CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Exhausted though he was, Erlan lay awake for hours that night, gazing through the treetops at the drifting clouds, having made camp not far from the shore of a lake. Awake or asleep, he couldn’t escape the images that came back again and again. Konur’s drooping mouth; his father’s tears; Inga, adrift in crimson swirls.

Questions chased images; images chased questions – each expanding and expanding, filling his heart and mind until it seemed his soul was a rudderless ship, adrift on an ocean of pain. He kept hoping he would come to the end of his grief, somehow slip his fingers round the edge of it – somehow contain it. But then another wave would rise up beneath him, and he would glimpse another endless horizon, rushing away from him.

He could only lie, looking upwards, the lonely ocean of grief lapping all around him, vast and deep and cold. At last, through the sheer exhaustion of his turning mind, sleep did come, dreamless and heavy.

And it was some hours later that he was awoken by Idun’s warm, oaty breath on his face.

‘Go away,’ he hissed irritably, turning over under his cloak. Undaunted, Idun only butted him harder. He groaned, reaching out to shove her away.

But instead, all of a sudden, he sat up.

He sucked in deeply through his nostrils to see if his mind was playing tricks. . . There it was again, faint but unmistakable. No animal of the forest smelled like that. A sickly, sour reek that could only come from the stinking body of a man. A man he’d smelled before.

In a heartbeat he was on his feet, seizing his weapons and Idun’s bridle. The dawn light was seeping under the branches. A little down the slope, he could see the lakeshore fanning out. He swung onto Idun’s back.

‘There’s the whoreson!’ cried a voice Erlan recognized all too easily. Arald. ‘Quick, after him.’ He glimpsed two figures stalking through the wood, each leading a horse. Jamming in his heels, Idun sprang away.

He hadn’t expected much from her. Didn’t get much either. But she went for the shoreline all the same.

‘He’s coming out – look sharp, lads!’ shouted Arald, as Erlan cleared the trees. The lake opened out like a giant’s silver platter. A few wreaths of mist lingered over its surface. He heard a clatter of hooves, and looked right to see two other riders kicking their horses over the flat grey stones.

He hauled the reins left, driving his heels, with only an instant to mark that one of the riders looked familiar.

Arik.

The weasel! So much for Gotar hospitality. Ahead of him, there was no one to bar his way, but his heart sank anyway. A large shoulder of rock sloped out of the trees, stretching fifty yards into the lake. The shoreline was blocked. Idun was struggling on the loose stones. There was no hope of going round in the water, no time to break back into the trees.

An arrow fizzed overhead, clattering against the rocks.

‘Don’t shoot him yet, you dopey potlicker!’ yelled Arald. ‘He’s not going nowhere.’ There was a loud half-witted cackle.

Erlan looked back. The four riders were closing in. He had little choice: he had to face them. He sawed on the bridle. Idun whinnied in protest as he jumped down, grabbing his shield and unsheathing his sword.

The feel of its hilt gave some comfort. Wrathling moved like a thing alive, as if it would guide his every stroke. He prayed to the Spear-God it would be so.

The men dismounted at a distance and came forward in a line. He swallowed, throat dry as dust.

Little Arik’s grimace made him look more like a skull than ever. He had a throwing-axe in one hand and a cudgel in the other. On his left walked a much bigger man, helm pushed down tight, with a long-spear and a mailshirt covering his body. He at least looks like he can fight.

To Arik’s right was a lad with wide-set eyes and a filthy tunic, wearing an open-mouthed grin and carrying a bow with a nocked arrow. On the end was Arald, long tongue licking wolfishly at blackened teeth, brandishing a double-headed axe.

Four men. Though Erlan judged only two were any use in a fight.

‘Fancy finding you here, stranger,’ sniggered Arald. The boils on his face were angry red. ‘Far from home, ain’t you? Bet you’re sorry you left off sucking your mama’s teat now, uh?’

