CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Erlan decided he could never be a king.

Not if a king had to make speeches as long as this one.

Sviggar must be getting tired up there, prating on, he thought. Certainly if Erlan’s own body was any marker. He felt stiff as a post and raw as a skinned ox.

Maybe this is how it has to be: the greater the feast, the longer the speech.

And it was an undeniably great feast.

From the rafters hung war-banners with horned beasts and horned men dancing in threads of gold and scarlet. Along the walls were bright-rimmed buckler-shields scattering firelight to every corner of the feast-hall. Smoke billowed through the roof-cuts to the cold stars around burnished cauldrons, swinging like moons above blazing hearths.

When Sviggar had got to his feet, he’d interrupted a Hel of a din. These Sveär folk needed no lessons in carousing. In no time, the faces of men and women had flushed with honey-wine and ale. Horns and beakers were filled and drained, filled and drained. The place was agleam with smiles, awash with the smells of waxed leather; costly perfumes from the south mingled with roasting hogs and hens, honeyed beets and steaming breads, boiling cheeses and barley cakes, smoked fish and sweet-curds.

The noise was overwhelming. Five hundred folk all speaking over one another – loutish shouts, mocking shrieks, belly laughter, bawdy slurs, high-pitched giggles. Dogs barking, tableware rattling, fists crashing, and hall-maids fighting bravely on through the tumult like ships in a storm, to keep the fire of their feasting fuelled.

Somehow, Sviggar had silenced all this. Every ear was given to the king – though Erlan reckoned by now he’d stretched their patience to a thread. He looked splendid enough, with his peculiar stamp of rugged nobility, aged but still commanding respect, the golden torque gleaming round his neck.

Hardly a name went unmentioned – every fallen karl or thane or earl was honoured, as promised. At each, a cheer went up, giving the crowd relief from their enforced silence – steam from a kettle. He’d dragged Bodvar up and they’d drunk him a long toast. Lastly, it was Erlan’s turn. The king had done him special honour, seating him on his right beside his daughter. Sviggar waxed long about the service done him, and all the while Erlan stood there, itching to escape the eyes of the crowd.

Despite his discomfort, the revellers had nearly thrown off the roof with their drunken roar of admiration, making him all the more grateful when at last he sat down.

Now Sviggar was assuring his subjects how lucky they were. ‘Our markets thrive. Our fields and flocks flourish. Come springtime our harbours will open and we shall become richer still. We have peace! Peace with Autha’s heir. Tribute from the Norsk and the Western Gotars.’ He glanced down to where Saldas sat, and beside her Sigurd. ‘I see a sturdy heir and a beauteous queen. Was there ever a Sveär king so favoured by the gods?’ He smiled down at his queen. She returned it briefly, then turned away with cool disinterest. The smile slid from the king’s face. He turned back to the crowd. ‘Let the feasting thunder this night!’ he cried, and a mighty cheer rose from the benches. ‘To the War-Father – who has given us victory once more.’

‘To the War-Father,’ the company resounded. Fists crashed on tables and the feasting resumed with fresh fervour.

As Sviggar was sitting, Sigurd called over the din. ‘You’re wrong about Autha’s heir, Father. The Wartooth hasn’t lost his taste for a fight. His sons even less. Their greed will drive them here. They only await their moment.’

‘Gods, how you love this tune! Why can you not enjoy this peace?’

‘The Wartooth cannot be trusted.’

Bodvar, seated nearby, answered for the king. ‘A young man often looks at other men and fears what he sees in himself.’

‘Very true, my earl,’ chuckled Sviggar. ‘Sigurd, I’ll leave you a powerful kingdom. Be glad in that. You shouldn’t be too swift to see deceit. Trust no one and no one will trust you. A kingdom stands on trust.’

‘A kingdom stands on power,’ returned Sigurd.

‘I’ll not trade words with you on how a king should rule. The weights lie even in the scales. Autha’s line and my own can live in peace.’

‘You dishonour yourself, Father. You cannot love peace and honour both. The Wartooth knows that. That is why he’ll come.’

