The Valhalla Saga Page 18

  The sky above the galloping riders disappeared behind a ceiling of green leaves as the forest enveloped them.

  The first arrow missed Jorn by inches. Shouts erupted and the shadows in the trees took form and purpose. Colours blurring around them, the four riders could do nothing but push on as arrows and spears whizzed past. Swivelling in the saddle, Runar fired back as best he could.

  Suddenly a wiry fighter broke free from the bushes up ahead and ran snarling towards Jorn’s horse. Two powerful steps, a well-timed leap and the fighter was airborne, flying at Jorn.

  Something blurred at terrifying speed into the Prince’s field of vision. The onrushing warrior’s head lost shape in mid-flight. Blood and brain matter sprayed the riders as the outlaw dropped dead and was trampled in an instant.

  Jorn looked back at a grinning Birkir, reeling in his axe by the leather strap fastened to his wrist.

  ‘You disobeyed me?’ Jorn yelled.

  ‘Sure did!’ Birkir shouted back.

  ‘Good!’ Jorn screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘For the Dales!’

  ‘FOR THE DALES!’ the three men echoed, thundering through the forest drunk on blood and danger.

  STENVIK

  ‘VALGARD! VALGARD, COME QUICK!’

  The healer turned over on his pallet, pale and drawn, and began cajoling his body up into an upright position, inch by painful inch. Valgard, do this. Valgard, do that. Why couldn’t these bloody peasants have the decency to get sick, break bones or die when he was on his feet?

  ‘COME ON!’ The voice was insistent and far too loud.

  ‘Yes, yes! I’m coming!’ Valgard shot back irritably.

  ‘HE’S WAKING UP! THE SWEDE IS WAKING UP!’

  *

  The broad steps were hewn into the sloping side of the wall and paved with flat stones. Ulfar picked his way up towards the battlements. Sleep had not come to him last night. Every time he’d thought he could rest, images of her had filled his head – her touch, her smile, the feel of the rough linen bandages around her broken fingers.

  She possessed him. She owned his every thought, and it felt delicious. Ulfar let his mind wander as he counted the steps. Faces of nameless, shapeless girls in long-forgotten ports floated into view and were summarily dismissed. They meant nothing to him now. He felt embarrassed about his womanizing, but then he reasoned that those girls had fallen for someone else. They’d fallen for a charming boy and nothing more. Someone who would do anything, say anything, use anything just to weasel his way into their affections. Just to win. That boy was gone, he thought proudly. Now he was a man, and somewhere deep inside Ulfar knew that it was how it had to be. He would have to be honest and steadfast. He could not – would not – toy with Lilia’s emotions.

  His head spun. When he reached the top of the steps his stomach lurched as well. It had looked like an easy climb from the bottom, but the way down was much longer. He was struck by the sheer size of the battlements.

  On top of the massive wall Sigurd’s men had formed a wide, shallow ditch, paved with planks. It was broad enough for three men to stand side by side and deep enough to cover a fighter’s lower half from attackers coming over. Set in the planks on either side of each gateway were what looked like a pair of battered old shields. Ulfar ran his hand absent-mindedly over the grass on the outer wall as he walked. Suddenly he scraped it on something sharp and jerked it back.

  When he saw what it was, he whistled softly.

  Set in the outer walls, invisible from below and covered by only a thin layer of turf, were murderous, three-inch-thick sharpened wooden spikes, facing outwards. He’d found the tip of one of them with his palm. Anyone scaling the wall from the outside would stand a decent chance of getting a nasty surprise if they put any sort of weight on what seemed like solid earth at the top.

  He took in the near-perfect circle of the wall, with the town beneath him. Then he walked along it to the east, briefly noting some men with shovels on the road to the old town. Some of the Westerdrake raiders manned the gates, most looking towards the woods. Suddenly the forest seemed dark and forbidding, teeming with unseen outlaws. Some of the watchmen traded nods with Ulfar as he passed. A gentle autumn wind caressed him as he finished his circle and the smells of the sea drifted in. A dull weariness crept up on the young man and he perched on the inner wall over the south gateway, looking out to sea.

  The raw beauty of the land overwhelmed him.

  On his right the shady forest loomed, ready to claim back farmland and buildings at the first sign of human surrender. Towering trees gave way to fields, squares of colour in stark contrast to the soft lines of the forest. The eye led on up the curve of the hill they called Huginshoyde, coloured in shades of grass, rocks and moss. He could still see some carts on the western road, lumbering away to another haven of perceived safety. Muninsfjell rose on the other side of the road, commanding and strong, and collapsed into the sea, an endless expanse of blue with a single thin black stripe of an island in the distance.

  Ulfar looked down and swallowed hard as the emotions of days past came back with a vengeance. Fear. Anger. Love. Fighting back tears, he mouthed a silent prayer to Odin for Geiri’s life. The man was his cousin in name only. In Ulfar’s mind they were brothers. As he looked up again and wiped his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeve, he blinked. The haze made the island seem to move.

  Looking around, he saw two large men manning the guard posts above the western gate. One of them sat on the back wall; the other stood and looked down at Sigurd’s group working by the harbour. A couple of strides later Ulfar was within speaking distance. The guards eyed him warily as he spoke.

  ‘Well met.’ The sitting guard, a solidly built young man with a broken nose, nodded noncommittally. The other one turned towards Ulfar. Tall and long-limbed, his black hair made a limp and greasy frame around a birthmark that covered half of his face. The look in his eyes gave Ulfar the sense that he was not necessarily invited to come any closer. He bit his tongue and forced an open smile. ‘I’m just wondering,’ he continued, ‘what is the name of that island out there?’ He pointed towards the black stripe on the horizon.

  As the question penetrated, confusion spread slowly over the guards’ faces.

  ‘What island? There’s nothing there but sea,’ the broken-nosed one spat. ‘What are you talking about, boy?’

  ‘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.

  ‘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.’