The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Read online

  ‘Look.’ Ulfar turned slowly and looked straight at the thin black line, now ever so slightly thicker.

  ‘There’s never been no island there,’ the standing guard grunted.

  ‘If so, then I think one of you might want to go get Sigurd.’

  The tall, black-haired man sneered. ‘You’re not giving us orders, you whelp. Just because you got to listen in at the longhouse doesn’t mean—’

  ‘NOW.’ The authority in Ulfar’s voice was the sum of all the commands he’d heard from his father, his grandfather and all his uncles, leaders of men from way before his time. It was a conduit to home, to what was expected of him. To the man he was supposed to be and become. Ulfar shivered with disgust, but the effect was immediate. The guards snapped to attention and the barrel-chested one scurried fast down the western gate steps. The lanky man with the birthmark eyed Ulfar with suspicion and malice.

  Without thinking, he stared back. Do it, he begged silently. Do it. Come on. Make the first move.

  The tall raider made a show of curling his lip in distaste and looking away.

  Ulfar exhaled. He was not a brawler by any stretch, but he’d been ready to get into a fight right there and then, a fight he would probably have lost. A numbing wave of fatigue washed over him, followed by a rumbling stomach and cold sweat as his blood came back down. He could really use a square meal and a good half-day’s sleep right about now.

  ‘RIDERS AT THE EAST GATE! AND OUTLAWS!’

  Ulfar and the black-haired guard were up and running side by side before their counterparts on the other side had finished the sentence. Looking to the east they could see four men riding for dear life, chased by a gaggle of ragged outlaws.

  Sleep would have to wait.

  *

  Harald strode towards the horsemen. He was in no mood for new things. Not now. ‘Dismount,’ he snapped.

  It had been touch and go on the forest path, but the four riders had outrun the outlaws on open ground. After the narrow escape they’d been admitted through the eastern gateway. Now they looked down on him from their lathered horses, grinning and in no particular hurry to follow orders. Harald hated them on sight. The fat one especially.

  ‘I said dismount.’

  The slim, well groomed one in front started to speak, but Harald interrupted him. ‘No. Shut up. You and your men are dismounting. Right now. Or I’m cutting the legs from under your horses.’

  Fifteen raiders of the Westerdrake moved calmly to form a circle around the riders. Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes. ‘Off,’ he commanded. The three others obeyed at once. At least he had his dogs on a leash, Harald thought.

  ‘Take care of the horses,’ he barked to two of the guardsmen. Then he turned to the four riders. ‘You – follow me.’ He set a course for the longhouse. The four men trailed after him, guarded by the raiders. When they got to the longhouse, Harald ushered them in.

  Quiet and effective, the raiders herded the four men onto the middle of the floor and formed a circle. The captives turned back to back instinctively. Harald saw them whisper among themselves.

  ‘Weapons.’

  He saw the four men reluctantly begin to disarm. A well-formed recurve bow from the skinny runt. Sword and knife from the leader. Daggers from the fat one – no surprise there. A mean-looking axe. He looked at the man who had put it down. Big, looked like a brawler.

  All in all, an interesting group.

  Harald gathered up the weapons and let his mind wander as he walked slowly towards the dais. Sometimes it was worthwhile to give people some time to consider their situation. It could soften them up a little bit. And he’d not had much rest recently. He might as well breathe while those four considered their situation. If only Freya and Thor were here, and Loki, like in that dream. It hadn’t felt like a dream, though. It had felt real. A faint echo of a chant about glory drifted into his mind from somewhere, along with the smell of morning in a forest among giant pine trees.

  ‘If I may just introduce us—’

  Harald was jolted out of his trance and back into the longhouse, where he found himself facing the high seat on the dais. He lost his hold on the weapons, which clattered noisily onto the floor. A brief jolt of fear coursed through him, as if he had been caught somewhere he shouldn’t. Within moments the fear turned to anger. With great effort he managed what he hoped looked like a dismissive gesture. ‘Shut up,’ he growled with his back turned towards the prisoners. And with that, menace bubbled to the surface and years of experience reminded him what needed to be done.

  Harald turned and started walking towards the four captives. Taking his time, he allowed them to take a good look at him. He let them see him for what he was, and wore the years of hard sailing, battle, raiding and murder with pride. It was only fair to give them the chance to assess whether they really wanted him to catch them lying.