‘Harald and I have won enough war-fame for our seat in Valhalla when the time comes. He has no more need to prove himself than I.’

‘As you judge, let it be.’ Sigurd’s tone was biting. ‘But when you’re gone, war will certainly come. A den of wolves gathers at our borders.’

‘Wolves?’

‘I’ve heard Harald’s sons are calling warriors to their halls. Ringast hosts the Friesland champion, Ubbi. Grepi and Gamli come from English shores. Others come. Why else would these raven-feeders gather? It isn’t to whet their thirst on Ringast’s beer!’

‘And yet it is a fine brew,’ declared Bodvar. ‘So they say.’

‘If a king rode to war every time one lord feasts another, he’d soon scrape the bottom of his coffers,’ said Sviggar. ‘Besides, men may be bound by sword or by oath. There are ways of peace as sure as the ways of war.’

‘An oath can be broken. Bind a man by the sword, and he’ll not trouble you again.’

‘Ha! If only that were so,’ laughed his father. He sat back, considering his son. ‘So, my bold son – what would you have me do?’

‘Raise an army. Bring war on Harald before he is ready.’

Sviggar’s laugh thundered up the table. ‘What is it you really want? A Danish girl to bed? The Wartooth’s gold? Another blood worship? Come, tell me!’

‘I think only of Sveär glory – and the fate of your kingdom.’

‘Aye, it is my kingdom. You’d do well to remember it. Perhaps this time in my seat has gone to your head.’

Sigurd looked away with a scowl.

‘What think you, Bodvar?’

The earl scratched at his stubble. ‘Perhaps send Sigurd to Ringast’s hall to see for himself.’ Sigurd seemed surprised. Sat a little taller. But then Bodvar added, ‘Seems his place is there among the maids of Dannerborg, swooning under Ubbi and those others.’

‘Ha!’ laughed Sviggar. ‘Just so!’

Sigurd’s voice turned to ice, a dead smile on his lips. ‘I’ll not forget your jape, earl. It was one of my father’s first lessons – a king’s memory is the measure of his wisdom. You shall find me quite wise.’

But Bodvar’s face disappeared into his cup, his eyes a little jaded with drink. Erlan wondered whether, sober, he’d make the same joke. Sigurd fell to stabbing at a hunk of pork like it was the earl’s throat. But he kept back whatever words he might have spoken as dark thoughts.

‘I thought Bodvar wiser than to make an enemy of my brother,’ murmured Lilla. The princess was almost unrecognizable from the gaunt spectre that had stumbled out of the darkness of Niflagard. Now, she was undeniably lovely, despite the purple bruise staining one temple. Her hair had been arranged into a lattice of braids, woven through with thin black ribbons and tied up behind her neck, with two loose strands framing her face. Her eyes were lined with coal, making them shine like the surface of a moonlit sea, and she wore a pale yellow gown, fastened with two ornate silver brooches and cinched with a silver-embroidered girdle. And yet, for all her beauty, she seemed uncomfortable. As if something were making her nervous.

‘Bodvar fears no man,’ said Erlan. ‘He serves the king and Hel take the rest.’

‘And you? Do you fear no man?’ Her voice was tinged with irony.

‘Should I?’

Lilla shrugged. ‘You have my father’s favour now. But your success will have won you few others’ favour.’

‘Even if it meant their princess’s life?’

She gave a sharp laugh. ‘Whether I live or die is of little consequence to most of them, except that it should win them a better name. Now you’ve taken that.’

‘And you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Do I have your favour?’

She gave him a quizzical smile. ‘What do you care about that?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe I don’t.’

‘Then I won’t tell you. I shall keep it secret. Just like you. You like your secrets, don’t you?’

He frowned and smiled together, but didn’t answer.

‘Well then!’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to my secret thoughts!’

‘I guess I’ll drink to that.’ He chinked her glass and emptied his wine into the back of his throat. He’d never tasted wine until this night, it being the privilege of only the king’s household. It went down surprisingly smoothly.

