Blood Will Follow Page 10

  The next thing was a horse standing by the side of the road, stoically munching on whatever it could find.

  And lastly, two men well past their prime who stood in the middle of the road and stared at him with open mouths. They were both clad in ill-fitting clothes; one had a shock of graying red hair that pointed in all directions at once, the other tufts of blond that made him look like a badly sheared sheep.

  “Efh . . . ,” one of them stammered.

  And just like that, Ulfar saw what needed to happen. He smiled, walked over to the sack of turnips, gathered up the few strays, and put them back inside, retied the sack, and hefted it up onto the horse, which protested only nominally.

  “Fhn . . . ,” the other muttered.

  “Well met, strangers,” Ulfar said, and the spell was broken.

  “Well met!” the blond one replied, far too loudly.

  “Yes! Well met!” Red-hair added, louder than the first. “I am Gisli, and this is my sworn brother—”

  “I am Helgi!” the blond man shouted. “We’re cousins!”

  “Half-brothers, you moron,” Gisli snapped.

  “Really?” Ulfar said. “I would never have guessed.”

  The men laughed loudly. “No one does. We’re nothing alike,” Helgi said. Gisli looked on the verge of saying something but bit his tongue. “Where are you going?” Helgi continued. “We’re headed south when we come down off this hill.”

  “That’s lucky—so am I,” Ulfar said.

  “Would you like to join us?” Gisli said.

  “So that’s your offer to make now?” Helgi said.

  Gisli puffed himself up. “And why shouldn’t it be?”

  “I’m older!”

  “Oh, don’t start that again. We both know Mother loved me best. I’d bet you’re a changeling! The trolls brought you! I—”

  Ulfar cleared his throat loudly. “Helgi: would you be happy for me to join you on the road?”

  “Of course,” Helgi snapped. “Anything else would be rude. Just like you,” he said as he turned toward his half-brother, voice rising. “You’re a fool and a lackwit, and I can’t believe that we share the same mother. I think if I left you to your own—”

  “Where is he going with the horse? This is all your fault!” Gisli shook his head frantically, sending his wild red hair flying. They set off after Ulfar, who had taken the reins of the horse and started walking down the road.

  “Wait! Wait!” Helgi puffed. “We’re coming!”

  At the head of the strange procession, Ulfar sighed.

  “Camp! We need to camp!” Helgi said.

  “What would you know about camps?” Gisli snapped. “Last time I let you choose, a bear nearly ate us!”

  “That—was—a—moose! You saw the tracks the next morning!”

  “Well, it was big,” Gisli muttered. “And moose are dangerous.”

  “Only if you’re an idiot,” Helgi shot back. “So in your case that’s true. Sorry I nearly got you killed.” Gisli harrumphed, and Helgi replied with a smirk. “Ulfar—any opinions now that we’re off the mountain?”

  Ulfar pointed toward a glade only just visible in the twilight.

  “Very good choice,” said Helgi. “It is refreshing to travel with someone who knows things for a change.”

  Gisli sulked in the background.

  Ulfar led the horse to the glade where they staked out their camp. Gisli went to start a fire; Helgi followed and criticized everything he did. Their bickering had long since stopped meaning anything to Ulfar—it was closer to the sound of the sea than any kind of conversation.

  Eventually, though, even the brothers settled down, and as night fell they bid each other goodnight.

  Ulfar, knowing what awaited him, slept very little.

  Around midday, Ulfar finally relaxed. It had been a while—a long while—since he’d been on horseback, and he was thankful the animal was so placid. He’d woken up, eased past the brothers’ sleeping forms and led the horse to the road. They’d been off the hill by midmorning and far away from Gisli and Helgi by noon. The land was flat and tree cover scarce, but still he knew where he was going. He patted the horse’s neck and mumbled, “Good boy.” A mild protesting whinny was all he got back, but it shuffled onward. He found he did not care one way or the other about stealing the horse. They’d manage the bag of turnips between them, and now they’d have something new to argue about.

