Conall awoke less than refreshed after a fitful night of dreams where demons fought with shieldmaidens in the fjord waters. Rising from Skadi’s cot, he rubbed his chin and frowned because the rasp was already back. Grinning, he wondered why he was surprised. He’d been scraping his chin since he was little more than a boy, and the smoothness had never lasted as long as he would have liked. Pulling on his boots, he left the longhouse to find Skadi fixing a fishing net on the steps. The sun was already over the forest canopy, and the water’s surface glinted and dazzled.
“It is a beautiful day,” he said, shading his eyes, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders. Skadi said nothing. Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth, tickling the edge of her scar as she concentrated on the net.
Unable to think of anything else, Conall said, “Always difficult, fixing a net, so it is.”
He shook his head and frowned. How could he possibly know? He’d never fixed a net. In truth, he’d never toiled with his hands unless fighting with a sword or hammer could be called toiling. He supposed some would consider it nothing more than employment. In some ways, they were right because warriors would be idle without war and battle, which was never a good situation. As Connery Mór discovered when he declared raiding illegal, idle warriors are dangerous.
“It looks nearly done, so it does.”
Still, Skadi said nothing, and he felt frustration begin to irritate his gut. Have I offended her again? The thought vanished as soon as it arrived. He hadn’t offended her last time; she’d just been thinking about her brother, which she was probably still doing. Or if not her brother, his unreasonable demands on her.
“Are you coming to the moot?” he asked in a final attempt to elicit some remark. He did not understand why he was so keen for Skadi to speak to him. It was a longing that had never afflicted him in all his summers. Conall suspected that considering the message in his night’s dreams, there would be an indication, but he was not sure he was ready to accept what such a message might be telling him.
“Are you coming?” he repeated.
“No. She has work to do,” Mikkel said from behind.
Conall wondered how long the boy had been standing behind him. He was light on his feet despite his circumstances. Turning, he asked, “Does your sister not have a voice?”
“What do you want from me, Just Plain Conall?” Skadi said, climbing to her feet. “I must work. If we want to eat fish, we must have nets. If we want to eat pork, we must tend to the pigs.”
With the words, the shieldmaiden threw the net away and stormed off toward the pig pen. A shieldmaiden no more. Conall shook his head and returned to the cot to retrieve the sword.
Walking out the door, buckling on the belt, he found Malthe conversing with Mikkel. When he saw him, the Jarl said, “Good. You are awake. We must talk about the moot. Come.”
With the words, he walked away toward the path leading to Lindholm Høje. As they climbed to the sacred ground, Malthe was deep in contemplation, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. Conall kept his counsel, giving his new liege the time he needed to formulate his words. When they reached the top where the sacrificial stone stood, the Jarl turned back and opened his arms to encompass all of the lands below them.
“If I am successful, all these lands will be under my protection. I will treat the people respectfully and do what I must to keep them safe. I cannot say the same for all those who will put their names forward at the moot.”
“No. I suppose not,” Conall said, sure that there would be those who craved power for the sake of power, not for the responsibility it brought. He could name more than one Éireannach who could be put into that category of leader.
“There is one in particular I want you to watch, Conall.”
“Aye. I suppose there always is.”
“Jarl Sigmund. He thinks he should be king,” he explained. “If there is any trouble, it will come from him.”
“Will he attack you if things don’t go his way?”
“Nay. There will be too many people in the hall. Some will be his degns, but the rest will outnumber them. Any attack will come later when we are…” Malthe trailed off and turned to him. “Will you be ready?”
When we are what? Conall wondered. “Aye. Of course. How will I know him?” he asked.
“Sigmund is a big man,” Malthe said, putting a hand on his gut. “Bigger than the rest. Do not be fooled. He is not an unfit man. If you are in any doubt, I will seat him on my left. Do not use the sword unless there is an attack.”
That reminded Conall of his question from the previous day. “You didn’t tell me the name.”
“Jarl Sigmund.”
“No. I mean the sword’s name.”
Malthe looked at him with a confused expression. “You name your swords?”
“Aye.”
“Why? Are they not just tools?”
Just tools? The Vikings consider their swords a tool and nothing more.