‘You’re supposed to sip it, you oaf! You’ll make yourself dead drunk!’ she said, giggling. Then interrupted her own giggles with a loud hic.

‘I’m not the only one, Princess.’

She palmed her brow, blushing a little. And then she reached out and put her hand on his. ‘Please – call me Lilla. You’re always saying, “princess here, princess there”. It makes me want to scream!’ She laughed, nervously.

‘Very well.’ He smiled. ‘Lilla.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, heavily. ‘You’re a very curious man. You know that? I don’t understand you, stranger.’ The edges of her words were slipping. ‘Tell me one thing.’

‘Well?’

‘Just what is it that you want?’

He looked away, picked up the wine pitcher, and slowly refilled their beakers. For a long while, he stared into the dark liquid.

‘Vindication,’ he said, at last.

‘Vindication? For what?’

He lifted his gaze. ‘Everything.’

Maybe it was the wine she’d drunk, but her ocean-blue eyes held his, bold and unblinking. It was he who was first to look away, letting his gaze wander over the curves of her body pressed against the pale cloth.

‘You shouldn’t look at me like that,’ she murmured. ‘Not you.’

‘Why not me?’ He leaned closer.

But she didn’t give him an answer, didn’t look away.

Instead, she lifted her hand, almost in a reverie. It was halfway to his cheek when a voice spoke behind them.

‘How charming!’ Lilla jerked round, her hand dropping like a stone. Queen Saldas was at their shoulder, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Friendship is often born in such terrible trials.’

Lilla looked away, blushing.

‘How good to see you safe and happy, daughter.’ The queen’s face was half-bathed in shadow. She bent down and laid a kiss just below Lilla’s ear and then, almost absently, trailed her fingertips across the exposed skin of her shoulders. Lilla trembled.

‘How she has suffered! In this awful affair and more. Her poor heart. Love has been such a cruel master.’

Erlan couldn’t fail to notice that a strange smallness had come over Lilla. She seemed to shrink under the queen’s caresses, her expression suddenly veiled.

Feeling awkward, he fumbled for something to say. ‘Princess Aslif is fortunate to have you in her mother’s place.’

Lilla shot him a hostile look. Saldas tossed back her head and laughed. Like everything else about her, her laugh somehow lingered in the senses.

‘You flatter me that I could replace her in Lilla’s affections. Though I do try, my sweet, don’t I?’ She ran a toying finger along Lilla’s jaw. ‘But you misunderstand me. The love I spoke of is young love. Isn’t it always doomed to sadness? We womenfolk are fated to love men who love war – thus, we are ever weeping.’

Erlan offered Lilla a questioning look but she wouldn’t meet his eye.

‘Perhaps you know something of this yourself, stranger.’

‘Of love?’ He snorted. ‘I’ve no answers to that mystery.’

‘There are none. We are only to enjoy its pleasures.’ Her fingertip trickled over Lilla’s skin. ‘Or submit to its pain.’

Erlan found the unease between Saldas and Lilla stifling. He got to his feet. ‘Pray excuse me, my queen. I hate to think what trouble my servant is getting himself into.’

She scoffed, delicately. ‘You’d do well to find some trouble yourself, I think.’

And then, as unexpectedly as she had come, Saldas snatched away her hands and left them.

Erlan didn’t linger, hastily taking leave of Lilla, but wondering what had been passing in her mind all that while. Descending the steps, the noise grew to a roar of shrieks and songs and swirling laughter. But the loudest din, of course, came from Kai’s bench.

He spotted the familiar flick of his fringe. His face was upturned in riotous laughter. Everyone around him was laughing as hard.

He saw Erlan approaching. ‘My brother, my brother! There you are – make way, make way,’ he shouted, shoving his neighbours along the bench. ‘Erlan, you have to see this. You never saw the like!’ He seized Erlan’s tunic and yanked him closer. Across from Kai sat Einar the Fat-Bellied – red as a beetroot, beard sticky with mead. Surrounding them was a crowd of men and maids, standing, sitting, legs cocked on benches, girls riding warriors’ laps, all yelling at each other, snatching at pitchers of mead, staggering, slurring, sloshing ale.

