The Valhalla Saga Read online

  Slowly, the beast retreated back down into the dark waters, and Valgard came back from the lake in his mind to the workbench in his hut. He had to use the left hand to pry the right away from the edge, where white knuckles had grabbed hold and would not let go on their own.

  ‘Not now,’ he mumbled as cold sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Not now. Maybe later, but not now.’

  Shaking out the pain from his hands, he swallowed and composed himself, dried the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and turned his attention to the workbench.

  An array of jars, bowls and bags were arranged in a seemingly haphazard fashion about the surface, but there was a very particular system to it. His system. There had to be. You had to have access to the right things and in the right amounts, or the results would be … unfortunate. Spectacularly so in some cases, he mused. A healer that didn’t know his plants was no healer at all. At the time he had seized the idea of plant study just to get away from the other children and their relentless attacks, but he had to admit the old man had taught him well. He’d taught him all he knew about plants, in fact. This was why some of the plants on the table would have to be stored elsewhere, because if his mentor saw them there would be questions. Questions that Valgard had no interest in answering.

  He clambered down from his stool and shuffled over to the doorway, stinging pains in his back reminding him of how close that had been. Wincing, he peered outside. A quick look satisfied him that he would have his privacy for a little while longer. Moving back over to the workbench, he quickly collected the bowls and bags that he needed. The wooden figurine stared at him impassively. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped, and turned the figure so that it faced away from the workbench.

  He crawled under the bench, reached behind a bundle of wood and pulled out a small, intricately carved box. He made sure everything was in its place, felt for the plants, felt for the cool touch of metal, deposited the ingredients and returned the box to its hiding place. ‘Just in case,’ he muttered. ‘Just in case.’

  Straightening up again, he sat down at the workbench. His hands started working seemingly of their own accord, tidying and ordering as he had been taught to do.

  His brow furrowed in concentration as he gauged the situation. He knew full well what he wanted and how he was going to make it happen. He was going to make Harald the chieftain of Stenvik, whether the stinking brute liked it or not. Then he’d be Harald’s councillor and no one would ignore him. The foreigners were an interesting twist, though. Surely there must be some way of making that work in his favour. Speed things up a little.

  He frowned and wondered if he’d made the right move.

  There were many pieces on the board.

  *

  As his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, Ulfar’s brain scrambled to catch up.

  ‘Erm … thank you for the directions yesterday,’ he mumbled. Houses. He was in town somewhere, but he was not quite sure where. They were standing on a walkway between some sturdy wooden houses. Better than the ones outside the walls, anyway. He’d been staring at the ground, had rounded a corner and almost walked into her. Her curves led his eyes up a simple, light blue apron dress fastened with an elegant silver and black brooch, but now he could see nothing but eyes. Eyes that flickered between grey and blue, scrutinizing him, reading information out of every detail of his face.

  He felt the heat spreading on his cheeks and realized to his horror that he was blushing. Embarrassment and fury sent his insides churning and he felt a little weak in the knees. He looked back at her.

  She wore a crown of thick red hair, flowing in wild and unruly curls that seemed to leap and dance and have a life of their own, in stark contrast to her smooth and unblemished skin, the line of her jaw, her lips. Only her eyes seemed alive and seeking, the rest of her face could have been carved in marble. But the eyes looked at him and through him and he felt stripped of everything but the one thing he had to know.

  ‘What is your name?’ He blurted it out and wanted to kick himself. What is your name? What was he, twelve? What next? Run away and giggle? He was getting worse than Geiri, and he cursed himself inwardly for his own stupidity. Around them, Stenvik life eddied and swirled, taking little note of two young people talking.

  Ulfar saw nothing but her.

  He felt the ground slip away from him, so much so that he had to look down to make sure it was still there. Where were his words? Even her shoes were pretty, Bragi be damned. Her foot was pretty. The hem of her skirt was pretty. He felt as big as a field mouse, and made to turn away when a quiet voice broke the awkward silence.

  ‘Lilia.’

