Shardfall Page 4

CHAPTER 4 – BELISHEIM

  “It’s about one rest to Belisheim,” the old man had said. One rest, a two-hour walk. Only not in a blizzard, with visibility less than the length of your little finger and every step a move in a wrestling match. Muus knew they couldn’t seek the relative protection of the forest, for they had to stay close to the river. The Jerna was their guide, without which they would be lost. When exhaustion forced them to stop, they dug a hole in the snow. There they slept, wrapped in their cloaks, huddled together. Hours later, they woke up, ate one of the leftover grilled trout from the day before and went on. The blizzard had stopped and the air spirits were celebrating its passing, for all around the sky played the bright green lights of their feasting. The two wanderers were too tired to speak, too miserable to quarrel as they trudged onward.

  ‘There.’ Kjelle pointed into the distance, and they could see torches burning through the trees and the outline of a palisade.

  ‘Careful.’ Muus’ throat was hoarse, and he rubbed the freezing snow from his eyelashes. ‘Let's see where we are before running inside.’

  ‘Wisely spoken.’ A muffled voice came out of the dark, deep and melodious. The torchlight danced on the shoulder of a cloaked figure. ‘Two young men in the snow. Who are you and what do you seek in Belisheim?’

  Kjelle stepped forward, hand raised. ‘Greetings. We are victims of disaster, seeking shelter and food. Kjelle Almansen, I am, and my s... companion’s name is Muus.’

  ‘Welcome to Belisheim, Kjelle Almansen and Muus. Follow me; inside there is warmth, food, and drink.’

  They followed their escort inside the palisade, where Muus slowed down and looked around. A large house with several outbuildings. Good, solid woodwork, richly decorated with powerful symbols he couldn’t read.

  ‘There’s no gate? Everyone and everything can walk inside?’

  ‘We have neither gates nor guards,’ the escort said. ‘Belisheim is protected by the power of the völva.’

  The door to the longhouse swung open. A wave of heat carried the smell of food to them. Muus' eyes began to water. Fresh bread and stew. Blinking, he looked around the common hall. Green branches and patches of holly reminded him it was Yuletide. They should’ve been celebrating now, even the slaves. A rough curse made him stare at the warriors lounging around a fire in the middle of the hall. They wore uniforms and their leather helmets had a metal wolf's head above the eyes. Ulvhednar. Only the mightiest in the kingdom were able to afford these berserkers. They kept their helmets and axes within reach, and their brutal faces, covered with strange tribal markings, saw red from the mead they had already enjoyed. One of them had jumped to his feet, a pockmarked fellow with a wolf’s head as a cap and its dark gray pelt hanging down over the shoulders.

  ‘You there,’ he roared to their escort. ‘We’ve been waiting a half-day already. When will the old woman see us? Jarl Rannar will not be pleased that his man Swinne was kept dangling.’

  The hooded one moved a hand. ‘Jarl Rannar’s man Swinne will have to be patient. The auspicious moment for an audience has not yet arrived. Once the moment is there, the lady will have you summoned. Until then the food and drinks are at your disposal.’

  The man cursed and sat down again. His hard eyes stared at Muus and Kjelle, while his lips twisted in a sarcastic grin. ‘The lady does have time for two beardless wonders?’

  ‘Fate leads them hither, Jarl Rannar’s man Swinne. Fighting against Fate is meaningless.’

  ‘You and your vague-speak.’ The pockmarked man snorted and spat into the fire.

  Muus avoided looking at the man. When the name Rannar fell, he had felt the theynling beside him stiffen. Rannar of Westhal, whose lands lay far to the southeast, was a declared enemy of Jarl Dettrich and thus of Kjelle’s father. Rannar was an ambitious and unscrupulous man, with followers suited to his nature. We’ll have to be careful, Muus thought, with a fleeting glance at the armed warriors. One wrong word and our blood will flow. It’s well they don’t know who we are.

  While they passed between the men and the fire, one of the soldiers stuck his leg out. Muus stumbled and could just grab Kjelle’s shoulder to prevent a fall. The ulvhednar gave Muus a blank stare and the tension mounted. But Muus said nothing. Amid the roaring laughter of the wolf warriors their escort led the two wanderers to the back.

