Blood Will Follow Page 2

  “Very well,” King Olav interrupted. “What’s in the sack?”

  The old farmer shuddered, swallowed twice, and drew a deep breath. Then he grabbed the bottom corners of the sack and tipped its contents out onto the floor.

  Two rag piles landed with a thud.

  “Oh, the—,” Finn muttered before he bit his lip.

  Jorn stared dumbly at the rags. “Is that . . . his—?” The messenger’s left hand had been cut off, as had his right foot. The farmer shook the sack. Another two bundles tumbled out and clattered onto the floor.

  “The men said . . . they said Hakon Jarl says you can come up to Trondheim and collect the rest any time you want.”

  Like Jorn and Finn, Valgard held his breath. The tense silence was broken when King Olav smashed a mailed fist on the armrest of the high chair. “Why won’t he listen?” he growled. “I bring peace. I bring prosperity. I bring a better life for him and his stinking herd of miserable sheep!”

  “The northern lords haven never been famous for caring much about their flock, my King,” Jorn said. “Hakon Jarl has always been a hard master. I don’t think he would like to be ruled by anyone else.” After a brief pause, he added, “It is a shame that he doesn’t understand what is best for him and his people. We’ll show him who rules next summer. Or next spring, even. Before he expects it.”

  “I’ll make him understand,” King Olav snarled. “I can’t run the country while I wait for him to assemble an army.”

  Valgard’s face felt hot, and his heart hammered in his chest. The chance was here, right now. He cleared his throat. “Then why wait for spring?”

  He barely managed to stand his ground when King Olav turned toward him. “What do you mean?” Fury was burning in the king’s eyes.

  “Hakon is a savage. We all know it. He has been ruling the north for longer than I can remember, and he is by all accounts a strong chieftain.”

  Jorn frowned. “Why are you telling us this? We know—”

  “But where do you fit into Hakon’s world, your Majesty? What are you to him?” Valgard continued, addressing the king and ignoring the dirty look from Jorn. “An upstart? One of many challengers? Someone to be squashed? Or someone to be feared?”

  “More than five thousand men follow me. And the word of Christ,” King Olav said.

  “And why do you think he had your messenger killed?” Valgard said. The longhouse was suddenly very silent. “You knew he wouldn’t step aside. He certainly knows it. He also knows that autumn is here and winter is on its way. So he gambles. He decides to send a statement of his strength, to taunt you and eliminate the one man who could have told you what his forces are really like. While you stew down here, he gathers strength. Word will get around that he defied you; when winter clears, his stinking herd of miserable sheep may have grown significantly.”

  King Olav watched Valgard intently. “So—?”

  “Take it. Take his challenge—but take it now.”

  Jorn nearly jumped out of his seat. “That’s foolish! You could never—”

  “Stop.” King Olav’s calm voice cut Jorn off. “Listen. You should listen more.” The Prince of the Dales slumped back in his seat, and the king sat in silence for a little while. When he spoke again, he sounded almost curious. “Go north in autumn, you say.” His words were directed to Valgard, but he looked to the sky. “I will . . . think about this. Leave us.”

  Valgard followed Finn toward the door. The look on Jorn’s face as they left was not lost on him.

  “A-a-and then what?” Runar said.

  “He just sat there. Didn’t say a word. Then he got up and went over to his little prayer table with the Bible, knelt down, and started mumbling. He kept looking up at the roof. After a while I just left. I don’t think he noticed,” Jorn snapped, whittling at a stick.

  “Th-this does not sound good,” Runar said. He paced in the hut they’d been forced to share. Five thousand men were squeezed together in and around Stenvik, growing more hungry and restless by the day. “But we n-need to th-think about this. There may be opportunities.” Outside, someone saluted as they passed by but got no reply.

  “But when? When do we do something? Anything?” The knife bit into the stick and sent wood chips flying into a growing pile at Jorn’s feet. “I’m sick and tired of playing nice. Poisoning the food didn’t work, and—”

  “W-w-wrong,” Runar stammered. “Poisoning the food worked just f-f-f-fine. Little f-food for them-m, n-n-n—” Runar took several deep breaths to get the words out. “No b-blame for us,” he added, smiling. “A-and we m-move when the moment comes. You’ll know,” he added. “Y-you’ll know.”