  His heart stopped for a beat, then restarted with a flush of blood to his whole body. Stars burst inside him, and her name rang out in his head. Lilia. He turned and looked up at her.

  An eternity passed.

  ‘Ulfar.’

  He dared not blink, and noticed that she didn’t either. But neither of them looked away.

  ‘I …’ he started. Completely unbidden, the words marched to his mouth. ‘I did not know they had such precious gems in Stenvik.’

  It happened in the blink of an eye. The first tear, the first tremble of the lip. Then she turned and ran.

  He wanted to give chase but his legs wouldn’t obey. He noted through the haze that she rubbed her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt as she ran away.

  He stood rooted to the spot for a long time afterwards, wondering what had just happened.

  RAUKVIN, EAST NORWAY

  Finn tasted blood as his head was knocked back. Two soldiers rushed to his aid and grabbed the arms of the farmer who had landed the lucky swing. Recovering, Finn threw a series of savage punches to the man’s face until he stopped struggling.

  The soldiers dropped him to the ground.

  Angered, Finn spat a glob of reddish spittle at the feet of the man and aimed a vicious kick at his ribs for good measure.

  King Olav’s soldiers were fighting all over Raukvin. ‘Bloody pig-headed farmers and valley clods,’ he thought. ‘I hope the next batch does as they’re told.’ They were overwhelming the small village easily enough, just like they’d ploughed through the rest of the east, but Finn found himself wishing they could have bypassed it. There was nothing here. Woven huts, mangy cows, stinking mud-rollers. There was nothing to be had, and they’d picked up too many recruits from various places as it was. He’d heard rumours of dissension already. The young King would have his work cut out controlling the army if he continued like this.

  A cheer went up to Finn’s left. In the middle of a dirt road four soldiers circled around a frightened girl. They shoved her back and forth between them, grabbing and tearing at her clothes. One of them had managed to get hold of her neckline and rip, exposing a breast. She tried to cover herself up but strong hands tore and pushed at her, grabbing and squeezing. Snarling, the soldiers circled. She looked about desperately for help, and her eyes met Finn’s.

  She pleaded wordlessly with him to make them stop.

  The tears made her eyes sparkle and shine like stars.

  Her mouth started moving, but no sound escaped her lips.

  Her full, young, beautiful lips.

  He wanted to move. He wanted to help her. He wanted her.

  But he couldn’t.

  He was stuck to the spot. His legs wouldn’t move.

  The hope in her eyes turned to despair, then resignation.

  And just as quickly as it had been cast, the spell was broken. One of the soldiers, a big, burly man with a crooked nose and a split lip, decided that he would no longer be denied his spoils of war and yanked her to him by the hair. A coarse hand squeezed her breast roughly, then pushed up under her skirt.

  She screamed then.

  Screamed and squirmed and kicked out at her attackers, trying to dislodge their clawing hands.

  Energized by her sudden reaction, the soldiers grinned at one another. One of them, a fat man with wobbling jowls, squeaked: ‘Hold her still, Birki
r!’ He brushed a strand of greasy hair from his face and fumbled excitedly with his trousers, pushing at his belly to get to his belt, eyes alight with anticipation.

  ‘Stop.’

  Suddenly King Olav was there, next to Finn.

  The two men that saw him ceased immediately. The fat man and the brute kept pawing at the girl, who struggled with renewed vigour. The large man with the split lip grabbed her hair and pulled hard. She screamed again.

  ‘Let her go.’

  One of the soldiers, a slender, dark-haired young man with an easy smile, stepped in front of the group. He was better dressed than the others and his eyes were alert. He held up his hand. The others stopped their groping, but the big man did not let go of his prize. The dark-haired soldier spoke.

  ‘My King, my name is Jorn, son of Ornulf Dale-Lord, and I am your humble servant. We joined your army two weeks ago when you swept through the valleys with this mighty host. The men are just taking their share of the glorious victory that you’ve wrought here with bravery and—’

  ‘No.’ King Olav did not take his eyes off the girl, who stared back at him, transfixed. ‘These are the old ways. We follow the word of the White Christ. You do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’

  Jorn looked incredulously at the King. ‘Do unto others … ?’

