Extract:
‘Just over fifty leagues, or two hundred years, from the foundation of Gothmark, Longspear was born. And in sixty leagues from his death, he will come again.’
That would be two hundred and forty years. Every Goth knew that Longspear had died, of an unknown illness, in the late spring of 1232. Beowulf had been born on the fourth Tyr’s Day in the Month of the Diamond Star in 1473, by coincidence sharing the same birthday as the mighty king. Of this he had naturally been very proud, and as a boy had formed a feeble determination to model his life on that of his great forebear. But it had come to nothing.
‘He was only a young man,’ he said, half to himself, ‘even when he died.’
‘Aye. The Evergreen King indeed. Maybe it is better thus, to live in men’s memories, never more than nine-and-twenty. None knew Longspear as a greybeard, old and feeble. Nor yet as a middle-aged ruler, scheming to hold the crown and secure a dynasty. Death kept his honour bright.’
‘I had never thought of it like that,’ he admitted. ‘And yet, methinks it somewhat sad.’
Ljani glanced at him quickly, then away. ‘Fate gives some men a second chance,’ she said vaguely. ‘And maybe all men. Who knows?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Well, we will leave it. Tomorrow,’ said Ljani with a brisk change in her manner, ‘you set out on your journey. This will aid you.’
From within the folds of her cloak she drew a piece of parchment wrapped around a stick, and unrolled it to its full extent. A map of the Northlands, carefully delineated in Ljani’s neat hand, covered with runic letters and small figures of trees, mountains, castles, ships and monsters.
‘I cannot read the runes.’
‘Others may do so for you. Their meaning will appear. I have other gifts for you too.’ She showed him a small earthenware jar, bearing the picture of a staff entwined by a serpent. ‘This ointment is a salve mixed from Mintaka’s secret formula. It will heal any wound, if the man be not already dead.’
‘I hope I shall not need it.’
‘Methinks you will, maybe for yourself, maybe for others. And the runes.’ Ljani handed him a bag in red leather, full of stones. ‘You will have cause to consult them. Though you are not skilled in divination, yet they will speak. Respect the runes, but make your own decision. Finally,’ she drew aside the cloak and unbuckled her belt, ‘take this, Brother Bear. It is too heavy for me.’
‘Your father’s sword. I cannot take it. You know why.’
‘I wish you to have it. It was wrought by the greatest swordsmith ever known in Midgard.’
‘Weyland?’
‘No, by the one from whom he learnt the craft. A man from the east, beyond Slavonia.’
‘There are no lands beyond Slavonia. Only Jotunheim, and the cliffs of ice.’
‘But there are. Examine it.’
The hilt was covered by exquisitely carved flowers, leaves and serpents, together with curious runes of a type unknown in Gothmark. ‘Can you decipher these?’
‘No, not even I. But on the other side a later hand has carved his Gothic name. Nayling.’
Beowulf wielded it. The balance was perfect. ‘A fine sword.’
‘The best in all the world, Prince Beowulf. No blade can stand against him. When Nayling fails you, your time will have come. So it was with my father, Prince Olaf. And his grandfather, Eymor. And the man from whom he took the sword.’
There was some legend about the House of Offa and a magic sword, but he had never known the details.
‘I have no man, Brother Bear. You are the nearest I have to a champion.’
He nodded. Again the curious sense of kinship, closer than brother and sister. The cool night breeze drew the cloak away from her. He glimpsed the slim pale body beneath, and wondered guiltily what she would be like in love. As ever she had read his thoughts, and coloured.
‘I am your sister, Brother Bear.’
She often called him Brother Bear. Once she had told him that Bjorn and Beowulf were originally the same name, both meaning bear.
‘The man in the prophesy,’ he said suddenly. ‘He in disguise, who wears a bearskin. Is he Longspear come again, or another?’
Ljani shot him an uncharacteristically direct glance, yet answered with another question. ‘When a man be born again, is he the same man, or another?’
‘The same, but not the same?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And he is the warrior who will lie at Hronesness?’
‘Of course.’
‘Which is his star?’
The cloak slipped from Ljani’s shoulder as she raised an arm. ‘Follow the tail of the Bear.’
He did so. A golden star shone low in the west, over the distant sea, brighter than any in the sky. ‘It is a long way from the Bear. And does it not rise and set?’
‘It dips very briefly into the mists of the horizon, then rises again. The brightest star in the sky; greater than Longspear, but less constant.’
‘And he will be the last great hero?’
‘The greatest, but not the last. He will be followed by the King of the Winter Star, who is not yet born. After that, I cannot tell.’
‘Many men,’ he said, following Ljani’s thoughts as she so often did his, ‘must have been born about the same time as me.’
‘Not many of royal descent, taller than Longspear, with a name that means Bear. And sharing the same birthday. Strange, is it not?’
Beowulf took back the torch from the wall beside the figure of the mighty king. ‘It seems I have had a near miss,’ he said lightly, ‘being born 241 years after Longspear’s death. A year too late.’
Ljani gave her crooked smile. ‘Longspear died in the Month of the Bear; you were born in that of the Diamond Star.’
‘Well then, two hundred and forty years, and …’
‘Exactly. And nine months.’
Again he glanced at the planes of the beautiful, gaunt face, twisted in the sidelong smile. She above all women interested him, with her mixture of youth and wisdom, knowledge and innocence. Of all those in Gothmark, her destiny would be most closely entwined with his. And she knew it too, better than he did. In the orange halo of the torch the two shadowy figures made their way back to the mainland, where their horses waited, placidly cropping the wet grass. Darkness closed on the shrine at Hronesness, and the tomb of the king yet to come.