Alys Clare - Blood of the South

She came to the bridge.

Debris brought upstream by the flood still partially blocked its arch, forming a wide pool on the far side.

Perfect.

She walked into the water. There was no grip for her feet in the silly little slippers, and her legs went from under her. It was so cold. Her veil floated for an instant as the water closed over her head. Weighed by her heavy cloak, she sank quickly. The pool was very deep, and her feet, the toes pointed, found no firm ground.

There was only the water.

Presently, the rush of bubbles coming up to the surface ceased, and all was still.

She hadn’t even struggled.

Skuli stood staring up at the ancient ruins soaring above. Rollo had worked his way through the crewmen crowding around their captain, and now he was at Skuli’s side. Standing so close, he was able to pick up every nuance of Skuli’s mood.

What he observed horrified him.

Skuli had metamorphosed from a taciturn, driven, silent and brooding figure into a being who seemed lit from within. His expression was radiant, and his light eyes shone as if reflecting brilliant starlight. Somehow he was giving off energy. Rollo, glancing down at his own bare forearm, noticed that the hairs were on end.

They had been standing below the ruins for some time. Breaking abruptly from his enchanted stillness, Skuli turned to his crew and said, ‘At last, my faithful friends, we have reached our goal! At the almost unbearable cost of the loss of our three honoured companions, we stand at the very spot we have dreamed of and yearned for over so many long months.’

He opened his mouth in a great cry of joy, stretching out his arms as if to embrace the whole place. ‘Asgard, my friends! Here we stand on the very edge of the blessed realm, and soon we shall find Valhalla, and Bifrost that links Asgard to heaven!’

He paused, breathing hard. Then, more calmly, he went on. ‘Since we were children crouched wide-eyed round our fathers’ hearths, we have heard the old tales, learned of the deeds of the great heroes who fought a mighty war before these very walls, their chariots raising the sand in vast clouds and the fine dust soaking up the brilliant blood of the wounded and the glorious dead. And the blood of legendary men bred with the Aesir, who dwelled in Asgard, and from their loins sprang our own honoured gods, Thor, Odin, Freyr, Freya, Tyr, and even the evil Loki and his wolf-son, Fenrir.’

With a shiver of dread, Rollo recalled that haunting wolf’s howl …

‘Our beloved Odin travelled into the north, as the poets tell us,’ Skuli hurried on, his voice getting steadily louder, ‘and there he took many wives and populated our world. Now, at long last after the endless millennia, we have returned to pay homage.’ He paused, his eyes roaming around his enthralled crewmen. ‘And,’ he added, swooping down to a whisper that was even more frightening than the loud proclamations, ‘to tell them that the men of the north do not forget.’

Filled with disbelief, horror and dread, Rollo found he couldn’t move.

Solemnly Skuli turned to face the ancient ruins up on their plateau. Raising his voice again, he began to sing a hymn of praise, and after only a moment the crew joined in.

Rollo thought he had drifted into a dream world.

His reason battling with the evidence of his senses, his mind working frantically, he felt the deep shudder of the soul that affects a man when he comes face to face with madness.

For surely Skuli was mad; a sane man did not travel halfway across the known world in search of his gods.

Did he?

And why? What purpose did it serve, other than to bow down in worship? Could that not be done anywhere on the good earth that the gods had created? That, anyway, was what good Christians believed. But then, his rational mind pointed out, Christians in their droves went on pilgrimages, undertaking arduous, dangerous and expensive journeys purely to visit a shrine, a holy site, or even the place where a sacred relic was housed.

Skuli’s hymn was continuing, its intensity growing in pace with its volume. The air was thrumming and humming with the sound, which was being magnified as it rebounded from the great ruin-topped mound soaring up before them.

Rollo was in turmoil, the noise and the disturbed air seeming to crowd in on him, beating him down, spurring him to respond and fight back so that he could barely organize his thoughts.

But something was emerging … An idea, sparked off by something he had just been trying to work out …

Yes! He had it.

He knew suddenly, and without a doubt, why Skuli had come here; why he had risked so much, striven so hard and paid such a terrible price.

His gods had had their day; the world had changed, and a new deity was in the ascendant. The Christians had spread their faith all over the places where Skuli’s gods had once reigned unchallenged.

And Skuli had come here, to this place from which he believed they had once sprung, to reawaken them.

The singing had worked the men up into a state of ecstasy. Some were on their knees; some were weeping, sobbing, tearing at their hair and their beards. Skuli stood before them all, staring up at the soaring ruins, singing in a voice that seemed to shake the earth.

Shake the earth …

The wolf howled, close at hand; it was Fenrir, Loki’s wolf-son, evil in his heart. In a tumult of fear, Rollo heard the eight-legged horse again; Sleipnir, with Odin on his back, was thundering across the plain and racing into battle. Overhead flew Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory, their sharp black eyes piercing any who dared to look, and-

With superhuman effort, Rollo pulled himself back. NO! There was no eight-legged horse; no evil wolf; no cruel-eyed, magical ravens! Such things did not exist; they belonged to the realm of legend and myth.

The earth shook again, and a deep, resonant rumble sounded from somewhere far beneath them.

Earthquake.

Grabbing Skuli, Rollo yelled, right in his ear, ‘We have to move! We must get the men away from the mound and from what stands on top of it, before the whole lot falls on us and crushes us to death!’

Skuli twisted round to face him, trying to shake him off. The mania that had him in its grip made his eyes blaze. ‘ We stay where we are! ’ he shouted. ‘This is what we have come for!’

Rollo tightened both hands on Skuli’s arm, dragging at him, only his desperation driving him to tackle a man so much taller, broader, stronger and heavier. ‘You cannot do this!’ he yelled. ‘These men are your responsibility! They have followed you loyally all this way, endured everything you have asked of them – you must not abuse their loyalty by endangering their lives!’

For an instant, Skuli stopped struggling. Rollo had time for one fleeting moment of relief – he’s seen reason! – and he eased his fierce grip.

It was a huge mistake.

Released, Skuli swung back his massive right arm and punched Rollo very hard on the side of the head. Blackness flooded Rollo’s vision even as he fell.

Lady Rosaria’s body was brought back to Lakehall on a hurdle. Someone had covered her with a beautiful velvet cloak, its rich purple shimmering in the soft autumn sunshine.

Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma stood side by side at the foot of the steps leading to the great door of the hall, heads bowed. Edild and I, summoned to Lakehall as soon as Lord Gilbert had learned what had happened, stood behind them, a couple of steps up. Looking down on them, I saw Lady Emma straighten her back. I thought she was disguising her emotions well, but then, revealing a more human side, I saw her reach out for her husband’s hand. He turned to her briefly, giving her a quick smile.