Oath bound, p.2
Oath Bound, page 2
The corpse looked down, regarding Bedel with eyes filled with rage. Caught in that gaze, Bedel wanted to scream, wanted to beg for his life, but his voice would not come. All he could do was stare up at the giant and wonder if his last moments would be filled with agony, or if death would come mercifully quick.
Without a word, the warrior released him, and Bedel fell back to the mud. There he wallowed, as the giant stared up at the moon, face framed in the pale light. Bedel shivered, wondering what this warrior from the grave might do. Then, ignoring Bedel completely, he lumbered away into the night.
Bedel could only watch as the giant disappeared. Above the sound of the rumbling storm, the Franks began to sing louder.
‘Let’s go home now?’ Wyg’s voice pealed out through the rain, and Bedel saw him waiting at the edge of the battlefield.
For the first time in his life, Bedel did what his little brother asked.
PART ONE
THE IRON COLLAR
1
HEDEBY, DENMARK, WINTER 1050
The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the tiny hut as the boy sat on his mother’s lap. He toyed with one of her golden braids that lay draped across his chest.
‘Tell me again where I came from, Mamma,’ the boy asked.
The woman squeezed him all the tighter, gathering the furs about them. He snuggled closer, warm in her embrace.
‘Again, Styrkar?’ she replied. ‘I have told you this a thousand times.’
‘But I like it,’ he said, the flames from the fire dancing in his frost-blue eyes.
His mother sighed. ‘Only five winters old and yet you already cause me trouble. Very well, but then you must go to bed.’
She ran her fingers across his thick red mane of hair and kissed his forehead. As Styrkar watched the flickering fire, his mother began.
‘It was not so many years ago,’ she said. ‘Your father was away on the hunt, and I was left alone to wait for him, as I often did. It was already bitterly cold and there was a hard winter coming. When the morning came I wrapped myself in a bearskin and went out walking towards the mountains. The sun was bright, but there was a frost on the ground. The last of the summer flowers would soon be dead and I wanted to pick them and make the house pretty for when your father returned. As I carefully chose snapdragons, orchids and daisies, I spied a flower I had never seen before. It was blue as the ocean, petals like the wings of a butterfly. I picked it to smell its sweet fragrance. Never had I seen anything more beautiful. Then I spied another, and another after that. So I picked another, and another, until the trail of flowers led me to the woods. I didn’t stop until I had a whole bunch of beautiful blue flowers in my hand, but then I realised I was lost. I’d been so bewitched by the beauty of the flowers that I had wandered far into the woods. It was then I heard the baby crying.’
‘Is that me, Mamma?’
‘Patience, Styrkar.’ She ruffled his hair to quiet him. ‘We will get there.’
The boy laughed at his mischief as his mother continued.
‘I forgot the flowers and the cold and the fact that I was lost, and I rushed deeper into the woods. It was dark and I could still hear the crying, but the noise seemed to be coming from all around. I searched and searched, but could not find it. I began to panic, so sad it made me weep. It was cold, and I knew if I did not find the baby soon it would freeze. I did not stop. I looked and looked, and just when I thought I would never find the baby something stirred just through the trees. In the shadows I could see the red glow of two eyes staring at me. The eyes of a wolf.
‘My heart stopped beating, and we stared at one another. I did not know if the wolf would attack or run, but there was something about it that made me forget my fear. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the wolf was gone. Something in me knew I had to chase this creature. I followed, rushing through the ferns until my legs were sore but eventually I found it: a baby lying on the ground, skin pale, eyes blue like the winter sky, hair red as flame and a voice loud as thunder.
‘I picked him up and covered him with my bearskin cloak. Your father and I had wanted a child for so long, but we had not yet been blessed by Freya. As I held this child close to my breast I knew then that I would keep him forever.
‘Alone in the woods I began to wander. I was hopelessly lost, and dusk was starting to fall, but through the trees I saw something.’
‘The wolf,’ Styrkar said, unable to stop himself.
