Blood Feud Read online

  Blood Feud

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  A Note on Pronunciation

  Prologue In the Days of Gods

  Part One The Warrior and the Witch

  Chapter 1 Uppsala, ten years later

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two The Enemy and the Friend

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Three The Queen and the Priest

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Four The Dragon and the Wraith

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part Five The Jarl and the King

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Also by S.J.A. Turney

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For Tim Easton, an extraordinary teacher

  who inspires like no other.

  May Odin always have your back.

  In addition to his twin ravens, the Allfather was accompanied by two wolves by the names of Geri (the Ravenous) and Freki (the Greedy)

  A Note on Pronunciation

  Wherever possible within this tale, I have adhered to the Old Norse spellings and pronunciations of Viking names, concepts and words. There is a certain closeness to be gained from speaking these names as they would have been spoken a thousand years ago. For example, I have used Valhöll rather than Valhalla, which is more ubiquitous now, but they refer to the same thing. There is a glossary of Norse terms at the back of the book.

  Two letters in particular may be unfamiliar to readers. The letter ð (eth) is pronounced in Old Norse as ‘th’, as you would pronounce it in ‘the’ or ‘then’, but in many cases over the centuries has been anglicised as a ‘d’. So, for example, you will find Harald Hardrada’s name written in the text as Harðráði (pronounced Har-th-rar-thi) but it can be read as Hardradi for ease. Similarly, Seiðr can be read as seithr or seidr. The letter æ (ash) is pronounced ‘a’ as in cat, or bat.

  Prologue

  In the Days of Gods

  ‘Night comes. The ceremonies are almost done,’ Prince Onund murmured.

  Yngvar looked up. Clouds the colour of slate scudded across a dull sky, the pale, watery sun closing on the end of its downward arc. The ancient sacred clearing still gleamed, though, in the lee of the longhouses and surrounding woodland.

  ‘The king will need to be persuaded. He will not want to risk angering the islanders,’ Onund added, nodding at his father.

  The gathering of karls and jarls before them was the largest of the year, and the throng filled the two great ship outlines, marked by time-worn stones before the great mound. Voices carried to them on the wind as each man in turn spoke the words of allegiance to their king, who responded from atop the mound with the ritual acceptance.

  Yngvar’s eyes played across the throng, his disapproval rapidly turning to spite. The loyal Geatish delegates from the south filled the larger of the two ritual ‘ships’, the northern Swedes the other. Off to the side stood a smaller, less impressive example with but few men standing therein. Insular Goths from their island. His lip wrinkled. Twelve men were missing.

  Yngvar shook his head. ‘Those isolated throwbacks cling to their heretic ways and God will judge them in the end if my sword cannot. But whether they pray to God or no, they should take the oath to your father.’

  Oaths of allegiance complete, King Olof Skötkonung threw his arms wide and announced the feast, a time for joy, relaxation and all manner of hedonistic delights in the numerous longhouses at the periphery of this ancient site. The hum of conversation came in waves, rising as men who saw one another only once or twice a year made deals and exchanged news, and then dying down as the king on the mound spoke before rising and cresting once more.

  Gesturing to his companions, Yngvar slapped the reins and dug in his heels and the riders walked their horses out from the treeline, emerging from shadow into pale late-afternoon light.

  ‘Still, it is a foolish man who stamps at the ice he walks upon, looking for cracks,’ young Onund said, sagely. ‘Father will not wish to press too hard, in case it gives.’

  ‘One or two figures missing from a ritual ship is normal, Onund. It is to be expected. Some will be attacked on the road, killed or have turned back. Some will be ill. Small absences might be explained. Those Goths, though… Twelve missing is too many to explain away so easily. Twelve can only be deliberate.’

  Onund Olofsson nodded, keeping his own counsel as they arrived at the rear of the great mound, coming to a jingling, snorting halt a respectful enough distance away to keep the king’s guards happy. King Olof himself was making his way down, surrounded by his senior jarls, his law speaker, the itinerant skald, Óttarr Svarti, and his favourite priest, Sigfridaer. The king’s eyes fell upon the group awaiting him.

  ‘Onund, my boy, and Yngvar Eymundsson. You will sit at my table, of course.’ He smiled, pointing ahead to the longhouses.

  ‘The Gottlanders fail in their duties, King Olof,’ Yngvar replied without preamble.

  The king shifted uncomfortably within his heavy cloak, shrugging the garment into place. ‘Their numbers were lacking, but they are an island people, Yngvar. Most men have to brave only roads and fields to get here; the Goths must cross open waters. The deficiency may be merely unhappy accident.’

  ‘The Goths can sail a dragon boat as well as any Swede or Geat, King Olof, and some of their number made it. This was a deliberate sleight.’

  ‘The Goths have always been loyal, Yngvar. They hammered their shields and travelled the whale road with us against the Norwegian king. They sailed with us to the land of the Wends. They are loyal.’

  Yngvar shook his head. ‘The Goths cling to the old ways. They see the bishops and missionaries at your court and they sneer. They see the churches rising in your lands and fear that soon this will be another Daneland or Norway, that their ways will be extinct. They will not take your oath, for they see you as an enemy.’

