The Amber Road

XXXI

The Island of Varinsey

The procession fanned out when it reached Gudme Lake. With the other dignitaries, Oslac followed the cyning through the sacrificial grove of oaks to the field of the trophies. There were many memorials to past victories of the Himling dynasty. They were simple constructions: a stake about the height of a man driven into the ground, a helmet placed on top, a crossbeam to which was nailed a shield and sword. Other weapons taken from the conquered were piled at the foot of each. Time and the elements had reduced the oldest, those set up back in the days of Starkad or even Hjar, to nothing but a weathered wooden pole and some corroded iron. The impermanence, like the modest scale, was intended to prevent any affront to the gods.

In front of the new trophy, much more war gear from the victory of Norvasund was heaped up down by the waterline. Isangrim picked up a rock the size of his fist from those laid out ready. The cyning himself cast the first stone. It bounced off a shield. Oslac and the others made their throw. The hail of stones rattling and pinging off the weaponry disturbed a raven perched on a nearby trophy. The large black bird took to the air and flapped out across the lake away from Gudme.

The ritual stoning complete, the cyning and his court watched as warriors went down to the lakeside to break up the offerings. Shields with fine metal fittings were hacked apart with axes. Yew longbows were snapped in half, arrows of ash and pine broken. Chapes and mouths of ivory and gold were wrenched from scabbards. Long days of skilled craftsmanship were negated as pattern-welded blades were snapped on an anvil.

Oslac watched Kadlin out of the corner of his eye. Had she looked over at Dernhelm? He had caught her gazing at him at Heoroweard’s funeral. Oslac felt the familiar lurch of his jealousy as he remembered finding them together in the darkness outside the feast before Dernhelm left for Norvasund. She had given him no reason for doubt since then. As far as he knew, she had not been alone with his half-brother. Indeed, over the last days she had been particularly affectionate, and in their marital bed she had been unusually demonstrative. Was it just designed to reassure him, or was it all to allay his justified suspicions?

Dernhelm was not looking at her. He seemed distracted. As Oslac watched, he twice glanced back down the road they had taken from Gudme. Since his return from Abalos, apart from this morning, Dernhelm had only come to their father’s hall the once to announce the death of Unferth. The rest of the time he had remained with the closest of his hearth-troop, almost all of them foreigners, in the household of eorl Eadwine at Gudmestrand.

The weaponry ruined beyond repair, the warriors began to toss the remains out into the lake. The whole was a strange ceremony. The procession and the trophy might well have been borrowed from a Roman triumph, but the rest — the stoning, breaking and deposit in the lake — had their roots deep in the north. Perhaps that was how it went, Oslac thought. The imperium could not be ignored. Peoples took things from the great power in the south, but adapted them to their own usages.

As the last broken weapons splashed into the water, there was an awkwardness. Everyone knew it was time for the sacrifices, when warriors from the defeated would be hung in the oak trees like the Allfather was hung from Yggdrasill. Unlike the Lord of the Gallows, the warriors would not survive. Given the circumstances, that could not happen. Hygelac of the Geats, Yrmenlaf of the Wylfings, Eudosius of the Dauciones, and Brecca, newly appointed ruler of the Brondings and brother of the king murdered by Unferth, had all returned to their allegiance and stood with the Himlings.

The bloodied silver mask of Unferth and his great battle-standard, Fenris in silver on black, were hauled high into the branches. Those assembled, the sometime rebels as much as any, hoomed their approval. Oslac searched his memory of the Aeneid for suitable sentiments on reconciliation. None came to mind.

No man expressed his pleasure more evidently than Morcar. Oslac regarded his brother with mistrust. Morcar had spoken many smooth words to those who had served Unferth. Their actions were enforced, and thus there should be no recriminations or reprisals. All was forgiven and forgotten. Oslac doubted the sincerity of those statements. The former rebels would be wise to do the same. Morcar had always been vengeful, ever since they were children; vengeful and cruel. His cruelty had been apparent yet again when insisting on the drowning of those Angles deemed cowards. The suspicion remained that Morcar had delayed the intervention of the fleet at Norvasund to ensure his own greater glory, so that like a deity he had turned imminent disaster into victory. Certainly, try though he had, Morcar had been unable to hide his fury when Dernhelm had returned with the evidence of the killing of Unferth.

There were more personal reasons for Oslac’s misgivings. In Himling’s tomb, Morcar had quoted the curse of the wicce. Somehow, Morcar had spied on his own brother, spied on the one member of the family who had always supported him, always defended him from the contempt of Froda, from the laughter of Eadwulf and Dernhelm, had always spoken out in the hall when men accused him of being overbearing. And there was the feast. It was Morcar who had told Oslac that Kadlin was outside with Dernhelm. In the face of his bitter accusations, Kadlin had said it was Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, who had suggested she leave the hall to see why the serving women had been slow bringing things from the kitchen. Glaum was ever by Morcar’s side.

