The Valhalla Saga Page 6

  STENVIK

  Iron didn’t lie.

  It obeyed simple laws.

  Heat, then separate.

  Then bend it to your will.

  And if you listened, it talked.

  The water hissed and sputtered as Audun dunked the white-hot blade in the trough. In time it would become a sword to split some poor bastard’s skull, but that was not his fault. Nor the sword’s, for that matter.

  The sword hadn’t asked to be made. Someone had asked for it. It was always about the people. And if they didn’t have swords, they’d simply kill with their bare hands. Like animals. Animals that fed on blood. The smell came back to him, the heady rush of it. He grimaced and spat into the furnace. The heat in the smithy forced Audun’s thoughts away from the past and back to the task at hand. He judged the colour of the metal.

  Three more breaths.

  The blade emerged from the hissing water, cherry-red in colour. He turned it with the tongs, felt for the weight, inspected the line and the edge.

  This would be a good blade. It would do what it was made for and do it well.

  And if it got stuck in some idiot’s head, he’d probably done something to deserve it.

  *

  The people in the market milled about, uneasy and curious.

  ‘So you’re saying she’s not worth you looking at her, pig man?’ Harald said, gruff voice ringing out over the square.

  ‘No! I think your wife is very beautiful.’

  ‘So you were looking at her.’

  The big pig farmer looked frantically around the market square for support, but no one would meet his eye, let alone step into the ring that had suddenly emerged around them. Clouds drifted across the morning sun, and the temperature dropped.

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I swear. Not like that. I simply saw her, that’s all,’ he simpered.

  Harald looked him over with a mixture of anticipation and contempt. He circled the prey slowly, moving with the economy and practised purpose of a brawler. ‘See, I say you’re lying. I say you were looking at my wife and thinking filthy, disgusting thoughts, pig breeder. And I say that’s not the right sort of behaviour for a visitor in my town.’ Behind him two large young men stepped into the ring, smiling wolf smiles. Harald continued, addressing the crowd as much as the pig farmer.

  ‘I reckon we have been a bit lazy in showing our guests how we do things around here.’

  Harald’s hands turned into fists. He smiled, took two quick steps towards the big ungainly farmer and set to explaining the Stenvik way.

  *

  ‘Look. It was a cowardly thing, I know and I regret it. You are like a brother to me, and I ask only that you treat me as such. I was confused and I—’

  The back of Geiri’s hand hit Ulfar’s cheek with a loud slap that bounced off the walls of the tiny hut.

  ‘What the—’ Ulfar slipped on reflex into a fighting stance.

  ‘You just said I was to treat you like a brother.’ Geiri grinned. ‘And if my brother had acted like that around his elders, I’d have slapped him. And you should see your face right now, cousin,’ he added with a laugh.

  The pain in Ulfar’s cheek made him blink. Looking at Geiri’s grinning face took the fight out of him.

  ‘Yes. I probably deserved that one.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Well,’ Geiri frowned and leaned back against the support. ‘We can’t ask for another introduction. We have nothing to trade and it doesn’t look like we have anything these people need or want. So we find a ship that’s leaving for home and we get out of this hole. We have no function here and it’s time—’

  ‘No.’

  Geiri stopped mid-sentence. ‘— What?’

  ‘No. We’re not leaving. You leave if you must, but I’m not going to. I have to see her again.’

  Geiri looked incredulously at Ulfar. ‘What’s got into you? Is this the man who called himself Heartbreaker, Skirt-chaser and Kiss-taker all through the summer?’

  ‘This one is different, Geiri.’

  ‘Forgive me, my friend, but she can’t be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Seeing as you’ve had every possible type of girl and woman since we set out, she’d have to have antlers and scales to be different. And even then I’m not so sure. Some of those Rus girls were quite … interesting.’

  Ulfar ignored his friend, who seemed fully ready to evade an attack this time around.

  ‘Believe me, Geiri. She is.’

  ‘And how do you know?’

  ‘I just about walked into her last night.’

  ‘Oh, long live Freya’s wiles.’ Geiri rolled his eyes. ‘Did she throw her clothes at you this time around?’

