SIX
Kjallak perched painfully on an upturned bucket, his left leg thrust out before him. From where he sat on the berm, he could see the fishermen milling about on the shore as the fishing boats were beached once more. The cottages were safe as was the beached karvi. They had beaten the Danes back.
He heard Halldor call his name, and he spotted his second approaching from the beach. He adjusted his position on the bucket, easing the pain in his hip. “Ho, Halldor,” he said, “I am taller than you for once.”
Halldor squinted up at him from the base of the berm. “Your seat looks precarious, Kjallak,” he said. “Do you dare to take both hands off that bucket?”
“Later, perhaps,” Kjallak said, keeping his tone light. “What news?”
“The good news is that our vessel is unscathed,” Halldor said, waving in the general direction of the strip of beach where they had pulled their karvi ashore. “The bad is that the villagers claimed back their pitch pots before the battle. Many of them were set afire and thrown at the Danes.”
Kjallak grunted. “I bet they were surprised.”
“Aye, they probably were,” Halldor said. “It will be a week, at least, before they will have enough to re-tar the hull.”
Kjallak glanced over his shoulder, nearly tipping his bucket over. “And the Danish boats?” he asked, once he had resettled himself, ignoring the flare of pain from his left hip. The spear tip that had penetrated his maille had also scraped across the bone. He could see the lazy curls of smoke up the beach behind him. “Did they burn them?”
“Aye,” Halldor nodded. “Two of them.”
Kjallak sighed. He would have been surprised if they hadn’t. The Danish forces had been decimated enough that they had no need for all four boats, and they had put two of them to the torch as they had fled so that the Jarl could not pursue them.
Nor, unfortunately, could the Shield-Brethren take one of the boats to replace their damaged vessel.
“The Jarl will see that we get horses,” Halldor said. “It would be best for us to continue with that plan.”
Kjallak made a face, thinking about sitting on a horse with his injury. “Aye, we’ll proceed overland. We are already late. It makes little difference now.” He sighed and let his gaze roam over the stained battlefield on both sides of the berm. “We have done a fair service to the Jarl this day. To all of G?ttland. Those Danish bastards will be rowing hard for home.”
By his estimate, nearly sixty Danish bodies littered the field south of the village. Thralls and villagers moved among the corpses, first stripping them of the more obvious valuables and then loading the bodies onto narrow, hand-drawn carts. A massive pyre was being assembled along the beachfront of the village.
Enemies or no, the dead deserved to go to Valhalla, though they would go without their arms and armor.
“Did you tell him?” Halldor asked.
“The Jarl?” Kjallak shook his head, knowing what his second was talking about. “There was no need. We stood and fought with him. It does not matter.”
“He lost good men. Men he might not have lost otherwise.”
“This is a raw land, Halldor,” Kjallak said firmly. “There are too few of us in Tyrshammar. We cannot take on the responsibility of protecting every hold and house. Besides, there is no way of knowing if these Danes were the same.”
“There were four ships, Kjallak,” Halldor pointed out. “The same number as were pursuing us.”
“We cannot know if they were the same ships,” Kjallak repeated, his voice stern. Halldor stared back at him, and Kjallak wondered again if he was high enough that Halldor couldn’t see the blood staining his maille.
“How many injured?” Kjallak asked, changing the topic. Trying not to wince as he shifted his weight on the bucket. “How many of ours did we lose?”
“None,” Halldor said. “Three, at least”—and Kjallak wondered at the stress Halldor put on the words—“are injured badly enough that it will be several weeks before they are ready to travel.”
Kjallak nodded. “The Jarl lost a goodly number of his Sworn Men,” he said. After a pause, he asked: “Did she survive the battle?”
“Who?” Halldor said. His face was turned away, and so Kjallak could not see his expression.
“The little—well, she isn’t so little—the skj?lmdo.”
“She did,” Halldor said. He nodded toward the battlefield. “Did rather well too, according to the Holmgard.”
“Did she?”
“Aye,” Halldor let a grin slip across his face. “We saw the shield wall break as we came, the Danes overrunning the Jarl’s men. The only reason they held at all was because of Sigrid. If we were the hammer, she was the anvil upon which we broke the Danes.”