  Something rustled in the bushes off to his left, and a bird cried out. The horse snorted once, shook its head, and kept walking. Maybe that was just what he needed to do in life, he mused. Shrug and move on. Whatever was in that bush was being hurt quite badly, though. The cries were getting louder and more piercing. The horse quickened its step, eager to be away from the tortured sounds. A sudden wave of irritation washed over Ulfar. “Die already!” he shouted and leapt out of the saddle. The horse shot him a reproachful look, trundled to a halt, and promptly turned its attention to the roadside grass as Ulfar drew his sword and waded into the underbrush, unleashing a string of profanities. Branches scraped his face, but he didn’t care. He just had to make that noise stop. The squawking grew louder until something clamped down on its victim’s throat.

  Ulfar arrived just in time to see a sizable fox scamper away with a pheasant in his jaws.

  Blood rushed to his head, and his knee buckled. Struggling to remain upright, he staggered over to the nearest tree. Bile rose in his throat, and his heart thumped in his chest.

  He looked at the trees. Then he looked at his own drawn blade, raised the point up at the nearest trunk, and shouted, “Defend yourself! I am Ulfar the Pheasant-Saver!”

  His legs gave way, and tears streamed from his eyes as he sat alone on the leafy forest floor, laughing until his stomach ached.

  The smell of the sea reached him long before they saw the blue scar on the horizon: warm salt in the sun, wet weeds on rocks. Up ahead seagulls circled, complaining to one another. Ulfar urged the horse into a reluctant trot. “Come on, boy,” he whispered. “Help me home.”

  When they cleared the tree line, he counted the houses. It didn’t take very long. There were twenty of them, some sizable. Thin wisps of smoke drifted up from roofs, to be caught by the brisk sea wind. “That will do,” Ulfar muttered. “That will have to do.”

  As he rode in, a dog came running at them at full tilt, baying and snarling. Ulfar redoubled his grip on the reins, but the horse had seen enough country dogs and kicked out once, close enough to the animal’s snout to send it scampering away. Ulfar stroked and scratched the scraggly mane; it dipped its head once, snorted, and ambled along.

  He could feel eyes on him: watchers in darkened doorways and shadowed corners, but he was beyond caring. Let them watch. Let them watch the newcomer, calculate how much they could take him for. Let them fucking try. He had to concede, though, that by the look of him that probably wasn’t so much anymore. His clothes were thoroughly travel-worn by now, and he didn’t have a silver piece to his name. All he had was the sword . . . Ulfar thought of Audun and wondered what the crazy blacksmith might be doing. Probably not riding into a strange town on a stolen horse.

  He bit down hard to suppress the laughter and rode on. The harbor smelled of fish guts and cold air. A large man sat on a rock in the fading light, hunched over whatever he was doing with his hands. Ulfar dismounted and walked toward him.

  “Evening,” he said.

  “Evening yourself,” the man said. He was weathered, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty summers, tatty beard with streaks of white and a downturned mouth. In his hands he had a line with small hooks attached that he was twisting, turning, and coiling down into a basket.

  “Good catch today?”

  “Same as always.” The man spat and looked at Ulfar for the first time. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Geiri,” Ulfar said, the lie only just catching on his tongue. “I’m looking to get across to the Svear.”

  “Well, Geiri,” the fisherman said a
nd spat over his shoulder, “a trader sails tomorrow morning. Might know him. What are you paying?”

  Ulfar flashed a condescending smile and waved the question away. “Do not let my garb fool you. I am a man of means.”

  “As long as you’re not a man who means to pay but never does,” the fisherman said.

  “Well, we’re in trouble if a man’s word means nothing.”

  “Have you looked around lately, man of means?” The fisherman struggled to his feet and limped toward him. “We are in a whole lot of trouble. Trouble all over. I’ll talk to Hedin for you.”

  “Thank you,” Ulfar said. “Thank you very much.”

  The fisherman shrugged. “Can’t promise. We’ll see what goes.” With that, he limped away.

  Ulfar watched him leave, and then he was all alone on the pier.

  Alone and useless.

  What was he good for, anyway? Wenching, gaming, and killing. The occasional joke. A deep pressure built inside him, and he felt like he would burst. He tried to swallow, but nothing happened. Panic flared, but as soon as it had come, it was gone again.