  He saw the runt nudge the leader, saw the leader speak out of the corner of his mouth. Inside, Harald smiled. They were rattled all right. He could see their leader thinking, could see him work up the courage before he spoke again.

  ‘My name is Jorn and I am but a humble emissary for our holy King Olav Tryggvason, sent to tell you of his victories and negotiate practical matters before the army arrives. His highness would like to extend his eternal gratitude for the graciousness shown by the people of Stenvik, and especially by you. You are an honourable man, a wise chieftain and a worthy leader of men. The king holds you in high regard, Sigurd Aegisson.’

  Frost flowed through Harald’s veins and stars burst in his eyes. He had to fight the urge to charge the four, bite, kick, tear their throats apart. Harald took a deep breath, forced down the swell of feeling and fixed the leader with his eyes.

  ‘What. Did you. Say?’

  The words escaped through gritted teeth. Fists clenched, forearms vibrated. He barely registered the shift in the middle of the circle as the little runt squeezed past his leader.

  ‘I’m-m-m s-so-so-sorry, m-most f-feared warrior. It is m-m-m-my fault.’ The words tumbled out of him almost haphazardly, an idiot’s smile wobbling on his stupid face. ‘It was I whuh-whu-who misinformed our leader here. Y-you are n-n-not Sigurd Aegisson at all. I r-r-realize now. S-Sigurd is … old. Is he not?’

  A sound escaped Harald’s lips, closer to a bark than a laugh. Faced with the ludicrous little man, tension drained out of him. ‘Well – I am not Sigurd,’ he fired back. ‘My name is Harald. You’ll do well to remember that. And you should know better than to listen to idiots,’ he directed at Jorn.

  ‘So should a lot of people,’ Sigurd’s voice snapped from the doorway, and something lurched inside Harald. A vivid and snarling vision flitted in front of his eyes, of him wading into the middle of the circle, grabbing the yappy little messenger and smashing his face in. Standing alone in a room full of corpses. Sitting on the dais, resting his feet on Sigurd’s severed head. He could smell the blood, taste it, feel it – but he held on. Just.

  Men started streaming in through the door. Sigurd, Thorvald and Sven headed straight for the dais. A large number of raiders of the Westerdrake entered. Harald hadn’t seen this many people in the longhouse since before the last raid.

  Sigurd caught his arm in a steely grip and half-dragged him towards the dais. ‘Are these the riders? Who are they, and why are they here?’ he hissed under his breath.

  ‘They escaped the outlaws on a dead run through the forest. The dark-haired one says they’re messengers from King Olav.’

  Anger flashed on Sigurd’s face and he shot a glance at the newcomers. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he muttered, and strode off into the circle. Two short commands and the raiders left to take their seats up against the wall. A single sentence to the dark-haired leader of the riders and the four men went off to the corner, out of the way, where they waited patiently.

  Sigurd made his way back up to the dais, sidestepped the pile of weapons and turned around to face the assembled group. The silence was absolute.

&nbs
p; ‘Right. No more waiting. Skargrim is here. And he’s brought some friends.’

  *

  So the Swede was not dying after all.

  Valgard frowned as he picked his way to the animal pens. They’d have fresh water, or near as, in barrels there. He would have to rob Stenvik’s horses of a little bit of drink to aid their noble guest. The thought of it sent the bile surging through Valgard’s stomach. Noble guests. Bloody peacock boys playing chieftain, more like. No doubt that boy Ulfar would tell his friend about the fit he’d seen. How the healer was really a cripple. No doubt they’d share a giggle, shame each other for laughing and then smirk. A sneer crept across Valgard’s face as he picked his way through Stenvik. They were just too perfect, weren’t they? Too damn perfect. Healthy, strong and lucky with women. Those boys had perfect lives because they’d been fortunate enough to be born from the right people in the right place.

  Still. Luck was a coin, and every coin had two sides.

  Valgard continued his journey, the sneer fading into a faint smile.

  *

  ‘Sixty ships.’

  The silence in the longhouse was palpable.

  ‘That’s what Orn says,’ Thorvald replied. ‘And I have no reason to doubt him – the boy bears his name proudly and sees farther than anyone here.’

