Prince Karle smiled, rolled his shoulders and stretched. “We’ll see.”
Alfgeir Bjorne sat quietly and looked at Ulfar. There was no light in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Ulfar muttered.
“Nothing you could do,” the old man mumbled, his voice thick with grief. “Nothing you could do.”
“But I—”
“Shut up.”
Ulfar did as he was told and continued to sit uncomfortably in the dusk.
“He liked you. I hope you had a good time.”
“He did you proud, Alfgeir.”
At that, the old man smiled. “You were always good with words,” he said. “We both know what he could and couldn’t do. He could have been something with a couple of years on him. Now he’ll never have them.” He sighed heavily and looked up, as if seeing beyond the ceiling to the skies. “Not here.”
Ulfar fidgeted, and hated himself for it. What now? In a way, it was like he’d stepped off a cliff; now, floating in midair, he did not know what to do.
“Best stay and wait for Jolawer,” Alfgeir mumbled. “He needs to hear the news from Stenvik.”
“Jolawer? But . . .” Ulfar’s voice trailed away.
Alfgeir looked at him. “I didn’t spend the best part of twenty years raising an idiot nephew. Of course Eric died. That’s what old men do. Jolawer has been king for a year and a half. Peacetime.”
“So Sweyn—”
“Yes, Sweyn has had enough of a rest to gather his troops and quite enough time to get sick of that harridan of his, so he’s coming, and he’s coming soon. I don’t know if news of this Olav will worry our young king more or less than the Forkbeard on his doorstep, but whatever they do, it’s my job to watch over the boy, and so that is what I will do.”
They sat together in silence for a while, until Alfgeir sighed again and said, “Tell me. Tell me how he lived.”
This was something Ulfar could do. He told him. He told him what had happened from the moment Geiri’s boat had set sail from the coast, of their adventures in Rus, tales from Hedeby, the endless roads and endless seas. Ulfar spun and weaved, plucking people from thin air, Goths and Moors, all manner of urchins and locals—and girls. There were a lot of girls. Most of them he gave to Geiri, building a picture of a young man learning life in the best possible way. As he talked, Alfgeir’s brow started to lift ever so slowly, and soon enough he was chuckling along, then laughing at the foolishness of his two young pups making every mistake in the book. Midway through a tale of two men with pants around their ankles escaping by the skin of their teeth from a furious farmer and his inviting daughters, Alfgeir rose, lit the fire set ready in the hearth, and poured them ale.
With the setting sun, spirits lifted in the cold longhouse.
With the darkness came King Jolawer.
“My King,” Alfgeir said.
“Alfgeir,” Jolawer said.
Ulfar blinked and shook his head. The boy he’d known as Little Jolawer was now a man of nineteen summers and almost Ulfar’s height. He was still scrawny, still looked like a worried bird, but there was something different about him.
And then Ulfar remembered:
King
.
King Jolawer Scot stared at him intently. “Ulfar?”
“The same, my King,” Ulfar said. He bowed.
“None of that,” Jolawer said. His voice was clear and strong. “We have history, Ulfar. Although it was inevitable, I was sad to see you go away.” The king scanned the room, then looked at Alfgeir. Something passed between them, and Jolawer looked down at the floor for a moment.
“That is the world,” Alfgeir muttered.
“So it is,” said King Jolawer.
“You need to hear what Ulfar has to say,” Alfgeir said. “It’s a good year for raising armies, apparently.”
Goran had sent Heidrek and Regin to look after the horses. The stable wall was solid enough for leaning on, so he allowed the time to pass and the road to leak from his bones.
Ingimar came out of a house on the left, waved at someone inside, and hefted a sizable sack. Amber, Goran thought, probably. Or something else. He’d never quite understood the men who wanted to take things from one place and put them in the next, only to do it all again at the other place. He could see the idea behind it, but it all just felt a little . . . pointless.
The merchant approached him, wheezing and coughing under the weight of his goods. “We’re nearly done here,” he said. “Quick sales, good prices. Perfect trip,” he added.
A perfect trip would have been shorter, warmer, and better provisioned
, thought Goran, but he kept that to himself. “Where are the boys?”
“Seeing to the horses.” Goran gestured toward the stable.
“Hmf,” Ingimar snorted. “Wish I could have taken you out again tonight.”