Kjallak’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. “Sigrid? Her not yet twenty and never been in battle?”
Halldor had a strange expression on his face, one that Kjallak could not judge. “If we’re to believe the stories the Holmgard tell, she killed more than a dozen Danes all by herself.”
Kjallak stared at him suspiciously, but his suspicion rapidly melted into disbelief before becoming thoughtful consideration. Halldor had a peculiar sense of humor, but his expression was too intent—too serious—for this to be a jest.
“Berserker?” Kjallak asked.
Halldor shook his head. “According to those who witnessed her fighting, she showed none of the signs. And, as soon as the fighting was done, she stopped.”
Kjallak nodded, still thinking. Berserkers were known for fighting on when the battle was over until they dropped from exhaustion, often injuring their own companions. “A potion?” he asked. “A method of setting aside her mind?”
Halldor shook his head to both.
“What, then?”
“Vor,” was Halldor’s reply.
Kjallak frowned. Vor? In a fighter that young? That untested? And a woman? The idea was preposterous.
Most fighters at some point in their lives, either in practice or in battle, experience a moment where everything comes together, a moment of perfection where they can achieve the near impossible. It might last but an instant and might come to them only once, but this was the basis of Vor—the fate sight. The Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae had long trained its knights to enter this state willfully in battle—extending it as long as they could sustain the focus—allowing them to fight with astonishing effectiveness. Several of the men in his company had shown promise—Halldor, the best among them. They were disciplined, exceptionally well trained; it was due to their ability to touch Vor that none of them had fallen in the battle.
But to kill a dozen men in the chaos of general battle? That seemed impossible. Even for an adept one who had been taught the inner mysteries.
“A gifted initiate? And a woman besides.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It has never happened.”
“It has,” Halldor reminded him. “Once.”
Kjallak’s frown deepened. “There is much that is disputed about the founding of the Rock,” he said, referring to the nickname the order gave to Tyrshammar.
Halldor inclined his head, indicating that he didn’t disagree with Kjallak. “But no one disputes her presence.”
“Yes, well, and it was a bloody time for all,” Kjallak snapped, disliking the direction of this conversation. “I’ll not discount the possibility,” he said, “but I’ll not base any decision on idle battlefield reports from untrained eyes.”
“We should look upon her ourselves, then,” Halldor said quietly.
Kjallak couldn’t stop the shiver that ran up his spine. Halldor had that iron calm about him, much like he had on the boat when it had been damaged. A resolute confidence that came from knowing something with complete conviction.
He knows, Kjallak thought.
His hip ached.
Sigrid’s wounds were minor, and in short order she was washed, bound, and poulticed as needed. The various cuts, bruises, and punctures had started to ache, and that coupled with the lack of sleep and morning’s exertions left her exhausted. She drifted in a pain-haunted daze where they had seated her by one of the many fires lit to warm water for cleaning wounds and cooking.
She roused from her stupor when a platter was set before her: soup made from the leftover gravy and ox meat with chopped vegetables, a chunk of dense, black bread, a wedge of cheese, and a large mug of mead. She didn’t have to be told twice to eat, for she was suddenly ravenous and thirsty both. She felt a momentary surge of nausea after the first few bites, but she simply swallowed and rode it out until it subsided, and then forced herself to continue eating.
Pettir had established this shelter as his command post, so Sigrid was in a good place to hear the aftermath of the battle managed. This meant first and foremost organizing the fighters still hale to follow after the Danes and ensure their rapid departure. Next, the Jarl’s own people had to gather and treat their injured if their wounds were not mortal. They also gathered and cataloged the personal possessions of their own dead and returned them to their families.
The bodies of their enemies had already been looted, and all their possessions would be put into a pool to be distributed by Pettir, with the lion’s share handed out to the families of the dead and the rest divided between Pettir and the fighters. Pettir would retain half of this store, and the remainder would be distributed equally among the men. Lastly Pettir would distribute special awards from his own share to those who had distinguished themselves in battle.