  Ulfar did not respond. He simply looked into the middle distance, lost in thought. The silence grew more and more awkward until Geiri gave in. ‘Oh, if that is how it is, I will accept that you’re right. Fine. There is something special about this woman.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ulfar’s voice was dreamy.

  ‘And you want to know what it is.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Geiri looked firmly at Ulfar. ‘Well then, my travelling brother. I will bargain with you. We’ll go drink with the locals tonight, I’ll help you inquire sensibly’ – Geiri added a stern look for emphasis – ‘and we discover what there is to discover about this magical creature of yours. And we will try as hard as we can to do this. But if we don’t find anything, if she’s another man’s woman, if there is no hope of the gods or anyone else giving their blessing—’

  Ulfar nodded.

  Geiri finished. ‘— then we leave.’

  ‘As usual, you are the wiser one, if somewhat less pleasing to the eye,’ Ulfar said, smiling. ‘Thank you, Geiri. You are a true friend.’

  Geiri shook his head.

  ‘No I’m not. I just get bored travelling alone.’

  ‘Liar,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Coward,’ Geiri retorted.

  They both grinned.

  *

  The circle had formed quickly, just like up north. They tended to do that whenever there was even a faint promise of violence, Ragnar mused. Just like animals and food. This had never been a fight, though. It was turning into some kind of display, one that seemed to be making the audience uncomfortable. The crowd shuffled nervously. Someone shouted: ‘That’s enough, Harald!’ but nobody stepped forward to stop him.

  Right. Enough of this. He sought out his travelling companion, tapped his elbow and motioned for him to follow into a nearby alley. Oraekja lingered, casting a longing eye towards the centre of the circle. When he followed at last he was smirking. ‘At least there’s Norse in someone in this rotten sty,’ he said. Behind them, sounds of something breaking were followed by a muffled scream and someone vomiting.

  Ragnar shut him up with a glare.

  ‘I am going to say this once and only once. I couldn’t care a yak’s arse about whether you live or die, but the job needs to get done. Keep your neck covered at all times, stay close to me and come when I tell you to. We go in, we do what we need to, when we’re done we go back to where we landed and wait for Skargrim. Stay out of the forest and watch out for the raiders in this town. Despite being born this far south, Sigurd’s men know their work. That’s three of them in the circle, and unless you want to end up like that poor sod in the middle I suggest you keep your wits about you.’

  ‘If they’re so proper then how come we’re inside their town?’ Oraekja said.

  ‘We’re here because we’ve used our heads. We’re not storming anything nor showing off our allegiance. We look like skinners, not like an invading army. That’s why we can walk through the front door. Did you look up when you went through the gateway?’

  The young man gave him a blank look and shrugged.

  Ragnar sneered. ‘From now on you note your surroundings, or I’ll be all too happy to leave you to Sigurd’s dogs.’

  ‘If they get me they’ll get you too,�
�� Oraekja shot back.

  Ragnar felt a faint itch in the palm of his right hand. It would be so good to scratch that itch with a hilt, with the hilt of a knife, whose point he would happily bury in the little rat’s eyeball. But he couldn’t rightly do that now. It would create attention that he could do without. Instead he looked straight at Oraekja and smiled his meanest.

  ‘No they won’t.’

  After a spell the little bastard looked away.

  ‘Now come on. We have things to do.’

  *

  ‘Help! Please help!’

  Valgard rolled his eyes. There really was no rest to be had. ‘Wait.’ He rose slowly and deliberately from his pallet, feeling every single pinched nerve in his back, every thread of muscle in his aching legs. He shuffled to the doorway and stuck his head outside.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Two anguished and awkward men stood by the doorway, fidgeting nervously. While the fatter one caught his breath, his red-faced friend spoke up.

  ‘It’s our kinsman—’

  ‘He’s hurt—’

  ‘In the market in the middle—’

  ‘Got in a fight—’

  ‘We heard some seaman said he’d looked at his wife—’

  ‘Big man, reddish beard?’ Valgard interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’

  He sighed and shut his eyes wearily. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come as fast as I can. Run to the market and try to make sure your kin survives.’