  In a separate room they found an elderly woman, reclining in an alcove. When the door closed behind them, their escort lowered her hood. To his surprise, Muus saw a girl, not a man as he had thought. She bowed to the older woman.

  ‘The searchers, lady.’ Then she retired into a back corner of the room.

  ‘Welcome,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Pardon me for receiving you lying down; my legs cannot carry me. I am Asgisla, the völva of Belisheim. Your coming was expected, Shardheld.’

  ‘May the gods be with you,’ Muus said, greeting her upright as a free man would. ‘Harbard sent us here.’

  The völva smiled. ‘He was justified, as always.’ She gestured to a chest against the wall. ‘Pull that closer and sit with me.’ She waited until Muus and Kjelle had complied. ‘I am sorry for not letting you rest after your journey. You have seen the warriors in the hall. They waited almost half a day for a prophecy. I kept them waiting because I knew you would come, and I had to see you first. I know why you are here, yet, I want to hear the story from your mouth, Shardheld.’

  Muus nodded. He felt calm, safe in this dimly lit room. The völva’s gray eyes were warm and understanding. He told the story as he had the old one-eye and, like Harbard, the völva listened with such intensity only the best of skalds aroused in their audience.

  ‘You have the skyshard,’ she said when Muus had finished. His hand went to the pouch around his neck, but the völva shook her head.

  ‘I do not need to see him, Shardheld. I know he is there. About him, we should talk. That does not bother him; nothing I can say will keep him from his purpose.’

  ‘Can that stone hear us?’ Kjelle said with fear in his voice. ‘By Odin, I said you should throw it away, you fool.’

  ‘The skyshard cannot be discarded, theynling,’ Asgisla said imperturbably. ‘Nor can he be lost, stolen or harmed in any way. Once someone has found him, they will stay together until the skyshard has reached its fulfillment, or the bearer dies. Muus has no choice left. He is the Shardheld.’ She glanced at the girl who had risen to pluck at the sputtering wick of an oil lamp until it burned brighter.

  ‘Who or what is that Shardheld?’ Muus said.

  ‘That is a good question.’ The völva folded her hands on the blanket. ‘When the new gods ousted the old powers, chaos reigned in the lands. The gods saw this with dismay, because chaos threatened their plans for the world. They decided to create order, so that the people would be united.

  ‘Far away, in the south of the world, stood a castle. It rose up high on a peak, in a region of wooded mountains and fast-flowing rivers. Here, twin boys were born, Karos and Kalman. Their people are unknown to us, but they descended from godly stock, and the boys grew up to be strong and wise. When Karos became a man, he went into the world. He was a mighty warrior and succeeded in bringing the troubled lands under his dominion. Around his castle he founded the city of Rom, capital of the Eternal Empire. There he reigned long and just. At his side was Kalman, his brother and a great scholar, master of all magic. He wrote the laws Karos implemented.

  ‘After long years, Kalman died childless. His followers buried him in the depths of the caverns under the city of Rom. On his grave, the gods placed a monolith, the Kalmanir, and gave it all their magic. From that day, the power of gods and men sprang from that stone pillar.’ Asgisla paused and looked at Muus, who stared back motionless.

  ‘The glory of Rom has passed, but the power we use is still a gift from the Kalmanir. Yet, the strength of the monolith is not infinite. Whenever five times five times five generations have come and gone, the Kalmanir needs to be replenished. To that end, the gods send a skyshard into the wor
ld, a piece of the blue sky. He or she who first puts a hand to this shard, is the Shardheld, whose fate it will be to unite the skyshard with the Kalmanir. That is no easy thing; the way and the task are dangerous for those of insufficient power. And thus we have a problem.’

  Until now, Muus listened in silence, but at this, he swallowed. The lamplight reflected in Asgisla's eyes as she looked at him.

  ‘All earlier Shardhelds were mighty wisewomen or great scholars. People with strength and experience. This is the first time the Shardheld is both a young man and a slave.’

  ‘What!’ Muus colored. ‘I'm no slave.’

  The völva raised her hand. ‘The threads of your lives I can read while they are spun,’ she said. ‘Kjelle Almansen, your past, present and future are no secret to me.’

  The theynling paled. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his mouth hung open.

  Asgisla ignored his fear. ‘Of Muus I see ...’ Now her voice faltered a moment. ‘Only the present. There is a haze over what has been and what will be is a fiery cave that obscures images.’