Tables had been spread further along the shore of the lake. Isangrim led the way. Oslac was seated between Kadlin and Yrmenlaf of the Wylfings of Hindafell, and opposite young Mord. Oslac and the Wylfing toasted each other, the beer drunk from Roman vessels designed for wine. The food was brought round, great platters of roast meat.

A sudden silence spread along the boards. Dernhelm was standing. He pointed to a group approaching on foot down the road. Eorl Eadwine and his son Eadric flanked a tall, hooded and bound man. Four of Dernhelm’s men followed after: the daemon-haunted little Roman, the Hibernian with the end of his nose missing, the ill-favoured Vandal and the warrior from the distant Caucasus — a villainous crew.

‘Take off the hood,’ Dernhelm said.

The prisoner swayed as it was done. His face was swollen and mottled from old beatings, his long hair matted with dried blood. A murmur of recognition ran along the benches: Swerting Snake-Tongue.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Morcar was on his feet, pale with anger.

‘Retribution,’ Dernhelm said. ‘Snake-Tongue, tell the cyning.’

‘No,’ Swerting said.

Eorl Eadwine walked to face Isangrim, but raised his voice so all could hear. ‘Snake-Tongue has spoken before witnesses, myself and my son among them.’

‘I warn you to stop this. If you value your life, Eadwine, you will stop,’ Morcar said.

‘No, let Eadwine continue,’ Isangrim said. The old man’s face was set.

Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, went to stand behind Morcar. And, although he looked bewildered, so did Mord.

‘Snake-Tongue has confessed to arranging the betrayal of the atheling Arkil and the Angles with him in Gaul. He acted on the orders of Morcar.’

‘That is a lie!’ Morcar said. ‘A lie.’

‘There is worse,’ Eadwine continued. ‘Snake-Tongue perjured himself when he gave evidence against Eadwulf. It was not the exile who murdered Froda. It was Morcar.’

‘Lies!’ Morcar shouted. ‘Evil-Child killed Froda, no one else. Swerting has been tortured. A man will say anything under torture.’ Morcar turned to his father, tried to rein in his fury. ‘You cannot believe this.’

Everyone looked at Isangrim. The old cyning sat motionless.

Morcar spun around. ‘You, Eadwine, how did Swerting come into your hands?’

The eorl gave back stare for stare. ‘Dernhelm put him in my custody. Eadwulf captured Snake-Tongue off the Frisian coast. Snake-Tongue was on his way back to Gaul.’

Morcar swung back to his father. ‘Dernhelm, Evil-Child: both exiles, worthless; both hate me. I am not the traitor. Dernhelm is the traitor. The little Greek Zeno told me Dernhelm carries secret instructions from Gallienus — there on his belt — instructions to overthrow the cyning, kill his father, take his place on the throne.’

From his wallet Dernhelm removed a small ivory-bound diptych. He passed it to his father.

Isangrim opened the document and read. ‘This orders him to take all measures to look to the safety and success of the embassy, if necessary to take command from Zeno; nothing more.’

Morcar spun around. The Greek was nowhere to be seen.

Morcar rounded on Dernhelm. ‘Oath-breaker, blood follows you. What you do now will turn against you.’

Dernhelm stood still. ‘Some things just happen.’

Morcar spread one hand in supplication to his father; the other jabbed at Dernhelm. ‘I will clear my name. I demand a duel.’

The silence was complete. Not even a bird sang.

‘No,’ Isangrim said.

‘A duel — it is my right. I demand a duel.’

Isangrim looked down. He seemed even older. Eventually, he looked up. ‘I would not see my sons fight. One of you can go into exile.’

‘Never!’ Morcar was lost in his emotion. ‘I am innocent.’

‘Dernhelm, you are returning to the imperium anyway.’ There was pleading in Isangrim’s voice. ‘You could leave now.’

‘No.’

‘So be it.’ Isangrim raised his chin. ‘Let the hazel twigs mark out the ground before the hall.’

‘Not the homecoming I had hoped for,’ Ballista said.

Maximus continued to check the shoulder pieces of Ballista’s mailcoat.

‘Fratricide is a terrible thing.’

Maximus was pulling at the straps as he would a horse’s girths. ‘Sure, Morcar is an evil bastard.’

‘I was thinking about myself.’

Maximus stopped what he was doing, gripped Ballista’s shoulders, forced his friend to look into his eyes. ‘You can think about that when you have killed him. Empty your mind of everything except the fight.’

Ballista nodded.

‘And if you are dying, I will challenge, kill fucker very dead.’ Tarchon beamed at the latter prospect. ‘I keep his skull as another cup. Every time I drink, I think of revenge for you.’

Ballista grinned. ‘You are not an Angle. He would not have to accept.’

‘But he could not refuse my challenge,’ young Eadric said. ‘If you fall, I will take revenge.’

Ballista saw Maximus put his thumb between his fore and middle fingers to avert evil.