Shrugging, Conall supposed that explained why their smiths didn’t use elaborate decorations when they created them. No one cared what a plow looked like as long as it turned the earth. He’d always thought that naming a sword would help to put fear into an enemy—perhaps enhance a warrior’s fame. Gazing over the rooftops of Lindholm, he realized these people would not need anything else to put fear into their enemies. Their skáld songs and appearance would be enough to make any lesser warrior cac their triús.
***
Conall stood behind Malthe’s high-backed chair and watched the jarls of Juteland arrive. He would call the chair a throne, except it lacked the ostentation generally associated with the seats kings liked to plonk their arses on. Five similar chairs flanked Malthe’s central location on the dais, each occupied by one of Juteland’s chieftains. Conall hadn’t heard the names as Malthe greeted them, except Sigmund’s because he’d been listening for it.
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Instead, as his liege greeted the visitors, he concentrated on the crowd, searching for anything suspicious. Despite Malthe telling him that an attack during the moot was not likely, since leaving Dún Scáith as a young warrior, Conall had stayed alive because he considered all possibilities, regardless of how unlikely they might be. Besides, this Jarl Sigmund looked like the type who would cause trouble. His stance, his expression, the knuckles drained of blood because of clenched fists; everything about him spoke of suppressed violence.
As Conall watched, he held the hilt of the sword Malthe gave him in a loose grip, surprised to learn earlier that it didn’t have a name.
Despite lowered tones, the noise was a steady thrum beating against his ears. Even though holding the sword, Conall knew it would be futile to try swinging it in such a throng. He could hear many more folk outside the hall’s doors. It seemed that everyone from Juteland had come to witness the King’s Moot. Malthe told him that the chiefs would choose a new king, but it was up to the people to ratify their selection. After the Jarls had chosen, they would stand on the steps of the mead hall and ask the people to accept or reject their proposed man.
“I heard that Dervla died in Ériu,” Sigmund said, ensuring everyone in the hall heard him.
The throng quieted, and all eyes turned to the dais. Gazing over the crowd, Conall realized that their friendly curiosity the day he arrived had masked a profound longing for news about what befell their beloved princess. He tensed. A crowd subjected to such depth of longing wouldn’t need much to make them angry—a reminder of the missing princess, for instance.
This Sigmund is as wily as a cornered fox.
“Ya,” Malthe replied to Sigmund, his head tilted as if he expected trouble.
“And yet an Éireannach is standing behind your chair.”
Despite understanding Jarl Sigmund’s strategy, Conall felt himself tense. Although trying to relax, he gripped the hilt of the sword tighter. The noise rose again as the people whispered behind their hands and stared at him, increasing his nerves.
“What is your point, Sigmund?” Malthe asked.
Conall kept his head averted but watched the chief closely from the corner of one eye. Sigmund was a bear of a man, heavily bearded with arms and legs like tree trunks. As for most of the Jutes Conall had met, he was constantly laughing or smiling. Unlike the others, Sigmund’s smiles didn’t spread beyond his lips, and his eyes darted without rest. Here was a man who presented a front that didn’t exist—a man who sought enemies under every table and in every shadow. At that moment, Conall could see the truth in what Malthe said to him before the gathering began: Sigmund wanted to become king of the Jutes and would do anything to achieve his goal. He was Mac Nessa by another name, in a different land, with a different title but the same arrogant belief in his superiority and absolute right to rule.
“My point, Malthe, as I am sure you know,” Sigmund said, “is that you give honor to one from the land that killed your sister.”
“Ériu did not kill Dervla. She was killed by a ravening crowd and avenged by the same warrior who delivered her from the Eastern Wildlings. This man behind me avenged the death of that warrior.”
“Warrior? The one who saved her was but a boy,” Sigmund scoffed.
“A boy who killed five wildlings and defeated a queen’s army single-handed,” Conall said.
“Who are you to speak in this hall?” Sigmund hissed. “Servants remain silent until told to speak.”
“I am Conall of the Victories,” he said as he drew his sword. There might not be any way to swing it in the throng, but he would have enough room on the dais to decapitate the bear.
“Enough, Conall. Put away your sword,” Malthe ordered before Sigmund could rise and draw his blade. “You have my apologies, Jarl Sigmund.”
“I do not want your apology. I want answers. As I am sure, everyone here also wants. I want to know what happened to our princess and why you have taken up with a foreign dog.”
“Put away your sword,” Malthe repeated as Conall stepped forward. “Remember your oath.”
