The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Read online

  Sigurd.

  *

  Valgard ran towards his house. He’d need more willow bark for pain and chickweed poultice for burns. Most of all he’d need water.

  His bucket was empty.

  Hut. There would be water in the hut. He could fill up the patients’ bucket later.

  No water in the hut. No friend with the foreigner either. Strange.

  A filled skin from the well would have to do.

  Walking the path he’d walked countless times before, Valgard only noticed the foreigner just before he trod on him.

  *

  Sigurd stepped towards Harald and put a hand on his shoulder. Audun could not hear what was said but the big sea captain’s head whipped round, face feral and snarling. He smacked Sigurd’s hand away, screamed ‘NO!’ and turned back to the fires.

  Sigurd’s hand came down hard on Harald’s shoulder and yanked him around. Contorted with rage and grief, the bare-chested captain’s face looked inhuman. He turned on Sigurd, grabbed a burning oar and swung, screaming.

  Two steps and Sigurd was out of harm’s way. Flickering fire lit his face, snapping and crackling drowned his voice. Behind his back he made a chopping motion. Audun did not understand until he heard the thwack of knife meeting wood. Sven had cut the moorings with a wicked curving blade. The fire danced up the halyards, sparks kissing the sky in a dozen places. Resembling a child’s drawing in yellow on black, the ship soon responded to the gentle tug of the tide and started floating out of the harbour.

  Flailing madly, Harald went after Sigurd with a vengeance. ‘YOU OLD BASTARD! HOW DARE YOU?’ he screamed. The burning oar drew flaming lines in the night sky, but Sigurd seemed to join with the shadows, always shifting, never in one place long enough for the blow to connect.

  As the Westerdrake cleared the jetty Sigurd made his move. When Harald swung the oar, this time he ducked down instead of moving back. Then he launched himself at the big man, landing a series of fierce and fast blows to the jaw and stomach, then a vicious head butt that knocked Harald out.

  ‘Had to happen sooner or later,’ Sven muttered mirthlessly behind Audun. ‘We were lucky on that one.’

  Onboard the Westerdrake, Sigurd was lugging the unconscious Harald towards the gunwale. He rolled the hulking raider overboard and jumped after him.

  Sputtering and coughing, Harald came up for air. Sigurd was already halfway to the harbour. Audun watched as the captain swam after the chieftain, powerful strokes propelling him through the water.

  ‘Time to move, son,’ Sven said at his back. ‘Things could get ugly still.’

  Sigurd emerged at the end of the pier, grey hair plastered to his head. Streaks of soot lined his face and he looked like something out of a tale to scare children. He locked eyes with Sven. Audun looked back and forth as something passed wordlessly between the two men. Then Sven flicked his wrist and the knife flew gracefully at Sigurd, spinning blade over hilt. The chieftain snatched it out of the air and turned to the sea. Arms relaxed at his sides, he suddenly looked less like an old man and more like a mountain cat about to pounce. The knife formed a natural claw extending from his right hand. A chill passed through Audun.

  ‘Killing time,’ Sven muttered.

  Harald clambered up onto the end of the pier.

  His upper body was covered in burns. Large, red patches of skin, bleeding scars, angry red welts where sparks had landed. Long reddish hair lay slick against his bull neck and square shoulders.

  Sigurd’s voice was hard and clear. ‘Harald, son of Jormund. You’ve challenged me, and it’s—’

  ‘Do it. Do it now.’ Harald knelt and bowed his head.

  Sigurd stood for a long while, immovable.

  ‘Do it.’ There was no hate in Harald’s voice. No anger. Just tired resignation.

  Finally, Sigurd spoke. ‘We have sailed together, Harald. Fought together. I saved your life amongst the Danes; you pulled me out of the fires in Jorvik. We are brothers of the edge. I will not gut you here and now like a sodden dog if you show me that I can trust you.’ The flames from the burning Westerdrake outlined Harald’s back, framing his shoulders and head in flickering light. The man looked broken, Audun thought.

  ‘Swear.’ There was menace in Sigurd’s voice, and Audun suspected the threat had not been empty. He could sense Sven tensing behind him, inching forward.

  Harald shifted imperceptibly.

  ‘Swear, Harald. Swear your loyalty to me and to the town.’