  The völva beckoned the girl. ‘This is Birthe,’ Asgisla said. 'She is my arms, legs, eyes and ears outside this room. Birthe, bring me two thimbles.’

  Moments later the girl came back with two thumb-sized bronze cups. One she offered the völva and the other to Muus. ‘Here,’ she said in a voice bordering on hostility.

  Muus looked from the cup to her face. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Just drink it, boy,’ Birthe snapped.

  Asgisla smiled. ‘Be calm, girl. Do not fear, Muus. This water joins you and me in a dream that I can read. It will tell me if your powers are sufficient to bear your load. Drink, Shardheld.’ With a practiced motion, she poured the contents of her thumb in the back of her throat.

  Muus brought his cup to the mouth. It smelled strange, of unknown herbs. With his eyes closed, he drank the water. The taste was bittersweet...

  He is drifting through the sky. Around him, clouds spin from endless threads, disappearing into the distance.

  Then, his vision changes. Faceless men and women wander through the mist. Some have mouths that open and close silently, others only an eye or an ear. All are unrecognizable.

  The wooden prow of a longship slides into view. Fierce men with axes throw themselves onto the faceless ones. Their mouths open wider and there is blood, fire. A leather-clad arm drags a little boy away from the faceless ones. The closed mouth of the boy screams through his eyes.

  The longship dances on the green seas. Waves, high and foaming, chase the ship continuously, while the rowers, their oars resting, cling to their banks. The sail is tight and round, so it seems that the painted bear stands ready to attack. A little boy, shivering from cold, stands at the mast. There are more captured children on board, but he is the only one who doesn’t cry. The bear on the sail is Skid Largassen's sign, the Viking of Helmshaven.

  Wooden houses, mud houses, thatched roofs. Wind and rain, the lapping sea against the piers. The streets are made of wooden planks on the tidewater, and sheep roam on the high ground. Helmshaven, near Harkoy.

  There is a smoky hall, dark and smelling of stale beer. Smoking torches illuminate wailing children. The little boy still won't cry; his mouth is closed. Only his eyes are screaming. Men shout unintelligible words. Jingling coins go from hand to hand and one by one, the crying children disappear. A younger Hagen, dressed in a new coat of white wolf’s fur, takes the little boy outside. The slave market of Helmshaven.

  In darkness he drifts, alone.

  Kjelle watched how Muus' eyes rolled away, and the small hairs on his arms stood up. Hagen's eyes did just so when he died. No! The cold sweat broke him out at the thought. He needed Muus. He stared at the unconscious slave, his mind in confusion and his heart beating so fast he thought he would choke. From the first moment, when his father had given Muus to him as a present, he’d loathed the boy. That black hair masking a pale face, the straight shoulders so unafraid. He looked like a svartalf and he never cried, not even when Kjelle slapped him. He was so small and thin, such an arrogant mouse. Never-Frightened Muus. Look at how he had killed that snow wolf. He had never before held a sword in his hands, but the animal died, not Muus. Muus was strong for two. Muus had to live.

  The old völva moved her hands and she sang so softly that he could not hear the words. Muus moved back and forth with the music, his face blank as one of the stone statues in Siga’s room. Kjelle’s stomach shrank at the sight. This was unnatural. Muus' magic, his helpless state, was unmanly. No Nord should bring himself in such a position. Muus was no Nord, but still ... magic is for women.

  ‘The völva has spoken,’ Birthe said. Unnoticed, she had approached and looked down at Muus.

  ‘Pick him up; I'll bring you two to another room. A few hours’ sleep and he'll be all right. Then the völva will tell you her findings.’

  Through a hidden back door, she took them through the cold to a small hut near the exit. ‘You’ll find some straw pallets. I’ll bring food and drink,’ the girl said. ‘Try to rest. When the time is there, I'll come for you. Stay inside until then. Avoid the wolf warriors of Westhal.’

  Kjelle winced. ‘Rannar’s men are no friends of my house.’

  The girl looked at him. ‘Of none,’ she said, and closed the door behind her.

  Kjelle laid Muus roughly down on one of the pallets. With his fists clenched, he looked at the sword on his belt. Hagen's sword, so large for such a little man. Would he...? No. Kjelle shivered. The sword had brought Muus luck, better let him keep it, you never knew. He stretched out on a second pallet and slept.