Certainly Sigrid was in line for a special award, and none could claim favoritism in this case. The surviving Shield-Brethren would also come in for special consideration for their role, and not just because they were guests and volunteers. They had fought with an effect out of proportion to their numbers. From what she heard from the Holmgard, it was their attack on the flank that had ultimately broken the Danes.
?ke was the one who told her about the casualties among the Sworn Men, and she lost her appetite upon hearing the news. Skeggi and Ulf would not go avikinga come the spring after all. Sweet, funny Thorbjorn would never again lighten their days with his humor and japes. Gyrdh’s young bride-to-be—her own childhood friend and playmate Hilary—was widowed before she was even wed.
Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of them—her brothers in arms and men she had known all her life.
?ke droned on, his voice as empty and lifeless as his report: in the end, fully half their order of battle was dead or expected not to live out the day.
“How…” she struggled to find the words to express what she was feeling. How could people bear such losses? How could they go on when friends and family were taken from them, and many of them so young…
“We will honor those who have fallen, Sigrid,” ?ke said, his eyes bright with tears. “We will live because that is the gift they have given us.” He leaned over and picked up the mug she had been drinking from. He solemnly poured a measure on the ground, the mead spattering his boots, and then he drank deeply. He gave the mug back, and she poured out a similar measure, fighting back the tears that still yearned to spill down her cheeks. “We shall raise a toast to them tonight,” she whispered. “And they will toast us as well, from the tables in Valhalla.”
“Aye, that they will,” ?ke said. “The fishing boats are safe, and the scouts report that two of the four Danish boats were fired before they could get into deep water. We sent more of them on than they took from us.”
The folk assembled on the beach west of the fishing village as sunset approached. The able-bodied had amassed a huge pyre stacked with the bodies of the Danes. It had taken the entire day to gather enough wood and used most of the hold’s oil to ensure that it would light quickly and thoroughly. Once lit, it would burn for days, tended by thralls and the villagers. Their own dead were laid on planks atop their foes, dressed in their best finery and armed with their favorite weapons.
As the sun brushed the edge of the sea, Pettir strode forward bearing a burning brand. Next came Kjallak and Grimhildr, each lighting brands of their own from his, followed by Halldor, ?ke, Sigrid, and several others. They spaced themselves about the pyre, and as the sun touched the horizon, a horn sounded. They each cast their torches onto the pile of wood and corpses. The oil-soaked tinder caught quickly, and within moments the fire was a roaring tribute to the fallen, a light nearly as bright as the setting sun.
“Father of All, hear me!” Pettir proclaimed. “We send you this night our kin, fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons. Honor and keep them forever within your halls until finally they fight at your side in the Twilight of Days.”
He accepted a cup of mead from a thrall and poured its measure on the ground before continuing.
“Ancestors of my people, hear my words and rejoice! Tonight our beloved kinsmen will join your ranks. Honor them and keep them well, for they have defended your children and brought glory to your people!” As he finished, women came forward, casting sheaves of early grain into the roaring fire—a tribute to Ostara, on whose day the battle had been fought.
“Honored Dead, hear my words and carry them with you into the Halls of the Father! Hold your heads high before the gods and your ancestors; you have fallen in defense of your land and loved ones, and there is no greater honor than this! We will hold you in our hearts and memories until that day when we once again stand at your sides, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield, in the Twilight of Days.”
There was no further sacrifice after this. Too many had given their blood to the land, and that was sacrifice enough.
Pettir, followed by those that had lit the pyre, strode through the crowd, heading for the berm that surrounded the village and the road beyond. He would walk, head held high, all the way back to the hold. Though they would grieve for those that they had lost, they would carry on—this was the debt they owed to their dead.
There would be another feast at the hold, one simpler than the one of the previous night, but it would be attended in greater earnest as they celebrated their victory and honored the fallen. Sigrid knew those who had remained behind at the hold—including those who had fled there from the village—would have been busy throughout the day, making preparations. They would not slaughter another ox, but there would be roast pig. Leftovers from Ostara’s bl?t would be gathered and reheated or extended as needed.
Sigrid found her appetite returning as she walked back to the hold. Her stomach made eager noises at the promise of more food.
