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Nothing, it seemed, had been disturbed.
Torvald, I conjectured, doubtless as cunning and wise as the legends had made
him out, had not elected to have himself interred in his own tomb.
It was empty.
The wiliness, the cunning, of a man who had lived more than a thousand years
ago made itself felt in its effects a millennium later, in this strange place,
deep within the living stone of a great mountain in a bleak country.
"Where is Torvald?" cried out Ivar Forkbeard.
I shrugged.
"There is no Torvald," said the Forkbeard. "Torvald does not exist."
I made no attempt to answer the Forkbeard.
"The bones of Torvald," said the Forkbeard, "even the bones of Torvald are not
here."
"Torvald was a great captain," I said. "Perhaps he-was burned in his ship,
which you have told me was called Black Shark." I looked about. "It is strange
though," I said, "if that were the case, why this tomb would have been built."
"This is not a tomb," said Ivar Forkbeard.
I regarded him.
"This is a sleeping chamber," he said. "There are no bones of animals here, or
of thralls, or urns, or the remains of foodstuffs, offerings." He looked
about. "Why," he asked me, "would
Torvald have had carved in the Torvaldsberg a sleeping chamber?"
"That men might come to the Torvaldsberg to waken him," I said.
Ivar Forkbeard looked at me.
From among the weapons at the foot of the couch, from one of the cylindrical
quivers, still of the sort carried in Torvaldsland, I drew forth a long, dark
arrow. It was more than a yard long. Its shaft was almost an inch thick with
iron, barbed. Its feathers were five inches long, set in the shaft on three
sides, feathers of the black-tipped coasting gull, a broad-winged bird, with
black tips on its wings and tail feathers, similar to the Vosk gull. I lifted
the arrow. "What is this?"
I asked the Forkbeard. "It is a war arrow," he said. "And what sign is this,
carved on its side?'
I asked. "The sign of Torvald," he whispered. "Why do you think this arrow is
in this place?" I
asked. "That men might find it?" he asked.
"I think so," I said.
He reached out and put his hand on the arrow. He took it from me.
"Send the war arrow," I said.
The Forkbeard looked down on the arrow.
"I think," I said, "I begin to understand the meaning of a man who lived more
than a thousand winters ago. This man, call him Torvald, built within a
mountain a chamber for sleep, in which he would not sleep, but to which men
would come to waken him. Here they would find not Torvald, but themselves,
themselves, Ivar, alone, and an arrow of war."
"I do not understand," said Ivar.
"I think," I said,'that Torvald was a great and a wise man.
Ivar looked at me.
'In building this chamber," I said, "it was not the intention of Torvald that
it should be he who was awakened within it, but rather those who came to seek
hirn."
"The chamber is empty," said Ivar.
"No," I said, "we are within it." I put my hand to his shoulder. "It is not
Torvald who must awaken in this chamber. Rather it is we. Here, hoping for
others to do our work, we find only ourselves, and an arrow of war. Is this
not Torvald's way of telling us, from a thousand years ago, that it is we on
whom we must depend, and not on any other. If the land is to be saved, it is
by us, and others like us, that lt must be saved. There are no spells, no
gods, no heroes to save us. In this chamber, it is not Torvald who must awaken
It is you and I." I regarded the Forkbeard evenly. "Lift,' said I, "the arrow
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of war."
I stood back from the couch, my torch raised. Slowly, his visage terrible, the
Forkbeard lifted his arm, the arrow in his fist.
I am not even of Torvaldsland, but it was I who was present when the arrow of
war was lifted, at the side of the couch of Torvald, deep within the living
stone of the Torvaldsberg.
Then the Forkbeard thrust the arrow in his belt. He crouched down, at the foot
of the couch of
Torvald. He sorted through the weapons there. He selected two spears, handing
me one. "We have two
Kurii to kill," he said.
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Chapter 17 Torvaldslanders visit the camp of Kurii
It was very quiet.
The men did not speak.
Below us, in the valley, spread out for more than ten pasangs we saw the
encampment of Kurii.
At the feet of Ivar Forkbeard, head to the ground, nude, waiting to be
commanded, knelt Hilda the
Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar.
"Go," said Ivar to her.
She lifted her head to him. "May I not have one last kiss, my Jarl?" she
whispered.
"Go," said he. "If you live, you will be more than kissed."
"Yes, my Jarl," she said, and, obediently, slipped away into the darkness.
The ax I carried was bloodied. It had tasted the blood of a Kur guard.
We stood downwind of the encampment.
Not far from me was Svein Blue Tooth. He stood, not moving. It was cold. I
could see the outline of his helmet, the rim of the shield, the spear, dark
against darkness.
Near us, behind us, stood Gorm, Ottar and Rollo, and others of Forkbeard's
Landfall. It was some
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