  Rough hands shook Kjelle until he opened his eyes.

  ‘Wake up,’ a voice whispered. ‘Freya, help me; do wake up.’

  It was Birthe, her face wet with tears and with blood from a long gash on her right eyebrow.

  ‘You're hurt.’

  ‘That's for later. We must flee. Quick, get ready.’

  Kjelle felt his heart pounding in his chest. ‘What's happening?’ he said, while he fastened his snowshoes and grabbed in the dark for his backpack.

  ‘Swinne!’ The girl’s face was a snarling mask of hate. ‘That mangy rat killed Asgisla. His men are plundering the house; we must go before they come here.’

  Kjelle began to sweat, ‘Muus! Lazy bastard.’ He shook the limp body. ‘He won’t wake up.’

  ‘Control yourself.’ Birthe’s voice was like a whiplash. ‘It’s the dream water. You must carry him.’

  Kjelle made a face. ‘Carry him?’

  ‘You don’t like him. That doesn’t matter; pick him up.’

  The theynling bent down and lifted the unconscious Muus from the ground. ‘He doesn’t weigh much.’

  'Easy! You don’t have to break his arm.’ Birthe looked out the door. ‘There’s no one. Come, quickly. ‘

  Like two frightened shadows, they fled into the dark. It was snowing as they hurried through the forest, Kjelle with Muus over his shoulders and Birthe, deep in her cloak, silent. The ruddy glow of Belisheim’s torches faded in the half-dark and soon there was nothing but snow and the creaking of overloaded branches.

  Kjelle lost all sense of time and direction. Blindly, he followed Birthe until they came to the gaping mouth of a cave. A familiar smell greeted him, bringing memories he hastily repressed. Beside him, Birthe raised her hands and began to chant. She waited and listened, but nothing moved. ‘It’s empty.’

  Kjelle followed her inside and looked around. The cave was wide enough for them to sleep in and so deep that it protected them from the wind. He stooped and laid Muus down.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’

  The girl looked at him. Her bloodied face was gray, her eyes red from crying and her hands gripped the staff she carried as if it rooted her to the firm earth.

  ‘I know the whole area. A bear lived here, but hunters slew it last summer. I expected the cave to be empty; its spirit is still strong in here.’

  ‘Will t
hey find us?’ Kjelle felt his voice trembling.

  Birthe brushed her sleeve across her nose; tears glistened in her eyelashes. ‘I don’t think so. They were mad with mead and beer. Besides, it’s snowing hard; our footprints will be long gone. No, even their wolf-noses won’t find us.’

   The theynling relaxed slightly. ‘Then we’re safe for a while. Where did you get that wound?’

  ‘One of Swinne’s men wanted to rape me. I objected, but I was a bit slow. The Fates were with me, though, his knife was meant for my throat.’ Her face tried to smile. ‘He was so eager; he grabbed me with his pants down. When I left him, he was trying to get his entrails back inside.’ She brought her fingers to the wound, but then hesitated. ‘How big is the cut?’

  ‘From your eye to above the nose,’ Kjelle said. ‘It’s still bleeding.’

  Birthe took from her coat a tightly wound roll of cloth and a small bag of dried leaves. ‘Can you bind it?’

  Kjelle nodded. ‘My father wanted me to know something of battlefield healing.’

  ‘A sensible thought. Wrap some yarrow leaves over the cut, they’ll help it heal.’

  Kjelle swallowed. Wisewoman Siga had shown him how, but never with a real wound. While he bound the long bandage over the cut, he looked at the girl. It was clear she didn’t see him; her empty eyes stared at the snow outside. She‘d been confident, so frighteningly self-assured. With her backpack, the quiver on her hip, sheathed bow over the shoulder and on her belt a hunting knife as long as his forearm, she looked more like a warrior than a völva. Disemboweling her rapist... He shivered.

  ‘What have you got under your cloak?’ he asked, laying the last knot in the bandage. ‘It’s moving.’

  Birthe gasped and grabbed the bag. ‘Oh, little man,’ she said. ‘You must keep your arms inside. It's too cold to wave.’

  ‘A babe?’ Kjelle’s voice was shrill. ‘You’re carrying a babe with you?’