  A pause, and then Harald spoke. ‘By Odin the all-father, I swear. I serve Stenvik, I serve you.’

  Sigurd relaxed. ‘Rise and look me in the eye.’

  Harald rose and Audun caught his breath. The big sea captain’s face was ashen and streaked with tears. He looked like a shell of a man, like someone who had aged by ten years overnight.

  Sven broke the silence, his voice gentle. ‘I’ve lost a ship too. But ships can be built. It takes longer to train a captain. Especially a vicious bastard like yourself.’ A flicker of a smile crossed Harald’s face. ‘But now we’ve made sure we still have ships, we need to address the other matter.’

  ‘What other matter?’ Harald mumbled.

  ‘Whoever did this also propped up a nidpole in the square.’ Harald stared dully at Sven. ‘There were three lines carved on the horse’s neck.’

  Life flashed back into Harald’s eyes.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  *

  Ragnar was warm and tired. Something was wrong with his lungs. They rattled and there was something wet in them. It wasn’t so bad, though. He could just take a nap here, just rest a bit in the warmth, and then he could get going. He’d done what he was supposed to do, exactly like she’d told him. And then Oraekja had attacked him from behind. Stabbed him like a coward. He blinked, confused. It didn’t make any sense. He’d done it. He’d walked into the enemy camp, set fire to their ships, poisoned their water and made them run around like headless chickens.

  His leg hurt.

  He’d felt the tendon snapping back up into the calf when Oraekja cut it and now there was a hole in his leg somewhere, something missing that was supposed to be there. So now he couldn’t stand properly. He’d managed to crawl away from the well, towards the northern gateway. He had to get out of here. They’d be very angry when they found out.

  So tired.

  The muscles in his back wouldn’t move, wouldn’t help him get up. So he’d just have to lie down here, catch his breath and wait for Skargrim to come. Wait for big brother to rescue him, like he’d always done. He’d never hear the end of this. Fooled by a rat-faced coward.

  Ragnar smiled and closed his eyes.

  *

  The fires onboard the Westerdrake flickered in the distance. The harbour square was once again draped in the moon’s silvery rays. Torches mounted on house corners created circles of warm light.

  The nidpole stood in the middle of the square, the horse’s head gaping towards the town walls. Drops of blood had spattered onto the stones beneath it, coloured the rim of the hole and stained the wood reddish-brown.

  Word had spread quickly.

  Nearly every man in Stenvik was gathered around the pole. The square was packed with people, but none of them stepped within three strides of the horse’s head. Muttered superstitions and fearful whispers swirled, and even the most hardened of warriors scanned the surroundings, ill at ease. Sigurd elbowed his way through the crowd and stepped into the circle around the pole, followed by Sven and Harald. Their faces seemed carved in stone as they looked at the crowd, daring any man to talk in their presence. Slowly the people in the square fell silent. Sigurd turned to the pole and unwrapped the scroll tied to it, reading out loud.

  ‘Shame shall be called

  Upon the land-spirits

  who formed the earth

  where Stenvik lies

  That they may wander

  Never to rest,

  Until Stenvik is turned

  To ash and ruin.’

 
; The silence lasted for a couple of breaths, and then nervous chatter erupted.

  The three men in the circle simply waited as the talk died down and worried faces turned to Sigurd. When he spoke, it was almost conversationally.

  ‘Fear.’

  His voice carried all over the square.

  ‘That is what this is. That is what this is meant to make you feel.’ He rested his hand, almost absent-mindedly, on the pole. A smattering of gasps could be heard.

  ‘Fear.’

  A nervous merchant made to speak. ‘But Sig—’

  ‘FEAR.’ His voice rang out loud and clear. ‘Fear of the strange, fear of the unknown. Fear of the dark. Fear that Loki himself came down here and raised the pole to call us out, strip us of honour and cast us down, tell us that we should cower in the dark like rats for committing some unnameable wrong.’ His voice grew louder and the grip on the pole grew tighter. ‘But if it was Loki, he might have done well to ask where he’d landed. Because this is Stenvik! And I, Sigurd son of Aegir, have fought with most all of you, your fathers and your sons. And I would gladly face the God of Tricks – and tell him that the men of Stenvik’ – Sigurd’s hand closed on the pole, knuckles whitening. He strained, the pole moved.

  ‘… do …’ Another pull and the pole inched up.

