War of the Gods Read online

  “Hunh,” rumbled the jotun. “This I knew not.” After a bit: “Well, I will guest you overnight, at least, and we will talk.”

  Braki’s followers loosened their grip on their weapons. Things were going as he had promised them.

  Once this giant had murderously raided farms newly founded along the edge of the wilderness. When warriors from the whole shire drove him back, he sent blights on the crops and murrains on the livestock. But Braki’s grandfather had also known somewhat of magic. He broke those spells. Then he sought out the giant by himself.

  The two of them came to agreement. Vagnhöfdi would let men be if they did not fell trees, hunt, or otherwise make trouble in these high woodlands off which he lived. Since then, the chiefs in Yvangar had seen to it that the pact was kept. Now and then one of them had had reason to seek him out—such as Halldor, to settle what should be done about beasts wild or tame that strayed off their rightful grounds, or Halldor’s son Braki swapping iron tools for furs.

  Nonetheless Vagnhöfdi understood that there were bounds upon him. He was a terrible foe who might well put a host to flight, but if too many men came at him for too long, he would die. It would happen very fast if they offered to Thor and the god chose to help them.

  Thus Braki and his following led their horses into that end of the house where other kine were, saw to them, and sat down, feeling bolder than before. They found themselves in a single vast room. Dim eventide light straggled in through scraped skins stretched across the windows. More came from the fire leaping in a trench dug in the earthen floor. Heat billowed, sparks glittered, smoke curled blue and bitter. By the restless glow eyes made out rough-hewn pillars and, barely, the crossbeams and rafters above. Night already lurked in every corner, slipping closer as the sun outside went low. There were neither high seat nor benches; one sat on the ground, drank ale from bucket-big wooden cups passed hand to hand, gnawed coarse bread and roasted meat.

  Only two others dwelt here, Vagnhöfdi’s mate, Haflidi, and their daughter, Hardgreip. The mother was withdrawn, a half-seen bulk busy at cooking. Hardgreip served, then squatted nearby, eagerly listening. The guests thought she would be sightly, in an unkempt way, if she were of human size.

  Cross-legged before Vagnhöfdi, who hulked over him like a cliff, Braki said: “You may have heard that kings and other highborn men commonly give children of theirs to lesser folk to raise. It is a mark of honor, and helps make fast the bond between the families. Well, I have been foster father to Gudorm here, and did my best for him till he was ready to return to King Gram.

  “Now, as I told you, Gram is gone, slain in battle against King Svipdag. Before leaving for that war, he sent Gudorm back to me for safekeeping. He felt the lad was too young to go along with him. Svipdag’s a ruthless one who’d most likely have him killed lest later he seek revenge. Gram had a second wife who bore him this second son, the bairn Hadding. When she got the news, she also sent her child to me, with a trusty man and a wet nurse.

  “Gram and I were good friends, who’d fought side by side in the past. But I’m no more than the leading yeoman in an outlying shire of the Danish kingdom. If Svipdag’s men come ransack my steading and neighborhood, I can do nothing. It seems me best that I hide the boys away with you. You’ll find that the Skjoldungs are not an unthankful. breed.”

  “Hm, hm,” growled Vagnhöfdi, tugging his beard. “We here are strangers to humans, ill fitted to rear the sons of a king.” He was not being lowly, which was not in him. His hundreds of years had made him canny.

  “Gudorm is close to manhood,” Braki said. “As for Hadding, belike from time to time I can smuggle in whatever he may need, or come myself to help teach him. I’ll leave his nurse, too.”

  “No,” said Vagnhöfdi. “My daughter has lately borne a child, which died. The milk still aches in her.”

  He did not, then or ever, say who the father had been. Maybe he did not know. Maybe she did not. She had met someone in the woods who kindled her—another giant? A god, with something in mind that went beyond lust?

  The thrall wench gasped, then broke into sobs of gladness, off on the rim of the men’s ring.

  “I must think on this,” the jotun added. “Stay the night and we will talk again tomorrow “

  The sun went down. He and his woman sought the high-piled skins on which they rested, and drew other pelts over them. Braki and his troop laid whatever each of them had brought along on the floor.