  “This doesn’t feel very heroic,” Jorn grumbled. “I’m not doing anything. The men will not think I’m doing—”

  “Th-th-that’s good, th-th-though. Because right now, K-King Olav is making a m-mistake. Or at least he’s thinking about it.”

  Jorn sighed and rose. The house they’d been given was wooden, well made but simple, with only a few trophies mounted on the walls. They’d cleared out the dresses and a strange collection of leather bottles and had found a chest under the bed containing an impressive assortment of blades, axes, and mean-looking spearheads—killing tools. They had kept these for themselves.

  “You forgot that there’s also less food for us,” he grumbled.

  Runar shrugged. “That’s no problem. You were s-s-starting to get fat anyway.” He grinned. “Now all w-we need to do is w-wait until he decides how to m-mess this up.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Who’s there?” Jorn asked.

  “The king requests your presence,” a boy’s voice piped up. “Wall. Now. Both of you,” he added.

  Runar smiled again, winked at Jorn, and motioned toward the door.

  They found King Olav standing above the north gate, looking out. In front of him, Stenvik Forest was a wall of red, yellow, and brown, with only occasional dabs of green.

  “I have sought guidance on the matter. We will send a delegation to Hakon Jarl.”

  “A delegation, my Lord?” said Jorn. “But Hakon will—”

  King Olav turned and looked at them. His smile was cold. “Jorn, you are a loyal servant, and Christ commends you for your work. But you speak too much and too quickly. Like I said: listen more. We are going north to talk to the jarl. Our delegation will number three thousand men.”

  Jorn took a few breaths to compose himself and digest the information. “As you wish, your Majesty. Who do you want with you, and who are you leaving behind?”

  “I will take you both with me. Finn will stay behind, command in Stenvik, and speak with my authority.” King Olav turned again, and Jorn risked a quick look at Runar. He got a grin and a wink in return.

  “Very good,” Jorn hazarded. “Which men will you take?”

  “I want at least eight hundred archers, eight hundred foot, pike, and as much experienced horse as we can carry. The rest is at your discretion. You’ve got a head for this.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” Jorn replied.

  “That is all.”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you,” Jorn said. Runar was already moving toward the stairs.

  When they reached the ground, Runar turned toward him. His eyes positively sparkled. “W-we n-n-n-need to talk!” he stuttered.

  Jorn simply gestured toward the hut.

  Once they’d closed the door, Runar bounded around the cabin. “Perfect. Perfect!” he exclaimed. “You’ve already got the men from the Dales on your side. I’ve t-talked to some of the boys from the southeast—some of them could be swayed. Skeggi, B-b-botolf, and his brother Ingimar might all cross over, and I think that would make up a good four hundred at the least. Now all we n-n-need to do is get them on the right boats. Put K-king Olav in a boat with us, thirty of our men, boat gets lost, and the king finally gets to meet his precious m-m-maker.” Runar grinned from ear to ear.

  Jorn frowned. “Keep your voice down. I don’t like this.
I don’t like it at all. It sounds stupid to me, and King Olav isn’t stupid.”

  “Even s-smart people make mistakes,” Runar said, still grinning. “Sometimes they don’t know they’re m-making them until it’s too late.”

  Valgard shuddered and pressed harder into the chair. It was starting to feel like King Olav’s longhouse would never be warm. They’d been in the middle of converting another raider to the good side when the boy had come to summon them. The man had not been . . . cooperative. Yet another soul which would not be joining Christ in heaven. He couldn’t help but think that the way this was going, the other side would be having one bastard of a war party.

  King Olav gestured for them to approach. “I have consulted with higher powers. You were right yesterday, Valgard. We should strike, and strike now. Waiting is the wrong thing to do. So we’ll take three thousand men up north. Finn, you will stay behind and control this town in my stead. Valgard, you will stay with him to negotiate with the men of Stenvik. You’re one of them; they will trust you.”