‘Why didn’t you kill me when I slept?’ Erlan was addressing Arik, but eyeing each of them in turn. The lad with the bow was giggling like a simpleton.

‘Well,’ drawled Arik. ‘Gotta be some standards of hosting, ha’n’t there? Besides, I reckoned you a runaway outlaw, and a beggar one at that.’ Arik cocked his head craftily. ‘Till I saw that sword. Now there’s a pretty thing.’

‘You like it that much, come here, and I’ll shove it up your arse.’

The simpleton laughed madly at that.

Arald chortled. ‘We couldn’t let an outlander come through here without some kind of contribution to my father’s chests.’ He twisted his neck till it cracked. ‘Just wouldn’t be right. Where’s the respect? Now we gotta take it for ourselves, see?’

‘If you didn’t stink like pigshit, your work’d already be done.’

Arald’s grin melted away. ‘You’re a dead man, stranger. You can make this easy, or you can make it hard. Give us the fucking sword, and we’ll only slit your throat.’

Suddenly the simpleton whimpered, shuffling about like he was about to soil himself. ‘You said, brother. You said.’ He spoke with a lisp, like his tongue was too big for his mouth.

‘Said what?’

The halfwit grinned and bucked his hips back and forward obscenely.

Arald snorted. ‘Oh, aye. See, my idiot brother here doesn’t have much luck with the sluts back at Freyhamen. And you with your pretty face, ’n all, he reckons you might oblige him.’ Arald gave a lewd sneer. But Erlan didn’t see it. He was watching the arrow pointing at his chest, how it wavered with every idiot chuckle.

‘Didn’t I tell you, stranger?’ crowed Arald. ‘Every man has something another man wants. What do you say? My brother might have cowpat for brains but he’s hung like a mule!’ They all broke out in gales of laughter.

But Erlan was remembering Garik’s words. A shield is useless if you’re outnumbered. Use it for one thing:

To narrow the odds.

He flung it at the halfwit.

The shield spun like a discus, straight for his head. But the halfwit saw the danger and, in shock, loosed his string.

The arrow whipped past Erlan’s shoulder, the same instant the shield-edge caved in the idiot’s face. The lad slumped to his knees and fell forward, quivering.

His arrow was heading straight for Idun, but startled by the sudden movement, she was already recoiling. The tip raked her neck, then skittered off into the rocks with a clatter.

The mare reared up with a shriek, barrelling past Erlan like a thunderclap, slamming full tilt into Arik and the big man in the byrnie. Arik went flying. His head hit a rock with a thud and he lay still.

Erlan didn’t see what became of the big warrior because Arald had recovered his wits and came on with a scream like Hel’s own spawn.

There was plenty of hate in his snarls, but his blows were ugly as his face. Erlan parried each blow, feeling a savage thrill as Wrathling danced in his hand. But he knew he had moments to win this fight. In the tail of his eye, the big man had picked himself off the ground and was coming to Arald’s aid.

Erlan fell back a pace and drew his knife. Left-handed would have to serve. He threw it hard as he could. Arald saw the flying steel, flinched away. The movement saved his life, but only for the butt to smash into his eye. Arald squealed, doubling over, clutching his face.

Wrathling scythed upwards.

Erlan felt the blade slice bone and sinew. Arald screamed louder this time and dropped his axe, staggered back, shield gone, groping at the mess where his arm had been. His forearm hung by a few scraps of flesh. He fell writhing in the shallows.

But Erlan had no time to celebrate. The big man was there, squaring up. ‘You won’t find me so easy.’ His voice rang through his helm. Through the eyepieces shone a cold glare. The man gripped his spear so tight, seemed his biceps would burst his byrnie. Aye, and the biggest bastard biceps I ever saw.

‘They call me Barth the Boulder! Ain’t no man living nor dead who’s taken a slice off me. I will crush you.’

‘Barth the Boulder?’ Erlan gave a mad laugh. ‘Is that for the rock in your head? I name you Shit-for-Brains if you do the bidding of that stinking fuck.’ The sound of Arald’s screaming still filled the air.