  King Olav turned to him. ‘You are not allowed to do anything you wouldn’t want them to do to you. No taking of women, no stealing, no unnecessary killing.’

  Jorn frowned.

  ‘My lord, I do not understand. We signed up because the army is big. It’s the biggest in a long time. Nothing will get in our way. And now you’re telling us that we can’t take their things, and the occasional stray cat that wanders onto our path?’

  ‘No, you cannot. You shall adhere to my word, the word of the White Christ, and do unto others as you would have others do unto you.’

  The man with the split lip grinned and rumbled, ‘So if I tell this bitch to fuck me, then I can fuck her? Sounds good to me!’

  The fat man next to him giggled.

  King Olav did not.

  Instead he turned to the girl’s captor, who stood his ground and flashed an impudent grin.

  Finn was petrified. He’d been in too many scraps with and against men like these, and he knew that they would kill before backing down.

  King Olav did not seem to realize this.

  Instead he fixed the brute with his gaze and said: ‘Let me repeat, my friend. The book of God tells us how it is.’ His voice became rhythmic, strong and soothing. ‘If a man hurts a woman, he shall be surely punished, according as the woman’s husband will lay upon him, and he shall pay as the judges determine.’

  The soldiers watched him warily. While reciting, the King had walked slowly up to the large man. Balanced and strong, he carried himself like a fighter. At the moment Finn reckoned that was the only thing keeping him alive. The King continued talking.

  ‘And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life.’ He gently removed the mesmerized man’s hand from around the girl and extricated her from his grasp. She ran away, clutching the front of her shift to her breast. King Olav never lost eye contact with the big brawler. The silence was electric as they squared off. ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, burning for burning, wound for wound.’

  None of the soldiers moved.

  King Olav continued: ‘Now go. Follow Finn. I need you to find me at least twenty men from this miserable place so we can keep moving.’

  In the stunned silence, Finn found his voice. ‘Move!’ he barked. ‘We’re going to round up some bleating peasants. Now!’ He turned and walked towards the centre of the village.

  Jorn turned. ‘Birkir, Havar, Runar. We’re moving.’ As one, the three men followed Jorn.

  When Finn looked over his shoulder King Olav was gone.

  AT SEA, SOUTH OF MOSTER

  The dragon’s eyes scanned the horizon.

  Fierce, gleaming, flint-tipped fangs caught the spray as it flew low over the waves. Intricate carvings slithered away from its jaws, flowed down along the prow of the Njordur’s Mercy and disappeared into the foaming sea. The menacing figurehead seemed to eat up what little moonlight there was.

  A figure crept up to it and stood to attention.

  ‘Is she awake?’ Skargrim stepped from the shadow of the figurehead. Faint moonlight caught on heavy gold rings woven into his thick grey beard. A bearskin cloak draped over massive shoulders almost covered three angry red scars on his neck.

  ‘No,’ the sailor replied. ‘She seems to be with the voices again.’

  ‘Good. Make sure she’s warm and that she has broth when she wakes. She’ll need her strength.’ The soldier turned and started moving towards the stern. The big captain watched him leave. Erik was nothing if not dependable. He’d been on the boat for the best part of a decade now. He had two sons back home and would probably soon be asking whether one of them could take his place. His brother had died on a raid in Friesland last year, and Erik had been subdued since.

  Odin had a time for them, one and all.

  Skargrim thought of the advance party. Ragnar had not wanted to go. He’d suggested that they should hit Stenvik at an hour like this, just before dawn. Go in quiet and strike while the people were sleeping, set the houses on fire and raze it like they’d done countless times to countless towns. They’d scale the wall in the dark, come down quiet and hit them hard.

  She had refused.