  The king’s expression grew troubled. ‘There are many who still deny the church, Yngvar,’ he replied, ‘especially in the inhospitable North or on the islands, cut off from the world. But the Swedes, the Geats and the Goths are a proud lot. If I drive the blade of Christianity down into the ice as you would wish, I fear I would see the land split and whole regions drift away like icebergs.’

  ‘You cannot rule a land of men who would rather pray to a heathen idol than give you their oath. How could you rely on them to fight?’

  King Olof sighed. ‘If we want a land united under the cross, it will be a long and careful business. Still, there is truth in your words: there is wisdom in securing their oaths. You wish to visit the Goths?’

  ‘The only way to assure yourself of their loyalty is to challenge them, my king. Let me take a force to the island and determine the problem.’

  Still the king stared into space for a while, before finally scrubbing at his neck and nodding. ‘Go with grace, though, young Eymundsson. Go with the wisdom of the sage, not the ire of the warrior. You will leave in the morning? After the feast?’

  ‘I see no reason to delay, great king. If we leave now, we can get to Västra Aros a
nd be aboard my ship with everything stowed by nightfall. It will save us half a day of gathering hungover men from under tables in the morning.’

  The king snorted. He looked into Yngvar’s eyes once more, unsettled by the hard certainty he met in them. ‘Go, then, but remember that you represent me, not God.’

  Yngvar bowed his head and turned, but the king held up a hand. ‘Not Onund, though.’

  ‘Father?’ the prince turned, brow furrowed.

  ‘Your place is not with Yngvar Eymundsson visiting Gottland. It is here, where the people gather in my honour. A king needs his sons by his side in the sight of all the jarls.’

  Onund threw his father a rare petulant look, and for a moment the king thought he might object, but then he nodded and waved a farewell to his friend, slipping from his mount and handing the reins to one of the thralls as he fell into step beside his father.

  Yngvar did not look back.

  * * *

  ‘We have a chance here to bring light to the darkness.’

  Yngvar glanced sidewards at the young priest, Hjalmvigi, a pale and reedy man in a white robe who might have been lost in any crowd but for the fire of zealotry that burned in his eyes.

  ‘You heard the king. I am to be careful and not press the cross upon them.’

  ‘Things go wrong,’ the priest shrugged. ‘Sometimes trouble is unavoidable.’ The man gave him a knowing look before letting his mount drop back once more among the other armed horsemen as they approached the village. Over a week ago they had landed at Visby and overnighted there, secure in the knowledge that the jarl who ruled his lands from that place, the largest settlement on Gottland, had been one of those who had turned up at the Thing and hailed his king.

  For nine days since, they had travelled around the island, visiting each man who had not put in an appearance and securing their oaths. The task had been distasteful to all of them, for these fools really did belong to a lost age. They clung to false gods and heathen ways and had the temerity to look at Yngvar and his men as though they were the ones at fault. Still, each jarl and karl had taken in the swords and axes of the visiting warriors, and the look of determination in their leader’s eyes, and had bowed their head as they swore the oath.

  ‘One last visit,’ Yngvar said to himself.

  Along the churned, filthy track they rode, past two pairs of houses facing onto the road, and then over a small but well-constructed timber bridge crossing a narrow stream that spat and gurgled and danced on its way to the sea. The village was small and simple, an open space surrounded by peasant houses. Off ahead and to one side, the eaves of the forest were visible encroaching on the village. Other than houses, the only landmarks were a pair of standing stones, one close to the bridge, covered in runes and likely commemorating some long-since fallen raider or trader, the other at the far side, close to the trees and considerably larger.

  No church, Yngvar noted. No cross. Just signs scratched into doorframes to ward off elfish magic. Throwbacks and pagans all.

  As they rode, house doors opened and suspicious faces appeared, men and women stepping outside to watch this display of power, something that had probably not happened here in their lifetimes. Reaching the open space that was the heart of the village, Yngvar reined in, his men gathering around him, but did not dismount.

  ‘Who speaks for this village at the Thing?’ he called.

  Several doors opened and more folk came out to stare. A man who was busy feeding a small bonfire in his garden near the stream threw an armful of cut bushes onto it and then stumped over towards them, lurching with a gammy leg. There was a pause, and a big Goth with a grey beard and an ancient tattoo above one eye stepped forwards on his porch. There was a heavy, bearded axe at his side, Yngvar noticed; he could not decide whether to take that as a veiled threat. No, the man was old, though had clearly once been a warrior of note.

  ‘I am called Vigholf,’ the old warrior said, simply and with no sign of deference. Deserving of respect, Yngvar judged, even if he was misguided and outdated. After all, the kingdom of Olof needed warriors as much as the Kingdom of God. A quick glance at Hjalmvigi, however, revealed only an expression of anger and hatred at such pagan ways.

  ‘I am Yngvar Eymundsson, the voice of your king. No representative appeared at the Thing this month to take the oath. Your absence was through illness, perhaps?’