The Boulder came at him with a roar, spear-point darting like an adder. Erlan’s arm worked fierce to keep his guard, springing forward when he could to cut at the Boulder’s neck. But the big bastard was quick on his feet. Quicker than he ought to be.

Erlan’s mind was working as hard as his blade. He had to get past that point, had to slow those feet so he could land a killing blow. But the Boulder didn’t look like tiring.

Then he saw a way. He gave ground, edging into the shallows. Icy water filled his boots. The spearman came with him, and soon they were up to their knees. Wrathling cracked against the spear-shaft in a shower of spray. But his ruse was working. Now when he attacked, the Boulder struggled to stay clear.

He saw fear curdle the big man’s face. The lunges became erratic, the Boulder’s skill draining as he tired. But the Spear-God wasn’t done yet. The rocks under Erlan shifted. He floundered, his guard faltered. The point shot past, its cold iron slicing his side.

The cut stung like a whip. He yelped in pain. The Boulder allowed himself a laugh. But the cut wasn’t deep, and the gloating grimace under the Boulder’s helm only maddened him.

Fury tore through him like a tempest. This wasn’t how it would end. He wasn’t going to die in some strange land at the hand of stinking thieves. Suddenly it wasn’t the wound that incensed him. It was the pain inside, it was the darkness, it was the cold sea, it was the rage against the Nine Worlds and the gods that ruled them. . . it was Inga.

The Boulder must have seen something fearful because his grin vanished. Now it was his turn to retire, drawing them back into the shallows. Erlan rained down blows, muscles burning.

The water was ankle deep when the Boulder tripped. A fallen birch shimmered underwater. Barth went sprawling. Erlan leaped forward to finish him, but the Boulder swung his spear one last time, smashing the shaft against Erlan’s wound. He screamed, falling, his point jamming in the rocks, twisting away, as he crashed on his enemy. The Boulder’s face was inches from his. Instinctively, he seized his throat and began squeezing.

The warrior thrashed about, jettisoning his spear; Erlan crushed his hands tighter, rage strengthening his grip. Barth’s head writhed, fighting for breath, his helm falling away. And suddenly, there was his face.

Erlan froze in shock. The cold, blue eyes, the hair black as jet, the heavy brow – they were his father’s. They were – and yet. . . couldn’t be.

Suddenly a meaty hand shoved back his head, thumb hooking his jaw. Pain jerked Erlan back into the fight. He squeezed tighter, bit down hard, tasted blood. That face, so familiar, raged, eyes wide with fear, bubbles of air streaming in silent screams under the shallow water.

But bitter fury filled him; his whole body burned with it. ‘Die, you bastard, die!’

The Boulder’s mouth gaped not two inches beneath the surface, but it was enough. Finally his hand weakened and fell away. The muffled screaming stopped. The terror went out of those ice-blue eyes. His father’s lifeless face stared back at him.

Erlan flung himself away, gasping, arms and legs weak as a kitten. Relief enveloped him like the waters of the lake.

I must be losing my mind.

His chest heaved, and suddenly he began to sob with great lung-wrenching moans welling from the pit of his soul. He lay there, in the freezing water, weeping and weeping and weeping at how alone he really was.

You’re to be a man, my son. Not a monster. His mother’s words echoed, stark as winter. How in black Hel was he to survive this world without becoming a monster? How!

But his mother could never answer that. . . not now.

He’d always despised self-pity – yet here he was, a slave to it. For a long time, he lay staring at his shaking hands.

Murderer’s hands.

At last, his sobs faded. He wiped away his tears and lifted his head. Arald was no longer screaming. Erlan sat up, listening to his own breathing, watching its mist float away on the still air.

Somewhere in the trees a crow cawed, jolting him from his daze. He scrambled up and turned to the body beside him, a heavy dread weighing on him.

