The Eighth Lost Tale of Mercia: Canute the Viking (4 page)

And behind him, several dozen Jomsvikings
followed after.

Tosti led him away past several shacks,
through various sparring and weaponry arenas, until they approached
one of the primary living lodges, in which most the men slept.
Canute hesitated. “What in Valhalla would be
here?
”

Tosti only paused at the entrance to wave
inward. “Come and see!”

“Don’t be stupid,” he growled, though Tosti
had already disappeared within the lodge. He realized he spoke to
no one but himself. Once again he sensed the large crowd behind him
like a cliff’s edge; one step back and he would fall into the
abyss. “Too late now,” he muttered.

He followed Tosti into the darkness of the
lodge.

The building smelled of sweat and dirty
blankets, as it usually did. His lips curled and he kept moving. He
thought that if Tosti was given the choice, surely he would want to
stay in more comfortable quarters, like Canute’s. Fortunately, the
lodge was mostly vacant of bodies right now—at least until Canute
and his followers arrived.

Tosti knelt down by what must have been his
own bed and rummaged through a pile of belongings next to it.
Canute struggled to repress his trembling. What on earth did Tosti
have to show him? For some reason, Canute dreaded finding out.

“Here!” cried Tosti, and held up a sack. Only
a small object seemed to occupy the sack—but that small object was
moving. Tosti grinned from ear to ear as the bag swayed in his
hand. “Close the doors!” he called.

Someone obeyed, trapping them all as
witnesses to whatever was about to occur.

When Tosti opened the sack and the black bird
flew out, Canute did not feel surprised. He did not feel much of
anything.

There, captured and released for Canute’s own
sake, was a raven.

His breath fled his body and left him
standing, transfixed, watching the dark wings flap. The raven’s
reach extended further than he had imagined; it seemed a tremendous
creature, almost monstrous, within the confines of the lodge. It
cast a sharp silhouette against the waning sunlight, trickling
weakly through the cracks of the walls, slicing at the brightness
like so many knives.

But the sound emitted suddenly from its
gullet was the most awesome, and terrifying, feature of all.

No one else in the room dared make a noise,
anyway; but even if they had all raised their voices at once, the
caws of the raven would have cut through the sound. It shrieked
with the agony of a magnificent creature contained for a day within
a woolen sack; it screamed with the rage of its injured pride; but
most of all, it cried out with the despair of a dying soul.

Its caws grew louder and louder, shriller and
more piercing, until it released the power of its wings in a sudden
burst. It sped through the air like a dark streak of lightning,
propelled towards the largest beam of light from the wall.

But the raven struck the wood, its cry
stopped sickeningly short. The beast bounced back, drooped, and
plummeted to the floor.

Thud.

No one moved for a long while. No one said a
word. Canute delayed inhaling for breath until his head swam with
dizziness. Meanwhile his eyes remained locked on the black,
unmoving shape on the floor, like a blot in his vision blinding him
to everything else. Sensation returned to his limbs first,
trembling; then stretched to his fingertips, curling; then came
rushing out of his throat.

“
No!
” he cried.

He rushed to the crippled creature before he
even became aware of what he was doing; he pushed gawking men aside
in order to make his way to the beast. He swooped down to its side
and reached out, hands shaking, to grab it. He gasped as it jerked
against his palm in response.

He stood with the bird clutched to his chest.
He turned to everyone and grinned desperately at them. “No,
look—it’s still alive. See!”

He held out the raven’s body, which after a
long while, twitched again. This time the spasm was so violent the
creature slipped from his hands and back to the floor, where it
continued to thrash about in the throes of death.

As Canute gaped down at it, the world seemed
to spin. Tears filled his eyes and blurred his twirling
surroundings yet more. He did not merely look upon a dying bird. He
looked upon a dying god. He looked upon a dying god!

Then he heard everyone laughing.

At first the sound filled him with confusion.
Why would anyone dare laugh at an omen like this? He glanced
desperately from each of their faces to the next. Then he realized
they were not laughing at the raven. They were laughing at
him
.

“Oh no, look out, it’s Odin!” someone
called.

“Guess he couldn’t stand being in the same
room as Canute!”