‘Do it again!’ cried Kai. ‘Go on, you bag of beer – for our hero!’

‘What? Again?’ roared Einar.

‘Come on!’

‘Do what?’ yelled Erlan.

‘He can fart out of his ear – I swear, or I ain’t heir to old Askar and his fishy fortune – for all the good it does me! Ha! It’s the finest thing! Everyone quiet!’ bellowed Kai, drenching Erlan in a shower of spittle.

And many obliged him as Einar seized his nose, gulped down a huge breath, and blew. And then an odd little sound came from his ear – something between the tiniest horn and the smallest fart in the world. The company gawped delightedly as Einar squeezed out a jolly tune. One by one the crowd began thumping the table to the rhythm. Then came a rowdy chorus:

Drink, drink, drink till you drop,

If you can’t stand up, you can shove her on top.

Drink, drink, drink to the dawn,

If you can’t see straight, she can blow your horn.

They all clashed cups, sank their drink and fell about laughing.

‘Quite a trick,’ called Erlan when another reveller distracted Kai momentarily. ‘Where’d you pick that up?’

‘Got in a fight with a fella who bashed my ear with his shield. Ha’n’t been able to hear much out of it since.’ Einar smacked his fat lips. ‘Still, I got a trick that makes folks laugh. He got a bellyful of steel and fast passage to the Heroes’ Hall. It’s a trade I can live with.’

Someone shoved a frothing horn into Erlan’s hand. ‘To good trading then.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘You seen Finn?’

‘Aye.’ Einar’s smile curdled some.

‘Is he all right?’

‘For now.’ Einar jabbed his cup up the bench. Further along, in the crook of a pillar, was a man with his back to the wall and a girl moving up and down on his lap. The couple were oblivious to the revelry about them. Erlan recognized the bowman’s white-blond hair as the girl moved faster, pulling his head to her breasts.

‘Not in mourning then,’ said Erlan.

‘I guess it’s mourning of a sort.’ Einar shrugged. ‘All I know is the man ain’t happy.’

‘Well, this is a place to bury your sorrows.’

‘So it is,’ nodded Einar. ‘But then there’s tomorrow. . .’

Erlan offered his horn. ‘Well, here’s to him.’

‘Here’s to him indeed! We all serve Sviggar, but he actually loves the old bastard.’

And a lot of good it’s done him. But they touched cups and Erlan drank off his ale.

‘Brother, brother!’ Kai was tugging at him excitedly. ‘There’s someone you must meet.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Only the love of my life,’ he cried, pointing to a group along the table. A girl, head bright with red locks falling to her waist, was rocking with laughter.

Kai gave a piercing whistle. They all turned. ‘Bara, come here!’ He beckoned wildly. ‘Come meet a real live hero.’ He was so guileless the king himself wouldn’t have hesitated, and she sauntered over.

‘Ain’t she a peach?’ whispered Kai. Certainly there wasn’t a thing about this girl that didn’t drag a man’s thoughts to bed. Everything was round and soft and voluptuous, leaving admiring gazes in her wake. From the spark in her eye, she knew it too.

‘A real hero, eh?’ she pouted. ‘Ain’t there a whole hall full of them hereabouts?’

‘Not like him,’ returned Kai. ‘You heard the king – finest bloody warrior in the place.’

‘What pleases the king ain’t the same as what pleases me.’

Erlan laughed. ‘And who are you – that’s so hard to please?’

‘Ain’t he told you?’ she cried, sending a quiver through her bosom. ‘I’m to be handmaiden to my Lady Saldas. Bara, Baldur’s daughter, will be a name to be remembered before long.’

‘How could I forget it even now?’ drooled Kai. ‘You know it was thoughts of you kept me going through those long nights in the snow.’