  “Ugh,” muttered Gudorm in his ear. “Must I truly den in this filth and loneliness?”

  “Take what you can get,” answered Braki curtly.

  Little Hadding was silent. Hardgreip had clasped him to her dugs. His eyes at those white hillocks, watching the fire die down, were blue and bleak.

  III

  Gudorm had been well taught about his father’s world. He knew that the Saxons lived south of Jutland, a folk not unlike his. East of them, along the southern shores of the Baltic Sea and inland, were tribes whom the Danes lumped together as Wends and looked on as uncouth and backward, speakers of outlandish tongues. Beyond these, Oardariki reached on into endlessness. Its dwellers were akin to the Wends, and likewise split among chiefdoms and tiny king-doms that could never muster much strength. However, they were more skilled and well off. Some of this they owed to Northerners, who oftener traded with them than raided, and had begun to settle among them, building towns on the great rivers.

  Northward from Saxland ran the hills, heaths, woods, and farms of the Jutish peninsula. The Anglians in its southern half marked themselves off from the Jutes elsewhere, but these folk were both of the same stock as other Northerners, with the same speech and ways of life, and no one king had brought either of them together under his sway. Thus the Danes were moving in on them. Already the far end of Jutland, where the Skaw thrusts out into the Skagerrak, was Danish, as all the islands eastward had long been.

  The nearest of those islands, across the waters of the Little Belt, was Funen. East of this, across the Great Belt, lay the biggest, Zealand. Many lesser islands were scattered about. Beyond Zealand was the Sound, and beyond this strait, on the mainland, was Scania, likewise Danish.

  North of the Scanian shires were the Geats, and north of them the Swedes. However stalwart man for man, the Geats were rather few, and most times acknowledged the overlordship of the Swedish king. His kingdom, Svithjod, widespread, wealthy, and old, was said to have been founded by Odin.

  Westward over the mountains was Norway, a clutch of quarrelsome and changeable small realms. Some few were strong enough that they must be reckoned with.

  North of all this and back down around the gulf that met the Baltic Sea were the Finns, wild tribesmen with a tongue and gods all their own, not warlike but breeding many wizards.

  The Danes believed they had their name from Dan, who ‘long ago hammered them into oneness. However, the kingly house that among them became the rightful one, theirs by the will of the gods, stemmed from Skjold. Tales tell how he came ashore from none knew where, a babe in an oarless boat, his head resting on a sheaf of wheat. He grew up to be so strong and deep-minded that men thought his father must be Odin, who had sent him to them. They hailed him their lord, and well did he do by them, victorious in battle, openhanded in hospitality and gift-giving, just in his judgments, and wise in the laws he laid down.

  Still, those were unrestful years, and most of his sons died young, in war, feud, storm at sea, hunting bear or boar, even of sickness. Rather late in life he sought the hand of Alfhild, daughter of the foremost Anglian king. The Saxon Skati wooed her too. He was a jarl at home, second in rank only to his own king. He dared Skjold to settle things by the sword. Skjold killed him in fair fight and, wedded the woman.

  She bore Gram, who came to be as mighty as his father. However, he was headstrong and reckless. Nor was he overly kind to women. First he took to wife the daughter of his foster father, then after a while gave her away to a friend of his whose deeds in battle he wanted to reward.


  Then he heard that Gro, daughter of the Swedish king Sigtryg, had been betrothed to a thurs. More to win renown than for her sake, he went there with no one along but his friend. Dressed in hides of goat and wild beast, a club in his hand, he met her in a woodland as she rode with her serving maids to a pool where she would bathe. Horror smitten, she thought he must be a jotun himself. Still, when his man spoke to her on his behalf, she boldly defied him, until at length Gram cast off his hairy dress and roared with laughter at his trick. Her heart, suddenly lightened, turned to him and he soon had his will of her.

  This meant war with King Sigtryg. Wizards said that only gold could fell him. Gram bound a lump of gold to a shaft, sought out the other man, and smashed his head open. Afterward he met Sigtryg’s. brothers on the field and slew them.

  Gro bore him Gudorm, as well as girl children, but she was no longer a happy woman.

  Somewhat later Gram’s mother Alfhild died. Old King Skjold soon followed her. His grieving folk loaded a ship with treasure, laid him therein, and set her asail over the sea, back into the unknown whence he had come.