  ‘Good.’ Sigurd nodded slowly.

  Thorvald knotted his brow and looked back at his leader. ‘But … I don’t understand. Sixty ships. That could be between eighteen hundred and two thousand men. We’ve only got the five hundred raiders and another seven hundred either too old or too young, not counting the women.’

  ‘Maybe so, Thorvald – but now we have something we’ve needed for a while. Knowledge. We finally know our enemy, we know who he is and where he is coming from.’

  Ulfar looked around. The men did not appear to share Sigurd’s idea of good fortune. The chieftain seemed to notice this as well, because he rose and looked down at the assembled raiders.

  ‘What we also have – is Stenvik. We all know the work that went into the walls. We built them with our bare hands when we’d sacked so many southern towns that we needed the walls to keep our own gold safe! And what’s more – there is not a stone in our walls that isn’t where it’s meant to be. That is why Skargrim has brought the people he’s brought. He wouldn’t dare try to take us on with only his own crew. That is why he sent in rats to poison our well. Because he knew that if we had water we could defend Stenvik until we got bored, fat and old. He is coming in hard, hoping to scare us, hoping to unsettle us and make us think we’re doomed. And I believe Sven – I believe he’s somehow gathered the outlaws out of every cave and mountain hole in the west to prowl our forest and make us believe that we’re hemmed in, surrounded and trapped, and frighten us into giving up. He’s probably promised them gold, meat and women. But did you see the charge they made? Did you see our men slaughtered? Did you see our fates sealed? I did not! What I saw was Stenvik steel!’ A cheer went up from the assembly. ‘I saw enemies of my favourite kind – dead ones!’ Another cheer. ‘I saw fierce hard outlaws, killers in the shadows, the stuff of children’s nightmares – run away from the raiders of the Westerdrake!’ Roars of approval. Sigurd gave the men their time to shout, and then allowed the noise to die down.

  ‘So let him come,’ he continued softly when the men had gone quiet. ‘Let him. Let him surround our town, shout at the wall, offer us surrender, call us cowards for hiding. Let him send his men to scale the walls – and let them die trying.’ All around Ulfar cold smiles and determination showed in weathered faces.

  Sigurd looked around, catching each and every man’s eye. Then he turned to Harald and Thorvald, speaking softly to both. Facing the raiders again, he spoke up, this time calmly. ‘These are my orders. You are to relay them to your brothers, your fathers and your sons. When you leave this longhouse you go to war. Take food and drink when you can. You may eat in Valhalla when you’re dead, but until then you eat your fill here. I will not have my men hungry or thirsty. Because when we fight, we fight for our life. We fight for our fallen dead, our sons and unborn daughters. We fight for our home.’ He held his men’s attention for half a breath more, then finished. ‘Harald and Thorvald have orders for you. Go with them.’

  Sigurd’s two generals rose as one, and with them the assembled raiders of the Westerdrake.

  When they’d left, Sigurd returned to his chair. Once seated, he leaned back, crossed his arms and touched his chin. His eyes passed Ulfar briefly and landed on the group of four men standing silently in the corner. He beckoned them casually towards him. ‘You. Approach.’

  The four men moved into the centre of the longhouse.

  ‘Explain yourselves.’

  A young man with dark hair, delicate features and a runner’s build stepped forward. He bowed deep.

  ‘Sigurd Aegisson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Jorn of the Dales. I am a forerunner of King Olav Tryggvason’s army, sent here to thank you in the name of God for—’

  ‘Yes, yes. Prove it.’

  Jorn seemed flustered. ‘I— but … I— what?’

  ‘Prove it. Prove it to me – right now – or I cut you down with your own weapons to save me time in cleaning mine.’ There was no posturing, only weariness in Sigurd’s voice. The large man behind Jorn looked at the greying chieftain with contempt. Sigurd smiled back. ‘Just prove it.’

  Frowning at a voice behind him, Jorn shook his head. Then something seemed to dawn on the man. He reached quickly inside his shirt and pulled out a shimmering chain.

  ‘This is a chain with a cross given to me by King Olav, proving that I am his and our Lord God’s messenger.’ He knelt and offered the cross up to Sigurd.