‘Yes, the wolf. He guided me back through the trees, all the way to the edge of the woods. As I made my way back home, I knew this was no ordinary animal. The wolf who had guided me into the woods and shown me the way was Fenrir, the son of Loki. And he had given me a precious gift. From that day, I knew that he would watch over me as I watched over his precious child. So there, is that what you wanted to hear?’
Styrkar smiled as he looked into the fire. ‘Yes, Mamma,’ he said.
‘Good. Then now it is time for bed.’
Before the boy could protest, the door to the hut burst open. His mother turned with a sharp intake of breath, clutching her son tightly as the hut was filled by the chill night air. In the doorway stood Styrkar’s father, a look of horror on his face the boy had never seen before.
‘Raiders,’ he said, rushing to take up his axe.
Styrkar’s mother stood, placing her son down in front of the hearth. She drew a knife and followed her husband to the door. As his father rushed out into the night, Styrkar’s mother paused at the door. She turned, looking at her son standing next to the fire.
‘Hide yourself,’ she said. ‘Do not let them find you.’
With that she rushed out into the night.
The boy stood there as the wind whipped through the hut. The fire behind him was agitated by the flames, growing angry at the intrusion. Styrkar could hear distant sounds from outside: screams of alarm, bellows of anger. There was a ringing sound that reminded him of the blacksmith as he hammered his steel. And all the while Styrkar waited, looking through the open door and out into the night.
He would never remember how long he stood there, as the sounds of violence gradually faded. Despite what his mother had said, Styrkar did not hide. Instead, when he had waited long enough, he walked to the door and stepped out into the night.
Fires raged all around the town of Hedeby.
In the moonlight he could see men rushing from dwelling to dwelling, their swords and axes flashing in the night. Despite the danger, the boy began to walk, searching for his mother among the carnage.
He passed a spear thrust into the ground. Atop it was a head he recognised but couldn’t quite place, the face hanging slack, blood still dripping from the severed neck. A scream alerted him to the sight of a woman being dragged into a nearby house by her hair, two bearded warriors taking a grim delight in her misery. Somewhere a dog was barking incessantly until it was suddenly cut off with a strangled yelp.
Styrkar wandered in a daze, somehow managing to reach the edge of the town unmolested. Perhaps he should have run, but he had not yet found his mother among the slaughter. What was he to do without her?
When he reached the waterfront he could see the whole town. Ships were burning in the harbour, the flames rising so high they blotted out the moon. Fires raged all across the settlement as its people screamed and died. Styrkar could only watch the life he had known crumble to ashes.
As the chill of night began to creep into his bones, someone approached. They stood beside him at the flaming waterside, joining him to witness the town burn. Styrkar looked up at the man, seeing a grizzled stranger, sword at his side, shield across his back bearing a black painted raven. He was old, his eyes wrinkled, his beard long and thick. A more brutal face Styrkar had never seen. The warrior watched for some time as the flames danced in his eyes.
‘Do not be troubled,’ he said eventually, his voice deep and forbidding. ‘This was always meant to happen.’
When Styrkar did not answer, the man knelt down beside him, as though imparting some nugget of deep wisdom.
‘Your people were always fated to be slaves.’
Styrkar turned to look the warrior in the eyes. He saw no remorse, no emotion in that face, and in return did his best to show no fear.
‘Some people are meant to be slaves,’ the warrior continued. ‘Others destined to be conquerors. You, boy… you are now a slave. And you always will be.’
Styrkar turned away, taking in the sight of the burning town for the last time. Before he was eventually taken away aboard a ship bound for a foreign land, he made himself a single promise.
He would never forget what he saw this night…
And he would never forgive.
2
ÁNSLO, NORWAY, SUMMER 1055
The smell of cooking pig made Styrkar’s stomach grumble in appreciation, but he was forbidden to eat it. No feast of meat and ale for young Styrkar – he would get only scraps. The hounds that lounged at the king’s feet were better fed than he was.
