the Alföðr’s fury passes, until the spears hurled at me cease.”
The king was clearly deeply grieved, his face ashen and despairing. He rose unsteadily to his feet. “But what are kings, when the armies have gone, but perfect shadows in the sun?” he whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks and tumbling from his whiskers. He turned slowly to his cousin and glowered. “Vargdropi, out of my sight.”
Yngvar opened his mouth to protest, to explain himself and if need be, to offer his groveling apologies. He saw now: the extra guards, the great cavalcade, it was all for protection. But his luck had deserted him. He slipped, scrabbling for purchase on the great boulder.
There was a moment then, a split second, where Yngvar saw all his futures flash before his eyes. For that moment, the Imperial Boulder seemed like Hliðskjálf, the high seat of Óðinn, offering the chastened jarl tantalising glimpses of all the wide realms of man. He saw the Frakkar fortress-kingdoms, every river blocked with fortified bridges, every hilltop garrisoned with cavalrymen. He saw elite Excubitors billeted in the Great City, protecting all the mummery of Kristindómr. And he spied farther still, past endless canopies of strangler figs and mangrove swamps, where huge alpandill trampled and trumpeted. And then, he saw something else: a beautiful land, lush and bright as satin, with sweet scents and tall flowers, and streams of honey ran all over the land, in every direction. Then just as suddenly as the vision had begun, it vanished.
His chin collided with the cold, wet rock. By the time his men dragged him, sodden and squelching, to the Tinghöll, the fires had long gone out.
The Jarl of Jomsborg awoke in his own bed. Half-opening his eyes, he saw his clothes strewn across the floor and smiled slyly—the unruly path of garments promised a morning of furtive fumbling and easy desire. He groped across the silken quilts and down pillows, wondering who the lucky lady was this time. He felt woozy, but he could sleep that off later. Homecomings really did offer an abundance of delights.
“I hope you had sweet dreams,” said a man’s voice from one of the nearby benches. Soti, the Dane, stroking his red rooster of a beard and crowing with the dawn. It wasn’t wholly unexpected: the longhouse was scarcely a place for privacy. In fact, Yngvar’s life on land wasn’t very different to that at sea: the entire company did everything together, eating, cooking, dressing, and sleeping. The close quarters left little room for modesty.
Yngvar was about to cluck a retort before he dived under his blankets, but his left knee gave way the instant he rolled onto it. He prodded at it, puzzled—it had blown up like a sheep’s bladder. His jaw felt swollen and tender.
“Looks like you wet yourself.” Haakon hoved into view, aiming some desultory kicks at the discarded clothes. Yngvar suddenly spied his clock pendant, dented and cracked on the floor, and recollection came flooding back. He groaned inwardly, swamped by a wave of shame and nausea.
“Look, it’s all coming back to him now. You can tell from the maggot dangling between his legs,” Ketill joked. It seemed like half the Jomsvikings were lining the hall, waiting for him to wake up.
Yngvar’s once-proud manhood was now entirely and abruptly flaccid.
“He’s as soft as his bedding,” said Valdimarr, ridicule for Yngvar’s reðr mixed with contempt for his luxurious bed closet. It was a sign of status to some, but not for the hard-bitten butescarls.
“Call for the ship’s hand. The mast needs some attention.” The jokes were coming thick and fast now—the hooting and braying was ungodly. Yngvar had little choice than to nurse his wounds. He gave a slight bow, to acknowledge his self-immolation, then waved them all away.
He wasn’t overly concerned about Thormund’s wrath. Men quarrelled, and lords got drunk—they’d bandied plenty of heated words in the past and always reconciled quickly. But other memories began to surface, and he closed his eyes, trying to picture the Imperial Boulder. He needed to concentrate, to try to recall the fleeting glimpses he had seen, the visions of far-away places. He could almost…
“Yngvar the Far-Fetched! Did I not warn you about asking for a kingdom? You are a child of a man, a cautionary tale for moppets and bantlings. Hjúki and Bil! You fell down and broke your crown, and now here I am, mending your head with vinegar and brown parchment.”