  Valgard had to fight to keep the panic off his face. He hadn’t been able to go back to his hut after yesterday’s meeting. Instead he’d walked the town, treading paths he’d stopped walking since the battle, allowing his mind to wander and listening to the sounds of the town, the voices in the huts. He’d almost been able to taste it; in his mind he had been on his way to the mysterious north to seek the source of the magic. To find the power. And now it was all being taken away. He had to think of something, fast. “Erm, your Majesty, I am not sure they’ll trust me too much. They will not forgive me for abandoning the old gods.”

  “Do you fear them?” The king looked mildly curious.

  “I am not a warrior,” Valgard said. “I have lived in this town all my life, endured their taunts—they hated me because I couldn’t fight, they despised me because I knew things they didn’t, and now they fear me because I believe in the one true God. I do not doubt that if you were to leave me here, some of them might seize the opportunity to do me harm.”

  “Finn will be with you, as my voice. I’ve known and believed among the savages, and with Finn by my side no harm has yet befallen me. You will be his adviser. He will be acting chieftain of Stenvik.”

  Finn coughed, swallowed, and coughed again. “If . . . if that is your wish, your Majesty—”

  “It is. I can trust you, Finn, and Valgard can make sure the influence of Sigurd and Sven does not confuse the men. Now go—there is much that needs to be done.”

  There is indeed, Valgard thought as he walked out. There is indeed.

  “What do you want?” The guard posted outside Sigurd and Sven’s house was big, ugly, and determined. Valgard thought he’d probably been put in front of their cabin because he’d be very hard to move out of the way. A large, handmade crucifix hung on a cord around the big oaf’s neck.

  Valgard made the sign of the cross and bowed his head. “Glory to God, amen.” The guard mumbled something indistinct in return. “I am here to check on the health of our . . . guests.” The guard stared dully at him and did not move a hair’s breadth. “Finn said I should look them over.” Still no movement. “If they were to fall ill, King Olav would get very angry.”

  The guard inched away from the door.

  “Thank you,” Valgard said. The guard ignored him and stared straight ahead. The door was reinforced; the bar across it was at least half Valgard’s weight. After struggling with it for a while, Valgard managed to shift the bar just enough to send it crashing to the ground. The guard spared him a contemptuous glance but did not move a finger. Biting back a curse, Valgard sent him a smile instead and opened the door as far as he could.

  The inside of the hut was dark and dusty. Sigurd sat with his back against the far wall; Sven was getting to his feet. He had been allowed a pouch of herbs to treat his wounds, but he looked naked without a blade. Valgard stepped toward his foster father and helped him up. He glanced toward Sigurd; Sven shook his head.

  “I’m trying,” Valgard muttered under his breath, “but there’s no reasoning with the king. He’s out of his mind. Jesus this, Jesus that.”

  “Could you get us some weapons? We’d happily—”

  Valgard grabbed the old man’s wrist with strength he didn’t know he had. “No,” he hissed. The look of surprise on Sven’s face was rewarding. “You’re not cutting your way out of this. There are five thousand men out there.”

  “We’ve seen worse,” Sven said.

  Valgard released his grip. “I know, Father. I’ve heard the stories. But I think patience is the best way forward now. Just . . . allow things to happen. Give me a couple more days. I’ve talked to the men. They’re behind you. We just need to find the right moment.” He glanced toward the door and the guard outside it. “I’m not supposed to give you this. King Olav wants to control what you eat so he can keep you weak.” Valgard reached into the folds of his tunic, produced a leather bottle, and handed it to Sven. “For both of you.”

  “Thank you, son,” Sven said. His expression was difficult to read.

  “You’re welcome, Father,” Valgard replied. The breath caught in his throat. “I must go—I have things to do. His Majesty doesn’t like to wait.”

  Sven glanced toward Sigurd, and for the first time since Valgard stepped through the door he saw a twinkle in the old rogue’s eye. “Tell me about it,” he muttered.

  Valgard’s smile lasted until he’d turned his back. When he left the hut, the guard was waiting, holding the bar.