“You can’t do that,” Goran said with a start. “The horses need to rest and—”
“Yes, yes, I know that.” Ingimar waved his objections away. “Of course I know. The boys need a bone with some meat and some meat for their bone. Hah!” He laughed and waddled off. “I’ll see you in the big house when it’s time for food, old man,” he said over his shoulder. “We’re stuck here for tonight so might as well have some fun!”
As Ingimar left, carrying the sack, Goran looked around, taking in the hardening grasp of autumn, the bare, wet-black trees in the distance, the sheen of dying leaves fading from red to brown. He smelled the cold on the air and watched the rim of the sun setting in the west. The houses of Uppsala were, upon closer inspection, just like the houses in every other settlement. It was cold in the shade of the big temple on the hill, and his old bones ached.
Fun?
Didn’t seem very likely.
By nightfall the fires in King Jolawer’s hall were roaring. The dull, oppressive heat was better than the alternative; the Snow King’s fingers were already scratching at the window screens. It was going to be a hard winter and no mistake.
“Goran! Stop being so mis’rable!” Heidrek shouted. “Have another drink!”
“Y’ can’t say tha,’” Regin slurred behind him. “Ee ’asn’t ’ad one.”
“Outrage!” Heidrek twisted his face into a serious mask. “Will not do! You bring shame to our home counties!”
Goran rolled his eyes and forced a smile. “I go thirsty for my good nature, boys,” he said.
“Whaddya mean?” Regin peered at him suspiciously.
“More for the two of you!” Goran shouted.
Heidrek and Regin cheered, clanked their mugs together, and swigged the contents. The Svea king’s ale smelled passable, but Goran had decided tonight would be a good night to have his wits about him. It would make tomorrow’s walk better, for a start.
A cold gust of air made him turn his head. One of the welcome committee—the tall one with the nose—had stepped in. The boy dusted off his coat and gazed around the room with a casual air. He repeated the actions three times, and Goran couldn’t help but smile.
Why don’t you just shout their names?
he wanted to say.
It doesn’t look like they’re here.
The newcomer’s eyes kept drifting toward the panel at the back of the dais. The three chairs were empty.
A door slammed, and a large man who looked only marginally younger than Ingimar walked out from behind the panel. He had the shoulders of someone who enjoyed his work and the belly of someone who enjoyed his wine, and he radiated authority. He calmly sized up the men in the room. The chatter died down very quickly, and Goran couldn’t help but think of deer smelling a wolf. Alfgeir Bjorne might be old these days, but he wasn’t dead yet.
Favoring his left leg slightly, the large man went and sat in the chair to the right of the high seat.
When Ulfar came out and sat beside him, on the other side of the throne, Heidrek coughed, middrink.
“’e waschn’ kid’n,’” Regin mumbled. His head was sinking closer and closer to the table.
A young, slim man made his way out from the back room and sat in the high seat. In between the two other men, King Jolawer Scot looked young, and painfully frail.
“He certainly wasn’t,” Goran said, while keeping his eyes trained on the dais. Something was . . .
off
about the three men. Ulfar appeared to be reluctant to look at the other two. The young king’s shoulders were stiff, and even from the far end of the hall he looked ill at ease.
“All hail, King Jolawer!” Alfgeir shouted, and the men answered with a rousing cheer, but that was it.
“Nothing much to say to their king, it seems,” Ingimar said. “Gets in the way of drinking time.” The merchant had sidled up next to Goran without him noticing. He was carrying two jugs of mead. In the firelight he looked thinner, somehow. And was that a tinge of
gray in his hair? “Jolawer’s found out about Olav in the north. I hear from others that he’s taken Trondheim.”
“Hmh,” Goran grunted. The light was just playing tricks with him. “At least we won’t die bored.”
“Hah!” Ingimar laughed and toasted his health. “Come on, Goran. One for tomorrow and the road.”
The warmth and the food were making him very thirsty. Goran reached for the jug. Just one, this time.
King Jolawer ate quickly, taking little pleasure in his food; then he bade goodnight to his guests and ducked through a door in the back wall to the bedchambers beyond.
He caught Alfgeir Bjorne looking at him. The big man had aged visibly today, but at least the spark was back in his eyes. “What do you see?” he rumbled.
“He’s good,” Ulfar muttered. “He asked all the right questions. I think he’ll do well.”
“If he lives,” Alfgeir said. “If he’s around long enough to see things—to see the things you’ve seen,” he added.
Ulfar didn’t answer.