The vituperative voice penetrated to the dark recesses of his head, hammering around his skull. Hjálmvígi had returned, doubtless summoned to wag a calloused finger and dispense antique remedies. The old lawspeaker grasped Yngvar’s head and stared deep into his eyes, as if searching a well; his laboured breath smelt of pine and iron. Then he stood and clasped Yngvar’s head to his chest, first prodding and probing the jarl’s teeth as if he was strumming a lyre, then slathered a foul-smelling unguent around his jawline. The jarl might have taken issue with being manhandled but didn’t have the energy to protest. While the odd examination persisted, he stared at an elaborate necklace of carnelian and amber beads, from which hung several pendants—among them a silver miniature chair. The chair of the nornir, a seat of sorcery.
Hjálmvígi tapped the top of his head, signalling that that he was finished. “It doesn’t take a soothsayer to know there will be no trip to the high seat this year,” he said, jangling the necklace. “But you are well enough. No fractures, no concussion.”
The hofgoði stood up and clattered his staff across the table to command the hall’s attention.
“The rest of you would be wise to prepare your lord’s ships.”
“I knew it!” hissed Valdimarr. “Strive not with him who is drunk with drink and witless, for often only ill and doom come out of such things.”
There was a general commotion, but the old priest only thumped his stave more insistently. “Calm yourselves. There is no need to panic. You have had good things from the Lord of the Spear, and he has not broken friendship with you. Now, you Jomsvikings will listen to me, and listen well. Each you of men is the sum of many things: his breaths and thoughts, the soil that fed him and his forebears, echoes of long-silenced battles and the much-contested laws of his land, of the smiles of girls and the slow utterance of old women. Yet, he is also this—a single flame, which can be lit and put out from one moment to the next.”
He looked round expectantly at the hushed faces, grizzled warriors in rapt attention.
“It was once the custom of powerful men, kings or jarls, that they went off raiding, and won riches and renown for themselves. And even if their sons inherited the lands, they had to win wealth and fame themselves, each in his turn, or be as nothing. And now? The fylkir has given the merchants so much power, the Englandshaf and the Eystrasalt are like Norse lakes, and you his errand boys. The Kristins laugh at us across the lands of Páfadómr. They laugh at our ‘Pax Nordica.’ How have we forgotten that Wōden incites the princes never to make peace!”
“You Saxar… always waging holy war!” heckled Soti.
The priest continued, ignoring the interruption. “My father could well remember the Uppsala King Eirik and used to say of him that when he was in his best years, he enlarged the Norse dominion. Yngvar’s father fell in the East, defending it manfully while Thormund lets his tribute-lands to go from him through laziness and weakness, starting at his own shadow. And you—what do you great sons of the North do? You spend your whole lives jesting and laughing as though at a permanent feast. Is it not worthy of your tears that with all the nine worlds at our fingertips, we have not yet become lords of one?”
Yngvar was taken aback. The Saxon had become a freewheeling demagogue. “What trickery is this? Just minutes ago, you told me that I shouldn’t ask for a kingdom.”
“You are a perverse mulish man, Yngvar,” Hjálmvígi chided. “Sometimes you need to be goaded into action. You’d have never uttered the thought if I hadn’t coaxed it from you and wouldn’t have asked if you hadn’t been shamed by your men or deeply drunk. Just as now, when you’d rather creep back into bed than pursue your destiny.”
Yngvar was chastened, but knew it to be true.
“So, what then? If I can’t be granted a crown, I’ll carve myself a kingdom.”
“Jarl Ulfr said the exact same thing. We took Galizuland and set up his throne in the Tower of Hercules,” Ketill chimed in.
“That was ten years ago, while the fylkir was beyond the Vargsea. He wasn’t happy to find his peace disturbed,” Yngvar replied, testily. He couldn’t abandon his cousin.
“Do you not long for a land where livestock feed themselves during the winters, that there are fish in every river and lake, and great forests, and that men are free from the assaults of kings and criminals? How many times does the fylkir mention peace? There has to be more to life than raids in Spánn and reminding Longbeards of their heritage. Soti, bring me the charts,” commanded the lawspeaker, suddenly master of the house.
Soti reached up, high on the wall, beyond the shield and spears and trophies of battle, and plucked several oak frames from their resting places. Nautical charts, with bearing lines emanating from compass roses located at various points on the map, surrounded by tangled ink illustrations of black, gold, green, and blue, bought long ago from a captive Gyðingr in Manork. The Serkir were excellent cartographers, if you could get your hands on their state secrets. The priest beckoned his men to the table, where he had arranged the vellum leaves in order.