The court of Sigurdsson was a dour place, a dangerous place, but Styrkar had managed to survive well enough. He watched from a corner of the kitchen as Ingerith and her cooks prepared the feast. There he sat, waiting to be called, along with the other slaves. He raised a finger, pressing it between the iron collar at his neck and the flesh beneath. It had long since hardened, a callous around his throat that had set like a scar.
You will always be a slave, Harald had once told him. Styrkar had no reason to believe he was wrong.
‘More ale,’ came a shout from outside the kitchen.
Ingerith hurried to fill a jug, looking over to where Styrkar crouched.
‘Quickly,’ she said.
Styrkar scrambled to his feet, taking the heavy jug and carrying it across the kitchen. On his way he saw a discarded bone at the edge of the table, only a few strands of gristle remaining on it. As he moved past he swept the bone into his kirtle and carried on, out into the open air.
He was suddenly hit by the sound of raucous laughter from the mead hall. His bare feet squelched through the cold mud as he crossed the path from the kitchens, and he heard a yap as Three Legs came limping up to him. The sorry-looking hound had been one of Harald’s best hunters a few years before, but after being attacked by a wolf he had lost a leg, along with the favour of his master. Three Legs wasn’t the most inventive of names, but the dog didn’t seem to mind it.
Styrkar paused, reaching into his shirt and offering the bone he had pilfered. The dog sniffed at it, then gently took it in his jaws and slunk off to a quiet corner to eat.
So much for the gratitude of hounds.
As Styrkar opened the door to the mead hall he was almost overwhelmed by the stench of stale sweat and beer. There was a boisterous racket. Harald laughed loudly with his jarls. Someone was lying on the ground, beaten and bloody, but that was not an uncommon sight in the court of King Harald. These events usually ended with a fight or two, and on extreme occasions with a corpse.
Styrkar knew it was best not to think on such things. Better to worry for his own safety.
He moved around the table, pouring ale into waiting tankards, unnoticed and unacknowledged, just the way he liked it. Harald held court, and all eyes were on him. Some of the faces Styrkar recognised, others were strangers from different parts of the kingdom, most likely jarls or warriors of note come to curry favour with the king. Young Magni, Harald’s son, sat close to his father. Though not that much older than Styrkar, he was still a trusted aide and considered a warrior. Styrkar had to subdue his envy for the boy’s position and not think on what might have been had fate treated him differently.
In his heart, Styrkar was still the spawn of Fenrir, despite his lowly position. That one story his mother told by the fire all those years ago had stayed with him. It was the only precious thing he had to hold on to.
‘We will strike up a fleet the likes of which the oceans have never seen,’ proclaimed a particularly drunk warrior. Styrkar did not recognise him.
‘And will you take the head of Sweyn himself?’ another of the warriors said with a laugh.
‘I’ll piss in his eyes,’ said the man, and he was joined in boisterous laughter.
Styrkar did his best to pour more ale without spilling it but the task was difficult with such rowdy behaviour. As the laughter subsided, the man seemed heartened by the encouragement of his fellow warriors and continued.
‘Then I’ll take that crown from his head and proclaim myself master of all Denmark.’
He laughed, but his was the only voice raised this time.
Styrkar took a step back. In all his years in service to Harald he had learned to sense the coming of violence. When directed at him, he had taken every balled fist and open palm with gritted teeth, facing the pain and humiliation without complaint, but he also had the sense to take to the shadows when someone else was the target.
All eyes had turned to Harald, who did not move, did not speak, but merely stared at the warrior with the loud mouth.
‘I did not mean…’ the man began, but in that withering gaze he could not even manage to apologise.
‘Yes you did,’ said Harald, his gravelly voice slurring from too much ale. ‘So tell me what you’ll do with that crown.’
The man slowly stood. Styrkar could see the fear in him, despite his efforts to disguise it. There could be no show of weakness among these men, and it would be a tough task for him to back down and still save face.
‘What I mean is, I would take that crown and lay it at your feet.’