But when he looked, the Boulder’s face had changed. The dark hair and light eyes were the same, but the jaw was wider, the mouth oddly small. Erlan felt uneasy. The features were no longer his father’s. A passing similarity maybe, but that was a stranger’s face.

Slowly his anger ebbed away. He rubbed his eyes. The image was so clear. The look in those cold, blue eyes so wounded.

Yet I killed him anyway.

He shut away the thought, suddenly shivering with the cold, and turning his back, he went to retrieve his sword.

Arald lay motionless at the lake’s edge, the stones all around him slick with blood. His arm was bent double, the flesh twisted, his face ash-grey, his long tongue drooping out of his mouth.

He was dead.

Erlan found his knife nearby, washed it and returned it to its sheath.

Arald’s halfwit brother was a crumpled heap of limbs, his face smashed to a bloody maw. Erlan went over to Arik and found the merchant still breathing, but laid out cold.

‘Come on, runt – wake up.’ He gave Arik’s leg a sharp kick. The merchant began to come around, blinking groggily up at the sky. Seeing Erlan over him, his eyes grew wide with fear.

‘Seems Idun’s none too fond of her old master.’ Erlan put his boot on Arik’s chest and drew his knife.

‘Please, I beg you – don’t kill me!’ Erlan caught the acrid smell of fear leak into Arik’s breeches.

He grunted. ‘You think you deserve more of a chance than you gave me?’

‘But it wasn’t me,’ he whined. ‘I swear – Arald forced me to it.’

‘Sure didn’t look that way.’

‘No, it’s true. When you left, he asked all about you. I wouldn’t tell him nothing – I swear. But he beat it out of me anyways.’

‘I saw it in your face, liar. The moment you laid eyes on my sword, you wanted it.’ Erlan ground his boot harder.

‘No, no! Please – you’re hurting me.’ Arik tugged frantically at his tunic, trying to pull it up. ‘Look, I’ve the marks to prove it. I swear!’ Curious, Erlan relaxed his foot a little, and Arik eagerly rolled over and showed him his back. A few bruises ran purple and black under his skin. ‘See – see? They made me do it.’

Erlan thought a moment, then shoved him over again. ‘A man never knows when he might need a favour back – isn’t that what you told me?’ Erlan smiled coldly. ‘I reckon you’re in need of a favour about now, aren’t you?’

‘Please. I’ll do anything. Take the horses. Take my purse.

Just don’t hurt me!’

Erlan made no reply. Only watched the little man squirming under his boot. ‘Are you – are you going to kill me?’

Erlan shook his head. ‘Those boys of yours need their father. Even if he is a rat.’ He saw relief flood Arik’s hollow cheeks. ‘Maybe you need a lesson in hospitality all the same.’ Erlan dropped his knee into Arik’s chest, and jerked his head to one side. ‘A reminder – to treat the next poor bastard who stays under your roof a sight better than you did me.’

‘What? No! What are you going to do? No – stranger! Please! NO!’

Arik’s screech split the still air as Erlan put the knife to his ear and, with a quick twist, cut half of it off. Blood leaked onto the stones. Flinging away the chunk of gristle, he hauled Arik, whimpering, to his feet.

‘Well, friend. Freyhamen’s that way.’ And he sent him on his road with a shove. The merchant scuttled off along the shoreline, clutching his ear and muttering curses.

The dead men’s horses had scattered and were nowhere to be seen. Erlan cursed. He didn’t want to linger there. Freyhamen wasn’t far away – it wouldn’t be long before someone else was along, and they weren’t like to take his part in this little altercation.

A movement in the trees caught his eye. Idun appeared from the shadows, her ears flat with suspicion. He clicked his tongue and held out his hand.

Warily, she approached. He could see a bib of dried blood down her chest where the arrow had cut her. Her muscles quivered as he bent to check it.

‘Could be worse.’ He was suddenly aware of his own wound. He pulled up his tunic and peered down at it. ‘Aye, could be a lot worse. I’ll get us cleaned up. We’ve a long road ahead.’

Above him, the crows began to circle.