  Ulfar had to strain to unlock his jaws and open his mouth. Looking around, his eye came to rest on the bucket. The fisherman’s line was tangled up. He thought back on the old men he’d seen threading hooks in Uppsala: they’d been proper, useful men. He sat down on the stone and reached for the line.

  “Ow! Bastard,” he exclaimed as a hook buried itself in his index finger.

  “Get away from my line,” the fisherman snapped from across the pier. “Took me long enough to sort it.” A portly man waddled up behind him as Ulfar struggled to nudge the hook out of his finger. As it came free, the cold air nipped at the blood. “This is Hedin,” the fisherman said curtly. The two of them made their way slowly toward Ulfar, the old horse, and the fisherman’s seat.

  “Well met, Hedin,” Ulfar said as he rose, finger and cheeks throbbing.

  Hedin fixed him with dull, sunken eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Passage,” Ulfar said.

  “You can’t afford it,” Hedin snapped as he looked him over with a practiced eye.

  Ulfar offered his most winsome smile. This was a game he knew. “Not only can I afford it, but my father, Alfgeir Bjorne, would probably be very grateful to anyone who ferried me across.” Behind him, the sailor lowered himself back down onto his rock and muttered a curse, but Hedin’s expression changed immediately as the merchant put on what Ulfar assumed must be his charming face. The effect was not pleasant.

  “Of course. And we’ll settle the fare—”

  “When I am across. My father didn’t raise a fool.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Hedin wrung his hands and squeezed out a sickly smile, and Ulfar’s insides lurched. For a moment he was swimming in sludge, sitting outside himself and watching as he stepped in, grabbed the merchant by the hair, kicked his legs from under him, smashed the man’s nose on the pier, and hammered his head down onto the planks again and again until he stopped screaming, stopped moving, kept bleeding silently. The sensation was so powerful that he had to swallow the vomit rising from the center of him. It felt like something was scraping his insides—something hard and cold.

  “—but we can see to that. Maybe a rug or something to keep you warm. Not free, of course. Nothing is, these days. And when would you like to leave?”

  Ulfar blinked. “What?”

  “When would you like to leave?” Hedin gazed up at him, greed and grease lining his features.

  “Early tomorrow morning,” he stammered.

  “Of course. Very good. We will meet here,” Hedin said. “That’s my knarr over there,” he added, and pointed to a well-worn trading bucket. Memories of cold, wet journeys washed over Ulfar, and he forced a smile.

  “Tomorrow morning. Farewell, Hedin.”

  “Of course. Yes.” Hedin saluted and left.

  A couple of moments passed.

  “Want me to look after the royal mount?” the fisherman said. Ulfar turned to stare at him, but the weathered face remained studiously neutral. “For when you come back this way?”

  “Yes . . . Yes, do that. He’s good for decent work,” Ulfar said.

  The fisherman’s attention was back on his line. “Tie him up by the shed; I’ll feed him tomorrow morning.”

  The road caught up to him. Without a word, Ulfar tethered the horse, patted him down, and wandered off in search of somewhere to sleep.

  WEST COAST OF SWEDEN

  LATE OCTOBER, AD 996

  “So where is my silver?” Hedin snapped. They’d beached easily enough after an uneventful day’s sailing, and Ulfar’s heart jumped at the subtle things—the trees were thicker and shorter, the soil richer. They were definitely in Svealand. Home, but he still had a long way to go. The sun was halfway across the sky but the chill in the air spoke of a hard winter to come. “You said you had the means, and what about your father’s reach?”

  This was his land, and now, his rules. “Ah, but you see—” Ulfar smiled. “My father, I am afraid, may not be as fatherly as he once was. He might not actually be my father, come to think of it. And my fortune is all on the side we sailed from.” The merchant’s face turned scarlet and he sputtered, struggling to choose the right curse-words. “The horse I left with the fisherman should be payment enough.”

  “Th-that old nag is not worth even a day’s rations!”

