Blood Will Follow Read online

  Finn nodded. As vacant as he looked at times, Valgard didn’t worry for a moment—the big man was good with instructions. Moving slowly, but with focus, he soon had the horse before the cart trundling down toward the harbor.

  Valgard stroked the two remaining horses and their cargo, wrapped in blankets and slung like sacks over the animals’ rumps. “It’s maybe not what you imagined, Father,” he said, “but it’s what you’re getting.” He rubbed at his shoulders and tried his best to crack his joints. Now all he could do was wait.

  No one called for quiet.

  It just spread, like blood on stone, as the orders were given. A rowing crew moved the king’s longship out of the way. Another crew maneuvered a big, stocky boat in; an icebreaker from the far north. A line of workers formed—some carried logs, others hefted bundles of kindling. As the pyre rose, layer by layer, more and more men drifted to the edges of the half circle of stone by the harbor. The sense of occasion spread, but there were no shouts, no summons—all over Stenvik, men just laid down their tools and moved to the harbor.

  Finn watched them. He saw wary eyes, distrust, and worry. They could see what was happening, and there was tension in them; tension that needed to be directed.

  The slow clop-clop of metal on stone sounded ponderous, almost unreal in the silence—and then the crowds parted for King Olav Tryggvason.

  He walked his horse into the half circle and surveyed the assembled men, standing crammed in between Stenvik’s broken houses, in among shattered walkways and burned frames. Finn watched as a charge went through them—now they stared intently at the king, waiting for him to explain.

  “Today I have had to make a choice,” King Olav said. His voice was soft, but it carried far. “Two men I respected and hoped would be our allies, Sigurd Aegisson and Sven Kolfinnsson, today lost their fight with battle fever, caught after injuries sustained fighting Skargrim and his raiders. And I did not wish to give them a . . .” The king swallowed, then continued, “a burial dedicated to the old gods.” The men exchanged glances. “But,” and the king’s voice grew in power, “I sought counsel!” He looked to the skies and made the sign of the cross. Moving hands caught a soldier’s eye, and Finn noted several of the men reflexively signing themselves. “And the Lord told me that we could give back to the old gods what was always theirs.”

  Finn didn’t need a signal. He led the wagon toward the funeral ship and motioned for two of his own men to follow. He could hear King Olav continuing behind him: “. . . has rejected them! Because the Lord does not accept just anyone! You have to be chosen to enter Jesus the White Christ’s halls! And the Lord chose you!” A cheer went up from the crowd as Finn’s men clambered aboard, carrying the bodies. “The Lord chose you to fight for his realm on earth!” Another cheer. “Hurry up!” Finn hissed under his breath as one of the bodies was unceremoniously thrown on top of the pyre. The other soon followed, and Finn’s men retreated, grabbing oars as they went. Behind them, King Olav’s voice was rising to a crescendo. Finn reached for his fire-steel.

  “The Lord will send you—”

  Sparks flew and caught on broken twigs, crisp leaves, dried grass.

  “To do his bidding—”

  Finn knelt and blew on the embers, gentle as a lover. A tiny flame rose to meet him.

  “He will send you across the sea—”

  Finn moved away. Rejected, the flame sought food for its hunger.

  “With steel”—a cheer—“and faith—”

  Crackling and hissing, the yellow-white tendrils gusted through the grass, bit into the wood.

  “Push!” Finn hissed. His helpers used the oars to push at the solid hulk of the ship; gradually it started inching along, picking up speed.

  “And he will send you to watch Trondheim burn!”

  The old ship picked up momentum and floated clear of the harbor just as the first flame breached the barrier of wood, licked the cold, dead bodies and reached for the sky. An animal roar went up from the mass of men; the flame fed on it. Rising like dragon’s teeth, it fed on the air, on the wood, on itself, on the world. Finn and his helpers disappeared into the darkness created by the spectacle of moving flame; the men on the quayside stood transfixed by the gliding fire. Here and there in the crowd Finn saw men he didn’t recognize who stared at the flaming ship as if they were seeing ghosts—tough men, some of them older, one of them shading a single good eye to see better—but the vast majority of the crowd looked energized by the burning, heated by the flame, malleable as a blade in a smithy.