  Thereupon they hailed Gram their king. By war and wiles he set about bringing the Swedes, who now had no firm leadership, under himself.

  Svipdag was king in Ranriki, where southern Norway faces out on the Skagerrak. He too was a hard-driving warrior, who overcame his neighbors and took lordship throughout those parts around the great bay. But he was an Yngling, of the house that had always ruled in Svithjod. A forebear of his, a younger son, had gone to Norway and taken sword-land for lack of anything better. Svipdag felt he had more right to Svithjod and its wealth than any Skjoldung. He raged to see Gram forestalling him.

  His time came after years. Gram was making slow headway, for not only the Swedes but the Geats fought him stubbornly. So one summer he set off instead against Sumbli, a Norseman who had seized mastery over a goodly number of Finns. Gram wanted that scot of furs, hides, thralls, and other wares, to help him in his Swedish war.

  When he got to Finland, Sumbli asked if they could bargain instead of fighting. Gram went to his hall. There he saw his daughter Signy and fell head over heels. He offered peace if he could have her.

  But then a stiffly rowed ship brought news from home. While Gram was gone, Svipdag had taken a fleet across the Skagerrak and down the Kattegat. He was harrying throughout Denmark. Gram must needs hasten back. As he sailed near, the Norsemen withdrew, leaving slain folk, burnt homes, and looted burghs. They had also carried off his sister and a daughter he had by Gro.

  Yet rather than seek revenge at once, he left as soon as he could for Finland and Signy. Awaiting no trouble, he told most of his earlier following to stay behind, look after their kin and ward the land. With three ships bearing warriors and gifts he beat his way slowly back up the gulf against foul winds and heavy seas.

  When at last he reached tis goal, he found more bad tiding. Sumbli had no liking for him nor faith in him. Already before he first came, word had gone back and forth across the water about giving Signy to the Saxon king Henrik. When Gram had hurried off, Sumbli sent after this man, who was swift to heed. The wedding feast was now ready.

  Gram’s icy stillness was more frightening than even his outspoken wrath. He had too few spears with him to make a straightforward onslaught. Instead he donned shabby clothes, put on a hooded cloak that shadowed his face, and went on foot to Sumbli’s hall. At such a merry time, strangers were welcome. One or two guards did ask him if he brought anything. He answered that he was skilled in the healing arts. While the – hall filled with guests and the mead horns came forth, he hunkered down among other lowly folk. As everybody grew drunk, he worked his way toward the high seat where Henrik sat with Sumbli, the bride across from them among her women. Once in reach, he whipped a sword from beneath his cloak and slew Henrik in one blow.

  No other man had gone in armed at this hallowed time. Gram hewed a path over the hall, snatched Signy up in his left arm, and cut his way onward to a door. Off into the gathering dusk he ran, got to his ships, And put to sea.

  Next year after harvest he raised a host and steered for Norway to avenge his daughter, sister, and kingdom. He found more foemen than he had looked for. With anger in their own hearts, the Saxons had listened to what Svipdag’s messengers asked of them and sent warriors to stand at his side. Gram fell in a battle where the Danes suffered sore loss. Svipdag busked himself to go win kingship over them.

  Signy had not been glad when Gram reaved her away. She yearned back to Finland. Yet she had lately borne a son, Hadding, and did not wish the bairn slain in his crib. Wherever she went with him, she feared Svipdag’s killers would follow. Therefore she sent him secretly off to Braki, as his half brother had openly been sent, in hopes that the chieftain could somehow save him.

  All this and more did Gudorm know. He might have passed it on to Hadding when the younger boy came to speech. But by then Gudorm was no longer there.

  IV

  A wind out of the north bore tidings of oncoming winter. Rain slanted before it, mingled with sleet. Bare boughs tossed and creaked above sere meadows. Stubblefields were becoming mires. Now and then the eye caught sight of a farmstead, huddled into itself, but it was soon lost again in the gray.

