Mollebakken by Eric Schumacher

Author:Eric Schumacher [Schumacher, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

Haugesund, Norway. May, AD 933

The clouds hung low and dark over Harald's favorite estate at Haugesund, a fitting sky for the burial of one of the North's most renowned kings. A chilling wind swept up the gentle rise from the sea to the clearing where the crowd had gathered, carrying with it the scent of salt and a gentle drizzle that had begun to fall. Tiny droplets of water hung from the leafy branches of the trees surrounding the clearing, dripping slowly onto the heads of those gathered to see Harald Fairhair laid to rest.

“Odin mourns,” murmured someone from the crowd.

“Nay,” corrected another. “He is shedding tears of joy. For now King Harald has joined Him in Valhall, and there he shall regale the dead with his tales.”

Before them, in a massive pit, lay a longship, its dragon-headed prow removed and placed inside the ship for fear it would frighten the gods on arrival in the afterlife. A wooden shelter had been constructed in the middle of the ship to house the body of the mightiest king the North had ever known. Strewn about the ship were beautifully painted shields and spears, finely made swords and axes, cooking utensils, barrels of mead and wine, and victuals of all sorts. At the foot of King Harald's shelter lay the body of one of his concubines, who had volunteered to die with her master and accompany him into the world beyond. Beside her lay King Harald's beautiful white steed, as well as the three Irish hounds given to him by the king of the Dubhlinn Norse. Harald would arrive in the hall of the heroes as he had lived his life: as a king.

When the sons of Harald had each said some words at the edge of the grave, the gravediggers began to fill in the burial pit with the rain-soaked earth. The rain began to fall in earnest now, and the less hearty onlookers retired to the hall at Haugesund to find some warmth.

Sigurd, the jarl of Lade, watched solemnly as the cloaked figures slowly retreated, his long auburn mane and beard soaked and matted to his head and chest. Drops of salty rain dripped down his forehead and into his ice-blue eyes. He swiped sourly at a drop that hung from the tip of his broken nose. Across the pit from him, the sons of Harald stood motionless, heads downturned, their dark cloaks waving heavily in the breeze as Harald's ship disappeared beneath the gravediggers' mud. Sigurd knew their shapes. The barrel-chested, broad-shouldered form of Erik. The short, round body of his own king, Sigfrid. And the giant, Olav. Unlike himself, products of different women but the same man, the king now being covered with earth. Sigurd edged closer to them.

Jarl Sigurd was the son of Harald Fairhair's good friend and a kinsman to Harald through marriage. Sigfrid may have been king of the Trondelag, but it was the jarl's family that wielded the true power in that far northern realm.

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