‘Morcar is a duel-fighter of much experience.’ Ivar Horse-Prick was very solemn. ‘He defeated the Bronding, killed the champion of the Hilleviones before both armies. He has won four judicial duels among our people. If he wins today, I will fight him. He is of our generation. It is for us to wipe away the dishonour.’

‘Enough about losing,’ Maximus said. ‘Give the man some space.’

When the others had drawn back, Maximus leaned close. ‘He is not your brother. He is your brother’s killer. Empty your mind. Nothing but the fight.’

Ballista unsheathed his dagger an inch or so, snapped it back, did the same with Battle-Sun, touched the healing stone tied to its scabbard.

‘Watch the blade. Get your feet moving straight away. Treat each blow on its merit.’ Maximus hugged him, kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Time to go. Watch the blade.’

It was very bright outside the hall, the sky very high.

The dense crowd parted to let them get to the duelling place. Morcar was waiting. Mord was with him, holding his two other shields.

Ballista and Maximus stepped over the sprigs of hazel. Six paces by six, the cloth seemed tiny.

A high seat had been set up to one side for the cyning. Isangrim sat hunched on it. Ballista tried not to imagine his father’s thoughts.

Ballista took a shield in his bandaged left hand. He stepped up to Morcar.

‘You and me,’ Morcar said, ‘like snow blowing from one tree to another.’

Ballista said nothing.

Morcar stepped back. As the challenger, he had to wait for the first blow. He settled into the ox guard; half turned, shield out, blade held palm down, jutting down like a horn.

Ballista hefted his sword high, shifted to the left then the right, getting himself moving, his muscles warm.

Quick steps, feet close together, Ballista closed in, swinging down from the right at Morcar’s head. In a fluid motion, he dropped to one knee, switched the strike towards the ankle. Morcar brought his shield down. The impact ran up Ballista’s arm. He took the counter-blow on the boss. Pain flared in his injured left hand. Ballista surged up, shoving Morcar away. He stepped back.

They watched each other. Morcar moved into a charge guard, his sword low and hidden behind his body.

Ballista remembered how Morcar had fought the Bronding. A long defence, then a sudden attack. Ballista could wait. Time was no issue. Not taking his eyes off his brother’s sword, he moved around the cloth, feeling its footing, exploring its edges, memorizing its dimensions.

With no warning, Morcar attacked. He feinted a cut from the left, rolled his wrist, chopped from the right. The steel sliced through the leather rim of Ballista’s shield, cracked the boards.

‘Shield!’ Ballista shouted.

Morcar pulled back, the tip of his blade pointing to the cloth.

Ballista took his second shield from Maximus. Blood was seeping through the bandages around his left knuckles.

No sooner was the shield in Ballista’s hand than Morcar tore in again. A surprisingly wild overhand vertical chop. Ballista brought his shield up. Morcar pulled the blow, hooked the pommel of his sword over the rim of Ballista’s shield, dragged it forward, the blade arcing down. Ballista twisted down and away. The edge of the steel slid off his shoulder piece. He stepped forward and to the right. They were wedged together, Morcar’s shield jammed between them.

‘Snow — one tree to another,’ Morcar hissed. ‘We are the same, nothing to choose between us.’

Ballista staggered as Morcar heaved him backwards. Morcar stepped forward. A low, rising cut. Ballista lowered his shield. Morcar kicked it across Ballista’s front, jabbing to the neck with the inside edge of his weapon. Ballista ducked. A metallic clang as the top of his helmet crest was sheered off. Ballista pivoted on his left foot, kicked his right boot hard into his brother’s right shin.

Morcar grunted in pain. ‘Rest!’

Ballista backed away. His ears were ringing from the blow to his helmet. His left hand hurt.

As Morcar took a drink offered by his son, he flexed his right leg.

The sacred truce over, Morcar hung back. Ballista feinted high and low from one side and the other, working him around. Morcar was favouring one leg, reluctant to put weight on his right. Ballista knew he had to finish it now, before his brother could work off the pain.

With three quick blows, Ballista drove Morcar into a corner. Morcar crumpled as his leg gave. The killing blow was open. Ballista shaped to strike. He remembered the Bronding. He side-stepped to the right. Morcar, suddenly recovered, thrust. His blade whistling where Ballista’s stomach would have been, Morcar overshot. As he passed, Ballista hacked to the back of the thighs.

Two, three steps, Morcar crashed to the ground. His shield rolled out of reach. He rolled on to his back, brought his sword up. Ballista beat it aside, got his boot on his brother’s sword arm, the point of his blade to his chest.

‘The same,’ Morcar said, ‘one tree to another.’

As Ballista hesitated, a movement. Morcar’s left hand wrenching his dagger out.

Ballista thrust down, all his weight behind it. The steel tip of Battle-Sun broke the closely wrought rings of mail, broke open the ribcage they guarded.