  Slipping through the crowds, Finn hurried toward the north road.

  The shadows of Stenvik Forest clawed at the north road. Valgard led the horses at a walk, waiting for Finn to catch up. Convincing King Olav to use the deaths of Sigurd and Sven as a rallying display for the soldiers had been easier than he’d expected. Now he just needed to find the right place . . .

  The forbidding barrier of trees appeared to open up to him, and a path became visible. Valgard nodded, reached into his sack and withdrew a knife with a curved blade.

  “If you only knew what your favorite weapon was being used for, Father,” Valgard muttered as he hacked a wound into a tree next to the trail. The horses followed him readily enough.

  It didn’t take him long to find the glade. The green-black shadows of the towering pines dropped away in a soft curve around the pond, making a dark sickle on the surface of the water. The rest was dusted by the reflection of stars.

  Valgard smiled.

  When he’d found the right place, a little square of green just off the water’s edge, he tugged gently on the reins and dismounted when the horse stopped. Reaching for the sack, he pulled out a shovel and started marking out the holes.

  The air was cold, but not unpleasant; the forest enveloped him. Smell of bark, earth, and rotting leaves mixed together to form autumn. The stillness was absolute—after the siege, no one had really gone into Stenvik Forest.

  His back started aching very soon. He could feel the muscles locking up, feel the joints scraping against each other. His hips seized as well. Valgard leaned on the shovel, gritted his teeth, growled, and kept on digging. The square shape started taking form.

  He saw Finn before he heard him. Not for the first time, Valgard marveled at how something so dull and clumsy looking could still move that softly. The big soldier nodded at him from across the clearing. When he got there, Valgard’s tunic was soaked.

  “You’re late,” Valgard said.

  “Hard to get out,” Finn mumbled.

  “How did it go?”

  “As you thought it would.”

  Valgard allowed himself a smile and handed Finn the shovel. “Well done. Now make yourself useful, big man. We only need about two, three feet—we’re not staying out here all night digging. Just enough to get them out of the way of the foxes and the locals, if they’ll ever dare to come out here again.” Finn nodded and set to work with the shovel. In half the time it had taken Valgard to mark out and start on the graves, he had the job done. “Good. Now help me with—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Working together, they laid Sigurd and Sven each in their separate graves. Finn reached for the shovel.

  “Hold on,” Valgard said. He brought up the satchel and spilled its contents onto the forest floor. Finn’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’re gonna—”

  “Yes. These are dangerous weapons still. Remember, the men of Stenvik think Sigurd was on that boat. What happens if one of them walks into a storeroom a week after we’re gone and finds this?” Moving toward the cold body of Sigurd Aegisson, Valgard laid the heavy, broad-bladed battle-ax on the chieftain’s chest. Behind him, Finn nodded slowly, as if he was working something out. As Valgard bent to place the knife with the curved blade in Sven’s hand, something caught in his throat. His knuckles grew pale around the handle, and his muscles seized up. Behind him ripples formed in the middle of the pond. Breathing rapidly, he bit down as hard as he could, forced the cramps back, and laid
the knife stiffly on the old man’s chest.

  “Cover them,” he whispered and turned toward the forest.

  He didn’t see the earth fall on Sven’s chest, on his legs, didn’t see it cover his face.

  Instead he tried his very best to look north, focus on what he’d find, and imagine life from above, rather than below.

  When they mounted up and turned back, the pond was still.

  The first rays of the morning sun crept over the horizon and glanced off gleaming metal points.

  A long line of soldiers had formed at first light, streaming out of the houses of New Town and down through the south gate. Jorn was everywhere at once, exchanging information with chieftains, running numbers with the supply line, and steering men in the right directions. Turning a corner, he almost ran into the bulk of Skeggi.

  “How’s it going, Prince?” the burly man rumbled.

  Jorn nodded. “A lot to do. Got to get it right,” he mumbled and made to pass by. Skeggi shifted his weight and blocked Jorn’s path. “Where do you want my boys?”