‘So you would be the kingmaker?’ Harald said. ‘And I your puppet?’
More uncomfortable silence. Styrkar could only watch as the man considered the king’s words, trying to formulate a way he could get out of this in one piece.
‘I would…’ The man was struggling.
Styrkar knew something bad was about to happen. Some of the men around the table were watching keenly, looking forward to the spectacle.
Before Harald could react there was a piercing shriek from outside. Styrkar heard laughing, and the whining of a dog. Three Legs.
Forgetting the prospect of violence within the mead hall, he dropped the jug of ale and rushed outside. Further along the pathway were a group of warriors he didn’t recognise, the followers of a visiting jarl. One of them had tied a rope around one of the dog’s remaining legs and was dragging him along the path.
Styrkar felt a red rage burning inside. For years he had tried to hide it, to keep his mouth shut at every blow, quelling his anger at every injustice he had suffered. All that was gone in a single moment.
He ran towards the men, heedless of what might happen to him. As he approached, Three Legs snapped at one of the warriors clamping jaws to the man’s thigh. He yelled in pain, kicking out at the dog and Three Legs yelped. The hound shied away from the man, who kicked him again.
‘Stop,’ shouted Styrkar rushing towards him and trying to push him away, but he may as well have been trying to push over the tree.
The warrior backhanded Styrkar and he fell into the mud.
‘Are you mad, boy?’ he snarled. ‘You must be, risking your life for this useless mutt?’
He kicked Three Legs, and the dog whined for mercy, tail between its legs, head bowed. Ignoring the pitiful squeal the warrior kicked Three Legs again and again.
Styrkar leapt to his feet rushing forward with a cry of anger. He wasn’t thinking now; he was just filled with hate. He forgot the collar around his neck and his duty to his master. Forgot he was a slave with no higher standing than the dog he was trying to protect.
There was a knife at the warrior’s belt, and Styrkar grasped it, pulling it clear of the sheath and stabbing at him. The blade plunged into his thigh almost up to the hilt. The warrior growled, staggering back. Surrounding him, the men who had been amused at the display were laughing no longer. One of them grabbed Styrkar by his red hair and held him up, exposing the boy’s throat as he drew his own knife.
‘Enough!’ A voice Styrkar recognised.
King Harald and his jarls had left the mead hall to see what the commotion was about. Styrkar was still held by his hair as the king approached.
‘He stabbed me,’ said the warrior. ‘This little bastard stabbed me.’
The king looked over the scene, then fixed Styrkar with a glare.
‘You allowed yourself to be attacked by this little heathen slave?’
That seemed to shame the man, who had already pulled the knife clear of his thigh and had a hand clamped over the bleeding wound.
‘I would have justice,’ said the warrior. ‘This boy, this slave, needs to learn obedience.’
Harald nodded. ‘That he does,’ he replied.
The warrior took a step towards Styrkar, bloody knife still in his hand. There was no doubt what he was about to do with it.
‘And I will decide what that punishment is,’ said Harald.
That stayed the man’s hand, and he stood waiting for the order to strike, eyes burning with hatred.
Harald looked down at Three Legs, whining on the ground, and then at Styrkar. ‘You would risk your life for this dog? Are you stupid, boy? You want to die?’
Right now, Styrkar didn’t care one way or the other. He was ready for this to end and he would face death if he had to.
Harald could clearly see the defiance in his eyes. ‘If you like dogs so much, maybe you should live like one.’
He took Styrkar from the warrior and dragged him up the path. Styrkar already knew where he was going; he could hear the sound of the hounds barking in the distance. As Harald dragged him past the kitchens he saw Ingerith watching. She was powerless to help even if she had wanted to, but she held her tongue, fearful of what might happen to her if she spoke out. Styrkar couldn’t blame her for that. He had kept his own silence many times when a fellow slave was being abused.
The hounds were howling at the prospect of being fed. Styrkar’s heart beat faster the closer he was dragged to the cage they were kept in.