  A log road stayed passable. Four horses drew a wain along it. Their breath smoked white. The wain was big, decked over, richly carved and painted. Gripping beasts entwined with each other along the sides; faces gaped and scowled on the hubs, as if the bumps and groans of their wheels were threats they uttered; iron rang against free-swinging iron—all to frighten off drows and other uncanny beings. Queen Gro sat there, together with four serving women. They were well clad against the cold, in furs and heavy cloth. Likewise were the score of guardsmen who rode ahead and behind, but water tumbled off their helmets and ran down their spearshafts.

  Shadowy at first, then high and dark, a stockade showed forth before them. Crows had long since picked clean the heads of illdoers which King Gram had staked on top, though hair still clung to a few. Warriors at the gate took hold of weapons and bade the newcomers halt. When they heard who it was, they let the troop through and a man sped to bring word of these guests.

  Here wheels and hoofs banged over cobblestones. Buildings crowded close around. Most were small, wattle-and-daub with turf roofs from which smoke drifted low along the peaks. They were stables, workshops, storehouses, homes for lesser folk. Noise rang: speech, footfalls, hammering, lowing, cackling, bleating. Smells of fire, cookery, beasts, dung, and wet woolen coats hung heavy. Pigs, dogs, barnyard fowl wandered free. Men, women, and children peered from doorways as the queen passed. Some fingers drew signs in the air.

  Highest in the thorp stood a hall. Timbered and shingled, two back-stepped stories rose with dragon figures at every gable end. Around the upper floor ran a covered gallery. At the back were a cookhouse and a bower where women could spin and weave. Here, not far from the fisher and trader town Haven on the Sound, was one of the best of the dwellings Skjold had built for himself around Denmark.

  Gro’s wain stopped at the front door. Grooms took over the horses while she and her men stepped down and went inside past more guardsmen. None of those were Danes.

  Beyond the entry, where they left their weapons and cloaks, the main room reached a hundred feet. On this murky day shadows shifted everywhere about in it. The air lay blue and sharp with smoke, which was not rising well. However, many lighted lamps were set forth, not only of clay but polished stone and finely wrought bronze. Light also flickered from the fires on hearthstones along the floor. It touched on wainscots and hangings behind the platform benches that lined the walls and were also chests for storage. Graven with the shapes of gods, heroes, and beasts, the pillars upholding the crossbeams seemed half-alive.

  Rushes rustled under Queen Gro’s feet as she strode to the high seat where King Svipdag sat, at the middle of the east wall. She went fearless, her face stiff, a tall woman still handsome to behold. Above her pleated linen under
gown, silver brooches at the shoulders linked the loops of embroidered front-and-back apron panels. Embroidered likewise was the kerchief covering the brown coils of her hair. The right brooch also clasped a loop of fine chain from which dangled the keys of her own household. Amber beads glowed around her neck and gold rings gleamed on her wrists.

  “Greeting and welcome,” said the king, carefully rather than heartily. “Come sit beside me. Let your followers take their ease. There is mead for all, and a feast under way.”

  Gro watched him for a span before she answered, “Well, since you asked me to come here, I should think you would make ready for me.”

  He was a big man of some forty winters, his dark hair and pointed beard beginning to grizzle. Two scars seamed a thick-boned, hook-nosed face. He too was well garbed, in furtrimmed kirtle, blue breeks, and elkhide shoes. She could easily enough understand his Norse burr.

  He stiffened at her haughtiness, curbed himself, and said, “I mean to show you more honor than I hear has been yours lately. But if you will not talk with me, you can go home tomorrow”

  “Oh, I have given thought to this since your messenger came,” she told him. “We shall talk.”

  She stepped up to the high seat and settled herself. He beckoned her guards to take places nearby and shouted for the serving folk, as loudly as if he were aboard ship. Soon everyone had a brimful horn but her, who got a goblet of South-land glass. Svipdag signed his with the Hammer. “Let us drink to peace between us,” he said.

  “Peace for now, at least,” said Gro.

  “May it be for always.”

  “We shall see about that, shall we not?”

  Nonetheless, tautness slackened off a little. Over the years she had gotten men into her hire, one by one, who felt more beholden to her than to King ‘Gram. Some were Swedes or Geats. These she had brought with her. They were not unwilling to drink, eat, swap tales, and make merry with Svipdag’s Norse. Meanwhile she and he spoke together in undertones.