  From his seat on the dais, Stenvik’s leader sighed. ‘I don’t know if you heard what just went on here. Skargrim is on his way, we have some friends in the forest that you’ve met, and the last two front-runner guests we had just poisoned our well. So as it stands, when new and interesting strangers show up at our gate waving some junk and pretending to be King Olav’s messengers I am more inclined to carve them up, feed them to the crows and keep their baubles than believe them. We’ll just have to wait a little.’

  Ulfar watched the dark-haired man stare in desperation at the chieftain who was now conferring with the ever-present Sven. The four men started talking heatedly among themselves, the fat one pointing at the cross, the big bruiser scowling and ready for a fight. Only the weedy one at the back kept quiet, and scanned the room. Ulfar turned his attention to the conversation on the dais.

  The door to the longhouse flew open. In stumbled a red-faced and overweight man wearing a brown robe.

  ‘Ah! Friar Johann. Thank you for joining us!’ Sigurd exclaimed from the dais.

  ‘I am most honoured to help you in any way, Sigurd Aegisson. However, next time you need me please send someone other than that brute Harald. He told me where you’d stick my crucifix if I didn’t run here!’ The friar’s face was flushed with indignity.

  Sigurd and Sven both stifled a laugh. ‘Now now, Friar,’ said Sven. ‘You know Harald. He doesn’t mean it.’ The friar harrumphed.

  ‘Well, not much,’ Sigurd added. ‘But we need your knowledge. These men claim to be messengers of his holiness King Olav. They have some kind of cross that proves it. Now I’ve seen a fair few Christian relics in my time’ – behind him, Sven grinned an old wolf’s smile – ‘but I want your confirmation that it is the real thing.’

  Friar Johann gazed at the four men in the middle of the floor. ‘At last! My prayers have been heard! Christians, come to deliver us!’

  Ulfar saw the big bruiser roll his eyes. He also saw their leader subtly kicking the big man’s shin. As if nothing had happened, Jorn turned to the friar. ‘Go with God, father. I would implore you to look upon this cross and verify it for us. It was given to me by King Olav, who said I was to be his voice, his ears and eyes in Stenvik, to prepare for the coming of his heavenl
y army.’

  The friar’s face lit up. ‘This I can do, my son. Show me.’ Jorn dutifully handed him the chain. The friar’s face changed at once. Flustered anger, red-faced indignity and anguish gave way to serenity and confidence.

  He turned towards Sigurd.

  ‘These men are who they say they are, Sigurd. This cross bears the inscription of King Olav and says in Latin that he who wears it walks with God.’

  Sigurd inhaled then exhaled slowly. ‘That’s … great. So, Jorn of the Dales. Welcome to our humble town. Forgive the reception, but these are rather’ – Sigurd rose from his seat and interrupted Jorn, who was about to speak – ‘exceptional times,’ he continued in a louder voice. ‘So.’ Walking quickly towards the four, he swept them with him out of the longhouse. ‘If you want to be the King’s ears, listen.’

  As the four riders struggled to keep up with Sigurd storming ahead, the sounds of metal on metal could be heard all through Stenvik. The chieftain strode towards the west gateway. ‘Do you hear, Jorn? Those are my raiders, my old men and my children sharpening their knives, steeling their swords, honing their spears.’ A tortured bleating cut through the sound of stone on metal. ‘Oh, and slaughtering all our livestock. Every single animal. We’ll eat well in the next two days.’ They reached the steps up to the wall, which Sigurd mounted as if they were flat. Jorn’s men had to jog to keep up. ‘Now I noticed that you didn’t seem to think much of it when I said Skargrim was on his way. I understand that you will be the King’s mouth, but I bid you hold your tongue—’ Sigurd reached the top of the wall and took his bearings. When Jorn caught up Sigurd fixed him with an intense look. ‘Until you’ve been the King’s eyes and seen this.’

  With that he turned and pointed out to sea.

  At a big, black line on the horizon.

  Sixty ships, headed for Stenvik.

  *

  Now that she had embraced the pain, Lilia found the confidence to venture out of the house more. At first she was afraid, as she’d always been. Afraid that he’d be watching her, that he’d somehow catch her even when she’d left him knocked out on Valgard’s mixture.