‘Aye, you’ve told me – and how many times!’ She poked Kai in the chest. ‘There must be dozens of men who think of me to get ’em through the night – whether they’re stuck in a snowdrift or tucked up warm with their wives.’ She threw back her curls with a laugh. ‘What makes you think I’d spare a thought for you over them, my young pup?’

‘Bah! They’re mongrels, all of ’em! But I’m pure bred, I am. And I got teeth. I know how to bite.’

She sized him up, then gave a coquettish shrug. ‘I suppose sometimes a cat likes to play with a pup – but it has to be some kind of animal.’

‘Well then!’ cried Kai triumphantly. ‘You won’t never play with a pup like me.’

‘So you say. But a handmaiden to the queen can have whomever she likes and you ain’t impressed me yet. Come back when you’re a big dog, eh?’ Bara tapped his cheek, and turned to Erlan. ‘You should keep your pup on a leash. You don’t want him getting scratched now, do you – hero?’ She drew a provocative nail down his jaw, spun on her heels and disappeared into the throng.

Kai stood staring after her. Erlan slapped his back, laughing. ‘Poor Kai! That puss is going to eat you alive.’

‘Oh, I hope so.’

‘Frey’s luck with that one, my friend. You’ll need it.’

‘You heard what she said. I’ve just got to impress her and she practically promised herself to me.’ Kai looked like he couldn’t believe his luck.

‘That’s not exactly what she said.’

‘Nonsense! Now then – got to think. . .’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to figure it out. I need a leak.’

He left Kai mulling over his problem and went outside.

The night was a brilliant canopy of stars, the air clear and crisp. It was the month of Yule. Close to the winter solstice – the day of his birth. The longest night. As he let the night’s revelry drain out of him into the snow, he wondered whether his father would be thinking about him. Whether the Vendlagard fires burned a little colder this Yuletide now he was gone.

Now both of us are gone. . .

Suddenly a great sadness brimmed within him. He imagined flying on eagle’s wings over these strange lands back to his old home – back to his father’s arms.

Tears ran hot down his cheeks.

He snorted, angry with himself. Enough of this. . . Hakan is dead. He died with his sister. But the pain in his heart lingered.

He fastened his belt and wiped away his tears.

Suddenly, a brittle voice behind him spoke. ‘Something upsetting you, cripple.’

He turned to see Sigurd. The old barb still caught at his pride. He sniffed. ‘Many things. And you?’

Sigurd’s nostrils tightened, seeming unsure what to say to this. ‘You should be happy,’ he grunted eventually. ‘This is your hour.’

‘Not mine alone.’

‘Of course,’ said Sigurd, impatiently. ‘But it was you who saved my sister.’ He kicked at the snow. ‘I suppose I should be grateful.’ His sullen look hardly betrayed much gratitude.

‘As should we be to you.’

Sigurd looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your part in our victory. It’s there, swinging from the sacred oak for all to see. ’Twas bravely done.’ Erlan could see the anger pouring into Sigurd’s face, but he didn’t care.

‘You dare make mock of me? You? A cripple!’

The word bit again. Erlan felt his pride pawing at the ground. But he held it in check, saying nothing.

‘My father – fool that he is – reckons you a gift from the gods. But every cripple is a throwback of the gods. Refuse. Marked with shame.’

‘That may be true,’ Erlan nodded. ‘Yet, though I’m a cripple, your father judged me more of a man than you.’

Sigurd’s face curdled in disgust. ‘You may have beguiled that old fool, but you never will me.’

‘No,’ smiled Erlan. ‘I shall leave that to others.’

‘Don’t think yourself superior to me, cripple.’

Erlan leaned in and hissed, ‘That’s right. I am a cripple. But tell me, my lord – what was it crippled you?’

Confusion spread over Sigurd’s face and before he could think of an answer, Erlan left him standing there and went to seek more welcome company.

He was soon back amid the roiling revelry, scaling the steps to the high table. He walked along in the shadows behind the high-born guests, passing without their notice, when suddenly – smoothly – a silhouette rose and stepped into his path.