“You are a healthy, passionate young woman, and a warrior to your core,” Grimhildr said as she came alongside Sigrid.
“Pardon, Aunt?” Sigrid said. She had been lost in her own thoughts.
Grimhildr smiled, a hungry grin that spoke knowingly of what thoughts were racing through Sigrid’s head. “Tonight,” the older woman said, “in the wake of battle, you may find that you want a man as you have never wanted one before. It is the body’s way to celebrate survival with an act of creation. It is natural and wholesome, but you must resist it if you can.” She clicked her tongue and her smile returned. “And forgive yourself if you can’t.”
“I…cannot imagine being taken in by such thoughts today, Aunt,” Sigrid said.
Grimhildr laughed and shook her head. “Choose your battles wisely, skj?lmdo,” she said. “Not all of them are fought with langsaex and shield.”
Sigrid caught sight of Halldor, his head and shoulders above the other men around him, and she found herself blushing.
She managed to avoid both her aunt and the man whom Grimhildr had undoubtedly been referring to during the feast at the hold. She ate sparingly and drank less, finding her body suffused with exhaustion. Nearly every muscle ached, and she could not comprehend how many of the men were drinking and eating in greater quantity than they had the night before. It was as if they were trying to eat not only for themselves but for those who had fallen as well.
At length, as she was beginning to nod off, Pettir stood and offered one final toast to the defenders. He waved his hand toward his thralls, and the day’s bounty was brought forward. The men cheered as the Jarl began to distribute the plunder. First each of the surviving fighters was gifted with a small sack filled with rings and bracelets of silver and gold and a few gems or coins. Next came the time for special recognition for the heroes of the day, starting with the Shield-Brethren.
Pettir gave to Kjallak a beautifully ornamented torque of silver and gold. A saex knife of similar quality went to Halldor, and each of their men received a heavy armband of gold. Grimhildr was given more rings than she had fingers, as well as numerous chains of gold; ?ke received a fine maille shirt.
“Sigrid,” Pettir called out. She blinked heavily, staring dumbly at her father. She didn’t understand why he was calling her name. Grimhildr shouted her name as well, and it was taken up by the others. She struggled to her feet, and pushed forward by the weight of the shouting around her, she walked to the high table.
“Sigrid, blood of my blood,” Pettir said when the cheering died out. “This day you have shown yourself a hero to equal any in the Sagas! Without you even the Shield-Brethren would not have saved us. When the shield wall fell we thought all lost, but you fought with such skill and ferocity you took the heart of the Danes and broke their will to fight. This victory belongs to you more than any other.”
She had expected to feel pride at his words, but her heart was in her mouth, and all she felt was an intense desire to run back to her table and hide beneath it. Pettir took her hands in his, holding her in place. He caught her attention, and as she looked into his eyes, she saw the truth of his words. “If I lived a thousand years and had a thousand children I could not be more proud than I am at this moment,” he said.
“Father,” she demurred, trying to pull away. Her embarrassment was even more acute. He let go of her, but only to place something in her hands. She gasped at the sight of the scabbarded langsaex.
Obviously one of the Danes had traveled far, for it was a langsaex in the style of the Rus far to the east. The hilt was like a narrow sword hilt in worked gold covered in knot work, and the scabbard fully framed in that metal with matching decoration. The horn handle had been incised with interlocking swirls in a style of decoration that she had not seen before.
“By the runes on its blade, this is Leg Biter,” her father said. “May it never fail you or our people in time of need.”
The men cheered, the voices thundering in her ears. She could not hear the words she mumbled to her father, but he nodded knowingly and grasped her head tightly to kiss her once on the forehead. Her face burning, her eyes stinging with tears, she stumbled back to her seat.
The others crowded to congratulate her, and she nodded distantly when someone asked to see the blade. It was handed around, and everyone agreed it was a fine prize. The horn handle was well shaped, and the decoration carved into it made for a secure grip. The blade was long and well balanced. It was a superb weapon, one meant for an impressive warrior.
At this point, their praise turned to her, and such attention made her ill at ease. She wanted nothing so much as to simply be left alone; at length she made her excuses and fled the feast, her new langsaex clutched to her breast.