  The men took off south, towards the market square. Valgard watched the two ungainly farmers shuffle away and smiled to himself. Harald had a remarkable talent for causing trouble and pain. He ducked inside and quickly readied his emergency equipment. While his hands worked, his mind assembled the board and moved the pieces. He tried some combinations in his head and then a new possibility presented itself. Unexpected elements suddenly fell into place.

  Valgard chuckled as he headed out of the hut and towards the market. There were some interesting moves to be made.

  The intricacies of the game occupied his mind all the way to the market square, but when he saw Harald’s handiwork he had to push it out of his head.

  It was hard to know where to begin.

  At some point the pig farmer had vomited and soiled himself. Now he lay on the flat stones in a puddle of his own blood, bile and shit, shaking and crying, a shell of a man.

  His nose was broken and blood trickled from his mouth. Three broken teeth lay on the ground. He was curled up in a ball, coughing and clutching his side. His left hand was grotesquely swollen, and Valgard casually guessed that Harald had stomped on it a couple of times. There were bound to be some broken bones in there.

  He knelt down and inspected the miserable wreck.

  ‘Looks like you finally got the beating you were asking for,’ Valgard muttered to himself. Then he turned to the pig farmer. ‘You’ve had a bit of a rough day, haven’t you?’ The farmer just whimpered. ‘Right. This is going to hurt.’ With a firm hand Valgard started pressing on joints and bones, creating a road map of injuries, drawing lines by the volume of the patient’s screams.

  Three broken ribs. One badly sprained wrist. Possible bleeding inside. Four teeth gone, as it turned out. Bruises from kicking, face would be colourful for a week. One knee twisted. Possible fracture of the shin. It was not good, but he’d seen worse. The man would live.

  Valgard quickly searched his bag, bringing up bandages and a small leather bottle. Beside him lay what looked like two rods bundled together.

  ‘Straighten him out.’

  The victim’s two nervous friends started gingerly moving their kinsman.

  He screamed.

  Valgard sighed. This was always the least pleasant part of the process. Bundling up a chunk of cloth, he stuffed it in the farmer’s mouth.

  ‘How will that make him better?’ one of his newly recruited helpers asked, straining to keep the farmer still.

  ‘It will shut him up, which will prevent me from getting distracted and killing him.’ The man looked shocked. Valgard smiled sweetly and added: ‘… by accident.’ Working quickly, he produced another cloth from his bag. He doused the cloth in liquid from a small bottle and held it over the farmer’s broken, bloodied nose. As the man’s eyes flew open and he started to struggle, Valgard looked straight at him. ‘You will not die. You will not suffocate. You will simply sleep.’ At that moment the pig farmer’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

  Valgard reached for the bundle and unravelled it. A length of cloth joined the two sticks together, forming a stretcher.

  ‘You two – lift him onto this then grab an end each. Gently. And follow me.’

  The two hapless farmers scrambled and strained to lift the big man quickly enough to follow Valgard, who was already heading back home.

  *

  Oraekja threaded the walkways of Stenvik, trailing Ragnar and staring at his back. No they won’t. No they won’t. Who did the old man think he was? It didn’t matter that nobody had heard. It was a question of honour, and right now it took all of Oraekja’s strength to ignore what Ragnar had said. How he’d said it. That dusty old relic had dared to put him in his place, speak to him and treat him like a puppy. Like a boy. It was almost too much to bear. The only thing that made it better was the memory of her.

  He turned warm inside just thinking of it.

  She’d called him to her that night. Just him. He’d been scared stiff but she’d whispered in his ear. Told him why Stenvik needed to be razed to send a signal to those without faith and to rob this so-called king of a winter base to slow his advance. She’d even told him who she really was. Told him she could see the future, that she could see that he would be crucial to the will of the gods. Told him how Loki had come to her, told her what to do, how to do it. She’d even leaned in closer and told him he was really important to her. He still remembered the hairs rising on the back of his hands, his whole body vibrating with longing. He’d been rock-hard, too. He shook his head and grinned.