Seething with anger at the man’s insult, Conall nevertheless sheathed his sword and returned to the back of Malthe’s chair.
“Well?” Sigmund prompted.
***
Conall could feel the tension rising in the hall. Like an overheated cauldron, the folk could boil over at any moment. Instead of growing nervous, Malthe held up a hand and said, “Olaf the skáld has composed the song of Dervla. I was going to keep it until after the ceremony, but if you want, we can hear it now.”
The roar and stamping of feet was all the answer Malthe needed. The people in the hall were more interested in what happened to Dervla than in the election of a new king. After the skáld had sung his song, their minds would be full of the tale, and they would remember who had commissioned it. Conall realized that Malthe had manipulated Sigmund into demanding information.
I must not underestimate my new liege.
“I will tell the tale of Dervla,” Olaf’s voice boomed through the hall.
Conall searched for the skáld but could not see him. The crowd quieted, and a slow rhythmic drumming replaced their whispers. There was no more sign of the drummer than there was of the skáld, and he wondered if Olaf was beating his own drum or if it was someone else. The volume grew slowly, and soon, a deep and resonant voice joined it in a chant that Conall found to be mesmeric. Although he listened to the words, he didn’t hear them, not really. It was as if he was absorbing them from the air. When the drum changed speed, and the voice changed cadence, he was in the clearing with the wildlings dancing around him. The following change brought him to the next stage in the story. And on and on it went until he found himself in the snow of a winter solstice night, afraid because the women had lost all control. And then he was staring over the plains of Mag nÁi at the palisade of Crúachain, begging Ailill to show his face. Another change and he was in a hard-fought battle with a fían of twenty warriors, swinging Lorg Mór left and right, providing the mercenaries no opportunity to win the fight with his skill.
Suddenly, the song stopped.
A profound silence descended on the hall. Conall thought if he reached out a hand, he would be able to feel it. It lasted only moments before the throng erupted in a wall of sound that forced the silence away by its sheer weight. Everyone except Sigmund was banging whatever they had to hand: cups, feet, plates, knife hilts.
***
The banging continued until Conall thought the hall would collapse because of the depth of vibration. Apart from Sigmund, everyone was excited by what they had just heard. Even though the song barely touched on the reality of events, Conall was also mesmerized. It was apparent that Olaf’s skill was not only in storytelling but in dragging people into his tales to the extent they felt part of it. Through the magic of the skáld’s voice, everyone in the hall had been in Tara when Dervla and Lugaid died. They’d witnessed Cú rampaging through the Fort of Kings, indiscriminately battering the women he found. Not that Cú needed discrimination—all of the women there took part in the murder. Despite being less gruesome than the actual deed, Olaf’s story was more evocative and passionate. Scanning the faces in the throng during the recital, Conall was amazed by their rapture.
He recognized that the skill was essential for a race of people who believed so much in the power of saga. Juteland was a kingdom of folk who judged their peers by how good a story their exploits made.
Malthe stood, walked to the front of the dais, and held his hands aloft. “It is time to hold the moot.”
The crowd quieted again, and Conall saw Sigmund ready himself to speak, but he didn’t get the chance. Someone in the crowd shouted, “It can only be Malthe. Malthe is the son of the previous king and brother to our beloved Dervla. Malthe must be king.”
Another and another took up the cry of Malthe for king. In no time, everyone in the hall was banging their feet, cups, or whatever was to hand. Sigmund was shouting and banging the table with a clenched fist, but no one could hear him. No one cared to hear him. They were all taken up in the excitement of the moment as they had been taken up in the skáld song a short time before. It was a tide that no one could hold back, not even someone as heavy as Jarl Sigmund.
Malthe turned to Conall and gave a barely perceptible nod. He suspected that if the other Jarls had been out of his eyeline, he would have winked and grinned. He’d used his sister’s popularity and the power of Olaf’s voice to swing the moot in his favor.
The ratification from those outside the hall was nothing more than a formality. The Juti were already cheering as the Jarls made their way outside. In moments, they were all chanting Malthe’s name.
Malthe! Malthe! Malthe!
Wondering if she was caught up in the excitement, Conall searched for Skadi in the crowd but could not find her. Looking at her steading, he could see some light glowing from within. However, there was no sign of the shieldmaiden or her spoiled brother.