  ‘… NOT …’ The horse’s head swayed.

  ‘… FEAR!’

  With a mighty effort Sigurd tore the nidpole free with one hand and raised it straight up, balancing the horse’s head on top.

  In the square, hardened raiders, merchants and craftsmen roared as one.

  ‘STENVIK!’

  Standing behind the three leaders, Audun looked at the townsfolk. A frightened, apprehensive mob had turned into a fierce, tough, angry army, ready for anything. Sigurd had won them over.

  Only one face lacked the fire and the fury.

  Valgard was pushing his way through the crowd, heading towards the three men in the middle.

  ‘Silence!’ Harald’s voice cut through the noise of the crowd. ‘We will double the guard on the walls. Tomorrow’s morning watch joins night watch tonight. Keep weapons close to your beds. Stay cold and focused. We will meet again at first light. Raiders of the Westerdrake, to me!’

  The crowd dispersed slowly as it became apparent that there would be no immediate confrontation. Fighters with their blood up returned reluctantly to their sleeping quarters, while Harald’s crew gathered around him.

  Valgard slipped through gaps and between bodies. He appeared at Sven’s side and whispered in his ear. A frightening calm settled on the old man’s face. ‘Bring him,’ he said to Valgard and nodded towards the town. Then he laid a hand on Sigurd’s arm.

  ‘Longhouse. You need to hear this.’

  *

  Sigurd sat in the high chair on the dais and stared into space, a thoughtful frown carved deep into his face.

  Gathered around the table in the longhouse, the raiders of the Westerdrake looked like a pack of barely tamed wolfhounds. Torch-light turned weather-beaten faces into the masks of snarling demons. Above them Harald glowered in his high-backed seat on Sigurd’s right-hand side. Someone was going to pay. Someone was going to pay hard.

  ‘So now we know,’ Sigurd said finally. ‘Skargrim is on his way. They’ve set fire to our ships’ – Harald’s lip curled in a menacing sneer – ‘raised a nidpole in our square … and while everyone was running down to the harbour, they poisoned the well.’

  The assembled raiders exchanged grim looks. A poisoned well meant a full assault. It also meant no prisoners.

  ‘They dumped horse guts in it.’

  Bjorn, a solidly built blonde raider with a nasty scar on his left cheek, snorted. ‘Horse guts? The water will taste like shit, but that won’t kill anyone.’

  Sigurd smiled.

  From the shadows by the doorway, Valgard spoke. ‘So we’d fish up the horse guts, count our blessings and happily drink water with a bagful of crushed foxbell leaves.’

  He stepped into torchlight and a stony silence, guiding Ulfar with him.

  ‘Tell us what you saw.’

  Ulfar described the two men.

  ‘Where are they now?’ Sigurd snapped.

  ‘I saw the long-haired one leave,’ Ulfar replied. ‘Not sure where the old one got to. He wasn’t there when Valgard brought me back.’

  ‘Thorvald …’ Sigurd turned to the empty chair. ‘THORVALD! Where is—’ Thorvald burst through the doorway and ran up to the dais.

  ‘Sigmar and the boys are back. They found something,’ he said quickly, words tumbling out.

  ‘Skargrim’s boys? I hadn’t even asked you yet,’ Sigurd replied.

  Thorvald stopped in his tracks. ‘… That’s not what they found. Not at all.’

  Sigurd sized up his scout master. After a silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity he said quietly: ‘So that’s not it. Tell me what you know.’

  Thorvald looked wary.

  ‘If Skargrim is also on the move, I do not think you will like this.’ All eyes were on the dais, willing Thorvald to speak. ‘Every man, woman and child at Gard has been butchered. There were all manner of tracks.’

  ‘Tracks? Tracks of what?’ Sigurd interrupted.

  ‘Men. Lots of them,’ Thorvald said. From the shadows, Ulfar watched the tall, slim man fidget nervously. ‘You know me, Sigurd,’ he continued. ‘I’ve never told an old wives’ tale in my life. And Sigmar is the same. But this … this is different. He said the bodies had been …’ The scout master blinked rapidly.

  ‘Thorvald!’ Sigurd banged his fist down on the chair arm. ‘Get it out!’