  King Olav sat down in the high chair, then stood up again. Unable to find a comfortable position, he continued walking around the longhouse and touching the silver cross hanging around his neck. “How many ships do we have?”

  “Sixty,” Jorn said. “Sixty ready to sail, needing only minimal repairs.”

  “Sixty. How many benches?”

  “Mostly twenty-seaters, up to thirty-six.”

  “And have you decided who we’re taking?”

  “We’ve drawn up a list,” Jorn said, gesturing to Runar.

  “Very good,” King Olav said. “What of the grain stores?”

  Runar consulted a slate of wood with carved notches. “W-we have th-thirty sacks of grain left, forty head of s-smoked lamb . . . Th-they managed to treat what Sigurd had slaughtered and s-save most of it . . . herbs for soup, sixty sacks of turnip—”

  “Take what you think you’ll need,” King Olav said. “You’ve proved valuable, Runar. I do not doubt that you provide a lot of ideas for Jorn. We start the fitting tomorrow morning. We sail as soon as we can.”

  “Th-thank you, your M-m-mah—”

  A dismissive wave of King Olav’s hand stopped Runar in his tracks. “That’s enough. Go. Do what you need to. I have things to do.”

  Jorn and Runar rose quietly and left the longhouse. When they’d gone, King Olav walked over to the makeshift altar and knelt.

  “Father,” he muttered, “Father, tell me that this is right. I will risk the deaths of hundreds of my men, Norse warriors who have learned to love you and Jesus Christ. Give me some sign that you value your servant.”

  A stillness filled the longhouse. Outside, the autumn light faded as afternoon turned to evening. The door to the longhouse opened slowly, and Finn entered with Valgard close behind. After a short while, the big warrior cleared his throat.

  King Olav rose without a word. He moved to the dais and motioned for them to approach.

  “I’m glad you are here, Finn. We need to talk about your reign as chieftain of Stenvik.” He smiled. “No need to look so worried, my friend. It will all work very well. Valgard will counsel you and make sure you don’t step on any toes.”

  Valgard cleared his throat. “If I may, your Majesty. There is one thing I must mention to you. It is very important. I think that you should be careful—”

  One of King Olav’s guards burst in. “My King! My King!”

  “You will salute!” Finn shouted. “What do you want?”

  “I
t’s . . . it’s Sven and Sigurd! The guard just told me to come fetch you!”

  “What?” the king snapped.

  “They’re not breathing!”

  NEAR BYGLAND, WEST NORWAY

  OCTOBER, AD 996

  The morning sunlight filtered through the yellowing canopy. Leaves crisp with night-frost crunched under Audun’s feet. He had no idea what this wood was called—it was somewhere south, toward the sea. That was enough.

  He needed to get away: away from this country, away from people, away from anyone who knew what happened in Stenvik.

  Anywhere would do.

  The hill was steep but not impossible to climb. He picked his way over broken branches, minding his step around treacherous mossy stones. The forest was slower going, but it was better than the roads. He hadn’t yet seen any of King Olav’s men and wanted it to stay that way.

  He thought of Stenvik again.

  The hot, metallic air in the forge.

  The sounds of weapons clashing, men screaming, skulls crushing.

  The stench of the blood.

  Audun slapped his arm, hard.

  “Stop,” he croaked. His throat hurt with the strange effort of speaking. He swallowed and tried again. “Stop it,” he tried.

  Better.

  Audun hadn’t said anything in a while. Nothing to say, anyway, and no one to say it to. Ulfar had walked off east; he’d decided not to follow—maybe it had been the right thing to do, maybe not. He spat and cleared his throat. “So where should I go, then?” he asked the trees. “South?” Nobody answered. “Why not.” There was something in his voice that sounded strange. An edge. “Only graybeards and halfwits speak to themselves anyway,” he snarled as he crested the hill.

  On the way down, his feet slipped, and he had to grab a branch to steady himself. He regained his balance, stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and scratched at his chest through the hole in the tunic. “Oh, for f—” Audun jerked his hand away as if he’d touched fire. Since Stenvik . . . since a couple of days after Stenvik, when he’d recovered fully, he’d tried to stop scratching the spot where—