“Boy”—Alfgeir stood up with some difficulty, and Ulfar felt nine years old again—“get drunk. Talk to someone. Tell jokes. Play games. I’ve got one dead son, and I’ve no use for a half-dead nephew.”
The lump in Ulfar’s throat threatened to choke him, but his mask remained cold and impassive. He favored Alfgeir with a smile. “I’m not one to disobey,” he said.
With that promise, the king’s right-hand man limped away, climbed down off the dais, and moved through the suddenly sparse crowd, heading for the front door. It was odd how crowds always tended to thin out right in front of Alfgeir Bjorne’s feet, Ulfar mused. It seemed common sense was still at least a little bit common.
Ulfar let the night wash over him. He met people he knew, though fewer than he had expected, and they talked but said little. He wandered around the room and found himself at the cook-pots. The mead tasted familiar, and the stew was reassuring. He politely
declined a third helping and handed his bowl back to the cook, but he did allow a pretty little blonde to refill his mug. She looked familiar—but then, there was one in every town. He took a sip and winced; it tasted slightly off, but it was sweet enough. Somewhere deep within Ulfar, something felt a little bit right for the first time in a while.
He turned away from the pots, and the slap hit him full in the face, leaving his ears ringing.
“You dickless, no-good, oath-breaking shitbag!” The woman in front of him was slight of build but absolutely furious. Her nostrils flared, and her eyes were wild.
“G-Greta?” Ulfar stammered, reeling. He could hear cheers and laughter around the king’s hall.
“
Greta?
You’re
asking
? You don’t remember my
name?
You little—
Gaah!
” she screeched and launched herself at him, pummeling his chest, kicking, spitting, and flailing wildly.
Ulfar crossed his arms in front of his face. “Hey! Wait! We can—” Claws swung for him at eye-height, and he grabbed the hand on pure reflex. At the back of the room the door flew open.
“Leggo ma sister!” someone shouted. A man strode into the hall. “
You!
Gotta fine face to be showin’ round here!”
Greta continued to rain blows on Ulfar with her free hand, all the while twisting in his grip. “Stay outta this, Ivar!” she screamed. “I love him!” She was crying now, but her attack on Ulfar showed no sign of slowing down. “Why’d you leave? You told me we would be together! You told me you
wanted
me!”
She started kicking wildly, and her foot connected with his knee. Ulfar cried out and managed to throw her, still screaming, away from him.
Ivar sidestepped his flailing sister and came right for him. “I’ll fucking cut your shit off and stuff your face with it,” he snarled.
Ulfar was dazed but still found his feet quickly enough to ward off Ivar’s clumsy blows. “Ivar! Stop!” he shouted, but the enraged man chose not to hear him as he snarled curses and imaginative options for Ulfar’s genitals.
Backed up against a support beam, Ulfar twisted away from a vicious right hook and face-first into Greta’s redoubled efforts. She was snotty and crimson-cheeked with fury, and her words made no sense. She wrapped her arms around him in a fierce grip, shouting incoherently into his chest.
“Please, I—
Mph!
” The air exploded out of Ulfar’s lungs as one of Ivar’s blows finally connected, and he staggered, lost his footing, and tumbled over on top of Greta.
“Look—they’re at it again!” someone shouted drunkenly from the crowd. The laughter was mean.
Ivar roared again, completely incensed, and Ulfar felt pressure on his head, then a sharp pain as he was pulled off Greta by his hair. The woman on the floor didn’t move. Ivar shrieked, “What have you done to her, you bastard?” and twisted Ulfar’s hair even more tightly.
A knee smashed into Ulfar’s spine, hard, and the tingling sensation in the fingertips of his left hand was made worse when it disappeared and was replaced with nothing. “She’s just knocked out,” Ulfar hissed through gritted teeth. “And now”—he swung his right hand in a big arc and hit Ivar’s wrist with his clenched fist, making him scream and let go of Ulfar’s hair—“I’ve had just about enough”—Ulfar clambered to his feet and faced off against the man holding his wrist and shooting anguished glances at his sister on the floor—“of this.” He swung his left arm at Ivar; it didn’t feel right yet, still mostly numb, but it worked just fine as a club.
Ivar raised his arms on reflex to ward against the blow, and Ulfar used his own momentum to drive his right fist hard into Ivar’s stomach.
The blond man doubled over, coughing, and without missing a beat Ulfar kicked the back of Ivar’s knee. As he went down, gasping, Ulfar growled, “Stay down if you know what’s good for you.”