“No, no, look!” Everyone turned to look at
this speaker, who sounded quite serious. But then his voice changed
to mimic Canute’s. “
I think it’s still alive!
”

A new howl of laughter, even louder than
before, rang over the congregation.

Canute breathed so hard now that he might
have opened his mouth, if not for his clenching jaws. So they knew
about the raven, too. Tosti had not only told them about their
physical connection; he had shared one of Canute’s most intimate
secrets. There were reasons why his father had not made the
runewoman’s sighting common knowledge. It was incriminating. And
for the truth to come out like this, with a raven twitching to
death at Canute’s feet after a desperate attempt to escape …. it
was more humiliating than anything he could have imagined.

Canute unsheathed the knife at his belt. He
hesitated only long enough to regain everyone’s attention.

Then he knelt down and plunged his dirk into
the raven’s chest.

The bird gave one last spasm, then went very
still.

Canute pulled out the blade. The wound he
left behind was not so much a fountain of blood as a damp
indentation. But the edges of his dirk gleamed red with the liquid,
and he found this to his satisfaction as he stood again, holding
the blade aloft.

He looked past its tip at Tosti, who stood
petrified with horror.

Canute did not feel any sort of expression on
his face, but the look in his eyes must have been terrifying
enough, for Tosti trembled. “Canute ...” he gasped. “I didn’t mean
for any of that to happen. I thought … I thought it would be a good
thing. I wanted ...”

Canute did not want to hear him speak another
word. The sound of Tosti’s voice brought too much pain. And his own
inclination to respond revealed that he could not trust his
feelings. He pulled back the knife, then flung it.

Tosti’s fast reflexes saved him. Canute
rarely missed a target. He had better than normal vision, and his
hands grew steady when aiming, no matter his circumstance. His
blade would have pierced Tosti through the eye. But Tosti darted
out of the way; he ducked, swerved, and then ran away. He was
almost gone by the time the knife plunged into the far wall and
stuck there.

Despite his exceptional eyesight, Canute’s
vision blurred again, and he blinked rapidly to push back a film of
thickening moisture. His calm composure wavered. He felt the weight
of all the Jomsvikings’ eyes upon him, and thought that if he stood
there too long, he would buckle underneath it.

“You fools,” he said. “There is no Odin. Not
anymore. It should be as clear to you as it now is to me. The one
God is so powerful, there is no room for another.”

Nor was there allowance for the relationship
he had nearly had with Tosti, he recalled. He took a deep,
shuddering breath.

“And so ... He is my God now. If any of you
feel differently, I welcome you to worship this miserable
corpse.”

He kicked the dead raven towards them, and
everyone scattered from it.

Canute already had the men’s respect again,
he realized; their expressions changed, their interpretations of
the night’s events morphed into something new. Canute turned a
defeat into victory. Thorkell would be proud. Such transitions came
easily to Canute, and he sensed they would be even easier now, with
the one true God on his side.

But he could not bring himself to smile as he
turned and walked away, leaving them all in silence.

**

READ MORE

One Lost Tale of Mercia will release every
other Tuesday until October 5, 2010, when the full story of
Eadric the Grasper
releases
on Amazon
. For more news and updates, visit
http://jaydenwoods.com

The First Lost Tale:
Golde the
Mother

The Second Lost Tale:
Ethelred the
King

The Third Lost Tale:
Aydith the
Aetheling

The Fourth Lost Tale:
Athelward the
Historian

The Fifth Lost Tale:
Alfgifu the
Orphan

The Sixth Lost Tale:
Hastings the Hearth
Companion

The Seventh Lost Tale:
Hildred the
Maid

The Eighth Lost Tale:
Canute the
Viking

The Ninth Lost Tale:
Runa the Wife
(September 7)

The Tenth Lost Tale:
Edmund the
Aetheling
(September 21)

**OCTOBER 5th:
Eadric the
Graspe
r releases on Amazon**

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Though Canute the Great is a real figure of
history, and a fascinating one at that, one can only speculate as
to his true personality. This is my creative interpretation of
Canute’s life, and though my goal is to never contradict what
events definitely occurred, this short story is pure fiction
speculation.

For a full list of consulted sources, and/or
to let me know what you think of my work, please visit
http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com