  She said the pole needed to be raised to tell the people of Stenvik that the old gods were angry, to tell them that they were on the wrong side. They needed to make absolutely sure that the men, women and children of Stenvik were scared, she said. Skargrim remembered arguing that they’d be just as scared if they were being killed while their houses burned – and then she’d looked at him.

  It was a mild night but Skargrim still shuddered.

  Those eyes.

  When she wanted something, she would fix him with those pale blue eyes and he would feel like he did when he was a boy getting ready to jump off the cliffs into the deep and chilly water for the first time, and something would lurch inside him. His limbs would go weak. And then the faintest echo of voices inside his head. Voices that went with cold, dark nights … Skargrim shook himself.

  How had it come to this?

  She’d just … appeared, one night last winter. Walked in from the cold wearing nothing but a shift, straight into Ormar’s long-house. His crew had been there with Ormar’s men, all of them drunk on strong, sour mead. A sizeable hoard had been brought back from across the ocean, and they’d been swapping heroic stories that grew bigger and more heroic with every retelling. And then she’d entered, wisps of fog swirling around her ankles, and the whole house full of hard-drinking men had gradually fallen silent. The dogs had slunk away. She’d stood in the doorway and said that an army was coming with a young king at its head. That the king brought a new god – one god to rule all, the White Christ. Ormar had roared with laughter and said that Thor the god of Thunder would wipe his arse with this White Christ.

  None of Skargrim’s men had laughed with him.

  She said that the old gods had visited her in a dream. She said they were not pleased, and that she would lead everybody in this room to victory over the young king and the new god because the old gods had shown her what she needed to do. She said she was Skuld, one of the Three.

  That got Ormar’s attention. He had laughed again, but this time at her. Straight to her face. Thinking back on it, Skargrim thought that showed how much Ormar knew about people. He and Ragnar had known from the moment she stepped in that she was fey. They’d both felt that other, older powers had walked with her. They’d kept their heads down, glancing only briefly in her direction. Ragnar told him later how he’d seen when her mouth started moving, whispering quietly.

  Ormar was neither so smart nor so humble.

  He looked her straight in the eye and started saying something about she was j
ust a deranged bitch and how she would be good for one thing and one thing only. He started saying he’d do her right there, on the table. And then he stopped, mid-sentence, and watched his own hand in surprise as it slowly reached for his dagger. Then he stabbed himself. Hard and fast. Stomach, chest, thighs, chest, throat, face. Blood blossomed on his clothes. His screams choked on it. They watched, horrified, as his life drained away before their eyes.

  The hand stopped moving only when he was dead.

  Skargrim remembered the cold, clammy silence in the long-house as Ormar’s corpse tumbled out of the high chair with a dull wet thud. How a hall full of hardened fighters, raiders and murderers had sat quiet as mice and tried not to be noticed as she picked her way daintily to Ormar’s seat at the head of the table. How she’d sat in it and looked as if it was made for her. How two of Ormar’s thralls – two of his own thralls! – had quietly lifted him up, carried him out of the house and fed him to the crows. A few moments later one of Ormar’s champions had stood up, stormed to the centre of the hall and challenged her for leadership. She’d looked at him, smiled and moved her hand in a gentle swaying motion. The hardened fighter’s eyes had opened wide, and suddenly he was struggling for balance. He started retching. Her hand slowly contracted into a fist. Ormar’s champion had vomited blood and collapsed on the floor, as dead as dead could be. Since then the men, the ships and the blades had been hers. No council, no ruling, no committee.

  No bloodstains on her shift.

  In a sense, maybe the strongest had taken over like it was supposed to happen. Maybe Ormar had been growing old and fat. He’d always been a stupid brute. But to die like that? There was little honour in it, that much was certain. It did improve the men’s loyalty, though – there had been no argument whatsoever. That night she had delegated day-to-day command of all the men to Skargrim. She had also given him his orders. He’d not known what to say, but it was not as if he’d had any choice. He’d followed them to the letter.

  A bitter smile played on Skargrim’s lips as he went back to his post. He liked standing in the prow. At least then he could see where he was going.