  “Down at the harbor. Find Runar. He’ll direct you.”

  “And you’ll be next to your king, faithful as always?”

  “Of course,” Jorn replied.

  “Good,” Skeggi said. Although he might look fat, the big man moved with grace. Jorn’s path was clear. “See you then, Dale.”

  “Yes,” Jorn said. “Amen,” he added and winked at Skeggi.

  The big man laughed at that and clapped him hard on the back. “Yeah. Amen.” Jorn could hear him chuckling as he walked away.

  Down at the harbor, Runar counted heads, muttering to himself and carving lines on a wooden slate. He didn’t notice Botolf approaching.

  “Runar,” the skinny chieftain said.

  “Y-yes?” Runar replied, his voice unsteady. The thumping heartbeats slowed quickly.

  “Here they are.”

  Behind Botolf, a group of men stepped out from the shadows, all of them focusing intently on Runar.

  Lost for words, Runar just nodded. It was really happening. They were going to do it. He was going to put Jorn, his brother in play for the last twenty years, on the throne. A wave of feeling washed over him, and he found himself fighting to suppress a smile.

  “G-good. We knew we could rely on you.” Botolf smiled and nodded back. “I suppose you can send them to prepare the Njordur’s Mercy.”

  “Thank you,” Botolf said. “I will go with them, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go a-ahead.”

  Around them, the stream of warriors was continuous. Two horsemen for each ship, three for the larger ones. An even mix of archers and foot, with a smattering of pike for good measure. They had decided to divide evenly on all boats, minimizing the risk of losing all the archers, for example. It worked because Jorn had succeeded in breaking up old alliances; there were no old feuds to settle anymore. They were all part of King Olav’s army.

  For a little while longer, at least.

  Runar had no problem spotting Skeggi’s approach. A shout of protest was soon followed by a growling argument, and the men in front of him were shoved out of the way.

  “You pussies can all rest easy. We’re here now,” he said. No one around him spoke. He turned to Runar. “We’re here—my ten.” None of the men in his retinue had Skeggi’s finesse, but from the looks of them they could be counted on for a healthy dose of violence. With cold, fear-borne clarity, Runar considered that he might be closer to death now than ever before.

  “Go aboard the Njordur’s Mercy,” he said. “And welcome.

  “Hah! Welcome, he says!” Skeggi guffawed. A rumble of laughter traveled through his collection of companions. “You say that, but you’re going on my boat, remember?”

  “The king’s boat,” Runar reminded him.

  “The king’s boat!” Skeggi roared. This time all the men laughed with him. “Come on, boys! Let’s go and serve the king!” the big chieftain shouted and pushed Runar aside. His men followed, shouting vaguely comprehensible insults to no one in particular.

  Runar clenched his wooden tablet until his knuckles turned white.

  “A bit of a handful, isn’t he?” a familiar voice said by his shoulder.

  Runar turned around and stood face to face with Valgard. “H-he-he is,” he managed. “A-and . . . he may be a b-b-bastard—”

  “But he’s our bastard,” Valgard finished for him, smiling.

  “Yeah,” Runar replied.

  “He’s the kind of man you want on your side when things go wrong,” the skinny healer said.

  “Ah-ah-absolutely.”

  Valgard smiled again and bowed with mock courtesy. “With your permission, my good man, I would like to go aboard the Njordur’s Mercy and oversee the ‘preparations’ of our highly capable traveling companions.”

  Runar smirked. “G-go ahead. J-j-just try and ah-avoid t-t-t-too much conversation,” he said.

  Valgard winked at him. “I’ll do my best.”

  As he moved toward the biggest ship in the harbor, Runar watched the healer. Maybe he’d been wrong about him. Maybe he’d tell Jorn to spare the scrawny bastard’s life later today.

  And maybe not.

  Runar’s mouth twitched toward a smile. Power felt good.

  The wind snapped and bit at the sails. The clouds were few and far between, and the waves sat at their back, pushing them on.

  From his place midway between the mast and the aft of the ship, Jorn looked back. The view took his breath away.