  Not as if he hadn’t known from the start. She wanted him. Sometimes he just knew with women, even more than they did. She might not admit it – not in front of the men, especially not Skargrim – but she did. That had to be why she’d given him the special instructions. He didn’t understand why, but he sure as hell didn’t mind. He would do what she said, for she was Skuld, sister of Urd and Verdandi, one of the three witches of fate, the Thread Cutters. And she loved him.

  Oraekja watched Ragnar’s back and smiled.

  EAST NORWAY

  As midday faded into afternoon and the shadows grew longer, Finn turned in the saddle and looked back.

  Outriders on fast horses. Others carrying long spears and pikes. Shields of a variety of sizes. Jerkins of every colour. The column seemed to snake on for ever, over fields and through forests. Finn knew his eyes were playing tricks on him, but he also knew how quickly their army had swollen. In the last two months their numbers had grown by nearly a thousand men. The hunters kept griping to him about how nothing was enough, how they couldn’t keep up with the ever-growing demand. He saw the fights break out because of too many men shoulder to shoulder in too little space.

  He had to say something.

  Riding beside the King at an easy walk, he cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘What?’ King Olav shot Finn a sharp look that made him stutter.

  ‘The – the men, my lord. There’s too many of them.’

  Finn blinked. King Olav watched him impassively.

  ‘They … they come from different places. And not all of them believe in the White Christ, my lord.’ Finn did a rapid sign of the cross, looked down and folded his hands, as he had seen Olav do. When he looked up again, something in the face of the King had changed. There was a touch of curiosity there.

  ‘Continue.’

  It all came out. ‘They are not happy, my lord. I have heard them whisper amongst themselves. They say they do not know why we are going around bullying farm
ers, my lord. Some of them miss their families. They do not understand why we are fighting the people who believe in the old gods. There may be more like those four we saw yesterday. I think they might run away or try to take you on, my lord.’

  Out of breath, Finn waited for a response, but there was none forthcoming from the King. Instead the young man seemed lost in thought.

  Their horses walked on, setting the pace for the men marching behind them.

  Heading west.

  STENVIK

  Harald held a big calloused hand up in front of his face. ‘There are lines on my fingers. I’ve never seen them before.’ He furrowed his brow in concentration. ‘It’s hard to count when you’re lying on your back.’ He blinked, mumbled a curse, licked his lips and started again.

  ‘I can’t feel my mouth.’ An idiot grin spread on his face. ‘That shitty little pig farmer wasn’t much of a man after all. He shat in his stinking farmer pants.’ He giggled to himself, but then frowned again and looked at his hand. ‘It hurts.’ The knuckles were swollen and smeared with blood.

  A small bottle stood on the ground next to his bed. A tiny drop of thick black liquid was making its way slowly down to the ground.

  ‘Trying to … ‘scape?’ he slurred. ‘Tryin’ to ‘scape, you li’l bitch?’ He reached for the bottle, grasped it and brought it to his mouth. With slow, deliberate movements he licked the drop off.

  ‘Can’t ‘scape me,’ he rumbled contentedly. ‘No one can.’ He fumbled for the cork, but couldn’t find it. This seemed to annoy him. ‘Cork. Cork,’ he muttered. He tried to prop himself up on an elbow, but lost his balance and fell back onto the bed. ‘Hm. Too much. Had too much. Sleepy.’

  He slowly lowered the bottle back down to the floor. His eyes closed within moments and soon he was breathing regularly.

  Watching him, she could taste her own fear.

  When he’d come home covered in blood she thought he’d either been wounded or had killed someone. He’d grabbed her roughly by the hair, twisted her round and taken her then, pushed her to the ground and driven her legs apart with his weight. Fumbling, grunting and wheezing. She’d gone away in her mind as she always did, but now she felt sore. Raw. Her skin crawled at the sight of him lying there. A mop of reddish hair, greying at the temples. Ruddy, bearded jowls with a net of burst veins, a thick neck and massive shoulders. His eyes were closed, so she allowed the revulsion to show on her face. She would never dare do that when he was awake. He could so easily paralyse her with just a look, a promise, a single word whispered with a smile. Where Harald was, pain was never far away.