TLV - 02 - The Road of the Sea Horse (27 page)

Perhaps that was all which lay north of him. The chill struck to his heart. Perhaps it was only eternal winter, roaring bergs and whistling winds across an emptiness of snow. He could leave his bones here, and Norway would crumble behind him.

And yet. . .

Jotunheim the gloomy, or land of youth and springtime and all bright hopes, or the great curve of the world across to the fabled lands of the East, who knew? What did any man know? It had been his hope to come back with a tale that would lift men's souls, but he lay freezing and becalmed while the ice bellowed its laughter.

Had it not been for his war with Svein, had he taken Denmark as was his right and been king of the North, he could have sailed with a hundred ships and a year's provisions. Always it was Svein, Svein the supple, Svein the crafty, Svein with the spider's patience, who lay between him and his longing. Satan snatch Svein Estridhsson down to hell!

The thunders crashed and banged; it was as if he heard a voice in them, the grim chanting of Fenja and Menja as they turned the quern of the sea. Here was the home of winter, death and despair, sunlessness and howling winds, glaciers spilling south to grind down mountains and all the hopes of men. Here lay the wreck of the world. It was too great for him, he had dared too much.

He lifted his head. Rime frost crusted his beard, and his cheeks were numb. The huge hollow booming of the ice, or the quern, or the waters pouring down to foam among the nether stars, rolled in his skull.

"God's teeth," he whispered, "you've beaten me, but it will not be forever. Someday men of my blood will come back."

There was a sudden rage in his breast. He wanted to kill, he wanted his banner to fly over burning homes and wasted fields, he wanted to cut Svein Estridhsson down like a dog and leave him for ravens to eat. This journey had ended in nothing, it would scarce make a tale. No skalds would weave it in verse, no saga would carry its remembrance; the most he could hope for was a few parched lines in some monkish chronicle. The taste of failure was acrid in his mouth, and he wanted to wipe it out with blood.

He rose. Men's eyes turned frightened to his tall form, they crowded toward him. He wondered if an order to go further would bring their swords out against him.

"We've tried," he said without tone. "You've done bravely, lads, and I shall not forget those who came with me on this. But now it seems best we return home."