  Sixty ships spread out behind them, a wake of wood and wind and blades.

  Stenvik was somewhere behind them, a shell of a town.

  While he’d questioned the wisdom of setting off with winter so close, he had to say that it felt good to be on the move. Runar had suggested that when they beached after King Olav had been taken care of, he should pin the murder on Botolf and Skeggi and let the fanatics do what they wanted. Like all of Runar’s ideas, it was solid.

  They were a good team. A good team that was going to run the country a whole lot better than King Olav would, standing at the bow with Finn and his slimy adviser. Praising the White Christ for his benevolence, no doubt.

  They were flying before the wind. The oars were up. It was time.

  Jorn caught Runar’s eye and nodded. The archer shifted to his left, nodded at Botolf, and signaled to Skeggi. All three of them turned and nodded to him.

  Jorn cleared his throat and shouted. “Olav!”

  The men sitting on the rowing benches shifted, their eyes on the king. Jorn could see some of them reach for weapons. The king didn’t turn.

  “Olav Tryggvason!”

  Finn appeared to hear him, but he did not move. A couple of Skeggi’s men were on their feet.

  “King Olav!”

  The man at the front of the ship turned slowly. He set his feet and looked at Jorn as if he’d never seen him before—as if he’d woken up and found a stranger in his bedchamber.

  “Your mission is mindless! And now your reign ends! You are not fit to be a king!”

  At this, King Olav smiled. “And I suppose you are, Jorn, Prince of the Dales?” Even against the wind, the king’s voice carried well.

  “I am!” Jorn shouted. His voice broke, and it came out as a pathetic squeak. “Skeggi! Botolf!”

  Botolf’s arm moved almost too fast to see. Blood burst out of Runar’s throat and he went down, coughing, kicking, and clutching a throwing knife. Jorn’s stomach dropped, his jaw dropped, and he only just felt the touch of the spear tips as they nudged his rib cage, his spine, his stomach.

  Glancing down, he saw the thuggish, grinning faces of Skeggi’s men. Their spears were angled upward. Spear points tickled the backs of his knees. If he moved in any direction he’d be dead.

  King Olav looked at him and smiled. Then he leaned over toward Finn, whispered something in his ear, turned around, and took up his place at the stern.

  “Wait!” Jorn shouted. “Listen! I can—I was just test
ing them! This is a misunderstanding! It was all Botolf’s plan!” A spear point pressed uncomfortably hard in between his ribs.

  The king did not move.

  Finn and Valgard walked toward him. Behind them, daggers flashed as Botolf’s men made sure Runar was dead before they threw him overboard. Jorn watched the corpse of his childhood friend disappear in an instant beneath the waves.

  Valgard ducked under the boom and looked at him with something resembling pity. “Your instinct was right,” he said. “You should always keep your voice down. You never know who might happen to be walking past your house. I heard everything you said.”

  “You . . . you . . .” Words escaped Jorn. All he could feel was the horrible plunging sensation in his stomach, behind his ribs. He wanted to throw himself on a spear, but the urge to live burned him, screamed at him. With tears in his eyes, he looked at the healer. “Please,” he whispered. “Show mercy.”

  He saw the creases form in the sallow skin before the laugh burst out of the skinny man’s mouth. Valgard smiled the gentlest smile, nodded, and tapped Finn on the elbow. The big man turned reluctantly and made his way forward. He shot Jorn one last, hateful glance before he was obscured by the mast.

  Skeggi looked up from polishing a set of long metal pins with sharp points. Some were smooth, others were barbed, yet others square. One of them had a hook. “Right, Prince,” he said. “I have no quarrel with you. Not really. Except for thinking I could be bought and that I was disloyal to the king, which is a bit . . . you know.” He turned to a small metal dish mounted on three legs, filled with coals, twigs, and grass. He lit it casually with a fire-steel. “Neither does my father with your father. But your grandfather . . . he once stole three pigs and blamed it on my grandfather. So I figure I am owed an excuse.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I beg your forgiveness!” Jorn blabbered.