This was the skjöldr iordrīke, “Shield of the World.” The human world of men, cities and seas, but also entire bestiaries of horrifying mythical creatures and the strange cultures of distant lands. It was not for use as a navigational tool, but instead was an artistic compendium of people, parables, and places. It stretched all the way from Vinland to Sindhland.
The northern quadrant was blue; the western isles, red; the southern Grikklands, green.
“Do we get to choose?” The men started to squabble, excitedly.
Yngvar scanned the map.
He had never been to Frakkarland but started to recall fragments of his vision and match them with the images on the shield. As far as he was concerned, it was all a land of Popes and pomp, one great trelleborg, every river blocked with fortified bridges, every hilltop garrisoned with cavalrymen—all to prevent the depredations of the Norse. The Frakkar were so fearful, they’d set down laws against trade with the North—the penalty for selling horses to the Vikings was death. The days of lightning raids ravaging the Frakkar coastlands—or seizing a city by stealth of night, raiding along the continent’s numerous navigable rivers—were long gone. You could see the Frakkar border forts all along the Sax-elfr rivers all the way to the Ore Mountains. No, the Norse had been feasting on Frakklarand for years. Rögnvaldr’s sons had ruled Namsborg for a century, along with their neighbour, the Jarls of Rúðu and Parisborg. There wasn’t a tasty morsel left, at least, not one beyond the point of a riddar’s lance.
“Let’s rule out invading Kristindómr,” Yngvar decided. “I’d rather not sail up a Frakkar’s back passage, and that means forgetting Beiaraland and Sváva.”
Other lands were offered up in a brawl of avarice and abandon, the warriors tumbling over each other to be heard. The Ungarariki? Sometime allies. The Kingdom of Nekor? No one relished fighting against the Veiled Ones on their bad-tempered úlfaldar.
“The west then. Snorri Thorfinnsson has claimed two colonies: Straumfjörð and Hóp. He claims descent from Ragnar.”
“Everyone claims to be descended from Ragnar. The Book of Settlements is just social climbing.”
“I heard he was killed by a man with one leg!”
“That was Thorvald Eiriksson, Leif the Lucky’s brother. The Nordmenn who don’t take to Knutr or Eirik are sailing to the Wonderstrands. We could be there within two months. Take ourselves a Skræling bride or ten.”
“No, we don’t want to sail north with winter on the wind.”
“I agree. There is nothing for us in the west. More peace. Mere crumbs, when the real banquet is here.”
Yngvar had seen where he needed to go. Farther than any Norseman. He jabbed his finger somewhere north of Khitai.
“I had a vision last night, on the rock. The god Frey once sat down on the mighty Óðinn’s chair and was immediately able to look into all the worlds. Here. We sail for Ódáinsakr, beyond the lands of Guðmundr. Fialler, the governor of Skaane, went into exile there.”
“The Undying Lands? You mean to make your hall on the glittering plains? That is further than Alexander himself fared,” said Valdimarr, clearly awe-struck.
The old lawspeaker was delighted by the suggestion.
“Had I thought you might live forever, I’d have reared you in my wool-basket,” Hjálmvígi said. “But lifetimes are shaped by what will be, not by where you are. Now, take this device. I’ve made it for you with all the skill I have, and my belief is this: it will bring safe passage to the ship that carries it.”
The men all gathered, speaking in hushed tones, only to see little more than a diviner’s bowl of water.
“How does it work?” Ketill asked, eager to augment his skills of navigation.
“When you sailors can no longer profit by the light of the sun, or when the world is wrapped up in the shades of night, look to this device. Its iron needle, after contact with the leiðsteinn, will turn itself always toward the northern star, which, like the axis of the firmament, remains immoveable.”
Yngvar watched as the iron whirled round in a circle until, when its motion ceased, its point looked directly to the north.
“Pathways in the darkness, Hjálmvígi, will your wonders never cease? And the roadstone, where did it come from?”
“Call it a gift from the gods. The rock is found where thunderbolts have stricken the earth with their fury.”
“Then we shall pray to Tengri-Thórr and trust that the sky god gives us safe passage. What say you men? We sail at dawn!”