  Thorvald recoiled as if he’d been slapped. He shook his head and took a deep breath. ‘Here’s what Sigmar told me. What tracks they could see by moonlight led to the farmstead. Two sets followed by any number of them. Badly mutilated bodies. Sword wounds, broken skulls, split stomachs. Arms, legs hacked off. Fire taken to houses. Someone had taken a chunk out of some of the people.’

  ‘Carrion?’ Sigurd interrupted.

  ‘No. The fires were still burning and there were neither crows nor bite marks. Some of them had been … carved. Like mutton.’

  Sigurd stared at Thorvald.

  ‘So what was it? Who did this?’

  ‘Sigmar doesn’t know. But whoever it was had nearly a good hundred men with them. Maybe more.’

  Sigurd slumped back into his chair. ‘So in the same bloody night I get Skargrim and bloody roving outlaws in the woods?’

  Ulfar leaned towards Valgard. ‘Why is he so angry? Is this a new problem?’ he whispered.

  Without so much as glancing to the side, Valgard whispered back: ‘There’s a handful of desperate men out thieving every now and then, but never this many. Gard is a big farm with over twenty hands and would not be troubled by a normal gang of outlaws. I’ve been saying for a while that we should have gone to look, but nobody listened. Now it seems there’s enough of them to cause trouble, and that they’re heading this way. Why they’re banding together all of a sudden is anyone’s guess.’ Valgard’s eyes were glued to the dais, where an argument seemed to be taking place.

  ‘No, Harald,’ Sven was saying from his place by Sigurd’s shoulder. ‘That’s rash, angry and not practical. We have events, but we don’t really have information of any value yet. We have to find out where and what before we can do anything. We can’t go out into the woods chasing shadows.’

  Harald sneered, but kept quiet.

  At the long table, the raiders of the Westerdrake seemed to pick up on the mood of their captain. Eyes narrowed, lips curled. Several of the men muttered among themselves. Ulfar glanced at Valgard. The thin man seemed miles away, a grin forming on his lips.

  ‘It is such a shame that our leaders are unable to work together,’ the healer muttered.

  ‘It is,’ Ulfar replied at his side.

  The grin turned into a nervous smile as the healer became aware of being watched.

  ‘They’re fine really,�
�� Valgard blurted out, turning to face Ulfar. ‘I mean, they are the best leaders we could hope for. They just bicker.’ The left side of his face began to twitch. Valgard’s eyes closed and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘No. No. No,’ he hissed between clenched teeth. His eyes flew open and his breath grew more laboured as he started shaking.

  Without thinking, Ulfar reached for the man’s shoulder to steady him. Like an adder Valgard’s right hand went for Ulfar’s and seized it in a vice-like grip. He could only watch as the thin man seized up, fingers digging into his forearm, unblinking eyes glaring impossibly wide. Spasms racked the thin, reedy frame. Grimaces of pain etched on the healer’s pale, drawn face. He stopped breathing.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had taken hold, whatever had seized Valgard released him again. He breathed out slowly and looked at his hand, clamped on Ulfar’s wrist. Comprehension seemed to dawn and he loosened his grip, stared down at his hand as if it was foreign to him.

  ‘Are you … are you well?’ Ulfar ventured cautiously. Valgard looked up at him and Ulfar caught his breath. For a fleeting moment hatred flashed in the red-rimmed, moist eyes of the pale, thin man. Pure, venomous, murderous hatred.

  Then gratitude slid over Valgard’s face like a well-worn mask, and the healer looked wearily back at him. ‘Well … I have never been particularly well. But I am not dying.’ He affected a smile. ‘Thank you, my friend. Your care is most … touching.’ Suddenly the air in the longhouse felt stifling.

  ‘I owe you my life,’ Ulfar said hastily. ‘And it seems to me that in these times we should really care for each other.’

  Valgard smiled at him. ‘Absolutely, my friend. Take care of each other. Absolutely.’ The smile did not reach his eyes.

  Harald barged past without any regard to obstacles in his path. ‘Fucking greybeards,’ he swore under his breath as he passed Ulfar and stalked out into the night.

  *

  Oraekja swallowed hard and tried to squeeze himself deeper into the shadows. Those bastard scouts had been sniffing about town all night and it had taken all his guile to evade them. He wasn’t a coward – he’d take them all on – but she’d asked him to come back, so he would. He had to.