The queen eyed him languidly as she twirled a chalice in her fingers.

‘My Lady Saldas.’ He tipped his head.

‘Our beloved stranger. Tell me, how was your little friend? Is he enjoying our feast and all of its. . . delights?’ She raised an eyebrow.

Her eyes were still and mysterious as forest pools. If Bara’s coquetry called to a man’s body, the queen’s beauty called to a man’s soul.

‘The boy’s like a cat,’ he replied. ‘Throw him in anywhere, he’ll land on his feet.’

‘His master doesn’t fare so badly.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You turned up here a beggar. Now look at you. You’re seated at the right hand of the king.’

‘For tonight.’

‘You’re being modest.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t – it doesn’t suit you. Your deeds won the favour of the king.’

‘He does me honour.’

‘It is your due. Take it for what it is. From what I hear, you proved yourself most able in bringing back our daughter.’

‘I’m only glad Princess Lilla is safe.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ she said, a glimmer of irritation crossing her brow. ‘Of course, there are other ways a man must prove himself.’ She took a slow sip from her wine-cup, never shifting her eyes from his. ‘You went into the wilderness. The unknown. . . and you overcame what lay in the darkness. Tamed what was strange to you.’ She dropped her voice. ‘A man like you – with your body still so. . .’ Her eyes swept over his chest. ‘So young. You need a match worthy of you. A different kind of wildness to be tamed.’

Somehow the queen seemed closer now. With each word, he caught a breath of her dusky fragrance – alluring.

Dangerous.

‘A different kind?’

‘One that has a taste. Once a man tastes this kind, he’ll never want another.’

Her lips curved in a beguiling smile, her eyes a cauldron of desire. Heat flooded his loins, as though she’d reached out and caressed him with an invisible hand.

Nearby, a chalice clattered to the floor. He looked round, distracted.

‘Think on what I said, stranger,’ she murmured when he turned back. ‘There are ways to win a king’s favour. And there are ways to win the favour of a queen.’ She touched his hand. Only for an instant but her fingertips scorched like fire. ‘Now I must attend to my husband.’

Erlan watched her go, waiting for the pounding in his chest to subside.

This is a foolish game to play. He shook his head clear and went to resume his seat. Lilla was there, her earlier radiance having returned. But as he sat, she gave him a strange look. Almost reproachful.

He would’ve asked what she meant by it, but before either spoke, a banging thundered out over the din.

There was a tumult of shouting, a clatter of tableware and the company fell silent, wanting to see what the noise was all about.

Erlan looked with the rest and saw, to his horror, his friend Kai standing alone atop a table, pounding his foot like an angry stallion. Folk around him were trying to pull him down, but he kicked them away, and went on with his stamping.

‘What the Hel’s he up to now?’ murmured Erlan. Lilla couldn’t help giggling.

Evidently feeling secure enough, Kai raised his cup. ‘My king! My noble king! I appeal to you, my lord!’

At this, everyone let him be and turned to see what the king would do.

And when the whole gathering had been hung in suspense some moments, at last Sviggar spoke. ‘Come, young scoundrel. What’s this about? You interrupt our feasting – you’d better have good reason.’

‘None better, my lord,’ crowed Kai. ‘I wouldn’t dream of troubling you, noble king, were it not to lavish great honour on you.’ He gave a slavish bow.

‘Lavish, is it?’ cried Sviggar, a smile creeping onto his lips. ‘Tell me, lad. How does a servant boy mean to lavish honour on a king?’

‘Why, with a song, my lord!’

‘A song? Nay – you have the wrong king, lad. In all the Nine Worlds, there’s nothing so tedious as a skald-singer!’

‘I couldn’t agree more, good king. A pox on all skaldmen and their women, I say. Nevertheless, I have a grand song for you. . . For all this noble company! I swear it’s worth the hearing.’

The king shook his head, amused. ‘What says my queen to such a thing? Shall we hear him?’

‘I confess I am curious,’ replied Saldas. ‘Let him sing if he wants.’