  ‘I recognise the king, but have no wish to take an oath in the presence of his pet priest of the nailed god,’ the old man rumbled, throwing a look of distrust at Hjalmvigi, who returned it with a glare of hatred. Yngvar was beginning to regret bringing the priest along, yet the respect he’d been willing to show the man was crumbling in the face of such a lack of deference. He took a deep breath, calming himself.

  ‘Idols of Satan,’ spat Hjalmvigi, drawing up beside him and pointing across the square. Yngvar’s gaze followed the priest’s finger, alighting upon that large standing stone near the trees. The monolith was taller than a man and covered in patterned ringerike work, dotted with images, runes and a stylised image of a warrior on a horse with eight legs. An unmistakable sign: Odin riding Sleipnir.

  ‘Go with the wisdom of the sage, not the ire of the warrior, Olof Skötkonung said,’ Yngvar murmured to the priest, deliberately keeping his hand away from his sword hilt, in case he was tempted. He gestured to the old villager. ‘The king insists on the oath from all his jarls and freemen. You will take the oath, and the offence of your absence will be absolved.’

  The villager nodded sagely, wordlessly. Something about him was making Yngvar irritated, though.

  Hjalmvigi reached across and gripped Yngvar’s elbow. ‘Before we leave, pull over that hideous stone. Let their demon see only earth with his one good eye.’

  ‘No,’ interjected the greybeard, stepping down from his porch and to the dirt of the village square.

  Yngvar had been considering whether or not the priest’s idea contravened the king’s orders, but while Hjalmvigi might be pushing things, further defiance from this heretic was not to be ignored.

  ‘You do not command us, old man,’ Yngvar said angrily, gesturing to his men, three of whom began to walk their horses towards the monolith.

  ‘Nor you I,’ the old man snapped. ‘I will take the oath to the king, but not when his men do such things. I will not allow it.’

  Yngvar snorted. ‘There are twelve of us, greybeard, and I have fifty more at Visby. You have an axe and a village of farmers with sticks.’

  ‘Yet we have honour, where you appear to have none.’

  This time, Yngvar did not stop his hand going to his sword hilt. ‘Watch your words, old man. I promised the king this would go smoothly.’

  ‘Then you are an oath-breaker too, for you will not impose your nailed god upon this place.’

  ‘Yngvar,’ called one of the three men who had ridden over to the stone. He glanced in their direction, fingertips still dancing lightly on the leather hilt wrapping of his sword. The warrior near the stone was pointing into the trees. Yngvar could see nothing but the shadowy shapes of trunks and branches. Gesturing for the old man to stay where he was, he walked his horse over to the stone. As he closed, he saw what his rider had been pointing to.

  Animals hung from the trees, pale and lifeless, suspended by their hind legs. The ground beneath was richer coloured, darker than the rest of the packed earth. Yngvar felt his gorge rise. How were these appalling spectacles allowed to continue? But that was not the worst of it. Among the grisly shapes his disgusted gaze found the one thing he could not accept. The body of a man hung by the feet, grey-white, with an ugly second mouth opened across his neck.

  ‘Savages,’ spat Yngvar, urging his horse closer. ‘Is it not enough that you refuse your king’s summons, but you must murder his subjects?’ He’d not realised that Hjalmvigi had ridden after him until he heard the priest hiss in fury. He’d been trying to ease the zealot’s temper thus far, but sights like this were too much. The body in the trees was naked and unadorned, he
could see no signs of tattoos or markings. Something glinted among the white hairs of his beard, and Yngvar tilted his head curiously, trying to make it out.

  ‘A cross,’ Hjalmvigi snarled, pointing at it.

  ‘What?’ Yngvar frowned, squinting at the gleaming metal.

  ‘This man wears a cross around his neck. He was a man of God!’

  ‘He was a blacksmith and no lover of your Serkland nailed god,’ the old man from the porch said. ‘What you see is Mjǫllnir, the hammer of Thor, not your weak man’s cross.’

  ‘Lies,’ Hjalmvigi spat. ‘All lies and heresy, all evil and witchery. You deny your king and you deny the Lord God while performing your demonic rituals and murdering good men.’ The priest glared a challenge at Yngvar, who felt himself teetering. The king’s peace or the Lord’s grace?

  He turned to his riders. ‘Pull over that stone and cut these creatures down. This poor soul we will take to Visby, and find a good burial ground for him.’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ snarled the old man. ‘Nine bodies were given and nine bodies will hang for nine days, for we cannot afford a poor harvest two years in a row.’

  ‘Do it,’ barked Yngvar, pointing at the stone. Two of his riders had produced a rope now, and moved over towards the monolith.

  ‘No,’ bellowed the old warrior, hefting the axe at his side.

  ‘I warn you, Vigholf: interfering will get you killed.’

  The old man looked this way and that, and Yngvar followed his gaze to see that half a dozen other men had stepped from their houses with axes or spears, one with a rusted pitchfork. The threat was tangible, and though the danger they posed to the well-equipped riders was laughable, Yngvar couldn’t help but acknowledge that this could have gone better. The king would be furious. The moment’s silence was broken by Hjalmvigi, whispering a litany at the hanging body, urging Yngvar to action.