  “That’s no way to speak of your wife, brother Hedin,” Ulfar admonished as he leapt over the side of the boat and set down on the beach. The fat merchant appeared to consider going after him, but Ulfar put his hand on the hilt of his sword and shook his head just a fraction.

  Hedin deflated. “You’re a shit,” he spat.

  Ulfar just shrugged, turned his back on the merchant, and walked inland, followed by fading curses.

  The sun set and somewhere up above, the stars told him where to go.

  Soon Hedin’s angry face was nothing but a memory. He found what could charitably be called a road or track of some sort that appeared to go in the right direction, so he followed it. His stomach rumbled, but he paid it no heed; when it started cramping, he chewed on leaves. A brook on the way provided fresh water. Ulfar let his feet lead him and tried not to think about anything.

  Some time later, when he saw the lights on the road ahead, he thought long and hard about whether he should avoid people altogether, considering how it had gone so far. Eventually, however, his rumbling stomach settled the matter. He drew a deep breath and walked toward the settlement.

  EKARSTAD, WEST SWEDEN

  LATE OCTOBER, AD 996

  Make them like you. The thought echoed in Ulfar’s head along with the coarse laughter, bad singing, and assorted other noises of the hall. Make the bastards like you. Lead the lamb to the slaughter. Something lurched inside, but he pushed it down, held it together, and didn’t let it out. Instead he focused his efforts on looking like his opponent had stunned him with his last move.

  It worked, too. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the trader’s friends winking at him. One went so far as to pat the stocky man on the back. Playing along, Ulfar tutted, frowned, and shook his head. “Serves me right,” he mumbled. “I should never have offered you double or nothing. I knew I was lucky in the first game.”

  The man, a root-faced Swede from the north, nodded and grinned, revealing rotting teeth. “Maybe you did get lucky,” he said. “Or maybe I was just stringing you along.”

  It was all Ulfar could do to keep the smirk off his face. If that’s the truth, you’re twice as smart as you’re ugly, he thought. Discarding the easy win, he picked the second-best move. Root-face was still on his way to a slow and painful death on the board, but it would not be as obvious. Ulfar sighed as he pushed his piece away from the other man’s king. “I guess this is the best I can do,” he added.

  With barely a moment’s thought, his opponent walked into the trap, smiling while he did so. “That should teach you soft southerners never to play a
Northland man in games of smarts,” he crowed.

  Ulfar nodded apologetically. The next couple of moves were obvious, but they needed to be played right. He’d purposefully taken small sips of his mead to keep a clear head.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “The men of Uppsala always brag about how they’re smarter than the thick moose-fuckers from up north, but we all know that’s just bluster.”

  Root-face hawked and spat on the floor. “Only too right, whelp,” he snarled as he pushed his king exactly where Ulfar wanted it. “We see you when we come south with furs, smirking at us when you think we’re not looking.”

  “Oh, but I never did,” Ulfar protested meekly as he made his move. “I was always afraid of Northlanders, to be honest. They all looked like they could wrestle a bear.”

  “You mean Northlander women,” an onlooker quipped to roars of laughter. Even Root-face seemed happy about this and moved quickly. Mugs of mead clinked around him. “Now come on, boy. Give up and hand over the silver.”

  Careful, Ulfar thought. Scratch the animal behind the ears before the knife comes out. “Is it okay if we play a couple more moves . . . ?” he ventured cautiously. “I want to learn as much as I can.”

  The Northlander rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what I can teach you, southerner. You’re only”—Ulfar made his move—“putting off the”—Root-face’s voice trailed off, and the last word was just a whisper—“inevitable . . .”

  A silence settled around the table as the onlookers comprehended the Northlander’s predicament. Ulfar’s pitifully retreating forces had simply been stepping back to plug all possible escape routes for Root-face’s king. The game was all but over. “You—”

  “Oh! Oh, that’s lucky! Loki is smiling on me today. I was absolutely sure I was good and beaten.” Ulfar stifled any hint of smug grin and the urge to reach for the silver. Instead he strained to appear surprised.

  Root-face stared at him with murder in his eyes. “You . . . You cheated!” He slammed his grubby hand over the silver on the table.