‘Very well,’ declared Sviggar, ‘for the queen’s pleasure then – our ears are yours!’

An exultant smile flashed over Kai’s face. And then, suddenly, he fell serious and still, and raising his cup, in a high clear voice, began to sing:

Hark this hall-song Treasure-Giver,

Still the horn-stream brew,

Stories sung of dead men’s doings,

None like mine so true.

Wolf’s wine soaking Sveär snowdrifts,

Shadows stealing, not a trace,

Black soul spirits, Hel’s own children

Murder men of Sviggar’s race.

Red-flood rose to Uppland barrow

Sword-wolves sought these wraiths of death,

Swallowed up by silent forest,

Four fine helm-halls bit from breath.

Kai sang on, verse after verse, retelling the whole grisly tale. Erlan let his eyes wander over the benches. A half-smile here, an open mouth there, another with her eyes closed. Listening. Hardly a muscle moved nor a cup lifted. He wondered what places they imagined, what creatures they conjured in their minds, and how different their vision must be from what he, who’d seen it all, remembered.

Kai was nearing the end of his song now. His words recalled the terrible screaming in the darkness, the fear, the stench of battle. . . it was too much. Erlan retreated back to the present. Back to this place of warm bodies and hot food. Of laughter and song. Of friendship, even. And for the first time, he let an idea linger in his mind that never could have before.

This was now his home.

A smile formed on his lips as Kai finished his song:

Earls and oathmen bravely burrowed,

Red edge roused against the foe,

Found them there in steel and slaughter,

Harvest cut by battle-hoe.

Fey they fell upon the killing,

Brothers bled by Vandrung sword,

Sent them gladly to the Spear-God,

Came back home with shining hoard.

Now with oak-hall rafters ringing,

All shout ‘Honoured Sviggar King!’

Stranger sworn a friend and brother,

Worthy earls wear golden ring.

Odin smiles upon his sword-sons,

Men were matched, his favour’s won,

Fairest Freya now cries ‘Daughters!

Love your lads, ere night is done!’

Kai lifted his cup, drained it to its dregs and smashed it on the floor. The tables erupted in a storm of applause. Kai stood there, overwhelmed, grinning like a crescent moon.

And for a moment Erlan forgot all that had brought him to this faraway hall and beat the table in admiration with all the rest.

The king meanwhile rose and waved the crowd to silence. ‘So, young Gotar! A king will seldom thank you for proving him wrong, but tonight I’m happy to admit it. We shall not forget the lesson.’ He slipped a ring over a worn knuckle. ‘Here, lad – treasure from your Treasure-Giver.’ He flung it down the hall.

A nimble house-karl plucked it out of the air and flicked it straight up to Kai. The young skald caught it and peered wide-eyed into his hand.

‘First time he’s been lost for words,’ murmured Erlan.

‘I doubt for long,’ replied Lilla.

Kai dropped to his seat under a shower of backslaps, still gawping at his gold.

‘It seems our young skald has inspired me,’ cried Sviggar, wiping his beard. ‘See this hero of the lad’s lay – this Erlan, who came as a stranger. Your servant sang it true. You must now consider us kith and kin.’ He looked down on Erlan with a munificent expression. ‘Come – stand! Let everyone see you.’

Reluctantly, Erlan stood.

‘Two things I have for you. The first is this.’ He tugged off the golden torque adorning his neck. ‘Take what your courage has won for me. I have enough gold besides.’ So saying, he tossed the magnificent torque into Erlan’s hands.

‘Well? Put it on!’

Erlan did as bid.

‘There. It becomes you well.’

‘My thanks, my lord.’ Erlan bowed his head, adjusting to the new weight around his neck.

‘Now for the other,’ said the king. ‘Perhaps the mead of Odin’s tongue is flowing sweet tonight, but it strikes me you can no longer have only this name of “Erlan” – a stranger with your past foresworn. To us you’re no longer a stranger. You came as a wanderer – you and your Gotar rascal there. So I give you a new name: “Aurvandil”. Shining Wanderer. Yes – Erlan Aurvandil is how you shall be known!’

He turned to the benches. ‘Come! We drink to this hero of our lay – Erlan Aurvandil!’ he cried, and sank back his wine till it ran down his beard like blood.

Erlan looked out over the sea of faces, watching his new name ripple like wind over their lips. He looked to his left and saw the old king’s beaming face; to his right, the slender form of Lilla, wearing a smile so faint he thought she might be laughing at him. Perhaps he wanted her to.

He felt the warmth in their looks. His lord and. . . whatever Lilla must be to him. But this wasn’t all. He glanced along the table into the fathomless eyes of his queen and felt their heat upon him. And beyond her, Sigurd’s seething envy.

His gaze travelled further, beyond the table into the shadows. And there, for the first time, he saw the glimmer of two eyes staring out of the darkness. Eyes that he now knew he’d felt on him all night.

Vargalf. The man who moved in shadow. Erlan felt the cold hatred from those eyes and shivered.

All of a sudden a voice cried out his new name over all the others – again and again. ‘Aurvandil! Aur–van–dil!’ And the voice was so filled with wretched despair that it hushed the hall at once. All eyes turned to a man below the platform, kicking and cursing his way free of his seat, clambering over the table and leaping down to the hearth.

It was Finn, drunk as a Dane, his blond hair a dishevelled shag. ‘All hail the Aurvandil!’ he cried, waving his brimming horn. ‘Stranger, see – it is you who have the luck you need, not I! The favour of this great house is on you now.’ His voice was a rancorous slur, his tongue slowed by drink. ‘This house, which rewards faithful service with murder! Be on your guard, stranger.’ He lurched towards the platform, jabbing an accusing finger at the king. ‘I swore an oath to you. As did you to me. Honour. . . protection. . . my blood for yours. . . And what is your word worth, my lord?’ he snarled. ‘Not half a heap of shit!’

The queen leaped to her feet. ‘You forget yourself, thrall. You owe your king everything.’

‘Aha!’ bawled Finn, cackling drunkenly. ‘Yes – yes! Our beauteous queen – unrivalled in all the land! All the more so now – would you not agree?’ He spun around to stir the approbation of the crowd – but was met only with silence. He turned back to the high table with a scowl. ‘A curse on you, damned witch!’

‘How dare you,’ said Saldas, words sharp as frost. ‘I’ll see you join your wife in Hel for that.’

‘Yes, yes, my lady,’ Finn slurred, smiling. ‘Plenty of time for that. But first, to the Aurvandil, all hail!’ he bellowed, laughing like a madman. ‘Hail to his honour! Hail to his fortune! Hail to his fate! All hail to the Aurvandil!’ And reeling round, he put the horn to his lips and drained it to its last drop.

The company waited in stunned silence. Waited for someone to say something. The king was getting to his feet, but before he said a word, the horn in Finn’s hand went spinning away and the archer fell to his knees, choking. Someone screamed. The women nearest him recoiled in disgust. Suddenly he reared up from the floor clutching his neck. Erlan watched, gripped with horror at the dreadful gurgling in his throat. Finn staggered back, smashing into a bench, sending a man careering into the table; pitchers smashed, a hall-maid shrieked, shoving him away from her. He crashed to the floor, tearing at his neck, nails clawing his skin bloody in desperation, his face purpling, his heels scraping frenziedly at the floor. And then. . . the awful gurgling stopped. His limbs stilled. His face turned ashen grey.

He was dead.

A man jumped from his bench, knelt beside Finn and bent over him, sniffing at his gaping mouth. He jerked his head away at once and looked up at the king.

‘Poisoned, my lord.’

Sviggar’s face was a mask of dismay. Whatever words he had were swallowed up in the babble of voices that erupted. Everyone was shouting.

But Erlan said not a word. He was staring at the ghastly features of the bodyguard, the tumult broiling all around him. And suddenly the torque around his neck felt cold and sinister as a shackle. This prize. This mark of honour.

This gold.

And its touch burned like ice.